 Martian VFW by G. L. Vandenberg. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Franklin Paul. Martian VFW by G. L. Vandenberg. There's nothing like a parade, I always say. Of course, I'm a Martian. Mr. Crothers was a busy man. Coordinating the biggest parade in New York's history is not easy. He was maneuvering his 200 pounds around Washington Square with the agility of a quarterback. He had his hands full, organizing marchers, locating floats, placing their many brass bands in their proper order, and barking commands to assistance. But Mr. Crothers approached the job with all the zeal of an evangelist at a revival meeting. As he approached the southwest corner of the square, he saw something that jarred his already frayed nerves. He stopped abruptly. The mass of clipboards and papers he was carrying fell to the street. There before him were 150 ants, each of them at least six feet tall. His first impulse was to turn and run for the nearest doctor. He was certain that the strain of his job was proving too much for him. But one of the ants approached him. It seemed friendly enough, so Mr. Crothers stood his ground. My group was waiting for their assignment. The ants' voice seemed to be coming from the very core of his thorax, which was a violent red. Good Lord! Mr. Crothers' mouth opened as wide as an oven door. Mr. Crothers, I believe the parade is about to start and my group... Mr. Crothers managed to blurt out, What the devil are you anyway? This is the parade marking the International Geophysical Year. Is it not? The ant had a pleasant friendly voice. Well, yes, but... And you are Mr. Crothers, the manager of the parade. Is that not correct? Mr. Crothers rubbed his eyes and took another look at the strange creature. Its head was brilliant yellow. It had two large goggle eyes, which rolled like... Intenerate marbles when it spoke. The low, slung abdomen was burnt brown. It was bad enough, Crothers thought, that these ants were six feet tall, but it was nightmarish to see them in three colors. Mr. Crothers, the ant continued, Haven't you been instructed by the National Academy of Sciences that the Martian VFW is to participate in this parade? The Martian, Mr. Crothers' mouth was open again. Then he realized that when the ant spoke its mouth didn't move. He picked up his clipboard and papers from the street. His voice was hostile now. What the hell is this? Some kind of gag? What are you trying to do? A man half to death? Oh, we're not joking, Mr. Crothers. The National Academy, they didn't say anything to me about a bunch of clowns dressed up like ants. Mr. Crothers' indignation became intensified. He was loath to admit that he'd been taken in by such obviously animated costumes. Now look here, I'm a very busy man. The arrangements have been made, Mr. Crothers. If my group is refused to place in this parade, we shall file suit immediately. As manager, you'll be named co-defendant. The ant was gentle, but firm. The thought of being sued softened Mr. Crothers' attitude. Well, I'm very sorry, pal, but every contingent in this parade is listed on my clipboard, and you're not. I know this list by heart. What did you say the name of your group was? The Martian V. F. W. Mr. Crothers was amused. Those sure are the craziest outfits I've ever seen, he chuckled. Where'd you get him? Walt Disney make him for you? He followed his own little joke with a long, throaty laugh. The ant was impatient. About the parade, Mr. Crothers, there isn't much time. Oh yes, the parade. Well, let me see. He thumbed through his clipboard. I guess there's always room for a few laughs. How many in your group? One hundred and fifty. And we also have a float with us. Not a very large one. It measures twenty by twenty. Tell you what. You move your group to the corner of Thompson Street and Third Street. Get behind the Tiffany float and follow them, okay? The ant paused the moment to record the instruction in his mind. Then he turned to leave. Oh, wait a minute. Mr. Crothers cried before the ant could rejoin his group. Just who did you speak to at the National Academy of Sciences? I believe it was Mr. Canfield. Mr. Crothers' face lit up. Well, why didn't you say that in the first place? I'd have placed you right away. That's perfectly all right, Mr. Crothers. Listen, I don't know what you guys do, but those costumes should certainly bring the house down. There's going to be four million people watching this parade. I bet that's the biggest audience you've ever seen. It certainly is. With that, the ant strode away. Good luck, Mr. Crothers shouted after him. Daddy, daddy, look. Look at the big rocket. The little boy jumped up and down gleefully. It must be a whole mile long, Daddy. What kind is it? That's the Vanguard, son. An autumn breeze from the East River chilled their vantage point at 61st Street and Fifth Avenue. The Vanguard? The name meant nothing to the boy. Gee, I'll bet it can fly all the way to the stars. It's the rocket that carried the first artificial satellite to space. The parade, now three hours old, continued past the reviewing stand. I want to get a better look at the Vanguard, the boy shouted. The father lift the boy onto his shoulders. The little fellow laughed and whooped it up, firing several shots from his Captain video ray gun at the passing missile. The rocket moved on and the noise of the crowd diminished slightly. A 100-piece brass band was passing in front of them. They were playing The Stars and Stripes Forever. They were followed by the Saks Fifth Avenue display. Nine small floats, each depicting life on another planet. The National Academy of Sciences had a success on its hands. Wow! Daddy, I want to ride on it! I want to ride on that float and visit all the planets! Can I, Daddy? The boy became all limbs, trying to square him down from his father's shoulders. You stay right where you are, young man. The father struggled to hold his balance. But I want to go to the stars. I can watch the rest of the parade from Venus or Mercury. Please, Daddy! The father grinned. Not just yet, son. But it won't be long before man will go to the stars. Who lives up there, Daddy? Oh, there isn't any life up there yet. If no one's living up there, why does anyone want to go there? Well, maybe there'll be too many people on Earth someday, and then we'll have to find another planet with more room. Another monstrous brass band was going by. The boy became restless. He began to toy with his ray gun, half interested in seeing if there were any sparks left in it. Why can't there be something beside so many bands in that parade? I want to see another float. The father tried to interest the boy by pointing out all the famous people who were also there. The United Statesmen, the world's leading scientists and religious and cultural leaders. The President of the United States. The boy was interested, but not in what his elder was saying to him. He was looking downtown, his eyes squinting, trying to make out figures as far away as 56th Street. Then his mouth opened, not uttering a sound yet. Just waiting to burst with joy at what was coming toward them. His father looked up at him. I wish you'd tell me what you're looking at. I'm all the way down here on the street level, remember? Daddy, they look like ants. What? Ants, daddy, ants. A whole army of them. Ain't it exciting? What on Earth are you talking about? They're doing somersaults and backflips and everything. They're coming right this way. Gee, there's hundreds of them. And they got a float behind them, daddy. A great big float with something burning on it. The child sitting on his shoulders made mobility impossible for the father. And he couldn't see around the spectators. He resigned himself to stand and wait for this new spectacle to overtake them. The reaction to this new sight had already begun to work its way uptown. In the distance. But getting closer every second, he could hear unrestrained laughter and rejoicing. Hey, take it easy. The boy was beginning to ride the shoulders like a bronco buster. By the time they get here, I won't have any shoulders left. Where are they now? They're almost here, daddy. And they aren't ants at all. They're just a bunch of clowns dressed up like it. He began to giggle hysterically. What's funny? Can you see them yet, daddy? Before the father could produce an answer, the ants were in view. They were a sight that couldn't fail to stimulate the funny bone. By comparison, with real ants, everything about them had been grossly exaggerated to achieve the proper effect. They walked on their two back legs, but the four front apertures were far from idle. Some of them turned somersaults. Others did complicated flips, consisting of two or three spins in mid-air. Still others, doing a kind of animated cakewalk, carried toy ray guns, which they fired at random, into the crowd. The guns were something like the little boy's captain video ray gun, only larger. They emitted little streaks of blue sparks, which shone brightly, but disappeared when contact was made with air. They were easily the hit of the parade, a three-ring circus all by themselves, as they pranced and clowned their way up Fifth Avenue, giving the spectators a wail of a show that was completely new. The guests on the reviewing stand refrained from any hilarity until they saw the float that four of the ants were pulling behind them. It was in keeping with the rest of the nonsense that they were perpetrating. The float boasted eight larger ray guns, three on each side and two in the rear, that fired the same fascinating blue sparks. Behind each gun, an ant stood on its head, wildly waving six legs in the breeze, begging to be noticed and laughed at. Above the guns, emblazoned in fiery orange letters, were the words Martian VFW. This was interpreted by one and all as a punchline and was treated accordingly. It was heartwarming to be able to see the president and so many other dignitaries abandon composure in favor of a good old-fashioned belly laugh. Daddy, I can't laugh anymore. The boy had to pause between every other word. My stomach hurts. Aren't they the funniest thing you ever saw? The father was too convulsed to be able to enter him. Daddy, one of them was coming this way. He's firing his Captain Video Ray gun at us. The boy squeezed his father and held on tight. The father took a deep breath in order to be able to speak. Take your gun and fire back at him, son. Fire away. Go on. He's just being playful. He broke forth with another gust of laughter. I won't see anything as funny