 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Glenn K. Amo. Belly Laugh by Gordon Randall Garrett, writing as Ivar Jorgensen. You hear a lot of talk these days about secret weapons. If it's not a new wrinkle in nuclear fission, it's a gun to shoot around corners and down winding staircases. Or maybe a nice new strain of bacteria guaranteed to give you radioactive dandruff. Our own suggestion is to pipe a few of our television commercials into Russia and bore the enemy to death. Well, it seems that Ivar Jorgensen has hit on the ultimate engine of destruction, a weapon designed to exploit man's greatest weakness. The blueprint can be found in the next few pages, and as the soldier in the story says, our only hope is to keep a sense of humor. Me? I'm looking for my outfit. Got cut off in that Holland Tunnel attack. Mind if I sit down with you guys a while? Thanks. Coffee? Damn, this is heaven. Ain't seen a cup of coffee in a year. What? You said it. This sure is a hell of a war. Tough on a guy's feet. Yeah, that's right. Holland Tunnel skirmish. Where the Ruskies used that new gun. Uh-huh. God, it was awful. Guys popping off all around a guy and him not knowing why. No sense to it. No noise, no wound, just popping off. That's the trouble with this war. It won't settle down to a routine. Always something new. What the hell chances a guy got to figure things out? And I tell you, them Ruskies are coming up with new weapons just as fast as we are. Enough to make your hair stand on end. Sugar? Christ, yes. Ain't seen sugar for a year. You see, it's like this. We were bottled up in the pits around the tunnel for seven damn days. It was like nothing you ever saw before. Whoops! Sorry. Didn't mean to splash you. I was laughing about something that happened there to a guy. Maybe you guys would get a kick out of it. After all, we gotta keep our sense of humor. You see, there was me and a Kentucky kid named Stillwell in this pit. A pretty big pit with lots of room. And we were all alone. This Stillwell was a nice kid. Green and lonesome, and it's pretty sad, really, but there's a yak in it. And as they say, we gotta keep a sense of humor. Well, this Stillwell, a really green kid, is unhappy and just plain drooling for his gal back home. He talks about his mother, of course, and his old man, but it's the girl that's really on his mind, as you guys can plainly understand. He's seeing her every place. Like spots in front of his eyes. Nice spots, doing things to him when this Rusky babe shows up. My gun came up without any orders from me just as she poked her puss over the edge of the pit. And huh? Thank you kindly. It sure tastes good, but I don't want to short you guys. Thank you kindly. Well, as I was saying, this Rusky babe pokes her nose over the edge of the pit, and Stillwell dives and knocks down my gun. He says, you son of a bitch! Just like that. Wild and desperate, like you'd say to a guy if the guy was just kicking over the last jug of water on a desert island. It would have been long enough for her to kill us if I hadn't had good reflexes. Even then, all I had time to do was knock the pistol out of her hand and drag her into the pit. With her play bollocksed, she was confused and bewildered. She ain't a fighter, and she sits back against the wall, staring at a deadpan with big, expressionless eyes. She's a plenty pretty babe, and I could see exactly what had happened as far as Stillwell was concerned. His spots had come to life in very adequate form, so to speak. Stillwell goes over and sits down beside her, and I'm very much on the alert because I know where his courage comes from, but I decide it's all right because I see the babe is not belligerent, just confused, kind of, and friendly. And willing. Kind of a whipped little dog willing, and man, oh man, she was sure what Stillwell needed. They kind of went together like a hand in a glove, natural-like, and it followed pretty natural, that when Stillwell got up and led her around the wing of the pit, out of sight, she went willing, like that same little dog. Uh-huh. No, you guys, two's enough. I wouldn't rob you. Well, OK, and thanks kindly. Well, there I was, all alone, but happy for Stillwell, because I know it's what the kid needs. And in spots like that, what difference does it make? Yank, rusky, Mongolian, as long as she's willing. Then, you guys, Stillwell comes back out wall-eyed, real wall-eyed, like being hit, but not knocked out and still walking. I know what it is. Some kind of shock. I get up and walk over and take a look at the babe where he'd left her, and I bust out laughing. I told you, guys, there was a yak in this. I laughed like a fool. It was that funny. As much as I had time to before Stillwell cracked, it was enough to crack him, the little thing that pushes a guy over the edge. He lets out a yell and screams, for Christ's sake, for Christ's sake, nothing but a bucket of bolts, nothing but a couple of plastic lumps. That was when I hit him. I had to. He was for the boys, Stillwell was. An hour later we got relieved and a couple of medikos carried him away strapped to a stretcher, gun like a kite. They took the robot, too, and its clothes, but they forgot the brassiere, so I took it and I've been carrying it ever since. But I'll leave it with you guys, if you want, for the coffee. Might make you think about home. After all, like the man says, we've got to keep our sense of humor. Well, so long, you guys, and thank. End of Belly Laugh by Gordon Randall Garrett, writing as Ivar Jorgensen. Recording by Glenn K. Amow, Stitsville, Ontario, Canada. www.glennkamo.blogspot.com Please visit Liberbox.org Reading by Belona Times Breakaway by Stanley Gemble She surely got her wish, but there was some question about getting what she wanted. Phil Conover pulled the zipper of his flight suit up the front of his long, thin body and came into the living room. His face, usually serious and quietly handsome, had an alive, excited look, and the faint lines around his dark, deep-set eyes were accentuated when he smiled at his wife. All said, honey, how do I look in my monkey suit? His wife was sitting stiffly on the flowered couch that was still not theirs, completely. In her fingers she held a cigarette, burned down too far. She said, You look fine, Phil. You look just right. She managed to smile. Then she leaned forward and crushed the cigarette in the ashtray on a maple coffee table and took another from the pack. He came to her and touched his hands through her soft, blonde hair, raising her face until she was looking into his eyes. You're the most beautiful girl I know. Did I ever tell you that? Yes, I think so. Yes, I'm sure you did. She said, finishing the ritual. But her voice broke and she turned her head away. Phil sat beside her and put his arm around her small shoulders. He had stopped smiling. Honey, look at me. He said, It isn't going to be bad. Honestly, it isn't. We know exactly how it will be. If anything could go wrong, they wouldn't be sending me. You know that. I told you that we've sent five unmanned ships up and everyone came back without a hitch. She turned, facing him. There were tears starting in the corners of her wide brown eyes and she brushed them away with her hand. Phil, don't go. Please don't. They can send Sammy. Sammy doesn't have a wife. Can't he go? They'd understand, Phil. Please. She was holding his arms tightly with her hands and the color had drained from her cheeks. Mary, you know I can't back out now. How could I? It's been three years. You know how much I've wanted to be the first man to go. Nothing would ever be right with me again if I didn't go. Please don't make it hard. He