 TOOPY OR NOT TO BE. By Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. Reading by Bologna Times. Got a problem? Just pick up the phone. It solved them all, and all the same way. Everything was perfectly swell. There were no prisons, no slums, no insane asylons, no cripples, no poverty, no wars. All diseases were conquered, so was old age. Death, barring accidents, was an adventure for volunteers. The population of the United States was stabilized at forty million souls. One bright morning in the Chicago Lying-In Hospital, a man named Edward K. Welling, Jr., waited for his wife to give birth. He was the only man waiting. Not many people were born a day any more. Welling was fifty-six, a mere stripling in a population whose average age was one hundred and twenty-nine. X-rays had revealed that his wife was going to have triplets. The children would be his first. Young Welling was hunched in his chair, his head in his hand. He was so rumpled, so still and colorless, as to be virtually invisible. His camouflage was perfect, since the waiting-room had a disorderly and demoralized air, too. Chairs and ashtrays had been moved away from the walls. The floor was paved with splattered drop-cloths. The room was being redecorated. It was being redecorated as a memorial to a man who had volunteered to die. A sardonic old man, about two hundred years old, sat on a stepladder, painting a mural he did not like. Back in the days when people aged visibly, his age would have been guessed at thirty-five or so. Aging had touched him that much before the cure for aging was found. The mural he was working on depicted a very neat garden. Men and women in white, doctors and nurses, turned the soil, planted seedlings, sprayed bugs, spread fertilizer. Men and women in purple uniforms, pulled up weeds, cut down plants that were old and sickly, raked leaves, carried ruffus to trash-burners. Never, never, never, not even in medieval Holland, nor old Japan, had a garden been more formal, been better tended. Every plant had all the loam, light, water, air, and nourishment it could use. A hospital orderly came down the corridor, singing under his breath a popular song. If you don't like my kisses, honey, here's what I will do. I'll go see a girl in purple, kiss this sad world to the loo. If you don't want my lovin', why should I take up all the space? I'll get off this old planet, let some sweet baby have my place. The orderly looked in at the mural, and the muralist, looked so real. He said, I can practically imagine I'm standing in the middle of it. What makes you think you're not in it? Said the painter. He gave a satiric smile. It's called the happy garden of life, you know. That's good old Dr. Hitz, said the orderly. He was referring to one of the male figures in white, whose head was a portrait of Dr. Benjamin Hitz, the hospital's chief obstetrician. Hitz was a blindingly handsome man. Lots of faces still to fill in, said the orderly. He meant that the faces of many of the figures in the mural were still blank. All blanks were to be filled with portraits of important people on either the hospital staff or from the Chicago office of the Federal Bureau of Termination. Must be nice to be able to make pictures that look like something, said the orderly. The painter's face curdled with scorn. You think I'm proud of this, Dobb? He said. You think this is my idea of what life really looks like? What's your idea of what life looks like, said the orderly. The painter gestured at a foul drop cloth. There's a good picture of it, he said. Frame that, and you'll have a picture, a damn sight more honest than this one. You're a gloomy old duck, aren't you? said the orderly. Is that a crime? said the painter. The orderly shrugged. If you don't like it here, Grandpa, he said, and he finished the thought with the tricky telephone number that people who didn't want to live any more were supposed to call. The zero in the telephone number he pronounced not. The number was to be or not to be. It was the telephone number of an institution whose fanciful sub-requests included automat, birdland, cannery, cat-box, de-lauser, easy-go, goodbye, mother, happy hooligan, kiss me quick, lucky pierre, cheap dip, wearing blender, weep no more, and why worry. To be or not to be was the telephone number of the municipal gas chambers of the Federal Bureau of Termination. The painter thumbed his nose at the orderly. When I decide it's time to go, he said, it won't be at the cheap dip. Do it yourself, A. said the orderly. Messy business, Grandpa. Why don't you have a little consideration for the people who have to clean up after you? The painter expressed with an obscenity his lack of concern for the tribulations of his survivors. The world could do a good deal more mess if you asked me, he said. The orderly laughed and moved on. Whaling, the waiting father, mumbled something without raising his head, and then he fell silent again. A course, former the bull-woman, strode into the waiting-room on spike heels. Her shoes, stockings, trench coat, bag, and overseas cap were all purple. The purple the painter called, the color of grapes, on judgment day. The medallion on her purple musette bag was the seal of the service division of the Federal Bureau of Termination, an eagle perched on a turnstile. The woman had a lot of facial hair, an unmistakable moustache, in fact. A curious thing about guest chamber hostesses was that no matter how lovely and feminine they were when recruited, they all spread in moustaches within five years or so. Is this where I'm supposed to come? She said to the painter. A lot would depend on what her business was. He said, you aren't about to have a baby, are you? They told me I was supposed to pose for some picture. She said, my name's Leora Duncan. She waited. And you dunk people? He said, what? She said, skip it. He said, that shirt is a beautiful picture. She said, looks just like heaven or something. Or something, said the painter. He took a list of names from his smock pocket. Duncan, Duncan, Duncan, he said, scanning the list. Yes, here you are. You're entitled to be immortalized. See any faceless body here you'd like me to stick your hat on? We've got a few choice ones left. She studied the mural bleakly. Gee! She said, they're all the same to me. I don't know anything about art. A body's a body, eh? He said, all righty. As a master of fine art I recommend this body here. He indicated a faceless figure of a woman who was carrying dried stocks to a trash burner. Well, said Leora Duncan, that's more the disposal people, isn't it? I mean, I'm in service. I don't do any disposing. The painter clapped his hands and mocked a light. You say you don't know anything about art, and then you prove in the next breath that you know more about it than I do. Of course, the chief carrier is wrong for a hostess. A snipper, a pruner, that's more your line. He pointed to a figure in purple who was sawing a dead branch from an apple tree. How about her? He said. You like her at all? Gosh, she said, and she blushed and became humble. That puts me right next to Dr. Hitz. That upsets you? He said. Couldn't gravy? No! She said. It's just such an honor. Ah, you admire him, eh? He said. Who doesn't admire him? She said, worshipping the portrait of Hitz. It was the portrait of a tanned, white-haired, omnipotent Zeus, two hundred and forty years old. Who doesn't admire him? She said again. He was responsible for setting up the very first guest chamber in Chicago. Nothing would please me more, said the painter, than to put you next to him for all time, sawing off a limb that strikes you as appropriate. That is kind of like what I do, she said. She was to mirror about what she did. What she did was make people comfortable while she killed them. And while Liora Duncan was posing for her portrait, into the waiting room bounded Dr. Hitz himself. He was seven feet tall, and he boomed with importance, accomplishments, and the joy of living. Well, Miss Duncan, Miss Duncan, he said, and he made a joke. What are you doing here? He said. This isn't where the people leave. This is where they come in. We're going to be in the same picture together, she said, Charlie. Good! said Dr. Yitz, heartily. And say, isn't that some picture? I sure am honoured to be in it with you, she said. Let me tell you, he said, I am honoured to be in it with you. Without women like you, this wonderful world we've got wouldn't be possible. He saluted her, and moved toward the door that led to the delivery of rooms. Guess what was just born? He said, I can't. She said, triplets. He said, triplets! She said. She was exclaiming over the legal implications of triplets. The law said that no newborn child could survive unless the parents of the child could find someone who would volunteer to die. That's if they were all to live, called for three volunteers. Did the parents have three volunteers? said Leora Duncan. Last I heard, said Dr. Hitz, they had one, and were trying to scrape another two up. I don't think they made it. She said, nobody made three appointments with us. Nothing but singles going through today, unless somebody called in after I left. What's the name? Welling, said the waiting father, sitting up, red-eyed and frowsy. Edward K. Welling, Jr., is the name of the happy father to be. He raised his right hand, looking at a spot on the wall, gave a hoarsely, wretched chuckle. Present, he said. Oh, Mr. Welling, said Dr. Hitz, I didn't see you. The invisible man, said Welling. They just phoned me that your triplets have been born, said Dr. Hitz. They're all fine, and so is the mother. I'm on my way in to see them now. Hurray! said Welling, emptily. You don't sound very happy, said Dr. Hitz. One man in my shoes wouldn't be happy, said Welling. He gestured with his hands to symbolize carefree simplicity. All I have to do is pick out which one of the triplets is going to live, then deliver my maternal grandfather to the happy hooligan, and come back here with a receipt. Dr. Hitz became rather severe with Welling, towered over him. You don't believe in population control, Mr. Welling? He said. I think it's perfectly keen, said Welling, thoughtly. Would you like to go back to the good old days, when the population of the earth was twenty billion, about to become forty billion, then eighty billion, then one hundred and sixty billion? Do you know what a droplet is, Mr. Welling? said Hitz. Knob, said Welling, sulkily. A droplet, Mr. Welling, is one of the little knobs, one of the little pulpy grains of a blackberry, said Dr. Hitz. Without population control, human beings would now be packed on the surface of this old planet, like droplets, on a blackberry. Think of it. Welling continued to stare at the same spot on the wall. "'In the year two thousand,' said Dr. Hitz, before scientists stepped in and laid down the law, there wasn't even enough drinking water to go around, and nothing to eat but seaweed. But still people insisted on their right to reproduce like jackrabbits. And they're right, if possible, to live forever. "'I want those kids,' said Welling quietly. I want all three of them. "'Of course you do,' said Dr. Hitz. That's only human.' "'I don't want my grandfather to die either,' said Welling. "'Nobody's really happy about taking a close relative to the cat-box,' said Dr. Hitz, gently, sympathetically. "'I wish people wouldn't call it that,' said Leora Duncan. "'What?' said Dr. Hitz. "'I wish people wouldn't call it the cat-box, and things like that,' she said. "'It gives people the wrong impression.' "'You're absolutely right,' said Dr. Hitz. Forgive me.' He corrected himself, gave the municipal gas chambers their official title, a title no one ever used in conversation. "'I should have said Ethical Suicide Studios,' he said. "'That sounds so much better,' said Leora Duncan. "'This child of yours, whichever one you decide to keep, Mr. Welling,' said Dr. Hitz. He or she is going to live on a happy, roomy, clean, rich planet, thanks to population control, in a garden like that mural there.' He shook his head. "'Two centuries ago, when I was a young man, it was a hell that nobody thought could last another twenty years. Now, centuries of peace and plenty stretch before us as far as the imagination cares to