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by JAMES E. GUNN

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lOMORROW

AVON & ANNOUNCES

Here’s just the first three months:

JANUARY: The 1968 Hugo Award Novel by Roger Zelazny . . .

LORD OF LIGHT

THE AVON FANTASY READER

(the best of the best)

Brian Ball's exciting novel

SUNDOG

FEBRUARY: The original publication of an extraordinary new novel

by Robert Silverberg:

THE MAN IN THE MAZE

THE SECOND AVON FANTASY READER

Zenna Henderson’s
THE ANYTHING BOX

(stories of other people . . . and tilings)

MARCH: The first novel of The Sixth Perception Trilogy

by Dan Morgan . . .

THE NEW MINDS

J. T. McIntosh's

SIX GATES FROM LIMBO

An anthology of science fiction devilment by John
Wyndham, Judith Merril, Michael Moorcock, and others...

THE DEVIL HIS DUE

And April . . . well, save April for next ad, but remember:
April is BUG JACK BARRON month . . . from AVON!

FEBRUARY, 1969
Vol 19, No. 2
ISSUE 135

SCIENCE

FICTION

ALL NEW
STORIES

Frederik Po hi. Editor Lester del Key, Managing Editor

Robert M. Guinn, Publisher

Judy-Lynn Benjamin, Associate Editor Mavis Fisher, Circulation Director

NOVELETTE

BESIDE THE WALKING MOUNTAIN 8

by Burt Filer

SHORT STORIES

PRAISEWORTHY SAUR 32

by Harry Harrison

THE DEFENDANT EARTH 48

by Andrew J. Offutt

THE FIRE EGG 102

by Roger F. Burlingame

COMPLETE SHORT NOVEL 67

Trial by Fire by James E. Gunn

SERIAL

SIX GATES TO UMBO 108

by J.T. McIntosh

FEATURES

GUEST EDITORIAL: The "Hoax" Story 4

by H.L. Gold

AT BAY WITH THE BAYCON: Convention Report 38

by Robert Bloch

IF - AND WHEN 62

by Lester del Roy

AUTHORGRAPHS: An Interview with Harry Harrison 99

SF CALENDAR 158

HUE AND CRY 159 ,

Cover by BODE from PRAISEWORTHY SAUR

IF published monthly by Galaxy Publishing Corporation. Robert M. Guinn,
President, Vol. 19, No. 2, Main Office: 421 Hudson Street, New York. 10014.
60c per copy. Subscription 12 Issues $6.00 in the United States, Canada, Mexico,
South America and Central America and U.S. Possessions, elsewhere $7.00.
Second-class postage paid at New York, New York, and at additional mailing
offices. Copyright by Galaxy Publishing Corporation, 1969. All rights. Includ-
ing translation reserved. All material must be accompanied by self-addressed
stamped envelope. The Publisher assumes no responsibility for unsolicited
material. All stories are fiction, and any similarity between characters and
actual persons Is coincidental.

Printed in the U.S.A. by the Guinn Company, New York, N.Y. 10014

IF • Guest Editorial,

The “Hoax” Story

by H. L. GOLD

Once a hoax has been established,
it becomes the next worst thing
to immortal. Years ago, for example,
I reported — with a straight face, as
befits the telling of a whopper —
that parents bought their children
baby alligators, which soon outgrew
bowl, sin|| and bathtub and were
flushed into the New York sewer
system, where they flourished on the
warmth and abundant food. Now the
publicity department of that estima-
ble system has a printed form
refuting the “fact” that refuses to
die.

But confession doesn’t kill hoaxes.
H. L. Mencken spent 20 minutes in-
venting, and a lifetime disowning, the
story that winter bathing was illegal
in colonial Boston, yet you still keep
encountering it.

Every year, too, someone will de-
clare that Jules Verne described the
periscope so accurately that the sub-
sequent inventor of it was denied a
patent. It’s not so.

Neither is the ever-repeated com-
plaint of professional fans that to-
day’s science fiction is lacking in
science. This charge is much more

elderly than you might think, going
back to the late 19th century, when
Verne, the elderly engineer of sf,
bitterly attacked young upstart H.G.
Wells, the basic researeher of sf, for
not having Science in his fiction.

There is room in this field for
both kinds of writers, of course. But
Verne lived to see most of his work
become obsolete while Wells, with a
handful of novels and a few dozen
shorter stories, originated very many
themes of modern sf. Serious people
are working on Wells’s antigravity,
which Verne denounced as fantasy,
but who is working on Verne’s space-
ship shot out of an enormous can-
non, not to mention such funny ideas
of his as clockwork machine guns
and underwater bikes?

This division of scientists and au-
thors into basic researchers and en-
gineers is a practical one. Insisting
on either to the exclusion of the
other is not practical.

Naturally the engineer authors
have more success in forecasting,
working as they do on applications
of existing knowledge. Sf is glad to
accept applause for such successes,

DO YOU struggle for balance? Are you forever trying to
laintain energy, enthusiasm and the will to do? Do your personality
nd power of accomplishment ebb and flow — like a stream con-
•olled by some unseen valve? Deep within you are minute organ-
ms. From their function spring your emotions. They govern your
■eative ideas and moods — yes, even your enjoyment of life. Once they
rere thought to be the mysterious seat of the soul — and to be left
nexplored. Now cast aside superstition and learn to direct intel-
gently these powers of self.

Let the Rosicrucians, an age-old fra-
rnity of thinking men and women (not
religion), point out how you may fash-
n life as you want it— by making the
dlest use of these little-understood naU
*al faculties which you possess. This is
challenge to make the most of your
sritage as a human. Write for the Free
[>ok; “The Mastery of Life,” Address:
:ribe S.HJ.

74e ROSICRUCIANS (AMORC)

San Jose, California 95114 U.S.A.

Scribe: S.H.J.

The Rosicrucians (AMORC)

San Jose, California 95114, U.S.A.

Please send copy of booklet,
“The Mastery of Life” which I
shall read as directed.

Name.

Address

City

State

Please Include Your Zip Code

but forecasting is not the primary
function of sf. If it were, we’d have
stories about the perfect clothes
hanger and the like, exclusively.

To paraphrase a phrase-monger,
the idea is the hero of sf . Here
are some examples:

It’s a commonplace statement that
da Vinci invented the auto, airplane
and air conditioning. Lacking motive
power, he used what was available —
springs and sails, human and animal
muscle power. They were not good
enough, though nothing was cheaper,
and da Vinci, stuck fast to the
knowledge of his time, as his fol-
lowers were to theirs and we to ours,
could not envision electricity and the
internal combustion engine. Even if
he had, how well could he have de-
scribed them, much less work out
the math and metallurgy, the chem-
istry, physics and geology — the
great number of disciplines that pro-
duce and move these everyday won-
ders? Could he then have gone a step
further and predicted how these won-
ders pollute the air and water, the
extinction of whole species of life,
the forced migration from farm too
small to be machine-worked to the
city strangling with people and ma-
chines, the paving of more and more
of our land so more and more ve-
hicles can go murderously from one
congested city to another?

Thomas More’s Utopia had tele-
phones, generations before they were
invented. Instead of electric wires,
however, he used something that the
science of his day considered work-
able: hollow tubes. Just imagine
what a tangle that would be!

Perhaps you remember Baron
Munchausen’s tale of the Russian
winter being so cold that it froze
voices, which were heard when
spring came. Nobody believed him,
of course. Yet we freeze voices all
the time, and music as well, and do
not have to wait till spring to hear
them.

George Washington’s passionate
plan to link up the vast new United
States with an equally vast network
of canals seemed entirely reason-
able to his contemporaries, and it
was pushed even more fervently a
couple of decades later, when the
Louisiana Purchase doubled the size
of the infant country. The most op-
timistic citizens estimated that it
would take 25 generations — until
2400 A.D. — to tame and colonize
the additional 3,000,000 square
miles. At that moment, in England
and in New Jersey, two inventors
were developing the steam locomo-
tive.

Just about that time, the King,
having inspected Faraday’s lab-
oratory, asked: “Of what earthly use,
Sir, are all these toys?” Faraday
replied: “Of what earthly use, Sire,
is a newborn baby?” Within their
lifetimes, Faraday and Volta saw
more progress than the millennia
since electrical phenomena were
first observed. Yet even they could
not foresee, however dimly, the
civilization built by electricity.

Malthus predicted that population
growth would always outstrip food
production. It’s hard to say which
would astonish him more, a world
of three billion people or a nation

that bribes farmers to prevent glut.
A doomsman, he’d no doubt point to
the underfed parts of the globe, and,
tragically, he would be right. But
they could support their populations
with modern methods — and huge
areas of the world, like the interiors
of South America, Africa, Australia,
even Canada, are desperately under-
populated.

Berlioz was considered mad be-
cause he scored his music for thou-
sands of voices and instruments, be-
lieving that the resulting sound
would be that many times louder. It
wouldn’t. But how was he to suspect
that a neighbor, with just the touch
of a heavy hand on a small dial,
could drive us out of our homes
with a volume that Berlioz could
only dream of?

Coming down almost to the pres-
ent — to 1957, in fact — we sf
writers casually had spaceships built
by updated Wright brothers, never
knowing that only a world power

— and a big, rich one at that —
could put a man on the Moon by
spending so much of its treasure for
so long a time.

For that matter, whatever became
of the spaceships we wrote about so
knowingly, shiny on one side to re-
flect heat, black on the other to
absorb it?

If you date back as far as I do

— I sold my first story (at a very
early age) in 1934 — you may re-
member a greatly respected author
suggesting that we develop “science
secretaries” to cue in people of one
science with the knowledge of an-
other. Luckily, before the planet had
to be scoured for such phenomenal

minds, computers came along — lots
of them, improving all the time, with
memory banks able to hold all the
sciences of all of mankind — and
retrieval time in microseconds.

What point am I trying to make?

Just this: that the idea is the
message both in science and science
fiction, and that explaining future
discoveries in terms of current knowl-
edge must always prove as laughable
as the examples I’ve given.

But that must not stop the idea-
sters. Their job is to get the idea
written and published and read.

In sf, that means presenting it
entertainingly. And I submit that
doubletalking characters in and out
of time machines, starships and
other standard themes of sf are not
entertaining. For of what earthly
use, dear critics of modern sf, are
repetitions of tired old analogies that
even now sound as hollow as tele-
phone tubes, formulas and equations
taken from textbooks and detailed
just as thrillingly — while the reader
is impatiently saying: “Okay, okay,
so you’ve got robots (or androids or
espers or whatever) — now what’s
the story?”

Certainly I exempt the fresh new
idea, which comes along more often
than sf is credited with and needs ex-
planation, or even “explanation” —
but with two reservations: a) it
should be woven into the story in-
stead of dumped in a lump in the
reader’s lap; b) it should be taken
for granted when, or if, it becomes a
standard sf theme.

That’s not much to ask, is it?

— H. L. GOLD

IF • Novelette

It was a crazy world where the
mountains chased the Janes. But
it was a world Hatch had to save I

Illustrated by BROCK

Tj'rom two hundred miles out she
-*■ looked like a cheap plastic
beachball, the mottled kind, most-
ly green but swirled with the dregs
of every dyepot in the factory.

From a hundred miles you could
see the mountains, a strangely
smooth ridge tracing a great circle
through the poles. Stranger was the
fact that they exactly followed the
day-night shadow line. But strangest
was that they stayed there, despite

the planet’s steady rotation, one
turn every fourteen months.

From five miles you could see
that the swirls of color were vege-
tation. The planet was completely
immersed in an ocean of moss.
Layer lived upon layer, with the
upper strata rootless, flowing as
freely as colored water. The only
bare earth to be seen anywhere was
at the top of the mountains. Near
the equator, great sweeps of the
moss were sun-charred.

From two miles you became
aware of her piddling gravity.
Though twice the size of Mercury,
she pulled barely three-quarters as
hard as earth. Radar soundings
would show her to be nearly core-
less, a recently formed, loosely pack-
ed dustball. But what was that
silver necklace that ran around the
equator, in a great circle perpendi-
cular to the mountains?

Dropping to a mile, you could
make out individual beads in the
necklace, sausage shaped and gigan-
tic. Every now and then one would
be prune-wrinkled or completely
flat, like inflatable cells of some
kind.

And down there next to the neck-
lace, barely in front of the moun-
tains, was a dot. The dot was mo-
bile; it moved against the planet’s
rotation to keep itself in the sun.

The dot was Hatch’s barge.

She shouldered her way across the
landscape like a junkyard in

search of a home. But there was
majesty in her messiness, the sort
that’s inspired by old ships in high
seas, alone among the elements.
Mossy swells groaned under her
hull on their way to the mountains
behind, which hung there in a dust-
capped tidal wave forever threaten-
ing to break.

The moss varied in more than
color; there were a thousand tex-
tures and tastes, a million smells.
Marjoram or something like it vied
with minted marijuana and a dozen
subtler scents. From every crest the
wind tore fragrant spray. From
every trough the salamanders fled
like startled herring.

The barge plowed along just
just ahead of the twilight line,
keeping a permanent sunset dead
over the bow. From the planet’s
dayside a sweaty gale panted in
over the gunwales, on its way over
the mountains to the nightside,
where it would subside to a frozen
breeze. Yet for all its turbulence,
the air was eminently breathable,
moist, supercharged with oxygen.
Hatch liked the air there. But what
about everything else?

He didn’t particularly like the
planet’s speed of rotation. He spent
half his time wishing the silly dust-
ball would spin faster; the other
half, that it would stop dead. If
it didn’t move at all, he wouldn’t
have to, either. He could sit on the
twiline or the dawnline living in
ease. Or if it whirled around as fast

BESIDE TH€ WALKING MOUNTAINS

as old earth, the day-night tempera-
ture differential would equalize and
he could be comfortable anywhere.

But a seven-month day could get
surface temperatures up near four
figures; and a seven-month night
lowered them to the sub-thinkable.

This temperature span, combined
With the looseness of the crust, had
another implication. Where the cold
side of the planet met the hot, some
truly remarkable thermal stresses
built up. The crust bulged to re-
lieve them. The result was a smooth
wave of mountains that forever
chased the dawnline and twiline
and, incidentally, Hatch himself.
Galloping alps, he called them.

So Hatch daily told himself he
hated the place, a sort of perverse
prayer.

But he loved it, really, and
knew he did. It was a dizzy hell but
it grew on you. And it was all his.
He’d bought it from GS with his
severance pay, the very day they’d
stripped him of his uniform.

His uniform at the moment was
a pair of shorts. He’d set a course
parallel to the abandoned silver sau-
sages of the T-belt, locked in the
autopilot, and had just begun the
“ day’s” work. Coming down from
the bridge, he headed toward the
starboard side, picking his way
through the clutter. At one time this
hoverbarge had been a mining craft
and her deck was a maze of exter-
nal piping, lockers, deckhouses, and
radio masts.

But the whole starboard side had
been cleared off. Amid the
general disorder, it stood out as
plainly as an aisle. It was empty
of mossmen too, which was unusual;
not a Joe or Jane in sight. Frown-
ing, he went over to a control box
on the rail, opened it, took out the
headphones, put them on.

Just as he thought, the taped
message he’d programmed for
broadcast wasn’t coming through at
all. He didn’t know what had done
it, but suspected the swivel con-
nections up on the antenna itself.

Which meant he’d have to climb
up and have a look. It was the tal-
lest mast aboard, forty feet, and it
waved in the wind like a reed. He
went aft, put on his tool belt, and
shinnied up.

Yes, that had been it. A few
minutes’ work put it right again.
Holding his giddy perch with knees
and safety harness, he plugged his
phones into the test circuit, and
heard:

“ — to the square floating object
at the top of the moss. Don’t be
afraid of the big hairless one who
will meet you. He will show you
where to lay your eggs. Remember,
every egg you leave with him will
have twice the chance of hatching.
Why should you leave your eggs at
the mercy of the mountains — ” It
droned on but he listened to it no
more, knowing it by heart despite
its length, since he’d composed it.
It went on in the repetitious man-

ner of a sound truck trying to get
out the vote, repeating the same
message a dozen different ways.
It was simple-minded, but Hatch
was not about to change a word.
The translation had been done at
the rate of a word a day; and then
expressing it all in radar frequency
blips so that the Joes and Janes
could even hear it had taken him
equally long. He climbed down.

Almost to prove the thing was
working again, a black shape clam-
bered up out of the moss to greet
him when he returned to the work
area.

A mossman is about the size and
shape of a husky twelve-year-old.
Detail differences included: fur
(black) ; spatulate fingers and toes
for navigating in the moss (three
in a bunch and ten inches long;
and a small-eared, small-eyed head
that could have been Alley Oop
carved out of a coconut.

She was a Jane, clumsy with the
eggs she carried, and somewhat
afraid of Hatch. He began a rather
gross charade of egg-laying, led her
over to a small deckhouse with a
canvas flap for a door, and pushed
her through. While she was busy,
he started up a relatively quiet
radar recording which gave instruc-
tions in their language for what
he’d just done in gestures, for subse-
quent visitors.

’C'ven as he worked, another head
appeared at the rail, and an-

BESIDE THE WALKING MOUNTAINS

other. Big day, it looked like. He
went over to the rail. He must
have hit a school. At least a hun-
dred furry heads bobbed just off
the beam. Hatch never lost his fas-
cination for the sort of climbing
swim by which they stayed afloat
and moved about. Waving, he got
hesitant waves in return. They had
a dose-to-human intelligence and
other anthropomorphic habits along
with it. Waving was one. Almost
any human could communicate with
any mossman by sign language,
given a little practice.

Well, no need to hang about.
The recording would keep the oper-
ation going. As he turned back in-
board he found his first customer
waiting rather self-consdously for
his attention.

“What is it, Jane?” he gestured.

“Your voice,” she pointed to the
smaller bitchbox, “said he would
be rewarded, and also be able to
rest a while.”

“By all means.” He clapped a
comradely hand on her shoulder,
and with no more than a startled
wince of just-understanding, she re-
turned the gesture.

Another habit of theirs. Hatch
laughed. She aped it, silently of
course, incapable of anything more
than a hiss. Mossmen normally com-
municated by radar frequency
yelps, generated by an auxiliary
diaphragm, tucked behind their ster-
nums.

By now he’d led her back to the

still. He made a note to fill the
hopper with more moss when he had
the chance. Beside it was an array
of fifty-gallon drums. Hatch con-
sidered.

He’d been on the white stuff late-
ly himself, but didn’t know how
the mossmen would react. While it
didn’t come out as clear as the
blues or greens, it had better man-
ners. The sweet, oregano-tainted
milk picked you up off the deck
all right, but put you back gently.

Still, no point in experimenting,
not with the crowd he expected to-
day. Better stick to the blue. He
pried the bung from a barrel that
smelled heavily of bayberry and
mint, stuck a finger in, licked it. It
tasted as it smelled, and gave him
a blip of nirvana that lasted half a
minute. Definitely good stuff.

He tipped the barrel into a ten-
foot trough. Jane didn’t know what
to do right off — she got most
of her water from the food she ate,
like old earth Koalas — but he
showed her.

One slurp sent her shuffling gid-
dily away in search of a place to
sleep. And as she left, numbers two
and three came around the corner.
At this rate, in two hours there
wouldn’t be a square foot of deck-
space without a sleeping mossman.

Next chore on the list was raking
the decks clear of moss that had
sprayed in while he was sleeping.
He’d been at it for fifteen minutes
when something caught his ear.

A boom and then a thin whine.

He squinted upward. The red
sun had a mote in its eyes, which
was growing bigger.

Hatch hmm’d. A few tourists had
been by in the last six years, whose
company he’d generally enjoyed.
But the landing sled dropping to-
ward him now looked too big. He
hurried inside to turn on the guide
beacon, and to put on a shirt.

He reappeared at the rail in time
to see the sled drop to deck level
some thirty yards off his beam, and
match speeds. Noisy thing, it had
sent the mossmen stampeding over-
board to the security of the depths.
The sled’s well painted hull had GS
written all over it, literally and
figuratively. He grimaced and went
over to the line gun.

But the sailor at her open hatch
waved him off. No indeed, they’d
shoot their line over to him. Shrug-
ging, he stood back and watched
the shot.

The plastic blank looped over,
dragging the string, got caught in
the wind, fell short. Even from
where he stood Hatch could hear
the sarcastic berating being handed
the sailor by someone inside. The
voice was hauntingly familiar.

A second shot made it over the
rail, but would have dribbled back
into the moss if Hatch hadn’t
pounced on it.

He pulled the string which pulled

the rope which pulled the cable
from their sled to his hoverbarge.
In ten minutes the pod had made
two trips, depositing a nervous
young sailor, and a female civilian
on his deck.

But the pod’s third load was one
hundred and thirty pounds of bad
luck. Richard J. Handy, Cdr., GSN
— Hatch’s old Commanding Of-
ficer — climbed out and saluted.
Hatch half raised his arm, remem-
bered he was a civilian, dropped it.
It drew a rather nasty grin from
Handy.

“Hello, Hatch,” the thin man
said. “How have you been?”

“Well enough. You?”

“Well enough. This is Miss Hollo-
way of the Board of Estimate, and
Personnelman McIntyre.”

He nodded, shook hands, smiling
dutifully but never taking his eyes
from Handy’s. “What brings you
here, Commander?”

“Oh, we’ll get to that.” He
glanced around the deck with
pointed curiousity. “How’s this
little operation of yours going? Why
don’t you show us around?”

TTe could see that Handy was
* going to keep him on the hook
for a while. Okay. He took them
over to the work area. It was de-
serted. He ran through an explana-
tion of how he was collecting the
eggs. Handy’s interest was the
gloating kind, it seemed. McIntyre
was too nervous to react at all. Ob-

viously the sailor knew the score.
Obviously the girl civilian didn’t.
She was fascinated.

“What are the eggs like?” she
asked. He took her over to the lay-
ing den, thrust open the flap. Moss-
men smells billowed out.

“They bury them in the dust on
the floor here — see — which is
what they normally do on the bot-
tom of the ocean.” As he spoke,
his quick hands sifted through the
moist dust, coming up with hand-
ful after handful of black, pimply
bullets.

“But there’re so many?”

“Right. They survive like rabbits,
only because of their prolificity.”
He flashed a glance at Commander
Handy, but the thin face was in-
scrutable. Hatch stood up. “You
see, the mountains move across the
entire face of the planet, killing
everything but the moss, every
seven months. They also destroy
all but a hundredth of one percent
of the eggs.”

“And what do you do with
them?” she asked. Blue earnest
eyes.

“Fly them over the mountains.”

“Why? Why can’t they handle
the survival of their own species
naturally? After all, didn’t they
evolve here?” She had no. notion of
the sort of bomb she’d just
dropped.

For a long moment Hatch studied
the egg in his hand, rolling it be-
tween two fingers. He didn’t trust

himself to look at Handy. “Well,
it’s like this, Miss Holloway. Some
time ago, a bunch of men opened
up a transmutation plant down here,
and the radiation almost killed
them off.”

The blue eyes widened. She point-
ed at Handy. “But he wants
to — ”

Hatch’s turn to be startled. So
that was it.

Handy smirked. “Well, Hatch, I
guess we can talk business now.”

Hatch led them up to the obser-
vation tower he used for living
quarters. He had chairs enough,
just. McIntyre set up a recorder,
mumbled into it, nodded to the
Commander.

Throat being cleared. “Very well,
then. Hatch, we’re going to buy
back your planet. GS has decided
to reopen the T-belt.”

re going . Has decided . Hatch
swallowed. Handy must be
holding some pretty high cards.
He’d forgotten what it was like to
fear a man like this. But it all
came flooding back, as vividly as
the day of his Court Martial.

Still, his guts weren’t jelly, he
was no quivering McIntyre. Hatch
shifted in his chair, almost physical-
ly pulling himself together.

“There was a time when you
could say things like that to me,
Handy. But I’m not in the service
any more — thanks to you. And
this isn’t government land any more.

I’m a civilian and legal owner of
this place. And I say — no sale.”

Handy’s birdlike face was get-
ting white around the beak. “Read,
McIntyre.”

The nervous sailor hopped erect,
a five-by-eight in his hand, and
began to recite. “Definition: Emin-
ent domain is — ” He looked like a
school kid sans homework, and at
any other time Hatch would have
laughed. Across the room, Hollo-
way looked for a second as if she
might too.

“Definition: Eminent domain is
the superior dominion of the sove-
reign power over property within
the state, which authorizes it to ap-
propriate all or any part thereof to
a necessary public use — reason-
able compensation being made.”

Hatch looked puzzled.

McIntyre turned the card over.
“Eminent Domain, Reference 311:
The People vs. the colonists of Till-
man, GS Circuit Court, Sixth Arm,
Third Quarter. 2674.

“It was established that, despite
private ownership of the Planetoid
Tillman, the colonists thereon must
deliver same to public ownership
for a reasonable price. Necessary
public use was invoked since the
core of said planetoid was the only
known source of radioantigen 4-A
in the galaxy, and an epidemic of
intestinal cancer had broken out in
the sixth arm, affecting humans and
many other denizens thereof.

“Precedent set: It was recognized

BESIDE THE WALKING MOUNTAINS

that surrender of this planetoid
would mean the death of the four-
teen colonists, who had developed
environmental, adaptive and other
physiological dependencies on it.

“While the court strongly deplor-
ed the implications of such action,
it was deemed just, in light of the
disproportionately high number of
GS citizens who might otherwise die
of cancer.”

AyT clntyre sat down. Hatch stood
up, pointing angrily through
the transplas wall at the string of
silver beads resting out on the hori-
zon.

“That’s no goldmine of 4-A.
That’s a broken down T-belt that
makes ordinary fuel, and not very
efficiently either. That’s a T-belt
that should never have been opened,
and wouldn’t have been if you
hadn’t been so goddarrw stubborn.
Just who decided itys so necessary?”

Handy’s face contorted, but to
his credit; his voice was soft. “I
have news for you, my friend. I’ve
been reassigned. Do you have any
idea what my new billet is?” Even
softer now, the jaw quivering with
malice. “I’m Adviser to the Presi-
dent on Fuel Resources. I’ve de-
clared a shortage. I’m going to re-
open that belt. I’m going to get
you, Hatch. I’m going to get — ”
There were tears in the man’s eyes.

Hatch’s face was rigid, stark
white. McIntyre forgot to breathe.
Holloway’s face filled with revul-

sion. Finally, composing himself, the
Commander got to his feet.

“Miss Holloway will remain here
a few days to assess your belong-
ings and determine ‘reasonable
compensation.’ ” He did an about
face and walked out. McIntyre
snapped the recorder shut, sprang
up, scampered after. In five min-
utes they’d both cabled over to the
landing sled, and in ten it was a
dot against the sun once again.
Hatch squinted after them.

“I’m sorry, Hatch,” said a timid
voice beside him.

“Sure you are,” he snorted,
turning to her, rubbing his eyes.

“Oh, but I am. I had no idea of
this vendetta of his.” She said a lot
more, which while not making him
feel any better, succeeded in con-
vincing him she was sincere. He
looked her over.

She was cheerleader cute, almost
a prettiness. Wide-set blue eyes
he’d already noticed. Lips full and
so nicely bowed that there was a
little part in the middle, even with
them closed. The face was, natural-
ly, heartshaped; the hair blonde;
and the blouse crowded. Her name
had to be Jill, he thought.

When she’d talked herself out,
he asked her.

“Nadine,” she said. “What’s so
funny?”

“Nothing. Well look, Nadine. I
was in the process of raking up
when you came down. So why don’t

you go back inside, and later — ”
“No, no, I’ll kelp.”

She was quite a circus. Not hav-
ing the best sea legs in the world,
she did a lot of grabbing and
leaning — on her rake, the bulk-
heads, Hatch himself — and even
then managed one beautiful sprawl.
But she got a kick out of the
smells, though not digging the sala-
manders which lived in the stuff.

They’d been working twenty min-
utes when Nadine met her first
mossman. She was back near the
work area, picking moss from the
jungle of stays and antennae that
made up Hatch’s communications
masts. He was midships at the time,
but her screech had no trouble
making the trip.

Nor did Hatch. Galloping back,
he found her backed up against
the deckhouse, waving her rake at
the Jane. The loudspeaker was still
on, and now that Handy’s sled had
left, they were filtering back
toward the barge. This was the first
to climb in over the rail, however.

Hatch laughed. “Relax, Nadine.
Hey Jane — that’s right — over
here.” With broad gestures he led
her to the laying den. When she
was out of sight behind the flap,
Nadine said, “I need a drink.”

They were standing right next to
the still. Hatch offered her a cup
and a warning. She took the cup
but not the warning and got lifted
off in two swallows. Hatch decided
what the hell, he had as good a

reason to blow his mind now as
ever, and followed suit.

They ended up sitting with their
backs to the deckhouse, within an
arm’s length of the spigot.

He told her the one about the
trisexual rigelian cabbage, and she
responded with the limerick that
began, “There once was a fruit-bat
named Freddy.” Hatch told her she
didn’t look the type for that kind
of joke and she said oh yeah.

The conversation drifted in a
more serious direction. Whatever
had gone on between himself and
Handy?

Hatch considered. The sun was
where it belonged, the speed about
right, the old T-belt steady off the
beam. No need to check the auto-
pilot. Hatch took a big swig, a deep
breath, and began.

Ill

He’d been a First Class Petty
Officer. Rating: Transmuta-
tion Technician. A T-tech’s work
was the upgrading of stable ele-
ments into fissionables by first gasi-
fying the base metal and then ir-
radiating the hell out of it.

It sounded hairy to Nadine but
Hatch said no, not really. The pro-
cess wasn’t that complicated but re-
quired two things: a base ore with
both lead and actinium in it, and a
whole lot of energy to pour into
the beta beam. This planet had
both, so GS had sent his old outfit

BESIDE THE WALKING MOUNTAINS

down to exploit it. And yes, Handy
was the C.O.

There were several hundred men
at first, to get the T-belt built. He
waved toward the horizon where it
floated on the moss like a string
of gigantic silver sausages. Girding
the entire planet, their thermoelec-
tric skin produced energy from the
hotside-coldside temperature differ-
ential. Except for a central conduit,
the sausages contained only a few
gallons of sealant and a small pump
to keep the boron-fibred, plastic
skin inflated.

In spite of its simplicity, the T-
belt had been hard to build. Most
of the materials had to be mined
from the planet itself. Actually min-
ing was hardly an appropriate word
for the screwball operation they
carried out.

They started at the dawnline.
Laser-drilling a vertical shaft in the
moss, they quickly dropped in a
crew and equipment. As the mine
rotated out into the hotside, then,
they had the thermal insulation of
the moss itself. Oh, it helped; but
temperatures approached one-sixty.
Men had to wear suits. You can
imagine how the T-crew envied the
mossmen, whose tolerance made
them comfortable right up to boil-
ing water temperatures. Sometimes
a mossman would show up with bits
of charred vegetation in his fur, in-
dicating he’d been as close to the
surface as the flame area.

Anyway, the heat was just part

of it. The mine was actually a dust
sifting operation — since the upper
strata of the crust had been pul-
verized by the galloping alps.

Then, just after they’d got things
going, seven months would be up
and here came the mountains at the
twiline. There was a mad scramble
to get out in time, and more than
once someone didn’t make it.

Finally, since the mountains ob-
literated their digs each half-rota-
tion, it was necessary to go through
the whole mess from scratch, each
time.

In short, the project was almost
impossible. But Handy never
quit. Not when GS was currently
putting four stripes on the sleeves
of successful T-Group C.O.’s. The
man was crazy.

They both drank to that.

But whatever the engineering
problems might have been, Hatch’s
planet was a natural scientist’s para-
dise. Ever since man had broken
free of the solar system, he’d been
disappointed at how little life there
was in the galaxy. Plants were rare,
animals rarer, and intelligent beings
— fellow citizens of the Galaxy —
well, there were exactly two species.
To find life in as inhospitable and
bizarre a place as this had been
quite a surprise.

And what adaptations! The moss-
men, for instance. They began as
eggs laid at the twiline. When on-
coming mountains engulfed both

parents and eggs, the parents died
but one egg in a thousand lived
through it. Because of the cold,
the surviving eggs simply sat on
the bottom as the planet made its
ponderous, seven month half-turn.
Then they were hit again, this time
by the dawnline mountains. What
few survived this onset usually
hatched. All it took was two hours
of dayside temperatures.

They popped out of the shell as
miniature adults, and started eating.
Salamanders, mostly. And moss.

They reached full size and ma-
turity in less than a month. In-
stinctively, they always moved
against the motion of the planet,
just as did Hatch’s hoverbarge.
Their language was also instinctive,
as was a strong social sense and a
gentle mortality that was almost ori-
ental. They were good, Hatch said.

Nadine nodded. Hatch went on.

Well, flesh and blood isn’t a
hoverbarge, and sooner or later the
mountains caught up with all of
them. They got old and couldn’t
keep up. Finally, they fell back to
the twiline — where Hatch was
right now — and spent their final
weeks laying eggs on the bottom
before the mountains got them.

As they spoke, a procession of
Janes had come aboard, left their
clutch, and wandered past on their
way to and from the still. They lay
all about, sleeping off a fraction
of what must be perpetual exhaus-
tion.

BESIDE THE WALKING MOUNTAINS

Nadine pointed to one, asked
how old she was and how much
longer she could keep up. Hatch
said, oh, maybe five years, with a
month or two to go. About average.

Nadine was visibly upset by this,
so he hurried on with his story.

Tt began when the construction
-*• crew began putting mossmen to
work in the mines. No, it wasn’t
slave labor. The Joes actually liked
being near the creatures that fas-
cinated them so. And they liked
learning things, such as what
clothes were and how a wheel or a
shovel worked. But the mines didn’t
move against the planet. A lifespan
which any normal mossman could
stretch to six or seven years was
chopped off in seven months. Handy
got away with it because he hadn’t
ever reported the mossmen’s exis-
tence to home base.

This, Hatch had decided right
off, was a rotten thing to do to
someone nearly as smart as your-
self. He was among the minority of
crewmen who regarded the mossmen
as sub-humans rather than super-
animals. And being the sort of man
he was, he decided to do something
about it.

When he formed a committee and
appealed to Commander Handy, he
found himself in the brig. Handy
hadn’t even spoken to them. When
Hatch had finished his little speech,
the Commander had simply nodded
to the Master at Arms and gone on

sipping coffee and reading reports.
Six days.

TJ c got a month — and was bust-

^ ed to Second Class — for
writing his GS Rep.

Then he was busted right down
to SR for smuggling a spool back
earthside to the newstapers. After
that, Hatch got smart and went un-
derground. He smuggled a smart old
Joe into his section of the crew’s
barge and began training him. A
Personnelman buddy of his swiped
an IQ test for aliens — which GS
gave to determine how humanity
would subsequently treat them. It
was mostly non-participatory as
such tests had to be, and it measur-
ed reaction to various stimuli. Joe
passed. The mossmen were legally
intelligent and had full GS citizen-
ship.

So he’d sent the test earthside,
to SPCA-E, and got the mossmen
out of the mines and a hero’s status
for himself. But Handy swore he’d
kill him, just as soon as he faded
from the limelight. For the mo-
ment however, he couldn’t even put
him in the brig.

Then two things happened. For
one, the T-belt was finished even
without the mossmen’s help; and
the galloping alps began to syste-
matically wreck it, for another. Han-
dy needed every T-Tech he had.
Hatch was the best there was. His
competence prevented the terminal
accident his Commander had dream-

ed of, over and over, late at night.

Hatch almost felt secure again.
The construction crew went home
and only sixty men ran the T-belt
and barges. Despite the continuing
stream of repair work, their output
of suburanic fuel was passable. It
began to look like the station might
be a success.

“Until?” asked Nadine.

Until the radioactive ash from the
process began killing off the moss-
men. Trouble was, the processing
barges hovered right over the twi-
line where the Janes laid their eggs,
and sterilized a lot of them. The
yield began to drop.

So Hatch had stowed away in a
supply ship, gone back to earth,
and taken it to the SPCA-E. The
T-belt was shut down. Handy re-
mained a Commander. But Hatch
was court martialled. If Handy
could have gotten him in the brig,
he’d have been a dead man. But
all this happened at the Arctic
Naval Base back on earth, so he
was powerless.

Nadine had been listening so
closely that she’d forgotten her
cup. Hatch had been talking too
much to bother with his, and they
were both back down.

“So you bought the place and
moved in. Why?”

Hatch eased her off his lap —
a little embarrassed now — and

stood up. “Because a lot of irrepa-
rable harm was done before I could
stop Handy. The mossmen were
cut down so far that they can’t
maintain their number. They’re dy-
ing out.”

They went into the obs tower to
eat. Hatch was talked out, brood-
ing. Nadine rummaged through the
mess of his food prep locker and
put the semblance of a salad to-
gether. They drank water. She let
him take his time.

“I guess you’ll want to start
assessing things,” he said finally.

“Forget it for now.” She came
around behind his chair and put
her hands on his shoulders. “Rich-
ard J. Handy, Rat, GSN. He must
have re-directed his entire career
in the service to get the job he’s
got now. To get you.”

Hatch laughed. “But for all that,
he got me. Public domain seems to
be the biggest single hole in the
bill of rights. In the final analysis,
the majority has the power of life
and death over the minority.”

“And it’s not really applicable,”
she said. “There’s no real fuel shor-
tage.”

“But what court is going to re-
fuse the word of the President’s
Advisor on that count? No, he’s got
me.”

Hatch checked his watch, got
up, stretched, turned to her. “Day’s
half shot, and I haven’t done a
thing. Not that it’ll make much dif-
ference now, but what the hell.”

Nadine was surprised at how
quickly she got used to the moss-
men. She worked together with
Hatch now, directing the Janes to
the nests, placating the Joes, col-
lecting the eggs when the nests
were full.

Hatch was sweating in the sun,
half naked, walking among them.
Patting, smiling, a continuous cha-
rade of goodwill and congratula-
tion. She saw him as an Indian, a
latter-day noble savage, holding a
dying tribe together for its own
sake.

Finally, he turned off the record-
ings, and the newcomers diminished
to a trickle. They, had only to
transfer the eggs to the storage
holds, Hatch said, and then wrap it
up for the day.

She helped slide them down into
four huge refrigerated holds. All
four were nearly full. Thirty billion
souls, he told her. Enough to re-
populate the galaxy.

“Why such a backlog?” she won-
dered.

Well, because only recently had
he developed a method of ferrying
them over the mountains. But he
had it now and would probably
stop collecting soon and concentrate
full time on that phase of the oper-
ation.

“And how do you get them
across?” she asked.

“Would you like to see how it
was done?” he answered.

BESIDE THE WALKING MOUNTAINS

“Yes.”

So when all the eggs were stored,
he led her to what had been a life-
boat locker, back near the stern.
They had to pick away among the
bodies of several hundred sleeping
mossmen.

Hatch went in and turned on
the light. The small shed had been
converted to a hangar.

Eighty percent of the room was
filled with boron plastic silk. Hatch
poked at a control board near the
door and the roof slid open. A com-
pressor whistled to life and the
jumbled fabric began to shape into
a flabby cigar.

When it tightened into a blimp,
she could see that a nacelle had been
at the bottom of the pile. It bore
what seemed to her like much too
big an engine, a laser, and a rudi-
mentary bomb bay and doors.

They loaded it with about ten
thousand eggs. Hatch got the motor
started, and cast off the cables.
They watched it lurch up into the
hot wind.

“Come up to the bridge,” he said.
“The radio control panel’s there.”

Like everything else on the
barge, Hatch’s RC equipment was
a real kitchen job. He combined
Ford’s ingenuity with Goldberg’s
total lack of regard for symmetry.
Amid the mechanoelectrochemiphy-
sical mess of it all was a screen,
and on that screen was the blimp.
It was being swept rapidly astern
toward the mountains.

Hatch motioned her to sit beside
him as he brought up power to the
antenna, and then plunged into lip-
biting concentration. It was as if
they rode with it.

He directed the thing by a dum-
my stick and half a dozen toggles.
The blimp began to pick up alti-
tude, but slowly. He gave it more
throttle and steeper flaps. She nosed
up more quickly now.

The mountains rolled ever closer
in the background, and the violence
of all that moving earth was a
frightening thing. Nadine said she
was glad she couldn’t hear it.

It didn’t look at first as if they’d
make it. The engine was a monster,
but the wind was more monstrous.
He cranked on full throttle, full
flaps. The screen flashed black as
the tracking radar went out of sync;
and Hatch fumed to get the pic-
ture back. When he did he heard
Nadine gasp.