as this again if I live to be a hundred. The ant pranced over to where they were standing, firing its gun in every direction. The boy fired back. The ant took one look at the lad's gun and let out a long cackling sound which built to a crescendo and then stopped as though it had been turned off. The ant rejoined the group and they continued on their merry way. The boy fired several shots into the float as it passed. He wanted to see if he could knock out the blazing orange letters, Martian VFW. The letters continued to burn, but in the boy's mind, he was certain he had made several direct hits. The boy and his father watched the float until it was out of sight. They knew there wouldn't be another attraction like those ants. They must have been real professionals, the father thought. Such teamwork. Such precision. Each one of them having a specific job to do and each doing it to perfection. After them, everything was bound to be anti-climactic. More marchers, more bands, a few more floats. The boy was beginning to tire. It had been a long day. Now everything was dull. Daddy, I don't want to see any more. Let's go home. We'll stay another five minutes. The parade somehow seemed to be slowing down. The father yawned and let his son down from his shoulders. He looked across the street at the president and the other dignitaries on the reviewing stand. All were slowly raising their hands in salute as another color guard drowsily made its way by. Soon, the last group in the parade was passing the review stand. Another brass band. They were moving with the speed of a glacier. A full five seconds elapsed between each note of music. Everything was happening in slow motion. On the reviewing stand, the dignified hands went up agonizingly slow to a final salute and they stayed there. The greatest minds in the world stood motionless, unalterably still. Just as each wave of pandemonium had unfurled itself up Fifth Avenue during the parade, so now did silence take command. The little boy tugged at his father's coat. Daddy, daddy, he pleaded. Why has the parade stopped? I want to go home. He came more slowly with each passing second, like a high speed phonograph playing at 33 and a third RPM. Daddy, why don't you answer me, Daddy? Why don't... His father never heard him. Fifty miles across the Atlantic, the fleet of spaceships hung suspended like lanterns, and the lead shipped the ant in charge of communications reported to the commander. We've just received the first communicate from the advance guard, sir. Read it to me. The communications chief read from a large, perforated paper. Time, 0600. Mission accomplished. Manhattan Island cut down the middle. Immediate result of supersonic rays. Four million dead. Rays spreading east and west. Estimated time of rays, full effect, 0800. Island will then be neutralized, awaiting further orders. The ant folded the paper and looked up at the commander. Shall I relay further orders, sir? No. The commander of the ants paused and stroked his chin. We're moving in. The end. Martian VFW by G. L. Vandenberg. Recorded by Franklin Paul, New York. The Most Sentimental Man by Evelyn E. Smith. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Joshua Sexton. The Most Sentimental Man by Evelyn E. Smith. Johnson went to see the others off at Idlewild. He knew they'd expect him to, and, since it would be the last conventional gesture he'd have to make, he might as well conform to their notions of what was right and proper. For the past few centuries the climate had beginning hotter. Now, even though it was not yet June, the day was uncomfortably warm. The sun's rays glinting off the bright metal flanks of the ship dazzled his eyes, and perspiration made his shirt stick to his shoulder blades beneath the jacket that the formality of the occasion had required. He wished Clifford would hurry up and get the leave taking over with. But, even though Clifford was undoubtedly even more anxious than he to finish with all this ceremony and take off, he wasn't the kind of man to let inclination to influence his actions. Sure you won't change your mind and come with us? Johnson shook his head. The young man looked at him, hatred for the older man's complication of what should have been a simple departure showing through the pellicle of politeness. He was young for, since this trip had only slight historical importance and none of any other kind, the authorities had felt a junior officer entirely sufficient. It was clear, however, that Clifford attributed his commandorship to his merits and he was very conscious of his great responsibility. We have plenty of room on the ship, he persisted. There weren't many left to go. We could take you easily enough, you know. Johnson made a negative signing in. The rays of the sun beating full upon his head made apparent the gray that usually blended into the still thick blonde hair. Yet, though past youth, he was far from being an old man. I've made my decision," he said, remembering that anger now was pointless. If it's— If you're just too proud to change your mind, the young commander said less certainly. I'm sure everyone will understand if—if— Johnson smiled. No, it's just that I want to stay. That's all. The commander's clear blue eyes were still baffled, uneasy, as though he felt he had not done the utmost at duty. Not duty to the service, but to humanity required. That was the trouble with people, Johnson thought. When they were most well-meaning, they became most troublesome. Clifford lowered his voice to an appropriately funeral hush, as a fresh thought obviously struck him. I know, of course, that you loved ones are buried here and perhaps you feel it's your duty to stay with them? At this, Johnson almost forgot that anger no longer had any validity. By loved ones, Clifford undoubtedly had met Eleanor and Paul. It was true that Johnson had had a certain affection for his wife and son when they were alive. Now that they were dead, they represented an episode in his life that had not, perhaps, been unpleasant, but was certainly over and done with now. Did Clifford think that was his reason for remaining? Why, he must believe Johnson to be the most sentimental man on earth. And come to think of it, Johnson said to himself, amused, I am, or soon will be, just that. The Commander was still unconsciously pursuing the same train of thought. It does seem incredible, he said, in a burst of boyish candor that did not become him, for he was not that young, that you'd want to stay alone on a whole planet. I mean to say entirely alone. There will never be another ship, you know, at least not in your lifetime. Johnson knew what the other man was thinking. If there had been a woman with Johnson now, Clifford might have been able to understand a little better how the other could stick by his decision. Johnson wriggled, as sweat oozed stickily down his back. For God's sake, he said silently, take your silly ship and get the hell off my planet. Allowed, he said, it's a good planet, a little worn out, but still in pretty good shape. Pity you can't trade in an old world like an old car, isn't it? If it weren't so damned far from the center of things, the young man replied, defensively assuming the burden of all civilization, we wouldn't abandon it. After all, we hate leaving the world on which we originated. But it's a long haul to Alpha Centauri, you know that, and the tremendously expensive one. Keeping up this place solely out of sentiment would be a sheer waste. The people would never stand for the tax burden. A costly museum, yes, Johnson agreed. How much longer were these dismal farewells going to continue? How much longer would the young man still feel the need to justify himself? If only there were others full enough, if only there were others with you. But even if anybody else would be willing to cut himself off entirely from the rest of the civilized universe, the Earth won't support enough of a population to keep it running, not according to our present living standards anyway. Most of its resources are gone now, you know. Hardly any coal or oil left, and that's not worth digging for when there are better and cheaper fields in the system. He was virtually quoting from the Colonial Officers' Manual, were there any people left able to think for themselves, Johnson wondered, had there ever been? Had he thought for himself in making his decision, or was he merely clinging to a childish dream that all men had had and lost? With man gone, Earth will replenish herself, he said aloud. First, the vegetation would begin to grow thick. Already it had released itself from the restraint of civilization. Soon it would be spreading out over the continent, overrunning the cities with delicately persistent green tendrils. Some the harsh winters would kill, but others would live on and would multiply. Vines would twist themselves about the tall buildings and tenderly, passionately, squeeze them to death, eventually sending them tumbling down. And then the trees would rear themselves in their places. The swamps that man had filled in would begin to reappear one by one, as the land sank back to a pristine state. The sea would go on changing her boundaries, with no dykes to stop her. Volcanoes would heave up the land into different configurations. The heat would increase until it grew unbearable. Only there would be no one, no human anyway, to bear it. Year after year the leaves would wither and fall in decay, rock would cover them, and some day, billions of years' fence, there would be coal and oil, and nobody to want them. Very likely Earth will replenish herself, the commander agreed. But not in your time, or your children's time. That is, not in my children's time, he added hastily. The handful of men lined up in a row before the airlock shuffled their feet and allowed their muttering to become a few decibels louder. Clifford looked at his risk chronometer. Obviously he was no less anxious than the crew to be off, but for the sake of his conscience he must make a last try. Damn your conscience, Johnson thought. I hope that for this you feel guilty as hell. That you wake up nights in a cold sweat, remembering that you left one man alone on the planet, you and your kind discarded. Not that I don't want to stay, mind you, but that I want you to suffer the way you're making me suffer now, having to listen to your platitudes. The commander suddenly stopped paraphrasing the manual. Camping out's fun for a week or two, you know, but it's different when it's for a lifetime. Johnson's fingers