travel.' He smiled luminously. The smile faded as he saw that Welling had just drawn a revolver. Welling shot Dr. Hitz dead. "'There's room for one, a great big one,' he said, and then he shot Leora Duncan. "'It's only death,' he said to her, as she fell, there, room for two.' And then he shot himself, making room for all three of his children. Nobody came running. Nobody seemingly heard the shots. The painter sat on the top of his step-letter, looking down reflectively on the sorry scene. The painter pondered the mournful puzzle of life, demanding to be born, and once born, demanding to be fruitful, to multiply and to live as long as possible, to do all that on a very small planet that would have to last forever. All the answers that the painter could think of were grim. Even grimmer, surely, than a cat-box, a happy hooligan, an easy go. He thought of war. He thought of plague. He thought of starvation. He knew that he would never paint again. He let his paintbrush fall to the drop-closs below. And then he decided he had had about enough of life in the happy garden of life, too. And he came slowly down from the ladder. He took Welling's pistol, really intending to shoot himself. But he didn't have the nerve. And then he saw the telephone booth in the corner of the room. He went to it, dialed the well-remembered number, to be or not to be. Federal Bureau of Termination said the very warm voice of a hostess. How soon could I get an appointment? He asked, speaking very carefully. We could probably fit you in late this afternoon, sir, she said. It might even be earlier if we get a cancellation. All right, said the painter, fit me in, if you please. And he gave her his name, spelling it out. Thank you, sir, said the hostess. Your city thanks you. Your country thanks you. Your planet thanks you. But the deepest thanks of all is from future generations. End of To Be Or Not To Be, by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. And All The Earth, A Grave, by CeCe McCapp. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, reading by Bologna Times. And All The Earth, A Grave, by CeCe McCapp. There's nothing wrong with dying. It just hasn't ever had the proper sales pitch. It all began when the new bookkeeping machine of a large Midwestern coffin manufacturer slipped a cog or blew a transistor or something. It was fantastic that the error, one or two decimal places, should enjoy a straight run of OKs, human and mechanical, clear down the line. But when the figures clacked out at the last clacking out station, there it was. The figures were now sacred, immutable, and it is doubtful whether the president of the concern or the chairman of the board would have dared question them. Even if either of those two gentlemen had been in town. As for the advertising manager, the last thing he wanted to do was question them. He carried them. They were the budget for the coming fiscal year into his office, staggering a little on the way, and dropped dayzedly into his chair. They showed the budget for his own department as exactly 100 times what he'd been expecting. That is to say, 50 times what he'd put in for. When the initial shock began to wear off, his face assumed an expression of intense thought. In about five minutes, he leaped up from his chair, dashed out of the office with a shouted syllable or two for his secretary, and got his car out of the parking lot. At home, he tossed clothes into a traveling bag and barged toward the door, giving his wife a quick kiss and an equally quick explanation. He didn't bother to call the airport. He meant to be on the next plane east and no nonsense about it. With one thing or another, the economy hadn't been exactly in overdrive that year, and predictions for the Christmas season were gloomy. Early retail figures bore them out. Gift buying dribbled along feebly until Thanksgiving, despite brave speeches by the administration. The holiday passed more in self-pity than in thankfulness among owners of gift-oriented businesses. Then, on Friday following Thanksgiving, the coffin adds, struck. Struck may be too mild a word. People on the streets saw feverishly working crews at holiday rates slapping up posters on billboards. The first poster was a deli. A toothy and toothsome young woman leaned over a coffin she'd been unwrapping. She smiled as if she'd just received overtures of matrimony from an 80-year-old billionaire. There was a Christmas tree in the background, and the coffin was appropriately wrapped. So was she. She looked as if she had just gotten out of bed or were ready to get into it. For amorous young men, and some not so young, the message was plain. The motto, the gift that will last more than a lifetime, seemed hardly to the point. Those at home were assailed on TV by a variety of bright and clever skits of the same import. Some of them hinted that, if the young lady's gratitude were really precipitous and the bedroom too far away, the coffin might be comfy. Of course, the more settled elements of the population were not neglected. For the older married man, there was a blow directly between the eyes. Do you want your widow to be half safe? And for the Spencer without immediate hopes, I dreamt I was caught dead without my virgin form casket. Newspapers, magazines, and every other medium added to the assault, never letting it cool. It was the most horrendous campaign for sheer concentration that had ever battered at the public mind. The public reeled, blanked, shook its head to clear it, gawked, and rushed out to buy. Christmas was not going to be a failure after all. Department store managers who had grudgingly and under strong sales pressure made space for a single coffin somewhere at the rear of the store now rushed to the telephones, like touts, with a direct pronouncement from a horse. Everyone who possibly could got into the act. Grocery, supermarkets, put in casket departments. The association of pharmaceutical retailers who felt they had some claim to priority tried to get court injunctions to keep caskets out of service stations, but were unsuccessful because the judges were all out buying caskets. Beauty parlors showed real ingenuity in merchandising. Roads and streets were clogged with delivery trucks, rented trailers, and whatever else could haul a coffin. The stock market went completely mad. Strikes were declared and settled within hours. Congress was called into session early. The president got authority to ration lumber and other materials suddenly in starvation short supply. State laws were passed against cremation under heavy lobby pressure. A new racket called boxjacking blossomed overnight. The advertising manager who had put the thing over had been fighting with all the formidable weapons of his breed to make his plant managers build up a stockpile. They had, but it went like a toupee in a wind tunnel. Competitive coffin manufacturers were caught napping. But by Wednesday, after Thanksgiving, they, along with the original one, were on a 24-hour, seven-day basis. Still, only a fraction of the demand could be met. Jet passenger planes were stripped of their seats, supplied with the Yankee gold, and sent to plunder the world of its coffins. It might be supposed that Christmas goods, other than caskets, would take a bad dumping. That was not so. Such was the upsurge of prosperity and such was the shortage of coffins that nearly everything, with a few exceptions, enjoyed the biggest season on record. On Christmas Eve, the frenzy slumped to a crawl. Though, on Christmas morning, there were still optimists out prowling the empty stores. The nation sat down to breathe. Mostly, it sat on coffins, because there wasn't space in the living rooms for any other furniture. There was hardly an individual in the United States who didn't have, in case of, sudden sharp pins in the chest, several boxes to choose from. As for the rest of the world, it had better not die just now, or it would be literally a case of dust to dust. Of course, everyone expected a doozy of a slump after Christmas, but our advertising manager, who by now was, of course, sales manager and first vice president also, wasn't settling for any boom and bust. He'd been a frustrated victim of his choice of industries for so many years that now, with his teeth in something, he was going to give it the old bite. He gave people a short breathing spell to arrange their coffin payments and move the presents out of the front rooms. Then, late in January, his new campaign came down like a hundred megatonner. Within a week, everyone saw quite clearly that his Christmas models were now obsolete. The coffin became the new status symbol. The auto industry was, of course, demolished. Even people who had enough money to buy a new car weren't gonna trade in the old one and let the new one stand out in the rain. The garages were full of coffins. Petroleum went along with autos. Though there were those who whispered knowingly that the same people merely moved over into this new industry, it was noticeable that the center of it became Detroit. A few trucks and buses were still being built, but that was all. Some of the new caskets were true works of art. Others, well, there was variety. Compact models appeared, in which the occupant's feet were to be doubled up alongside his ears. One manufacturer pushed a circular model, claiming that by all the laws of nature, the fetal position was the only right one. At the other extreme were virtual houses, ornate and lavishly equipped. Possibly the largest of all was the togetherness model, triangular, with graduated recesses for father, mother, eight children, plus two playmates, and in the far corner beyond the baby, the cat. The slump was over. Still, economists were that the new boom couldn't last either. They reckoned without the advertising manager, whose eyes gleamed brighter all the time, people already had coffins, which they polished and kept on display, sometimes in the new coffin ports being added to houses. The advertising manager's reasoning was direct and to the point. He must get people to use the coffins, and now he had all the money to work with that he could use. The new note was woven in so gradually that it is not easy to put a finger on anyone ad and say, it began here. One of the first was surely the widely printed one showing a tattooed, smiling young man with his chin thrust out manfully lying in a coffin. He was rugged looking and likable, not too rugged for the spindly limb to identify with, and he oozed, even though obviously dead, virility at every pore. He was probably the finest looking corpse since Richard the Lionhearted. Neither must one overlook the singing commercials. Possibly the catchiest of these, a really cute little thing, was achieved by jazzing up the funeral march. It started gradually and it was also unviolent that few saw it as suicide. Teenagers began having popping off parties. Some of their elders protested a little, but adults were taking it up too. The tired, the unappreciated, the ill, and the heavy laden lay down in growing numbers and expired. A black market and poisons operated for a little while, but soon pinched out. Such was the pressure of persuasion that few needed artificial aids. The boxes were very comfortable. People just closed their eyes and exited, smiling. The beatniks, who had their own models of coffin, moldy, scroungy, and without lids, since the beatniks insisted on being seen, placed their boxes on the Grant Avenue in San Francisco. They died with highly intellectual expressions and eventually were washed by the gentle rain. Of course there were voices shouting calamity when art there, but in the long run and not a very long one at that, they availed not. It isn't hard to imagine the reactions of the rest of the world, so let us imagine a few. The communist bloc immediately gave its stamp of disapproval, denouncing the movement as a filthy, capitalist, imperialist pig plot. Red China, which had been squabbling with Russia for some time about a matter of method, screamed for immediate war. Russia exposed this as patent stupidity, saying that if the capitalists wanted to die, warring upon them would only help them. China surreptitiously tried out the thing as an answer to excess population and found it good. It