Not a hundred feet separated
the lurching limp from the hell-
storm of dust and moss below it.
But an inch would have been
enough. Hatch let out his breath
lftudly and smiled.

The nightside stretched out be-
fore them like a burnt, black
blanket. You could almost feel the
cold. Hatch slowed to a hover. All
around them the dust settled down
through the moss, perpetuating the
the same weird ecology it had since
this particular world had begun.

He fired the laser, tunneling in-
to the moss at a very shallow
angle, perhaps ten degrees, and
counted silently to himself, to
twenty. They were quite low. The
surface of the freezing moss lay
only fifteen feet away. The hole
was ten feet wide now. Hatch
couldn’t miss. He dropped a thou-
sand eggs, and they rolled on down
the shaft.

“Bravo,” Nadine said, and mi-
micked one of the faces he made
when congratulating the mossmen.
He grinned. They repeated the pro-
cess until the eggs were gone.

He got back the altitude more
easily coming back unladen, and
they cleared the mountains by a
thousand feet. In an hour the blimp
was hissing out its helium in the
hangar.

They went down and tucked it
in. He could see the girl was tiring,
though she didn’t complain. It had
been eight hours since she’d come
down from Handy’s orbiting cruiser,
and she’d been working most of
them. His suggestion of a break
drew a nod and quick imitation of
a bear woofing and collapsing on the
deck.

“Do you always made faces?” he
asked as they went up.

“Yes.”

Hatch cooked this time. In the
midst of his typically misdirected
pan rattling, Nadine commented
that he was perhaps the worst or-
ganized human she’d ever seen.

Hatch chuckled but he was hurt.
“I don’t know. Take what we did
today. It’s pretty systematic, isn’t
it?”

“Yes, but we only did half the
job. Too bad you can’t get them
over the far twiline too,” she mused.
“Though halfway around the
world’s some blimp trip — ”

“Right. And no gasbag would
stay buoyant in that cold.”

She sat up. “Still, I’ll bet there’s
a better way. You could — ” But
then she wilted and looked apolo-
getically at Hatch.

They ate, carrying on a glum but
realistic conversation. When would
Handy be back down for her? In a
few hours. They discussed what
various things were worth. Nadine
made a few notes. Would he come
back to earth with them? No, he’d
stick around. Even with the T-
belt running, there might be some-
thing he could do for the mossmen.
She suggested that Handy would
probably kick him off as soon as
the transaction was complete.

Hatch shrugged. “Eminent do-
main,” he sighed. “Majority be
served, minority be damned.”
Twenty-three seconds of silence.
“Hatch?” She pointed down.
“This barge.”

Raised eyebrows.

“Could it survive a run over the
mountains?”

“Never in a million years. Why?”
“Well, suppose it could. Suppose
you could carry all thirty billion

BESIDE THE WALKING MOUNTAINS

eggs over the mountains, across the
coldside, across the dawnline moun-
tains — and lay them in the day-
side. Thirty billion mossmen would
hatch, right?”

“I don’t dig.”

“Majority. There aren’t that
many other intelligent beings in the
galaxy, don’t you see? Handy
couldn’t invoke public domain.”

'T'he barge sidled closer to the T-
belt. Nadine was nervous about
handling the controls, but there was
no other way. Hatch had spent the
entire trip over explaining them to
her. The ship handled like a pig,
and he impressed this on her.

Course corrections came with agoni-
zing slowness.

From this distance the T-cells
loomed like Enterprise-sized gray
elephants, stumbling along trunk to
tail. Nadine kept saying she felt
she was going to get stepped on
any minute. Hatch pinched the
meagre fat of her waist reassuring-
ly, and left the bridge.

Down on deck, he prepared to
board the T-belt. Just like the old
days. He’d used some of the same
procedures, too. Since both the wind
and the roughness of the moss di-
minished as you moved further
away from the mountains, he’d
driven them thirty miles out into
the hotside. But if it was less stormy
here, it was hotter.

The sun was orange, not red,
and Hatch’s twiline-oriented pu-
pils had shrivelled to pinheads. He
could barely see through the tears,
or think through the headache. He
had on a full complement of T-
Tech gear too, from tool suit to
back pack, and the unaccustomed
weight smothered him.

He waited as Nadine piloted
them in. He wished they could skip
this whole operation, but he knew
that the barge wouldn’t have
enough power for the trip up the
mountains, not by herself. So he was
forced to run a power cable to the
T-belt. They’d make the run like
an electric toy at the end of a cord.

He stood by the line gun, arm up-
raised, one eye on the bridge, an-
other on the approaching gray T-
cells. She angled them in ever closer.
Now they were actually beneath
the great rising curve of one of
them. He dropped his arm, and saw
the barge straighten out to parallel
the chain. They were really too far
out, but he was being conservative
on her account. Go too far in, and
a chance swell could lift the barge
up against the T-cells and crush
them.

He waited until they’d drifted up
to the junction between two cells,
then told her to cut forward mo-
tion. They’d have about an hour be-
fore the mountains overtook them.
He aimed the line gun, made the
shot, and put on the climbing har-
ness.

The line ascended at about thirty
degrees to the joint linking two of
the huge sausages. It was a tough
climb, even for him. He was sweat-
ing so much that his hands slipped,
even with gloves. Twice he lost hold
and dangled heavily from the safety
harness.

TTe made it. Sitting on the two-
* * foot central cable, he wiped his
eyes, caught his breath. Down on
the barge, Nadine waved encourage-
ment from the bridge.

The junction box was scarcely
more than a black boulder of corro-
sion. It took twenty minutes of
torching and chipping to get the
thing open.

There were four hundred termi-
nals in a twenty by twenty array
Half were positive, half negative.
Most were dead. Six years of disre-
pair. He ran through seventy-three
of the plusses before hitting one
that was live. He kept on going,
getting one more as an alternate if
he needed it.

Then he went through the
minuses, ^nd got three. After bolt-
ing in the cables, he fused the in-
sulation and shut the box.

Getting back down was easier, be-
cause down is easier than up in the
first place — and because half an
hour had passed. They’d drifted
back toward the mountains and
things were cooler and dimmer.

And rougher. The moss was
breaking in over the bow in dark

BESIDE THE WALKING MOUNTAINS

streams as he touched down, and
the wind turned each tendril into a
whiplash. He was glad for the tech-
suit. They were drifting closer into
the belt, too. He sprinted up to
the bridge.

As he burst in, Nadine wailed,
“It won’t go — J ”

“Yes, it will.” He took the stick.

“Your face is bleeding.”

“You’re crying.”

“I’m scared.”

So was he. The barge yawed
violently, and the bow rose within
yards of the cell above. He crabbed
the rotors like mad, lifted the port-
side apron, and prayed nothing
would blow.

They got out. The moss was just
as rough, but with the T-belt a
thousand yards away, they wouldn’t
get mashed. He gave her back the
controls.

This time the deck was murder.
They’d fallen back to the foothills.
He’d put on a helmet, but the wind-
driven moss howled up under the
faceplate, into his sleeves, up his
cuffs. He was getting high from
the scent too, which didn’t help.
He waded back to the blimp han-
gar.

Inflating the thing in a gale like
this was something he decided he
would never do again. The blimp
finally bobbed a hundred yards be-
hind and above on her tether cable.
But he had to do it again, to the
auxiliary blimp on the starboard
side.

|TTe staggered back up to the
“ bridge, a tight hand on the life-
line all the way. Inside, he nearly
collapsed.

She gave him water and thirty
seconds of attention, like a prize-
fighter’s trainer between rounds. He
got up, walked to the transplas wall,
looked back aft.

The blimps shuddered on their
tethers like fishing bobs dragged by
a demented muskie. But they had
the desired effect, that of weather-
vanes. They dragged the stem of
the barge around and aligned it
with the wind. With the wind and
straight up the mountains — back-
wards. At least they wouldn’t have
to worry about holding a heading
with the barge’s rudders.

There was one final job, and
barely time to do it. Hatch had to
unreel as much power cable as he
could, to allow them to get as far
as possible from the T-belt, as it
stampeded over the mountains. The
mountains. Here they came. It look-
ed like the whole world was rearing
back to stomp them. Hatch put the
helmet back on.

He was back down on deck now.
Not only moss but dust fouled the
air now. And an occasional dark
shape that went thump. The whole
barge shuddered. The wind must
have been sixty knots. The roar of
it was deafening. A lot of the top-
side gear had been carried away.
There was the rising howl of more
moss getting chewed in the rotors.

Hatch made his way to where
the cable over to the T-belt arced
off into the portside darkness. Ten-
sion in the cable told him his con-
nections were intact. He opened the
shorepower junction box which was
set into the deck, and connected the
T-belt’s cable to the spools inside
it.

Under the box was a hatch. He
went belowdecks. Belowdecks in a
hoverbarge is a shallow crawl space
full of things that make noise. He
loaded the reels with every last
foot of conduit on the barge, and
pulled out the pins. They sang free.
Then he climbed out again, and for
the last time, returned to Nadine.

They didn’t say anything. No
point; you just couldn’t hear.
Hatch piloted them as far from the
T-belt as the cable reels would al-
low. Now, to cut it in. He flashed
her a grin, held up crossed fingers,
and threw four switches. Sixty
thousand extra kilowatts from the
T-belt poured into the support ro-
tors and tried to make a helicopter
out of a hoverbarge.

Tt was a typical, Hatch-style
* kitchen job in that it worked —
barely. She’d surge ponderously up
to the full height of her aprons, and
kept on going for five or six feet.
While up in the air her pitching and
rolling ceased, but she tended to
rise high at the bow, reversing the
slope of the deck.

Then she’d fall back slowly,
BESIDE THE WALKING MOUNTAINS

plunging the apron into the moss
until - the cushion built up again.
While in the moss all kinds of horri-
ble noises issued from the rotors as
they hacked into — everything.
Heavy moss with treetrunk tendrils,
cast up from the lower strata; dust
and gravel from the bottom; and,
most horrifyingly — mossmen and
other fauna.

It was like being in an elevator
on a starship during warp-out. No
human gut can take it. Nadine got
sick; Hatch got sick. Nadine col-
lapsed, but Hatch wedged himself
erect and did what little he could
to control the ship.

They rolled giddily up the moun-
tain wave. The incline increased.
They spent less and less time in the
air and more and more in the rub-
ble, which was killing for the rotors.
There was no more power, nothing
he could do.

Up ahead he saw the T-belt go
booming over the crest, link by
link. One burst even as he watched,
and the thunderclap it made could
be felt as well as heard.

Now there was nothing he could
see. Dust obscured everything. It
filtered in through a defective vent.
It stank of earth and burning moss
and burning hair. As if the planet
was compensating for its fragrance
at the twiline.

Hatch found himself standing on
nothing. The deck dropped out,
came back, dropped out again.
They’d lost one of the blimps and

now crabbed up the mountain at a
weird angle, whipsawing back and
forth on the single tether.

He felt it first, then heard it.
One of the four support rotors had
sheared. The drive motor wound up
to an astronomical speed. He tried
to get to the console, but somebody
kept shaking the world. He felt
like an ant in a matchbox. He
heard the motor blow, and gave up
trying to do anything but hang on.
Nadine slammed against him on her
way to the ceiling. He grabbed her.

The transplas shield blew in.
Hatch blacked out.

T Te woke up, cold, in six inches
of fine dust, under two feet of
moss. Nadine was shaking him.

“Thank God,” she said.

One collarbone, an ankle —
though that still worked — and a
mild concussion for her. A hole in
the head for him, some ribs, and a
back.

As for the barge: one blimp, one
rotor, and everything that wasn’t
welded to the deck. He looked out
on a barren metalsquare, punctu-
ated only by the major tanks and
houses. The outside temperature
was sixteen degrees and falling.
They were a hundred miles into the
coldside.

Item: turn around, get back closer
to the mountains, and get warm.
Two hours.

Item: repairs, human and other-
wise. Twenty-four hours.

Item: check supplies, power

connections to the T-belt, environ-
mental units and so on. Prepare to
dive. Ten hours.

Item: Dive: The first thing need-
ed here was a hole to dive into.
They ran up the blimp and tried to
burn a shallow angle tunnel not far
from the barge. But the moss, re-
cently uprooted by the mountains,
was like water. It wouldn’t hold a
tunnel for six feet before caving
in.

So they had to run farther into
the coldside, where the moss was
frozen solid. The shaft was sunk
within a few hundred yards of the
T-belt, so that they could bury
themselves as deeply as possible and
still keep the power cable connected.
They’d need it for the heaters.

Their passage down the long,
shallow tunnel was uneventful, ex-
cept that Nadine got claustrophobia
from the closeness of the reedy
walls.

When they reached the end of
the power cable, they were about a
mile down. Hatch wished it was
deeper. But while the cold of the
surface might get more quickly to
them, they would at least have
power to combat it.

He scoured out a flat-floored ca-
vern with the laser, put the barge
in the middle, and — for the first
time in six years — shut her down
completely.

They stood there on the bridge
with the self-absorbed smiles of
people straining to hear distant
music. First the main rotors
stopped. Not that they were loud,
but they’d been constant. And when
Hatch stopped the auxiliaries, his
ears almost hurt. He was aware of
Nadine’s breathing.

Finally, the hissing of air from
the support apron — accompanied
by the slow sinking of the barge
right down to its frame — stopped.
Even his own breathing seemed loud
then.

“Hatch,” she boomed. “Isn’t this
weird?”

'^phey grew used to it in the
months that followed, and to

each other. There were no problems,
and nothing to do except turn up
the heat every few days to com-
pensate for their distance into the
nightside. They ate, played cards,
slept, talked, made love, and grew
pale from lack of sun. Hatch some-
times took a torch and walked
around out on the deck for exer-
cise, but soon it grew too cold for
that.

Soon, in fact, they were forced
to block off all but the most essen-
tial compartments of the barge to
keep the heat. The outside tempera-
ture fell to sixty below. Hatch
guessed it to be more like a minus
one hundred-ten on the surface.

Finally, the point was reached
when they were living on the bridge

and in the obs tower — and drawing
every watt their T-belt cable could
put out. Yet still the temperature
fell. The hoverbarge had never been
meant for this; its insulation was
nowhere near thick enough. Hatch
was barely able to keep their living
quarters above freezing.

And then he wasn’t able. The
morning she woke and found both
the taps frozen, Nadine got scared.

When they were forced to stay in
bed all the time, even Hatch got
scared. They’d been under six
months. As a last ditch effort; he
started up the barge’s auxiliary pile,
to augment what they got from the
T-belt. They celebrated by dancing
barefoot on the warm metal deck.

But it might well have been a
funeral dance, and they knew it.
They started saying dramatic
things to each other. Last words,
I love you, if I had it all to do
over, and so on. It was in the midst
of one such maudlin tirade that
Hatch noticed the red blade of the
recording thermometer was above
the black blade. They’d made it.

When the barge crept up from
the tunnel, when the sunlight pour-
ed over the shoulder of the moun-
tains ahead of them, Nadine cried.
Hatch was surprised; she’d never
broken before, not during the worst
of it.

Crossing the mountains was in-
finitely easier this time. Because the
moss was frozen solid, it cushioned
the heaving planet underneath. It

was like riding a glacier as opposed
to their previous salmon-run, up-
stream, through the rapids.

Not that glaciers don’t roar and
crack; there were a few tense mo-
ments. Actually, they went up on a
glacier and came down the other
side on a smallish iceberg.

But they came down intact, to
the dawnline of the dayside, with
thirty billion eggs.

'T'hey sowed the eggs. They had
^ more than enough time before
Handy found them. The GS sled
descended with unwonted speed.
They watched it fall toward them.

The cablepod disgorged McIntyre
on the first trip, whose immediate
comment was, “Gee, we thought you
were dead.”

Then came Handy, who said only,
“Where have you been?”

So they took him up to the obs
tower, sat him down and told him.

“So you came across the night-
side. Why?”

“I had a boatload of eggs, Com-
mander.”

“Mossmen’s eggs?”

“Naturally.”

“Hmp.” Handy looked thought-
ful, cocked his head, sloshed his
wineglass gently around and around.
“So. I guess this was a last ditch
stand to save the species before we
open the T-belt, eh?”

“Something like that.”

“Do you think you’re succeed-
ed?”

“Sure. In fact, we’ll have some
overpopulation for a while — des-
pite the size of the planet — until
the bears come down to accommo-
date the available grazing area. Af-
ter all, we increased birth expec-
tancy from, oh, roughly less than a
millionth of a percent — ”

“To?”

“Over ninety.”

“So?”

“Tell him, McIntyre.”

“Sir?” asked the flustered sailor,
looking at Hatch.

“That public domain thing. Read
it.”

Questioning spaniel gaze shifting
to the Commander, met with an ir-
ritated nod.

McIntyre hopped erect and be-
gan to recite. “Eminent domain
is — ” He looked like a freckled
sixth grader. “Eminent domain is
the superior dominion of the sove-
reign power over property within
the state, which authorizes it to ap-
propriate all or any part therof

to a necessary public use, reasonably
compensation being made.”

The sailor sat down.

“Now, Commander, what’s thy
sovereign power? The majority,
right? And what’s the galactic pop-
ulation right now?”

Handy looked briefly thoughtfuL
“Twenty seven-six or so. But — ”
“Wrong. Fifty seven-six, thirty
of which are mossmen. So you’re
outvoted.” As Handy reached an-
grily for his hat, Hatch lifted a
restraining hand. “Wait now —
don’t leave yet. I assume that while
we were gone you’ve been working
on the belt?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve brought down barges
and everything?”

“Yes, damn it.”

“Good. We’re going to open up
a school for the mossmen, and we’ll
need facilities. When you go —
any time in the next ten hours —
leave the barges.” END

This Month in Galaxy —

TO JORSLEM

by Robert Silverberg

KENDY'S WORLD

by Hoyden Howard

THE WAR WITH THE FNOOLS

by Philip K. Dick

NOW HEAR THE WORD OF THE LORD

by Algts Budrys

Plus regular columns and features — February Galaxy on sale now!

BESIDE THE WALKING MOUNTAINS

IF • Short Story

PRAISEWORTHY SAUR

by HARRY HARRISON

"Our race is greater than yours .
You can serve in only one way
— die, and let us succeed you/ "

44T TTe are there; we are correct.

Y Y The computations were
perfect. That is the place below.”
“You are a worm,” 17 said to
her companion 35, who resembled
her every way other than in num-
ber. “That is the place. But nine
years too early. Look at the meter.”
“I am a worm. I shall free you
of the burden of my useless pres-
ence.” 35 removed her knife from
the scabbard and tested the edge,
which proved to be exceedingly
sharp. She placed it against the
white wattled width of her neck and
prepared to cut her throat.

“Not now,” 17 hissed. “We are

shorthanded already, and your
corpse would be valueless to this
expedition. Get us to the correct
time at once. Our power is limited,
you may remember.”

“It shall be done as you com-
mand,” 35 said as she slithered to
the bank of controls. 44 ignored the
talk, keeping her multicell eyes
focused on the power control bank,
with her spatulate fingers in re-
sponse to the manifold dials.

“That is it,” 17 announced, rasp-
ing her hands together with pleas-
ure. “The correct time, the correct
place. We must descend and make
our destiny. Give praise to the Saur

of All who rules the destinies of
all”

“Praise Saur,” her two compan-
ions muttered, all of their attention
on the controls.

Straight down from the blue sky
the globular vehicle fell. It was
round and featureless, save for the
large rectangular port, on the bot-
tom now, and made of some sort
of blue metal, perhaps anodized
aluminum, though it looked harder.
It had no visible means of flight
or support, yet it fell at a steady
and controlled rate. Slower and
slower it moved until it dropped
from sight behind the ridge at the
northern end of Johnson ’s Lake,
just at the edge of the tall pine
grove. There were fields nearby,
with cows, who did not appear at
all disturbed by the visitor. No
human being was in sight to view
the landing. A path cut in from the
lake here, a scuffed dirt trail that
went to the highway.

An oriole sat on a bush and war-
bled sweetly: a small rabbit
hopped from the field to nibble a
stem of grass. This bucolic and
peaceful scene was interrupted by
the scuff of feet down the trail and
monotone whistling. The bird flew
away, a touch of soundless color,
while the rabbit disappeared into
the hedge. A boy came over the
shore. He wore ordinary boy clothes
and carried a school bag in one
hand, a small and Homemade cage

of wire screen in the other. M the
cage was a small lizard which clung
to the screen, its eyes rolling in
what presumably was fear. The
boy, whistling shrilly, trudged along
the path and into the shade of the
pine grove.

“Boy,” a high pitched and tre-
mulous voice called out. “Can you
hear me, boy?”

“I certainly can,” the boy said,
stopping and looking around for
the unseen speaker. “Where are
you?”

“I am by your side, but I am
invisible. I am your fairy god-
mother — ”

The boy made a rude sound by
sticking out his tongue and blowing
across it while it vibrated. “I don’t
believe in invisibility or fairy god-
mothers. Come out of those woods,
whoever you are.”

“All boys believe in fairy god-
mothers,” the voice said, but a
worried tone edged the words now.
“I know all kinds of secrets. I know
your name is Don and — ”
“Everyone knows my name is
Don, and no one believes any more
in fairies. Boys now believe in rock-
ets, submarines and atomic energy.”
“Would you believe space
travel?”

“I would.”

Slightly relieved, the voice came
on stronger and deeper. “I did not
wish to frighten you, but I am real-
ly from Mars and have just landed.”
Don made the rude noise again.

PRAISEWORTHY SAUR

“Mars has no atmosphere and no
observable forms of life. Now come
out of there and stop playing
games.”

After a long silence the voice
said, “Would you consider time
travel?”

“I could. Are you going to tell
me that you are from the future?”
With relief: “Yes I am.”
“Then come out where I can see
you.”

“There are some things, that the
human eye should not look upon.”
“Horseapples! The human eye is
okay for looking at anything you
want to name. You come out of
there so I can see who you are —
or Pm leaving.”

C4Tt is not advisable.” The voice
-*■ was exasperated. “I can prove
I am a temporal traveler by telling
you the answers to tomorrow’s
mathematics test. Wouldn’t that be
nice? Number one, 1.76. Number
two — ”

“I don’t like to cheat, and even
if I did you can’t cheat on the new
math. Either you know it or you
fail it. I’m going to count to ten,
then go.”

“No, you cannot! I must ask you
a favor. Release that common liz-
ard you have trapped and I will
give you three wishes — I mean
answer three questions.”

“Why should I let it go?”

“Is that the first of your ques-
tions?”

“No. I want to know what’s go-
ing on before I do anything. This
lizard is special. I never saw an-
other one like it around here.”
“You are right. It is an Old
World acrodont lizard of the order
Rhiptoglossa, commonly called a
chameleon.”

“It is!” Don was really interest-
ed now. He squatted in the path
and took a red-covered book from
the school bag and laid it on the
ground. He turned the cage until
the lizard was on the bottom and
placed it carefully on the book.
“Will it really turn color?”

“To an observable amount, yes.
Now if you release her...”

“How do you know it’s a her?
The time traveler bit again?”

“If you must know, yes. The
creature was purchased from a pet
store by one Jim Benan and is one
of a pair. They were both released
two days ago when Benan, deranged
by the voluntary drinking of a
liquid containing quantities of ethyl
alcohol, sat on the cage. The other,
unfortunately, died of his wounds,
and this one alone survives. The
release — ”

“I think this whole thing is a
joke and I’m going home now. Un-
less you come out of there so I can
see who you are
“I warn you ...”

“Good-by.” Don picked up the
cage. “Hey, she turned sort of brick
red!”

“Do not leave. I will come forth.”

T^von looked on, with a great deal
"■-^of interest, while the creature
walked out from between the trees.
It was purple in color, had large
goggling eyes, was slightly scaley,
wore a neatly cut brown jumpsuit
and had a pack slung on its back.
It was also only about seven inches
tall.

“You don’t much look like a man
from the future,” Don said. “In
fact you don’t look like a man at
all. You’re too small.”

“I might say that you are too
big. Size is a matter of relevancy,
And I am from the future, though
I am not a man.”

“That’s for sure. In fact you look
a lot like a lizard.” In sudden in-
spiration, Don looked back and
forth at the traveler and at the cage.
“In fact you look a good deal like
this chameleon here. What’s the
connection?”

“That is not to be revealed. You
will now do as I command or I will
injure you gravely.” 17 turned and
waved towards the woods. “35, this
is an order. Appear and destroy
that growth over there.”

Don looked on with increasing
interest as the blue basketball
of metal drifted into sight from
under the trees. A circular disk
slipped away on one side and a
gleaming nozzle, not unlike the hose
nozzle on a toy firetruck, appeared
through the opening. It pointed
toward a hedge a good thirty feet
away. A shrill whining began from

the depths of the sphere, rising in
pitch until it was almost inaudible.
Then, suddenly, a thin line of light
spat out towards the shrub which
crackled and instantly burst into
flame. Within a second it was a
blackened skeleton.

“The device is called a roxidizer
and is deadly,” 17 said. “Release
the chameleon at once.”

Don scowled. “All right. Who
wants the old lizard anyway?” He
put the cage on the ground and
started to open the cover. Then he
stopped — and sniffed. Picking up
the cage again he started across the
grass towards the blackened bush.

“Come backl” 17 screeched. “We
will fire if you go another step.”

Don ignored the lizardoid, which
was now dancing up and down in an
agony of frustration, and ran to the
bush. He put his hand out — and
apparently right through the char-
red stems.

“I thought something was fishy,”
he said. “All that burning and
everything just upwind of me —
and I couldn’t smell a thing.” He
turned to look at the time traveler
who was slumped in gloomy si-
lence. “It’s just a projected image
of some kind, isn’t it? Some kind
of three-dimensional movie.” He
stopped in sudden thought, then
walked over to the still hovering
temporal transporter. When he
poked at it with his finger he ap-
parently pushed his hand right
into it.

PRAISEWORTHY SAUR

“And this thing isn’t here either.
Are you?”

“There is no need to experiment.
I, and our ship, are present only as
what might be called temporal
echoes. Matter cannot be moved
through time, that is an impossibil-
ity, but the concept of matter can
be temporaly projected. I am sure
that this is too technical for
you ...”

“You’re doing great so far. Carry
on.”

“Our projections are here in a
real sense to us, though we can
only be an image or a sound wave
to any observers in the time we
visit. Immense amounts of energy
are required and almost the total
resources of our civilization are in-
volved in this time transfer.”

“Why? And the truth for a
change. No more fairy godmother
and that kind of malarky.”

“I regreat the necessity to use
subterfuge, but the secret is too
important to reveal casually with-
out attempting other means of per-
suasion.”

“Now we get to the real story.”
Don sat down and crossed his legs
comfortably. “Give.”

TX7e need your aid, or our very
* * society is threatened. Very re-
cently— on our time scale —
strange disturbances were detected
by our instruments. Ours is a sim-
ple saurian existence, some million
or so years in the future, and our

race is dominant. Yours has long
since vanished in a manner too hor-
rible to mention to your young ears.
Something is threatening our entire
race. Research quickly uncovered
the fact that we are about to be
overwhelmed by a probability wave
and wiped out, a great wave of
negation sweeping towards us from
our remote past.”

“You wouldn’t mind tipping me
off to what a probability wave is,
would you?”

“I will take an example from
your own literature. If your grand-
father had died without marrying,
you would not have been born
and would not now exist.”

“But I do.”

“The matter is debatable in the
greater plan of the universe, but
we shah not discuss that now. Our
power is limited. To put the affair
simply, we traced our ancestral
lines back through a! the various
mutations and changes until we
found the individual proto-lizard
from which our line sprung.”

“Let me guess.” Don pointed at
the cage. “This is the one?”

“She is.” 17 spoke in solemn
tones as befitted the moment. “Just
as somewhen, somewhere there is
a proto-tarsier from which your race
sprung, so is there this temporal
mother of ours. She wil bear young
soon, and they will breed and grow
in this pleasant valley. The rocks
near the lake have an appreciable
amount of radioactivity which will

cause mutations. The centuries will
roll by and, one day, our race will
reach its heights of glory.

“But not if you don’t open that
cage.”

Don rested his chin on fist and
thought. “You’re not putting me on
any more? This is the truth?”

17 drew herself up and waved
both arms — or front legs — over
her head. “By the Saur of All, I
promise,” she intoned. “By the
stars eternal, the seasons vernal,
the clouds, the sky, the matriarchal
I . . . ”

“Just cross your heart and hope
to die, that will be good enough for
me.”

The lizardoid moved its eyes in
concentric circles and performed
this ritual.

“Okay then, I’m as soft-hearted
as the next guy when it comes to
wiping out whole races.”

Don unbent the piece of wire that
sealed the cage and opened the
top. The chameleon rolled one eye
up at him and looked at the open-
ing with the other. 17 watched in
awed silence and the time vehicle
bobbed closer.

“Get going,” Don said, and shook
the lizard out into the grass.

nphis time the chameleon took
the hint and scuttled away
among the bushes, vanishing from
sight.

“That takes care of the future,”

Don said. “Or the past, from your
point of view.”

17 and the time machine van-
ished silently. Don was alone again
on the path.

“Well, you could of at least said
thanks before taking off like that!
People have more manners than
lizards any day. I’ll tell you that.”

He picked up the now empty cage
and his school bag and started for
home.

He had not heard the quick
rustle in the bushes, nor did he see
the prowling tomcat with the limp
chameleon in its jaws. END

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PRAISEWORTHY SAUR

ifim.

IF • Feature

AT BAY

WITH
THE

BAYCON

by ROBERT BLOCH

Our Man at Conventions tells us
what went on at the other riots
in Berkeley — the sf convention l

nphe doctor is gone now. doesn’t have any sleeves and fits

He really behaved very nicely, a bit tightly about my neck and
and I don’t mind all those tests he waist. “I have heard about the Loch
gave me, or the way he tapped my Ness Monster and the Abominable
knees with that rubber hammer be- Snow Man. So who am I to say that
fore he stuck the needles into my a Harlan Ellison doesn’t exist?”
arm. At least he listened to what I He shuddered slightly as he said
had to say, and he agreed that it it, but he did say it. And then he
could be possible; such things mumbled something about the
might conceivably have happened. “cathartic method,” and I hope
“I understand,”' he told me, as that doesn’t mean he’s going to give
he strapped me into this rather un- me a laxative; not in this jacket,
usual little Nehru jacket which But I think he was suggesting to

me that I write everything out, just
as it occurred, and I’m going to try.
Even if I can’t use my hands, I may
be able to type with my nose — it
could even help me to make scents
that way.

I don’t really care much for typ-
ing, anyhow. As a wise old editor
once told me, “You can always spot
a drunken science-fiction author.
The only part of the typewriter he
likes is the space bar.”

But I digress.

And the time has come to gress
— about the Baycon, the 26th
World Science Fiction Convention,
held in Berkeley, California, from
August 29th through September
2nd, 1968.

It really took place, you know.
That’s why I’m wearing this jacket.
And in order to comprehend what
happened, perhaps I’d better sketch
in a brief background.

T^our score and seven years ago
-*■ “that’s 1939, according to my
arithmetic” the first World Science
Fiction Convention was perpetrated,
in New York. Some two hundred
odd — if that’s the term I’m look-
ing for — science-fiction fans
writers, editors, artists and pub-
lishers gathered together in a meet-
ing-hall to listen to speeches and
panel discussions on science fiction.
There was much socializing, even
more antisocializing, and a finale
in the form of a lavish banquet, at
$1 a head. Only 32 of the attendees

could afford this expensive luxury
in those faroff depression days, but
the affair was voted a success. Since
that time, with the exception of a
hiatus during World War II, these
Conventions have continued on an
annual basis — and most of them
have exceeded World War II in
their impact. Each year, the affair
has moved from city to city, spon-
sored by a fan-group which bids
for the privilege on a competitive
basis. The winning masochists then
undertake to put on a Convention,
and these put-ons have occurred
throughout the United States. Once
a Convention was held in Toronto,
and twice it took place in London,
but always the concept has con-
tinued to grow and expand. Now
a Science Fiction Convention is a
four-day affair, frequently attrac-
ting upwards of a thousand guests,
to say nothing of those it repels.

Baycon co-chairmen Bill Donaho,
Alva Rogers and J. Ben Stark, to-
gether with their committee mem-
bers, selected the Hotel Claremont
for this year’s affair. The Claremont
is a huge, rambling, old-fashioned
place set against a picturesque hill-
side background, which has often
been recommended by opthamolo-
gists as a site for sore eyes.

But the attendance proved so
large that guests were eventually
scattered about in three other hotels
in the Berkeley area, thus produc-
ing a full-scale Berkeley riot.

The rumble began on Thursday

as the fans assembled. Not just
science-fiction fans, mind you, for
seemingly the Convention is be-
coming a convenient vehicle for
other groups to hitch a ride on —
a sort of surrey with the fringe-fans
on top.

There’s First Fandom, composed
“or decomposed” of elderly types
who entered fandom thirty or more
years ago, led by such stalwarts as
Bob Madle, Dave Kyle and Lou
Tabakow. There’s the Burroughs
Bibliophiles, spearheaded by such
lovers of bibliofilth as Verne Cor-
dell, Stan Vinson, Russ Manning
and John Coleman Buroughs. They
sponsored a special luncheon for
their group and also put on a panel
discussion which I attended. To my
horror, I discovered they were not
honoring William Burroughs, or
even Abe, but some obscure char-
acter named Edgar Rice Burroughs.

Then there was a sizeable group
of comic buffs, also on the program;
devotees of science-fiction and mon-
ster-film fans had their own session
featuring Forrest J Ackerman,
Bill Warren, and Eric Hoffman of
the Count Dracula Society. Another
large segment of attendees were
dedicated fans of Star Trek; pro-
ducer Gene Roddenberry addressed
them at a session with remarks as
pointed as Leonard Nimoy’s ears.
The NFFF, the Order of St. Fanto-
ny and other fannish groups partic-
ipated in the proceedings.

And just to complicate things

AT BAY WITH THE BAYCON

more, a considerable number of at-
tendees were on hand merely to
patronize the daily auctions —
where original manuscripts, tele-
plays, film stills, first editions, old
magazines and original artwork sold
to eager bidders, proceeds of this
donated material being alloted to
defray Convention costs. Chief
Auctioneer Walt Daugherty knock-
ed down one item for $160, an all-
time record. This is somewhat more
than he obtained when he auctioned
off Harlan Ellison and myself to
fans who sought exclusive inter-
views. (That’s what my bidder got
from me; what Harlan’s bidder got
is one of those secrets Men Are
Not Meant To Know) .

At any rate — or, at least, at the
rate this magazine is paying for the
article — there was a lot more go-
ing on at this Convention than just
straight-line, old-fashioned science-
fiction fanning.

By the time I arrived on Friday
afternoon, there had already
been a movie session, a fan revue,
two official parties, eight unofficial
parties, and nineteen feuds. The
Convention was officially opened
at noon, with keynote speeches by
British writer John Brunner and
American author Randall Garrett,
together with rebuttals by various
fans and pros.

After I was conducted through
the winding corridors to the spider-
infested ruins of my room by the

bellboy (Dwight Frye) I wandered
down to a Wine-Tasting Party to
meet the authors. Here, for the
first time, I encountered the leg-
endary E. Hoffman Price — a re-
nowned name when I was a boy,
a personal friend of H. P. Lovecraft
whom I’d had the pleasure of cor-
responding with over thirty years
ago, but had never met. He seemed
every bit as much at home at this
affair as Larry Niven, Joanna Russ
or the other comparative newcomers
to science-fiction circles.

The next event, for authors at
any rate, was the Science Fiction
-Writers of America Banquet, at
which I noted such notables as Jim
Harmon, Miriam Allen deFord,
Tom and Terri Pinckard, Sam
Moskowitz, Ed Wood, Philip K.
Dick, David Gerrold, Sam and
Florence Russell. (I didn’t actually
see all these people at the dinner,
but it’s a sneaky way to drop a few
names, and believe me there’s more
name-dropping at a Convention
than pigeon-dropping in Central
Park).

While Star Trek episodes played
and the Order of St. Fantony con-
ducted its esoteric rites, I wandered
from private party to private party,
encountering Guest of Honor Philip
Jose Farmer, his wife Bette Jos<§
Farmer, Galaxy Gal Judy-Lynn
Benjamin, and the charming couple
responsible for the 1954 San Fran-
cisco Convention, Les and Es Cole.
Such fannish figures as Ruth Ber-

man, Ed Meskys, Walt Leibscher,
Leland Sapiro and last year’s Guest
of Honor, the little-known Lester del
Rey, were very much in evidence.
But, unable to keep up with such
inveterate swingers as Leigh Brack-
ett, I retired at the respectable hour
of 3 a.m. and fell into a deep,
dreamless sleep which lasted all of
twenty minutes.

Saturday I inspected the Art
Show, the Photo Exhibit, and the
Book Room, where hucksters such
as Don Day and Earl Kemp ped-
dled books and magazines to col-
lectors and unwary passersby. Then
it was time to hear Ray Bradbury
deliver his talk in the Convention
hall. Ray really turned on.

Immediately thereafter I found
myself in exalted company, on the
platform with a panel consisting of
Edmond Hamilton, Emil Petaja, E.
Hoffman Price, Jack Williamson
and Alva Rogers, with Fritz Leiber
sitting at my elbow to keep me in
line. Fritz and Harlan Ellison later
delivered a sensational reading of
their works to the accompaniment
of a psychedelic light show back-
ground. Somewhere along the line
I met up with Bjo Trimble and
John, A1 Lewis, Poul and Karen
Anderson, Wendayne Ackerman and
a supper group consisting of the
Kyles, publisher Bob Guinn, Carol
Pohl and her lovely daughter, and
her husband (whose name I can’t
recall) .

And then it was time for the

Masquerade Ball and Galaxy of
Fashion — one of the top events of
any Convention. That is to say, the
Ball is one of the top events, and
the Fashion Show is rapidly becom-
ing topless.

'Tphis particular Ball will be
bouncing around as a topic of
discussion for a very long while to
come, for the Convention committee
augmented it with the performances
of three “name” rock bands and a
light show by Great Northern.

Those under 30, including a con-
spicuous number of hippies, really
were digging the mind-blowing
sounds and the visual array of psy-
chedelicatessen. But for those who
don’t grok rock or like psych, the
deal was an ordeal. And the 225
costumed contestants for prizes
were jammed into a narrow outer
corridor during the three 45-minute
decibel-shattering sessions between
parades while the judges deliberated
on their choices. Jack Chalker,
Chuck Crayne and others respon-
sible for staging this affair were
vindicated when next year’s Con-
vention-bid winners pledged a re-
peat performance, but I predict
that amongst the older generation
who will attend, one of the most
popular costumes will consist of a
pair of dark glasses and a set of
earplugs.

Some of the costumes were im-
aginative and outstanding; Bruce
Pelz, Quinn Yarbro, Don Christman

and Lin Carter were among the
winners, and I can only apologize
to those whose names I didn’t catch
from Hal Clement and the other
judges 1 was too busy talking to
Evelyn del Rey. But no one present
failed to be impressed by Walt
Daugherty and Elaine Ellsworth,
whose “Android Rejects” costumes
and pantomime are probably the all-
time standout presentation in my
memory of masquerades.

Then it was private party time
again, but while such youngsters
as Frank Dietz, Honey Wood and
Barbara Silverberg reveled, I crept
off to bed at the respectable hour of
4 a.m. and didn’t wake up until
almost 7.

Breakfasting with Peg Campbell
and her husband (John, isn’t it?)
and Lester del Rey, I then wan-
dered about through a maze con-
sisting of Louis and Bebe Barron,
Jo Ann Wood, Donald Wollheim,
Roy Squires Lois Lavender, Paul
Turner, Jean Bogert, George Price,
Mary Alice, Arnie Katz, Dick and
Pat Ellington, Joe and Roberta Gib-
son, and a dozen others. For the
benefit of completists, the dozen
others consisted of the Goldstones,
Sid Coleman, Ian and Betty Bal-
lantine, Ross Rocklynne, the Bus-
bys, Boyd Raeburn, Daniel Ga-
louye, Dirce Archer and Vera
Heminger, the No. 1 STAR
TREK fan. I could also men-
tion Len Moffat and Elmer
Perdue, but that would throw me

AT BAY WITH THE BAYCON

off my count. And counting- time
was about to begin. The Business
Meeting took place, with Columbus
and St. Louis competing for next
year’s Convention. St. Louis won
the bid, and Missouri pharmacists
are already laying in an extra sup-
ply of aspirin and tranquilizers.