stopped talking and held her to him and stroked the back of her head. He could feel her shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. He released her and stood up. I've got to get started, Mary. Will you come to the field with me? Yes. I'll come to say good-bye. She paused and dropped her eyes. Phil, if you go, I won't be here when you get back. If you get back. I won't be here because I won't be the wife of a space pilot for the rest of my life. It isn't the kind of life I bargained for. No matter how much I love you, I just couldn't take that, Phil. I'm sorry. I guess I'm not the noble sort of wife. She finished and took another cigarette from the pack on the coffee table and put it to her lips. Her hand was trembling as she touched the lighter to the end of the cigarette and drew it deeply. Phil stood watching her, the excitement completely gone from his eyes. I wish you had told me this a long time ago, Mary, Phil said. His voice was dry and low. I didn't know you felt this way about it. Yes, you did. I told you how I felt. I told you I could never be the wife of a space pilot. But I don't think I ever really believed it was possible. Not until this morning when you said tonight was the take-off. It's so stupid to jeopardize everything we've got for a ridiculous dream. He sat down on the edge of the couch and took her hands between his. Mary, listen to me, he said. It isn't a dream. It's real. There's nothing means anything more to me than you do. You know that. But no man ever had the chance to do what I'm going to do tonight. No man ever. If I backed out now for any reason I'd never be able to look at the sky again. I'd be through. She looked at him without seeing him and there was nothing at all in her eyes. Let's go if you're still going, she finally said. They drove through the streets of the small town with its small bungalows, each alike. There were no trees and very little grass. It was a new town, a government-built town, and it had no personality yet. It existed only because of the huge ship standing poised in the take-off zone five miles away in the desert. Its future as a town rested with the ship, and the town seemed to feel the uncertainty of its future seemed ready to stop existing as a town and to give itself back to the desert if such was its destiny. Phil turned the car off the highway onto the rutted dirt road that led across the sand to the field where the ship waited. In the distance they could see the beams of the searchlights as they played across the take-off zone and swept along the top of the high-wire fence, stretching out of sight to right and left. At the gate they were stalked by the guard. He read Phil's pass, shined his flashlight in their faces, and then saluted. "'Good luck, Colonel,' he said, and shook Phil's hand. "'Thanks, Sergeant. I'll be seeing you next week,' Phil said, and smiled. They drove between the rows of wooden buildings that lined the field, and he parked near the low-barbed fence ringing the take-off zone. He turned off the ignition and sat quietly for a moment before lighting a cigarette. Then he looked at his wife. She was staring through the windshield at the rocket two hundred yards away. That smooth, polished surface gleamed in the spotlight glare, and it sloped up and up until the eye lost the tip against the stars. "'She's beautiful, Mary. You've never seen her before, have you?' "'No, I've never seen her before,' she said. "'Hadn't you better go?' Her voice was strained, and she held her hands close tightly in her lap. "'Please go now, Phil,' she said. He leaned toward her and touched her cheek. Then she was in his arms, her head buried against his shoulder. "'Goodbye, darling,' she said. "'Wish me luck, Mary,' he asked. "'Yes, good luck, Phil,' she said. He opened the car door and got out. The noise of men and machines scurrying around the ship broke the spell of the rocket, waiting silently for flight. "'Mary,' he began, and then turned and strode toward the administration building without looking back. Inside the building it was like a locker-room before the big game. The tensions stood alone, and each man had the same happy, excited look that Phil had worn earlier. When he came into the room the noise and bustle stopped. They turned as one man toward him, and General Small came up to him and took his hand. "'Hello, Phil. We were beginning to think you weren't coming. Y'all set, son?' "'Yes, sir. I'm all set, I guess,' Phil said. "'I'd like you to meet the Secretary of Defense, Phil. He's over here by the radar.' As they crossed the room, familiar faces smiled, and each man shook his hand or touched his arm. He saw Sammy alone by the coffee-earn. Sammy waved to him, but he didn't smile. Phil wanted to talk to him, to say something, but there was nothing to be said now. Sammy's turn would come later. "'Mr. Secretary,' the General said. "'This is Colonel Conover. He'll be the first man in history to see the other side of the moon. Colonel, the Secretary of Defense.' "'How do you do, sir? I'm very proud to meet you,' Phil said. "'On the contrary, Colonel. I'm very proud to meet you. I've been looking at that ship out there and wondering. I almost wish I were a young man again. I'd like to be going. It's a thrilling thought, man's first adventure into the universe. You're lighting a new dawn of history, Colonel. It's a privilege few men have ever had, and those who have had it didn't realize it at the time. Good luck, and God be with you.' "'Thank you, sir. I'm aware of all you say. It frightens me a little.' The General took Phil's arm, and they walked into the briefing room. There were chairs set up for the scientists and Air Force officers directly connected with the take-off. They were seated now in a semicircle in front of a huge chart of the solar system. Phil took his seat, and the last minute briefing began. It was a routine he knew by heart. He'd gone over and over it a thousand times, and he only half listened now. He kept thinking of Mary outside, alone by the fence. The voice of the briefing officer was a dull hum in his ears. An orbit at eighteen thousand miles per hour. You will then accelerate for the breakaway to twenty-four thousand nine hundred miles per hour for five minutes, and then free coast for one hundred sixteen hours until Phil asked a few questions about weather and solar conditions, and then the session was done. They rose and looked at each other, the same unanswered questions on each man's face. There were four smiles and handshakes. They were ready now. Phil, the General said, and took him aside. Sir. Phil, you're—you feel all right, don't you, son? Yes, sir. I feel fine. Why? Phil, I've spent nearly every day with you for three years. I know you better than I know myself in many ways, and I've studied the psychologist's reports on you carefully. Maybe it's just nervousness, Phil, but I think there's something wrong. Is there? No, sir. There's nothing wrong, Phil said, but his voice didn't carry conviction. He reached for a cigarette. Phil, if there is anything—anything at all—you know what it might mean. You've got to be in the best mental and physical condition of your life tonight. You know better than any man here what that means to our success. I think there is something more than just natural apprehension wrong with you. Want to tell me? Outside, the take-off zone crawled with men and machines at the base of the rocket. For ten hours, the final check-outs had been in progress, and now the men were checking again, on their own time. The thing they had worked toward for six years was ready to happen, and each one felt that he was sending just a little bit of himself into the