also appealed to the well-known melancholy facet of Russian nature. Besides, after pondering for several days, the red bloc decided it could not afford to fall behind in anything, so it started its own program, explaining with much logic how it differed. An elderly British philosopher endorsed the movement on the grounds that a temporary setback in evolution was preferable to facing up to anything. The free bloc, the red bloc, the neutral bloc, and such scraps as had been too obtuse to find themselves a bloc, were drawn into the whirlpool in an amazingly short time. If in a variety of ways. In less than two years, the world was rid of most of what had been bedeviling it. Oddly enough, the country where the movement began was a last to succumb completely, or perhaps it is not so odd. Coffin maker to the world, the American casket industry had by now almost completely automated box-making and grave digging with some interesting assembly lines and packaging arrangements. There still remained the jobs of management and distribution. The president of General Mortuary, an abulient fellow affectionately called sarcophagus Sam, put it well. As long as I have a single prospective customer and a single stockholder, he said, mangling a stokey and beatling his brows at the one reporter who'd showed up for the press conference, I'll try to put him in a coffin so I can pay him a dividend. Finally, though, a man who thought he must be the last living human, wandered contentedly about the city of Denver looking for the coffin he liked best. He settled at last upon a rich mahogany number with platinum trimmings and automatic, self-adjusting cadaver contour inner-spring, wherever plastic covered mattress with a built-in bar. He climbed in, drew himself a generous slug of fine scotch, giggled as the mattress prodded him exploringly, closed his eyes and sighed in solid comfort. Soft music played as the lid closed itself. From a building nearby, a turkey buzzard swooped down, cawing in raucous anger because it had let its attention wander for a moment. It was too late. A clawed screaming at the solid cover, hissed in frustration and finally gave up. It flapped into the air again, still grumbling. It was tired of living on dead, small rodents and coyotes. It thought it would take a swing over to Los Angeles where the pickings were pretty good. As it moved westward over parched hills, it aspired to black dots a few miles to its left. It circled over for a closer look then grunted and went on its way. It had seen them before. The old prospector and his burrow had been in the mountains for so long the buzzard had concluded that they didn't know how to die. The prospector, his name was Adams, trudged behind his burrow toward the buildings that shimmered in the heat, humming to himself now and then or addressing some remark to the beast. When he reached the outskirts of Denver, he realized something was amiss. He stood and gazed at the quiet scene. Nothing moved except for some skinny pack rats and a few sparrows foraging for grain among the unburied coffins. Tar Nation, he said to the burrow, Martians? A half buried piece of newspaper fluttered in the breeze. He walked forward slowly and picked it up. They told him enough so that he understood. They're gone, Evie, he said to the burrow, all gone. He put his arm affectionately around her neck. I reckon it's up to me and you again. We got to start all over. He stood back and gazed at her with mild reproach. I sure hope they don't favor your side of the house so much this time. End of and all the earth aggrave by C.C. McCapp, a.k.a. Carol M. Capps. Arm of the Law by Harry Harrison. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Greg Marguerite. Arm of the Law by Harry Harrison. At one time, this was before the robot restriction laws, they even allowed them to make their own decisions. It was a big coffin shaped plywood box that looked like it weighed a ton. This brawny type just dumped it through the door of the police station and started away. I looked up from the blotter and shouted at the truckers vanishing back. What the hell is that? How should I know? He said as he swung up into the cab. I just deliver. I'd own X-ray him. It came in on the morning rocket from Earth is all I know. He gunned the truck more than he had to and threw up a billowing cloud of red dust. Jokers, I growled to myself, Mars is full of jokers. When I went over to look at the box, I could feel the dust great between my teeth. Chief Craig must have heard the racket because he came out of his office and helped me stand and look at the box. Think it's a bomb? He asked in a bored voice. Why would anyone bother, particularly with a thing this size and all the way from Earth? He nodded agreement and walked around to look at the other end. There was no sender's address anywhere on the outside. Finally we had to dig out the crowbar and I went to work on the top. After some prying, it pulled free and fell off. That was when we had our first look at Ned. We all would have been a lot happier if it had been our last look as well. If we had just put the lid back on and shipped the thing back to Earth. I know now what they mean about Pandora's box. But we just stood there and stared like a couple of rubes. Ned lay motionless and stared back at us. A robot, the Chief said. Very observant, it's easy to see you went to the police academy. Ha ha, now find out what he's doing here. I hadn't gone to the academy but this was no handicap to my finding the letter. It was sticking up out of a thick book in a pocket in the box. The Chief took the letter and read it with little enthusiasm. Well, well, United Robotics have the brainstorm that robots correctly used will tend to prove invaluable to police work. They want us to cooperate in a field test. Robot Inc. closed is the latest experimental model valued at 120,000 credits. We both looked back at the robot sharing the wish that the credits had been in the box instead of it. The Chief frowned and moved his lips through the rest of the letter. I wondered how we got the robot out of its plywood coffin. Experimental model or not, this was a nice looking hunk of machinery. A uniform navy blue all over, though the outlet cases hooks and such were a metallic gold. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to get that effect. This was as close a robot could look to a cop in uniform without being a joke. All that seemed to be missing was the badge and gun. Then I noticed the tiny glow of light in the robot's eye lenses. It had never occurred to me before that the thing might be turned on. There was nothing to lose by finding out. Get out of that box, I said. The robot came up smooth and fast as a rocket landing two feet in front of me and whipping out a snappy salute. Police experimental robot serial number XBO456934B reporting for duty, sir. His voice quivered with alertness and I could almost hear the humming of those taut cable muscles. He may have had a stainless steel hide and a bunch of wires for a brain but he spelled rookie cop to me just the same. The fact that he was man height with two arms, two legs and that painted on uniform helped. All I had to do was squint my eyes a bit and there stood Ned, the rookie cop, fresh out of school and raring to go. I shook my head to get rid of the illusion. This was just six feet of machine that boffins and brain boys had turned out for their own amusement. Relax, Ned, I said. He was still holding the salute. At ease, you'll get a hernia of your exhaust pipe if you stay so tense. Anyways, I'm just a sergeant here. That's the chief of police over there. Ned did an about face and slid over to the chief with that same greased lightning motion. The chief just looked at him like something that sprang out from under the hood of a car while Ned went through the same report routine. I wonder if it does anything else besides salute and report, the chief said while he walked around the robot, looking it over like a dog with a hydrant. The functions, operations, and responsible courses of action open to the police experimental robots are outlined on pages 184, 2213 of the manual. Ned's voice was muffled for a second while he half dived back into his case and came up with the volume mentioned. A detailed breakdown of these will also be found on pages 103521267 Inclusive. The chief who has trouble reading an entire comic page at one sitting turned the six inch thick book over in his hands like it would maybe bite him. When he had a rough idea of how much it weighed and a good feel of the binding, he threw it on my desk. Take care of this, he said to me as he headed towards his office and the robot too. Do something with it. The chief's span of attention never was great and it had been strained to the limit this time. I flipped through the book wondering. One thing I never have had much to do with is robots so I know just as much about them as any Joe in the street, probably less. The book was filled with pages of fine print, fancy mathematics, wiring diagrams and charts and nine colors and that kind of thing. It needed close attention, which attention I was not prepared to give it at the time. The book slid shut and I eyed the newest employee of the city of Nineport. There's a room behind the door. Do you know how to use it? Yes, sir. In that case you will sweep out this room raising as small a cloud of dust as possible at the same time. He did a very neat job of it. I watched 120,000 credits worth of machinery making a tidy pile of butts and sand and wondered why it had been sent to Nineport. Probably because there wasn't another police force in the solar system that was smaller or more unimportant than ours. The engineers must have figured this would be a good spot for a field test. Even if the thing blew up, nobody would really mind. There would probably be someone along some day to get a report on it. Well, they had picked the right spot all right. Nineport was just a little bit beyond nowhere, which of course was why I was there. I was the only real cop on the force. They needed at least one to give an illusion of the wheels going around. The chief Alonso Craig had just enough sense to take graft without dropping the money. There were two patrolmen, one old and drunk most of the time, the other so young the only scar he had was the mark of the atrium. I had 10 years on a metropolitan force earth side. The reason why I left is nobody's damn business. I have long since paid for any mistakes I made there by ending up in Nineport. Nineport is not a city. It's just a place where people stop. The only permanent citizens are the ones who cater to those on the way through. Hotel keepers, restaurant owners, gamblers, bar keeps and the rest. There is a spaceport, but only some freighters come there to pick up the metal from some of the mines that are still working. Some of the settlers still came in for supplies. You might say that Nineport was a town that just missed the boat. In 100 years I doubt if there will be enough left sticking out of the sand to even tell where it used to be. I won't be there either, so I couldn't care less. I went back to the blotter. Five drunks in the tank, an average night's haul. While I wrote them up, fats dragged in the sixth one. Locked himself in the ladies, John at the spaceport and resisting arrest, he reported. D&D, throw him in with the rest. Fats steered his limp victim across the floor, matching him step for dragging step. I always marveled at the way fats took care of drunks since he usually had more under his belt than they had. I have never seen him falling down drunk, or completely sober. About all he was good for was keeping a blurred eye on the lockup and running in drunks. He did well at that. No matter what they crawled under or on top of, he found them, no doubt due to the same shared natural instincts. Fats clang the door behind number six and weaved his way back in. What's that? He asked, peering at the robot along the purple beauty of his nose. That is a robot. I have forgotten the number his mother gave him at the factory, so we will call him Ned. He works here now. Good for him. He can clean up the tank after we throw the bums out. That's my job, Billy said, coming in through the front door. He clutched