Messrs. Pohl, Campbell, Silver-
berg and Spinrad were among the
hardy souls who manned a panel
discussion after Gene Rodden-
berry’s talk; the auction went into
action, and I drifted off to tape a
radio program discussion with
Fritz Leiber. When we emerged, it
was precisely twenty minutes be-
fore the start of the Banquet and
we decided ?o drift down into the
dining room.

We drifted no further than the
lobby — there encountering a wait-
ing-line which extended from the
dining-room doors all the way out
into the parking lot. A staggering
725 banquet guests (some of whom
never stopped staggering through-
out the entire Convention) were
queued up for admission. If it
hadn’t been for the kind offices of
Norman Spinrad, I’d never have
found a seat. But he saved me a
place, and quicker than you can
say Bug Jack Barron , I was escon-
sed across the table from Terry
and Carol Carr and several other
people whose names were impos-
sible to catch in the deafening din.
The dining room at the Claremont
is a maze of pillars, cleverly de-

signed to block the view of the
podium while at the same time
trapping every whisper of sound,
and I spent most of the time trying
to outguess Norman Spinrad re-
garding our banquet fare.

Tt was I who predicted that as
a sentimental gesture we would
be served some of the peas left
over from the first Convention
Banquet in 1939. But it was Nor-
man who anticipated the chicken,
with the tell-tale tire-marks. True,
I did tell him we’d also be served
rice — but the only reason I knew
it was because I’d noticed a wed-
ding ceremony at the hotel earlier
in the day. Neither of us guessed
the dessert, which had been do-
nated, apparently, by the property
department of the old Dr. Kildare
television series.

But one doesn’t attend a Science
Fiction Convention Banquet to eat;
the meal is just a toughening-up
process to insure a strong stomach
for the program itself.

Toastmaster Bob Silverberg took
over in fine form as a series of
awards were bestowed; the First
Fandom Award to Jack William-
son, the E.E. Evans “Big Heart”
Award to Walt Daugherty, the
Little Men’s “Invisible Man”
Award to J. Francis McComas, and
— at intervals — special Baycon
Awards to Harlan Ellison, Gene
Roddenberry and Silverberg. Ran-
dall Garrett and wife Alison, in full

costume, performed a calypso-type
ballad based on a Poul Anderson
Novel. Fan Guest of Honor Walt
Daugherty spoke warmly and nos-
talgically of his years in science
fiction.

The Trans-Oceanic Fan Fund,
which annually imports a foreign
fan to an American Convention or
sends an American fan to a foreign
convention, had brought the illus-
trious Takumi Shibano from Japan;
he was introduced, honored for his
fanactivity across the Pacific, while
other foreign fans beamed up at
him from the tables.

Then the Guest of Honor, Philip
Jose Farmer, took over the platform
to a standing ovation. The ovation
was repeated, and deservedly so, at
the conclusion of his address — in
which he pledged himself personal-
ly to the principles of the “Triple
Revolution” sociological concept
and movement after an incisive
analysis of the problems plaguing
both science-fictional and actual
society.

Following came the “Hugo”
Awards, presented by Harlan Elli-
son. It was a great night for Harlan,
who walked away with two trophies
himself — Best Drama “City On
The Edge of Forever” and Best
Short Story “I Have No Mouth
But 1 Must Scream ” Harlan, who
first appeared at a Convention in
1952, as science-fiction’s answer to
Tiny Tim, has really risen to the
heights, and such recognition may

have to some extent compensated
him for smashing up his car earlier
in the course of his stay.

Best Fanzine Award went to
George Scithers, for Amra, a not-
able publication which represents
only one aspect of his fan-activity.
George Barr took a trophy as Best
Fan Artist, and Ted White received
a Hugo as Best Fan Writer.

Jack Gaughan won Best Pro
Artist Award, to much acclaim; he
will be Guest of Honor next year.

The Hugo Award for Best Pro
Magazine went to the publication
you are now clutching in your hot
little hands. It was presented to
Frederik Pohl (the guy whose name
I couldn’t remember) and accept-
ed by publisher Robert M. Guinn.
And it will probably end up as a
doorstop for Judy-Lynn Benjamin.

Best Novelette Award was be-
stowed on Fritz Leiber for his
Gonna Roll The Bones , and the
Hugo for the Best Novella went to
two winners: Anne McCaffrey for
Weyr Search and Philip Jose
Farmer for Riders Of The Purple
Wage . The Best Novel Hugo was
presented to Roger Zelazny, for
Lord Of Light , After an SFWA
Award was given to retiring presi-
dent Bob Silverberg, the 725 guests
arose from the five-hour-long ses-
sion and made a mad stampede for
the washrooms.

I made a brief, five-hour token
appearance at the Galaxy suite and
then bedded down with the spiders.

AT BAY WITH THE BAYCON

TX^hile the Tolkien Society of
America convened the next
morning, as is their hobbit, I
breakfasted with Alan Nourse and
his wife, then dashed off to visit
with Richard Wade, who had
“bought” me at the auction. Then
I packed, looked in at the party
which had just started in the
Farmer’s suite, and made a chauf-
feured dash for the airport in the
company of Harry Harrison and
his diminutive darling, Joan.

My last backward glimpse
showed the Convention still going
on — a concert of medieval music
on the greensward beyond the hotel,
preliminary to a full-scale Medieval
Tournament. What happened there
I’ll never know; did Frank Robin-
son demolish T. Bruce Yerke with
a broadsword, did Sid Rogers clout
Art Widner with a pikestaff, and
did George Nims Raybin get clob-
bered by Bill Rotsler’s mace? The
mayhem continued until midnight,
but by that time I was back home,
safe in bed with my own spiders.

Before drifting off to sleep, I
spent a little time reflecting on
Science Fiction Conventions, past
and present, and soon began to
dream of a Jew conclusions.

Conventions, no doubt about it,
are bigger than ever. But bigger is
not necessarily synonymous with
better. There are, perhaps, a few
changes which might be made to
improve procedure and faciliate
festivity.

For one thing, there’s the matter
of the banquet. Admittedly the high
spot of the Convention, it has now
reached a length where additional
Hugos may have to be awarded for
bladder-control. Five hours is a long
time to sit still under optimum
conditions; not only for diners but
for the dignitaries and indignan-
taries on the podium.

In the early days, the Guest of
Honor delivered his address at a
special session in the Convention
hall — until, somewhere along the
line, it was decided that if he spoke
at the Banquet, more ticket sales
would result. Then the Hugo
Awards became a part of Conven-
tion tradition, and this stretched
the Banquet program to its present
length. Inasmuch as Banquet at-
tendance no longer constitutes a
problem, I’m inclined to recom-
mend that the old order be rein-
stated. Let the Guest of Honor ap-
pear for his talk before the entire
Convention in the hall; it’s no
“honor” to sit and wait for three
and a half hours of dining and din
before facing an already restless
audience.

Several years ago I put forth an-
other suggestion, and I’d like to
state it again. Now that Conven-
tions have emerged from the small-
scale attendance-problems of the
depression years, there’s no reason
why membership fees couldn’t be
safely raised from $3 to $5 — and
the additional sum turned over to

a professional convention-planning
organization in whichever city is
selected. The Committee would re-
main in full charge and sponsor-
ship, but the professional conven-
tion-organizers would handle the
increasingly difficult logistics —
and deal firmly with hotels and
suppliers to insure, under legal con-
tract, that management promises
are kept. When a thousand or more
people gather together, some of
them coming from great distances,
at great personal expense, they de-
serve the kind of treatment and the
kind of facilities afforded to “mun-
dane” convention-goers. And an
amateur Committee, with the best
will in the world, and the ultimate
expenditure of time and effort, just
cannot cope with the situations
which inevitably arise — the ele-
vators which don't arise, for exam-
ple— the bellhops who don’t hop

— the “24-hour-a-day” coffee-shop
which closes due to lack of Labor
Day help, or opens to serve thirty
people out of thirteen hundred.

None of this is meant to be a
reflection on the Baycon Commit-
tee or any previous or future Con-
vention committee — and yet, un-
til these matters are solved, it con-
stitutes a reflection on all who
strive so mightily to make these
affairs a success. Perhaps this mat-
ter is worth consideration at future
business sessions.

Meanwhile, the World Science
Conventions go on — for fun,
for fraternalization, for the enrich-
ing, exciting moments they provide.
There’s nothing else quite like them
in this world — or out of it.

And if I recuperate in time, I’m
going back next year.

END

Next Month in IF -

SPECIAL HUGO AWARDS ISSUE

ROGER ZELAZNY

anne McCaffrey

FRITZ LEIBER

PHILIP JO$£ FARMER
TED WHITE

GEORGE H. SCITHERS
HARLAN ELLISON
And a cover by
Jack Gaughan

All the Hugo winners in the next issue of the magazine that
was voted world's best science-fiction magazine for the third
straight year. Don't miss March If — a real collector's item 1

AT BAY WITH THE BAYCON

IF • Short Story

THE

DEFENDANT EARTH

by ANDREW J. OFFUTT

The green man from Mars came for
justice — in a libel suit against
Earth . He seemed to have a easel

Look, I didn’t want to go to
Washington in the first place.
I am just a prosperous but honest
trial attorney with clients in need of
my gilded but glib tongue. I even
winced when Miss Anderson said
it was the Attorney General on
the phone.

"You mean Hank Layton?”
"Um-hm.”

"Oh, God.” Henry C. Layton was
a so-so lawyer who was Attorney

General of these United States be-
cause he campaigned successfully
for President-then-Governor Bar-
ber, rounded up a sizable campaign
contribution and was from Barber’s
home town. I’ve always felt that the
last point carried the most weight.

But he was the A.G., and I took
the phone and listened to him bab-
ble frenetically. He had been sitting
there trying to figure how to put
the screws to a labor leader — with-

out forfeiting the muon vote in the
next election. Then he heard a little
noise and smelled a funny smeH
and looked up. The gentleman from
Mars had arrived, sans secretarial
announcement, sans knock. And he
hadn’t come through the outer of-
fice — there hadn’t been any
shrieks.

After a brief discussion, Hank
called his boss. In the first place
President Barber was busy trying
to figure how to put the screws
on a corporation without losing its
President’s Club contribution. In
the second place he was bugged at
being interrupted by someone other
than the military. He hung up. Ap-
parently Hank tore his hair for a
few hours and called good old me.
Another Ohio boy.

I resisted. Hank predicated the
predictable.

"Joe,” he pleaded, "your coun-
try needs you, Joe.”

I snorted at the telephone’s dol-
orous voice. Hank resorted to a
more basic appeal.

"This is a great opportunity for
you, Joe.”

I thought about that. National
headlines: Ohio Lawyer Saves

World . That should parlay into a
cabin and a boat on Lake Lumen, at
least I sighed.

" Green, huh?”

"Green, Joe.”

"Hm. What are the precedents?
Whose system of jurisprudence pre-
vails? Who calls and examines the

jury? What color will they be?,
What’s my fee?”

He admitted ignorance; it was
up to me. As to fee: "Joe, it’s your
country you’re serving!”

"I’ve noticed. The increase in so-
cial security I paid for my secretary
this year was higher than the penal-
ty I was charged because my quar-
terly tax estimate was low. Man,
I’m serving!” I had made up my
mind, in point of fact. But you
don’t sum up your case in your
opening address. Besides, I wanted
to hear his final plea.

T did. Internal Revenue, it seemed,
was interested in my tax re-
turns. They might even be inter-
ested in them for the duration.

"Jqst a minute, Hank,” I said
with malicious mien. "I’ve got to
change the tape on my telephone
recorder.”

That, please be assured, brought
silence from the Attorney General.
After a passage of time no doubt
measurable in seconds but seeming
to span hours, I could no longer
keep a straight voice. I, in lay
terms, busted out laughing.

"Hank, I can’t be blackmailed
with threats of the Secret Police.
And I have never and will not now
accept a case on the telephone. But
I will agree to confer with prosecu-
tion.”

I waited, knowing he was calm-
ing himself, wisely curbing a pro-
fusion of appreciative noises and

THE DEFENDANT EARTH

taking a few deep breaths. "I am
very pleased to hear that, counsel-
lor,” he said, and I nearly broke up
agaim. "Suppose we send a plane
dowm for you.”

"Suppose I catch one myself.
I’d just spend the whole flight on
your plane thinking what a helluva
way this is to spend all the taxes
Fve sent in the last five years. Be-
sides, I’m in favor of private enter-
prise. Make me a room reservation
and have me met, please. I’ll wire
my arrival time.”

He agreed, and we parted, and I
buzzed Miss Anderson. I told her
I wanted a reservation on the first
Washington-bound plane and asked
her to send Turk in as soon as he
showed up. Turk is my assistant.
Able, willing, bright with book
learning, fresh from passing the bar,
and about as green as the Martian
in Layton’s office. Then I called
home.

"What’s for supper?”

"Hamburgers mit onions,” my
wife Jodie said. "You’re not work-
ing tonight, remember, and no
meetings for a change. Oh, and John
and Judy.”

My favorite at-home meal and
my favorite talkers! "Damn! That
makes it even worse, but ... I’ll be
a little late.”

She sighed; you know the sound.
But she’s well trained; we don’t
watch TV comedies. "Thanks for
calling, honey. How late?”

"Ummm . . . maybe a few days,

maybe a week. Can’t be sure. I
seem to be going to Washington.”
I watched Miss Anderson’s progress
across my office — one of life’s
little rewards — and conned a piece
of paper she handed me. I nodded
and winked at her. "I’m leaving at
6:17,” I told the phone.

Jodie, as I said, is well trained
She also knows me. She didn’t say a
word. My one true love knows when
to make noises or wait silently,
thereby forcing me to give her the
straight nitty-gritty. I explained
with brevity unbecoming a lawyer,
and we said some sweet sad things,
and she rang off to go do some
packing for me.

The plane was not a headline-
grabber, and I was safely in Wash-
ington a few hours later. Naturally
the damned fools got me a suite. In
Washington the only people who
know how to be small are Internal
Revenue.

Within an hour of that I was
meeting with my learned opponent,
the eminent Martian attorney Lars
Larkas.

TT e was most definitely green, was
^ ^ Lars Larkas. His hairless hu-
manoid body was, in point of fact,
a very handsome olive color. This
made it considerably more palatable
than had he been, for instance, char-
treuse or bilious. He possessed the
standard complement of two arms
and two legs — but with a pair of
intermediary limbs thrown in. Ob-

viously a Martian in the wres-
tling-ring, or, if you’re female, on
the livingroom couch or at a drive-
in movie, would be Bad News.

His eyes — two — were set at
the sides of his head — one — and
moved independently of each other,
like those of an Earthly horse. The
vertical slit of his, ah, nose and
the nasty upcurving tusks resemble
nothing I know of, aside from
things I’ve seen in my own bed after
several drinks and pizza with plenty
of onions and garlic, topped off with
pistachio ice cream. His big cupped
ears stuck out like those of a cer-
tain recently-deceased movie star or
a certain recent president.

The fact that his eyeballs were
intensely white with irises of an
equally intense red did not serve
to put me wholly at ease with a
visitor from a planet named after a
war-god. My first impression of this
first known visitor from space was
one of inimicality. I hasten to add
that I was wrong. He always looks
that way. He can’t help it, poor fel-
low; with big ears and red eyes and
ferocious-looking tusks and a cou-
ple of extra limbs, what are you
going to do?

I was introduced as an eminent
attorney; so was Lars Larkas.

"My pleasure, counsellor,” I said,
with what I think was admirable
aplomb.

"The pleasure is mine, counsel-
lor,” he said, in such perfect English
that he blew my aplomb. His voice

was startlingly soft, for his bulk; a
delicate susurrus. He did not smile,
I noticed. Thank Godl
We got the preliminaries out of
the way and agreed to sit; I am
six-one and not accustomed to tilt-
ing back my head in conversation,
since I have never formed the habit
of conversing with overpaid pitui-
tary freaks called basketball play-
ers. Seated, with several feet of
carpet and free air between us to
lessen the slope from the top of his
head down to mine, I was consider-
ably more at ease. The fact that he
was far too big for his chair made
him look even more imposing, and I
made a mental note.

"perhaps I should add for the li-
bidinously curious that he
wore a handsome one-piece jumper
or tunic or something of charcoal
gray with a dark red stripe bisecting
it down the front. The insignia of
a practitioner of law. I liked that I
"You must stand high in the
councils pf Earth, Counsellor Blair,
to Kav6 been chosen to represent
your nation and, generally speak-
ing, your planet in this matter,”
Lars Larkas said.

"That’s something we should
clear up,” I told him. "There is a
matter of jurisdiction involved.
There may be one or two countries
on Earth so niggardly as to object
to so momentous a matter resting
in the hands of the United States. I
realize you have been through this

THE DEFENDANT EARTH

before, but would you mind stating
to me the exact nature of your
business here, and the complaint
of your planet? I blush to admit it,
but we have not been aware of your
existence. As a matter of fact we
have proven quite conclusively that
intelligent life does not and cannot
exist on Mars”

"Our philosophers have mention-
ed the same conclusion,” Lars Lar-
kas said, "as have yours.” And we
had a nice polite laugh together. He
looked shocked as I continued to
smile. I tried it with my mouth
closed. He seemed to prefer that. I
made a mental note. After all, it is
rather unusual that man is the only
beast on this planet that bares its
fangs in friendship ! Apparently the
— to broaden the term’s applica-
tion — men of the planet called
Red do not.

"I do not mind in the least,
Counsellor Blair,” Counsellor Lars
said. (Patronym comes first on
Mars, as in China. We all have our
little peccadillos, as the American
driver said in England just before
he was creamed all over Berkely
Square.) "As background informa-
tion, there is indeed life on Mars.
We are older than you, although
not tremenduously older. Our race
was full-formed though barbaric
when your race first descended from
the trees.”

"You know that for fact?” I
could not help interjecting. "Our
descent, I mean.”

He looked astonished — I guess.
"Of course. I state nothing positive-
ly unless it is fact, Counsellor.”

"Admirable in an attorney,” I
observed. Sets us apart from legis-
lators. At any rate, Mister Scopes
will be very glad to hear of man’s
origin, although a minister of my
acquaintance will not. It’ll play hob
with his radio show — please excuse
me and please continue, Mister Lar-
kas. Excuse me — Counsellor Lars.”

T Te shrugged. "Of course. We for-
^ * got that you are still wrestling
with myth on this barbar — ” He
broke off and cleared his throat,
which I thought was damned con-
siderate of him. "There is also in
fact intelligent life on Venus and
on two of Jupiter’s moons and,
strangely, on Uranus, although the
form it takes there would leave you
breathless! It is rather more cold
out there than on our worlds, and
they are of course adapted to such
a climate. Not to mention an impos-
sibly abominable atmosphere.” And
I swear unto you Mister Lars Lar-
kas shivered.

"We have a union; that’s as good
a word as any. A concordat, rather
like your United Nations, although
ours is effective.”

To the quick, I thought. Be sure
to wipe off the blood when you pull
out the blade, you Martian male -
dictor!

"Naturally the matter of Earth
has been brought up repeatedly,

particularly in recent years. Your
people are a bit more warlike than
most, but human nevertheless and
intelligent, and we feel you would
make valuable members of the In-
trasystem Union.”

Be damned! He did not, please
observe, say that we are backward!
He did not claim to vast superior-
ity! He did not say we’d have to be
quarantined, or wiped out, or that
we’d been voted down or any of
that old stuff. It is nice to know
after a great deal of propaganda
to the contrary that one is human
and intelligent and would make a
valuable contribution to an inter-
planetary alliance of Red-Eyed
Monsters! (I stored that phrase
away: REM’s!)

"The matter has come to a vote
and you have been accepted. How-
ever a blackball was cast, and a
point of law was raised. The vote
was completed on a contingency
basis. That is the purpose of my
visit. My planet has sent me here
to state its case, Counsellor Blair,
and to endeavor to arrive at a set-
tlement.”

"Just a moment,” I said. "First,
apparently you don’t find our air
overrich in oxygen? The gravity
does not prevent too great a strain
on your muscles or internal struc-
ture?”

He nodded vigorously, thereby
confusing me; I did not learn until
a bit later that a nod on Mars in-
dicates a negative. We will not dis-

cuss their indication of a positive
reaction or affirmative just now;
not having been treated to the bless-
ings of an antisexual religion, they
are an astonishingly open and erot-
ically frank people. Fortunately he
said "Oh no” as he nodded, there-
by giving me a clue. "I have had a
series of inoculations and I take
antoxygenates every six hours —
Martian hours — and I am wearing
a brace. I feel little discomfort. As
a matter of fact, it certainly is easy
to breathe here!”

"Try New York,” I muttered. I
had taken notice that he was as
eager as I to get to know each oth-
er, to be polite, to otherwise take a
roundabout course toward our final
business, after the statement of
which we might be enemies forever.
It’s the way things are done, you
see. "You may be aware of our un-
fortunate tendency to debilitate with
such things as intoxicants and de-
pressants and the like. May I ask
if — ”

He waved a hand. No, two. Both
on the same side. "Please feel free
to drink coffee, which I find de-
lightful, or alcohol, which we also
use, or tobacco. That, you realize,
we cannot afford, inasmuch as our
air is thin and our lungs more im-
portant to us than yours to you.”

T considered that from an empiri-
cal standpoint as I extracted
a dgaret from one vest pocket —
oh yes, I wear them; we conserva-

THE DEFENDANT EARTH

fives need badges to distinguish us
from the socialists. I found a book
of matches in another. He watched
with interest and, I believe, some-
thing akin to horror. Or perhaps
pity. I was careful with my smoke,
which gave rise to a thought. I
went to the bathroom and turned
on the light. Uh-huh; at once the
blower or rather sucker, the little
ventilator thing most hotel bath-
rooms, have came on. I left the door
open and the light on and blew
my smoke that way. It went wher-
ever bathroom blowers blow their
bathroomy essences.

"This litigatory point existing be-
tween our planets, then, is the only
factor holding Earth back from an
open-arms welcome in the Intre-
system Union, is that it?” I re-
alized we’d have to do this all over;

I had no secretary and thought it
impolite and impolitic to switch on
my recorder. I filled the tape later,
and we later made an agreement
to tape our conversations, too.

"Precisely that, Counsellor Blair,
and well put,” he said, patting his —
that is, making the Martian sign of
assent/ agreement.

"Good. You seem rather more
formal than we, by the way, and
although I must admit I enjoy being
called Counsellor just as if I were
as important as someone with a
Ph.D in Physical Education, I think
it might be simpler if you just call-
ed me Joe, Counsellor Lars.”

Then is when I got scared. First

his eyes swelled up, and he became
in every sense of the word a Bug-
Eyed, ah, Martian. His fingers
twitched. All of them, on all four
arms, which is one hell of a lot of
twitching. His ears moved. His big
lower lip trembled, and the upper
one writhed.

And then I saw the tears be-
gin to creep down his green cheeks,
glittering like emeralds and trem-
bling as his cheeks seemed to shud-
der. He rose, slowly. I braced my-
self, wondering how six or eight
of my valuable innards had got
themselves jammed up in my throat.
I wondered, too, what sort of
weapon my cigaret would prove
against an acre or so of green flesh.

He executed a bow that would
have cricked Charlie Chan’s back
and a tear made a dark spot on the
Federal Gold carpet. He rose slow-

ly-

"You honor me most highly, most
eminent Counsellor-of-Law of
Earth,” he said. "I shall never for-
get this moment. Nor shall the
authorities on my planet fail to
be apprised of your obvious con-
nate comity! With honor this rep-
resentative of the Sons of Lars ac-
cepts your name, Joe.”

TT7ell, I couldn’t think of much
^ ^ to do save sigh gustily and
beam at him. I certainly wasn’t
about to tell him his English vo-
cabulary transcended mine! At any
rate, with a great deal of obvious

ritual, he then reciprocated, and I
was given permission/honor to call
him Lark. (Lark! 400 pounds of
long green!) I stood up and damn
near broke my back bowing. It
seemed the least I could do, inas-
much as I was totally unable to
obtain the cooperation of my lach-
rymal glands in producing a tear
or two for the occasion. Then we
both sat, and I started another
cigaret, and my old buddy Lark let
me have it between the eyes.

"For many decades, and you
realize of course we can and will
spell out the full period of time,
Joe; for many decades, I say, the
inhabitants of your planet have
heaped malicious, malevolent, and
maleficient malignity on the gentle
people of Mars. In your periodi-
cals, on your radio, on your tele-
vision, in books of both stiff and
soft cover, in conversation and
drama and even poetry, you have
designated the gentle inhabitants
of this sun’s fourth planet as every
form of monster and imperialist in-
vader. The War of the Worlds of
the Englishman Wells and the radio
version of the same drama by his
codefendant of the same patronym
represent only the most infamous
of the repeated libeling of my peo-
ple by yours.”

He paused for breath. So did I.
I remembered about then to close
my mouth. The first interplanetary
libel suit, with Earth’s entire fu-
ture hinging upon its outcome, and

/ was supposed to play Perry Ma-
son for my entire planet!

"Said libel will certainly have
an inelectable effect on the rela-
tions of our two planets and our
races for years, decades, perhaps
even centuries to come. Thus my
outraged people does state its in-
tent to implead our case against
persons living and the executors
and administrators, heirs and as-
signs of persons deceased, of Her-
bert G. Welles, Orson Welles, Ed-
gar R. Burroughs, Otis A. Klein — ”
and he went on for seven or nine
minutes with a string of names
that sounded as if they’d been
copied from the telephone directo-
ries of at least three of New York’s
boroughs; I hadn’t known there
were so many pen-pushers and type-
writer-wranglers in the world. He
finally terminated with: "... and
the planet Earth ... I”

Without giving him pause for
breath I made a figurative leap for-
ward, mental sabre and raygun in
hand. "You mean to tell me that
the advanced race of a planet older
than this, said race having not
only interplanetary travel but be-
ing indeed a part of an interplane-
tary union, is bringing suit agains:
my entire world for fiction? The
countless stories by imaginative
writers whose plots involve Martian
menaces?”

"I do,” he said, unintimidated.

I nodded. "All right,” I said, with
a great deal more confidence than

THE DEFENDANT EARTH

I felt. "Obviously we are guilty,
however improper an admission
that may be for an attorney to
make. However I make it entirely
off the record and will no doubt
reconsider before you take any of-
ficial pretrial depositions. May I
ask what are the consequences?
What are our grounds for fight-
ing the case? In other words what
the hell are you suing for?”

T ars Larkas of Mars — they call
^ it "Srrickle,” which means
"dirt,” same as "earth” — drew
himself up and formed twin steeples
with all four hands. "You will
show cause why you should not
be denied membership in the In-
trasystem Union and indeed for-
bidden to leave your planet until
such time as full recompense has
been made to our gentle people.”
Well, "gentle” beats "peacelov-
ing,” anyhow. "Please explain ‘full
recompense,’ Lar — Counsellor
Lars,” I requested, getting formal.
I always get formal when I am af-
flicted with the regrettable human
debility known as anger.

“ ‘Full recompense/ ” he said, “as
stated and defined shall mean that
for an equal period of years —
yours — and in an equal number
of publications and dramatic pre-
sentations, the people of Earth shall
be shown Mars in its true character
as a gentle, friendly planet — ”

Well, I thought, at least that isn’t
too ba —

" — while Earthmen are clearly
depicted as inimical, malicious,
malevolent, maleficient and — ”

“ — malignant,” I finished. “Not
to mention morbid and mordadous
and pretty darned morose. Good
God, Lark, that ain’t possible! First
we have to prove we did not do
something you can prove we’ve
done with all four arms tied behind
you. And if we don’t, we’re quaran-
tined like measle-ridden first-grad-
ers while we spend decades or what-
ever cranking out tales about good-
guy Martians and badguy Earth-
men! Where the hell’s the justice
in that sort of one-way street?”

Once again my new Brother-un-
der-the-Name (that’s what they
call it when you’re on a first-name
basis) looked shocked, or at the
very least astonished. “But Joel
It is fair in the extreme! There are
no punitive damages specified what-
ever, and the judges’ hands are
completely tied as to sentence; they
cannot levy so much as a gram of
uranium in punitive judgment! You
should have heard the demands be-
fore the Intrasystem Union’s Civil
Council at last agreed on this!”
"Thank them for me,” I said,
with a dryness untranscended by
any possible quantity of gin and
vermouth. Which prompted me to
excuse myself and reach for the
telephone and dial the appropriate
number. "Room Service? Blair in
Suite 714. One bottle of vermouth,
one bottle of gin, a handful of

olives, a lemon, ice and an assort-
ment of glasses on the double.” I
paused and then, learning fast the
ways of Our Nation’s Capitol, add-
ed, "by order of the Attorney Gen-
eral!” I blotted the polite voice
with my finger and dialed again.
"Please call Attorney General Lay-
ton, who is somewhere in this ho-
tel, and advise him Mister Blair
is most anxious to confer with him.
Thank you very much.” Another in-
side number got me another hotel
voice. I identified myself and drop-
ped Hank Layton’s name. "Please
get me Miss Helen Anderson in
Portsmouth, Ohio.” I gave her the
zip area or whatever it is and the
number and hung up.

4 4 please pardon me, Counsellor,”
-*■ I said. "Have you brought
along a secretary or an assistant?”
"One of each. You were calling
yours?”

I nodded. "I can’t do a damned
thing without Miss Anderson, al-
though I just realized it. She will
call my assistant, and they’ll be up
here, or else. We will be ready to
meet with you at any time after
ten in the morning. Make it eleven.
When is the trial set for, Lark, and
when may we visit Mars.”

"The trial will be at your con-
venience, Joe. And you may not
visit Mars.”

"How and to whom do I ap-
peal?”

"To the Union; I can help with

that. But it will do no good; you
realize of course that this case will
decide when the people of Earth
are ready to leave Earth.”

I stood up and enjoyed gazing
down at him for the few seconds
he remained seated. "The men of
Earth will be in space and on Mars
within the year, Lars Larkas, and
then we will see what the Intrasys-
tem Union thinks of our lawsuit!”
He was up now, and looking very
much taken aback. "What suit?”
"Never mind,” I said airily, going
to answer the knock at the door.
"I’ll think of one between now and
then!” I yanked open the door
"Hello! Just bring all that right in
and put it there by that awful or-
ange chair. Will you stay for a mar-
tini?”

Room Service laughed. "Man, I
heard you were from the South 1”
"Southern Ohio,” I said. "Lark
... I guess we’re through for to-
night. You have a tremendous head
start on me, but I shall try to make
it up by eleven in the morning.”
"I will telephone,” Lars Larkas
said, and departed. He bent for the
doorway.

I grabbed the bottle of gin and
issued the order to the scarlet-coat-
ed Room Service to crack open the
vermouth; that’s harder. "Do you
have any idea, any idea at all,”
I asked, "just who THAT was?”
"No sir,” he said, his eyes danc-
ing. "All those Martians looked just
alike to me.”

THE DEFENDANT EARTH

When Attorney General Henry C.
Layton came in, Room Service and
I were standing integratedly in the
middle of that Federal Gold car-
pet screaming with laughter, knuck-
ling at tear-streaming eyes.

T began to see how easy it would
A be to let go and plunge ones-
self into this nose-in-the-taxpaid-
trough business. All you have to do
is look busy and act important. I
began to look busy. I learned quick-
ly that a crowd-pleaser and symbol
of status is the size of one’s staff. I
had no desire to avail myself of the
services of the myriad of bright-
eyed husband-hunters and eager
young men whose services were of-
fered, nay urged, by both the At-
torney General and the President.

The fact is I don’t like the Feds,
and told a few so. But I did create
enough research projects and typ-
ing to tie up a hundred or so. It oc-
curred to me that whatever I came
up with could not look too easy,
and would have to be done Wash-
ington-style. Too, there was the ne-
cessity of window-dressing to im-
press my worthy opposition. So I
assigned a few bright-eyed husband-
hunters and eager young men —
amazing how many were Ohioans —
to reading periodicals. Every time
they came across a story with a ref-
erence to Mars or Martians, no mat-
ter how minuscule and no matter
whether favorable or otherwise,
they were to have the entire story

typed and the author contacted. This
proved very difficult in some cases.
Writing types seem to move a great
deal. Whether this is occasioned by
wanderlust or need of a good at-
torney is a problem I hope to report
on later, now that I am an honorary
member of several organizations
whose existence somehow escaped
my knowledge for thirty-six years.

I had a steady stream of writers
and editors and even agents through
my suite, each man giving a state-
ment and most of them hazarding
opinions and advice and most of
them accepting a bite or two of the
bottles I kept about. Publishers I
didn’t bother with; they can hustle
their own drinks.

Meanwhile Turk — my assistant;
I’ve mentioned him, haven’t I? —
and Miss Anderson legged it all
over and out of town. When I found
a trustworthy youngster from Cin-
cinnati who had not graduated from
anywhere in the inscrutable East
and who seemed to be interested in
more than social-climbing, attire, fe-
males, and not-working, I grabbed
him for my very own. Then I sent
Turk home to get some continu-
ances — he had a letter from the
President, no less — and try to
keep my clients happy. Miss An-
derson formed a friendship, mean-
while, with her Martian counter-
part, Miss Omilara Larkas — a
cousin of Lark’s, the Martian ne-
potist!

Omilara nearly lost her gleam-

ing-tusked head; she was a nut
over imaginative writing and went
wild over her stream of writers
and editors. Some nut from Penn-
sylvania invited her down to his
farm to attend a writers’ confer-
ence; another from New York talk-
ed earnestly with her about setting
up a reciprocal speaking-engage-
ment arrangement. She also had a
weakness for Maker’s Mark and
branch water — tapwater sufficed
— and girltalk with Miss Anderson.

I had to hire her in the end, in-
asmuch as she won our case for us.

{4'\X/Te’re ready to go to court,”
* * I told Lars Larkas three
weeks after his arrival on Earth.
(He had yet to tell us how, and we
had not then discovered his means
of transport. It played hell, as you
know, with several transportation
company stocks for a few days, un-
til they jumped into the new mode,
led by the new Hughes Cave Com-
pany.) "Any time you’re ready,
Lark. Where do we go?”

"We set it up via television,” he
said, looking surprised. I remain
unconscionably and unreconstruct-
ably proud of the number of times
I made him look surprised, that
mabigionic Martian I "Your Telstar,
I admit, will make it easier. But —
are you sure — ”

I smiled — with my mouth
closed. "Very sure, Lark. That’s
why I thought we should have this
little pretrial conference. You’ll

join me in a Martini, I presume?”
"Of course, Joe.” And he made
a Martini/ Martian play on words
I will not even record.

"Lark,” I said, sitting back and
swinging one leg over the other
comfortably while pawing my vest
for cigarets, "you and your people
should be ashamed of yourselves.
You have attempted to bamboozle,
hoodwink, and otherwise pull the
wool over the eyes of a fine peo-
ple who haven’t had the opportunity
to study you as you have us. And
to steal from us.”

He gaped. Nasty-looking, those
tusks. One would think a civilized
race would do something orthodon-
tal about that reminder of an ear-
lier, less friendly existence.

"It is indeed fortunate for Earth
that she has a President and an
Attorney General of such wisdom
they saw fit to call in the most
brilliant counsel on the planet to
handle your allegations,” I said with
a perfectly straight face. "Hands
down, Lark; I said allegations, and
allegations I mean. Drink up. I do
not plan to answer your charges.
As a matter of fact I’ll have them
thrown out of court.”

I had waited — malevolently,
maliciously, etc., etc. — until he
got the glass to his lips. We had
commandeered some lab beakers to
facilitate his and his assistants’
drinking between their tusks —
and now I was gratified to see him
splutter and stain the nice brand-

THE DEFENDANT EARTH

new Earth-tailored suit he wore.
With vest. And four armholes. And
dark red stripe. He peered at me
over the rim of the glass, not deign-
ing to brush at his Martini-spot-
ted clothing. Then, to show his
calm, he lifted the glass again. And
I let him have the other barrel.

“As a matter of fact,” I said,
flicking my cigaret in the best Hol-
lywood manner and watching an
amorphous serpent of pearly smoke
climb ceilingward, “I will bring not
one but two countersuits. The sec-
ond is one that we, and I hope the
Intrasystem Union’s Civil Council,
considers even more reprehensible,
under the circumstances.”

Tie stared. He ignored the new
^ * wetspots on his suit. That’s
one advantage of charcoal worsted
flannel; spots fade quickly and
don’t show, unless they’re mustard
or Hollandaise.

“First, that the people of Mars
have for several decades published
and dramatically exhibited male-
volent, etceteraetcetera ad M-fini-
tum libel on the friendly people of
this planet, by showing Earthmen
as barbarous invaders and monsters
attacking and displaying multiform
and manifold attitudes of enmity
toward the people of our great and
respected sister-planet, Mars. Not
only does this basely libel the friend-
ly people of this world, but in view
of your suit it demonstrates your
people’s regrettable and barbaric

lack of the civilized trait of fairness
and justice. How d’you like them
olives?”

He put down his glass.

“Wait,” I said, as he started to
speak. “Before you start to speak,
I remind that you that even though
you came here on an unfriendly
and indeed underhanded mission
and we met as opponents and, so to
speak, enemies, I invited you almost
at once to call me by my personal
name. That clearly indicates the
inherent friendliness, the, as I be-
lieve you put it, innate comity of
the people of Earth. You yourself
have reported that back; gonna
help my case, isn’t it?” I smiled at
him. “Nothing personal you under-
stand, Lark, although you do rep-
resent your government on a career
basis, and I do hate Feds. But then
there’s the matter of the second
charge, purely aside from the fact
that you’ve just published just as
many novels and dramas in which
we were monsters.

I let him stew while I poured
some more Martini, offered him
some with a gesture and an eye-
brow-question — he refused with a
violent nod — and lighted up a
new cigaret. I hadn’t enjoyed my-
self so much since I nailed that
snotty DA’s son for larceny and
Possession back in 1962.

“Far more serious in my eyes
is your obvious cynicism, your ob-
vious dishonesty as a people. You
are an uncreative lot, aren’t you?

War of the Worlds by Tornos Bors
indeed! Swordsmen of Earth by
Flans Pollans indeed! Menace of
the Green Planet hmp! Your so-
called writers have stolen and palm-
ed off as their own all of our im-
aginative fiction, changing only the
names to protect the Martians!”

Watching him collapse and begin
to look small in his big chair — I’d
had a hernia-size one provided, to
make him less overbearing, I went
on. “Your people brought this suit
against us only in order to cover
up decades, centuries of plagiarism,
to keep us restricted to this planet.”

I leaned back slowly and enjoyed
a large sip of good cold Martini.
My baby-blue eyes remained on
Lars Larkas’ red ones. "I might,”
I said very quietly, "even go so far
as to ask why your name bears
such a strong resemblance to one
invented by an Earth creator named
Burroughs.”

"How . . . did you . . . find out?”

"That does it! I temind you,
Brother-under-the-Name, of our
agreement of three weeks’ duration:
I have been recording ever since
you came into this room.”

Tt seems to me that the best thing
to do was allow him to report
home and let his leaders back
down, which they did, and start
taking steps to set up a wholesale
book-burning, which they did. I ad-
mit I felt a little bad about not
pressing to obtain royalties for all

those earthly writers whose works
were so well known on Mars un-
der other names, and reprinted al-
most verbatim all over a planet
whose people had one terrible de-
bility; a lack of creative literary
ability. But they are scientific whiz-
zes, and it seemed to me at the
time — and now — that we are best
advised to get things started on a
friendly basis. So I got them to
withdraw the suit and the black-
ball, and we were officially con-
tacted by the Intrasystem Union
last week. And I am a thoroughly
dishonest so-and-so; I have told no
one how I won the dismissal.
And now I have a seven-foot
green secretary, since Omilara nat-
urally got her tail canned — figure
of speech; tails they donyt have —
when Lars Larkas and his people
found out who’d spilled the beans to
my Miss Anderson.

And I am meeting with several
presidents of several writers’ groups
next week, to discuss my new job:
I’m apparently going to represent
a few thousand ^writers on Mars,
through my contact and business
partner, Lars Larkas.

The most enormous and also
best-paying market for speculative
fiction of all time has just opened
up on a planet without speculators,
and someone has to act as agent.

I figure that if standard rate for
foreign sales is twenty percent, I
can charge at least double that for
interplanetary agenting fees. END

THE DEFENDANT EARTH

IF • Feature

• •

and WHEN

by LESTER DEL REY

There are nine and sixty means
of upsetting human genes
And every single one of them is . . .