sky. Beyond the ring of lights and moving men, on the edge of the field, Mary stood. Her hands moved slowly over the top of the fence, twisting the barbs of wire, but her eyes were on the ship. And then they were ready. A small group of excited men came out from the administration building and moved forward. The check-out crews climbed into their machine and drove back outside the take-off zone. And alone one man climbed the steel ladder up the side of the rocket, 90 feet into the air. At the top he waved to the men on the ground and then disappeared through a small port. Mary waved to him. Good-bye, she said to herself, but the words stuck tight in her throat. The small group at the base of the ship turned and walked back to the fence. And for an eternity the great ship stood alone, waiting. Then from deep inside a rumble came, increasing in volume to a gigantic roar that shook the earth and tore at the ears. Slowly the first manned rocket to the moon lifted up and up to the sky. For a long time after the rocket had become a tiny speck of light in the heavens she stood holding her face in her hands and crying softly to herself. And then she felt the touch of a hand on her arm. She turned. Phil, oh Phil! She held tightly to him and repeated his name over and over. They wouldn't let me go, Mary, he said finally. The general would not let me go. She looked at him. His face was drawn tight and there were tears on his cheeks. Thank God! she said. It doesn't matter, darling, the only thing that matters is you didn't go. You're right, Mary, he said. His voice was low. So low she could hardly hear him. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters now. He stood with his hands at his sides, watching her, and then turned away and walked toward the car. End of breakaway. Cully by Jack Egan. By all the laws of nature he should have been dead, but if he were alive then there was something he had to find. 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. Cully by Jack Egan. Above him eighty feet of torpid black water hung like a shroud of death and still he heard his ragged breathing and something else. Cully concentrated on that sound and the rhythmic pulsing of his heart. Somehow he had to retain a hold on his sanity or his soul. After an hour of careful breathing and exploring of body sensations Cully realized he could move. He flexed an arm. A moat of gold sand sifted upward in the dark water. It had a pleasant color in contrast with the ominous shades of the sea. In a few moments he had struggled to a sitting position, delighting in the curtain of glittering metal grains whirling around him as he moved. And the other sound. A humming in his mind. A distant burble of tiny voices of other minds. Swirling in giddy patterns he couldn't understand. Shortly thereafter Cully discovered why he still lived. Breed. A suit. A yellow plastic watertight suit with an orange on black shield on the left breast pocket and a clear bubble helmet. He felt weight on his back and examined it. Two air tanks and the regulator. A radio and the box. Suit. Tanks. Regulator. Radio. Black water. Box. Sand. Sea. Stillness. Cully considered his world. It was small. It was conceivable. It was incomplete. Where is it? Where is what? A voice. A means of communication between others of his kind using low frequency heat waves caused by agitation of air molecules. Why couldn't he make it work? Words. Thousands of them. Add his back and call. What were they? What did they mean? He shifted uncomfortably in the tight yellow suit searching the near horizon for where is it? A vague calling came from beyond the black sea curtain. Objectively, because he could do nothing to stop them. He watched his feet pick up, move forward, put down. Pick up, move forward, put down. Funny. He had the feeling, the concept, that this action held meaning. It was supposed to cause some reaction. Accomplish an act. He wondered at the regular movement of his legs. One of them hurt. A hurt is a sensation of pain caused by overloading sensory units in the body. A hurt is bad, because it indicates something is wrong. Something certainly was wrong. Something stirred in Cully's mind. He stopped and sat down at the sandy sea bottom, gracefully, like a ballet dancer. He examined his foot. There was a tiny hole in the yellow plastic fabric, and a thin string of red black was oozing out. Blood. He knew. He was bleeding. He could do nothing about it. He got up and resumed walking. Where is it? Cully lifted his head in annoyance at the sharp thought. Go away, he said, in a low pleading voice. The sound made him feel better. He began muttering to himself. Water. Black. Sand. Hurt. Pain. Radio tanks. It didn't sound right. After a few minutes, he was quiet. The many thoughts were calling him. He must go to the many thoughts. If his foot was bleeding, then something had happened. If something had happened, then his foot was bleeding. No. If something had happened, then maybe other things had happened before that. But how could something happen in a world of flat gold sand and flaccid sea? Surely there was something wrong. Wrong. The state of being not right. Something had happened that was not right. Cully stared at the edges of the unmoving curtain before him. Where is it? It was a driving, promise-filled concept. No words. Just the sense that something wonderful lay just beyond reach. But this voice was different from the many thoughts. It was directing his body. His mind was along for the ride. The sameness of the sea and sand became unbearable. It was too right somehow. Cully felt anger and kicked up eddies of dust. It changed the sameness a little. He kicked more up until it swirled around him in a thick gold haze, blotting up the terrible emptiness of the sea. He felt another weight at his side. He found a holster and gun. He recognized neither. Again he watched objectively as his hand pulled the black object out and handled it. His body was evidently familiar with it, though it was strange to his eyes. His fingers slipped automatically into the trigger sheaf. His legs were still working under two drives. The many thoughts urging and something else buried in him. A longing. Up and down, back and forth. Where is it? Anger, frustration flared in him. His hand shot out, gun at ready. He turned around slowly. Through the settling trail of suspended sand, nothing was visible. Again he was moving. Something made his legs move. He walked on through the shrouds of death until he felt a taut singing in his nerves. And irrational fear sprang out in him, cascading down his spine. And Cully shuddered. Ahead there was something. Two motives. Because it, they, calls. Get here. Get there because you must. Where is it? The mind voice was excited, demanding. Something was out there besides the sameness. Cully walked on, trailing gold. The death curtain parted. An undulating garden of blue and gold streamers suddenly drifted toward him on an unfelt current. Cully was held, entranced. They flowed before him, their colors dazzling, hypnotic. Come closer, earthling. The many thoughts spoke inside his head, soothingly. Here it is. Cully's mind shouted. Cully's mind was held, hypnotized, but his body moved of its own volition. He moved again. His mind and the many thoughts spoke. Fulfillment, almost. There was one action left that must be completed. Cully's arms moved. They detached the small black box from his pack. He moved on into the midst of the weaving gold-laced plants. Little spicules licked out from their flexing stalks and jabbed, uncensed, into Cully's body to draw nourishment. From the many thoughts came the sense of complete fulfillment. From Cully's