his nightstick and scowled out from under the brim of his uniform cap. It is not that Billy is stupid, just that most of his strength has gone into his back instead of his mind. That's Ned's job now because you have a promotion. You are going to help me with some of my work. Billy came in very handy at times and I was anxious that the force shouldn't lose him. My explanation cheered him because he sat down by Fats and watched Ned do the floor. That's the way things went for about a week. We watched Ned sweep and polish until the station began to take on a positively antiseptic look. The chief who always had an eye out for that type of thing found out that Ned could file the odd ton of reports and paperwork that cluttered his office. All this kept the robot busy and we got so used to him we were hardly aware he was around. I knew he had moved the packing case into the storeroom and fixed himself up a cozy sort of robot dormitory coffin. Other than that I didn't know or care. The operation manual was buried in my desk and I never looked at it. If I had I might have had some idea of the big changes that were in store. None of us knew the littlest bit about what a robot can or cannot do. Ned was working nicely as a combination janitor file clerk and should have stayed that way. He would have too if the chief hadn't been so lazy. That's what started it all. It was around nine at night and the chief was just going home when the call came in. He took it, listened for a moment, then hung up. Greenback's liquor store, he got held up again, says to come at once. That's a change. Usually we don't hear about it until a month later. What's he paying protection money for if China Joe ain't protecting? What's the rush now? The chief chewed his loose lip for a while. Finally and painfully reached a decision. You better go around and see what the trouble is. Sure I said reaching for my cap but no one else is around. You'll have to watch the desk until I get back. That's no good, he moaned. I'm dying from hunger and sitting here isn't going to help me any. I will go take the report, Ned said, stepping forward and snapping his usual well-greased salute. At first the chief wasn't buying. He would think the water cooler came to life and offered to take over his job. How could you take a report? He growled, putting the wise guy water cooler in its place. But he had phrased his little insult as a question so he had only himself to blame. In exactly three minutes, Ned gave the chief a summary of the routine necessary for a police officer to make a report on an armed robbery or other reported theft. From the glazed look in chief's protruding eyes I could tell Ned had quickly passed the boundaries of the chief's meager knowledge. Enough, the hurried man finally gasped. If you know so much, why don't you make a report? Which to me sounded like another version of if you're so damn smart, why ain't you rich? Which we used to snarl at the brainy kids in grammar school. Ned took such things literally though and turned towards the door. Do you mean you wish me to make a report on this robbery? Yes, the chief said just to get rid of him and we watched his blue shape vanish through the door. He must be brighter than he looks, I said. He never stopped to ask where Greenback's store is. The chief nodded and the phone rang again. His hand was still resting on it so he picked it up by reflex. He listened for a second and you would have thought someone was pumping blood out of his heel from the way his face turned white. The holdup still on, he finally gasped. Greenback's delivery boy is on the line, calling back to see where we are. Says he's under a table in the back room. I never heard the rest of it because I was out the door and into the car. There were a hundred things that could have happened if Ned got there before me. Guns could go off, people hurt, lots of things. And the police would be to blame for it all. Sending a tin robot to do a cop's job. Maybe the chief had ordered Ned there but clearly as if the words were painted on the windshield of the car, I knew I would be dragged into it. It never gets very warm on Mars, but I was sweating. Nineport has 14 traffic regulations and I broke all of them before I had gone a block. Fast as I was, Ned was faster. As I turned the corner, I saw him open the door of Greenback's store and walk in. I screamed breaks in behind him and arrived just in time to have a gallery seat, a shooting gallery at that. There were two holdup punks, one behind the counter making like a clerk and the other lounging off to one side. Their guns were out of sight but blue-coated Ned bursting through the door was too much for their keyed up nerves. Up came both guns like they were on strings and Ned stopped dead. I grabbed for my own gun and waited for pieces of busted robot to come flying through the window. Ned's reflexes were great which I suppose is what you should expect of a robot. Drop your guns, you are under arrest. He must have had on full power or something. His voice blasted so loud my ears hurt. The result was just what you might expect. Both torpedoes let go at once and the air was filled with flying slugs. The show windows went out with a crash and I went down on my stomach. From the amount of noise I knew they both had recoil as fifties. You can't stop one of those slugs. They go right through you in anything else that happens to be in the way. Except they didn't seem to be bothering Ned. The only notice he seemed to take was to cover his eyes. A little shield with a thin slit popped down over his eye lenses. Then he moved in on the first thug. I knew he was fast but not that fast. A couple of slugs jarred him as he came across the room but before the punk could change his aim, Ned had the gun in his hand. That was the end of that. He put on one of the sweetest hammer locks I've ever seen and neatly grabbed the gun when it dropped from the limp fingers. With the same motion that slipped the gun into a pouch he whipped out a pair of handcuffs and snapped them on the punk's wrists. The hold-up nick number two was heading for the door by then and I was waiting to give him a warm reception. There was never any need. He hadn't gone half way before Ned slid in front of him. There was a thud when they hit that didn't even shake Ned but gave the other a glazed look. He never even knew it when Ned slipped the cuffs on him and dropped him down next to his partner. I went in, took their guns from Ned and made the arrest official. That was all Greenback saw when he crawled out from behind the counter and it was all I wanted him to see. The place was a foot deep in broken glass and smelled like the inside of a Jack Daniels bottle. Greenback began to howl like a wolf over his lost stock. He didn't seem to know any more about the phone call than I did so I grabbed a hold of a pimply looking kid who staggered out of the storeroom. He was the one who had made the calls. It turned out to be a matter of sheer stupidity. He had worked for Greenback only a few days and didn't have enough brains to realize that all holdups should be reported to the protection boys instead of the police. I told Greenback to wise up his boy as look at the trouble that got caused. Then pushed the two ex-holdup men out to the car. Ned climbed in back with them and they clung together like two waves in a storm. The robot's only response was to pull a first aid kit from his hip and fix up a ricochet hole in one of the thugs that no one had noticed in the excitement. The chief was still sitting there with that bloodless look when we marched in. I didn't believe it could be done but he went two shades wider. You made the pinch, he whispered. Before I could straighten him out a second and more awful idea hit him. He grabbed a handful of shirt on the first torpedo and poked his face down. You with China Joe, he snarled. The punk made the error of trying to be cute so the chief let him have one on the head with the open hand that set his eyes rolling like marbles. When the question got asked again he found the right answer. I never heard from no China Joe. We just hit town today and freelance, by God. The chief sighed and collapsed into his chair. Lock him up and quickly tell me what in hell happened. I slammed the gate on them and pointed a none too steady finger at Ned. There's the hero, I said. Took them on single-handed, rassled them for a fall and made the capture. He's a one-robot tornado, a power for good in this otherwise evil community. And he's bulletproof too. I ran a finger over Ned's broad chest. The paint was chipped by the slugs but the metal was hardly scratched. This is going to cause me big trouble. Big trouble, the chief wailed. I knew he meant with the protection boys. They did not like punks getting arrested and guns going off without their okay. But Ned thought the chief had other worries and rushed in to put them right. There will be no trouble. At no time did I violate any of the robotic restriction laws. They are part of my control circuits and therefore fully automatic. The men who drew their guns violated both robotic and human laws when they threatened violence. I did not injure the men, merely restrained them. It was all over the chief's head but I like to think I could follow it. And I had been wondering how a robot, a machine could be involved in something like law application and violence. Ned had the answer to that one too. Robots have been assuming these functions for years. Don't recording radar meters past judgment on human violation of automobile regulations? A robot alcohol detector is better qualified to assess the sobriety of a prisoner than the arresting officer. At one time robots were even allowed to make their own decisions about killing. Before the robotic restriction laws, automatic gun pointers were in general use. Their final development was a self-contained battery of large anti-aircraft guns. Automatic scan radar detected all aircraft in the vicinity. Those that could not return the correct identifying signal had their courses tracked and computed. Automatic fuse cutters and loaders ready the computer aimed guns which were fired by the robot mechanism. There was little I could argue about with Ned except maybe his college professor vocabulary. So I switched the attack. But a robot can't take the place of a cop. It's a complex human job. Of course it is, but taking a human policeman's place is not the function of a police robot. Primarily I combine the functions of numerous pieces of police equipment integrating their operations and making them instantly available. In addition, I can aid in the mechanical process of law enforcement. If you arrest a man, you handcuff him. But if you order me to do it, I have made no moral decision. I am just a machine for attaching handcuffs at that point. My raised hand cut off the flow of robotic argument. Ned was hip to his ears with facts and figures and I had a good idea who would come off second best in any continued discussion. No laws had been broken when Ned made the pinch. That was for sure. But there are other laws than those that appear on the books. China Joe is not going to like this. Not at all, the chief said, speaking my own thoughts. The law of tooth and claw. That's one that wasn't in the law books. And that was what ran Nineport. The place was just big enough to have a good population of gambling joints, body houses and drunk rollers. They were all run by China Joe, as was the police department. We were all in his pocket and you might say he was the one who paid our wages. This is not the kind of thing though that you explain to a robot. Yeah, China Joe. I thought it was an echo at first and realized that someone had eased in the door behind me. Something called Alex. Six feet of bone muscle and trouble. China Joe's right hand man. He imitated a smile at the chief who sank a bit lower in his chair. China Joe, once you should tell him why you got smart cops going around and putting the arm on people and letting them shoot up good liquor. He's mostly angry about the hooch. He says that he had enough guff and after this you should. I am putting you into robot arrest pursuant to article 46 paragraph 19 of the revised statutes. Ned had done it before we realized he had even moved. Right in front of our eyes, he was arresting Alex and signing our death warrants. Alex was not slow. As he turned to see who had grabbed him, he had already dragged out his cannon. He got one shot in square against Ned's chest before the robot plucked the gun away and slipped on the cuffs. While we all gaped like dead fish, Ned recited the charge in what I swear was a satisfied tone. The prisoners Peter Ryakyomsky, alias Alex the axe, wanted in Canal City for armed robbery and attempted murder, also wanted by local police of Detroit, New York and Manchester on charges of, get it off me, Alex howled. We might have too and everything might have still been straightened out if Benny Bug hadn't heard the shot. He popped his head in the front door just long enough to roll his eyes over our little scene. Alex, they're putting the arm on Alex. Then he was gone and when I hit the door he was nowhere in sight. China Joe's boys always went around in pairs and in 10 minutes he would know all about it. Book him, I told Ned. It wouldn't make any difference if we let him go now. The world has already come to an end. Fats came in then mumbling to himself. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder when he saw me. What's up? I see little Benny Bug coming out of here like the place was on fire and almost get killed driving away. Then Fats saw Alex with the bracelets on and turned sober in one second. He just took a moment to gape and then his mind was made up. Without a trace of stagger he walked over to the chief and threw his badge on the desk in front of him. I am an old man and I drink too much to be a cop. Therefore I am resigning from the force because if that is whom I think it is over there with the cuffs on I will not live to be a day older as long as I am around here. Rat, the chief growled in pain through his clenched teeth, deserting the sinking ship. Rat. Squeak, Fats said, and left. The chief was beyond caring at this point. He didn't blink an eye when I took Fats' badge off the desk. I don't know why I did it. Perhaps I thought it was only fair. Ned had started all the trouble and I was just angry enough to want him on the spot when it was finished. There were two rings on his chest plate and I was not surprised when the badge pin fitted them neatly. There. Now you're a real cop. Sarcasm dripped from the words. I should have realized that robots are immune to sarcasm. Ned took my statement at face value. This is a very great honor, not only for me but for all robots. I will do my best to fulfill all the obligations of the office. Jack Armstrong in tin underwear. I could hear the little motors in his guts humming with joy as he booked Alex. If everything else hadn't been so bad I would have enjoyed that. Ned had more police equipment built into him than Nineport had ever owned. There was an ink pad that snapped out of one hip and he efficiently rolled Alex's fingertips across it and stamped them on a card. Then he held the prisoner at arm's length while something clicked in his abdomen. Once more sideways and two instant photographs dropped out of a slot. The mug shots were stuck on the card, arrest details and such inserted. There was more like this but I forced myself away. There were more important things to think about, like staying alive. Any ideas, Chief? Grown was my only answer so I let it go at that. Billy, the balance of the police force came in then. I gave him a quick rundown. Either through stupidity or guts he elected to stay and I was proud of the boy. Ned locked away the latest prisoner and began sweeping up. That was the way we were when China Joe walked in. Even though we were expecting it it was still a shock. He had a bunch of his toughest hoods with him and they crowded through the door like an overweight baseball team. China Joe was in front, hands buried in the sleeves of his long, mandarin gown. No expression at all on his ascetic features. He didn't waste time talking to us, just gave the word to his own boys. Clean up this place. The new police chief will be here in a while and I don't want him to see any bums hanging around. It made me angry. Even with the graft I like to feel I'm still a cop. Not on a cheap punk's payroll. I was also curious about China Joe. Had been ever since I tried to get a line on him and never found a thing. I still wanted to know. Ned, take a good look at that Chinese guy in the rayon bathrobe and let me know who he is. My but those electronic circuits work fast. Ned shot the answer back like a straight man who had been rehearsing his lines for weeks. He is a pseudo oriental utilizing a natural salinus of the skin heightened with dye. He is not Chinese. There has also been an operation on his eyes, scars of which are still visible. This has been undoubtedly done in an attempt to conceal his real identity. But fertility and measurements of his ears and other features make identity positive. He is on the very wanted list of Interpol and his real name is. China Joe was angry and with reason. That's the thing. That big mouth tin radio set over there. We heard about it and were taken care of it. The mob jumped aside then or hit the deck and I saw there was a guy kneeling in the door with a rocket launcher. Shaped anti-tank charges no doubt. That was my last thought as the thing let go with a whoosh. Maybe you can hit a tank with one of those things but not a robot, at least not a police robot. Ned was sliding across the floor on his face when the back wall blew up. There was no second shot. Ned closed his hand on the tube of the bazooka and it was so much old drain pipe. Billy decided that anyone who fired a rocket in a police station was breaking the law. So he moved in with his club. I was right behind him since I did not want to miss any of the fun. Ned was at the bottom somewhere but I didn't doubt he could take care of himself. There were a couple of muffled shots and someone screamed. No one fired after that because we were all too tangled up. A punk named Brooklyn Eddy hit me on the side of the head with his gun butt and I broke his nose all over his face with my fist. There is a kind of fog over everything after that but I do remember it was very busy for a while. When the fog lifted a bit I realized I was the only one still standing or leaning rather it was a good thing the wall was there. Ned came in through the street door carrying a very bashed looking Brooklyn Eddy. I hoped I had done all that. Eddy's wrists were fastened together with cuffs. Ned laid him gently next to the heap of thugs who I suddenly realized all wore the same kind of handcuffs. I wondered vaguely if Ned made them as he needed them or had a supply tucked away in a hollow leg or something. There was a chair a few feet away and sitting down helped. Blood was all over everything and if a couple of the hoods hadn't grown I would have thought they were corpses. One was. I noticed suddenly a bullet had caught him in the chest. Most of the blood was probably his. Ned burrowed in the bodies for a moment and dragged Billy out. He was unconscious, a big smile on his face and the splintered remains of his nightstick still stuck in his fist. It takes very little to make some people happy. A bullet had gone through his leg and he never moved while Ned ripped the pants leg off and put on a bandage. The spurious China Joe and one other man escaped in a car. Ned reported, Don't let it worry you, I managed to croak. Your batting average still leads the league. It was then I realized the chief was still sitting in his chair where he had been when the brew ha ha started. Still slumped down with that glazed look. Only after I started to talk to him did I realize that Alonso Craig, chief of police of Nineport, was now dead. A single shot, small caliber gun, maybe a .22, right through the heart and what blood there had been was soaked up by his clothes. I had a good idea where the gun would be that fired that shot. A small gun, the kind that would fit in a wide Chinese sleeve. I wasn't tired or groggy anymore, just angry. Maybe he hadn't been the brightest or most honest guy in the world but he deserved a better end than that. Knocked off by a two bit racket boss who thought he was being crossed. Right about then I realized I had a big decision to make. With Billy out of the fight and fats gone I was the Nineport police force. All I had to do to be clear of this mess was to walk out the door and keep going. I would be safe enough. Ned, buzzed by, picked up two of the thugs and hauled them off to the cells. Maybe it was the sight of his blue back or maybe I was tired of running. Either way my mind was made up before I realized it. I carefully took off the chief's gold badge and put it on in place of my old one. The new chief of police of Nineport, I said to no one in particular. Yes, sir, Ned said as he passed. He put one of the prisoners down long enough to salute then went on with his work. I returned the salute. The hospital meat wagon hauled away the dead and wounded. I took an evil pleasure in ignoring the questioning stairs of the attendants. After the dock fixed the side of my head everyone cleared out. Ned mopped up the floor. I ate ten aspirin and waited for the hammering to stop so I could think what to do next. When I pulled my thoughts together the answer was obvious, too obvious. I made as long a job as I could of reloading my gun. Refill your handcuff, Box Ned. We are going out. Like a good cop he asked no questions. I locked the outside door when we left and gave him the key. Here, there's a good chance you'll be the only one left to use this before the day is over. I stretched the drive over to China Zhou's place just as much as I could, trying to figure if there was another way of doing it. There wasn't. Murder had been done and Zhou was the boy I was going to pin it on, so I had to get him. The best I could do was stop around the corner and give Ned a briefing. This combination bar in Dice Room is the sole property of he whom we will still call China Zhou until there's time for you to give me a rundown on him. Right now I got enough distractions. What we have to do is go in there, find Zhou, and bring him to justice. Simple? Simple, Ned answered in his sharp Zhou College voice. But wouldn't it be simpler to make the arrest now when he is leaving in that car instead of waiting until he returns? The car in mention was doing 60 as it came out of the alley ahead of us. I only had a glimpse of Zhou in the backseat as it tore by us. Stop them, I shouted, mostly for my own benefit since I was driving. I tried to shift gears and start the engine at the same time and succeeded in doing exactly nothing. So Ned stopped them. It had been phrased as an order. He leaned his head out of the window and I saw it once why most of his equipment was located in his torso, probably his brain as well. There sure wasn't much room left in his head when that cannon was tucked away in there. A 75 recoilless. A plate swiveled back right where his nose should have been if he had one and the big muzzle pointed out. It's a neat idea when you think about it, right between the eyes for good aiming, up high, always ready. The boom, boom almost took my head off. Of course Ned was a perfect shot, so would I be with a computer for a brain. He had holed one rear tire with each slug and the car flap-flapped to a stop a little ways down the road. I climbed out slowly while Ned sprinted there in seconds flat. They didn't even try to run this time. What little nerve they had left must have been shattered by the smoking muzzle of that 75 poking out from between Ned's eyes. Robots are neat about things like that, so he must have left it sticking out deliberately. Probably he had a course in psychology back in robot school. Three of them in the car, all waving their hands in the air like the last reel of a Western and the rear floor covered with interesting little suitcases. Everyone came along quietly. China Joe only snarled while Ned told me that his name really was Stanton and the Almira hot seat was kept warm all the time in hopes he would be back. I promised Joe Stanton I would be happy to arrange it that same day, thereby not worrying about any slip-ups with the local authorities. The rest of the mob would stand trial in Canal City. It was a very busy day. Things have quieted down a good deal since then. Billy is out of the hospital and wearing my old sergeant stripes. Even Fats is back, though he is sober once in a while now and has trouble looking me in the eye. We don't have much to do because in addition to being a quiet town this is now an honest one. Ned is on foot patrol nights and in charge of the lab and files days. Maybe the policeman's benevolent wouldn't like that but Ned doesn't seem to mind. He touched up all the bullet scratches and keeps his badge polished. I know a robot can't be happy or sad but Ned seems to be happy. Sometimes I would swear I can hear him humming to himself but of course that's only the motors and things going around. When you start thinking about it I suppose we set some kind of precedent here. What with putting on a robot as a full-fledged police officer. No one ever came around from the factory yet so I have never found out if we're the first or not. And I'll tell you something else. I'm not going to stay in this broken-down town forever. I have some letters out now looking for a new job. So some people are going to be very surprised when they see who their new chief of police is after I leave. End of Arm of the Law by Harry Harrison. The Bell Tone by Edmund H. Leftwich. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Bologna Times. The Bell Tone by Edmund H. Leftwich. It is no use. It's too late. The earth I must dig alone. To whom it may concern, in order to clear up any misunderstanding or false impressions regarding the amazing case of my beloved friend and co-worker, Professor Howard E. Edwards, I submit herewith extracts from the professor's notebook, which I found on the desk. Evans-Barkley, B.S. Fellow, I.R.E. January 25. Last night, in my dreams, I was an monstrous ant, and had been digging myself a burrow in the soft fresh earth. The dream was intensely real, and when I awoke, I felt as tired as if I had actually been digging. My arms ached, and I was astonished upon examining my hands to find them raw. Dressing hastily, I rushed to the backyard, and there, sure enough, near the fence, was a large hole about two feet deep and three feet long. Hurriedly, I filled it in, and returned to the house. I must rest for a few days, as I feel that the intense excitement caused by my investigations is preying too heavily upon my mind. At this time I feel that I should make a brief summary of my findings in respect to the ants, so that Barkley may go over these notes upon his return from his vacation. First, the ant colony is the source of the powerful bell-like tone, which is radiated continuously on two wavelengths—0.0018m and 0.00176m. This tone acts as a radio beacon and directs the ants to the colony, no matter where they may be located. The 0.0018m wave is used by the ants for their clacking conversations, by means of which they communicate with each other and the colony, receiving orders from the directing intelligence, reporting the location of food, and requesting help when needed. The wave 0.00176m is used for sending thought, images, or pictures, which may be sent with the clacking code, or independently. I cannot conceive a more efficient or highly specialized communication system. I must learn their secret, their methods. January 30 This morning, while sitting at the receiver in a semi-dose, with a bell-tone ringing in my ears, I fell into that state known as Daydreaming. Little Nippy, my beloved fox terrier and constant companion, rushed into the laboratory and ran up to me. For a moment my mind went blank. My hand shot out. I grasped the dog around the throat and began to throttle him. I had risen from my chair, and the dog was nearly dead when I slipped and fell, pulling the phone plug out of the receiver. Instantly, my mind cleared, and words cannot express the remorse I felt at my inhuman actions. Nippy would have nothing to do with me, and crawled dejectedly from the room a terrified look in his eyes. I have no explanation for my actions. February 3 The transmitter is ready for operation. I have constructed a pair of metal disc electrodes which clamp tightly to my head and press against my temples. This device will pick up the thought impulses from my brain, feed them directly into the radio frequency amplifier where they will be amplified and then radiated in a tight directed beam. My two ants were in their little enclosure under the microscope when I threw the switch to the send position. I pictured myself as I looked as a man and sent the thought, I am a man. Hastily I threw the switch on to the receive position. I looked through the microscope. The ants were lying on their sides. Somehow I felt that the power was too great and had stunned them. Keeping my eye to the microscope I again threw the switch to send and cut the power to half. Get up friends, get up, I thought, as I pictured them rising. Sure enough, the ants slowly regained their feet. They looked about in apparent bewilderment. Back again in receive position I was conscious of the thought image. The man, he is the man. The man holds us here. He is killing us. We must kill the man. They gnashed their fierce-looking mandibles. I snapped back to send and thought. No, you must not kill the man. The man will not harm you. He is your friend. He will help you. As I watched the ants seemed to become less excited. From the larger of the two I received the thought. We are dying. The man is killing us with his strong vibrations. We must kill the man. And a very powerful thought impression burst upon my brain. It seemed to come from the colony three feet away. Warning to the man. Stop your thought transmissions at once. Your vibrations are killing us. We want nothing from you. We have everything we need. You will learn nothing from us. You will stop at once. I threw the switch to send. Viewed through the microscope the two ants were lying on their backs. I said to all appearances. What if I don't stop? I sent the thought question. I want to learn the secret of your communication. In return I will teach you many things. I can't stop now. I changed to receive, and the answer came back. If you do not stop, we will kill you. I turned off the apparatus, but the powerful bell-tone continued to pound incessantly into my brain. I laughed. They'd kill me. Would they? Those tiny insects? What could they do? Well, let them try. But I'd get what I was after. I would not quit now, with success so near. What if my transmissions did kill a few of them? Of what importance were the lives of a few ants as compared to the advancement of the science of communication? February 9. I found myself digging again in the backyard yesterday, as before I had been daydreaming, when an overwhelming desire to go outside and feel the cool, moist earth between my fingers and on my face took possession of me. I rushed out into the backyard and began digging feverishly, madly, until finally I fell exhausted. Then my mind cleared and I filled in the hole. About half the ants have died, due, no doubt, to the strength of my radiations. No matter how low I cut the power, they still cannot live but a short time under the force of my transmissions. They have stopped sending thought impressions entirely and are only using their clacking code signals, which they seem to realize I cannot understand. I feel that they are undertaking some sort of campaign against me. For hours they congregate, closely packed, their antennae stiffly pointed straight up. Their thought currents seem to be flowing into and merging with the bell-tone, which grows stronger and more penetrating day by day. In my backyard there are four large ant hills, and at each hill curiously there is no activity except the same mass concentration of the ants. Have they, too, been affected by my radiations and joined forces with the original colony against myself? The bell-tone continues to grow stronger. February 11 Mrs. Winslow, the middle-aged widow who comes to clean my house and laboratory twice a week, was here this morning. She is short, dumpy, and inclined to be stout. As she went about her work I noticed particularly the fat, firm flesh of her neck, just below the jaw. I felt an uncontrollable desire to sink my teeth deep into that flesh and enjoy the taste of warm, fresh blood. I had actually risen from my chair to accomplish my desire when the telephone rang, and my mind cleared. February 14 I have decided to stop my experiments with the ants. As they refused to send any more thought impressions there is nothing further I can learn from them. Somehow I feel that they are gaining a hold upon my mind, and that every time I listen in on the receiver that hold becomes stronger. I firmly believe that I would have attacked poor Mrs. Winslow had not the ringing of the phone so opportunally interrupted me. I have sent word for her to stay away, as I cannot trust myself. I keep a box of fresh earth on the table in my laboratory. I often run my fingers through it, and taste it. It is remarkable how much this soothes my nerves. February 16 It is too late. For two days I have kept my apparatus shut off. I have not so much as looked at the ants, but still that confounded bell tone rings in my ears with all the insistence of African tom-toms. Or by hour the tone becomes more penetrating. I cannot sleep, and can eat but little. As a last resort I destroyed my ant colony. I even went so far as to pour boiling water on the four ant hills in my yard. Still the bell tone persists. I can stand it no longer. Perhaps if I were to dig again in the yard in the soothing earth I could forget. News Clipping from Philadelphia Banner Radio Communications Engineer Dead Howard E. Edwards Suicide Philadelphia, February 18 The body of Howard E. Edwards, B.S., Ph.D., member I.R.E., eminent authority on radio communications, age 56, was found this morning in the backyard of his residence, 1427. Reigns Avenue. The body was almost completely buried in a long, narrow hole in the ground. At first Val Play was suspected, but later it appeared that Edwards had dug himself into the ground and died of suffocation, as his nostrils and mouth were filled with dirt. Dr. P.A. Hoffner, who examined the body, found no wounds, stated that Edwards had been dead for about two days and pronounced the death as a clear case of suicide. The strange means employed probably due to an unbalanced mental condition. Elaborate radio apparatus upon which Edwards had been working had been smashed to bits. End of The Bell Tone. Nothing moved or stirred. Everything was silent, dead. Only the gun showed signs of life, and the trespassers had wrecked that for all time. The return journey to pick up the treasure would be a cinch. They smiled. The captain peered into the eyepiece of the telescope. He adjusted the focus quickly. It was an atomic fission we saw all right, he said presently. He sighed and pushed the eyepiece away. Many of you who once to look may do so, but it's not a pretty sight. Let me look, tanced the archaeologist said. He bent down to look, squinting. Good Lord! He leaped violently back, knocking against Dorley, the chief navigator. Why did we come all this way then, Dorley asked, looking around at the other men? There's no point even in landing. Let's go back at once. Perhaps he's right, the biologist murmured, but I'd like to look for myself if I may. He pushed past tants and peered into the site. He saw a vast expanse of endless surface of gray stretching to the edge of the planet. At first he thought it was water, but after a moment he realized that it was slag—pitted, fused slag broken only by hills of rock shutting up at intervals. Nothing moved or stirred. Everything was silent, dead. I see, Fomar said, backing away from the eyepiece. Well, I won't find any legumes there. He tried to smile, but his lips stayed unmoved. He stepped away and stood by himself, staring past the others. I wonder what the atmospheric sample will show, tanced said. I think I can guess, the captain answered, most of the atmosphere is poisoned, but didn't we expect all this? I don't see why we're so surprised. A vision visible as far away as our system must be a terrible thing. He strode off down the corridor, dignified and expressionless. They watched him