Qcience fiction has been called
^ escape literature, and the term
may be correct — but in a way no
literary critic has yet realized. The
writers and readers apparent-
ly aren’t escaping from the prob-
lems of the world, but to the prob-
lems that the rest of the world
doesn’t yet know about.

So far, those major problems
seem to come along about once
every decade; or the public be-
comes aware of them at that rate.
Twenty years ago, people became
aware of the danger of atomic
destruction. Then there was con-
sternation as the first Sputnik
sailed overhead. In both cases,
science fiction had discussed the
ideas so long that there was no

shock left to the events for readers
of our magazines.

Now there is a new problem, this
time as a result of the amazing
progress of biology. Most of the
possibilities will be far from new
to science fiction, but I suspect
that full realization of what man
can do in the near future in tink-
ering with life will be a more pro-
found shock to most people than
any previous problem.

This is all discussed in The
Biological Time Bomb, a book, by
Gordon Rattray Taylor. It’s the
first complete survey I’ve seen for
the general public, and it does cover
almost everything being discussed
by scientists up to the time of its
publication. While many of the

possibilities will be somewhat
familiar to science-fiction readers,
the impact of the total collective
ability of man to alter himself and
his race in the next half century is
impressive — < perhaps even “more
earth-shaking than the atom
bomb,” as the jacket copy claims.

One of the most interesting parts
of the book is the time-table given
in the last chapter. By the year
2000, Taylor lists such probabilities
as baby-factories, artificial increase
of intelligence in men and animals,
the creation of one-celled life forms,
and even the making of half-man,
half-animal monsters — or chimer-
as. Even before then, we should
have the power to choose the sex
of our children and to build artifi-
cial viruses. A little further in the
future, there should be control of
ageing, control of heredity by ma-
nipulation of the genes, and such
“horrors” as disembodied brains
linked to computers.

Such a listing could come out of
science fiction, of course. But in this
case, Taylor cites the experimental
work and the words of the scientists
in the field, and the time-table is
one he has averaged from their pre-
dictions. He also makes a serious
attempt to analyze the impact of
such developments on human so-
ciety, together with the dangers to
be faced.

Generally, it’s a bock worth read-
ing carefully. The soft cover edition
should be out shortly; look for it.

There’s nothing new about man
tinkering with life or even
himself, of course. Skeletons dug
up from neolithic times show evi-
dence of trepanning — the boring
of a hole in the skull to relieve
pressure or let the demons out. Men
deformed the feet of their women
and tattooed and circumsized them-
selves from ancient days. They also
changed much of the plant and
animal life around them. Wheat was
evolved from the primitive einkom
before written records, and the dog
has been so completely altered and
diversified by breeding that we
can’t be sure of his original ances-
try.

So far, men haven’t made any
radical changes in their own nature,
but our literature suggests that the
idea has been with us for a long
time. Plato’s Republic represented
special types of men — soldiers,
workers, etc. — bred to type, like
ants in a colony. And a fair amount
of what science proposes to do was
covered in Huxley’s Brave New
World.

Even the cyborg — the mixture
of cybernetic machine and human
organism — has been foreshadowed.
Bifocal glasses are probably the
most common example, dating from
the time of Ben Franklin, though
the cybernetic element of control
was still in the eye of the beholder,
in that case.

The only change has been in the
sudden development of cybernetics,

IF . . . AND WHEN

medicine and biology within the
last twenty years. Recently, for in-
stance, the newspapers carried the
story of an artificial arm which is
controlled by nerve impulses and
powered by electric energy. We are
learning to overcome the body’s
immune reaction against anything
other than its own tissue, and trans-
planted limbs and organs are no
longer news. We’ve developed in-
fertility drugs, and we’ve begun to
tinker with the DNA molecule —
the huge molecule that controls
heredity and makes us what we are.

What we have not yet begun is
the real investigation of the con-
sequences, except in science fiction.
Larry Niven’s Organleggers in Gal-
axy suggests what might happen
in a world where there was more
demand for spare human parts than
any normal supply. But, as Taylor
points out, even such a simple thing
as controlling the sex of our off-
spring can have a major impact on
society. What happens if most par-
ents want boys, as they will in
many parts of the world? If there
are two or three males for each fe-
male, what happens to our family
institutions? If the female to male
ratio is about even in one country
and there’s a dearth of females in
another, will we have another war
and rape of the Sabines? Of course,
if society can adapt to the change,
this might be an answer to the pop-
ulation explosion.

On the other hand, the possibil-

ity of extreme prolongation of life
and youthful vigor within the next
fifty years would seem to make con-
trolling the population impossible.
So far, fortunately as I see it, there
is evidence that the DNA in the
cells doesn’t quite maintain itself
perfectly, which reduces the chance
of immortality; but even that is
questionable for the future, since
Japanese geneticists have found the
cell’s self-healing power greater
than we expected and are studying
ways to improve this.

Anyhow, with organs grown to
replace defective ones or with arti-
ficial cybernetic organs, life almost
certainly is going to be greatly pro-
longed.

Cloning also rears its head in the
book. This is the trick of taking a
few cells from the body and grow-
ing them in a culture; since each
cell carries the DNA responsible
for the whole organism, it should
be possible to grow a whole new
individual. It has already been done
with such vegetables as the carrot.
The personality would be different,
due to different environmental
forces, but the basic abilities would
be the same. How many super-
geniuses should we grow from each
natural one?

TV/Tost of these steps involve tink-
ering wilh the individual.
They may prove rather shocking to
the general reader, but no perman-
ent racial harm can come from

them, except for the impact of such
a change on the society. They are
aH reversible. If cyborgs prove
harmful, we can stop creating them
— or man-animal chimeras, or
whatever. A sex imbalance will be
corrected by changing demands
created by the scarcity of one sex
or the other. Even immortality
(that is, an extreme life extension)
would probably be corrected when
tiie population got out of hand; the
food wars would see to that.

But tinkering with the DNA
molecule is another matter, and it
might not be reversible. Unques-
tionably within the next fifty years
men will learn how to alter the tiny
genes within the egg and sperm
cells and change heredity. Scien-
tists can already substitute part of
one virus for another and create a
viable new virus. But now we are
tinkering with the basic germ
plasm of the human race.

All the results of such changes
would not show up at once. Some
might well not show up for genera-
tions, as recessive characteristics
lay dormant at first. There is al-
ready evidence of gene-linked
characteristics that can wait for
generations to develop. And by the
time the results were in, there
might be no chance to return to
the immensely varied racial germ
stock.

Who can determine what changes
in heredity should be made, any-
how? Such power would hardly re-

main in the hands of scientists; it
has too much political power in-
herent in it. And even assuming
absolute benevolence, who can be
sure of what characteristics to
breed for — or build into mankind?

Apparently, we have already
been tinkering with this far more
than we realized until recently.
Twenty years ago, we were fairly
sure that mutations — changes in
the DNA-heredity factors — could
only occur as a result of something
as violent as ionizing radiation from
X-rays, atomic explosions, etc. Now
nothing is so simple.

Viruses infect bacteria and swap
DNA fractions, producing muta-
tions; the same effect may cause
cancer in human tissue. Drugs can
produce such changes. Thalidomide
caused deformed births, though no
one so far has determined whether
this change is hereditary. But there
is increasing evidence that LSD and
other hallucinogens alter the germ
plasm.

We don’t know what other drugs
may effect such changes. And we’ve
bombarded our systems with an in-
credible variety of chemicals, from
preservatives in our food through
pain-killers to industrial by-prod-
ucts in the atmosphere. Even with-
out trying, we may have been tink-
ering with our own heredity. If we
do so deliberately, the results may
seem better — but in being less
random, they may prove to be
much harder to correct.

IF . • . AND WHEN

'T'here’s even a degree of “social”
tinkering. Every time we save
a child from dying of some hered-
itary problem, we theoretically
weaken the racial germ stock by
keeping an individual with what
would previously have been a self-
defeating defect. And we’re a lot
less sure of what’s hereditary than
we once thought. Even the high
amount of near-sightedness may
have come about because eye-
glasses made the defective vision
so easy to correct that it could then
compete with those having normal
vision. (One “defect” that seems
uhimportant — since men will
probably never lose the ability to
grind lenses now.)

Certainly the increasing innocu-
lation of children against all kinds
of diseases will tend to place less
advantage on a high ability to fight
off disease, and possibly weaken the
race.

Such “social” tinkering has been
largely a passive response to devel-
opments, based mostly on a failure
to re-examine old values. But from
now on, as Taylor points out in his
last chapter, society must take full
responsibility. The decisions that
must be made in the use of the
newly developed possibilities for
human-engineering are too big for

a few scientists or a group of semi-
informed politicians. (And even the
decision not to tinker is itself too
big for any group now existing to
accept.)

Sooner or later, he believes, we’re
going to have to create a responsible
organization to oversee the devel-
opments and plan for the integra-
tion of the results into our way of
life — or we’ll lose that way of life.

This is the only really frighten-
ing concept I find in the book. It’s
a case where there has to be some
answer, but no answer looks good.
And here for the first time we get
out of the proper element of sci-
ence fiction and into politics
where no writer has done more than
skirt around the problems.

Maybe there will be a political
answer. In that case, I have a feel-
ing that ten years from now we’ll
get a book on the next great prob-
lem to face humanity. It might be
called The Political Time Bomb —
a frightening examination of the
new breakthroughs in political sci-
ence and the dangers there that
must be controlled.

By then, I hope, science fiction
will have helped to let us escape
into the future ahead of time, as it
has done with all our other major
problems END

REMEMBER

New subscriptions and changes of !

address require 5 weeks to process! i

IF • Complete Short Novel

TRIAL

FIRE

% by JAMES E. GUNN

7 His crime was the foulest known
to man — the practice of science
— and the penalty was execution !

Illustrated by

C4Hphe people against John Wil-
* son,” a man said. It was
chanted like an incantation, and it
echoed in his head. “The people
against John Wilson. The people
against John Wilson.”

John Wilson. John Wilson. Then
he remembered. He was John Wil-
son. He tried to open his eyes and
found they were open. Slowly, as
he tried to remember what he had
been doing before this moment,
where he had been, who he was,
his surroundings swam into focus.

He was in a large room with a
high ceiling. He was conscious of
the size before he saw it. Varnished
wood was slick under his hands. He
was seated in a wooden armchair
at a long wooden table. The wood
was light colored, oak perhaps.
Opposite him was another long
table. Two men sat on the other
side of it, facing him. One was a
big, blocky man with light brown
hair and lumpy features. The other
was smaller and younger. He had
a large nose and dark, curly hair
that grew low on his forehead. His
lips seemed set in a perpetual
sneer, and his close-set, black eyes
squinted now at Wilson, looking
into Wilson’s eyes speculatively.

Wilson stared back. He wondered
why this young man was so inter-
ested in him.

Another voice was speaking.
“John Wilson, please stand,” it
said. The voice had said the same
thing before.

“Can you stand up?” asked a
voice beside him. The voice was
light and drawling, with an edge
of irony.

Wilson put his hands on the arms
of the chair and pushed himself
erect.

It was no particular effort,
but once he was up the room spun
around him in a blur of alternating
darkness and light. The illusion re-
minded him of a carousel ride when
he was young, and he watched it
with interest and nostalgia.

As the room began to slow and
settle into place, he saw a man
placed higher than he was some ten
paces to his right. The man was
seated behind a tall, broad desklike
piece of furniture. The front of
it was made of oak, too, and it was
carved into patterns of rectangles
within rectangles.

The man behind the desk leaned
forward. He had gray, wavy hair
and a triangular face. “I say again,
John Wilson,” he said, “you are
accused of arson and of murder in
the first degree. How do you
plead?”

(( Arson?” Wilson thought.

^ “Murder?” Had he burned
something? Killed somebody? He
could not remember. He could re-
member flames, yes, flames roaring
in the night and forked, black
figures running back and forth.
And he could remember a silent
crowd that waited for the figures

with dubs and pitchforks and axes,
and some of the black figures chose
the flames. But it was more like
the memory of a nightmare than
of something real. It had the spec-
tatorlike quality of a dream. Was
it reality instead, something he had
pushed into the subconscious
through fear or guilt?

The drawling voice beside him
helped. “My client pleads not
guilty,” it said.

“Thank you, Mr. Youngman,”
said the man behind the desk.
Only it was not a desk, of course.
It was a bench, and the man was a
judge.

He was being tried for arson and
minder, Wilson told himself, and
he couldn’t remember what he had
done or what had brought him here
or, now that he thought about it,
anything of his past. Was he a
victim of amnesia? Of course not.
There was no such thing as amnesia.
Of that he was sure. Only he didn’t
know why he was sure.

Wilson sank back into his chair,
thankful he had been relieved of
the compulsion to speak, thankful,
too, that someone had believed in
him enough to speak up for his
innocence.

His heart overflowing with warm-
th, Wilson turned his head to the
left. Seated beside him was a tall,
thin man with short, sandy hair
and a face like a beardless Lincoln.
His long legs were curled under his
chair, His body was curled, too,

until it rested on its spine. He was
cadaverously thin. IBs face was
tanned, and his indolent body
seemed coiled with wiry strength.
He smiled at Wilson and nodded
as if to say, “You don’t need to
say anything. We’re in this to-
gether, you and I.”

Or so Wilson interpreted it, with
relief — partly because he did not
know what to say, partly because
he was not sure he could muster
the will to speak.

Men and women were being
questioned, one at a time, as they
sat in a chair on a platform raised
a foot above the floor to the right
of the judge’s bench. The women
seemed much alike and so did the
men. The women were dressed in
long dark dresses of gray or black
or dark blue cotton, the men in
coveralls with blue shirts or oc-
casionally a dark suit with a blue
shirt underneath open at the
throat. So, too, were dressed the
men at the table opposite him. One
of them was not at the table now.
He was asking questions of the men
and women who sat in the chair.
The younger one sat at the table.
He said nothing. He stared at
Wilson or occasionally allowed his
gaze to drift around the room.

The questioning had been going
on for some time now, Wilson de-
cided. He must have drifted away
again because half the chairs facing
him in front of the oak partition
now were filled with men and worn-

en. Like the young man at the
table, they spent most of their time
looking at him.

“Do you have a financial inter-
est in any scientific laboratory?”
the blocky man was asking. “Has
any member of your family attended
college? Taught in college? Per-
formed research? Has any member
of your family benefited from any
of the so-called miracle treatments
for organic disease? Do any of them
have artificial organs?”

“Objection!” Youngman said oc-
casionally.

“Overruled,” said the judge.

If the answer to any of his
questions was “yes,” the blocky
man said, “You are dismissed,” and
if the answer to all of them was
“no,” he would turn to Youngman
with a little bow. Then Youngman
would uncoil himself and standing
negligently beside the table ask
idle questions. He was not content
to ask the same questions over and
over like the blocky man. He asked
some of the men and women wheth-
er they had made up their minds
about the case, some whether they
had seen the university burn, some
whether they knew the defendant,
and one whether he had any pre-
judices about science or scientists.

“Objection, your honor,” said the
blocky man.

“Sustained,” said the judge, and
he turned to Youngman to say, “I
must warn you, Counselor, that this

line of questioning is not permis-
sible. Science is not on trial here.
Nor are scientists.”

“Exception,” said Youngman.
“The derk will note the fact as
grounds for appeal. Sdence and
sdentists are on trial here, as they
are throughout this nation and
throughout the world. Universities
are being burned; sdentists are
being hunted down and extermin-
ated ...”

“I must caution you, Counselor,
that you are risking contempt pro-
ceedings with this outburst,” the
judge said.

“I will call attention to the ir-
regularities of this trial,” Youngman
said, “as the basis for an appeal
not only to a higher court but to
a higher jury.” He waved his hand
toward the back of the room.
“There is the proof of the nature
of this trial ...”

“If you do not control yourself
I will also dismiss you from this
case,” the judge said.

Wilson let his attention wander.
To his left was a wooden railing.
In the railing were three wooden
gates on hinges, one at either side
of him and one behind him where
the railing jogged to allow room
for a doorway with double doors
into the courtroom.

Beyond the railing was the
audience. They sat on pewlike
benches. They sat silently in their
dark dresses and their blue shirts,
their hands folded in their laps or

7ft

their arms folded arcoss their
chests. They stared at him. Wilson
could not read their expressions,
whether it was judgment suspended
or judgment passed. If he was an
arsonist and a murderer they would
hate him, of course. Good men and
women were bound to hate evil.

Here and there in the audience
were a few persons who did not
seem to fit with the rest — a beau-
tiful blonde girl with short hair,
young men with hard faces and
watchful eyes, a few men in uni-
form on the front row.

Behind the audience, at the back
of the aisles, were the television
cameras pointed at the front of the
room, at the men and women in the
witness chair or at the lawyers or
at the judge or at someone behind
Wilson, but mostly at Wilson him-
self. He amused himself with watch-
ing the little red eye beneath the
long lenses, particularly when he
could tell that the lens was pointing
toward him.

The blocky man — what had the
judge called him? Oh, yes, the
district attorney — was talking to
the jury, but he kept turning to-
ward the television cameras. The
twelve chairs for the jury were
placed in two rows of six; they
all were filled. Above them was a
crowded balcony. The balcony was
reached by a narrow corridor be-
hind the paneled partition that
formed the back of the jury box
and by a circular staircase at the

end of the corridor. In the balcony
were people jvho kept pointing
things at him.

The district attorney was saying,
“I shall prove that this man, in
league with others like him,
planned the burning of the Univer-
sity to discredit the Lowbrow
Party and the Senate Subcommit-
tee on Academic Practices and ini
an attempt to gain sympathy for
the egghead cause, that the fire
got out of hand and killed many
of the arsonists themselves, but
that this man, John Wilson, es-
caped and made his way to the
Gulf Coast, where he attempted to
sell his services and his nation’s
secrets to a foreign power and where
he was captured by courageous
members of this nation’s national
police force and returned to the
Federal Penitentiary to stand
trial ...”

There was no doubt, Wilson
thought. The expression of the au-
dience was hate.

Before the scene faded out he
decided that he liked the other
dream better. As this one ended he
felt Youngman take him by the
hand in farewell. Then he was in
some kind of wheeled vehicle. From
the vibration he thought it was
moving fast. He was lying flat on
a kind of cot. On the other side
was another cot. Someone was sit-
ting on it. In a moment he recog-
nized the dark-haired young man
from the courtroom*

TRIAL BY FIRE

“He keeps coming out of it,” the
young man said. He had an eastern
accent. His voice had a sneer to it,
too. “Give him a bigger dose.”

Someone leaned over him, shut-
ting off his view of the young man,
and he felt something cold and me-
tallic placed against his bare arm.
He heard a hissing noise, and the
cold object went away.

He turned on his left side and
let his eyelids descend. After a
suitable period he tried to read
the note Youngman had pressed in-
to his hand. The light through
the barred window beside him
flickered, but he finally made out
the words.

“You’re under some kind of
sedation. Next time try to cut
yourself. We’ll analyze the blood.
Destroy the note. It’s soluble in
water.”

How interesting, ^Wilson thought.
He worked his hand up to his
mouth and slipped the paper be-
tween his lips. It dissolved all
right. It tasted like peppermint . . .

He dreamed. He dreamed that he
woke in the transparent dark-
ness just before dawn. Someone was
hammering at the door. “Doctor,”
the door murmured through the
house. “Doctor.” He got up quick-
ly and slipped into his white coat.
He never appeared to the villagers
dressed like an ordinary man. That

would corrode their confidence.

When he reached the door, it
transmitted to him the voice of an
excited woman. “Doctor, my little
girl!” And more knocking.

He pressed a button beside the
door, as he ran his fingers through
his hair. It was the blonde Pat Hel-
man, as he had thought. He could
see her plainly in the mirror beside
the door. She had her daughter in
in her arms. They were alone.

Wilson took a stimulant pill from
the dispenser beside the door, shook
off the last remnants of his dis-
turbed slumber and told the door
to open. “Come in,” he said to the
woman.

He took the little girl from her
mother and carried her into the
laboratory, shutting the door of the
white-tiled room carefully in the
mother’s face. The girl was hot and
breathing rapidly but still con-
scious. He placed the girl on the
diagnostic table and set the dials
for her identification.

The computer clicked as it
searched its memory bank for the
girl’s medical history. The sensors
applied themselves to the girl’s
body while Wilson soothed her
fears with a calm hand and a cal-
mer voice. In a moment the diag-
nosis appeared in the frosted glass
above the little girl’s head. Enceph-
alitis.

The injection came immediately
afterward, painless, virtually un-
felt.

Wilson returned the girl to her
mother. “She’ll be all right now,”
he said confidently. “But hang
this around her neck to ward off
evil.” It was a simple puzzle. Per-
haps the girl would improve her
mind with it.

“Thank you, Doctor, thank you,
thank you,” the young woman said,
unable to stop. “She would have
died.”

“Yes,” Wilson said. She would
have, too, he thought. “How is
your husband’s leg?”

“All healed. He was walking on
it the next day, just as if it had
never been broken.”

“And does he remember to say
the charm?”

“The two-times-two? Yes, doctor.
I’m even beginning to say it as
well, just from hearing it so often.”
“It won’t hurt you,” Wilson said.
“You missed much instruction,
coming from the city.”

“We’ll bring you a pig, Doctor!”
“I am here to help. Is every-
thing all right in the village?”
“The stranger is still at the mo-
tel. The one we suspect is a tax
collector. He has been asking ques-
tions about you.”

“By name?”

“No. He asks only about our
witch-doctor. Are you good? Do
you charge too much? Where do
you live? Do you have visitors?
We do not tell him anything.”
“Thank you, my dear.”

He did not have time to think

about the stranger in the village.
Scarcely had the door closed be-
hind Pat Helman and her daughter
than the knocking began again and
the door announced other callers.

TT'irst it was a farmer whose com
was not growing as it should
in spite of fertilizer and water. He
brought a sample of soil. The ana-
lyzer said it was too acid, and Wil-
son gave him a wagonload of holy
powder to work into the land. A
delivery truck limped in for service.
The analyzer revealed that the re-
actor element was worn out and
would have to be replaced and sent
in for renewal. Even with the auto-
matic equipment in the sealed gar-
age, the job took half an hour.

Then came the most difficult
part of Wilson’s job, the birth of a
child with a brain injury. The di-
agnosis was quick and the reaction
immediate. The child was dead as
soon as the computer clicked out
the judgment that it would never
lead more than a vegetable exist-
ence. Wilson found the mother’s
gratitude most difficult to endure,
but he knew it was deserved.

By this time the sun was well
up, and the time for religious in-
struction was at hand. In the class-
room was a sprinkling of children
from four to sixteen, and even a
few married women who could not
go on the pilgrimage and were not
yet tied down by children. He wel-
comed them all.

TRIAL BY FIRE

After an invocation and a brief
sermon, Wilson settled them to
their individual programs at their
individual learning stations. Soon
they were listening to the personal-
ized instruction that seemed to
come to them out of the air. They
listened for a few minutes, wrote
on the magic tablets in front of
them, and then compared their an-
swers with the one in the soothsayer
window beside the tablet.

Wilson left them and returned
to his living quarters in the self-
contained cottage. It was identical
with thousands of such cottages in
villages across the world. Now he
would have a few moments of rest,
while everyone was at work in their
homes or in the fields or in the
classroom. Perhaps he would even
have time for a little research of
his own.

But he did not have the time after
all. He had no more settled himself
into his favorite chair in the study
than the computer told him that
someone had followed him from
the classroom. When the light rap-
ping came at the door he knew who
it had to be.

“Come in, Christopher,” he said.

It was the James boy — 17
years old and a good student, a
handsome, quick, inquisitive lad
with an annoying habit of arguing
with his elders that caused dissen-
sion in the village. His parents de-
spaired of making him a cooperating
part of the family group.

But he was humble now. “Doc-
tor,” he said, “I wish to be a wise
man like you.”

“How like me?” Wilson asked.
“Wise like you. I wish to know
all things.”

“I do not know all things. The
universe is infinite and eternal, and
even if a man searched through in-
finity for an eternity still he would
not know all things.”

“I wish then to know as much
as a man can know.”

“Knowledge alone is neither a
blessing nor a virtue.”

“It is all I want.”

“The passion for knowledge is ai
fever that can consume a man.”
“I am consumed now. How can
I learn more?”

“There in the classroom.”

“The voice of God tells me only
what I know already. It is drill
only, and I do it perfectly.”

'T'hat was true. Wilson know. The
^ boy had made no mistakes for
weeks. The computer had warned
him that it was time for the boy
to begin his pilgrimage. “Knowl-
edge is worthless without an end.
The idle learner is a danger not
only to himself but to others. He
will put his knowledge to work only
to satisfy his idle curiosity, heed-
less of the consequences.”

The boy argued. “This survey is
man’s destiny — to seek truth and
to follow wherever it leads. Truth
is the greatest good. If some are

hurt in the discovery, some always
will be hurt — in the absence of
truth even more than in its pres-
ence — and it is better that they
be hurt in the search for truth than
in the protection of their ignor-
ance.”

“The man who has found true
wisdom does not deal in right and
wrong; he does not judge ends. For
some, truth is a good, for others, a
god. It must be good for all or it
is good for none. God must serve
man, not man God. The latter way
leads to cruelty and amorality
justified by self-righteousness.”
“How can truth be good for all?”
Christopher asked sullenly.

“I have sought truth all my life,”
said Wilson. “How do I use the
little I have found?”

“You serve the village, but — ”
“Yes?”

The boy burst out, “What good
is knowledge? If one cannot seek
more, if with every step one can-
not see the universe opening up?”
Wilson was silent. He let the
boy think about it.

“I suppose,” Christopher said
reluctantly, “you do not stop seek-
ing. But you spend time in service
when you might be learning.” He
was silent again. “I suppose I
could learn to serve.”

“That is part of what you must
learn,” Wilson said.

“How do I start?”

“The way of the seeker after
truth is long and difficult.”

The boy nodded. Wilson thought,
he could not know; how hard and
how difficult it was, but perhaps,
perhaps, he would follow the path
to its end.

“You have lived in this village
long enough,” Wilson said* “Now
you must go out and learn some-
thing about the world. You will
wander from place to place learn-
ing about people and serving them,
doing for them what they cannot
do for themselves, and learning to
do it with a glad heart. Perhaps
you may spend some time at the
Emperor’s Court. Perhaps you may
visit another kingdom. But if you
learn well and seek long, you may
find the way to greater knowledge
than you now dream of.”

“When can I begin?” the boy
asked.

“Ask your parents,” Wilson said
gently. “Tell them I said you are
ready for the pilgrimage.” They
would be sorry to see the boy go,
he thought, and yet rdieved.

The boy turned eagerly toward
the door and then swung back.
“Will I ever be like you, Doctor?”

“If you seek long and are found
worthy, you will learn much. One
day, if you are successful in all
things, you will be expected to
serve as I do.”

“May I be worthy I” the boy
said.

As he left, the door admitted
George Johnson, the village

TRIAL BY FIRE

elder. He was breathless with ex-
citement “Doctor,” he said, pant-
ing. “There are soldiers in the vil-
lage.”

“How many?”

“Eight and a sergeant They are
demanding taxes.”

“They or the stranger?”

“The stranger. He commands
them.”

“Where are they?”

“At the motel. Shall we refuse
to pay? Shall we resist?”

“‘Render unto Caesar what is
Caesar’s.’ But I will go to speak
with them.”

When he reached the motel, he
found two soldiers in imperial pur-
ple guarding the door with their
pellet guns. They stirred uneasily
at the sight of his white jacket and
then stood aside to admit him.

At a table in the dining room, a
man in a wrinkled suit and an open-
collared blue shirt was accepting
a few pieces of gold jewelry from
one of the villagers and checking
off a name on a list. The man
looked up, and an expression of
sardonic delight crossed his face as
he waved the villager away.

The man was out of Wilson’s
persistent nightmare. He had dark,
curly hair that grew low on his
forehead, a large nose, and close-
set black eyes that looked specu-
latively into Wilson’s.”

“You have come.”

“You state the obvious.”

“The rest is incidental,” the

young man said. “Worthwhile but
incidental. We wished only to get
you away from your fortress. We
have had quite enough of their
defenses.”

“Here I am,” Wilson said. “If
you are on a witch-hunt, you have
found someone who will serve your
purpose.”

“You will be taken to district
court for trial.”

Wilson nodded.

The villagers were gathered out-
side in the dusk when Wilson was
taken out of the motel, his hands
chained behind him. The villagers
stirred toward the soldiers, and
the pellet guns came up quickly.

Wilson stepped forward. “Go
home,” he said. “They will not do
to me anything that I do not per-
mit. There will be another doctor
here to help you while I am gone.
Go home. Do not resist the Em-
peror’s soldiers.”

The villagers parted. The soldiers
put him into the wagon and sat on
the benches on either side as the
horses started the wagon along the
cracked, old, four-lane highway to
the city...

Once more the voice of the bail-
iff parted the fog that filled
his mind. “All rise. District court,
Judge Green presiding, is now in
session.”

The twelve good men and true

— some of than women, fo be truly
accurate — were back in their oak
jury box. The little balcony above
the jury was crowded. Wilson had
the feeling that it was balanced
precariously on stilts and that it
might topple forward at any mo-
ment. As Wilson’s gaze drifted
around the room, he saw that the
benches beyond the railing to his
left were filled as well. He looked
until he saw the blonde girl and
smiled. The television cameras
were back, too, their red lights
switching back and forth hypnot-
ically.

Perhaps it was because he had
been here before. Perhaps, if it was
true that he was drugged, his tol-
erance for the drug was increasing.
Or perhaps, if this were a dream,
his subconscious was dredging up
more detail to satisfy his conscious
mind. Everything moved with ele-
phantine slowness. Even in that
slow progression there were curious
gaps.

Perhaps the summer day was
more humid and the old air-con-
ditioners in the back windows could
not keep up. They chuffed con-
tinuously, but the arms of his chair
had a slick, moist feel to them.
The room smelled oddly — acrid
and musky, with human sweat from
the bodies packed closely together,
a little musty like decaying wood,
and over it all the bite of burning
incense.

Events had moved along in the

courtroom, Wilson became aware.
He had the impression that wit-
nesses had been sitting in the chair
to the right of the judge’s bench
and that they had been talking
about him and a fire.

A university had been burned.
Not just a building or two but the
entire fifty or so structures. Now
on top of the hill where once red
roofs had been glimpsed from afar
could be seen only black ruins. A
janitor who had worked at the
university testified, under the in-
sistent questioning of the district
attorney, that there had been late
meetings in the offices he cleaned.
He had overheard talk about set-
ting fires, and he had retrieved
from wastebaskets rough plans of
the university buildings on which
had been written the words “gaso-
line” or “thermite.” The district
attorney offered the papers in evi-
dence.

Youngman objected occasional-
ly. Usually he was overuled. He
asked to have the identification of
the handwriting verified by an in-
dependent expert and was refused.

The dark-haired young man be-
side the district attorney who look-
ed familiar to Wilson, in a dream-
like way, said nothing. Sometimes
he smiled at Wilson. Occasionally
he leaned over to whisper to the
district attorney or to motion with
his head at the cameras. Then the
district attorney would ask the wit-
ness a question or make a motion.

TRIAL BY FIRE

Then there was a student on the
stand who said- something about
discussions in class concerning the
ignorance of the common man and
how easily he was misled. He had
reported the discussions to the local
committee on academic practices.
He also had made tape recordings
of the discussion and of the teach-
er’s lectures. He had recorded talk
in class about the university burn-
ings, too, and whether they would
turn the people against the Senate
Subcommittee on Academic
Practices and, indeed, the whole
Lowbrow movement.

Tt all was vaguely familiar, like
an old dream, and about as
important.

Wilson gazed idly around the
room again. Four old light fixtures
hung from the tall ceiling. Some
of the ceiling tiles were sagging.
The air-conditioners were thin, old
window units placed high in four
tall windows at the back of the_
room, behind the cameras.

Suddenly he could not see as
well. The room had darkened. Films
were being shown at the front of the
room.

The scene was in a classroom, and
mostly the films showed a single
person, the teacher, at the head of
the room. He should know the
teacher, Wilson thought ... Of
course. It was himself. He felt good
to realize that he had a piece of
himself back; he had been a teach-

er. He had not been particularly
good at it, though.

He looked rather ridiculous up
there talking about things like the
sociological significance of protest
and the psychological content of
lynching, about the values of the
Lowbrow movement and the hypoc-
risy of Senator Bartlett and his
Subcommittee, about the importance
of the scientific method and the
necessity for the detachment of
the scientist.

The film was dull, and the lec-
ture was dull and pointlessly pon-
tificial, saying nothing repetitively.
Wilson felt Youngman’s elbow
glance into his ribs and heard the
lawyer mutter something. He nod-
ded and stared past the screen at
the front of the room. There were
two doors, one on either side of
the judge’s bench. The one on the
judge’s right had a frosted win-
dow; in the other the glass was
clear.

The judge had just come through
the door on his right; the recorder,
who was in charge of a complicated
device just in front of the bench,
had come through the door with
the clear glass.

Wilson turned farther to his right.
Behind him, Wilson was fascinated
to discover, was another group of
chairs — about a dozen, similar to
those on the opposite side of the
room for the jury. Only this side
had no wooden back or platform to
raise the second row of chairs.

People were sitting in the chairs.
They were dressed in ragged suits,
most of them, with blue open-col-
lared shirts beneath their coats.
One face in particular drew Wil-
son’s gaze. It was a face a little like
that of an Old Testament prophet
with a boyish, unruly mop of hair
and eyes that looked at Wilson as
if he were an object. Wilson looked
at the man for a long time before
the man looked away. Wilson de-
cided that he knew the man, but
he could not remember from where.

Above the heads of the people
sitting behind him were a group of
large pictures hung in two rows on
the wall. They were in oak frames
of assorted sizes. Four of the men
pictured in them had beards; three
of the other four had mustaches.

That made it seven to one in
favor of face hair, Wilson thought.
He felt his chin. He was clean-
shaven, though he did not remem-
ber shaving.

en he turned his gaze to
the front of the room, the
films were more exciting. They were
color films of a great fire. Buildings
were burning, big ones with pillars
and towers, built of stone and
brick. Some of them were ruins of
rubble and glowing coals, others
were melting islands in a sea of
flame.

If one looked closely one could
see, as Wilson saw, black stick
figures running in front of the

flames, back and forth, back and
forth . . . until the realization came
that they were not in front of the
flames but in them, and they were
consumed. It was the old nightmare.
Wilson remembered it now with all
its horror.

He moaned. “Sylvia! ” he said be-
neath his breath. “Sammy 1”

The fog lifted a little from his
brain and allowed the pain to lance
through. Even as he watched the
terrible scenes he remembered so
well, he knew there was something
he should do, something he had for-
gotten to do, something he must
remember to do.

Then there was a face on the
screen, a face painted with scarlet
fingers, a face satanic in expression,
a face trying to hide, it seemed,
behind an unbuttoned shirt collar
and a coat collar turned up. It was
another familiar face. He knew that
face. It was his own.

It was the face of guilt. He shrank
from it. He turned his head away
from it and met the gaze of Young-
man at his side. Youngman’s eyes
were on him, asking him to do some-
thing, but Wilson’s head was too
filled with pain. Across from him
the dark young man was looking
at him, too, his lips curled in %
mockery of a smile, his face chang-
ed by the scarlet reflections from
the screen into a kind of devil’s
mask, not unlike Wilson’s face there
in the film. Behind him, Wilson had
the feeling, other eyes were staring.

TRIAL SY FIRE

He stood up, swaying on his feet,
and put his hand to his throat. He
felt as if he were choking. There
was a tie there, although he didn’t
remember putting on a tie. He felt
his shoulders. He wore a coat. He
ran his fingers tremblingly along
the lapels. Suddenly he jerked them
away with an exclamation of pain.

As the lights went up in the
courtroom, he was standing at the
table, looking down at his hand.
There was blood on his right hand
and more blood welling from a cut
on his right index finger. Youngman
reached out his handkerchief to
staunch the flow of blood and got
some on the sleeve of his coat.

The television cameras were star-
ing at him. Wilson looked guiltily
into their lenses.

'T'he room was on the third floor
of a 28-stoiy building located in
the heart of the old city. It was on
the third floor because the elevators
had stopped working long ago and
there was no point in climbing when
so many comparable rooms were
available on low levels all around
the city.

The city was thinly populated
now, supported only by the desul-
tory activities of the Emperor and
his authorities. Those activities had
to be located where the old highway
systems focused, where river traffic
was possible and where an occas-

ional steam-powered locomotive
could tug in a string of decrepit cars
on the rusty rails.

The room was large, but a cor-
roded metal counter divided it in
half. Wilson stood on the window
side of the counter, where only a
battered desk and a few rickety
chairs cluttered the marble floors.
The walk, too, were faced with mar-
ble higher than his head. A pot-
bellied iron stove stood near a win-
dow where its black chimney pipe
could snake through the shattered
glass patched with plywood scav-
enged from somewhere eke. The
stove was cold now in the heat of
the summer, but the room was cool.

The dark young man sat behind
the desk, watching him. Wilson
stood in front of the desk, waiting,
hk hands still chained behind him.

“So,” the young man said finally,
“you are a witch.”

“That is what people call me.”
“But you are not a witch.”

“I am many things. To people
who call me a witch, I am a witch.
I have strange powers with which
to control the natural world. I can
do things that others cannot do,
things they cannot even understand.
For thk they respect me; for my
services in their behalf they some-
times pay me. I am their mediator
between the goodness of life that
they want and the evil in life that
keeps them from having it.”

“You are an educated man who
uses the old science to delude the

people. The Emperor wants to know
where you got your learning, and
he wants to know where you got
your building and equipment and
now it is defended and where you
get your supplies.”

"The Emperor wants to know a
great deal. That is the beginning
of education.”

"It is not wise to joke about the
Emperor,” the young man said.

"I do not joke,” Wilson said.

CCHphe Emperor does not want
education,” the young man
snapped. "He wants information.
He will get it from you.” He set-
tled back in his chair. "You have
succeeded in stirring me once,
against my will. If you succeed
again you will be a clever man.
Too clever to be allowed to exist.
We will tye put to the trouble of
finding another witch.”

"I would not willingly trouble
anyone.”

"You would be wise especially
not to trouble the head of the Em-
peror’s secret police.”

"You are young for such emi-
nence.”

The young man smiled. "There
is no age requirement for compe-
tence.”

"Nor for ambition. And what is
this competent young man’s
name?”

"You may call me ‘Captain.’ ”

"You do think of me as a witch,
a little, Captain.”

"And why do you say that?"
"You do not give me your name.
Is it because, after all, you believe
that if I know your name I might
have power over you?”

"Peasant superstition.”

"And yet—?”

"You will not taunt me into re-
vealing my name to you. I think
you have no power. And yet who
knows what power the old science
may give you? A prudent man —
But you are clever 1 I have brought
you here to answer my questions,
and you have me answering yours.
In the end it will avail you nothing,
however. You will answer my ques-
tions.”

"And then?”

"If you are cooperative the Em-
peror may choose to be merciful.”
"The Emperor’s mercy is well
known. But I am a man who lives
by reason. If I cooperate I will
need to be convinced that my co-
operation is merited. You will have
to answer my questions.”

"Ask your questions,” the young
man said, shrugging.

"Why does the Emperor sudden-
ly interest himself in the villages?”
"The Emperor is interested in
every part of his empire.”

"But he has not interfered in the
internal affairs of the villages for
a decade. That was when the
last witch-hunt ended in failure.”
"So I have heard. But this is
not a witch-hunt. What is one witch
more or less?”

TRIAL RY FIRE

Wilson stood squarely in front
of the young man, not shifting his
weight, his shoulders pulled back
by the chains binding his wrists.
“Don’t the villagers pay their
taxes?”

“Only when soldiers are sent for
them, and even then there is not
much. A few trinkets. But no coins.
And grain and livestock are too
bulky for soldiers to carry.”

“The villagers have little need
for money.”

“Thanks to you and your fellow
witches. They have only to ask for
help and you give it to them. How
can they develop their initiative,
their ability to help themselves?”
“And yet we keep the villages
peaceful, the villagers happy. Sure-
ly the Emperor counts this a bless-
ing. There have been no uprisings.”
“How can sheep rebel? We are
an annoyance to them. We should
be indispensable.”

“As are their witches,” Wilson
said simply. “The Emperor be-
grudges us that.”

nphe Emperor begrudges nothing.