mind came further orders. Lie down. It was a collective concept. Lie still. We are friends. He could not understand. They were speaking words. Words were beyond him. His head shook and despair. The voices were implanting an emotion of horror at what his hands were doing. But he had no control over his body. It was as if it were not his. The black box was now lying in the sand among the streaming plants. Cully's fingers reached out and caressed a small panel. A soundless click ran through the murkiness. The strangely beautiful gold-laced blue plants began a writhing dance. Their spicules withdrew and jabbed, withdrew and jabbed. A rending silent scream tore the quiet waters. No! they cried. It was a negative command mixed in with the terrible screaming. Turn it off! Stop it. Stop it! Cully tried to say, but there were no words. He tried to cover his ears within the helmet, but the cries went on. Emotions roiled the water. Pain, hurt, reproach. Cully sobbed. Something was wrong here. Something was killing the plants. The beautiful blue things. The plants were withering, dying. He looked up at them, stupefied, not understanding. Tears streaming down his face. What did they want from him? What had he done? Where is it? A different direction materialized. A new concept of desire. Cully's body turned and crawled away from the wonderful dying garden, oblivious to the pleadings floating, now weakly, in the torpid water. He scuffed up little moats of golden sand, leaving a low-lying scud along the bottom, back to the little black box in the garden. The plants, the box, all were forgotten by now. Cully crawled on, not knowing why. A rise appeared. Surprise caught Cully unaware. A change in the sameness. Where is it? Again the voice was insistent. His desire was close ahead. He did not look back at the black churning on the sea bottom. His legs worked. His chest heaved. Words swirled in his mind. He topped the rise. Below him, in the center of a shallow golden bowl, floated a long, shiny cylinder. Even from here he knew it was huge. He knew other things about it. How heavy it was. How it was that it carried others of his kind. He had been in it before. And they were waiting for him. He lurched on. Captain, here comes Cully. The midshipman shouted from the airlock. Look what they've done to him. The old man's gray eyes took in the spectacle without visible emotion. He watched the pathetic, bleeding, yellow plastic sack crawl up to the ship and look up. His hands reached down and lifted Cully up into the lock. They took his suit off and stared with loathing at what had once been a man. A white scar zigzagged across his forehead. The captain bent close, in range of the dim blue eyes. It was a very brave thing you did, Cully. The whole system will be grateful. Venus could never be colonized as long as those cannibals were there to eat men and drive men mad. Cully fingered the scar on his forehead and looked unseeing into the old man's compassionate eyes. I'm sorry, Cully. We all are. But there was no other way. Prefrontal lobotomy. Destruction of your speech-center. It was the only way you could get past the telepaths and destroy them. I'm sorry, Cully. The race of man shall long honor your name. Cully smiled at the old man, the words churning in his brain, but he did not understand. Where is it? The emptiness was still there. End of Cully by Jack Egan. Earthman Bearing Gifts This is a Librevox recording. All Librevox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librevox.org. Recording by Bookman. Earthman Bearing Gifts by Frederick Brown. Dar Rye sat alone in his room, meditating. From outside the door, he caught a taut wave equivalent to a knock and, glancing at the door, he wheeled it to slide open. It opened. Enter, my friend, he said. He could have projected the idea telepathically, but with only two persons present, speech was more polite. A John Key entered. You are up late tonight, my leader, he said. Yes, Key. Within an hour, the Earth rocket is due to land, and I wish to see it. Yes, I know. It will land a thousand miles away if their calculations are correct. Beyond horizon. But, if it lands even twice that far, the flash of the atomic explosion should be visible. And I have waited long for first contact. For even though no Earthman will be on that rocket, it will still be first contact. For them. Of course, our telepath teams have been reading their tauts for many centuries, but this will be the first physical contact between Mars and Earth. Key made himself comfortable on one of the low chairs. True, he said. I have not followed recent reports too closely, though. Why are they using an atomic warhead? I know they suppose our planet is uninhabited, but still, they will watch the flash through their lunar telescopes and get a, what do they call it? A spectroscopic analysis. That will tell them more than they know now, or think they know. Much of it is aronious about the atmosphere of our planet and the composition of its surface. It is, call it, a sunny shot, key. They'll be here in person within a few oppositions. And then, Mars was holding out, waiting for Earth to come. What was left of Mars, that is, this one small city of about 900 beings. The civilization of Mars was older than that of Earth, but it was a dying one. This was what remained of it. One city, 900 people. They were waiting for Earth to make contact, for a selfish reason and for an unselfish one. Martian civilization had developed in a quite different direction from that of Earth. It had developed no important knowledge of the physical sciences, no technology. But it had developed social sciences to the point where there had not been a single crime, let alone a war, on Mars for 50,000 years. And it had developed fully the parapsychological sciences of the mind. Which Earth was just beginning to discover. Mars could teach Earth much, how to avoid crime and war to begin with. Beyond those simple things lay telepathy, telekinesis, empathy. And Earth would, Mars hoped, teach them something even more valuable to Mars. How? By science and technology. Which it was too late for Mars to develop now. Even if they had the type of minds, which would enable them to develop these things. To restore and rehabilitate a dying planet. So that an otherwise dying race might live and multiply again. Each planet would gain greatly and neither would lose. And tonight was the night when Earth would make its first sighting shot. Its next shot, a rocket containing Earthmen, or at least an Earthman, would be at the next opposition. Two Earth years or roughly four Martian years hence. The Martians knew this because their teams of telepaths were able to catch at least some of the thoughts of Earthmen. Enough to know their plans. Unfortunately, at that distance the connection was one way. Mars could not ask Earth to hurry its program. Or tell Earth scientists the facts about Mars' composition and atmosphere which would have made this preliminary shot unnecessary. Tonight, Rai, the leader, as nearly as the Martian word can be translated, and Ki, his administrative assistant and closest friend, sat and meditated together until the time was near. Then they drank a toast to the future. In a beverage based on menthol, which had the same effect on Earthmen, and climbed to the roof of the building in which they had been sitting. They watched toward the north where the rocket should land. The stars shone brilliantly and unwinkingly through the atmosphere. In Observatory No. 1 on Earth's moon, Ragh Everett, his eye at the eyepiece of the spotterscope said triumphantly, Dar, she blew willy, and now, as soon as the films are developed, we'll know