disappear into the control room. As the captain closed the door, the young woman turned. What did the telescope show? Good or bad? Bad. No life could possibly exist. Atmosphere poisoned, water vaporized, all the land fused. Could they have gone underground? The captain slid back the port windows so that the surface of the planet under them was visible. Two of them stared down silent and disturbed, mile after mile of unbroken ruin stretched out, blackened slag pitted and scarred, and occasional heaps of rock. Suddenly Nasha jumped. Look! Over there at the edge. Do you see it? They stared. Something rose up, not rock, not an accidental formation. It was round, a circle of dots, white pellets on the dead skin of the planet. A city? Buildings of some kind? Just turn the ship, Nasha said excitedly. She pushed her dark hair from her face. Turn the ship, and let's see what it is! The ship turned, changing its course. As they came over the white dots, the captain lowered the ship, dropping it down as much as he dared. Peers, he said. Peers of some sort of stone, perhaps poured artificial stone, the remains of a city. Oh, dear Nasha murmured, how awful! She watched the ruins disappear behind them. In a half-circle the white squares jutted from the slag, chipped and cracked like broken teeth. There's nothing alive, the captain said at last. I think we'll go right back. I know most of the crew want to. Get the government receiving station on the sender and tell them what we found and that we— He staggered. The first atomic shell had struck the ship, spinning it around. The captain fell to the floor, crashing into the control table. Papers and instruments rained down on him. As he started to his feet the second shell struck. The ceiling cracked open, struts and girders twisted and bent. The ship shuttered, falling suddenly down, then writing itself as automatic controls took over. The captain lay on the floor by the smashed control board. In the center Nasha struggled to free herself from the debris. Outside the men were already sealing the gaping leaks in the side of the ship, through which the precious air was rushing, dissipating into the void beyond. Me, Dorley, was shouting, fire over here, wiring ignited. Two men came running. Tants watched helplessly, his eyeglasses broken and bent. So there is life here, after all, he said, half to himself. But how could— Give us a hand, Fomar said, hurrying past. Give us a hand. We've got to land the ship. It was night. A few stars glinted above them, winking through the drifting silt that blew across the surface of the planet. Dorley peered out, frowning. What a place to be stuck in! He resumed his work, hammering the bent metal hull of the ship back into place. He was wearing a pressure suit. There were still many small leaks and radioactive particles from the atmosphere had already found their way into the ship. Nasha and Fomar were sitting at the table in the control room, pale, solemn, studying the inventory lists. Lo on carbohydrates, Fomar said. We can break down the stored fats if we want to, but I wonder if we could find anything outside. Nasha went to the window. How uninviting it looks! She paced back and forth, very slender and small, her face dark with fatigue. What do you suppose an exploring party would find? Fomar shrugged. Not much. Maybe a few weeds growing in cracks here and there, nothing we could use. Anything that would adapt to this environment would be toxic, lethal. Nasha paused, rubbing her cheek. There was a deep scratch there, still red and swollen. Then how do you explain it, according to your theory the inhabitants must have died in their skins, fried like yams. But who fired on us? Somebody detected us, made a decision, aimed a gun. Engaged distance, the captain said feebly from the cot in the corner. He turned toward them. That's the part that worries me. The first shell put us out of commission. The second almost destroyed us. They were well aimed, perfectly aimed. We're not such an easy target. True, Fomar nodded. Well, perhaps we'll know the answer before we leave here. What a strange situation. All our reasoning tells us that no life could exist. The whole planet burned dry. The atmosphere itself gone, completely poisoned. The gun that fired the projectiles survived, Nasha said. Why not people? It's not the same. Metal doesn't need air to breathe. Metal doesn't get leukemia from radioactive particles. Metal doesn't need food and water. There was silence. A paradox, Nasha said. Anyhow, in the morning I think we should send out a search party. And meanwhile we should keep on trying to get the ship in condition for the trip back. It'll be days before we can take off, Fomar said. We should keep every man working here. We can't afford to send out a party. Nasha smiled a little. We'll send you out in the first party. Maybe you can discover what was it you were so interested in? Legumes. Edible legumes. Maybe you can find some of them. Only... Only what? Only watch out. They fired on us once without even knowing who we were or what we came for. Do you suppose they fought with each other? Perhaps they couldn't imagine anyone being friendly under any circumstances. What a strange evolutionary trait. Inter-species warfare, fighting within the race. We'll know in the morning, Fomar said. Let's get some sleep. The sun came up chill and austere. The three people, two men and a woman, stepped through the port, dropping down on the hard ground below. What a day, Dorely said grumpily. I said how glad I'd be to walk on firm ground again, but... Come on, Nasha said, up beside me. I want to say something to you. Will you excuse us, Tants? Tants nodded gloomily. Dorely caught up with Nasha. They walked together their metal shoes, crunching the ground underfoot. Nasha glanced at him. Listen. The Captain is dying. No one knows except the two of us. By the end of the day period of this planet, he'll be dead. The shock did something to his heart. He was almost sixty, you know. Dorely nodded. That's bad. I have a great deal of respect for him. You will be Captain in his place, of course, since you're Vice-Captain now. No. I prefer to see someone else lead, perhaps you or Fomar. I've been thinking over the situation and it seems to me that I should declare myself mated to one of you, whichever of you wants to be Captain. Then I could devolve the responsibility. Well, I don't want to be Captain. Let Fomar do it. Nasha studied him, tall and blond, striding along beside her in his pressure suit. I'm rather partial to you, she said. We might try it for a time, at least, but do as you like. Look, we're coming to something. They stopped walking, letting Tants catch up. In front of them was some sort of a ruined building. They stared around thoughtfully. Do you see? This whole place is a natural bowl, a huge valley. See how the rock formations rise up on all sides, protecting the floor? Maybe some of the great blast was deflected here. They wandered around the ruins, picking up rocks and fragments. I think this was a farm, Tants said, examining a piece of wood. This was part of a tower windmill. Really? Nasha took the stick and turned it over. Interesting. But let's go. It took much time. Look, Dorley said suddenly, off there, a long way off. Isn't that something? He pointed. Nasha sucked in her breath. The white stones. What? Nasha looked up at Dorley. The white stones. The great broken teeth, we saw them, the captain and I, from the control room. She touched Dorley's arm gently. That's where they fired from. I didn't think we had landed so close. What is it, Tants said, coming up to them? I'm almost blind without my glasses. What do you see? The city. Where they fired from. Oh. All three of them stood together. Well, let's go, Tants said. There's no telling what we'll find there. Dorley frowned at him. Wait. We don't know what we would be getting into. They must have patrols. They probably have seen us already, for that matter. They probably have seen the ship itself, Tants said. They probably know right now where they can find it, where they can blow it up. So what difference does it make whether we go closer or not? That's true, Nasha said. If they really want to get us, we haven't a chance. We have no armaments at all. You know that. I have a hand-weapon, Dorley nodded. Well, let's go on, then. I suppose you're right, Tants. But let's stay together, Tants said nervously. Nasha, you're going too fast. Nasha looked back. She laughed. If we expect to get there by nightfall, we must go fast. They reached the outskirts of the city at about the middle of the afternoon. The sun, cold and yellow, hung above them in the colorless sky. Dorley stopped at the top of a ridge overlooking the city. Well, there it is, what's left of it. There was not much left. The huge concrete piers which they had noticed were not piers at all, but the ruined foundations of buildings. They had been baked by the searing heat, baked and charred almost to the ground. Something else remained, only this irregular circle of white squares, perhaps four miles in diameter. Dorley spat and discussed. More wasted time. A dead skeleton of a city, that's all. But it was from here that the firing came, Tants murmured. Don't forget that. And by someone with a good eye and a great deal of experience, Nasha added, let's go. They walked into the city between the ruined buildings. No one spoke. They walked in silence, listening to the echo of their footsteps. It's macabre, Dorley muttered. I've seen ruined cities before, but they died of old age, old age and fatigue. This was killed, seared to death. This city didn't die, it was murdered. I wonder what the city was called, Nasha said. She turned aside, going up the remains of a stairway from one of the foundations. Do you think we might find a signpost? Some kind of plaque? She peered into the ruins. There's nothing there, Dorley said impatiently. Come on. Wait, Nasha bent down, touching a concrete stone. There's something inscribed on this. What is it, Tants hurried up. He squatted in the dust, running his gloved fingers over the surface of the stone. Letters all right. He took a writing stick from the pocket of his pressure suit and copied the inscription on a bit of paper. Dorley glanced over his shoulder. The inscription was, Franklin Apartments. That's this city, Nasha said softly. That was its name. Tants put the paper in his pocket and they went on. After a time, Dorley said, Nasha, you know, I think we're being watched, but don't look around. The woman stiffened. Oh, why do you say that? Did you see something? No, I can feel it, though, don't you? Nasha smiled a little. I feel nothing, but perhaps I'm more used to being stared at. She turned her head slightly. Oh! Dorley reached for his hand-weapon. What is it? What do you see? Tants had stopped dead in his tracks, his mouth half open. The gun, Nasha said, it's the gun. Look at the size of it, the size of the thing! Dorley unfastened his hand-weapon slowly. That's it, all right. The gun was huge, stark and immense. It pointed up at the sky, a massive steel and glass set in a huge slab of concrete. Even as they watched, the gun moved on its swivel base, worrying underneath. A slim vein turned with the wind, a network of rods atop a high pole. It's alive, Nasha whispered. It's listening to us, watching us. The gun moved again, this time clockwise. It was mounted so that it could make a full circle. The barrel lowered a trifle, then resumed its original position. But who fires it, Tants said? Dorley laughed. No one—no one fires it. They stared at him. What do you mean? It fires itself. They couldn't believe him. Nasha came close to him, frowning, looking up at him. I don't understand. What do you mean it fires itself? Watch. I'll show you. Don't move. Dorley picked up a rock from the ground. He hesitated a moment and then tossed the rock high in the air. The rock passed in front of the gun. Instantly the great barrel moved, the veins contracted. The rock fell to the ground. The gun paused, then resumed its calm swivel at slow circling. You see, Dorley said, it noticed the rock as soon as I threw it up in the air. It's alert to anything that flies or moves above the ground level. Probably it detected us as soon as we entered