curled in his palms. He was even angrier now that the commander had struck so close to home. Camping out. Was that all he was doing, fulfilling childhood desires, nothing more? Fortunately Clifford didn't realize that he had scored, and scuttled back to the shelter of the manual. Perhaps you don't know enough about the new system in Alpha Centauri, he said, a trifle wildly. It has two suns, surrounded by three planets, Thalia, Aglia, and Euphrosine. Each of these planets is slightly smaller than Earth, so that the decrease in gravity is just great enough to be pleasant without being smart to be intervenant. The atmosphere is almost exactly like that of Earth, except that it contains several beneficial elements which are absent here, and the climate is more temperate. Owing to the fact that the planets are partially shielded from the suns by cloud layers, the temperature, except immediately at the poles and the equators, where it is slightly more extreme, is always equitable, resembling that of Southern California. Sounds charming, said Johnson. I too have read the colonial office handouts. I wonder what the people who wrote them will do now that there's no longer any necessity for attracting colonists. Everybody's already up in Alpha Centauri. Oh, well, there'll be other systems to conquer and colonize. The word conquer is hardly correct, the commanders had stiffly, since not one of the three planets had any indigenous lifeforms that was intelligent, or lifeforms that you recognize as intelligent, Johnson suggested gently. Although why should there be such a premium place on intelligence, he wondered, was intelligence the sole criterion on which the right to life and to freedom should be based? The commander frowned and looked at his chronometer again. Well, he finally said, since you feel that way and you're sure you've quite made up your mind, my men are anxious to go. Of course they are, Johnson said, managing to convey just the right amount of reproach. Cliffid flushed and started to walk away. I'll stand out of the way of your jets, Johnson called after him. It would be so anticlimactic to have me burnt to a crisp after all this. Bon voyage! There was no reply. Johnson watched the silver vessel shoot up into the sky and thought, now is the time for me to feel a pain or even a twinge, but I don't at all. I feel relieved in fact, but that's probably the result of getting rid of that fool Clifford. He crossed the field briskly, pulling off his jacket and discarding his tie as he went. His ground car remained where he had parked it, in an area clearly marked no parking. He left him an old car that wasn't worth shipping to the stars. How long it would last was anybody's guess. The government hadn't been deliberately illiberal in leaving him such a shabby vehicle. If there had been any way to ensure a continuing supply of fuel, they would probably have left him a reasonably good one. But since only a little could be left, allowing him a good car would have been simply an example of conspicuous waste, and the government had always preferred its waste to be inconspicuous. He drove slowly through the broad boulevards of Long Island, savoring the loneliness. New York as a residential area had been a ghost town for years, since the greater part of its citizens had been among the first to emigrate to the stars. However, since it was the capital of the world and most of the interstellar ships, particularly the last few, had taken off from its spaceports. It had been kept up as an official embarkation center. Thus, paradoxically, it was the last city to be completely evacuated. And so, although the massive but gerry-built apartment houses that lined the streets were already crumbling, the roads had been kept in fairly good shape and were hardly cracked at all. Still, here and there the green was pushing its way up in unliked places. A few more of New York's tropical summers and Long Island would soon become a wilderness. The streets were empty, except for the cats and themselves on long abandoned doorsteps or patting about on obscure errands of their own. Perhaps their numbers had not increased since humanity had left the city to them, but there certainly seemed to be more. Striped and solid, black and gray, and white and tiny, accepting their citizenship with equanimity. They paid no attention to Johnson. They had long since disassociated from the cells of humanity that had not concerned itself greatly over their welfare. On the other hand, neither he nor the surface car appeared to startle them. The old ones had seen such before, into kittens the very fact of existence as the ultimate surprise. The Queensborough Bridge was deadly silent. It was completely empty except for a calico cat moving purposefully toward Manhattan. The structure needed a coat of paint, Johnson thought vaguely, but of course they would never get one. Still, even uncared for it, the bridges should outlast him. They would be trafficked to weaken them. Just in case of unforeseeable catastrophe, however, he didn't want to be trapped on an island, even Manhattan Island. He had remembered to provide himself with a rowboat. A motorboat would have been preferable, but then a fuel difficulty would arise again. How empty the East River looked without any craft on it. It was rather a charming little waterway in its own right, though nothing to compare with the stately Hudson. The water scintillated in the sunshine, the air was clear and fresh, for no factories had spewed fumes and smoke into it for many years. There were few gulls, for nothing was left for the scavenger. Those remaining were forced to make an honest living by catching fish. In Manhattan, where the buildings had been soundly constructed, the signs of abandonment were less evident. Empty streets, an occasional cracked window, not even an unusual amount of dirt, because in the past the normal activities of the industrial and ruggedly individual city had provided more grime than years of neglect could ever hope to equal. No, it would take Manhattan longer to go back than Long Island. Perhaps that too would not happen during his lifetime. Yet, after all, when he reached Fifth Avenue, he found that Central Park had burst its boundaries. 59th Street was already half-jungle, and a lush growth spilled down the avenues and spread raggily out into the side streets, pushing its way up through the cracks it had made in the surface of the road. Although the plaza fountain had not flowed for centuries, water had collected in the leaf-choked basin from the last rain, and a group of gray squirrels were gathered around it, shrilly disputing possession with some starlings. Except for the occasional cry of a cat in the distance, these voices were all that he heard, the only sound. Not even the sudden blast of a jet regaining power. He would never hear that again. Never hear the stride or of a human voice piercing with anger. The cacophony of a hundred television sets, each playing a different program, the hoot of a horn, off-ceasinging the thin, uncertain notes of an amateur musician. These would never be heard on earth again. He sent the car gliding slowly, no more traffic rolls down Fifth Avenue. The buildings here also were well built. They were many centuries old and would probably last as many more. The top windows were empty except for tangles of dust, an occasional broken, discarded mannequin, and some instances the glass had already cracked or fallen out. Since there were no children to throw stones, however, others might last indefinitely, carefully glassing in nothingness. Doors stood open and he could see rows of empty counters and barren shells fuzzed high with the dust of the years since the customer had approached them. Cats, sedately walked up and down the avenue, gentily with tails tucked in on the steps of the cathedral, as if the place had been theirs all along. Dusk was falling. Tonight, for the first time in centuries, the street lamps would not go on. Undoubtedly when it grew dark he would see ghosts, but they would be the ghosts of the past, and he had made his peace with the past long since. It was the present and the future with which he had not come to terms, and now there would be no present, no past, no future, all merged into one, and he was the only one. At 42nd Street, pigeons fluttered thickly around the public library, fat as ever, their numbers greater, their appetite's grosser. The ancient library, he knew, had changed little inside. Stacks and shells would still be packed thick with reading matter. Books were bulky, so only the rare additions had been taken beyond the stars. The rest had been microfilmed, and their originals left to Johnson and Decay. It was his library now, and he had all the time in the world to read all the books in the world, for there were more than he could possibly read in the years that, even at the most generous estimate, were left to him. He had been wondering where to make his permanent residence for, with the whole world his, he would be a fool to confine himself to some modest dwelling. Now we fancy it might be a good idea to move right into the library. He stopped the car to stare thoughtfully at the little park behind the grimy monument to neoclassism. Like Central Park, Bryant had already slipped its boundaries and encroached upon Sixth Avenue, Avenue of the World, the street sign said now, and before it had been Avenue of the Nations, and Avenue of the Americas. But to the public it had always been Sixth Avenue, and to Johnson, the last man on earth. It was Sixth Avenue. He'd live in the library while he stayed in New York, that was. He'd thought that in a few weeks, when it got really hot, he might strike north. He had always meant to spend a summer in Canada. His service car would probably never last a trip, but the Museum of Ancient Vehicles had been glad to bestow half a dozen of the bicycles from their exhibits upon him. After all, he was, in effect, a museum pace himself, and so as worth preserving as to bicycles. Moreover, bicycles are difficult to pack for an interstellar trip. With reasonable care, these might last him his lifetime. But he had to have a permanent residence somewhere, and the library was an elegant and commodious dwelling, centrally located. New York would have to be his headquarters, for all the possessions he had carefully amassed and collected and bagged in, since money would do him no good anymore, and bought, were here. And there were, by far, too many of them to be transported to any really distant