-*• He rules an empire stretching
from St. Louis to Denver. It is the
largest and greatest empire in the
world, but it is only a shadow of
what it might be. You and your
fellow witches keep it feeble. In-
stead of sturdy, ambitious subjects,
he has villages of listless farmers.
Instead of a bustling empire filled
with the sound of factories turning

out goods for export, be has a land
that is content to listen to the com
growing. How long before suck a
nation is conquered by its neigh-
bors?”

“What difference would it make
to the villagers?”

“It would make a difference to
the Emperor. And it would make
a difference to the villagers if they
had the ambition to improve their
lots, to produce for trade instead of
consumption, to move their excess
populations to the dries where they
can put the factories to work again,
revive the mines, repair the refin-
eries, get the economy going... ”
“Back to the machines?” Wilson
diook his head. “Your Emperor’s
predecesors did their job too well.
A hatred of machines is bred into
the people. They cannot go back.”
“You give them machines.”
“Those are not machines. They
are magic. The people are not tied
to them. They are to serve, not to
be served.”

“The people won’t go back as
long as you and your fellow witches
give them the benefits of the mach-
ine without responsibility for It
The Emperor calls you the opiate
of the people.”

The young man’s eyes smoldered.
“It is you witches who oppress the
people. Once relieved of your crutch
they will find that they never
heeded you. They will have to re-
turn to the dries; they will have
to return to progress.”

IF,

Wilson chuckled softly to himself.

“You laugh?” the young man
asked incredulously.

“At the irony. First you destroy
science and the machines science
built, and then you struggle to get
them back. It is all a matter of
leverage for those who wield power

— or want to.”

“There would be no struggle if it
were not for you. Our Emperor has
the interests of the people in his
heart; he wants to see them happy
and prospering. He does not want
them ground under the heel of a
conqueror.”

“Does someone threaten war?”
Wilson asked. “That is hard to be-
lieve. Conditions are much the same
everywhere. Only a few young men

— who cannot master the teachings
or the way of life of the villages,
or who grow up untutored in the
city’s ruins — become soldiers.
There are too few to fight a war
of conquest. There is not enough
transportation or enough material.
But perhaps it is the Emperor who
grows restless. Would he like to ex-
pand his empire? Is it he who plans
a war of conquest?”

The young man looked at Wilson
with hard eyes and unmoving face.
“Enough of your questions. Now
you will answer mine.”

“Ask.”

“Where did you get your knowl-
edge?”

“I was educated in a village not
far from here.”

tiX^ou did not learn all yon know
* in a village school,” fte
young man said sharply. “We have
questioned villagers, and they have
an interesting amount of misinfor-
mation and information of little
value to them or anyone else. But
they are filled with superstition.
And they do not know how to heal
the sick or how to make the land
fertile or how to repair their mach-
ines when they stop working.”
“When I was a young man,” Wil-
son said, his eyes reminiscent,
“there still were universities. I
learned many things in one of them
but more in the villages. I traveled
from village to village working,
talking to the people, learning from
them. Eventually, by contempla-
tion and perseverance, I found my
way to truth.”

“What is truth?”

“You will pardon me, Captain,”
Wilson said, as he moved slowly to-
ward the unbroken window pane
that was left and looked out into
the street three floors below. It was
cluttered with debris from the
building opposite, which had been
burned out before, and with rusted
vehicles of various kinds, now little
more than mounds of ore. A path
wide enough for a wagon had been
created in the center of the old
street. Otherwise the street was the
way it had been left when the city
was abandoned by all except the
scavengers. The street was empty
and silent.

TRIAL BY FIRE

“If I could tell you what I
found,” Wilson said, turning back
to the young man at the desk, “I
would not have had to go to seek
it. No one could tell me. At best
I could only be prepared to find it
and to know it when I found it and
was ready to accept it. What is
truth? I cannot tell you, Captain.
I can only tell you where to find
it.”

“Where will I find it?”

“Among the people and in your
heart and mind. It is the secret of
the people’s survival and their fit-
ness to survive. It is what the people
must be to survive and how they
must be selected if they are to
evolve.”

“All this is the superstition you
feed the villagers to keep them
under your spell,” the young man
said impatiently. “What is it you
found? Where did you get your
knowledge?”

“This is not something you can
pass along like a multiplication
table, Captain. You must find it
for yourself, with humility and an
open mind.”

“Rubbish! Where do you get
your buildings? Where do you get
your supplies?”

“From those who also have found
truth.”

The young man sat in his chair
looking at Wilson. “You will tell
me these things,” he said at last.
“We have some of the old drugs
that are reputed to loosen tongues.

And if these have lost their powers
we can try methods more physical.
And when you have told us all
we wish to know, you will go on
trial as a witch.”

“How will you try me,” Wilson
asked, “when you already have
judged me?”

“Sergeant,” the young man call-
ed out. The leader of the pla-
toon came through the doorway
followed by two of hfe soldiers.

The young man smiled. “By fire,
witch. How else?”

A woman was sitting in the wit-
ness chair when the courtroom
swam back into Wilson’s conscious-
ness. Except for her the room was
just as it had been before — the
jury, the two men at the table
opposite, Youngman beside him,
the stone-faced audience, the peer-
ing eyes of the television cameras,
the men sitting behind him under
the pictures of the eight old men,
seven of them with beards or
mustaches.

It had the recurring quality of a
nightmare, but it moved along.
Which was real he wondered fuz-
zily. Was he the witch-doctor in a
world of villagers being put to
the question and dreaming of a
world in which science was being
repudiated? Or was he a scientist
on trial for burning a university
and dreaming of a world in which

the scientist was a respected and
beloved helper of the people?,

He could not decide. He knew,
though, which one he hoped was
real — and this was not it.

There were so many things he
did not know. He did not know
whether he was guilty, as this
vaguely familiar woman in the chair
seemed to be saying. The lawyer
who was defending him — he had
said Wilson was not guilty. But
that was what lawyers always said,
wasn’t it? Or else there would be
few trials.

The district attorney was asking
the woman questions about the
evening the university had burned.
“You saw the defendant that eve-
ning, Mrs. Craddock?”

“He was at our house. We had
dinner, and he said — ”

“Who is this man? Can you
identify him for us, Mrs. Crad-
dock?”

“John Wilson,” Mrs. Craddock
said. “That man sitting there,” she
said, pointing.

She was an attractive woman,
Wilson thought, but an unattrac-
tive emotion was distorting her
features. Was it hatred?

“The defendant?”

“Yes. He said Harvard had
burned and CalTech had burned,
and the University would be next.”
“And by ‘the University, he
meant — ?”

“We all knew what he meant
The university he worked for.”

“And why did he think the
University would be next?”

“He didn't say, but he gave us
the impression that it was inevit-
able. That it was already deter-
mined.”

“That it was planned?”

“Yes.”

“That it would be soon?”

“Yes.”

“And did you get the impression
from the defendant that he had
been part of the planning?”

“Yes — ”

Youngman objected, and the
judge ordered it stricken from the
record, but the audience had heard
it — and it stirred them to an
animal moan. The television view-
ers had heard it. And most of all,
the jurors had heard it. They were
ready to declare him guilty on the
spot, Wilson felt As a matter of
fact, he was ready to admit his
own guilt If he could only remem-
ber I

He half rose in his chair.
“Emily?” he began. “Emily — ?”
And he could not continue, because
the thought had comb to him that
the name of the woman on the wit-
ness stand was “Emily,” and he
had remembered that much — an
evening when he had eaten at a
table with Emily and someone
named Mark and two children
named Amy and Junior, and he had
said something like the things that
Emily had said. Only it was not
quite right.

[T Te stood there in front of the
jury and the audience and the
television eyes, and it was like an
admission of guilt that he should
speak the woman’s name but say
no more but he could not think of
what else to say but “EMILY.”
The woman he knew by that name
frowned and unconsciously bit her
lower lip. The dark young man
who sat at the table opposite him
and bad not yet spoken aloud
braced his hands upon his chair as
if he were about to rise.

“Sit down, Mr. Wilson!” the
judge ordered. “You may not inter-
rupt the trial. If you wish to be
heard, you must appear as a wit-
ness.”

Youngman’s hand touched Wil-
son’s arm, and Wilson sank back to
his seat, bemused.

After Youngman’s cross-exam-
ination, unshaken but with apparent
relief, Mrs. Craddock was allowed
to leave the witness chair. She was
followed to the chair by others. A
man identified as a desk clerk at a
downtown hotel testified that on
the night of the fire he had seen
the defendant get off a bus from
this town, make a telephone call
and then register at the hotel under
the name of “Gerald Perry” and
with the occupation of “salesman
from Rochester, N.Y.” He had left
in the middle of the night. No one
had seen him go.

A seedy middle-aged man said
that he had been paid by Wilson

TRIAL BY FIRE

to pick up a package addressed to
Wilson at General Delivery and
then to toss it behind a bush as
he left the post office. Immediate-
ly afterward he had been accosted
by detectives who were hunting for
Wilson but by the time they had
returned to the spot Wilson had
fled.

An old man testified that a man
who looked like Wilson had bought
a hearing aid from him for $239.95
on the day following the fire, and a
young man, who had clerked at that
time in an electronics parts store,
said that on the day following the
fire Wilson had paid him $153 for
parts and the use of a workroom
and tools.

A broad-shouldered, thick-neck-
ed man with a nose that had been
broken sometime in the recent jpast
identified himself as an investi-
gator for the Senate Subcommittee
on Academic Practices and testified
that he had picked up Wilson in
New Orleans as Wilson was about
to sell his services to an agent for
the government of Brazil, along
with whatever secrets he had in
his possession.

X^oungman objected again.
* ^ - “What is the relevance of
the testimony of these witnesses to
the crime of which my client is
accused? These actions are read-
ily interpreted as those of a mqn
in great fear of his personal safety.
As who would not be if he had

a 7

seen his university burned and his
friends slain by a mob? I ask that
all this testimony be struck from
the record, and that the jury be
asked to disregard it.”

The judge looked at the district
attorney, and the blocky man
turned to the dark young man be-
side him. The young man whispered
in the district attorney’s ear, his
hand cupped in front of his mouth.

“Your honor,” said the district
attorney, rising to his feet, “I am
shocked at the attorney for the
defense accusing the people of this
state and of this nation of mob
actions. I would remind the court
and the attorney that they are not
on trial. The witnesses who have
appeared before this court have
painted a picture of a man whose
actions are not those of an innocent
person who had only to enter the
nearest police station if he needed
protection. He could there have
entered a complaint against others
if he felt they were responsible for
this tragic event. Instead he as-
sumed a false name, persuaded
others to act for him under sus-
picious circumstances, obtained de-
vices for which he had no legal use
and attempted to slip illegally out
of the country. These are the actions
of a man ridden with guilt and try-
ing to evade the natural conseq-
quences for his actions — ”

“Your honor,” Youngman said,
half-rising, “the district attorney is
making a speech.”

•t

“All the testimony given today
is pertinent, your honor,” the dis-
trict attorney said. “And it will
lead to other revelations.”

“Will it lead to the revelation,”
Youngman asked, “that I have not
been permitted to consult with my
client since his arrest, an official
action which prejudices the entire
trial and which will be called to
the attention of the appellate
court as soon as this trial is coi *-
cluded?”

“Are you raising an objection,
Mr. Youngman?” the judge asked
evenly.

“I am objecting to the entire
nature and structure of this trial,”
Youngman said clearly. “It is a;
farce to think that this man can
defend himself without consulta-
tion. This man has not even been
allowed to see his wife since his
imprisonment. If this state of
affairs continues, if my client is
prevented from communicating with
his lawyer and his family, I will
refuse to let my client take the
stand, and we will appeal this case
to the highest court.”

The jury stirred. The audience
groaned. A blonde young woman
stood up in the audience and
screamed. Then, putting the back
of her hand to her lips, she crum-
pled to the floor.

How fascinating, Wilson thought.
Was that woman his wife? She
looked familiar all right. He had
seen her before. She looked like the

Pat Helman of his dream — or his
dream of the Pat Helman of his
real existence.

VT7ilson’s senses were numb, but

* * the very numbness seemed to
enhance his subconscious aware-
ness. He had, for instance, a feeling
that he was in a building of im-
mense size. The room itself was
relatively small. The walls were
stone, and a stone fireplace with
a marble mantle was built into the
far wall. Several old tubular metal
chairs with leatherette upholstery
were placed neatly against the
walls. A single tall window broke
the wall at his right: it was lat-
ticed with metal bars. A thick door-
way was to his left. Beyond it were
two uniformed guards, and beyond
them was a peering lens mounted
on a tripod. It made a muted,
whirring noise.

Besides the feeling of massive
size, Wilson also sensed a strong
institutional odor of soap and anti-
septic. In addition he sensed, near-
er, a more subtle fragrance that he
had not smelled for a long time, for
many months. It brought back
memories of a girl driving a long
Cadillac Turbojet 500, a girl with
bright golden hair like a scarf tug-
ging at her head, with blue eyes
and warm lips and a throat like a
white column.

He was not surprised that she

TRIAL BY FIRE

was sitting beside him, but then
Httle seemed . to surprise him.
“You’ve — you’ve cut — your hair/’
he got out Her hair was straight
and short now, not much longer
than a man’s, with soft bangs
across her forehead. But she was as
lovely as ever. She dressed more
sedately than his errant memory
recalled.

“Yes, darling,” she said. “I’m an
old married lady now.” She held
out a left hand with a thick gold
ring on it.

“Married?” he echoed.

“Oh, what have they done to
you?” she wailed. And she threw
herself at him. Her arms went
around his neck. Her head buried
itself in the hollow between his
neck and his shoulder, and he felt
something sting the back of his
neck. “To you, John Wilson,” she
whispered in his ear. He straight-
ened, and for a moment the clouds
in his head parted. “I’m sorry,” she
said an instant later as she pulled
hair. “I lost control of myself. I
promised myself I wouldn’t do that.
You have enough to worry about
without that, I said.”

He looked at her, trying to re-
member. Her name was Pat Helman.
Maybe. Or perhaps it was Pat Wil-
son, Mrs. John Wilson. But surely
he would be more certain about his
wife. He was on trial for something
to do with the burning of a univer-
sity. He remembered that. And now
he must be in prison where he was

bang visited by this woman who
said die was his wife.

She had been talking for several
minutes, and he had not been lis-
tening, he realized guiltily. He tried
to concentrate on what she was say-
ing.

“You must try to understand,
Johnny. They let one of us visit
you. Only one. It’s just for show,
of course, but Charley and I —
that’s Charley Youngman, your
lawyer — decided that we couldn’t
pass up the opportunity. We talked
it over and decided I should come,
that maybe I could get through to
you better.

“You’re on trial for your life,
Johnny. They’ll hang you for
sure if you don’t do something.
As payment for this visit we’ve
agreed to let you take the witness
stand in your own defense. But
you’ve got to snap out of it or
they’ll cut you up!”

fT^he fog was beginning to drift
away, he thought.

A moment later he was sure of it.
First came the stab of remem-
brance like a flaming sword. The
flames spread until they ate away
a great and beautiful university and
then consumed its beating heart,
the men and women who taught
and studied there, friends of his,
colleagues, and one who was more
than a friend. The pain made his
eyes lower to his hands where they
rested motionless bn his legs like

huge paralyzed white spiders.

“You’re not guilty, Johnny,” the
blonde girl was saying, “but you’re
acting as if you were. And that’s
the same thing.”

No, he wasn’t guilty. He remem-
bered now the way it was. He had
returned to the university too late,
returned from a dinner with his
friends, Emily and Mark Craddock,
in the city — Emily, who had re-
pudiated him to save her family
and had twisted the truth about
him on the witness stand so that
her family could be secure. He had
returned too late to see the blaze
begin, but he had seen it in its
greatest fury. And he had seen the
mob who had done it, and the faces
of the mob, turned demonic by
flames and something else worse
than demons.

He had not been too late for the
running of the egg-heads, for the
silent crowds that waited at the
exits of the university with clubs
and pitchforks and axes for the
black figures that ran in front of
the flames and the casual young-
sters who used them for target
practice like clay pigeons at a skeet
shoot. He had seen a sight like that
once. When he was a boy he and
some friends had fired an old grain
bin to kill the rats as they came
out.

“The time is almost up,” the girl
said. “They’ve given us only half
an hour. You’re going to be all
right. I know it, now.”

Yes, he was going to be all right
if he could only keep remembering
and not forget. He could remember
the terror and desperation of the
long escape to New Orleans, aided
by the brain-wave detector he had
gimmicked together out of a hearing
aid, some electronic parts and an
antenna he had sewn into his coat.
They had traced his every step,
these people who were trying him
for the crimes of all scientists.
The only facts they did not have

— or at least that they had not
revealed yet — were this girl be-
side him, who was not, he thought
regretfully, Mrs. Wilson, and the
shadowy organization die repre-
sented.

She had picked him up on the
highway after he had left the train
at Alexandria and his second-hand
car had given up. “Fm old Tim
Helman’s only child,” she had said,
“and I have a guilt complex a run-
way long.”

He knew who Tim Helman was.
He was the financier who had put
his money and the money of mil-
lions of others into commercial
rocketports and artificial satellites.
He was the man who had lost it all
when the Lowbrow movement came
along and the government revoked
his subsidies before the complex
could start paying off. He was the
man who had died of a heart attack

— it was announced as a heart at-
tack— before he could be brought
to trial for fraud under a blue-sky

law that was, for once, aptly named.

Wilson had not been in the mood
to trust anyone, and he had leaped
from the car at the first oppor-
tunity.

Weeks later he made contact with
a man named Fuentes, a represen-
tative of the Brazilian government,
who offered him a chance to work
there, not at his own research but
at tasks that would be assigned
him. He realized that there was no
place left where a scientist could
pursue truth in the old unfettered
fashion. The question was academ-
ic, in any case. Agents of the
Subcommittee on Academic Prac-
tices had been watching Fuentes.
Wilson literally had fallen into their
laps only to be rescued, in turn,
by Pat Helman and a man named
Pike.

They had convinced him that
he and his fellow scientists were
as blindly wrong in their pursuit
of inhuman truth as the mobs who
made up the Lowbrow movement
were wrong in their massacre of the
scientists. He had gone to live with
the people, to see if he could be-
come one of them instead of an egg-
head walled off by an impene-
trable shell of superiority, to de-
termine if he could learn from
them what they were trying to com-
municate by violence.

T itellectually he had under-
stood before he joined them.
He had accepted the idea that the

TRIAL BY FIRE

ordinary citizen whose skills were
being outmoded by galloping auto-
mation several times in his life had
grown terrified. The ordinary cit-
izen felt that his fate was beyond
his control; it had been placed in
the hands of others, distant and
unconcerned, who did things that
he could not do with powers he
could not understand and who pre-
tended that anyone could do these
things if they wanted to and tried
hard enough, who pursued their
mysterious ends without thought of
human consequences and with only
casual attempts to communicate to
laymen what it was they were try-
ing to do and why.

He had understood with his mind
that the little man, in his terror of
bombs and rockets and machines,
had despaired of attracting the at-
tention of the scientists by tugging
a their sleeves. So he had given
the scientists the same troubles he
had, insecurity and the fear of sud-
den death, in the subconscious hope
that he could learn from the efforts
of the scientists to solve that prob-
lem. And they had learned nothing
— except that scientists died like
other men and fled from danger
like other men. Still they had killed
them and chased them because
if they could not help the people
at least they could not hurt them
either.

Now Wilson understood these
matters emotionally as well, and he
thought he understood the people.

He understood their need for a
scapegoat to take the blame for
their sins, and he also understood
their desires for someone better
than themselves to represent
their finest aspirations. He had
given himself up as one or the
other.

What was it to be?

“Oh, Johnny,” said Pat Helman,
whose name was not Wilson and
never had been and perhaps never
would be.

“It’s all up to you, and I’ve
got to go now. I may never see
you again.” Once more she threw
herself at him, and again she whis-
pered against his ear. “We didn’t
mean for you to give yourself up,
you idiot! We can’t get you out of
here or that courtroom either. All
we can do is give you the antidote
to the drugs. Which I’ve done. You
mustn’t let on though, or they’ll
never put you on the stand, and
your martyrdom might as well pay
off in one moment of glory.” And
then she pulled herself away.
“Good-by Johnny. Good-by.”

He was left alone in the little
room, staring after her, staring in-
to the eye of the camera which had
recorded this touching moment of
reunion between a notorious crim-
inal and his wife, through official
generosity, and he dulled his eyes
and let them sink to his hands as
the guards came and led him un-
resisting down the echoing corridors
to his cell.

VII

nphe words in the relentless

■*“ whisper echoed in his ears,
“You are a witch, a witch, a witch.
Where do you get your wit, your
wit, your wit?” The echo was in-
side his head, which was a great
empty space.

He opened his eyes and saw
nothing. At first he thought that
he was blind. Then, as a shadow
pirouetted across the ceiling, he
realized that the cell was lit by a
single candle in the comer. He
could not summon the will to look
at it but he knew it was there by
the shadows.

He was lying on crumbling ce-
ment. He could feel it dusty be-
neath his hands. From the musty
smell of the place it might be an
underground room, perhaps a room
in the same old City Hall in which
he had talked with the young man
who called himself Captain.

“Who are you? What is your
name?” came the whisper again.

“John Wilson,” he said with dif-
ficulty but with precision. He did
not need to look. The dark young
man was seated on the cement be-
side him.

“John Wilson,” the young man
said, “you will tell me what I need
to know.”

“I will tell you — what you need
to know,” Wilson repeated. The
words were the same but the mean-
ing somehow was different

The young man felt it, too. “You
will tell me what I wish to know.”
“I will tell you — what you need
to know,” Wilson said.

“Where did you get your edu-
cation?” came the whisper.

“Part of it — before the destruc-
tion — of the machines.”

“But that would make you, more
than one hundred years old!” the
young man snapped. Wilson did not
say anything. It was not a question.
“Are you more than one hundred
years old?”

“Yes.”

“That’s ridiculous! You do not
look more than middle aged.”
Again there was silence. “How can
such things be?”

“Much is possible — for men
who had found truth,” Wilson got
out. “Disease is unnecessary. Aging
can be delayed.”

The young man was silent again.
Perhaps he was absorbing the im-
plications of the information he had
received. What would the Emperor
give for the secret of longevity?
What could the young man him-
self do with another half century
or more of vigorous life in which to
get ahead in the world? It might
change his entire outlook upon his
career; he might not have to take
shortcuts to win success while he
still could enjoy its fruits.

The silence endured until Wil-
son was afraid he would fall
back into the cavern made his

TRIAL BY ORB

head. But he dung to consciousness
as if it were the edge of a cliff.
Next time he might not have so
firm a grip on his cavern — on his
mind.

“Are you telling the truth?”
“Can I tell — anything else?”
“Always you answer a question
with a question. Why?”

“That is the nature of man —
and the nature of life. There are no
final answers — only new ques-
tions.”

“Mystidsm! The answers I want
are not so difficult. Where did you
get the rest of your education?.”
“Everywhere.”

“Are you a witch?”

“To some.”

“Where are your fellow witches?”
“In the villages.”

“Where do they get their sup-
port?”

“From the villages.”

“They do not get their machines
from the villages nor their supplies.
Where is the witch world? Where
is the place that witches learn their
craft? Where do they get their
machines?”

“The witch world — co-exists
with the empire — and with all
other kingdoms and empires — of
the world.”

“Where else is it?”

“Wherever man can exist.”

“And where is that?”
“Everywhere.”

“You are evading my questions.
Have you the will to do that?”

“The will — and the capability.”
“Then there are other methods
of persuasion.”

Distantly Wilson felt his hand
lifted. The shadows swirled on the
ceiling above his head. He did not
feel pain, but in a few moments the
odor of cooking meat drifted to his
nostrils.

“A foretaste of the flames,” the
young man said.

“Your measures — combat each
other.” Wilson said. “I feel nothing.
Bum away. Or if you would have
me suffer — you must give me the
power — to resist.”

“You devil!” As distantly as it
was lifted, Wilson felt his hand
dropped. The shadows danced once
more across the ceiling. “Why did
you let yourself be captured?”

“If not me then another.”

“The villagers could have re-
sisted. They could have overcome
us.”

“They are peaceful folk. Vio-
lence breeds more violence. Other
soldiers would come. So long as
the Emperor is content — to rule
the body without coercing the
spirit — the Empire will exist and
the people will obey it. The life
the people have — is beyond the
realm of the Emperor.”

“You are speaking nonsense
again,” the young man said, but
he said it absently. “Would you
like your right hand to match your
left? Let me tell you what the
Emperor has in mind. If the witches

would support him with goods and
machines — and you have them, we
know — he could soon conquer this
entire continent Eventually per-
haps the world itself! All the world
under one peaceful rule. Think of
that! And you witches would be
well repaid.”

“Sometime in his life every ruler
has that dream,” Wilson said. “The
answer is always the same. You
cannot give us anything we do not
already have. You can only take
from the people.”

“You are an obstinate and short-
sighted witch!”

TX7ilson summoned his energies
* * once more. “You are an in-
quisitive young man. You wish to
know. If you had attended a vil-
lage school you would know much
already.”

“I attended the Court School.
And I learned much there but even
more at the Court itself. You see
where it has taken me.”

“From ignorance to ignorance,”
Wilson said. “It is not too late. I
was ten years older than you are
before my education truly began.
You still can learn. Go seek the
truth. What distinguishes half-man
from animal? What separates man
from half-man? What will select
next man from present man?”
“What should I care about such
follies? Be still, old man.”

“You may be next man. But you
must find your way. You must

pass the tests. To be fit to survive
you must survive.”

“You talk rubbish, old man,” the
young man said, but he sounded
uneasy.

He was thoughtful for a few mo-
ments and then, Wilson thought, he
shook himself like a dog coming out
of a cold bath. “Next man or past
man, you will bum, old man. We
will put you to the trial, and then
you will be dead man.”

“You do not fear the witch’s
power?”

“Let it save you from the flames.
Perhaps then I will believe in
witchcraft and your mumbo-
jumbo.”

“Then it may be too late. The
man who can be convinced only by
a show of force — is lost to reason.”
“Reason is a weak man’s solace.”
“Force is a strong man’s refuge.”
“You will bum brightly!”

“Bum me brightly then,” Wilson
said. “Perhaps by my light you
may see a part of the truth. You
will not have another chance. I am
the only witch we will allow the
Emperor to take.”

And Wilson loosened his grasp
and fell back into the cavern and
dreamed of flames.

VIH

TX7llson woke not to the dim
* * confusion of the courtroom
but to the pale light of morning
filtering through tall windows lined

TRIAL BY FIRE

with bars. His pillow was whisper-
ing to him, “You are a witch, and
you have set a fire — a fire which
destroyed a university and the
people in it, people who were your
friends and now are dead ashes.
You are guilty. You have committed
arson and murder, and you must
be punished.”

More bars were all around him.
Bars for walls, bars for a door.
Only above him and below him was
there something solid — the ceiling
and the floor were concrete, but
Wilson felt that inside them, if he
dug, he would find the same cold,
gray bars.

He was in a cell. It was part of a
block of cells stacked one atop an-
other and beside another like so
many houses built of toothpicks,
but the toothpicks were solid steel.
Outside his cell was a corridor, and
beyond that was a stone wall. The
tall, barred windows were in the
wall. He was a prisoner held in a
maximum security prison, and he
had no more chance of escaping
than a witch from the deepest In-
quisitorial dungeon.

He ran his hand over the rough
material of the prison blanket that
covered him, and over the dustily
astringent odor of mopped concrete
floors he smelled coffee brewing far
off. How long had it been since he
had smelled something so good?
They had taken that from him,
and he lay in his bunk, listening
to his pillow, and enjoyed the smell.

“You’re awake, eh?” said an in-
terested voice dose beside him.
“It’s the first time you’ve been
awake.”

Wilson’s eyes slowly drifted shut
“Oh,” the voice said, disappoint-
ed. “I guess you ain’t. But if you
are and don’t want to let on, I want
to talk to you when you get a
chance to listen. They say you’re
a crummy scientist. But you don’t
seem so bad to me. You just lay
there, moaning and talking in your
sleep, and I guess you’re just a
crummy con like me, and it’s us
against them. We got something
working, fellow. If you want a piece
of it just wiggle your eyelids.”
Wilson lay very still, breathing
regularly, listening to his vindictive
pillow. His eyelids did not move.

“I don’t blame you, fellow,” said
the voice beside him. “Why should
you trust anybody? Maybe when
they bring you back — if they
bring you back.”

*nphey came soon afterwards. Men
dressed Wilson’s unresisting
body in newly pressed clothes and
half carried, half dragged him to
an armored truck. It had two cots
in the back, and they placed Wil-
son on one of them. The truck
started up. After about ten minutes
of slow, twisting city driving, the
truck picked up speed. Twenty
minutes later it drew up to the back
of an old brick building. Wilson
was hustled into a small doorway

and up a flight of stairs to the
courtroom.

“No one will appear in this man’s
defense,” Youngman said. “His
cause is unpopular, and anyone who
testifies for him will be called
‘traitor’ by his neighbors, and per-
haps worse will happen to him.
Therefore I will call John Wilson
himself to be the only witness for
the defense.”

With great care, as if he were
walking a tightrope, Wilson made
his way to the witness chair and
with Youngman’s aid settled him-
self into it. Slowly Youngman led
him through a rebuttal of the testi-
mony presented by the prosecution.
Wilson hesitated often and fumbled
for words, but he finally told his
story of the events.

He had returned to find the
University already in flames, he
said. He had fled the scene and
later the area under an assumed
name for fear that what had hap-
pened to the others at the Univer-
sity would happen to him. By the
time Youngman had finished, they
had painted a picture of a man
driven by desperation into a wild
and sometimes irrational flight for
his life.

Youngman turned to the district
attorney and took his seat. The
district attorney hesitated for a mo-
ment, frowning, and then pulled
himself up.

“You claim that you returned to
the University to find it in flames.

Yet Mrs. Craddock points out
that you were talking about plans to
burn it at dinner that evening."

Wilson straightened a little. “Not
plans,” he said gently. “The pos-
sibility of others burning it. And
by the testimony of your own wit-
nesses — Mrs. Craddock and the
officials who noted the time of the
fire — I left the city after the fire
already had begun, 35 miles away.”

The district attorney seemed un-
able to find an appropriate word.
He turned halfway toward the
young man sitting at the table.
Smoothly the young man got up.
“Your honor? May I interrogate
the witness?”

The voice was familiar.

The judge nodded. “Of course,
Mr. Kelley. You have been appoint-
ed asistant prosecutor for that pur-
pose.”

Now Wilson knew him. Leonard
Kelley was chief investigator for
Senator Bartlett’s Subcommittee
on Academic Practices.

“Mr. Wilson,” Kelley said
smoothly, “you are, as you know,
not accused of setting the fire itself
but of conspiring with others to
set it. That you were not there to
put the torch yourself is incidental,
and you are only trying to confuse
the jury by pretending otherwise.
You will not deny that your actions
following the fire were those of a
guilty man.”

“It is a truism that the guilty
flee when no man pursueth,” Wil-

TWAL BY FIRE

son said drily, straightening a little
more. "But it is equally true and
equally obvious that the wise man,
wrhen he sees an angry mob ap-
proaching with a rope, does not
stop to ask questions.”

Kelley studied Wilson’s face with
shrewd, perceptive eyes. "You were
trying to flee the country entirely
when you were captured.”

"A moment of folly. Luckily I
thought better of it and returned.”
"You mean you were returned.”
"No, I returned of my own voli-
tion, having escaped from the agent
of the Subcommittee.”

"You escaped, Wilson? How?”
"Your colleague lost his head —
and had his nose somewhat al-
tered.”

"And then what did you do, Wil-
son?”

"I returned. Three months later
I gave myself up voluntarily.”

^phe members of the jury turned
to each other. The stem-faced
members of the audience shifted
positions.

"What did you do in those three
months, Wilson?”

"I lived in small towns, worked
in the fields and in the shops.”
"Did you believe that this
would enable you to escape jus-
tice?”

"I knew that I could avoid re-
capture,” Wilson said with a care-
ful choice of words. "But I was
living in these places in this way so

that I could learn why the people
hate scientists.”

Kelley turned toward the jury
and the audience until his back was
almost to Wilson. "I am glad that
you admit this basic truth, Wilson.
The people hate scientists, and they
have good reason to hate. But why
do you think they hate you.”

"Not me personally,” Wilson
said. "All scientists. Blame for that
lies on both sides. The scientists
are at fault because they have been
blind to the needs of the people for
security, and the people, because
they have been unable to see that
the only security is death — or a
way of life so like death that it is
scarcely distinguishable.”

"You are condemning the people
to death?”

"You twist my words. The people
must accept the fact of insecurity.
I do not say it; life insists on it
The people must find their security
in their own ability to cope with
change. The scientist, on the other
hand, must give up his childlike
worship of science.

"One of the great philosophers
of science, T. H. Huxley, summed
it up this way, ‘Science seems to
me to teach in the highest and
strongest manner the great truth
which is embodied in the Christian
conception of entire surrender to
the will of God. Sit down before
fact as a little child, be prepared
to give up every pre-conceived
,( continued on page 142)

AUTOGRAPHS :

An Interview
with

Harr / Harrison

Hphe story of my interest in sci-
■** ence fiction is the story of
my life; at the age of seven I
came across one of the old large-
size magazines, with the Frank R.
Paul covers, and I read it and that
was that. I’ve been hoping for
years to come across that issue
again, but I’m afraid if I ever saw
it it would be like The Green Man
of Graypec, which I was so much
in love with that I cut it out and
bound it up separately . . . and
came across a long time later. When
I tried to read it, I could only get
through a couple of pages. Aargh.
Only Sam Moskowitz can read that
old stuff and really enjoy it.

IVe been a fan all my life, start-
ing around 1932. A few years later
the Queens Science Fiction League
came along, and I met such great
names as Moskowitz and Sykora;
I stayed on as a member until the
war came along and I went into the
Army.

Wlien I got out I went to art
school, where I ran into some comics
artists. I spent a lot of time telling
them what a negative, degenerate,

lousy art form comics were; then I
found myself beginning to do some.
Actually, they had some damn good
artists. Beautiful artists, who could
get just the line they wanted down
on paper; but the writers were al-
ways afraid to sign their names.

I kept working in comics, draw-
ing and editing, and when the Hy-
dra Club came along I joined. I
was Harry The Artist, doing illus-
trations for Marvel Tales and Gal-
axy — the first one I remember
for Galaxy was for Bridge Crossing,
by Dave Dryfoos; the Art Editor
was W. I. Vanderpoel at the time
— and book jackets for Marty

Greenberg’s Gnome Press and so

on.

Then Damon Knight was edit-
ing a magazine called Worlds Be-
yond, around 1953; I’d done a
couple of illustrations for the first
issue, about half of the second
issue, the third issue was all mine
— and then I got a throat in-
fection. I lost thirty or thirty-five
pounds, and I was too weak to
draw, but I could sit up in bed and
type. So I wrote a story. It was
called Rocky Diver; Damon bought
it, and I was immediately antholo-
gized — the man who did the an-
thology was also my agent — and
I should have stopped then, with
a perfect record: 100% sales,

100% anthologizations.

I was still editing comics, and
writing and drawing them, but sci-
ence fiction was the Holy Grail. I
did a little of it — and a lot of
other kinds of writing. I was a hack
artist and a hackwriter: Confes-
sionSt Westerns, Detectives — what-
ever they want to pay money for
I did. They’d pay me ten dollars
for a picture, and then I’d write
a special story around it — maybe
a confession about a girl in an iron
lung, dying, giving birth to a baby,
whatever.

Then comics collapsed. I’d got-
ten in with a publisher named John
Raymond and worked for him on
his science-fiction and fantasy
magazines while they lasted; then
I spent about six months as an art

editor and got together enough
money to go to Mexico. I got an
apartment and an old car and lived
down there on $75 a month and
wrote a novel called The Stainless
Steel Rat, which was my first big
sale, and never looked back. I
found that down there I could write
more than 2,000-word stories, which
I couldn’t do in New York.

On the strength of that my wife
and I went to Europe, for the Lon-
don Worldcon in 1957, and for the
next ten years or so we stayed
there most of the time. My big
bread-and-butter income was from
writing Flash Gordon scripts over
most of that period, but I also did
a lot of science fiction. We lived in
England, Italy, back to New York
for our first baby to be bom, then
to Denmark, where we stayed for
seven years. I served as a foreign
correspondent for a magazine for a
while, wrote some science articles
under a pen name — and kept on
with science fiction.

I haven’t done any drawing for
at least ten years — which is a
good thing; face it, I was a bad
artist — except that when I was
sitting on the beach in Italy with
a ballpoint pen, I did some draw-
ings of future weapons for a fan-
zine. We were killing time in a
little town south of Salerno, wait-
ing for a free ride back to the states
from a friend of mine who’s a ship-
owner; I’d just sold a novel for
a couple thousand dollars and did

IB!

100

not see any point in working, so I
sat in an olive grove and killed
time for a couple of weeks.

While I was in Denmark, I’d
take a trip to the various science-
fiction conventions in Europe; I
met Brian Aldiss at the Trieste
Film Festival and we kept in touch,
corresponded, saw each other now
and then, and we started SF Hor-
izon, a critical science-fiction mag-
azine. To my thinking Aldiss is one
of the big sf writers of the last five
or ten years. Maybe the biggest.
His novels have a feeling for con-
tinuity and form — Non-Stop,
Greybeard, which I think is a clas-
sic; it’s going to be the sleeper of
all time, I swear.

Then there’s Bester — of course:
stories like The Stars , My Destina-
tion — and always there’s Hein-
lein. Perpetually there’s Heinlein.
This is the seminal guy in the
while field. I’m not talking about
what I consider his bad period —
he went preachy; the same thing
happened to Huxley, when he quit
writing novels in favor of essays
on society — but the bulk of his
work satisifies me completely.

I associate them with the Gold-
en Age of Astounding, back in the
’30’s and ’40’s. Those were the per-
fect days for me; I remember I
used to go down to Hudson Ter-
minal to a stand that got the new
issues two days ahead of anybody
else — an extra half hour on the
subway, just to get those two extra

days. It wasn’t just those two
writers; there was a whole gestalt
to that time. Heinlein, Clement,
Sturgeon, a lot of others; they may
not all have been polished writers,
but they were superb entertainers.

I miss that in a lot of newer writ-
ers. Ballard, for instance — some of
his short stories are fine, but his
novels lose me. Ellison has done a
couple of good ones — not science
fiction, though, the ones I like best.

Fritz Leiber is a guy who’s been
growing all the time. He writes so
well . And it’s science fiction to the
core, sometimes like Lovecraft, with
a little bit of fantasy.

Now I’m back in the States —
we had to make up our minds
whether we wanted the kids speak-
ing Danish or English and decid-
ed on English — and spending just
about all my time on science fic-
tion: writing, editing anthologies
and so on. I have twelve or thir-
teen books behind me now, enough
so that I can feel I can survive in
any environment. The environment
I’ve got is just below San Diego,
about four miles from the Mexican
border; completely away from ev-
erybody else. We’ve got an acre in
the hills — rabbits, quail; there’s
nothing around us, and we’ve got
the house sealed off with an air-
conditioner, so we can lock the
doors and turn off the telephone
and we’ve got absolute privacy. So
I can work; and it’s been working
out very nicely. END

101

IF • Short Story

The Fire Egg

by ROGER F. BURLINGAME

To a peasant it is not given
to handle the Holy Things —
unless he is willing to die I

44 T Tail” Sum Lin dropped his
** ^ hoe and knelt in wonder be-
side the furrow he had just made.
The tip of the stone hoe had un-
covered a scaly metal oval, scarce-
ly distinguishable from the rust-red
dirt around it. A fire-egg, he told
himself excitedly! A fire-egg wait-
ing to hatch in my field!

Lin picked up the fabulous egg and
cupped it reverently in his rough
hands. He felt a sullen warmth
creep from the metal into his flesh.
It wants to be bom, he thought.
It wants me to help it hatch into
a sickle-bird. I must tell the priest!

Turning his face toward the rosy,
cloud-free sky, the boy in black
pajamas silently thanked the gods
of the thunder-that-comes-no-more

for honoring him with this discov-
ery. Nor did he forget to thank
them for the many pieces of flat
hammered steel he would get for
returning to their local priest this
symbol of the god’s prehistoric
activity.