the score on that old planet Mars. He straightened up. There'd be no more to see now. And he and Willys Hanger shook hands solemnly. It was an historical occasion. Hope it didn't kill anybody. The Martian said it's wrong. Did it hit death center in Circus Major? Near as matters. I'd say it was maybe a thousand miles off to the south. And that's damn close on a 50 million mile shot. Willy, do you really think there are any Martians? Billy taught a second and then said no. He was right. End of title by Frederick Brown Recording by Bookman Max, this is the library was recording or library was recording found in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit my blog, Recording by Daniel Max, by William Logan What they called me that was what started it. I'm as good an American as the next fellow and maybe I'm a little bit better than man like that. Big man drinking in a bar who can't find anything better to do than to spit on a man and call him Max. As if a Mexican is something to hide or to be ashamed of. We have our own heroes and our own strength and we don't have to bend down to men like that or any other man. But when they called me that I saw red and called them names back. Max kid one of the men said a big red head bully with his sleeves rolled back and muscles like ropes on the big hairy arms. He's not nose little Max brat I called him a name he only laughed back at me and turned his back waving a hand for the bartender. Maybe in a big city in the north it would be different and probably it would be not. This toleration we hear about is no more good than a no open fight and there must be understanding instead. But here near the border just on the American side of the border Mexican is called fair game and a 17 years old like me is less than nothing to them. To the white ones who give to the big bars. I thought carefully about what to do and finally when I had made my mind up I went for him and tried to hit him. But other men held me back and I was kicking and shouting with my legs off the ground. When I start they put me down so I started for the big red head man again and they had to stop me again. The red head man was laughing all this time I wanted to run back to my own family in their little house and yet running would have been wrong. I was too angry to run so I stayed and I said my sister is a witch and I will get her to put a curse on you. I was very angry you must understand this. And of course they had no idea that my sister is a real witch and her curses are real and only last year Manuel Valdez had died from the facts of her curse. Of all people sometimes I wish I were my sister most of all to curse people and shiver and sicken and choke and die. Get her a hand half paint one of the other men yelled Get your sister to put a curse on me I bet she knows who I am I've been with every masked girl this side of the border This made me see red my sister is pure and must be pure since she is a witch and she is not like some of the other even aside from that I ever heard her talk about them and I know I called him a name and run up to him and hit him my fist against his solid side felt good but some other men pulled me off again yet it was impossible to leave this was wrong for me and I had to make a right I shall get my father to fight you since he is a giant ten feet tall the man laughed at me not knowing of course that my father is a giant ten feet tall in truth and my mother as witch siren like those in the books the old books witch spells in her eyes and a strange power they did not know I was not a daydreaming child but a man who told truth and they laughed I grew angry again and told them many things calling them names in Spanish which they did not understand that only made them laugh the more finally I left it was necessary for me to leave since I was not wanted but it was necessary too for me to make things right nice later they were dead for what they had said and done for I tell the truth always and I had told them about my sister and my father and my mother but one thing I had not told them I am sorry they could never know I was the winged thing that frightened and killed them one by one End of Max by William Logan Recording by Daniele The Putnam Tradition by Sonia Dorman Through generations the power had descended now weaker, now stronger and which way did the power run and the four-year-old in the garden playing with a pie plate It was an old house not far from the coast and had descended generation by generation to the women of the Putnam family Progress literally went by it A new four-lane highway had been built 200 yards from the ancient lilacs of the doorstep Long before that in the time of Cecily Putnam's husband power lines had been run in and now on cold nights the telephone wires sounded like a concert of cellos while inside with the sound like the breaking of beetles the grandmother Cecily moved through the walls in the grooves of tradition Putnam, her granddaughter Nina Putnam, her great-granddaughter the unbroken succession of matriarchs continued but times the old woman thought in Simone it was weakened and she looked at the four-year-old Nina ascense waiting, waiting for some good sign Sometimes one of the Putnam women had given birth to a son who grew sickly and died or less often grew healthy and fled The husbands were usually strangers to the land, the house and the women, and spent a lifetime with the long-lived Putnam wives and died leaving their strange signs telephone wires electric lights, water pumps brass plumbing Sam Harris came and married Simone bringing with him an invasion of water, dryer toaster, mixer, coffee-master until the current poured through the walls of the house with more vigor than the blood and the old woman's veins You don't approve of him Simone said to her grandmother It's his trade Cecily Putnam answered Our men have been carpenters or farmers or even schoolmasters but an engineer failed gazing out across the windowsill where two pink and white murex shells stood to the tidy garden beyond where Nina was engaged in her private games She dried the dishes by passing her hand once above each plate or glass, bringing it to a dry sparkle It saved wear on the dish towels and it amused her Sam sat home very much she sat in a placating voice She herself had grown terrified since her marriage that she wouldn't be able to bear the weight of her past She felt its power on her and couldn't carry it Cecily had brought her up after her father had disappeared and her mother had died in an unexplained accident Daily she saw the reflection of her failure in the face of her grandmother who seemed built of the same seasoned as the old Putnam house Simone looked at her grandmother whom she loved and became a mere vapor He's not home so much Simone said Her face was small with a pointed chin and she had golden red hair which she wore loose on her shoulders Nina too had a small face but it was neither so pale nor so delicate as her mother's tougher substance had filled her out and strengthened her bone structure If it was true that she, Simone was a weak link then Sam's strength might have poured into the child and there would be no more Putnam family and tradition People don't change that easily the old woman said But things Simone began The China which had a history of five generations slipped out of her hands and smashed Sam's toaster wouldn't toast or pop up Simone couldn't even use the telephone for fear of getting a wrong number or no number at all Things Things Her grandmother cried It's blood that counts If the blood is strong enough things dissolve They're just garbage and history that's deep That's what counts You're