location. He loved to own things. He was, by no means, an advocate of Rousseau's complete return to nature. Whatever civilization had left that he could use without compromise he would, and thankfully. There would be no electricity, of course, but he had provided himself with flashlights and bulbs and batteries. Not too many of the last, of course, because they'd grow stale. However, he'd also laid in plenty of candles in a vast supply of matches. Tins of food and concentrates and synthetics, packages of seed, should he grow tired of all these and want to try growing his own. Fruit, he knew, would be growing wild soon enough. Vitamins and medicines, of course, were he to be really ill or get hurt in some way. It might be the end. But that was something he wouldn't think of. Something that couldn't possibly happen to him. For his relaxation he had an antique hand-wound phonograph, together with thousands of old-fashioned records. And then, of course, he had the whole planet, the whole world to amuse him. He even had provided himself with a heat-ray gun and a substantial supply of ammunition, although he couldn't imagine himself ever killing an animal for food. It was squeamishness that stood in his way rather than any ethical considerations, although he did indeed believe that every creature had the right to live. Nonetheless, there was the possibility that the craving for fresh meat might change his mind for him. Besides, although hostile animals have long been gone from this part of the world, the only animals would be birds and squirrels and farther up the huts and rabbits and chipmunks and deer, perhaps an occasional bear in the mountains. Who knew what harmless lifeform might become a threat now that its development would be left unchecked. A cat, sitting atop one of the stately stone lions outside in the library, met his eye with such a steady gaze of understanding, though not of sympathy, that he found himself needing to repeat the by-and-now-almost-magic phrase to himself, not in my lifetime anyway. What some intelligent lifeform developed is a plant man, or would the planet revert to a primeval state of mindless innocence? He would never know, and he didn't really care, no point in speculating over unanswerable questions. He settled back luxuriously on the worn cushions of his car. Even so little as twenty years before it would have been impossible for him, for anyone, to stop his vehicle in the middle of 42nd Street and 5th Avenue, purely to meditate. But it was his domain now. He could go in the wrong direction on one-way streets, stop wherever he placed, drive as fast or as slowly as he would, and could, of course. If he wanted to do anything as vulgar as spit in the street, he could. But they were his streets now, not to be sullied. Crossed a road without waiting for the lights to change. It would be a long, long wait if he did. Go to sleep where he wanted. Eat as many meals as he wanted whenever he chose. He could go naked in hot weather, and there'd be no one to raise an eyebrow. They faced public buildings, except that they were private buildings now, his buildings. Idle without the guilty feeling that there was always something better he could and should be doing, even if there were not. There would be no more guilty feelings. Without people and their knowledge there was no more guilt. The movement in the bushes behind the library caught his eye. Surely there couldn't be a thaw in Bryant Park so soon. He'd thought it would be another ten years at least before the wild animals came sniffing timidly along the Hudson, venturing a little farther each time they saw no sign of their age-old enemy. But probably the deer was only his imagination. He would investigate further after he had moved into the library. Perhaps a higher building than the library. But then he would have to climb too many flights of stairs. The elevators wouldn't be working. Silly of him to forget that. There were a lot of steps outside the library, too. It would be a chore to get his bicycles up those steps. Then he smiled to himself. Robinson Crusoe would have been glad to have had bicycles and steps and such relatively harmless animals as bears to worry about. No, Robinson Crusoe never had it so good as he, Johnston, would have. And what more could he want? Four. Whoever before in history had had his dreams. And what was wrong with dreams, after all? So completely gratified. What child, envisioning a desert island all his own, could imagine that his island would be the whole world? Together, Johnston and the earth would grow young again. No, the stars were for others. Johnston was not the first man in history who had wanted the earth, but he had been the first man and probably the last who had actually been given it. And he was well content with his bargain. There was plenty of room for the bears, too. End of The Most Sentimental Man by Evelyn E. Smith Emma, Monette to her friends, Cummings returns with another hauntingly persuasive tale of a tomorrow that may not be as gleaming as we hope. Her recent story, The Weirdies, apparently delighted some and startled others, and this in Los Angeles. What's happening there? He didn't know how he could have stood the four months there alone. She was company and one could talk to her. She didn't tell anyone about it. In the first place, they'd never believe me. And if they did, I'd probably be punished for having her, because we aren't allowed to have pets of any kind. It wouldn't have happened if they hadn't sent me way out there to work. But, you see, there are so many things I can't do. I remember the day the chief of vocation took me before the council. I've tried a monot dozen things, he reported. People always talk about me as if I can't understand what I mean, but I'm really not that dumb. There doesn't seem to be a thing he can do," the chief went on. Actually, his intelligence seems to be no greater than that which we believe our ancestors had back in the twentieth century. As bad as that, observed one of the council members, you do have a problem. But we must find something for him to do," said another. We can't have an idle person in this state. It's unthinkable. But what, asked the chief, he's utterly incapable of running any of the machines I've tried to teach him. The only things he can do are already being done much better by robots. There was a long silence broken at last by one little old council member. I haven't, he cried. The very thing will make him guard of the treasure. There's no need of a guard. No one will touch the treasure without permission. We haven't had a dishonest person in the state for more than three thousand years. That's it, exactly. There aren't any dishonest people, so there won't be anything for him to do. But we will have solved the problem of his idleness. It might be a solution," said the chief, at least a temporary one. I suppose we will have to find time to look for something. So I became guard of the treasure with a badge and nothing to do, unless you count watching the key. The gates were kept locked just as they were in the old days, but the large keys hung beside them. Of course, no one wanted to bother carrying it around. It was too heavy. The only ones who ever used it, anyway, were members of the council. As the man said, we haven't had a dishonest person in the state for thousands of years, even I know that much. Of course, this left me with lots of time on my hands. That's how I happened to get her in the first place. I'd always wanted one, but pets were forbidden. Busy people didn't have time for them, so I knew I was breaking the law. But I figured that no one would ever find out. First I fixed a place for her and made a brush screen then one night I sneaked into the forest and got her. It wasn't so lonely after that. Now I had something to talk to. She was small when I got her. It would be too dangerous to go near a full grown one, but she grew rapidly. That was because I cut small animals and brought them to her. Not having to depend on what she could catch, she grew almost twice as fast as usual and was so sleek and pretty. Really, she was a pet to be proud of. I don't know how I could have stood the four months there alone, if I hadn't had her to talk to. I don't think she really understood me, but I pretended she did, and that helped. Every three or four weeks three of the council members came to take a part of the treasure or to add to it, always three of them. That's why I was so surprised one day to see one man coming by himself. I asked Rem, the little old member who had recommended that I be given this job. I was happy to see him and we talked for a while, mostly about my work and how I liked it. I almost told him about my pet, but I didn't because he might be angry at me for breaking the law. Finally he asked me to give him the key. I've been sent to get something from the treasure, he explained. I was unhappy to displease him, but I said, you have it. There must be three members. You know that. Of course I know it, but something came up suddenly, so they sent me it alone. Now, let me have it. I shook my head. That was the one order they had given me, never to give the key to any one person who came along. Rem became quite angry. You idiot! he shouted. Why do you think I had to put out here? It was so I could go in there and help myself to the treasure. But that would be dishonest, and there are no dishonest people in the state. For three thousand years I know his usually kind face had an ugly look I had never seen before, but I'm going to get part of that treasure, and it won't do you any good to report it because no one is going to take the world of a fool like you they'll think you are the dishonest one. Now, give me that key. It's a terrible thing to disobey a council member. But if I obeyed him I would be disobeying all the others. And that would be worse. No, I shouted. He threw himself upon me. For his size and age he was very strong, stronger even than I. I fought as hard as I could, but I knew I wouldn't be able to keep him away from the key for very long. And if he took the treasure I would be blamed. The council would have to think a new punishment for dishonesty. Whatever it was it would be terrible indeed. He drew back and rushed at me. Just as he hit me my foot cut upon a root and I fell. His rush carried him past me and he crashed through the brush screen beside the path. I heard him scream and there was silence. I was bruised all over but I managed to pull myself up and take away what was left of the