Panting, Lin arrived at the gate
of his village. A guard stepped for-
ward, shifting his rusty M 16 to the
crook of his elbow to begin the
customary clothing search, but the
young farmer protested. “No,
honored green-head! It is not fit-
ting to search one who carries a
holy thing. See, I bring a fire-egg
to our priest.”

Proudly he held up the egg. The
guard automatically reached for it,
then jerked his hand back to hide

102

his face. Dropping his non-fuction-
al rifle, his hands covered his eyes
under the green-dyed hair. He
bowed deeply. “Take it, fortunate
Lin. And tell the Intelligence Win
Dom that I sped thee on thy mis-
sion!”

Achieving some compromise be-
tween an anxious trot and a self-
conscious saunter, Lin made his way
down the dusty main street to-
ward the priest’s house. This stood
in the center of the village, a sin-
gle-storied bungalow of neatly fit-
ted concrete blocks, contrasting
with the peeling plaster and wood
of the village huts. Behind it
loomed the walls of the sacred en-
closure where the Superior Persons
dwelt, who, legend related, once
could talk to the great sickle-birds
in their own language.

Lin knocked respectfully at the
heavy teak door. Then, stepping
back, he squatted in the posture
suitable to his class and waited with
the patience he used in waiting for
the annual monsoon. Finally the
door swung back to reveal the pal-
lid figure of the priest.

“Intelligence” Win Dom always
reminded Lin of a ghost — that is,
if you believed that ghosts had red
and baleful eyes. All the rest of the
man was white: hair, skin and robes.
Lin was not shocked, for this was
how all priests looked: white with
glaring red eyes. Perhaps, thought
the farmer, that is why they are
priests. The gods have marked

AN IF FIRST

Each month If publishes a story by a
new writer, never before in print. This
months "first" is by a 38-year-old minis-
ter of the Church of Christ in New York
State. A former Fulbright scholar (to
Heidelberg, Germany), graduate of Ober-
lin and the Harvard Divinity School, Rev.
Burlingame has been a science-fiction
reader since his teens. The Fire Egg, which
began as an assignment for a course
in the Famous Writers School, is his first
fiction appearance anywhere.

them for their own by making them
unlike all living men.

The old priest’s voice contrasted
with the brightness of his eyes as
he said in a dull, unconcerned
tone, “Thou hast a wish, my son?”
As soon as he heard the door
open, Lin shifted from his haunches
to his knees. Holding up the fire-
egg in laced fingers, he answered,
“Truly, Intelligence. I discovered
this holy egg buried in my new
field. After giving thanks to the
gods at once, as is proper, I hur-
ried to bring it to you!”

' Getting to his feet, the young
man made as if to hand the egg to
the priest. But Win Dom jumped
back clasping his hands behind him.
“No, my son. I may not touch it.”
He hesitated as if in confusion at
the sudden revelation of holiness.
“I am not yet purified today. But
since thou hast found it, keep it
for now. I must consult with one
of the superior persons.”

Lin swallowed his surprise. He
had never been in contact with

THE FIRE EGG

103

these awesome creatures. Indeed,
no villager had ever seen one in
Lin’s generation. They gave their
orders and directives through the
priests. Lin placed the egg tender-
ly inside his shirt* and pressed it
to his flat stomach while the priest
disappeared inside the house.

Tn his office, Win Dom, who
was called “U-stase” within
the bosom of his albino family,
closed the door firmly and stood
in worried thought. He knew what
the farm boy had found and he
knew he had to report it at once.
Slowly he clenched and unclenched
his bony fingers as he thought of
the possibilities of the boy’s dis-
covery.

Priestcraft, at least that form in-
to which Military Intelligence had
degenerated, informed him of the
true nature of the fire-eggs, not
much less powerful than the spit-
ting teeth of the giant beetles which
once had fought with and against
the sickle-birds.

If Win Dom had such an egg to
possess, then how superior would
those insufferable people be inside
their walled enclosure? With the
destructive force of the egg at his
command, he would no longer be
forced to live in this half-world be-
tween the great concrete wall and
the village huts, dependent on the
good will of his superiors and the
sometimes intermittent offerings of
the peasants.

His thoughts focused on the pic-
ture of his second son — a hand-
some infant as white as his father,
though born without legs. Win
Dorn’s wife had hidden the child
with a peasant family; but on the
boy’s first birthday four green-
head guards ferreted him out and
delivered him to the superiors to
be devoted to the gods. Win Dom
had never seen this ceremony, but
he had watched the oily smoke ris-
ing above the walls of the enclosure.
He gritted his teeth in an agony
of remembering.

Some day! But Win Dom was
born to be a priest in an age when
priests were intermediaries, not be-
tween men and the gods, but be-
tween two classes of men — the
, villagers and the superior persons
who hid behind walls of concrete.
It’s uncomfortable for a priest to
live too dose to the gods he serves,
but it’s unbearable to be bom a
priest with no more choosing of it
than the melanin-free skin tint
which characterized all the mem-
bers of that profession.

Win Dom pushed his finger tips
hard against the plywood top of
his desk, then let his hands relax.
His second right index finger moved
to the button of the patched-up
intercom and pressed. The box
responded laconically: “Report!”
“A farmer, sir, with a fire-egg
he says he found in his field.”
The box gave him a black one-
eyed stare. “Better come in!”

104

XXT'in Dorn’s office had three

* ^ doors: one opening onto

the village square, one leading to
his family quarters, and the third
a combination wood and steel gate
opening into the enclosure. The
priest waited until the gate swung
back and thought happily how
those strong hinges could be
twisted apart by the impact of a
single, recently found fire-egg. And
the villagers rushing in for the food
and metal, and the priests for the
precious instruments and weapons!

Entering the check room of the
enclosure, Win Dom saw the dark
figure of Bu Run bulging over the
plastic top of his desk. Bu Run
smiled at the waspish little priest
and asked, “What’s with the fire-
egg, Stase?”

Win Dom flinched, as always, at
the inelegant language used by his
superiors. Even the farm boy spoke
more correctly, using the proper
forms of address. With offended
dignity he reported, “A young farm-
er, sir, just brought this fire-egg
to my office. He says he uncovered
it with his hoe, but my opinion is
he stole it. There are several holy
egg shells in our temple museum.
I will send someone to see if one be
missing. I have reported the inci-
dent to you immediately, as the
directive requires.”

Bu Run’s dusky smile dissolved
as he studied the priest. “Do you
have the egg with you?”

“No, sir. I left it with the boy,

thinking it better for the evidence
to be in his possession if my sus-
picions were justified.”

“You don’t think he’ll run a-
way?”

Win Dom expressed judicious as-
surance. “Out of the question, sir.
He’s after the sheet metal, and he
won’t do anything to jeopardize his
reward!”

Bu Run nodded agreement. “And
who were you going to send to check
the museum?”

Without hesitation Win Dom
answered, “My oldest son. He is
worthy of my confidence. We can
rely on his discretion.”

Bu Run shook his head impati-
ently. “Better bring the kid who
found it in. Let him talk for him-
self,” he ordered.

The priest tried to protest, sum-
moning up regulations prohibiting
the entrance of village personnel
into the enclosure. Against his will
he found himself stepping back
through the gate into his humid
office, opening the door to the
street. Lin was crouched against
the wall, his arms cradled against
his stomach warming the precious
egg, even as it was warming him.
He rose eagerly as the priest open-
ed the door.

“Come, my son, and take cour-
age. A superior person has ordered
that thou shouldst bring him the
holy egg. Surely the reward will be
great, if thou art thus honored 1”

Too shocked for speech, Lin fol-

THE FIRE EGG

105

lowed the priest into his office,
averting his eyes superstitiously
from the finger play with the inter-
com.

As he entered the holy ground
of the enclosure, Lin’s heart
laughed inside him. The great one
must be as excited as he was at
the discovery. Ah, the sheets of
gleaming metal that would be his,
the strong tools, the look of respect
in the eyes of the village elders 1
They would visit his house to pay
him compliments and to ask his
opinion on the prospects of the
crops. Even Mai Ling’s father, he
exulted.

Ever since he had begun to ap-
preciate his male equipment, he
had chosen Mai Ling to be his
mate. Now her father would re-
joice to have such a fortunate son-
in-law. Not for him a girl chosen
by the old men who make marri-
ages. He was a man now, with
the power to choose his own. But
he stood with humbly bowed neck
before the glistening table of the
great one.

The huge dark person smiled
gently at him. “You found a fire-
egg, son?”

Lin nodded, feeling its soothing
power against his bare flesh.

“But the holy one says that you
stole it,” Bu Run continued. “Now,
how am I going to find out who
speaks truth?”

Aware that the native was un-

able or afraid to answer, the
Negro turned to the priest standing
some distance away. “The dir-
ective says: where there is no evi-
dence, the word of the superior is
to be taken. I think I remember
it right?”

Win Dom nodded, a glint in his
ruby-colored eyes. “You are per-
fectly correct, sir ! ”

“Okay, it’s your egg,” Bu Run
shrugged. “Go ahead and take it.”
The priest almost jumped for-
ward, then stopped himself — a re-
action three ancestors too late.
“First — first I must get a suitable
nest for it, sir. The sacred egg must
lie on soft metal.”

A smile touched Bu Run’s mouth.
“What’s the difference? You can
rely on our discretion. Just get it
back to the museum!” When Win
Dom still hesitated, Bu Run’s tone
grew harsher. “All right. There’s
one sure way to find out! Have
your discreet Number One Son
take this kid out to the hill of
sacrifice and offer the egg to the
gods. If it’s a museum egg, they
won’t take it. If it’s a live fire-egg,
they’ll let us know!”

Grudgingly, Win Dom ordered
the oriental out of the check room
and started to follow him. “Hold
it!” Bu Run commanded. “Tell
him how the little ring hatches the
egg. Then get back here and leave
the gate open!”

The black man leafed through
the reports lying on his desk. The

106

pages repeated yesterday’s infor-
mation— or last year’s, for that
matter. No activity on the peri-
meter, compound enclosure still at
safe level. No contact with Saigon
or off-shore stations. No contact
with anyone except within the
sterile incubator of the enclosure.

The priest returned, and Bu Run
motioned him to a seat while he
took out and lit a cigarette, made
with what he had been assured was
tobacco. Blowing the first puff of
smoke toward the open gateway,
he addressed the albino without
looking at him. “You never learn,
do you? We’ve got all the clean
stuff in here. That’s why you live
out there, remember? Maybe the
ground’s clean now, and maybe the
food’s fit to eat. But the metal they
dig up is still plenty hot, or ‘holy/
as you call it!”

Win Dom clasped his twelve pale
fingers together and stared glumly
at an imaginary speck of mildew
on the spotless metal desk.

Bu Run ignored the sullen white
man and imagined the feel of the
end-of-duty shower that would clean
his skin of contamination with
priest and peasant.

V\7hen the blast of the concus-
* ^ sion reached them, the papers
on Bu Run’s desk fluttered madly.
Over the hill of sacrifice bits and
pieces of Sum Lin were undergoing
separate and bodily assumption in-
to the cloudless atmosphere of Viet

THE FIRE EGG ; .

Nam.

Sergeant Bu Run, or “Brown,”
in the archaic pronunciation still
used in the enclosure, ground out
his cigarette and signalled for the
priests to leave.

Slowly he heaved himself up
from behind the desk and walked
to the open gate. It’s the best way
to get rid of that damned radio-
active junk, he told himself. Any-
way, it’s a lot quicker for the poor
gook than having his stomach cor-
rode from the inside out. He
pushed the switch beside the heavy
gate and watched it swing closed.
“Well,” he muttered the tradition-
al benediction. “Keep the faith,
Charlie!” - END

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107

CONCLUSION

IF • Serial

SIX GATES

by j. t. McIntosh

There were six ways to get out
of Limbo . Five of them involved
suffering — the sixth meant death !

108

TO LIMBO

WHAT HAS GONE BEFORE

Tie did not know his name, but with green fields , flowers, a
the coffin from which he had house to live in, a crystal lake,
arisen bore the legends Rex. He birds and animals that were love -
did not know the name of the place ly and unafraid. Two things mar-
where he found himself and called red it:

it Limbo. First, an Eden should have an

It was a paradise — almost — Eve — but Rex had two : the girl

109

whose nameplate said Regina, and
another , the loveliest creature he
had ever seen, labeled Venus .

Second, this paradise was sur-
rounded by a wall . The wall was
not stone or brick, but a gray,
queerly fuzzy form of energy . He
could not pass through it, but
there were six Gateways in the wall,
each opening onto another world .

Rex dared one gateway and
found himself on the planet of
Bullan, where the human colonists
were despairing to the point of
apathy and even suicide .

He returned to Limbo, perplexed
and worried . Yet there was nothing
to do but to explore the other Gate-
ways, one by one . He chose the
second and entered it, this time
accompanied by Regina .

They found themselves on a des-
ert world, where the heat was in-
tolerable and the only life in sight
that which had been imported, cell
by cell, from other planets . It had
a human population, even great
cities . Yet it was a dying world, cut
off from Earth, lacking the basic
organic components in its ecology
to keep itself going . . . and intense-
ly hostile and suspicious .

Unfortunately for Rex, he arous-
ed the suspicions of the first people
he talked to. He let slip that he
was not a native, and not from
Earth — and the girl he was talk-
ing to reacted instantly.

She reached to press a button to
summon help.

TTe was over the counter in a
* * moment, her wrist held in his.
His other hand was over her mouth
and she was trying to bite it, to
scream.

He dragged her through the door-
way behind her and into the first
room off the passage there. His luck
was in; it was a toilet, with a bath,
showers, and no windows.

And there she suddenly stopped
struggling. “You’re a Twentyman,”
she said.

He didn’t let her go, but his
tactics changed.

“So?” he said.

“Why hold me, then?”

He let her go. Twentymen didn’t
have to use violence.

“What is a Twentyman?” he
asked.

She stared.

“Tell me,” he said, and instead
of trying to conceal his power, he
exerted it all on this thin, pale girl,
willing her to answer.

“Oh . . . you have to be special
in the first place, the dominant
people merge with you — ”

“Merge?”

“Suicides. Instead of just end-
ing it all, they merge with the
Dominant to make a Twentyman.
Nothing much survives of them,
everybody knows that. No knowl-
edge, only traces of skill and in-
telligence and talent. But some of
the soul, we believe. The cream.
The top of the personality. The

suicides get peace, and they don’t
quite die.”

“And the result?”

“A Twentyman? He’s stable. He
never commits suicide. It’s never
been known. He never gets de-
pressed. He’s . . . moral. It’s not pos-
sible for him to be evil.”

“Or her?”

“Girl Twentymen? There aren’t
so many of them. Not because there
aren’t as many women suicides, but
because there aren’t as many girl
Dominants. Well, do I pass? What
do you really want?”

“I came only for information.”
She looked at him warily. “Not
about me, surely. I’m nobody. I’ve
done nothing.”

“About Cresta.”

“You came in the last ship?”
“No.”

She nodded. “You came like the
birds.”

Something clicked. “Birds have
been turning up here unexpectedly,
is that it? And you want more?”
“Millions of them. Somehow, a
few of them manage to live. You
do know about the birds, don’t you?
Where they come from?”

T Te could guess. The area im-
* mediately beside the Gateways
in Limbo was swarming with birds.
Deliberately, carelessly or blindly,
many of them had blundered into
the Gateways. Section K had made
a mistake there. “There won’t be
any more,” he said.

Tears welled from her eyes. She
didn’t sob. The tears, unchecked,
ran down her thin face.

“Then it was Just a mistake,” she
whispered. “We thought — some
of us thought — someone was real-
ly trying to help us.”

She didn’t resist as he tied her
to a chair with strips tom from a
roller towel. Instead, she looked at
him steadily and said: “Twenty-
man, unless all I’ve ever heard is
wrong, you have to be good, moral,
just. Cresta is hovering between life
and death. Not the voluntary death
that faces almost every other world
in the galaxy. Slow, painful death
because though we’re a good set-
tlement we can’t import or create
enough life to keep us alive.
Twentyman, wherever you’re from,
you’ve got to help us.”

“I can’t promise anything,” he
said. “But if it turns out it’s pos-
sible for me to do something, I’ll
do it.”

Five minutes later he joined
Regina and said: “Let’s get out of
here.”

The rest had done her no good.
She was lackluster, drooping. She
stood up with an effort.

Nobody paid any more attention
to them than before. At the edge of
the city they did not have to wait
long until there was nobody in
sight. In the desert they felt safer.

“What happened?” asked Regi-
na.

“I’ll tell you later. I know you’re

SIX GATES TO LIMBO

111

in a bad way, Regina, but we have
to leave this place.”

“If I survive, I’m never going
through a Gateway again. You
know that, don’t you?”

“Sometimes it’s worse than
others.”

Her tired brain gave up the
effort. It was all she could do to
plod along, reeling.

All the way back to the Gateway,
Rex was looking for corpses of
birds. To his relief he saw none.
So the birds, although they had
given the Crestans a clue to the
existence of the Gateway, had given
them no clue to its exact location.

Without Regina’s unerring sense
of direction, they’d never have
found the Gateway. The coinci-
dence which showed them exactly
where it was would have been of
no value to them if they hadn’t
been within fifty yards of it at the
time and making directly for it.

A large pigeon suddenly appear-
ed from nowhere, flapping desper-
ately. It fell to the ground as if it
had been brought down by a shot.
But within a couple of seconds, its
movements more coordinated, it
took off and began making wide
circles in the sky.

“Nothing to them, apparently,”
said Regina.

The tiny effort of thinking and
speaking proved too much for her.
Her knees buckled and she folded.

Rex had to carry her to the Gate-
way.

112

n ex managed, with enormous ef-
fort, to get down the stairway. It
took him half an hour. Surprising-
ly, Regina was conscious, though
too weak to raise an arm. He had
to leave her on the platform,
knowing that if he tried to help
her down they would both tumble
all the way.

This time there was no water.
But within yards of the base of the
stairway were hundreds of eggs.
Rex sucked a few and took some to
Regina. Half an hour later, with
his help, she was able to get down
the stairs.

And then Venus was with them,
strong and capable. Rex noted in-
differently, for consideration later,
that Venus had known they were
back the moment they arrived, as
Regina would have done.

It was late afternoon when they
reached Limbo, and it was begin-
ning to get dark as they dragged
themselves into the house, Venus
half carrying Rex and more than
half carrying Regina. Only then did
Rex ask Venus: “How long were
we gone?”

“Twenty-nine days,” she said.

As Venus carried Regina up-
stairs and put her to bed, Rex,
sprawled in an armchair, realized
that Venus had a clear and impor-
tant role in Limbo after all — the
unlikely one of nurse.

Later, when she had heard the

story, it was Venus who hit on the
one word that crystallized the mood
of Strand 7, probably of the whole
world.

“Desperation,” she said.

That was it. As Bullan was
characterized by apathy, Cresta
was a world of desperation. The
scheme to re-create life on the
planet wasn’t going to work unless
someone or something much bigger
and richer and more powerful than
the little Crestan settlement weigh-
ed in and made it work.

It was a far better world than
Bullan, but perhaps only because
Cresta couldn’t afford apathy.
Cresta had to be desperate . . .

Next day all Regina could do
was lie on a divan out in the
open and drink orange juice.

She had always been tiny and
fragile. Now as she lay soaking up
the veiled sunlight of Limbo, she
was a ghost of the tiny creature
she had been.

“Obviously,” she said faintly
when she caught Rex looking at
her, “I can’t go through a Gateway
again. I hope you never go. I know
I can’t.”

Rex sat down beside her. “Per-
haps you can,” he said.

“Rex, I can’t take that again.
Oh, I’d do it if it was the only way
of getting back here. If it was a
matter of life and death. But when
it’s only an experiment, something
done out of curiosity, because you

believe exploration is important
»

“What I meant was I don’t
think transference need be so bad
as that. The galaxy model doesn’t
tell us where Limbo is, but if we
assume the length of time gone is
proportional to the distance trav-
eled—we Ve got to assume some-
thing — we’ll soon get some indi-
cation where Limbo probably is.
When I went to Bullan I was gone
seventeen days.The Cresta double
trip took twenty-nine. Bullan is
roughly two-thirds of the way to
the rim of the galaxy, from the cen-
ter. Cresta is practically on the
rim. Suppose Limbo is roughly at
the center — ”

“Thai we’ll have a long trip to
Earth,” said Regina tiredly.

“We can’t go to Earth. On my
theory, the next world, Neri, is far-
ther than Bullan, farther even than
Cresta. Landfall not quite as far as
Bullan. Chuter, at the center of the
galaxy, may be no distance at all.
We may even be on Chuter.”

“Rather wild guesses, aren’t
they?”

“Of course. To check it, I sug-
gest we go to Chuter next. All of
us, Venus too. If I’m right, the
journey won’t be anything like the
ordeal the long trips are — ”

“Let’s discuss further expeditions
from Limbo,” said Regina, “in
about three months, when I feel
approximately human again.”

Inevitably, with Regina spending

SIX GATES TO LIMBO

113

all day and every day lying in the
sun, Venus and Rex spent a lot of
time together, working together. It
was Venus who helped Rex to fix
up a light framework of steel and
wood round three sides of the plat-
form facing the Cresta Gateway,
preventing birds from flying into
it and at the same time leaving the
Gateway open. Later she helped
Rex to build another stairway at
the Chuter Gateway.

Three weeks after the return of
Rex and Regina from Cresta, the
three of them stood rather awk-
wardly at the foot of the Chuter
stairway. Rex’s relations with Reg-
ina had been strained in the last
few days. They had not quarreled,
largely because the Gateways were
never mentioned. But it was an
awkward situation, a man going on
a possibly dangerous mission with
a beautiful woman, leaving his wife
behind because she had flatly re-
fused to go.

“Good-by, Regina.” Rex was for-
mal partly because Venus was there
and partly because he wanted the
parting, since it could not be cor-
dial, to be as neutral as possible.
He kissed Regina lightly, started
to say something, and stopped.

They waved from the top of the
stairway . . .

This time there was scarcely any
unconsciousness. It was almost
like awakening from a healthy
night’s sleep, with a certain thirst,

a desire to go to the bathroom and
clean his teeth, but no more than
that.

Rex took a drink from his water-
bottle. They were in a forest of
huge trees, with a blinding sun
shooting white arrows through
thick foliage.

Venus smiled at him. She was
throwing aside everything but the
sandals, skirt and blouse which she
had worn under her overalls for
use as tropical kit, as Regina had
done on Cresta.

“Now let’s get this clear, Venus,”
he said warmly. “Until we know
better, our overalls are our best
chance of passing unnoticed on this
or any other world. Now put them
back on.”

She shook her head slowly, her
smile fading. “No,” she said. “It
doesn’t matter a damn how we look
here — because there’s no one to
see.”

They marked the location of the
Gateway. Then they drank, ate
some chocolate and found the edge
of the forest.

When they saw the city Venus
said soberly: “It’s dead.”

“You can sense things, like
Regina?”

“Not quite like Regina. She can
see places, things. I can only sense
the living and the dead.”

“And this planet is dead?”

“No, the animals, birds and in-
sects are alive. Look, there’s a flight
of birds. But humans . . . it’s hard to

114

say. Quite recently, I think, there
were humans. Now they’re either
dead or have gone away.”

The moment they stepped from
the shade the heat hit them, making
them gasp for breath. Instantly Rex
was wet with sweat.

Two out of three worlds very
hot. This was worse than Cresta.

They walked over yellow grass
to the city. It was neat and clean
and new, but nobody moved in it.
The streets were bare. On the
whole, it looked as if there had been
orderly evacuation rather than dis-
aster. Certainly there had been no
sudden disaster, for doors were
locked, cars were off the streets,
and there was no damage. Dust and
dirt were negligible.

“There’s no life,” said Venus,
but I can tell the places where life
has most recently been.”

They went to some of these
places and found bodies.

It was no puzzle, no secret. This
city, which was called, rather for-
biddingly, Havoc, had killed itself,
gradually, systematically, in-
glorioudy.

Plenty of material was left for
anyone who wanted to write a his-
tory. of the Last Days of Havoc.
Some of the last messages were mere
suicide notes. Some were volumin-
ous diaries. Many were tapes left
on recorders.

Rex and Venus read and listened
to many of these messages from
the grave.

The last man in Havoc died
three months before they arrived
on February 4, 3652. They found
several chronometers still recording
both galactic time and local time.

In all those hundreds of thous-
ands of last words, they did not
find exactly why Havoc had com-
mitted suicide.

Some blamed the incessant heat.
Some blamed the solitude — Havoc
was the only city on the planet, a
pilot city set up and populated with
5,000 people and left for five years.

One blamed the fact that there
had never been a child in Havoc.
On tape he said: “We were meant
to have children. There were plenty
of young couples. But who was to
be the first to bring a child into
this world? Early on, we lost heart.
It was too hot; the work was hard;
there was no variety; nobody could
be bothered to do any more than
stay alive ...”

There was a long pause, and then
the tired voice went on, the tired
voice of a man of twenty-nine
whose twenty-three-year-old wife
had killed herself that morning.

“We drew together, once there
were gaps. We hadn’t been here a
year, and the ship from Earth
wouldn’t arrive for five years —
that was the bargain. Most of us
hadn’t realized how hard the cleav-
age from Earth would hit us. And
only a few could go back, we knew
that — just a few to tell the story
That was the bargain...”

116

A woman who did not give her
*** name but who sounded like
a young girl said on her tape:
“There is a sickness in mankind.
Doomsday is near . . . and it’s our
own doing. A hundred suicides, five
other deaths. Only 4,895 of us left.
The heat. The tiny city. The work.
The four years still to wait. And
no way of getting back to Earth
then . . . Why did we ever agree?”

There was escalation in suicide.
When there were still over 3,000
of them, the people of Havoc began
to be terrified of being left alone.

The last man had died just eight
months short of the scheduled re-
turn of the ship from Earth. Eight
months was just too long to wait.

There was one thing more, the
thing that made it hopeless, point-
less, to wait for the ship. Havoc
had murder as well as suicide on its
hands.

A low voice on one of the tapes
said: “We grew to hate the Twenty-
• men. The rest of us had let go, and
they wouldn’t let go. They wouldn’t
let us give up.

“So we killed them. Yes, we
killed the Twentymen. All three of
them. We couldn’t have done it face
to face. We arranged a meeting.
They turned up. We didn’t. And
the bomb went off.”

The pause was so long that they
thought there was no more on the
tape. Then the voice began again,
perfectly calm now:' “That did it.
Yes, we meant to kill them. We

weren’t sorry they were dead. We
didn’t repent. They didn’t haunt
us. But later — how could we wait
for the ship and say when it came
we murdered three Twentymen be-
cause they were Twentymen, be-
cause they wouldn’t let us give up?”

Rex looked up at Venus. They
had been listening in silence.

“Apathy, desperation and . . .
what?” he said.

“Fear,” she said. “The most
spineless kind of mass surrender.
They even murdered through fear.”

“It’s pathological, of course,”
Rex mused. “Mass neurosis.”

“And that girl was right. It’s not
just in the pathetic five thousand
who came here. It’s in mankind.”

“They know it and they do
nothing about it. Doomsday is
near ”

“For Havoc,” said Venus drily,
“Doomsday has come and gone.”

XII

egina met them halfway be-
tween the Chuter Gateway and
the house.

“You were gone only two days,”
she said.

Rex turned his head away to
smile. She was surprised, even a
little resentful, that the Chuter
mission had so obviously been easy.

Regina had taken a stand against
a course she felt to be highly dan-
gerous and a big test of endurance.
She had flatly refused to submit

SIX GATES TO LIMBO

117

herself to such an ordeal again. Had
Rex and Venus returned exhausted,
parched, famished, barely able to
stagger from the Gateway, she
wouldn’t necessarily have said “I
told you so,” but only because it
would not have been necessary to
say anything. Now it seemed that
the Chuter trip had been no more
arduous than an overnight stop in
the far south of Limbo.

“What did you find?” she asked
crossly.

Rex told her.

As they rested at the lake, Venus
said abruptly: “Suppose we go to
Chuter and stay there.”

Regina’s astonished stare was her
only answer.

“I mean it,” said Venus. “Moving
between Chuter and Limbo is easy,
like walking through any ordinary
doorway. If we want anything, we
can easily come back. There’s an
empty city on Chuter, crops for
five thousand, plenty of fruit.”

“But why?” Rex asked.

“Don’t you want to meet the
people behind Limbo? The people
of Section K? There will be a ship
from Earth in five months. It
wouldn’t have taken five thousand
people back to Earth — that wasn’t
in the bargain, as so many dead
men told us. But it’ll take three, if
we’re persuasive. If we let them see
we’re Twentymen — ”

“Yes,” said Rex thoughtfully.

“Instead of dragging this on,
there’s a way to get it over with.”

“How?” said Regina quickly.
“We’d have to work together.
The three of us draw lots for Neri,
Byron, Landfall. Then we all go
at the same time, each alone, and
compare notes when we get back.”
They thought about it. Rex liked
the idea: it was a way to get this
preliminary investigation over,
this thing which had to be done,
and be on Chuter in plenty of time
to be sure of meeting the ship.

It was Regina, of course, who
raised doubts. “Will that be
enough? A quick glance at the three
other worlds?”

“It might be,” Rex said. “I don’t
think the Gateways are meant to
provide six keys, each of them ne-
cessary to unlock a vast puzzle.
They’re more like six windows. We
look through each of them, and
having done so, we act.”

There was still one more impor-
tant objection Regina could make.
She made it. “Assuming you’re
right about the position of Limbo
— near the center of the galaxy,
certainly very near Chuter — who-
ever draws Neri is going to be a
long time gone. Maybe forever.”
Rex nodded, frowning. “I know.
We have to assume it can be done.
And that it’s important.” He took
it for granted somehow that- he
would draw Neri.

“You want me to draw, Rex?”
He hesitated. At last he said: “I
don’t wish danger on you, Regina.
I don’t want you to be hurt, or go

118

through anything like what hap-
pened last time. But I do want you
to work on this.”

“Fll draw,” she said.

Rex got Byron, Regina Landfall,
and Venus Neri.

egina lay for a time without
opening her eyes, not wishing
to awaken. But inexorably aware-
ness came back, and at last she sat
up abruptly and opened her eyes, re-
membering before she saw anything
that she was not in the climatic
chaos of Landfall after all. She was
back in Limbo.

One disappointment . . . she was
alone in Limbo. Venus was not like-
ly to be back from Neri for several
weeks, but Rex might easily have
been back before her, especially
since she had been forced to spend
eight days in Landfall.

She shuddered at some of her
memories of Landfall, and then
breathed deep relief at being back
in Limbo.

Rex was not back, as she knew
the moment she reached out with
the 'fingers of her mind. She was
not really worried about him, how-
ever. It was by the greatest good
luck, as well as courage she did not
credit herself with possessing, that
she was back in Limbo. Some of the
desperate things she had done she
had accomplished only because
there was clearly no choice. But
Rex was different.

Her black plastic snowsuit was

still damp inside. Curiously, trans-
ference, which took days, brought
hunger and thirst, but wet clothes
didn’t dry.

She started off for the house at
a determined trot. Soon she had to
remove her plastic suit. She left it
hidden under a bush in case Rex
wanted to examine it as a product
of Landfall, the only one she had
brought back.

Exertion made her hungry and
thirsty, proving that she was in far
better state despite the rigors of her
stay in Inverkoron than on her re-
turn from Cresta, or even on her
arrival at Cresta. But she did not
pause again until she was home.

Home . . . Luxuriating in a warm,
scented bath that eased her cuts
and bruises and drew all the other
aches from her body, she remem-
bered that once she had told Rex
that Earth was home. Well, so it
was. Yet she was less inclined now
ever to return there. Landfall had
helped to cure her.

She was still in her bath when
she sensed that Rex was back. She
laughed aloud in relief. On the
point of jumping out of the bath
and running to him, she changed
her mind and relaxed again. There
was no sense of distress about his
arrival. He would make straight for
the house, as they had agreed. Since
the Byron Gateway was the nearest
except for Bullan, he would be back
in an hour or so. She needed that
time to make herself look her best,

SIX GATES TO LIMBO

119

start a meal in the kitchen, and
make a quick round of the house
without which it could not be con-
sidered habitable.

' XIII

CC^Tou first, please,” Regina said.

* They were in the lounge with
glasses and a bottle of wine Rex had
brought back from Byron. Regina,
in a cool white dress, somewhat
Grecian and nearly ankle-length,
was curled on the sofa.

Rex looked at her thoughtfully,
wonderingly. “You’ve changed,
Regina,” he said.

“In no essential particular,” she
said. “True, IVe been nearly killed
by men and women and the ele-
ments, beaten with sticks a couple
of times, had to swim a river full
of ice floes, escaped rape only be-
cause my host turned out to be
temporarily impotent, dashed
against trees in a forest by a wind
the like of which youVe never
dreamed, had my throat cut — ”
“What?”

“Oh, it was a threat rather than
a serious attempt at murder. And
as you see a surgeon was called in
at once and fixed me up so that it
will never show.”

She shrugged. “All that is noth-
ing really, now it’s over and I don’t
have to go through it again. Maybe
you’re right that I’ve changed, Rex,
but that wasn’t what changed me.
Let’s have your story, Rex.”

“There’s nothing in it to match
yours. Oh, all right.”

It was not an exciting or even a
very interesting story. Byron was
superficially very Terran. Nobody
bothered Rex, except one maniac
reminiscent of the one he had en-
countered on Bullan.

Byron was, literally, a mad world,
a schizoid world. Except for the
Twentymen, who were more neces-
sary there than in most places to
preserve even a semblance of order,
the Byronians were manic-depres-
sives reacting violently on each
other. Their particular type was
gay-sad, with frenetic gaiety swit-
ching itself, sometimes instantly, to
blackest depression. The suicide
rate was the highest in the galaxy.

“Can’t be higher than Chuter,”
Regina remarked in one of her rare
interruptions. “There it was 100 per
cent.”

Byron was a world of fantastic
excesses. “Venus would find a word
to sum it all up,” said Rex, “but
I can’t. Decadence, maybe. Some-
times it reminded me of Rome at
its most rotten, with people carous-
ing at the most incredible orgies
and then having each other mur-
dered the next morning. Incest —
they make quite a point of that.
Any man with an attractive daugh-
ter who has not contrived to go to
bed with her is considered . . . let’s
say peculiar. There are few of these,
because it’s equally obligatory for
any girl demonstrably nubile to

120

complete the Electra adventure.
The Search for Something on By-
ron, is so desperate, so unremitting,
that anything that has not been
tried has to be tried, no matter how
revolting.”

He shook his head as if to clear
it. “I stayed longer than I need have
done, looking for something that
wasn’t there. On Byron, it was easy
to stay. Find any wildly enthusias-
tic fun-maker, and he’ll give you
half what he owns. I tried to pump
some of the Twentymen, but all I
found was that they feel it their
duty to keep the unholy mess from
being even worse. Is that enough,
or do you want any more details?”

TO egina sipped her wine. “This
is good. Very good. Does that
mean nothing?”

“Nothing. I got it from some
Twentymen who made it them-
selves. They gave me a few things
because I helped them in a small
way — a few pitiful things that rep-
resented the best of Byron. There’s
a couple of paintings we might hang
somewhere, a weird dress for you
that’s either brilliant or insane, a
book that nobody understands but
nobody puts down. I left them at
the Gateway and hurried here.”

Regina stood up and began to
move about the room, but not rest-
lessly, Rex noticed, rather with a
casual grace which he would have
said before this night was more
typical of Venus than Regina. He

looked at her admiringly and with
a new wonder.

It was hard to listen without ir-
relevant anger or belated protect-
iveness as she told him what had
happened to her on Landfall.

The dominant feature of Land-
fall was rage. Not the maniacal
rage he had encountered on Byron.
Cold rage directed mainly at Earth,
so far away from Landfall and so
implacable.

Unfortunately, the first time
Regina spoke, her accent immedi-
ately identified her as Terran.

There were no Twentymen in
Landfall. It was partly for this
reason that all the nastiness of
humanity went naked there, with-
out even the minor check on the
baser instincts that the Twentymen
achieved.

When -Regina gave herself away
as a Terran, a gang of teenagers,
girls as well as youths, beat her
with sticks. Rescued by police, she
was taken to headquarters, where
they shut her in an open courtyard
with snow three feet deep and for-
got her existence.

Hungry and frozen, she labored
for an hour to build up stamped-
down snow so that she could climb
over a thirteen-foot gate and was
on the point of escape when one
of the fantastic climactic reversals of
Landfall hit the courtyard. A blast
of searing heat, swirling, boiling,
dry air, funneled down, took
Regina’s breath away and melted

SIX GATES TO UMBO

121

the snow in seconds. Although the
drainage was good — it had to be
in Inverkoron — she was soaked to
the waist before the water had
flowed away.

Since there was now no means of
escape over the gate, she had to
take the chance of breaking a win-
dow and entering one of the build-
ings. For the first time fortune
favored her; she found herself in
a pantry, and thereafter hunger
wasn’t a major hardship.

She escaped from the building
easily enough, but her gray overalls
did not make her inconspicuous in
Inverkoron, where everyone wore
plastic- suits with hoods, internally
heated. A crowd gathered again,
shouting abuse at her, and die was
saved from further violence only
by the intervention of a little fat
man.

The little fat man took her home
with him, and she went not unwill-
ingly because it was snowing heav-
ily again, night was falling and she
knew it was physically impossible
at the moment for her to reach the
Gateway, allhough it was barely a
mile from Inverkoron. She felt she
could handle the little fat man, and
she couldn’t handle a mob.

It worked out quite well, the
first night. The little man
lived pitifully in a tiny and rather
dirty corner of a large house. Once
the whole house had been his and
technically it still was, but after his

wife and family left him he was not
allowed to keep all that first-class
accommodation to himself. Despite
his wealth, he was shoved into a
bedroom, bathroom and kitchenette,
and this palatial suite was walled
off from the rest of the house. He
entered by a door starkly cut in the
outside wall of the bedroom.

“You don’t sound at all sorry for
the little man,” said Rex.

“I’m not sorry for him,” said
Regina grimly. “Wait.”

The little man started to make
supper, but gratefully accepted
Regina’s offer to take over. After-
wards, he made passes at her which
she was able to ignore. She slept
at first on the floor and later in
the bath, with the door locked, after
wakening to find her host feebly
pawing her.

The next morning she made
breakfast and decided she had seen
enough of Landfall. After breakfast
the little man, who had apparently
been steeling himself, made quite
a determined assault on her virtue.
Regina was not impressed until she
found herself pressed against a wall
by his greater weight, with a long
and very sharp knife at her throat.

“That was when it happened,”
Rex said.

She nodded. “He was so ineffec-
tual I was sure he was bluffing. I
made it very clear that in no cir-
cumstances would I have anything
to do with him, in that way. Then
I felt blood running down my neck.”

122

A doctor was called, and she was
patched up efficiently. The little
man was incoherently apologetic,
and she did feel a little sorry for
him... until the police arrived,
called by the little fat man, to take
her away, because she was no good
to him.

She then spent several days in a
semi-jail, semi-asylum. She was fed
well enough and nobody bothered
her. There was no word of trial
either.

Then three men came to pay her
fine and, apparently, buy her. As
a Terran she had no rights. She was
not supposed to be there. Any time
she ceased to be there, no one
would care.

iiHphe last night,” said Regina
“I was locked in a bathroom
right at the top of an eleven-story
block of flats I — ”

“Hey, what’s this?” Rex de-
manded “You’ve skipped about
four days.”

Regina said firmly. “Honestly, I
don’t think it’s relevant. There’s
more to tell you, but what matters
all happened after I was locked in
that bathroom — ”

“Please, Regina,” said Rex.

She looked at him steadily, ask-
ing him not to insist. When he said
nothing, she sighed and said: “All
right. They bought me to put me
on show.”

“On show?”

“For people to pay money to

spit on a Terran girl. At first they
hung me up outside by my wrists,
in a disgusting costume, and period-
ically threw water over me. But I
fainted from the cold, and they saw
they were going to lose me very
quickly if they went on treating
me like that. So they moved the
show inside and dressed me in filthy
rags. Thousands of people came.”

She shuddered. “The little fat
man came, and he spat on me. They
let me loose, but with my hands
tied behind my back, and threw
disgusting food on the floor. I was
supposed to get down and lick it
with my tongue. I ignored it, and
they beat me with sticks. I still
wouldn’t eat the food on the floor.
After that they fed me decently. I
was a valuable property.. More
thousands came. Then the flow be-
gan to diminish. A new act was
needed. This time they cleaned me
up and made me a pin-up girl,
swathed in jewels and yards of scar-
let satin. At least the crowds weren’t
allowed to spit any more. That
worked for another day.”