afraid of Sam the young woman accused Not afraid of any man Cecily said, straightening her back But I'm afraid for the child Sam has no family tradition no depth, no talent handed down and perfected a man with his head full of wheels and wires Simone loved him She leaned on him and he supported her tenderly She wasn't going to give him up for the sake of some abstract tradition It's not abstract Her grandmother said with spirit It's in your blood Or why don't you sweep those floors the way other women do the way Sam's mother must Simone had begun to clean the house while she was thinking moving her hand horizontally at the height of her hip followed the motion of her hand and moving in a small sun-brightened river toward the trash-basket in the kitchen corner Now Simone raised her hand to her face to look at it and the river of dust rose like a serpent and hung a foot below her hand Yes, she agreed At least I can clean the house If I don't touch the good China and look where I'm going Fooey The old woman said again angrily Don't feel so sorry for yourself Not for myself Simone mumbled and looked again toward the garden where her daughter was doing something with three stones and a pie plate full of spring water I do despair of Nina as she had said before She's four and has no appearance not even balance rose tree and couldn't even help herself Suddenly the old woman thrust her face close to her granddaughter It was smooth, round and sweet as a young kernel of corn The eyes sunk down under their bushy gray brows were cold and clear gray Simone the old woman said You didn't lie to me You did know she was falling A shutter passed through Simone's body There was no blood in her veins only water no marrow in her bones They were empty and porous as a bird's Even the roots of her hair were weak And now the sweat was starting out on her scalp as she faced her grandmother and saw the pristling shapes of seven generations of Putnam women behind her You lied, the old woman said You didn't know she was falling Simone was a vapor a mere froth blowing away on the first breeze My poor dear the old woman said in a gentle voice But how could you marry someone like Sam Don't you know what will happen He'll dissolve us our history our talents, our pride Nina is nothing but an ordinary little child She's a good child Simone said trying not to be angry but she wanted her child to be loved to be strong Nina isn't a common child she said with her head bent She's very bright A man with his head full of wheels who's at home with electricity and wires the old woman went on We've had them before but never allowed them to dominate us My own husband was such a man but he was only allowed to make token gestures The power lines put in he never understood how they worked She lowered her voice to whisper Your Sam understands I've heard him talk to the water pump That's why you're afraid of him Simone said not because I'm weak and he might take something away from me but because he's strong and he might give us something then everything would change and you're afraid of that She pointed toward the garden Following the white line and for granddaughter's finger Cecily looked out into the garden and saw Nina turn toward them as though she knew they were angry The child pointed with one finger directly at them in the house There was a sharp crackle and something of a brilliant and vibrating blue leapt between the outstretched fingers of mother and daughter and flew up like a bird with the power lines above Mommy Nina called Simone's heart nearly broke with wonder and fright Her grandmother contemptuously passed through the kitchen door and emerged on the step outside But Simone opened the door and left it open behind her What was that? She asked Nina Was it a bluebird? Don't be silly It was a pie plate and brought it toward them Cecily's face was white and translucent One hand went to her throat as the child approached Brimful of crackling blue fire with a fluctuating heart of yellow the pie plate came toward them held between Nina's small dusty hands Nina grinned at them I stole it out of the wires she said and she would faint with a mixture of joy and fear Put it back She whispered Please, put it back Oh, Mommy Nina said not now not right away I just got it I've done it lots of times The pie plate crackled and hissed in the steady small hands Simone could feel her You mustn't carry it in a pie plate It's dangerous Simone said to her child but she could see Nina was in no danger How often have you done this? She could feel her skirt and her hair bellow with electricity Lots of times You don't like it, do you? She became teasing and roguish when she looked most like Sam Suddenly she threw back her head and opened her mouth and tilting up the pie plate she drank it empty Her reddish gold hair sprang out and crackling rays around her face Her eyes flashed and sparks flew out between her teeth before she closed her mouth Nina! The old woman cried and began to crumple falling slowly against Simone in a complete faint She said to her daughter You mustn't do that in front of Randy You're a bad girl You knew it would scare her And to herself she said I must stop babbling The child knows I'm being silly Oh, isn't it wonderful? Isn't it awful? Oh, Sam, how I love you Daddy said It would scare you Nina admitted That's why I never showed you before Her hair was softly falling into place again and she was gazing curiously at her great-grandmother lying on the doorstep It did scare me, Simone said I'm not used to it, darling But don't keep it a secret any more Is Randy asleep? Simone said hastily Oh, yes, she's taking a nap She is old, you know and likes to take naps That's not a nap, Nina said leaning over and patting the old woman's cheek I think she's having a bad dream Simone carried her grandmother into the house If that old, tired heart had jumped and floundered like her own there must be some damage done to it If anything happened to her grandmother the world would end, Simone thought and was furious with Nina and at the same time full of joy for her Cecily Putnam opened her eyes widely and Simone said It does change, you see but it's in the family after all The old woman set up right quickly That wicked child, she exclaimed to come and frighten us like that she ought to be spanked She got up with great strength and rushed out to the garden Nina! she called imperiously The child picked up one of the small stones from the pipe plate now full of spring water and came to her great-grandmother I'll make something for you, Grandi She said, seriously She put the stone in the palm of her hand and breathed on it and then held out her hand and offered the diamond It's lovely Thank you The old woman said with dignity and put her hand on the child's head Let's go for a walk and I'll show you how to grow rose apples That's more becoming to young lady You slept on the step Ah, I'm old and I'd like to take little naps Cecily answered Simone saw them disappear among the apple-rose trees side by side She was still trembling but gradually as she passed her hand back and forth and the dust followed moving in a sparkling river toward the trash-basket Simone stopped trembling and began to smile with the natural pride of a Putnam woman End of The Putnam Tradition by Sonia Darman Some Words With a Mummy by Edgar Allan Poe The symposium of the preceding evening had been a little too much for my nerves. I had a wretched headache and was desperately drowsy. Instead of going out there for to spend the evening as I had proposed it occurred to me that I could not do a wiser thing than just eat a mouthful of supper and go immediately to bed. A light