screen. There was no sign of Grim but my beautiful pet was waving her pearl-green feelers as she always did in thanks for a good meal. That's why I can't tell anyone what happened. No one would believe that Grim would be dishonest. And I can't prove it at all. No one is going to believe that a flycatcher plant even a big one like mine would actually be able to eat a man. So they think that Grim disappeared and I'm still out here with her. She's grown so much larger now and more beautiful than ever. But I hope she hasn't developed a taste for human flesh. Lately when she stretches out her feelers it seems that she's trying to reach me. No Pet's Allowed by M.A. Cummings. I reached a raid on Fort Knox. Are very much in the news these days. Certainly the prizes to be won are astronomical. And the contestants scarcely left so. Step right up, little lady, and tell us why your eyes look so strange. What's that? You want us to read this astounding science fantasy documentary by J. Anthony Furlane first? Well, perhaps we should play it safe while the flying saucer folk are watching us. I watched Don Phillips, the commercial announcer in the corner of my eye. The camera in front of me swung around and lined up on my set. And now on with the show, Phillips was saying, and here, ready to test your wits, is your quizzing quizmaster smiling Jim Parsons. I smiled into the camera and waited while the audience applauded. The camera tally light went on and the stage manager brought his arm down and pointed at me. Good afternoon, I said into the camera. Here we go again with another half-hour of fun and prizes on television's newest, most exciting game, Parler Quiz. In a moment, I'll introduce you to our first contestant. But first, here is a special message to you mothers. The baby powder commercial appeared on the monitor, and I walked over to the next set. They had the first contestant lined up for me. I smiled and took her card from the floor man. She was a middle-aged woman with a faded print dress and shoes. I never saw the contestants until we were on the air. They were screened before the show by the staff. They usually tried to pick contestants who would make good show material, an odd name or occupation or somebody with twenty kids, something of that nature. I looked at the card for the tip-off. Mrs. Frida Dunney, the card said, asked her where she comes from. I smiled at the contestant again and took her by the hand. The tally light went on again and said, well, now we're all set to go. And our first contestant today is this charming little lady right here beside me, Mrs. Frida Dunney. I looked at the card. How are you, Mrs. Dunney? Fine, just fine. All set to answer a lot of questions and win a lot of prizes. Oh, I'll win all right. Said Mrs. Dunney, smiling around at the audience. The audience tittered a bit at the remark. I looked at the card again. Mrs. Dunney, Mars. Said Mrs. Dunney. Mars, I laughed anticipating the answer. Mars, Montana. Mars, Peru. No, Mars, up there. She said, pointing in the air, the planet Mars, the fourth planet out from the sun. My assistant looked unhappy. I smiled again, wondering what the gag was. I decided to play along. Well, well, I said, all the way from Mars, eh? And how long have you been on Earth, Mrs. Dunney? Oh, about thirty or forty years. I've been here nearly all my life. Came here when I was a wee bit of a girl. Well, I said, you're practically an Earth woman by now, aren't you? The audience laughed. Do you plan on going back some day, or have you made your mind up to stay here on Earth for the rest of your days? Oh, I'm just here for the invasion, said Mrs. Dunney. When that's over, I'll probably go back home again. The invasion? Yes, the invasion of Earth. As soon as enough of us are here, we'll get started. You mean there are others here, too? Oh, yes, there are several million of us here in the United States already, and more are on the way. There are only about a hundred and seventy million people in the United States, Mrs. Dunney, I said. If there are several million Martians among us, one out of every hundred would have to be a Martian. One out of every ten, said Mrs. Dunney. That's what the boss said just the other day. We're getting pretty close to the number we need to take over Earth. What do you need? I asked. One to one? One Martian for every Earthman? Oh, no, said Mrs. Dunney. One Martian is worth ten Earthmen. The only reason we're waiting is we don't want any trouble. You don't look any different from us Earth people, Mrs. Dunney. How does one tell the difference between a Martian and an Earthman when one sees one? Oh, we don't look any different, said Mrs. Dunney. Some of the kids don't even know their Martians. Most mothers don't tell their children until they're grown up. And there are other children who are never told because they just don't develop their full powers. What powers? Oh, telepathy, thought control, that sort of thing. You mean that Martians can read people's thoughts? Sure, it's no trouble at all. It's very easy, really, once you get the hang of it. Can you read my mind? I asked, smiling. Sure, said Mrs. Dunney, smiling up at me. That's why I said that I'd know the answers. I'll be able to read the answers from your mind when you look at that sheet of paper. Now that's hardly sporting, is it, Mrs. Dunney? I said, turning to the camera, the audience laughed. Everybody else has to do it the hard way, and here you are reading it from my mind. All spare in love and war, said Mrs. Dunney. Tell me, Mrs. Dunney, why are you telling me about all this? Isn't it supposed to be a secret? I have my reasons, said Mrs. Dunney. Nobody believes me anyhow. Oh, I believe you, Mrs. Dunney, I said gravely. And now let's see how you do on the questions. Are you ready? She nodded. Name the one and only mammal that has the ability to fly. I asked, reading from the script, a bat. She said, right, did you read that from my mind? Oh yes, you're coming over very clear, said Mrs. Dunney. Try this one, I said. A princess is any daughter of a sovereign. What is a princess royale? The eldest daughter of a sovereign. She said, correct. How about this one? Is a Kodiak, a kind of simple box camera, a type of double bowed boat, or a kind of Alaskan bear? A bear, said Mrs. Dunney. Very good, I said. That was a hard one. I asked her seven more questions, and she got them all right. None of the other contestants even came close to her score. So I wound up giving her the gas range and a lot of other smaller prizes. After we were off the air, I followed the audience out into the hall. Mrs. Dunney was walking toward the lobby with an old paper shopping bag under her arm. An attendant was following her with an armful of prizes. I caught up with her before she reached the door. Mrs. Dunney, I said, and she turned around. I want to talk to you. When do I get the gas stove? She said. Your local dealer will send it to you in a few days. Did you give them your address? Yes, I gave it to them. My Philadelphia address, that is. I don't even remember my address at home anymore. Come now, Mrs. Dunney. You don't have to keep up that Mars business now that we're off the air. It's the truth, and I didn't come here just by accident, said Mrs. Dunney, looking over her shoulder toward the attendant, who was still holding the prizes. I came here to see you. Me? Mrs. Dunney set the paper bag down on the floor and dug down into her pocketbook. She took out a dog-eared piece of white paper and bent it up in her hand. Yes, she said finally. I came to see you, and you didn't follow me out here because you wanted to. I commanded you to come. Commanded me to come? I spluttered. What for? To prove something to you. Do you see this piece of paper? She held out the paper in her hand with the blank side toward me. My address is on this paper. I am reading the address. Concentrate on what I'm reading. I looked at her. I concentrated. Suddenly I knew. 251 South 8th Street, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. I said aloud. You see, it's very easy once you get the hang of it. She said. I nodded and smiled down at her. Now I understood. I picked up her bag and put my hand on her shoulder. Let's go, I said. We have a lot to talk about. End of One Out of Ten by J. Anthony Furlane Postmark Ganymede by Robert Silverberg This is LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Darcy Smitenar. Postmark Ganymede by Robert Silverberg. Consider the poor mailman of the future. To sleet and snow and dead of night, things that must not keep him from his appointed rounds will be added, subzero void, meteors, and planets that won't stay put. Maybe he'll decide that for six cents an ounce it just ain't worth it. I'm washed up, Preston growled bitterly. They made a postman out of me. Me, a postman. He crumpled the assignment memo into a small hard ball and hurled it at the bristly image of himself in the bar mirror. He hadn't shaved in three days, which was how long it had been since he had been notified of his removal from space patrol service and his transfer to postal delivery. Suddenly, Preston fell to hand on his shoulder. He looked up and saw a man in the trim gray of a patrolman's uniform. What do you want, Dawes? Chief's been looking for you, Preston. It's time for you to get going on your run. Preston scowled. Time to go deliver the mail, eh? He spat. Don't they have anything better to do with good spacemen than make letter carriers out of them? The other man shook his head. You won't get anywhere grousing about it, Preston. Your papers don't specify which brands you're assigned to, and if they want to make you carry the mail, that's it. His voice became suddenly gentle. Come on, Prez, one last drink and then let's go. You don't want to spoil a good record, do you? No, Preston said reflectively. He gulped his drink and stood up. Okay, I'm ready. Neither snow nor rain shall stay me from my appointed rounds or however the damn thing goes. That's a smart attitude, Preston. Come on, I'll walk you over to administration. Savagely, Preston ripped away the hand that the other had put around his shoulders. I can get there myself. At least give me credit for that. Okay, Dawes said shrugging. Well, good luck, Preston. Yeah, thanks. Thanks real lots. He pushed his way past the man in space graze and shouldered past a couple of bar flies as he left. He pushed open the door of the bar and stood outside for a moment. It was near midnight and the sky over Gnome's spaceport was bright with stars. Preston's