“They had a lot of bright ideas,
did they?” Rex said quietly. “I
can guess.”

“The best one, of course, was to
put me up for auction — not for
keeps, just for a half-hour. I told
you about that already. My spon-
sors were annoyed, because this part
of the show was public too, and it
was an utter flop. More than that,
I got scratched and they had to let

SIX GATES TO LIMBO

123

me clean myself. That was when
I was locked in the bathroom.”
“Ah,” said Rex. He was fighting
down the impulse to go to Inver-
koron immediately and clobber
everyone in sight.

“Well, I knew I was on the top
floor. I knew the river Koron flowed
past the block. They knew that too.
I suppose it didn’t occur to them,
because I’d made it perfectly clear
that I wasn’t the suicide type, that
I’d break the window and jump
out.”

Rex got up and sat beside her,
taking her in his arms. “Why did
you?” he asked.

“Well, it was the first real chance
I’d had. So I took it”

“Yes,” said Rex, caressing her
gently.

“So ... I dropped the satin rub-
bish on the floor, because it could
only hamper me. I smashed the win-
dow with a jar of bath salts. Then
I got through and pushed myself
outwards as I fell. The water was
freezing. Anyway, I missed the ice
floes. I went so deep I thought I’d
never come up again. But after I
reached the other side and climbed
out, the cold struck right through
me, I could scarcely move for shiv-
ering, and I knew I had to get a
snowsuit in about two minutes or
it would be too late.”

“You got it,” said Rex.

“Yes. I don’t know whether I
killed the man or just stunned him.
When I saw his face I was relieved.

I was certain he was one of those
who spat on me. That made me feel
a lot less guilty.”

The whole thing should have been
over then. She was less than half a
mile from the Gateway. However,
she had scarcely passed the end of
the last bridge across the Koron
when she heard the howling mob
racing across from the other side.
She must have been heard break-
ing the window. They must have
guessed where she had to go.

She ran, at least having the ad-
vantage of knowing exactly
where she was going. In a flurry
of snow it seemed for a minute or
two that she was bound to make
it. Then the night cleared, the air
went still and there was a shout be-
hind her as the mob saw her.

Looking over her shoulder she
tripped on a root, and although
she was up at once, no bones
broken, she could not put her left
foot to the ground. And she knew
it was over — the wrong way.

She turned to wait for the mob,
and, twenty beams of light fastened
on her as she waited without a
trace of fear, despising the mob too
much for fear.

She smiled.

One of the beams faltered, then
another. The crowd broke.

“It was all unnecessary,” Regina
sighed. “Hadn’t you already found
that for yourself? Landfall has no
Twentymen, but when I stood and

126

faced them, they were helpless. I
needn’t have let those kids beat
me. I could have handled the little
fat man more easily with my eyes,
if I ever really looked at him. The
three showmen, even the crowds,
I could have silenced and cowed. I
didn’t need tn be brave, to be des-
perate. I’m a Twentyman. If I’d
stood up for myself and dared them
to touch me, instead of bowing my
head and hoping I’d find the cour-
age to get through the next ten
minutes, none of this would have
happened.”

Rex turned her head and kissed
her. “Thank you,” he said.

“For what?”

“For helping. For going through
all that.”

“Unnecessarily.”

“No. If you’d marched into Inver-
koron as a Twentyman, making all
bow down before you, you’d have
learned nothing.”

“And it matters, Rex? You think
it matters? Does what we’ve found
out make sense?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Well, tell me the sense.”

He shook his head. “It’s one of
those things that everyone has to
decide for himself, or herself.”
“And you’ve decided?”

“Yes.”

“Then Venus is wasting her time?
You already know what she’ll find?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that. I could
make a few guesses, not more than
three. If she confirms what I sus-

pect, that will be very important.”

Regina shrugged. “My voice is
raw. I’m tired. The wine is finished.
Venus won’t be back for days, may-
be weeks. I’m disgusted with some
men, but not, strangely enough, with
you. Are you coming to bed or
aren’t you?”

“I’m coming.”

Much later they established, al-
most definitely, that that was the
start of Regina’s pregnancy.

XIV

nphey were both, as it happened,
A obliviously ill at the moment
when Venus returned from Neri.
It was food poisoning, beyond doubt
the result of using a defective can
of food. Even in Limbo, such things
could happen. As a result, Regina
was too deeply asleep, with a high
temperature, to sense Venus’s re-
turn, and Rex couldn’t do things
like that anyway.

Thus it was that Rex, venturing
shakily downstairs late the next day,
encountered Venus dragging herself
tiredly into the house, wrapped in
a shapeless, all-enveloping cloak
which was curiously stained. Weak
as he was, he rushed to help her, but
she held up her hand.

“I’ll manage,” she said. “I’ll be
all right now.”

She was as beautiful as ever,
though tired.

“I won’t be down for two or three
days,” she said, “but I think I can

SIX GATES TO UMBO

127

tell you in one word all that Neri
stands for.”

“Venus, I’m sorry we weren’t
able to help you — ”

“Never mind that. I didn’t need
help, and I’m back now, thank God.
You and Regina are all right, I
know. In fact you’re closer than
you ever were.”

She dragged herself towards the
stairs, and Rex had to check him-
self. Except when it was accidental
or in play, or in tiny acts of cour-
tesy, she had never let him touch
her, he remembered.

“Neri in one word,” she said,
turning at the foot of the stairs.
“Cruelty.”

And as he watched her, with
troubled eyes, pulling herself up by
the banister, Rex realized that what
Regina had suffered in Inverkoron
was merely rage, as she described
it, not cruelty.

t was winter in London.

There had been no difficulty
in getting this far. There had been
regret at leaving Limbo, greater
regret at leaving Regina. It had
been decided that he alone should
return to Chuter and wait for the
ship there.

There was regret at leaving Lim-
bo and Regina to go to Earth, but
no difficulty. The ship from Earth,
a fast scout, arrived at Havoc ex-
actly on schedule, and Rex, for once
admitting from the first his Twen-
tyman status, found he could have

told any lie and been believed. As
it happened, it was unnecessary to
tell any lies, except the indirect
one of pretending to be one of the
Chuter Twentymen. He had tem-
porarily adopted the identity of an
actual Twentyman, one of the first
to be murdered.

The crew and field-study group
brought by the ship were quite un-
surprised at what had happened.
They were rather surprised and re-
lieved to find a surviving Twenty-
man who could save time and trou-
ble by telling them what had hap-
pened and had already collated the
story of the last days of the Havoc
settlement. Anyway, he was taken
back to Earth, where he was to re-
port, conveniently, to the Depart-
ment of Education and Science,
London — not Section K, but an-
other section in the same building.

As he strode through archaic
slush in London’s West End, know-
ing Regina was only six months
pregnant and that it was perfectly
possible that he might be back in
Limbo before her time came, Rex
was in a mood to get the present
unpleasant business over as soon
as possible.

London was one of the museum
cities of Earth, the central part
kept as it had been a thousand
years ago, except that only cere-
monial traffic ever passed through
the old-fashioned streets.

Wearing a hat, coat and gloves
over a lounge suit and leather shoes

128

(all charged to Section K), Rex
looked more at the people than the
surroundings.

He was reminded of Bullan.

Mercury was no museum dty. Un-
like the West End of London, it was
entirely functional, planned and
built for the present circumstances.
Yet the people who passed him
without even a glance at him re-
minded him irresistibly of the
people of Mercury, although they
were dressed quite differently.

Tourists had to be allowed in,
had to be allowed even to live in the
sanctuary, because otherwise the
object would not be achieved. The
Ritz, the Dorchester, the Grosve-
nor, the Berkeley were still there,
but only outworld visitors could
stay there. The waiting list was so
enormous that chance decided who
actually got in; there was a com-
plicated system of priorities for
Earth visits, and even someone who
got to the head of the list had to
accept the booking he got, which
might be for London, New York,
Moscow, Berlin, Paris, Edinburgh,
Shanghai, Calcutta, Sydney or any
other of the seven hundred museum
cities or the five thousand reserva-
tions.

Apart from the gawking visitors,
the people, like the Mercurians,
were isolated, apathetic. The Ter-
rans were no master-race.

Rex reached the Department of
Education and Science and looked
at its exterior, unimpressed. He was

not surprised to find it took up the
whole of one side of Hill Street.
He would not have been surprised
if it stretched all the way to the
Thames.

TTe entered by a glass door and
*■* -■* found himself between two
lines of reception desks, as if the
Department of Education and
Science dealt with hundreds of
visitors an hour. But he and the
middle-aged woman behind one of
the desks were the only people in
the place.

"Section K,” he said briefly.

She pressed buttons on a viewer
file beside her, and he realized, in-
credulously, that she was looking
up the location of Section K.

"Section K comes under the Re-
search Group,” she said finally.
"Go to B7134 — and take it from
there,” she added with a wintry
smile.

"Thank you.” At the end of the
entrance hall, a passage at right
angles bad wall signs and arrows
indicating A-M and N-Z. He took
the first.

For such an enormous building,
the Department seemed singularly
deserted. Only occasionally did he
meet a typist or an office boy cross-
ing the miles of corridors. After
walking several hundred yards he
found and entered the B section.

All the doors, the infinity of doors
were blank and no sound came from
within.

SIX GATES TO LIMBO

129

Then, suddenly, everything was
easy. At another desk, facing an-
other middle-aged woman, he knew
he had to give a password. He said:
“Rex.”

In no time at all he was shown
into the office of John Hilton, the
section chief.

TTilton, a quiet little man with
^ gray hair and watchful eyes,
came to him with hand oustretch-
ed in greeting.

“Glad to see you, Rex,” he said
cautiously. “Surprised, but glad.”
His grasp was soft and warm.
“Why surprised?”

“You weren’t expected for at
least another five years. Sooner or
later you had to investigate Section
K. It was presumed you’d explore
the six available worlds first. Did
you?”

“We had a look at them.”

“You and ...”

“Regina and Venus.”

“Oh. Venus too.”

Hilton’s eyes, if anything, had
become even more watchful. He
went back to his desk and waved
Rex to a chair, yet all the time
Rex felt he was watching for some-
thing ... or perhaps everything.
“Hilton, who am I?”

Hilton was silent, questioning.
Rex had to give him a reason for
answering that before he would ans-
wer.

“I know I’m a Twentyman — ”
“Wrong.”

“I’m a Twentyman,” said Rex
patiently, “and so is Regina and so
is Venus.”

“Wrong. Regina is a Twentyman.
You and Venus are Millionmen.
The only two in existence.”

U A h,” said Rex. “Perhaps I un-
-^ derstand about Venus and
myself. Tell me about Regina.
Why is she only a Twentyman?”
Hilton smiled. “Only a Twenty-
man?”

“It’s been harder for her. She’s
too Earthbound. Happy in Limbo,
but — ” He stopped. He was not
handing out information, but seek-
ing it. “The dominant personality,
Regina’s dominant personality, was
borrowed?”

Hilton nodded, unsurprised this
time. “I know what you mean. You
and Venus are yourselves, plus
999,999 would-be suicides. Regina
is a Dominant who chose the body
of one of her nineteen . . . partners.
It often happens. Naturally she
chose the prettiest.”

“But that made her an uneasy
amalgam. It’s only now that she’s
begun to . . . Never mind, I know
about that. Now, Hilton — the goal.
What is it? Why?”

When Hilton shook his head, Rex
went on wearily: “Oh, please take
my word for it I only want to plug
the holes. I know the goal. We
had psychological treatment and
were then sent to Limbo to lose
our Earth ties. We were given a

130

chance to see six not particularly
important worlds to find out that
Doomsday is near, and why. We
were supposed to decide some-
thing ought to be done about it,
and figure out what. All that is
elementary, and I wouldn’t be here
if I hadn’t already made up my
mind what has to be done — ”
Hilton was really startled this
time. He was excited too. He
jumped up and began to pace about.

“Something can be done? You
have a plan?”

“However,” said Rex in the same
tone, “there are, as I told you, holes
I want to plug. I can’t guess every-
thing.”

He stood up. “Hilton,” he said
softly, “tell me what I have to
know.”

Hilton went behind the desk and
sat down again. He began to smile.
“You may be a Millionman, Rex,”
he said, “but of course I’m a Twen-
tyman myself. Only a Twentyman.
But you’ll find it’s no use trying
to browbeat me.”

“All right,” said Rex. “Assume
I’ve decided what to do. Assume
that, simply as a hypothesis. As-
sume that I’m going to do what
I believe has to be done. Don’t you
think you’d better tell me anything
I should know before I take the
first step to implement the plan?”
“I think you should know it,”
Hilton said. “But I don’t think 1
should tell you.”

“Then who should?”

“Venus.”

Rex stood still for several sec-
onds and then nodded. “Yes.
That’s right. Venus. Who gave us
these ridiculous names, by the
way?”

“You chose them yourselves,”
said Hilton mildly.

“How can I get back?”

“Now there’s a problem. There’s
a Gateway between this building
and the place you call Limbo, of
course.”

“I guessed that.”

“But it can be locked shut on
Limbo, and it is. You can’t use
that.”

“Venus might have told me. A
lot of trouble could have been
saved.”

“Venus probably doesn’t know.
When you get back, remind her of
Ron and Phyllis.”

“Regina and me?” said Rex
quickly.

Hilton shook his head. “Tell her
of the time she turned her back.
Remind her she was tricked into
being the first Millionman. If she
sounds bitter, remind her that it
was she who decided there should
be one other Millionman — you.”
“That’s all?”

“It should be enough.”

“How do I get back to Limbo?”
Hilton leaned back in his chair.
“Well, Limbo is on a poisonous,
useless, sterile world that marches
round an uninteresting sun in an
unvarying orbit. It’s impossible for

SIX GATES TO LIMBO

131

any ordinary ship to land on the
world — Limbo, as you may have
guessed, is a bubble sanctuary, a
sort of immobile luxury space-
houseboat. It was created as an ex-
periment quite independent of the
things which have been concerning
you. We took it over later. Anyway,
you can return only through one of
the seven MT screens, and the di-
rect one is locked.”

“That means I have to get to
Bullan or Cresta or Neri or ... ”
“Just a minute.” Hilton pressed
a button. “I’ll see what can be
done.”

Tt was not far to the house from
the Cresta Gateway. Rex was
nearly there when Regina came
running to throw herself in his
arms, laughing and crying at once.

Presently he held her back to
look at her, and marveled. She had
completely lost her former glossy
smartness. Having a child to look
after had made her settle for prac-
tical neatness rather than bandbox
elegance. She wore a white sweater
and white shorts and flat shoes,
and her hair was simply caught in
a band. But she was far lovelier,
and Rex realized, even if she her-
self did not have the important
clue, that she was at last one in
mind and body, having come to
accept herself as she was.

“The baby?” he said.

“Princess? Crawling in the grass
at the back. We made a playpen,
Venus and I.”

“Princess?” said Rex.

“That needn’t be her name.
Since we hadn’t decided on a name
together, I called her that — it’s
pretty obvious, isn’t it, though may-
be it should have been in Latin —
as a sort of pet name, one we can
always use even though we call her
Dawn or Mary or Venetia — ”

“Venetia?”

She laughed again. “Oh well.
We’ll talk it over, of course . . . she
just seems like a little Venetia to
me.”

At the house they found Venus
patiently waiting for them, curious,
naturally, but taking it for granted
that Rex would want to see Prin-
cess first of all. Princess, or Vene-
tia, was really an unusually beau-
tiful child, he decided, and re-
markably healthy. The moment he
saw her he changed his mind, like
so many other fathers, and told
himself he hadn’t really wanted a
son after all.

Left alone after lunch while
Venus and Regina attended to
Princess and settled her for her
afternoon nap — apparently it took
two of them to do it — Rex went
down to the cellar and then the
vault. At the wall board he did
what the technicians of Section K
had told him to do, after Hilton
reluctantly agreed. Basically the
effect was to merge the Chuter and

132

Cresta Gateways, so that people on
the Cresta side found themselves
in Chuter direct, without having to
touch Limbo. There were ways in
which he could still use both Gate-
ways himself, and return to Limbo.
Without real understanding, he did
as he had been told. The job would
not have been difficult but for the
fact that he had felt it necessary
to know from the equipment here
how many people were making use
of the Gateway. Through the girl at
the immigration center, they would
know now what to do — but would
they do it?

It was late in the afternoon be-
fore he left the vault and sought
out Regina and Venus.

T Te found Venus in the kitchen,
* * preparing something very ela-
borate for dinner, no doubt in hon-
or of his return. He began to feel
hungry at once.

“Where’s Regina?” he asked.

“At the lake with Princess.”

Venus was working with a quick-
ness and assurance which was en-
tirely like her, but her obvious
total command of the kitchen was
something new.

“You do the cooking now?” he
said.

“Some of it.”

“You were never as good a cook
as Regina.”

“Now that’s not very nice, Rex.
I always do my best.”

“But now you are.”

“She and I have been working
in the kitchen. I may have picked
up a few things.”

“She couldn’t teach you a thing.
And you know it.”

Venus wiped her hands, took £
last look round to see that all was
well and drew him with her into the
lounge.

“They told you?” she said quiet-
ly-

Rex was almost certain that she
was talking about something he
had not been told, but hazily
guessed.

“Not exactly,” he said. “Hilton
told me you would tell me.”

“But you know?”

“Please, Venus,” he said, “let’s
have no more sparring. Hilton told
me to remind you of Ron and
Phyllis — ”

“Oh.” There was sadness in her
face.

“And of the time you turned
your back.”

Now the sadness was pain. “Rex,
I wonder if you know what you’re
doing to me,” she said.

“I don’t, but it seems I have to
do it. I was to remind you you were
tricked into being the first Million-
man.”

Bleakly she murmured: “That’s
something I don’t need reminding
about. It’s something I remember-
ed even as I looked at the cases
and read the labels Rex, Regina
and Venus.”

“Hilton said,” Rex went bn, “ ‘if

SIX GATES TO LIMBO

133

she sounds bitter, remind her that
It was she who decided there should
be one other Millionman — you.’ ”
The sadness and the pain was
gone, replaced by resignation that
jwas almost her old serenity. “Yes,”
she said. “And I’m almost sure I
made up for everything with that.
You’re not as I thought you’d be,
Rex. You’re not tortured, like me.”
“Tortured? You?”

“The Millionman experiment was
not a success. Twentymen, yes.
[They’re not perfect, they’re not
geniuses, yet the relatively few
[Twentymen in the galaxy are hold-
ing Doomsday back.”

Rex nodded. “I’ve seen that.”
“Talking isn’t one of my favorite
occupations, Rex. You know that.
What do you want?”

“That’s the trouble. I don’t
know.”

“So you want me to tell you what
I think you should know.”

“Yes.”

’ “That would amount to my
jclirecting you.”

“You said talking isn’t your fav-
orite occupation. Why not tell me
in about three sentences the plain
facts that you know and I don’t,
and let me worry about the use
to make of them?”

“I could . . . Rex, do you know
what has to be done?”

“Yes.” He didn’t say, “I think
so.” He said simply, “Yes.”
“Anything more I tell you may
make it harder for you to do what

has to be done. Think about that.”

He hesitated. He thought of
Regina and Princess. And he found
an excuse or even a good reason to
wait for a few more days.

He wanted to know about the
Crestans. What they did could be
the crucial point. Did they realize
that they must disobey earth’s rul-
ing and go to Chuker?

He was already certain what had
to be done. But there was one more
test.

“I’ll wait,” he said. “But it has
to come — you know that.”

“I know that,” said Venus. The
pain was back in her eyes.

Even Cresta, the most indepen-
dent world he had found, was a
dependent. A dependent relative.
Not a world with courage and
freedom of action. There was no
such world. They had a chance of
life, but they found Earth’s dis-
pleasure.

And finally one day he talked
to Venus, again when Regina set
off with Princess for the lake. He
set out clearly what he wanted to
know, and she told him.

She was right — it made it hard-
er. At the same time, however,
what she told him crystallized
everything.

As a young but highly regarded
executive in Section K, just mar-
ried and very happily married, she
first became involved with Limbo
(it wasn’t called Limbo, of course).
Here was a white elephant aban-

134

doned by the section which had
gone to enormous, expensive trou-
ble to create it. What could be
done with it?

That, at the time, was only a
minor problem. Her husband Ron,
also in Section K, was asked to
become a Twentyman. Asked —
that was a little unusual. Suicides
and would-be Twentymen Domin-
ants were so common that it was
rare for anyone not actively think-
ing of becoming a Twentyman or
part of a Twentyman to be invited
into the circle. But Ron, Section
K thought, would be more useful
to them as a Twentyman.

He went to the clinic at the
appointed time, a routine affair.
Nothing ever went wrong. The pro-
cess was well established.

But Ron died. So did the others.

Phyllis, or Venus as Rex still
thought of her, was shattered. She
was pregnant at the time, and she
was a one-man woman. There would
never be another man for her. While
her baby was growing in her, she
worked, since she had to work on
something, on the Limbo project.

And she achieved cold, brilliant
success.

A cold, brilliant overseer was
needed. The human race was in a
sorry mess. Population explosions
had led to frantic colonization of
the galaxy, but nobody had guessed
what would follow that . . .

Section K had had a plan for Ron
and later, when that failed, Venus.

A special Twentyman with all ties
broken might see the Answer, if
there was an Answer. After Ron’s
death Venus took over, for some-
thing to do.

Venus had learned by this time
that Ron had been meant to be a
Thousandman, the first ever. And
something had gone wrong.

Coldly, dispassionately, in a man-
ner diametrically opposed to her
essential nature, Venus set up the
project — in her last months of
pregnancy and before she was even
a Twentyman.

Qomeone would be sent to Limbo
^ alone to live there and lose
involvement with Earth and the
human race. The new MT trans-
ference would be used with deep-
sleep and certain phychiatric tech-
niques to ensure that the Supremo
should have all impersonal knowl-
edge and no personal knowledge
whatever. The Supremo would sleep
perforce for ten years and exist in
Limbo for another ten. After that,
the Supremo, it was hoped, would
know what to do.

Venus had her baby, a girl, and
never looked at her. Venus had
turned her back on everything ex-
cept Project Supremo, which had
sustained her for eight months. Now
she wanted to die, like so many
others.

They tricked her by making her
think she was to be one of the nine-
teen to feed a Twentyman. Her

SIX GATES TO LIMBO

135

baby would be looked after, of
course. She accepted gladly.

Instead, she was the Dominant.
And she was not merely a Twenty-
man at the end, but a Millionman.

Nine hundred and ninety-nine
thousand nine hundred and ninety-
nine women died willingly to make
her. She would have screamed at
the cruelty of the trick that had
been played on her, but for the
fact that as a Millionman — there
was no failure this time — she had
become a unique being, unable to
scream about things which could
not be helped.

She still abandoned Regina, but
she went to Limbo instead of to
heaven or hell.

On her awakening in Limbo,
things were different, but not dif-
ferent enough. She would never for-
get Ron. She never managed to be-
come uninvolved, and she knew it.
Her idea, formed when she was an
ordinary girl of twenty or so, not
sound. But she was not the one to
put it into practice.

There was only one Gateway
then, the one to Earth. It was in
the vault, only to be discovered
when the occupant of Limbo had
attained serenity and poise and ice-
cold clarity. Venus found it at once.

She did not spend ten years
awake in Limbo. She spent scarcely
two. At about the time when Regina
was fourteen, Venus, who had made
the Limbo plan, saw the inadequa-
cies in it and in herself.

First, she was not the Supremo.
A man was needed, and not an en-
tirely lonely man. Such a man, in-
stead of being utterly impartial,
was bound to be in some ways more
involved than ever with the future
of his race elsewhere.

Secondly, she knew too much.
The process intended to divorce
the Supremo from personal involve-
ment with the human race had to
go deeper. He had to remember
still less. Yet at the same time, he
had to be able to learn something
of the situation in the galaxy. He
had to be able to see it for himself
and make up his mind about it and
about what had to be done. She
did not then know much about MT
transference, an expensive system
with many snags.

So Venus went back to Earth.
Her old boss was dead, a fact which
for the good of Project Supremo
was perhaps as well. She could
never have, worked at full efficiency
with the man who had killed Ron
and tricked her.

The new chief was John Hilton.

The new plan took four years to
work out and put into effect. Venus
never saw her daughter, never
sought to see her. And then, when
the vast Section K computers were
asked for the names of young men
and women most fitted to figure in
the key roles of Proj'ect Supremo,
one of the first names to issue from
the machines was that of Venus’s
daughter.

136

4 4 "possibly John Hilton arranged
that deliberately,” she said.
“He was in on the original plan, as
a young man. I think he was hor-
rified at my abandonment of ... I
may as well go on calling her Re-
gina.

“You were a brash young man,
less assured then and over-confident
in manner. But I felt sure you were
right. Regina was curiously root-
less. My fault. She had known love
all right, but not from her family.
And there had been no man in her
life. She was keen on the idea, as
a theory — ”

“Did we ever meet? Regina and
I?”

“No. We all agreed, including
yourselves, that the first meeting
should be in Limbo. And I was to
return with you ... I don’t have to
tell you any more, do I? You know
all you have to know. Perhaps it
might be better if you knew a little
less.”

Rex knew what she meant, but
had not been aware that she knew.

“You’re so young,” he said won-
deringly.

She smiled. “I was born in 3607,
which makes me forty-five. But
I’ve lived less than thirty years —
funny, I’ve never bothered to work
it out. Ten off for my first long
sleep, a little over five for the sec-
ond. And deepsleep has a rejuve-
nating effect. I suppose, practically,
I’m around twenty-five.”

“About that I always thought,”

said Rex. “No wonder it didn’t ex-
actly spring to my mind that you
were my mother-in-law.”

“And yet . . . you always knew,
didn’t you?”

“I knew something.”

There was a long pause. Both
knew what was coming, but neither
was in a hurry to go ahead.

At last Venus said: “You’ve
made up your mind, Rex?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m certain. The only doubt is
whether I have to do it myself or
if it’s possible to ask you.”

She smiled. “Of course it’s pos-
sible to ask me. It’s possible to ask
anyone anything.”

“Not this.”

Her smile faded. “I knew all
along. I created the plan, but I
couldn’t face the conclusion. No,
Rex, you needn’t ask. Just tell me
you’re certain that it’s the only
way.”

“It’s the only way.”

“Right,” she said briskly. “You
do me credit, Rex. You have the
moral courage to order what no one
else could order, and to order some-
one other than yourself to be the
one to do it.”

“It’s no order — ”

“Now, don’t let me down, Rex.
After all, I’m not your mother, but
I created you. You have broad
shoulders. Take the responsibility,
and never deny to yourself or any-
one else that you took it.”

SIX GATES TO LIMBO

137

“All right. He smiled faintly.
“You know, ©f course, that you’re
not making it difficult for me,
Venus. You're making it easy.”

“Let me try to make the other
part easier for you too. You have
to stay here. You have to be the
general who gives the brutal order
and then sits back and watches.
That’s why you were created.
That’s why you’re here. Good-bye,
Rex.”

It was so abrupt that he was
caught off his guard. She kissed him
lightly and said, as even a Million-
man mother couldn't help doing:
“Look after Regina-”

Then she left him. He forced him-
self not to move.

Venus feaew far more of the work-
ings of Lii^bo than he did, having
helped to set them up. She would
return straight to Earth. She knew
how.

Tt was only a few minutes lat-
-*■ er that Regina dashed in.

“What’s happening?” she asked
breathlesly.

* The ESP gifts of Venus and
Regina were not identical, but they
shared each other’s special abilities
to some extent. Venus sensed feel-
ings, mainly, and Regina things,
but Regina had clearly sensed some-
thing far more than the simple fact
that Venus had gone down to the
vault, alone.

“vhiere’s Venetia?” said Rex,
stalling.

“She’s sleeping. I left her out-
side. WJiat’s happened to Venus?”
Rex found he couldn’t say any-
thing. He was, as Venus said, the
general who gave the brutal order
and then sat back in safety to
watch. He, and not Venus, was the
greatest criminal in history,

“She’s gone,” he said at last. “I
don’t think we’ll ever see her again.
That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
“Did you send her away?”

“I didn’t have to. She knew what
she had to do.”

“Because of us?”

He shook his head. “Nothing so
unimportant as the convenience of
two people.”

“Well, tell me!”

“How do you feel about VfeptUs
now, Regina?”

She shrugged impatiently. “Oh,
she’s . . . well, she and I are linked
somehow. She could be my sister.
If that’s what you’ve got to tell me,
don’t pile on the suspense.”

“She’s your mother.”

Regina drew in her breath. She
had not expected that. Yet once she
heard it, it made so much sense to
her that she didn’t argue, didn’t
protest about any of the difficul-
ties, such as the curiosity of a
twenty-five-year-old girl having a
daughter of nineteen.

“Well, we’re straight now,” she
said at last. “I think everything’s
been put right between us. Come
to that, I never did or said any-
thing to her I might regret for the

138

rest of my life. And I did throw
the switch, the first time I had the
chance.”

“Didn’t you know all along?”
“No,” she said frankly. “There
were times when I hated her.” There
were tears in her eyes.

“I must go and see if Venetia is
all right,” she said, jumping up.

Princess was Venetia now; they
had never agreed on it, it was taken
for granted. And Rex was glad that
that had been established even be-
fore they knew that Venetia was
Venus’s granddaughter. Occasion-
ally they called her Princess. That
would stick too.

When Regina came back she was
thoughtful again.

uVenus has gone, you said. By
way of the vault?”

“To Earth.”

“There’s another Gateway, then?”
Rex now had an easy way to stall
for a while. He told her what Venus
had told him. But at the end . . .

Regina faced him. “What’s this
thing she’s gone to do?”

“Destroy Earth,” said Rex quiet-
ly*

XVI

'T'he words didn’t register. Re-
gina stared at him blankly.
“Isn’t it as obvious to you as it
was to her and to me?” said Rex
haftbly. “Some sons and daughters
never cut loose from their mother’s
apron strings. That’s what hap-

pened with the children of Mother
Earth. 'They weren’t forced, like
you, to live for the. whole of their
childhood and adolescence without
a father and without a mother. The
umbilical cord was never cut. They
went on depending on Earth. The
children of Earth, all over the gal-
axy never grew up, because Earth
was so big, so powerful, so efficient
in the early stages that it was never
necessary for them to grow up.
Those settlements that did cut
themselves off failed, perhaps by
chance, perhaps by — ”

“Destroy Earth?” said Regina in-
credulously.

“We’ve seen six of the colonies.
Bullan, apathetic. Cresta, desper-
ate. Chuter, selfc canceled because
Earth didn’t come back to help.
Landfall — ”

“Never mind about Landfall. I
was there. You weren’t.” She pause
“You really mean — ”

“There’s only one way to do it.”
“The most inhuman mass murder
in history?”

“Yes.”

“And Venus agreed?”

“We didn’t discuss it. She knew.”
“You sent her?”

Rex didn’t even wince. “She
went.”

“To do what, exactly? What were
your instructions?”

“I told you, there were no in-
structions. She knew.”

“Don’t keep saying that!”

“She went to Earth. That’s all.”

SIX GATES TO LIMBO

139

Regina jumped up. “Destroy
Earth? That will be easy, of course.
All she’ll have to do is buy a fire-
work. Why, it’s nonsense. How
could she possibly — ”

They looked at each other, sud-
denly close again. Venus was no
ordinary woman. Whatever had to
be done, she would be able to do.
She didn’t have to be instructed.
She would find a way to do it.

“But she’ll come back,” whis-
pered Regina.

Rex shook his head. “You know
better. If she destroyed Earth, could
she allow herself to escape before
the end? No. She’ll stay. So would
I.”

Regina was suddenly furious.
“But you let her go, and didn’t go
yourself? Even if it’s necessary . . .
Well, maybe for the greatest good
for the greatest number it might
be. How should I know? I’m only
a Twentyman. Rex — we’ve got to
stop her.”

Regina’s sudden appeal was to
him as her husband. He followed
her as she ran to the cellar, raced
down the stone steps scarcely
touching them, and leaped into her
case . . .

It didn’t move. She shut the lid
behind her, opened it, stared at Rex
frantically, shut it again.

Rex tried his own. It didn’t move
either. And Venus’s case was locked.

“Break it open!” Regina ex-
claimed.

There was nothing in the cellar

with which to do this. Rex went
with Regina to the workshop. There
he caught her in his arms gently
but firmly.

“Regina. This is no use.”
“Maybe, but we’ve got to try,
haven’t we?”

“No. Venus wanted to go.”
“Wanted to? Nonsense. How
could anyone want to?”

“She knew it had to be done. She
knew she had to do it. I was created
merely to confirm what she knew.”
“If a mere Twentyman like me
can’t commit suicide, how can a
Millionman like her?”

“Regina.” His voice was no
longer urgent, but soft. “You were
right. This was what you saw. What
you knew. Why you fought explor-
ation of the Gateways all along.
Yet you knew, as you fought, that
it couldn’t be stopped.”

“It?”

“What Venus calls Project Su-
remo.”

“And you,” she said bitterly,
freeing herself to step back and
look at him, “are the Supremo.”
“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”
“Venus is and always was behind
it. We’re part of Venus’s plan. We
were needed, I was needed, as a
switch is needed. You don’t com-
plete the circuit as you build a re-
lay. You include a switch so that
when the time is right, someone
can.”

“A switch,” she whispered.

140

“Yes, sl switch. I was the switch.
At the right time.”

“I did know.”

He said nothing.

She said quietly. “All right, so
I’m in it too. In her plan, I mean.
When I saw the switch on her
plinth, I knew it would be far bet-
ter for all of us if it was never
touched. But I knew I had to close
the switch, and I did it. So ... ”

Her eyes were full of tears. “I
think I knew then that by reviving
Venus, I was killing her. And yet
I had to do it.”

Rex kissed her very gently. He
did not feel like a murderer.

'T'wo months later they found
the way to the vault again open
to them. But when they got there,
there was no sign of any Gateway
to Earth. That remained Venus’s
secret.

And there was nothing Regina
could do.

It was not until after Prince was
born (they called him Ron and
sometimes Prince, as they called
his sister Venetia and sometimes
Princess) that the relay set up in
the vault showed that the Cresta-
Chuter Gateway had been used
at last. First a few went to Chuter.
Then a pause. Then some of them
returned. Then many began to use
the Gateway.

“Now they know Earth is gone.”

It wasn’t Rex who said that, it
was Regina.

And it was Rex who said: “Venus
is gone too.”

“Well,” said Regina, with the
brutal practicality of a mother of
* two, “she left me for nineteen
years. I must try to remember that.
Before I abandoned Prince and
Princess, something would have to
happen to me that ...”

She shuddered. “She was a love-
ly woman. But I believe now some
of the things you told me just after
she left. Her life must have been
over before we ever knew her. Be-
ing a Millionman, maybe she was
glad of a great, important, unan-
swerable, unavoidable excuse to
die.”

It was a strange epitaph, and it
might have been better expressed.
But Rex thought there had seldom
been a truer one. And Regina said
it.

They were happy. Regina never
left Limbo, would never leave Limbo
again. Rex went to one of the Gate-
way worlds only occasionally, to
keep in touch with events in the
galaxy. What he saw was good, and
he was pleased. Any surgeon who
cut off a leg would be glad to have
it confirmed that the leg was in-
curably diseased.

He had to keep on watching
what was going on.

He would always have to watch
what was going on.

Some day he might be needed
again.

" END

SIX GATES TO LIMBO

141

TRIAL BY FIRE
(i continued from page 98)
notion, follow humbly wherever
and to whatever abysses Nature
leads, or you shall learn nothing.,
The scientists must recognize that
he still is a layman in every field
but one. And in that one field he
must accept the consequences of
his actions, reckoning the human
payment for every change and com-
municating broadly the informa-
tion that is peculiarly his own. I
do not say it; the gulf between the
people and the scientists de-
mands it.”

“You claim that they are a sep-
arate breed?”

“Their attitudes set them apart;
their common interests and their
common heritage must bring them
back together. The scientist is
rational man at work. The mob is
irrational, wherein lies the ultimate
terror for the reasoning man.”

“Now you are calling the people
irrational!”

“Only when they act like a mob
or when, like the scientist when he
is out of his laboratory, they are
sentimentalists. The sentimentalist
is the person who wants to eat his
cake and have it, too. G. K.
Chesterton once said about him,
‘He has no sense of honor about
ideas; he will not see that one must
pay for an idea as for anything else.
He will have them all at once in
one wild intellectual harem, no
matter how much they quarrel.’ ”

l^elley studied the audience and
^ the jury and then looked back
at Wilson. “Science never has reck-
oned the consequences for any of
its actions or computed the human
payment that must be made. Why
should it start now?”

“Men once never herded cattle
or tilled the land or lived in cities
or traveled in airplanes. Tribes once
killed every stranger. Kings once
cut off the heads of the bearers
of ill tidings. Senators once were
elected by state legislatures.”

“Are you trying to tell us that
men change?” Kelley asked.

“That is obvious to everyone ex-
cept the cynic. Men can change.
And they do. This is not only a
possibility for the individual and
a necessity for society but a his-
torical inevitability. Our perspec-
tive is too short for us to recognize
the phenomenon in action, but men
evolve. We can see it happening
more swiftly in our social institu-
tions.”

“How do you think men are
changing, Wilson?”

Wilson smiled. Kelley was will-
ing to let him convict himself out
of his own mouth, not only before
the jury here in the courtroom but
before the broader jury of the
nation. But it was more important
to Wilson that he get these con-
cepts on the record — not just for
now, important as it was, but for
the years to come.

“Surpluses slow down the process

142

of change,” Wilson said. “Short-
ages speed it up. Necessity is not
only the mother of invention but
evolution. Surpluses are created by
advancing stages of civilization, and
population expands to consume
them. When primitive man pro-
gressed from nut and fruit gather-
ing to the hunting of concentrated
sources of protein on the hoof, he
had extra food with which he could
feed the child which once might
have been sacrificed to starvation.

“When the hunter became the
farmer and the herder, the process
of selection became slowed even
more. He could nurse the sick as
well as feed the unable and the
unwilling. The coming of the ma-
chine and industrialization brought
further surpluses and the further
development of morality and ethics
and the religions that glorify weak-
ness. Evolution is further slowed.”

“Are you now attacking the
Christian religion?” Kelley asked
sharply.

TX7ilson waited until the roar of
* * the audience died away.
“Other religions do the same thing.”
The roar returned. “Moreover, I
am a Christian — though, to be
sure, a Unitarian. Christianity is
one of the finest ethical and moral
philosophies man ever had con-
ceived, but it is a philosophy bred
of surpluses. It could never have
been possible to a tribe living on
the narrow edge ©f starvation.

“The concern of that tribe is for
the traits that will promote survival
in this life, not in the next. That
tribe’s religious rites are basically
evolutionary. When man was re-
cently separated from his apelike
ancestors, many throwbacks must
have been born. They had to be
weeded out.”

“How, Wilson?”

Again Kelley was leading him,
Wilson thought. Let him lead as
long as the ideas came out. “The
rite of manhood was the principal
method ‘ — not merely adulthood
but manhood. As soon as the child
was old enough to have reached dis-
cretion, he was subjected to some
ritualistic torture or feat of endur-
ance. Scars were scratched into his
body and face; lips and earlobes
were distended by progressively
larger plugs; food was withheld or
voluntarily abjured. This was true
of the American Indian. And even
in some of the countries considered
more civilized it was part of the
rites preceding knighthood.

“All of these rites stressed a com-
mon element — present sacrifice
for future good, something no ani-
mal can comprehend, something
only the human can consciously
achieve. Imagine a tribal meeting
around a campfire. The adolescent
stands straight before the fire, hop-
ing he can endure what lies ahead,
anticipating the joys of manhood if
he can come through without dis-
grace. The chief or the witch doctor

TRIAL BY FIRE

143

picks up a burning brand from the
fire and hands it to the boy, flames
toward him. If the boy is human
he accepts it, lets it bum him to
prove that he is fit to join the adults
of the tribe. If he is animal, if he
is not fit, he refuses to take it or
lets it drop. And he is killed. Or
he is killed genetically by the re-
fusal of any young woman of the
tribe to mate with him.”

“Are you suggesting,” Kelley
asked, “that the American people
return to that kind of tribal rite?”