the gravitational field of the planet. It probably had a beat on us from the start. We don't have a chance. It knows all about the ship. It's just waiting for us to take off again. I understand about the rock, Nasha said nodding. The gun noticed it, but not us, since we're on the ground, not above. It's only designed to combat objects in the sky. The ship is safe until it takes off again, then the end will come. But what's this gun for, Tants put in? There's the one alive here. Everyone is dead. It's a machine, Dorley said, a machine that was made to do a job, and it's doing the job. How it survived the blast, I don't know. On it goes, waiting for the enemy. Probably they came by air in some sort of projectiles. The enemy, Nasha said, their own race. It is hard to believe that they really bombed themselves, fired at themselves. Well, it's over with, except right here, where we're standing. This one gun, still alert, ready to kill, it'll go on until it wears out. And by that time, we'll be dead, Nasha said bitterly. There must have been hundreds of guns like this, Dorley murmured. They must have been used to the sight, guns, weapons, uniforms. Probably they accepted it as a natural thing, part of their lives, like eating and sleeping. An institution like the church and the state. Men trained to fight, to lead armies, a regular profession, honored, respected. Tants was walking slowly toward the gun, peering nearsightedly up at it. Quite complex, isn't it? All those veins and tubes. I suppose this is some sort of a telescopic sight. His gloved hand touched the end of a long tube. The gun shifted, the barrel reacting. It swung. Don't move, Dorley cried. The barrel swung past them as they stood rigid and still. For one terrible moment it hesitated over their heads, clicking and wiring, settling into position. Then the sounds died out and the gun became silent. Tants smiled foolishly inside his helmet. I must have put my finger over the lens. I'll be more careful. He made his way up onto the circular slab, stepping gingerly behind the body of the gun. It appeared from view. Where did he go, Nasha said irritably, he'll get us all killed. Tants, come back, Dorley shouted. What's the matter with you? In a minute there was a long silence. At last the archeologist appeared. I think I've found something. Come up and I'll show you. What is it? Dorley, you said the gun was here to keep the enemy off. I think I know why they wanted to keep the enemy off. They were puzzled. I think I've found what the gun is supposed to guard. Come and give me a hand. All right, Dorley said abruptly. Let's go. He seized Nasha's hand. Come on, let's see what he's found. I thought something like this might happen when I saw that the gun was like what? Nasha pulled her hand away. What are you talking about? You act as if you knew what he's found. I do, Dorley smiled down at her. Do you remember the legend that all races have, the myth of the buried treasure in the dragon, the serpent that watches it, guards it, keeps everyone away? She nodded. Well, Dorley pointed up at the gun. That, he said, is the dragon. Come on. Between the three of them they managed to pull up the steel cover and lay it to one side. Dorley was wet with perspiration when they finished. It isn't worth it, he grunted. He stared into the dark yawning hole. Or is it? Nasha clicked on her hand lamp, shining the beam down the stairs. The steps were thick with dust and rubble. At the bottom was a steel door. Come on, Tant said excitedly. He started down the stairs. They watched him reach the door and pull hopefully on it without success. Give a hand. All right. They came gingerly after him. Dorley examined the door. It was bolted shut, locked. There was an inscription on the door, but he could not read it. Now what, Nasha said? Dorley took out his hand-weapon. Stand back. I can't think of any other way. He pressed the switch. The bottom of the door glowed red. Suddenly it began to crumble. Dorley clicked the weapon off. I think we can get through. Let's try. The door came apart easily. In a few minutes they had carried it away in pieces and stacked the pieces on the first step. Then they went on, flashing the light ahead of them. They were in a vault. Dust lay everywhere, on everything, inches thick. Wood crates lined the walls, huge boxes and crates, packages and containers. Tant's looked around curiously, his eyes bright. What exactly are all these, he murmured? Something valuable, I would think. He picked up a round drum and opened it. A spool fell to the floor, unwinding a black ribbon. He examined it, holding it up to the light. Look at this. They came around him. Pictures, Nasha said, tiny pictures. Records of some kind. Tant's closed the spool up in the drum again. Look, hundreds of drums. He flashed the light around. And those crates, let's open one. Doorley was already prying at the wood. The wood had turned brittle and dry. He managed to pull a section away. It was a picture. A boy in a blue garment smiling pleasantly, staring ahead, young and handsome. He seemed almost alive, ready to move toward them in the light of the handlamp. It was one of them. One of the ruined race, the race that had perished. For a long time they stared at the picture. At last Doorley replaced the board. All these other crates, Nasha said, more pictures and these drums. What are in these boxes? This is their treasure, Tant said, almost to himself. Here are their pictures, their records. Probably all their literature is here. Their stories, their myths, their ideas about the universe. And their history, Nasha said, will be able to trace their development and find out what it was that made them become what they were. Doorley was wandering around the vault. Odd, he murmured. Even at the end, even after they had begun to fight, they still knew some place down inside them that their real treasure was this, their books and pictures, their myths. Even after their big cities and buildings and industries were destroyed, they probably hoped to come back and find this, after everything else, was gone. When we get back home we can agitate for a mission to come here, Tant said. All this can be loaded up and taken back. We'll be leaving about—he stopped. Yes, Doorley said dryly, we'll be leaving about three day periods from now. We'll fix the ship and take off. Soon we'll be home, that is, if nothing happens. Like being shot down by that. Oh, stop it, Nasha said impatiently, leave him alone, he's right. All this must be taken back home sooner or later. We'll have to solve the problem of the gun, we have no choice. Doorley nodded. What's your solution then? As soon as we leave the ground we'll be shot down. His face twisted bitterly. They've guarded their treasure too well. Instead of being preserved it will lie here until it rots. It serves them right. How? Don't you see, this was the only way they knew, building a gun and setting it up to shoot anything that came along. They were so certain that everything was hostile, the enemy coming to take their possessions away from them. Well, they can keep them. Nasha was deep in thought, her mind far away. Suddenly she gasped. Doorley, she said, what's the matter with us? We have no problem, the gun is no menace at all. The two men stared at her. No menace, Doorley said, it's already shot us down once, and as soon as we take off again, don't you see Nasha began to laugh. The poor, foolish gun, it's completely harmless, even I could deal with it alone. You! Her eyes were flashing. With a crowbar, with a hammer, or a stick of wood. Let's go back to the ship and load up. Of course we're at its mercy in the air, that's the way it was made. It can fire into the sky, shoot down anything that flies, but that's all. Against something on the ground it has no defences, isn't that right? Doorley nodded slowly. The soft underbelly of the dragon. In the legend the dragon's armor doesn't cover its stomach. He began to laugh. That's right, that's perfectly right. Let's go then, Nasha said, let's get back to the ship. We have work to do here. It was early the next morning when they reached the ship. During the night the captain had died and the crew had ignited his body according to custom. They had stood solemnly around it until the last ember died. As they were going back to their work the woman and the two men appeared dirty and tired, still excited. And presently from the ship a line of people came, each carrying something in his hands. The line marched across the gray slag, the eternal expanse of fused metal. When they reached the weapon they all fell on the gun at once with crowbars, hammers, anything that was heavy and hard. The telescopic sights shattered into bits. The wiring was pulled out, torn to shreds. The delicate gears were smashed, dented. Finally the warheads themselves were carried off and the firing pins removed. The gun was smashed. The great weapon destroyed. The people went down into the vault and examined the treasure. With its metal armored guardian dead there was no danger any longer. They studied the pictures, the films, the crates of books, the jeweled crowns, the cups, the statues. At last as the sun was dipping into the gray mists that drifted across the planet they came back up the stairs again. For a moment they stood around the wrecked gun looking at the unmoving outline of it. Then they started back to the ship. There was still much work to be done. The ship had been badly hurt. Much had been damaged and lost. The important thing was to repair it as quickly as possible to get it into the air. Because all of them working together it took just five more days to make it space worthy. Nasha stood in the control room watching the planet fall away behind them. She folded her arms, sitting down on the edge of the table. What are you thinking of, dorley said? I? Nothing. Are you sure? I was thinking that there must have been a time when this planet was quite different, when there was life on it. I suppose there was. It's unfortunate that no ships from our system came this far. Then we had no reason to suspect intelligent life until we saw the fission glow in the sky. And then it was too late. Not quite too late. After all, there are possessions, there are music, books, there are pictures. All of that will survive. We'll take them home and study them, and they'll change us. We won't be the same afterwards. They're sculpturing especially. Did you see the one of the great winged creature without a head or arms? Broken off, I suppose, but those wings. Looked very old. It will change us a great deal. When we come back, we won't find the gun waiting for us, Nasha said. Next time it won't be there to shoot us down, we can land and take the treasure, as you call it. She smiled up at dorley. You'll lead us back there as a good captain should. Captain, dorley grinned. Then you've decided? Nasha shrugged. Fomar argues with me too much. I think, all in all, I really prefer you. Let's go, dorley said. Let's go back home. The ship roared up, flying over the ruins of the city. It turned in a huge arc and then shot off beyond the horizon, heading into outer space. Down below, in the center of the ruined city, a single, half-broken detector vein moved slightly, catching the roar of the ship. The base of the great gun throbbed painfully, straining to turn. After a moment a red warning light flashed on down inside its destroyed works. And a long way off, a hundred miles from the city, another warning light flashed on, far underground. Automatic relays flew into action, gears turned, belts whined. On the ground above, a section of metal slag slipped back. A ramp appeared. A moment later, a small cart rushed to the surface. The cart turned toward the city. A second cart appeared behind it. It was loaded with wiring cables. Behind it a third cart came, loaded with telescopic tube sights. Behind came more carts, some with relays, some with firing controls, some with tools and parts, screws and bolts, pins and nuts. The final one contained atomic warheads. The carts lined up behind the first one, the lead cart. The lead cart started off across the frozen ground, bumping calmly along, followed by the others, moving toward the city, to the damaged gun. End of The Gun, by Philip K. Dick.