trained eye picked out Mars, Jupiter, Uranus. There they were, waiting. But he would spend the rest of his days ferrying letters on the Ganymede run. He sucked in the cold night air of summertime Alaska and squared his shoulders. Two hours later, Preston sat at the control room of a one-man patrol ship, just as he had in the old days. Only the control panel was bare where the firing studs for the heavy guns was found in regular patrol ships. And in the cargo hold instead of crates with spare ammo, there were three bulging sacks of mail destined for the colony on Ganymede. Slight difference, Preston thought as he set up his blasting pattern. Okay, Preston, came the voice from the tower. You've got clearance. Cheers, Preston said, and yanked the blast lever. The ship jilted upward, and for a second he felt a little of the old thrill until he remembered. He took the ship out in space, saw the blackness in the view plate, the radio crackled. Come in, postal ship. Come in, postal ship. I'm in. What do you want? Where your convoy, a hard voice said. Patrol ship 08756, Lieutenant Mellor is above you. Down at three o'clock, patrol ship 10732, Lieutenant Gunderson will take you through the pirate belt. Preston felt his face go hot with shame. Mellors, Gunderson, they would stick two of his old sidekicks on the job of guarding him. Please acknowledge, Mellor said. Preston paused. Then, postal ship 1872, Lieutenant Preston aboard. I acknowledge message. There was a stunned silence. Preston? Hal Preston? The one and only Preston said. What are you doing on a postal ship? Mellors asked. Why don't you ask the chief that? He's the one who yanked me out of the patrol and put me here. Can you beat that? Gunderson asked incredulously. Hal Preston, on a postal ship. Yeah, incredible, isn't it? Preston asked bitterly. You can't believe your ears. Well, you better believe it because here I am. Must be some clerical error, Gunderson said. Let's change the subject, Preston snapped. They were silent for a few moments, as the three ships, two armed, one loaded with mail for Ganymede, streaked outward away from Earth. Manipulating his controls with the ease of long experience, Preston guided the ship smoothly toward the gleaming bulk of far off Jupiter. Even at this distance, he could see five or six bright pips surrounding the huge planet. There was Galisto and, ah, there was Ganymede. He made computations, checked his controls, figured orbits. Anything to keep from having to talk to his two ex patrol mates or from having to think about the humiliating job he was on. Anything to... Pirates, moving up at two o'clock. Preston came awake. He picked off the location of the pirate ships. There were two of them, coming up out of the asteroid belt. All, deadly, compact, they orbited toward him. He pounded the instrument panel in impotent rage, looking for the guns that weren't there. Don't worry, Prez, came Miller's voice. We'll take care of them for you. Thanks, Preston said bitterly. He watched as the pirate ships approached, longing to trade places with the men in the patrol ships above and below him. Suddenly, a bright spear of flame lashed out across space and the hull of Gunderson's ship glowed cherry red. I'm okay, Gunderson reported immediately. Screens took the charge. Preston gripped his controls and threw the ship into a plunging dive that dropped it back behind the protection of both patrol ships. He saw Gunderson and Miller's converge on one of the pirates. Two blue beams licked out and the pirate ship exploded, but then the second pirate swooped down in an unexpected dive. Look out, Preston yelled helplessly, but it was too late. Beams ripped into the hull of Miller's ship and a dark fissure line opened down the side of the ship. Preston smashed his hand against the control panel. Better to die in an honest dog fight than to live this way. It was one against one now. Gunderson against the pirate. Preston dropped back again to take advantage of the patrol ship's protection. I'm going to try a diversionary tactic, Gunderson said, on untappable tight beam. Get ready to cut under and streak for Ganymede with all you got. Check. Even watched as the tactic got underway, Gunderson's ship traveled in a long, looping spiral that drew the pirate into the upper quadrant of space. His path free, Preston guided his ship under the other two and toured unobstructed freedom. As he looked back, he saw Gunderson steaming for the pirate on a shore collision orbit. He turned away. The score was two patrolmen dead, two ships wrecked, but the males would get through. Shaking his head, Preston leaned forward over his control board and went on toward Ganymede. The blue-white frozen moon hung beneath him. Preston snapped on the radio. Ganymede colony, come in please. This is your postal ship. The words tasted sour in his mouth. There was silence for a second. Come in, Ganymede. Preston repeated impatiently, and then the sound of a distressed signal cut across his audio pickup. It was coming on wide beam from the satellite below, and they had cut out all receiving facilities in an attempt to step up their transmitter. Preston reached for the wide beam stud and pressed it. Okay, I pick up your signal, Ganymede. Come in now. This is Ganymede, a tense voice said. We've got trouble down here. Who are you? Mail ship, Preston said, from Earth. What's going on? There was a sound of voices whispering somewhere near the microphone. Finally, hello, mail ship? Yeah? You're gonna have to turn back to Earth, fellow. You can't land here. It's rough on us missing a mail trip, but Preston said impatiently, why can't I land? What the devil's going on down there? We've been invaded, a tired voice said. The colony's been completely surrounded by ice worms. Ice worms? The local native life, the colonists explained. They're about 30 feet long, a foot wide, and mostly mouth. There's a ring of them about 100 yards wide surrounding the dome. They can't get in and we can't get out, and we can't figure out any possible approach for you. Pretty, Preston said. But why didn't the things bother you while you were building your dome? Apparently they have a very long hibernation cycle. We've only been here two years, you know. The ice worms must all have been asleep when we came, but they came swarming out of the ice by the hundreds last month. How come Earth doesn't know? The antenna for our long-range transmitter was outside the dome. One of the worms came by and chewed the antenna right off. All we've got left is this short-range thing we're using, and it's no good more than 10,000 miles from here. You're the first one who's been this close since it happened. I get it. Preston closed his eyes for a second, trying to think things out. The colony was under blockade by hostile alien life, thereby making it impossible for him to deliver the mail. Okay. If he'd been a regular member of the postal service, he'd have given it up as a bad job and gone back to Earth to report the difficulty. But I'm not going back. I'll be the best damned mailman they've got. Give me a landing orbit anyway, Ganymede. But you can't come down. How will you leave your ship? Don't worry about that, Preston said calmly. We have to worry. We don't dare open the dome with those creatures outside. You can't come down, postal ship. You want your mail or don't you? The colonists paused. Well... Okay then, Preston said, shut up and give me landing coordinates. There was a pause, and then the figures started coming over. Preston jotted them down on a scratch pad. Okay, I've got them. Now sit tight and wait. He glanced contemptuously at the three mail pouches behind him, grinned, and started setting up the orbit. Mailman, am I? I'll show them. He brought the postal ship down with all the skill it was years in the patrol, spiraling in around the big satellite of Jupiter as cautiously and as precisely as if he were zeroing in on a pirate lair in the asteroid belt. In its own way, this was as dangerous, perhaps even more so. Preston guided the ship into an ever-narrowing orbit, which he stabilized about 100 miles over the surface of Ganymede. As his ship swung around the moon's poles in his tight orbit, he began to figure some fuel computations. His scratch pad began to fill with notations. Fuel storage, escape velocity, margin of error, safety factor. Finally, he looked up. He had computed exactly how much spare fuel he had, how much he could afford to waste. It was a small figure, too small perhaps. He turned to the radio. Ganymede? Where are you, postal ship? I'm in a tight orbit about 100 miles up, Preston said. Give me the figures on the circumference of your dome, Ganymede. Seven miles, the colonist said. What are you planning to do? Preston didn't answer. He broke contact and scribbled some more figures. Seven miles of iceworms, eh? That was too much to handle. He had planned on dropping flaming fuel on them and burning them out, but he couldn't do it that way. He'd have to try a different tactic. Down below, he could see the blue-white ammonia ice that was the frozen atmosphere of Ganymede. Shimmering gently amid the whiteness was the transparent yellow of the dome beneath whose curved walls lived the Ganymede colony. Even forewarned, Preston shuddered. Surrounding the dome was a living, writhing belt of giant worms. Ganymede, he said, just lovely. Getting up, he clambered over the mail stacks and headed toward the rear of the ship, hunting for the auxiliary fuel tanks. Working rapidly, he lugged one out and strapped it into an empty gun turret, making sure he could get it loose again when he'd need it. He wiped away sweat and checked the angle at which the fuel tank would face the ground when he came down for a landing. Satisfied, he knocked a hole in the side of the fuel tank. Finally at Ganymede, he radioed, I'm coming down. He blasted loose from the tight orbit and rocked the ship down on a manual. The forbidding surface of Ganymede grew closer and closer. Now he could see the ice worms plainly. Hideous, thick creatures, lying coiled in masses around the dome. Preston checked his space suit, making sure it was sealed. The instruments told him he was a bear 10 miles above Ganymede now. One more swing around the poles would do it. He figured it out as the dome came below and once again snapped on the radio. I'm going to come down and burn a path through those worms' furs. Watch me carefully and jump to it when you see me land. I want that airlock open or else. But, no buts! He was right overhead now. Just