supper, of course. I am exceedingly fond of Welsh rabbit. More than a pound at once, however, may not at all times be advisable. Still, there can be no material objection to two and really between two and three there is merely a single unit of difference. I ventured perhaps upon four. My wife will have it five but clearly she has confounded two very distinct affairs. The abstract number five I am willing to admit, but concretely it has reference to bottles of brown stout without which in the way of condiment Welsh rabbit is to be eschewed. Having thus concluded a frugal meal and donned my nightcap with the serene hope of enjoying it till noon the next day, I placed my head upon the pillow and through the aid of a capital conscience fell into a profound slumber forthwith. But when were the hopes of humanity fulfilled? I could not have completed my third snore but came a furious ringing at the street doorbell and then an impatient thumping at the knocker which awakened me at once. In a minute afterward and while I was still rubbing my eyes my wife thrust in my face a note from my old friend Dr. Ponnerner. It ran thus. Come to me by all means my dear good friend as soon as you receive this. Come and help us rejoice. At last by long preserving diplomacy I have gained the assent of the directors of the city museum by examination of the mummy. You know the one I mean. I have permission to unswaff it and open it if desirable. A few friends only will be present, you of course. The mummy is now at my house and we shall begin to unroll it at eleven tonight. Yours ever, Ponnerner. By the time I had reached the Ponnerner it struck me that I was as wide awake as a man need be. I leaped out of bed in an ecstasy overthrowing all in my way, dressed myself with a rapidity truly marvelous and set off at the top of my speed for the doctors. There I found a very eager company assembled. They had been awaiting me with much impatience. The mummy was extended upon the dining table and the moment I entered its examination was commenced. It was one of a pair brought several years previously by Captain Arthur Sabretash, a cousin of Ponnerner's, from a tomb near Elephius in the Libyan Mountains a considerable distance above on the Nile. The grottos at this point, although less magnificent than the Theban sepulchres, are of higher interest on account of affording more numerous illustrations of the private life of the Egyptians. The chamber from which our specimen was taken was said to be very rich in such illustrations, the walls being completely covered with fresco paintings and bass reliefs, while statues, vases, and mosaic work of rich patterns indicated the vast wealth of the deceased. The treasure had been deposited in the museum precisely in the same condition in which Captain Sabretash had found it. That is to say the coffin had not been disturbed. For eight years it had thus stood, subject only externally to public inspection. We had now, therefore, the complete mummy at our disposal, and to those who are aware how very rarely the unransacked antique reaches our shores, it will be evident at once that we had great reason to congratulate ourselves upon our good fortune. Approaching the table I saw on at a large box or case, nearly seven feet long and perhaps three feet wide by two feet and a half deep. It was oblong, not coffin shaped. The material was at first supposed to be the wood of the sycamore platinus, but upon cutting into it we found it to be pasteboard or, more properly, paper mache composed of papyrus. It was thickly ornamented with paintings representing funeral scenes and other mournful projects, interspersed among which in every variety of position were certain series of hieroglyphical characters intended no doubt for the name of the departed. By good luck Mr. Glidden formed one of our party, and he had no difficulty in translating the letters which were simply phonetic and represented the word ala mistakio. We had some difficulty in getting this case open without injury, but having at length accomplished the task we came to a second case, coffin very considerably less in size than the exterior one, but resembling it precisely in every other respect. The interval between the two was filled with resin which had in some degree defaced the colors of the interior box. Upon opening this ladder, which we did quite easily, we arrived at a third case, also coffin shaped, and varying from the second one in no particular except in that of its material, which was cedar and still emitted a peculiar and highly aromatic odor of that wood. Between the second and third case there was no interval, the one fitting accurately within the other. Removing the third case we discovered and took out the body itself. We had expected to find it as usual enveloped in frequent rolls or bandages of linen, but in place of these we found a sort of sheath made of papyrus encoded with a layer of plaster, thickly gilt and painted. The paintings represented subjects connected with the various supposed duties of the soul and its presentation to different divinities with numerous identical human figures, intended very probably as portraits of the persons embalmed. Extending from head to foot was a columnar or perpendicular inscription in phonetic hieroglyphics giving again his name and titles and the names and titles of his relations. Around the neck thus in sheathed was a collar of cylindrical glass beads, diverse in color, and so arranged as to form images of deities of the scarabias, etc., with the winged globe. Around the small of the waist was a similar collar or belt. Stripping off the papyrus we found the flesh in excellent preservation with no perceptible odor. The color was reddish, the skin was hard, smooth and glossy. The teeth and hair were in good condition. The eyes it seemed had been removed and glass ones substituted which were very beautiful and wonderfully lifelike with the exception of not too determined a stare. The fingers and the nails were brilliantly gilded. Mr. Glidden was of opinion from the redness of the epidermis that the embalmment had been affected altogether by asphaltum. But on scraping the surface with a steel instrument and throwing into the fire some of the powder thus obtained, the flavor of camphor and other sweet-scented gums became apparent. We searched the corpse very carefully for the usual openings through which it was collected, but to our surprise we could discover none. No member of the party was at that period aware that entire or unopened mummies are not infrequently met. The brain it was customary to withdraw through the nose, the intestines through an incision in the side. The body was then shaved, washed and salted, then laid aside for several weeks when the operation of embalming properly so-called began. As no trace of an opening could be found, the body of the embalmer was preparing his instruments for dissection when I observed that it was then passed two o'clock. Hereupon it was agreed to postpone the internal examination until the next evening, and we were about to separate for the present when someone suggested an experiment or two with the voltatic pile. The application of electricity to a mummy three or four thousand years old at least was an idea if not very sage still sufficiently original, and one tenth in earnest and nine tenths in jest we arranged a battery in the doctor's study and conveyed thither the Egyptian. It was only after much trouble that we succeeded in laying bare some portions of the temporal muscle which appeared of less stony rigidity than other parts of the frame but which, as we had anticipated of course, gave no indication of galvanic susceptibility