“The time when that would have
been effective has passed. We have
other tribal rites, only they are not
as effective in producing the desired
results. The greatest examples of
present sacrifice for future good are
found in religion. And its greatest
symbol is Christ on the Cross. To
day we need a new device, a new
evolutionary pressure or a new rite
to select the men and women who
are capable of living in close as-
sociation with the machine.”

“Why should we wish to do that
Kelley asked. “Why not merely
destroy the machines and return to
a better life?”

“Some always want to go back,”
Wilson said patiently. “Serfs who
cannot accept industrialization,
hunters who constitutionally can-
not tie themselves to a single plot
of ground, nut gathers who can’t
eat meat, animals who will not suf-
fer now to live better later. But
you can’t go back. A least you

can’t go back as you are. You go
back decimated. This world cannot
support more than a few hundred
million people by primitive agri-
culture alone. If you discard the
machines, four billion of you out
there will die.”

'T'he jury came upright in its
chairs. The audience looked
startled, and men and women turned
to one another to murmur. Kelley
jerked his head squarely enough to
talk to Wilson. “Scare talk! That’s
the kind of unprovable predictions
with which scientists always have
tried to get what they want. You
can’t trust a scientist. We’ve found
that out.”

“There is enough evidence to
prove everything I have said,” Wil-
son said, “but proof really is un-
necessary. Simple logic will tell you
that I am right. Simple logic will
tell you, too, that man is perfect-
ible. He can go on to greater works,
greater glories, greater humanity.
In every one of you,” Wilson said,
turning to the jury and then to the
audience and the cameras, “is that
potential. The only requirement is
the willingness to accept the burn-
ing brand, to let yourself be nailed
to the cross of your own convictions.
This thought, and the hope of get-
ting it across, was the real reason
I gave myself up.”

“Are you comparing yourself to

144

Christ?” Kelley snapped back.

“God help me,” Wilson said, “I
hope not.”

17" elley hesitated and then turned
-***to the judge. “Your honor, I
request that this session be ad-
journed and that this cross-exam-
ination be continued tomorrow.”
Youngman was on his feet much
quicker than Wilson ever had seen
him move before. “Your honor, I
see no grounds for this unusual
request. The session is scarcely an
hour old. If the assistant prosecutor
wishes to conclude his cross-exam-
ination, we will consent. If not, I
ask that he be instructed to con-
tinue.”

“The witness has been question-
ed for a considerable time,” Kelley
said smoothly. “My request was
only out of consideration for him.”
“I feel fine,” Wilson said. He
glanced at Youngman. The lawyer
nodded encouragingly. “Tomorrow,
when the Subcommittee’s doctors
get through with me, I may not feel
so well.”

The judge looked from Young-
man to Kelley to Wilson, his lips
pursed. He glanced quickly to his
left and said, “Continue.”

“Wilson,” Kelley said without
hesitation, “you have called for a
new selection process by which
men will be chosen for this new
world of yours. Are these to be
supermen — like you?”

“Like me, perhaps,” Wilson said

quietly. “I have enough vanity to
think that I might be qualified to
live in a changing world, to adapt
to its demands and to pass along
my talents to children that some-
day I might have. But not super-
men. No more than the farmer was
a superman to the hunter or the
mechanic to the farmer.”

“And where will these supermen
be selected,” Kelley asked, sneer-
ing, “in the universities?”

Kelley had not been corrected,
and Wilson supposed he never
would be. No matter what anyone
said, the concept would stick.
“Some were far a while. College
graduates, on the whole, were more
successful in their society. They
made more money, accumulated
more authority, and sometimes
passed along their traits and their
power to their children, who also
went to college. A greater propor-
tion of the population was going
on to higher education. They were
becoming a majority, which might
have meant a new plateau of selec-
tivity; but, unfortunately, higher
education wasn’t adaptable to
everybody’s needs. More important,
it was not responsive to the needs of
the future. And it was somewhat
lacking in the needs of the pre-
sent. The universities became iso-
lated from society, intellectually
inbred, and the things for which
they were selecting their students
were idle intellectual pastimes riot
the world outside.”

TRIAL BY FIRE

145

“I had not expected you to
provide the justification for the
burning of the universities by
the people,” Kelley said. “You
know, of course, that the na-
tion’s tax-free colleges and uni-
versities and the tax-free philan-
thropic foundations that help sup-
port them now control nearly one-
third of all he produtcive proper-
ty in the nation.”

“I have heard that statement.”
“How can you justify that kind
of selfish use of private property?”

C4T can’t because I don’t believe
it,” Wilson said, “although the
amount of property controlled by
the 2,000 or so colleges and uni-
versities must be substantial. Even
if it were true* it would be human
and not diabolical. Education
should be everyone’s responsibil-
ity to himself and to his children
and collectively through these to
his neighbor and his neighbor’s
children. He should pay for it daily
or at least annually. But it is hu-
man to forget to pay, and it is
human to those placed in charge of
education to amass wealth for their
institutions for protection against
the public’s neglect. Just as it is
human for men and women in this
audience and perhaps even on the
jury itself to condemn me for a
crime in which they themselves
participated — and honestly be-
lieve that I am guilty.”

After the uproar subsided, Wil-

son added, “What your question
means to me, or course, Is that you
and Senator Bartlett have the same
economic reason for burning the
universities as King Henry Vin
and his fellow rulers had for con-
fiscating church lands in the Mid-
dle Ages,” Wilson smiled. “My
former colleagues in economics
would be smiling if they were
here.”

“I do not care what your former
colleagues would be doing,” Kelley
said savagely, “nor what this ques-
tion means to you. Nor does this
excellent jury that you have slan-
dered with your filthy accusations
or the vast American audience care
for this farcical justification for
your criminal actions. A man on
trial for his life should not be
cynical.”

“A prosecuting attorney should
not be making speeches during
cross-examination,” Wilson said.

Kelley turned off his anger as
quickly as he had turned it on. “I
understand that you are a sociol-
ogist, Wilson.”

“A physicist and then a sociolo-
gist.”

“What is a sociologist?”

“He is concerned with the devel-
opment and evolution of society.”

“He wants to know why groups of
people act the way they do?”

“That’s part of what he wants to
know.”

“And what if he should find out,
Wilson?”

146

“People could construct better
societies. They could learn how to
live together without conflict and
frustration, getting out of society
the satisfactions they need and
putting back the fuel that society
needs.”

“You mean, don’t you, that so-
ciologists could construct societies
they thought were better?”

■\T7ilson said, “You turn to a
* * doctor when you are sick be-
cause he knows more about sickness
and health.”

“And knowledge is power, isn’t it,
Wilson? If I know why a group
of people does something it is only
a small step farther to knowing
how to make the people do it —
or do something else.”

“Well, yes,” Wilson admitted,
“but sociologists wouldn’t — ”
“Why wouldn’t they? Wouldn’t
you construct a better society if
you could, a society in which the
universities would not burn?”

“I suppose — ”

“Are the rest of us to trust our
lives to the benevolence and wis-
dom of the sociologists? Or the
psychologist? If a psychologist
knows why a person acts the way
he does — if he really knows in-
stead of guessing a little better a
little more often than the average
person — the next thing he can do
is make a person act that way, or
some other way. Give a psycholo-
gist that power and you take away

free will from the rest of us. People
don’t want that to happen. You
don’t want it, Wilson. I don’t want
it. Nobody wants to be a puppet;
they want to be people; they want
to make their own choices, their
own mistakes. They don’t want to
live somebody’s else’s idea of the
good life.”

“Nobody wants — ”

“How do you know what nobody
wants? You want to build a better
society. The psychologist wants to
build a better person. But who
knows how to build a better sociol-
ogist, a better psychologist? Who
knows how sensible you are? How
sane you are? Who gave you the
power? The people do not want
you to know that much about
them. Before they let you know
that much they will bum you!”
Kelley’s voice had climbed stead-
ily until it was almost a scream at
the end.

Wilson looked at him in amaze-
ment. “What you are saying is that
ignorance is preferable to knowl-
edge. It may be bliss, but it is a
dangerous bliss that threatens its
neighbor as well as itself.”

But very few could have heard
Wilson. The courtroom was in an
uproar. The judge’s gavel was
banging on his bench.

At last, when relative quiet re-
turned, Wilson said, “You are talk-
ing about mere animal survival;
I’m talking about the glory of being
human.”

TRIAL BY FIRE

147

Kelley’s voice was deceptively
mild. “That is your own coat you
are wearing, isn’t it?”

Wilson looked down, surprised.
He fingered* the lapel where he
had once, in a moment of lucidity,
concealed a razor blade. The blade
was gone now. “Yes, I think so.”

elley stepped forward and put
-l^his hand on the breast pocket.
He pulled down hard.

The pocket ripped — so artfully
that Wilson thought it must have
been carefully prepared for this
moment. With the pocket came
much of the jacket front. It re-
vealed what had been concealed be-
tween the layers of cloth — a fan
of thin, insulated wires. So much
had happened since he put them
there that he had forgotten, but
Wilson remembered now the device
he had gimmicked together in the
desperation of his flight, a gadget
adapted from his research which
would pick up primitive theta
brain-rhythms in his immediate
vicinity. The hearing aid he had
attached to the antenna had long
ago been discarded. He didn’t need
it now to pick up the theta rhythms
of the audience, rapid, pounding . . .

“Here is not merely a sociolo-
gist!” Kelley was screaming. “Here
is a scientist with a machine for
reading minds — and perhaps, God
forbid, for making others do his
will!”

The audience roared in animal

fury. They were out of their ben-
ches, fighting toward the railing.
In spite of his training Wilson
shrank back in his chair. But there
was a man, a single man, who stood
between him and the crowd — not
Kelley, who had pulled back in
front of the jury, but a man who
had been sitting in the group behind
Wilson’s table. Senator Bartlett
himself, in his threadbare coat and
his ragged blue shirt open at 'the
collar, held back the crowd.

“Gentlemen,” he implored in his
unctuous voice. “Ladies! This man
is on trial in a court of law. No
matter how heinous his crime, he
deserves a fair American trial. Not
only the nation but the world is
watching. He must be convicted
legally, not lynched by a mob.”

Slowly they fell under the mes-
meric spell of his singsong phrases.
The television cameras came up
close to study Bartlett’s face. Wil-
son, however, was not present for
the end of the scene. Guards had
closed around him, hustled him out
the door with the frosted glass and
then out the back way and into the
waiting truck. In a moment it had
pulled away and was speeding to-
ward the highway, leaving the old
courthouse behind.

“Well,” Kelley said, “you gave
us a little surprise there, didn’t
you?” Almost pulled it off, too.
Who got the antidote to you? The
girl? I suppose. It doesn’t matter,
though. You’re going to die in a

148

very public and edifying way. Put
him out, Doc.”

And someone pressed an anes-
thetic gun to his arm and pulled
the trigger. It was a drug for which
he had received no antidote. Or one
for which the antidote he had re-
ceived had worn off. The world
faded away.

Qomeone was shaking him by
^ the shoulder. “Wake up,
Mac,” said a rough voice. But that
was not the start of it. Even before
the shaking and the voice that
urged him out of his dark isolation,
he had felt the bite of a needle in-
to his arm, or his subconscious re-
membered it. “Shake out of it, fel-
low,” the voice said impatiently.
“We gotta go.”

The sting of his arm had roused
him out of a vivid dream of that
world which he now accepted as a
dream world. He had been standing
in the imposing entrance of the City
Hall. Its ceiling towered 40 or 50
feet above his head.

Around the edges of the central
lobby had been the soldiers. Hud-
dled within the circle formed by
the soldiers were a hundred spec-
tators, mostly villagers with a
sprinkling of ragged city dwellers.
A soldier stood on either side of
Wilson. In front of him was the
dark young man. He sat in a tall
chair. Between them was a char-

coal brazier. From the coals that
glowed in it a thin, almost invisible
column of smoke spiraled up to be
lost in the dim heights of the ceil-
ing. On the coals the large, blunt
tip of a soldering iron with a wood-
en handle was beginning to turn
red.

“John Wilson, are you a witch?”
the young man asked in a stem
voice. The audience drew a deep
breath.

“I am what I am,” Wilson said.

“Are you a witch?” the young
man asked again.

“I am a man, no more, no less,”
Wilson replied.

“Are you a witch?” the young
man asked the third time.

“If I were a witch,” Wilson said,
“you would not dare my wrath,
Captain Leonard Kelley.”

The audience moaned. The
young man drew back in his chair,
his index finger and his little finger
making horns at Wilson with his
right hand. His face was rigid and
his eyes narrowed. “If you know
my name, you know it by witch-
craft,” he said. “But I do not fear
your power, nor will I condemn you
without fair trial. Hold out your
hand, John Wilson.”

Wilson held out his right hand.
Kelley picked up the soldering iron
and moved it gently through the
air. Smoke curled from the glowing
tip. Kelley passed the iron in front
of Wilson’s face. Wilson could feel
the radiant heat.

TRAL BY FIRE

149

“If you can hold the iron and
not be burned,” Kelley said, “you
are a witch and you will be placed
in a fire prepared for you in the
plaza outside until your power is
overcome. If you do not accept the
iron, you are a confessed witch and
you will burn. John Wilson, do you
confess?”

“I confess that I seek truth and
serve the people,” Wilson said,
“and because of these things I will
accept the iron.”

Wilson held out his hand. Kelley
hesitated and chewed on one side
of his lower lip. “Take it, then!”

TTe placed the still-glowing iron
■*-^in Wilson’s hand. The audi-
ence groaned and surged forward
only to be met with the upraised
weapons of the soldiers. “Calm
yourselves, friends,” Wilson said
clearly, although his hand smoked
and waves of pain coursed up his
arm toward his head.

Kelley sank back in his tall chair,
staring at Wilson with dark eyes,
his hand covering the lower part
of his face.

“And what if I accept the iron
and burn, Captain Kelley?” Wil-
son asked.

“Kill him!” Kelley said.

The spectators surged forward.

“You gotta wake up,” said the
voice again. “We got no time.”

Wilson opened his eyes and
looked at his right hand. It was
pink and unmarred. He wiggled his

fingers. They moved freely. He had
only the memory of pain, but it
still seemed quite real.

A man was bending over him,
a man in prison denims of gray and
dark blue. Beyond him the sliding
bars that formed the door to his
cell were pushed back. The door
was open. Beyond the door was the
wide corridor between the cell
block and the stone outside wall,
lit feebly now against the night by
light bulbs high in the ceiling. The
barred windows were dark.

“We’re breaking out of here,” the
man said, moving back a little.
“Strange things’re going on. Men
have seen fire balls drifting outside
and one guy said he saw one inside
the walls. I don’t know why but
the guards’re gone. Come on, Mac.
Get up and let’s go.”

“That’s all right,” Wilson said.
“I’d just as soon stay here.”

“Mac, you don’t know what
you’re saying. They’re gonna hang
you.”

“How do you know?” Wilson
asked, interested.

The man shrugged, his shaggy
eyebrows moving high on his fore-
head. “We heard the radio reports
on our earphones. No jury could
do anything but find you guilty,
the announcer said. That’s the word,
brother, believe me!”

“You’d better go on,” Wilson
said. “I’m going to wait for what-
ever comes.”

The other caught his right wrist

150

in a strong right hand. He pulled
Wilson upright. “You don’t know
what you’re saying, Mac. We ain’t
gonna leave nobody here.”

Wilson pulled his wrist free.
“Try to understand, fellow. I’m
conscious, and I’m turning down
your invitation. I’m grateful for
your concern, but — ”

The other’s fist caught him on
the jaw before he could finish. As
consciousness fled Wilson could feel
himself falling.

TX7ilson lifted his head as the
* * men half-carried him down
the broad steps. Subconsciously he
counted them as his feet bumped
down each one. “Forty-two,” he
said at the bottom and didn’t know
why he said it.

Fifty feet from the bottom of the
steps was a tall guard house shaped
something like a lighthouse. Wilson
couldn’t see a guard in it, but he
thought he saw something else in
the shadows behind the glass panels
at the top. Something with one star-
ing eye and a small red eye beneath;
but he couldn’t be sure.

Beside him and around him other
men were moving. He could feel
them in the darkness and then he
saw them clearly as a ball of red
lightning drifted around the corner
of the tall penitentiary building
and passed near them before it
swerved toward the guard house,

clung to the knob at the top for a
few seconds, and dissipated.

The heat of the evening was op-
pressive and still, and the clouds
were low. “Just the night for a
tornado,” Wilson muttered.

The group of men in whose midst
he was moved along turned toward
a truck parked nearby in the broad
driveway that circled the guard
house before it headed back toward
the distant town. Suddenly men in
uniform began coming around both
comers of the building. They came
endlessly. “Stop!” said a voice
amplified into a giant’s roar. “Don’t
move! If you try to escape, you
will be shot down. Stop where you
are!”

Wilson looked back up the steps.
More men in uniform were coming
through the doors they just had
left. One of them carried a por-
table amplifier held to his mouth.

Down the long double driveway
past the guard tower lights began
to flicker like giant fireflies. The
men with Wilson didn’t stop. They
continued toward the tarpaulin-
covered truck, but others began to
scatter. Some of them ran to the
left across the open lawn. Others
sprinted out to the right.

“For the last time, I warn you!
Stop where you are!” said the
giant’s voice.

Guns barked. Searchlights came
on, holding men pinned in their
beams like butterflies; against a
black velvet mounting board. Men

TRAL BY FIRE

151

crumpled in mid-stride. Others
staggered on until they, too, were
knocked to the ground. Some were
whirled around by the shock of the
impact. Others turned and held
their hands in the air.

The group of men with Wilson
was almost to the truck now. Just
before they reached it the tarpau-
lin in the back parted. The men
with Wilson stopped. The dark
young man named Kelley was in
the back of the truck, and more
guards and more guns.

“Here he is,” said the man who
had been in Wilson’s cell.

“And here is your reward,” Kel-
ley said.

A gun went off and another. The
^ men near Wilson began to drop
away. The man who had spoken
looked to the right and left be-
wildered. “But you said — ” he be-
gan, and then he, too, started fold-
ing himself up.

In a moment Wilson was stand-
ing alone. He felt his sore jaw.
“Aren’t you going to shoot me,
too?” he asked.

“We’re going to do better than
that,” Kelley said and motioned
toward the driveways.

The fireflies had turned into
torches, and the torches were at the
head of twin crowds of men and
women. Hoarse voices reached his
ears. They were singing something.
Men with portable cameras ran
along beside the crowds.

Guards were on either side of
him. They boosted Wilson into the
truck and pulled the tarpaulin back
against the cab. There, his back
braced against the cab, was Senator
Bartlett. He did not move as the
truck started up and pulled slowly
down the driveway. Wilson stag-
gered and caught himself.

“Hello, Senator,” Wilson said.

Bartlett’s arms were folded across
his chest. “You’re a strange man,
Wilson. We could have chosen bet-
ter.”

“Everybody agreed he was the
one,” Kelley said defensively.

“I’m not blaming anybody,”
Bartlett said. “But the way things
turned out, we could have chosen
better.”

“I would gladly have had this cup
pass from me,” Wilson said.

“You are a blasphemer as well
as a meddler,” Bartlett said. “No
wonder the people hate your kind.”

The voice of the crowd was closer.
The song they were singing was
The Battle Hymn of the Republic .

“They will hate anybody,” Wil-
son said, “but you have done your
job well. And profited thereby.”

The truck stopped, backed in a
curving path, and turned in another
curve so that its back was toward
the crowd. The crowd’s torches cre-
ated a ragged hemisphere of light.
Beyond it the blackness struggled to
return.

“I do not lead,” Bartlett said, his
gaze turned inward. “I am pushed.

152

The people tell me what to say and
what to do, and I say and I do what
they tell me. They say that the
eggheads must die if the people are
to live, and the eggheads will die.”
It was as if God had spoken.

Bartlett stepped to the rear of the
truck to face the crowd. A murmur
ran through it as the singing died
away. The murmur turned to cheers
and shouts of “Senator! Senator!”

Bartlett held out his arms for si-
lence. Standing between two guards
Wilson could see the cameras
focused on the Senator’s flame-lit
face and outstretched arms. It was
a familiar pose. Wilson had seen it
often on television and in publicity
shots. It brought back the memory
of the night the university had
burned.

“People!” Bartlett said. He said
it quietly but his voice carried well.
Wilson decided that he had a pick-
up in his artfully threadbare coat.
The crowd roared and sltwly re-
turned to silence. “My .people!”
The crowd roared again. “Disperse,
I ask you now! Go to your homes!
Leave this man to the law!”

“No! No!” the crowd shouted.
“Burn him.”

T>eyond the crowd Wilson could
" see a tall pillar and a pile of
crates and boards around it, still
growing as men tossed more wood
on the pile.

“I honor your feelings in this
matter,” Bartlett said. “The man

did try to escape, to evade his prop-
er punishment. But I ask you to
forbear. A second time I ask you,
leave him to the law”

“Burn him! Burn him!”

“This man is guilty,” Bartlett
said. “We all know that. The ver-
dict is a formality. But I ask you
to hold your hand, restrain your
honest wrath. Leave him to the
law!”

“No! No! No!”

“Then if you must have it so, I
give this man to you for justice.
Let him die for what he has done!
Let him bum for the torment he
has given others! Let him perish
along with all others of his kind!
Let his fiery end be a warning to
the rest! The people will not be
ruled by any except themselves.

“This man is guilty of treason to
the people. He has betrayed you.
He has tried to steal your minds
and twist your thoughts. Let him
burn!”

Bartlett ended with his arms
spread wide once more. His arms
dropped to his sides, his head
drooped like a wilting narcissus,
and he stood aside. Wilson was
pushed forward by the guards.

“I can walk,” Wilson said, but
they would not let him. He was
shoved from behind, and he fell
into the crowd. Head high the men
and women carried him toward the
post. Hands clutched at his clothing
and tore pieces of it away and, he
thought from the twinges of pain,

TRAL BY FIRE

153

pieces of himself as well.

In a moment they placed him up-
right against the pillar which was,
he discovered, an old fence post.
Someone pulled his arms behind
the post, tied his hands together,
and hammered something into the
post. When he couldn’t move his
hands up or down he decided that
the rope had been nailed to the
post. “Hang on tight!” someone
said in his ear. Wilson tried to see
who it was, but the man was gone.

Then a man came forward with
a torch.

“People!” Wilson shouted. They
quieted slowly, and the man with
the torch hesitated.

“Go ahead,” someone urged from
the back. The man with the torch
started forward again.

“I came back,” Wilson shouted,
“to die if I must. But I did not
come back wanting to die. I am
ready to die because we all are
guilty, but it will not help you to
kill me. You will be killing part of
yourselves — the part that thinks,
the part that makes you human.
Know what you do! When you
abandon reason and commit your-
self to terror, you can be certain of
only one thing. You will never know
what tomorrow brings. You may be
next. You —

And then the torch plunged into
the crates and boards at his feet.
They began to smoke and to
crackle. In a moment they had
sprung into flame, and Wilson took

a deep breath of air before it, too,
turned into flame.

TTe was trying to decide whether
^ it would be better to hold his
breath as long as possible or to
breathe in the fire and shorten the
end when he noticed the crowd stir-
ring around him, looking behind
rather than at him. Over their
heads as they cringed aside came a
ball of lightning. It came straight
toward Wilson and settled on the
post just above his head.

Wilson could not see it then, but
he could feel it, electric and almost
cool, behind him. It must make
him quite a sight, he thought, as he
wondered how long it would be be-
fore the flames began to consume
his legs.

Miraculously, however, the post
began to move, slowly at first and
then with greater speed, pulling him
up and away. He felt the strain on
his shoulders as if they were about
to be dislocated, and he hugged the
post tight with all his strength. The
flames dropped behind, below. He
could see the faces of the crowd
looking up at him like curious
saucers with shadowy eyes and
noses and mouths painted on them.

“Shoot!” somebody shouted be-
low. It sounded like Kelley. “Quick.
Shoot him!”

But the barking of the guns was
seconds too late. He felt a bullet
pluck at his tattered clothing, and
then he was into the low-hanging

156

clouds and into something else, and
hands grabbed him, something cool
and wet was sprayed onto his legs
and feet, and he was drawn back
onto a bench or cot.

Wilson looked around. He was in
the belly of some kind of airplane.
In front of him an open doorway
in the floor was closing. From the
way it hovered, Wilson thought it
must be a helicopter, but it was
remarkably silent. To his left was a
man he had known as Pike. In
front of him was Youngman. To his
right was Pat Helman looking as
desirable as ever.

“Surprised?” Pat Helman said.

“Pleasantly,” Wilson said. “I
wasn’t expecting you.”

“That’s the best kind,” Young-
man said.

“That was quite a fireball,” Wil-
son said.

“The ball lightning was just for
show,” Pike said. “A strong black
wire did the real job, just like in
the. magic shows.”

“What were all Bartlett’s and
Kelley’s last-minute shenanigans
about?” Wilson asked.

“They were losing in the court-
room and on the tube,” Youngman
drawled. “They had to wind it up
fast and dramatically or find them-
selves on the losing side — and
once those kind start to lose they
go down fast, like Danton and
Robespierre.”

“You’re joking,” Wilson said.

“You underestimate your powers

of persuasion,” Pat Helman said.
“You’re quite a man, John Wilson.”

Wilson looked at her. “I wonder
how persuasive I could be.” He
turned' to Youngman again. “Was
it worth it? Did we do any good?”

^vur best estimate is that it will
slow them down,” Pike said.
“Nothing will reverse the trend.
That must wear itself out. But we
may have eased it off a little. May-
be we can save a few more victims.
At least the stage is set for the
next act.”

“Was the last act to your satis-
faction?” Wilson asked. His voice
had an edge to it.

“We’re not stage managers,”
Youngman said. “We just hang
around to pick up the pieces and
try to keep the edges of the con-
flagration dampened so that it
doesn’t spread too fast. You’ve had
the toughest part, but don’t forget
that Pat and I had our necks out
there, too.”

“Sorry,” Wilson said. “What is
the next act?”

“We have to start work in the
little towns, the little out-of-the-
way places,” Pat Helman said. “The
consensus is that we should estab-
lish ourselves there as witches, if
you will, or witch-doctors, with the
power to help the people control
the unseen and the unknowable,
while others go in search of truth
and find — ”

“Don’t tell me,” Wilson said gid-

TRAL BY FIRE

157

dily. “I already know all about it.”
He was feeling very strange. He
was just beginning to realize that
the martyrdom he had accepted had
indeed passed him by. The relief
made him feel weak and somehow
ashamed of his weakness.

He thought about how he must

March 2, 1969. ESFA Annual Open
Meeting. At YM-YWCA, 600 Broad
Street, Newark, New Jersey 07104. Gen-
eral theme: “Looking Backward: 1969-
1939,” Changes in the SF Field in the
Last Thirty Years. Admission: $1.25. For
Information: Allen Howard, 157 Grafton
Avenue, Newark, New Jersey 07104.

March 22-23, 1969. BOSKONE VI. At
the Statler-Hilton, Boston, Massachusetts.
Guest of Honor: Jack Gaughan. Mem-
bership $2.00. For information: New Eng-
land Science Fiction Association, Box G,
MIT Branch Station, Cambridge, Mas-
sachusetts 02139.

March 29-30, 1969. MARCON. At

the Holiday East Motel, Columbus, Ohio
43227. Guest of Honor: Terry Carr. Fea-
tures: Panel Discussions, Open Party,

Banquet. Registration fee: $2.00. Ban-
quet Ticket: $5.00. For information: Bob
Hillis, 1290 Byron Avenue, Columbus,
Ohio 43227.

April 4-6r 1969. MINICON TWO. At
the Hotel Andrews, 4th Street at Henne-
pin, Minneapolis, Minnesota. Guests of
Honor: Charles V. De Vet, Gordon R.
Dickson, Carl Jacobi, Clifford D. Simak.
Membership: $2.00 — register now and
receive two progress reports. For informa-
tion: Jim Young, 1948 Ulysses Street
Make checks or money-orders payable to
Mrs. Margaret Lessinger.

158

have looked to the crowd as he
rose, with his halo of ball lightning,
toward the clouds. The apotheosis
of John Wilson, he thought.

And he recalled how close the
flames had been . . . and fainted.
That was a habit that would be
hard to break. END

N.E., Minneapolis, Minnesota 55418.

April 4-6, 1969. BRITISH SCIENCE
FICTION CONVENTION. At Randolph
Hotel, Oxford, England. Guest of Honor:
Judith Merril. For information in the
USA: Sam Russell, 1351 Tremaine Ave-
nue, Los Angeles, California 90019.

April 11-13, 1969. LUNACON. Guest
of Honor: Robert (Doc) A. W. Lowndes.
At the Hotel McAlpin, New York City.
Advance membership $2.00, or $2.50 at
the door. Two Progress Reports will be
sent to members. For information: Frank-
lin M. Dietz, 1750 Walton Avenue, Bronx,
New York 10453.

July 3-6, 1969 WESTERCON XXII/
FUNCON II. At Miramar Hotel, Santa
Monica, California. Guest of Honor: Ran-
dall Garrett. Fan Guest of Honor: Roy
Tackett, Toastmaster: Harlan Ellison.

Membership: $3.00 in advance, $5.00 at
the door. A supporting membership of
$1.00 entitles you to all publications. For
information: FUNCON II, Box 1, Santa
Monica, California 90406. Make checks
payable to Ken Rudolph.

August 29- September 1, 1969. ST.
LOUISCON: 27th World Science Fiction
Convention. At Chase-Park Plaza Hotel,
212 N. Kingshighway, St. Louis, Missouri
63108. Guest of Honor: Jack Gaughan.
Fan Guest of Honor: Ted White. Fea-
tures: Project Art Show; Masquerade

Ball; All-night movies — every night;
Rock Band; Panels and speeches featur-
ing all your favorite writers, editors, and
artists; Auctions; Awards Banquet and
the Presentation of the Hugos. Mem-
berships: $4.00, attending; $3.00, sup-
porting. Join now and receive all the
progress reports as they are published.
For information: St. Louiscon, P.O. Box
3008, St. Louis, Missouri 63130. Make
checks payable to St. Louiscon.

HUE

AND

CRY

Dear Editor:

Many years ago I read a story
based on or referring to the Epic of
Gilgamesh. I would appreciate it if
any of your readers could supply me
with the name of the author and the
book or story title. — Sophie Marks,
1462 East 18th St., Brooklyn, N. Y.
11230.

• One that comes to mind is The
Time Masters , a novel by Wilson
Tucker. But there must have been
others on this subject. Any sugges-
tions from the readers? — Editor .
* * *

Dear Editor: •

I do not agree with your idea of
eliminating serials in If. The most
popular stories in your magazine are
the serials, and without them the
sales will falter. Where would you
be without The Moon Is a Harsh
Mistress , Skylark DuQuesne , Earth-
blood and others? People buy your
magazine for the stories by big-name
authors. Heinlein hasn’t written a
short story in years.

Please under no circumstances
condense a novel in the manner of
the Van Vogt piece coming up. A
shortened version of a novel can

thwart an author’s attempts at char-
acterization, can destroy the theme
or eliminate an important part and
thus render the whole thing illogi-
cal and incomprehensible to the
reader.

Wise old Horace Gold said in one
of the very first issues of Galaxy
that he would not review fanzines
because “that is being covered suffi-
ciently elsewhere.” Now it is being
covered nowhere and I would like
you to do this. Lin Carter seems to
be the ideal person to be the re-
viewer, so why don’t you ask him?
It doesn’t have to be large; only a
page or two of small print.

Let’s have more Morrow, Peder-
sen, McKenna and Chaffee covers.
See if you can pry a story out of Ed
Hamilton. Get Zelazny’s next novel.
And avoid Harlan Ellison’s version
of the new wave. — Darrell Schweit-
zer, 113 Deepdale Rd., Stratford,
Penna. 19087.

• Part of Zelazny’s “next novel”
is in this issue. And we have no in-
tention of eliminating serials. When
we get a good one, we’ll use it! It’s
a funny thing; we get letters object-
ing to serials until a serial is missing

159

— then everyone screams at us for
not having one! As to fanzine re-
views, we feel the long lag between
our receipt of the publications and
the time the review could appear
in print would make them useless;
by the time the readers could see
our comments, the magazine review-
ed would be no longer obtainable.
And the life and quality of most of
such fan publications is too uncer-
tain to make other than really cur-
rent reviews fair to our readers. As
to Ed Hamilton, we’re prying. —
Editor .

Dear Fred:

A little experiment occurs to me,
which you may or may not like to
play with. I enclose three columns of
numbers, whose nature and meaning
would be obvious to any astronomer.
If anyone can take these numbers
and from them tell me the mass of
the star system they refer to, I
will be glad to listen to his opinions
about the Velikovsky thesis. It is un-
derstood, of course, that no refer-
ences other than log and trig tables
are to be used. If anyone who can-
not do this presumes to support
Velikovsky against the “establish-
ment”, I will cheerfully cite him as
an example of this “arrogance of
ignorance” we hear so much about
lately.

It ought to be fun to read the
excuses. To forestall the most ob-
vious, this is not something fit only
for Ph. D.’s. It is part of a first-
year astronomy exercise in which I
had no difficulty in getting an A —
at a time when my math and physics
grades were C and D respectively. It

Date

Position

Angular

Angle

Separation

Observation

(Degrees)

(Seconds)

1886.52

178.8

0.66

1887.53

186.2

0.85

1887.58

194.1

0.86

1888.56

194.9

0.68

1889.54

201.5

0.64

1890.52

209.2

0.60

1891.51

216.9

0.58

1892.53

229.6

0.56

1893.50

243.1

0.51

1894.44

261.8

0.43

1895.48

287.5

0.38

1896.49

314.0

0.41

1897.47

332.4

0.48

1898.52

344.2

0.54

1899.47

353.2

0.65

1900.47

2.2

0.74

1901.47

7.9

0.87

1902.41

9.7

0.86

1903.42

15.3

1.00

1904.52

20.0

1.01

1905.33

23.2

1.14

1906.45

26.1

1.03

1907.38

29.0

0.99

1908.35

30.4

1.05

1909.38

34.0

1.07

1910.50

37.5

1.04

1911.47

41.0

1.02

1912.42

43.5

1.00

1913.49

47.4

0.97

1914.38

51.1

0.93

1915.47

56.0

0.84

1916.34

60.6

0.84

1917.30

67.6

0.75

1918.42

76.2

0.65

1919.48

83.6

0.64

1920.44

92.6

0.64

1921.43

103.5

0.54

1922.48

116.1

0.59

1923.42

126.8

0.50

1924.41

140.3

0.53

1925.42

153.2

0.55

1926.39

162.8

0.59

Parallax — 0.065"

is not something controversial, ex-
cept to EV supporters; the same
basic rules are used in predicting
eclipses, though the latter demands a
lot more detailed computing. It does

160

not demand access to a high-class
computer; most of my tenth-graders
who have done it use the slide rule,
but some prefer longhand arithmetic
and still finish in a reasonable time.
The observations are quite genuine,
obtained from a published source, not
cooked up for the purpose.

As a schoolteacher, I know the
near hopelessness of changing the
mind of an adult; but maybe the
excuses we get could be used to
show my youngsters what they’ll be
sounding like if they don’t develop
reasonably high standards of think-
ing. And maybe, of course, since my
own mind is just as fossilized as that
of most people my age, I’ll wind up
looking silly myself. — Hal Clement,
Milton, Mass.

♦ ♦ *

Dear Editor:

I would like to compliment you on
the excellence of your magazine.
Worlds of IF. No one can say sci-
ence fiction is dying. On the con-
trary, it is on its way up with IF
setting new trends.

Now to the point of my letter.
Imagine for a moment the magazine
Playboy. You change the girl on the
centerfold to a space ship, the pic-
torials to colored art work by Chaf-
fee, Adkins or Morrow. Next you
add stories out of IF , the now silent
Worlds of Tomorrow , Galaxy, etc.
What fan could pass up a magazine
like that! Certainly a dollar would
not be a price too high to pay.

I would like to applaud Mrs. Mor-
ris for her letter in the August IF.
There is nothing more saddening and
dangerous than a person who refuses
to think for himself. Who knows,

maybe if more people read science
fiction, we’d have fewer wars. —
Jurgen Heidenreich, 4220 146th Ave-
nue S. E., Bellevue, Wash. 98004.
• The only trouble with your idea
for a magazine is that it would cost
three dollars a copy to put out; and
science-fiction magazines can’t get
the advertising to make up the dif-
ference, as more generalized maga-
zines do. — Editor.

* * *

Dear Editor:

With regard to Mr. Allen’s letter
in October If, I totally disagree with
him. To publish a story in each issue
with “as little of the jargon of the
medium as possible” would ruin the
story completely. In my opinion,
most science-fiction readers are of
above-average intelligence and are
not in need of explanations. There
may be a technical term once in a
great while with which the reader
may not be familiar, but that can
easily be looked up. It is very con-
siderate of Mr. Allen to suggest that
you provide these explanations —
“especially for women.” But he re-
ally need not worry. There are very
few women who read SF, and those
few, I am sure, are mostly young,
college-educated women who have
no trouble understanding SF, no
matter how technical. (I started
reading SF about five years ago and
I have never had any trouble —
even though English is not my moth-
er tongue. As a matter of fact, 1
have come to prefer it to any other
type of fiction.)

So much for that. I would like
to refer to Mr. Neagle’s letter in the
same issue, who would like a sword-

HUE AND CRY

161

MUSIC OF
TOMORROW

Here is music composed on com-
puter and transducers, ranging
from computer-played versions of
Christmas carols and rounds to the
complex sounds that offer a new
dimension in musicology. Composers
include Dr. John R. Pierce, Dr. M.
V. Mathews, David Lewin, James
Tenny, etc, etc. 18 selections on a
12-inch, high-fidelity, long-playing
record produced by Decca. A
“must” for your record library and
a conversation piece for all occa-
sions. Priced $5.75 postpaid — send
in the coupon today.

I Galaxy Publishing Corp.
j 421 Hudson Street,
fe New York City 10014

i Yes, send me my 12-inch hi-fi

■ record of Music from Mathematics

■ right away. I enclose check or

| money order of $5.75.

I Name

I Address

I City & State . Zip Code ....

I ( Offer good in U. S . A. Only)

and-sorcery story once in a while.
I am sure that most If readers will
agree with me when I say that If
should stick to “hard-core” SF. At
present there are only three maga-
zines available which publish SF ex-
clusively; there are three magazines
which publish a mixture of SF and
fantasy as well as a fantasy-type
magazine. Worlds of Fantasy , so
there should be no need to publish
that type of story in //. — Mrs. Vic-
tor Porguen, 604 Sawyer St., Ro-
chester, N. Y. 14619.

* * *

Dear Editor,

The December 1968 issue of If
was a goodie — I even liked the El-
lison.

It had one story of outstanding
merit which I must commend. I do
not know when I have read any story
which so perfectly demonstrated the
true function of science fiction —
the logical projection of present day
scientific trends into the future. In
addition, this story very neatly point-
ed up another function of sf which I
I feel is important, although I have
never seen it mentioned. This is the
fact that human nature does not
change — it hasn’t through the ages
of history, and it won’t in the future.
The story is, of course, Asimov’s
“The Holmes-Ginsbook Device”.
Add to this the delightful finishing
touch. Gaughan’s illustration of The
Compleat Scientist, which again sub-
tly points out this second sf truth —
that scientists in the future will be,
basically, just like the scientists of
today. Yeah.

— Rachel C. Payes,

Shrub Oak, N. Y. 10588

16 2

o o

O CJ o

o ') • > <j o o o

YOUR NAME HERE

flnur Namr t^rrp

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A TREASURY OF GREAT
SCIENCE FICTION

Edited by Anthony Boucher
600. A giant two- volume collec-
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fiction— four full-length novels,
twelve novelettes, eight ihort
stories by Ray Bradbury. Robert
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and a dozen more. Counts as 1
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YES— even the two-volume set at left
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How the Club works: Each month it offers
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inal editions. Club members get them for on
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lions- unless you select an extra-value book ;
slightly higher price. And the Club tells you i
advance what each monthly selection will b
During your trial membership, you agree to tak
as few as four books in the coming year. Cano
any time thereafter.

No-Risk Guarantee: If not delighted with intr<
ductory 3-book shipment, return books within 1
days to cancel membership. Otherwise you wi
be enrolled in the Club as a Trial Member. Ma
coupon today to Science Fiction Book Clul
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SCIENCE FICTION BOOK CLUB

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Please accept my application for membership tn the Science
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