one ordinary type gun would solve the whole problem, he thought. But postal ships didn't get guns. They weren't supposed to need them. He centered the ship as well as he could on the dome below the plastic pilot. Jumping from the control panel, he ran back toward the gun turret and slammed shut the Plexolite screen. Its outer wall opened and the fuel tank went tumbling outward and down. He returned to his control panel seat and looked at the view screen. He smiled. The fuel tank was lying near the dome, right in the middle of the nest of ice worms. The fuel was leaking from the puncture. Ice worms rised in from all sides. Now, Preston said grimly. The ship roared down, jets blasting. The fire looked out, heated the ground, melted snow, ignited the fuel tank. A gigantic flame blazed up, reflected harshly off the snows of Ganymede. And the mindless ice worms came, marching toward the fire, being consumed as still others devoured the bodies of the dead and dying. Preston looked away and concentrated on the business of finding a place to land the ship. The Holocaust still raged as he leapt down from the catwalk of the ship, clutching one of the heavy male sacks and struggled through the melting snows to the airlock. He grinned. The airlock was open. Arms grabbed him, pulled him through. Someone opened his helmet. Great job, postman. There are two more male sacks, Preston said. Get men out after them. The man in charge gestured to two young colonists who donned space suits and dashed through the airlock. Preston watched as they raced to the ship, climbed in, and returned a few moments later with the male sacks. You've got it all, Preston said. I'm checking out. I'll get work to the patrol to get here and clean up that mess for you. How can we thank you? The official-looking man asked. No need to, Preston said casually. I had to get that male down here some way, didn't I? He turned away, smiling to himself. Maybe the chief had known what he was doing when he took an experienced patrolman and dumped him into postal. Delivering the male to Ganymede had been more hazardous than fighting off half a dozen space pirates. I guess I was wrong, Preston thought. This is no snap job for old men. Preoccupied, he started out through the airlock. The man in charge caught his arm. Say, we don't even know your name. Here you are, hero. Hero? Preston shrugged. All I did was deliver the male. It's all in a day's work, you know. The male's got to get through. End of Postmark Ganymede by Robert Silverberg. Recording by Darcy Smittenar. There is a Reaper by Charles V. DeVette. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ed Smitson. There is a Reaper by Charles V. DeVette. The amber-brown of the liquor disguised the poison it held, and I watched with a smile on my lips as he drank it. There was no pity in my heart for him. He was a jackal in the jungle of life, and I, I was one of the carnivores. It is a lot of the jackals of life to be devoured by the carnivore. Suddenly the contented look on his face froze into a startled stillness. I knew he was feeling the first savage twinge of the agony that was to come. He turned his head and looked at me, and I saw suddenly that he knew what I had done. You murderer! he cursed me, and then his body arched in the middle, and his voice choked off deep in his throat. For a short minute he sat, tense, his body stiffened by the agony that rode it, unable to move a muscle. I watched the torment in his eyes build up to a crescendo of pain, until the suffering became so great that it filmed his eyes, and I knew that, though he still stared directly at me, he no longer saw me. Then, as suddenly as the spasm had come, the starch went out of his body and his back slid slowly down the chair edge. He landed heavily with his head resting limply against the seat of the chair. His right leg doubled up in a kind of jerk before he was still. I knew the time had come. Where are you? I asked. This moment had cost me sixty thousand dollars. Three weeks ago the best doctors in the state had given me a month to live, and with seven million dollars in the bank I couldn't buy a minute more. I accepted the doctor's decision philosophically, like the gambler that I am, but I had a plan, one which necessity had never forced me to use until now. Several years before I had read an article about the medicine men of a certain tribe of Aborigines living in the jungles at the source of the Amazon River, they had discovered a process in which the juice of a certain bush, known only to them, could be used to poison a man. Anyone subjected to this poison died, but for a few minutes after the life left his body the medicine men could still converse with him. The subject, though ostensibly and actually dead, answered the medicine men's every question. This was their primitive, though reportedly effective method of catching glimpses of what lay in the world of death. I had conceived my idea at the time I read the article, but I had never had the need to use it until the doctors gave me a month to live. Then I spent my sixty thousand dollars, and three weeks later I held in my hands a small bottle of the witch doctor's fluid. The next step was to secure my victim, my collaborator I prefer to call him. The man I chose was a nobody, a homeless, friendless, non-entity picked up off the street. He had once been an educated man, but now he was only a bomb, and when he died he'd never be missed. Perfect man for my experiment. I'm a rich man because I have a system. The system is simple. I never make a move until I know exactly where that move will lead me. My field of operations is a stock market. I spend money unstintingly to secure the information I need before I take each step. I hire the best investigators, bribe employees and persons in position to give me the information I want, and only when I am as certain as humanly possible that I cannot be wrong do I move. And the system never fails. Seven million dollars in the bank is proof of that. Now, knowing that I could not live, I intended to make the system work for me one last time before I died. I'm a firm believer in the adage that any situation can be whipped, given prior knowledge of its coming, and of course its attendant circumstances. For a moment he did not answer and I began to fear that my experiment had failed. Where are you? I repeated, louder and sharper this time. The small muscles about his eyes puckered with an unnormal tension, while the rest of his face held its death frost. Slowly, slowly, unnaturally, as though energised by some hyper-rational power, his lips and tongue moved. The words he spoke were clear. I am in a tunnel, he said. It is lighted, dimly, but there is nothing for me to see. Blue veins showed through the flesh of his cheeks like watermarks on translucent paper. He paused, and I urged, go on. I am alone, he said. The realities I knew no longer exist, and I am damp and cold. All about me is a sense of gloom and dejection. It is an apprehension, an emanation, so deep and real as to be almost a tangible thing. The walls to either side of me seem to be formed, not of substance, but rather of the soundless cries of melancholy of spirits I cannot see. I am waiting, waiting in the gloom for something which will come to me. The need to wait is an innate part of my being, and I have no thought of questioning it. His voice died again. What are you waiting for? I asked. I do not know, he said, his voice dreary with a despair of centuries of hopelessness. I only know that I must wait. That compulsion is greater than my strength to combat. The tone of his voice changed slightly. The tunnel about me is widening, and now the walls have receded into invisibility. The tunnel has become a plane, but the plane is as desolate as for lawn and dreary as was the tunnel, and still I stand and wait. How long must this go on? He fell silent again, and I was about to prompt him with another question. I could not afford to let the time run out in long silences, but abruptly the muscles about his eyes tightened, and subtly a new aspect replaced their hopeless dejection. Now they expressed a black, bottomless terror. For a moment I marveled that so small a portion of a facial anatomy could express such horror. There is something coming toward me, he said, a beast of brutish foulness. Beast is too inadequate a term to describe it, but I know no words to tell its form. It is an intangible and evasive thing, but very real, and it is coming closer. It has no organs of sight as I know them, but I feel that it can see me, or rather that it is aware of me with a sense sharper than vision itself. It is very near now. Oh God, the malevolence, the hate, the potentiality of awful, fearsome destructiveness, that is its very essence, and still I cannot move. The expression of terrified anticipation centered in his eyes lessened slightly, and was replaced instantly by its former deep, deep despair. I am no longer afraid, he said. Why? I interjected. Why? I was impatient to learn all that I could before the end came. Because, he paused, because it holds no threat for me. Somehow, someday, I understand, I know that it too is seeking that for which I wait. What is it doing now? I asked. It has stopped beside me, and we stand together, gazing across the stark, empty plane. Now a second, awful entity, with the same leashed virions about it, moves up and stands at my other side. We all three wait. Myself, with a dark fear of this dismal universe, my unnatural companions with patient, malicious menace. Bits of, he faltered, of, I can name it only aura, go out from the beasts like an acid stream and touch me, and the hate and the venom chill my body like a wave of intense cold. Now there are others of the awful breed behind me. We stand, waiting, waiting for that which will come. What it is, I do not know. I could see the power of death creeping steadily into the last corners of his lips, and I knew that the end was not far away. Suddenly a black frustration built up within me. What are you waiting for? I screamed. The tenseness and the importance of this moment forcing me to lose the iron self-control upon which I have always prided myself. I knew that the answer held the secret of what I must know. If I could learn that, my experiment would not be in vain, and I could make whatever preparations were necessary for my own death. I had to know that answer. Think, think, I pleaded. What are you waiting for? I do not know. The dreary despair in his eyes, sightless as they met mine, chilled me with a coldness that I felt in the marrow of my being. I do not know, he repeated. I… yes, I do know. Abruptly the plasmatic film cleared from his eyes, and I knew that for the first time since the poison struck he was seeing me clearly. I sensed that this was the last moment before he left for good. It had to be now. Tell me, I command you, I cried. What are you waiting for? His voice was quiet as he murmured softly, implacably before he was gone. We are waiting, he said. For you. End of There is a Reaper by Charles V. DeVette Recording by Ed Smithson Vanishing Point by CeCe Beck This is a LibriVax recording. All LibriVax recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVax.org Recording by Seneca Souter Vanishing Point by CeCe Beck That? Oh, that's a perspective machine. Well, not exactly, but that's what I call it. No, I don't know how it works. Too complicated for me. Carter could make it go, but after he made it he never used it. Too bad. He thought he'd make a lot of money with it there for a while when he was working it out. Almost had me convinced, but I told him, get it to work at first, Carter, and then show me what you can do with it better than I can do without it. I'm doing pretty well as is. Fix your selling good, even if I do make them all buy guesswork, as you call it. That's what I told him. You see, Carter's one of them there artists that think they can work everything out by formulas and stuff. Me, I just paint things as a seam. It's about perspective and all that kind of mechanical aids. Never even went to art school, but I do all right. Carter now was a different sort of artist. Well, he wasn't really an artist, more of a draftsman. I first got him in to help me with a series of real estate paintings I'd gotten in order for. Big aerial views of land developments and drawings of buildings, roads and causeways, that kind of stuff was little too much for me to handle alone cause I never studied that kind of things, you know. I thought he'd do the mechanical drawings, which should have been simple for anybody trained that way and I'm throwing the colors, figures and trees and so on. He did fine. Job came out good, client was really happy. We made a pretty good amount of the job enough to keep us for a couple months without working afterwards. I took it easy, fishing and so on, but Carter stayed here in the studio working on his own stuff. I let him keep an eye on things from me around the place and just dropped in now and then to check up. The guy was nuts on the subject of perspective. I thought he knew all there was to know about it already, but he claimed nobody knew anything about it really. Said he'd been studying it for years and the more he learned about it, the more there was to learn. He used to cover big sheets of paper with complicated diagrams, trying to prove something or other to himself. I'd come into the studio and find him with thumbtacks and strings and stuff all over the place. He'd get big long rulers and draw lines to various points all over the room and end up with a little drawing of a cube about an inch square that anybody could have made in about a half a minute without all the apparatus. Seemed pretty silly to me. Then he brought in some books on mathematics and physics and other things and a bunch of slide rules, calculators and junk. He must have been a pretty smart guy to know how to handle all those things, even if he was kind of dopey about other things. You know, women and fishing and sports and drinking. He was lousy at everything except working on those perspective problems. Personally, I couldn't see much sense to what he was doing. The guy could draw all right already, so I asked him what more did he want. Let me see if I can remember what he said. I'm trying to get at things as they really are, not as they appear, he said. I think those were his words. Art is an illusion, a bag of tricks. Reality is something else, not what we think it is. Drawings are two-dimensional projections of a world that is not merely three, but four-dimensional, if not more, he said. Yeah, kind of a crackpot Carter was. Just on that one subject, though. That's enough guy otherwise. Here, look at some of the drawings he made working out of all his formulas. Nice designs, huh? Might make good wallpaper or fabric patterns? Real abstract. That's what people seem to like. See all these little letters scattered around among the lines? Different kinds of vanishing points they are. Carter claimed the whole world was full of vanishing points. You don't know what a vanishing point is? Let me see if I can explain. Come over to the window here. You see how that road out there gets smaller and smaller in the distance? Of course the road doesn't really get smaller. It just looks that way. That's what we call a vanishing point in drawing. Simple, isn't it? Never could understand why Carter went to so much trouble working out all those ways to locate vanishing points. Me, I just throw them in wherever I need them. But Carter claimed that was wrong. Said they were all connected together some way and he was going to work out a method to prove it. Here. Here's a little gadget he made up to help his calculations. Bunch of discs all pivoted together at the center. He was supposed to turn them around so the arrows point to the different figures and things. Here's the square root sign. I remember Carter telling me that. This one is the tangent function. Whatever that means. Log there is short for logarithm. Oh, he had a bunch of that scientific stuff in his head all the time. Don't know whether he understood it all himself. He built this thing just before he put together the perspective machine there. Silly looking gadget, huh? All them pipes and wires and that little cube in the center. Don't try to touch it. It ain't really there. You just think it is. Carter called a tether act or a cataract. No, that ain't the right word. Something like that. Tesser or something or other. There's a picture like it in one of Carter's books. Hurt your eyes, look at it, don't it? That's what Carter thought was going to make him a lot of fame and money, that perspective machine. I told him nobody had ever made a drawing machine yet that worked but he said it wasn't supposed to make drawings. It was supposed to give people a view of what reality is instead of what they think it is. I don't know whether he expected to charge money to look through it or whether he was going to look through it himself and make some kind of new drawings and sell them. No, I can't tell you how it works. I said before, I don't know. Carter only used it once himself. I came in here the day he finished it just as he was ready to turn it on. He was just putting the finishing touches on it. In a few minutes he told me, I'll have the answer to a question that may never have been answered before. What is reality? Is the world a thing by itself and all we know illusion? Why do things grow smaller the further away from us they appear? Why can't we see more than one side of anything at a time? What happens to the far side of an object? Does it cease to exist just because we can't see it? Are objects not present non-existent? Because artists draw things vanishing to points. Does that mean that they really vanish? A whack. That's what he was. Nice guy but sort of screwy. He kept saying more goofy things while he was finishing up the machine about how he figured out that all we knew about vision and drawing and so on must be wrong and that once he got a look at the real world, he proved it. How about cameras? I asked him, take a picture with a camera and it looks just about the same as drawing, don't it? That's because cameras are built to take pictures like we're used to seeing them. He said, flat, two-dimensional slices of reality without depth or motion. Even 3D moving pictures? I asked. They're closer to reality, he admitted. But there are still only cross-sections of it. The shutter of a movie camera is closed as much of the time as it is open. What happens in between the times it's open? You know, he went on. People used to think that matter and motion were continuous but scientists have proved that they are discontinuous. Now some of them think time may be too. Maybe everything is just imaginary and appears to our senses in whatever way we want it to appear. We are so well trained that we see everything just as we are taught to see it by generations of artists, writers and other symbol makers. If we could see things as they really are, what might happen? We'd probably all go nuts, I told him. He just smiled. Well here goes, he said, it's finished. Now to find out who is right, the scientists and philosophers who say reality is forever unreachable or the artists who say there isn't any in reality, that we make the whole thing up to suit ourselves. He moved one of those pointed things you see there and squinted around at the different scales and dials and then stepped back. That little testy thing appeared. Real small at first, just a point. You could hardly see it. I couldn't see anything else happening and thought he was going to do something else in the machine. I turned to look at Carter and saw his face was wide as a sheet. Good God, he says, just like that. Good God, that's all. Well, I says to him, who was right? The scientists or the artists? The artist, he sort of screeches. The artists were right all the time. There is no reality. It's all a fabric of illusion we've created ourselves and now I've ripped a hole in that. He gives a strangled hoot and goes high-tailin' outta here like something was after him, jumps in his car and roars off down the road and disappears. No, I don't mean he really disappeared, are you nuts? Just roared on down the road till he got so small I couldn't see him no more. You know, the way things do when they go farther and farther away happens every day. That's what a scientist means by perspective. The machine? Well, I don't know what to do with it. If he comes back, he might not like my gettin' rid of it. I was thinkin' maybe I'd put it in the hobby show at the county fair next week, though. You notice how that funny-lookin' cube inside there gets bigger every time you look at it? There, it just doubled its size again, see? People at the fair oughta get a big kick out of that. No tellin' how big it'll get with all those people lookin' at it. Look, come on, let's go fishing. Don't worry, or it'll be too late. The end. End of The Anishing Point by C.C. Beck Recording by Seneca Souter, Denver, Colorado.