when brought in contact with the wire. This, the first trial, indeed seemed decisive, and with a hearty laugh of own absurdity we were bidding each other good night, when my eyes happening to fall upon those of the mummy were there immediately riveted in amazement. My brief glance, in fact, had suffice to assure me that the orbs which we had all supposed to be glass, and which were originally noticeable for a certain wild stare were now so far covered by the lids that only a small portion of the tunica albuginio remained visible. With a shout I called attention to the fact, and it became obvious to all. I cannot say that I was alarmed at the phenomenon because alarmed is in my case not exactly the word. It is possible, however, that but for the brown stout I might have been a little nervous. As for the rest of the company they really made no attempt at concealing the downright fright which possessed them. Dr. Ponner was a man to be pitied. Mr. Glidden by some peculiar process rendered himself invisible. Mr. Silk Buckingham I fancy will scarcely be so bold as to deny that he made his way upon all fours under the table. After the first shock of astonishment, however, we resolved as a matter, of course, upon further experiment forthwith. Our operations were now directed against the great toe of the right foot. We made an incision over the outside of the exterior, a cecimodium polices pedis, and thus got at the root of the abductor muscle. Re-adjusting the battery, we now applied the fluid to the bisected nerves. When, with a movement of exceeding life likeness, the mummy first drew its right knee so as to bring it nearly in contact with the abdomen, and then straightening the limb with inconceivable force bestowed a kick upon Dr. Ponner which had the effect of discharging that gentleman like an arrow from a catapult through a window into the street below. We rushed out en masse to bring in the mangled remains of the victim, but had the happiness to meet him upon the staircase coming up in an unaccountable hurry, brimful of the most ardent philosophy and more than ever impressed with the necessity of prosecuting our experiment with vigor and with zeal. It was by his advice accordingly that we made upon the spot a profound incision into the tip of the subject's nose, while the doctor himself laying violent hands upon it pulled it into vehement contact with the wire. Morally and physically, figuratively and literally, was the effect electric. In the first place the corpse opened its eyes and winked very rapidly for several minutes as does Mr. Barnes in the pantomime. In the second place it sneezed. In the third it sat upon to end. In the fourth it shook its fist in Dr. Ponner's face. In the fifth turning to Messers Glidden and Buckingham it addressed them in very capital Egyptian, thus I must say gentlemen that I am as much surprised as I am mortified at your behavior. Of Dr. Ponner nothing better was to be expected. He is a poor little fat fool who knows no better. I pity and forgive him, but you Mr. Glidden and you Silk who have traveled and resided in Egypt until one might imagine you to the manner born. You, I say who have been so much among us that you speak Egyptian fully as well, I think as you write your mother tongue. You whom I have always been led to regard as the firm friend of the mummies. I really did anticipate more gentlemanly conduct from you. What am I to think of your standing quietly by and seeing me thus unhandsomely used? What am I to suppose by your permitting Tom, Dick and Harry to strip me of my coffins and my clothes in this wretchedly cold climate? In what light to come to the point am I to regard your aiding and abetting that miserable little villain Dr. Ponner in pulling me by the nose? It will be taken for granted no doubt that upon hearing this speech under the circumstances we all either made for the door or fell into violent hysterics or went off in a general swoon. One of these three things was I say to be expected. Indeed each and all of these lines of conduct might have been very plausibly pursued and upon my word I am at a loss to know how or why it was that we pursued neither the one nor the other. But perhaps the true reason is to be sought in the spirit of the age which proceeds by the rule of contraries altogether and is now usually admitted as the solution of everything in the way of paradox and impossibility. Or perhaps after all it was only the mummy's exceedingly natural and matter-of-course air that divested his words of the terrible. However this may be, the facts are clear that no member of our party betrayed any particular trepidation or seemed to consider that anything had gone very especially wrong. For my part I was convinced it was right and merely stepped aside out of the range of the Egyptian's fist. Dr. Ponner thrust his hands into his breeches, pockets looked hard at the mummy and grew excessively red in the face. Mr. Glidden stroked his whiskers and drew up the collar of his shirt. Mr. Buckingham hung down his head and put his right thumb into the left corner of his mouth. The Egyptian regarded him with a severe countenance for some minutes and at length with a sneer said, Why do you like Mr. Buckingham? Did you hear what I asked you or not? Do take your thumb out of your mouth. Mr. Buckingham hereupon gave a slight start, took his right thumb out of the left corner of his mouth and by way of indemnification inserted his left thumb in the right corner of the aperture above mentioned. Not being able to get an answer from Mr. B, the figure turned peevishly to Mr. Glidden and in a preemptory tone demanded in general terms what we all meant. Mr. Glidden replied at great length in phonetics, but for the deficiency of American printing offices in hieroglyphical type it would afford me much pleasure to record here in the original, the whole of his very excellent speech. I may as well take this occasion to remark that all the subsequent conversation in which the mummy took part was carried on in primitive Egyptian through the medium so far as concerned myself and other untraveled members of the company through the medium I say of Messers, making him as interpreters. These gentlemen spoke the mother tongue of the mummy with inimitable fluency and grace, but I could not help observing that, owing no doubt to the introduction of images entirely modern and of course entirely novel to the stranger, the two travelers were reduced occasionally to the employment of sensible forms for the purpose of conveying a particular meaning. Mr. Glidden at one period for example could not make the Egyptian comprehend the term politics until he sketched upon the wall with a bit of charcoal, a little carbuncle-nosed gentleman out at elbows standing upon a stump with his left leg drawn back, his right arm thrown forward with his fist shut. The eyes rolled up toward heaven and the mouth open at an angle of 90 degrees. Just in the same way Mr. Buckingham failed to convey the absolutely modern idea of wig until, at Dr. Ponner's suggestion, he grew very pale in the face and consented to take off his own. It will be readily understood that Mr. Glidden's discourse turned chiefly upon the vast benefits of crewing to science from the unrolling and disemboweling of mummies, apologizing upon this score for any disturbance that might have been occasioned him, in particular the individual mummy called Alamistachio, and concluding with a mere hint, for it could scarcely be considered more, that as these little matters were now explained, it might be as well to proceed with the investigation intended. Here Dr. Ponner made ready his instruments. In regard to the latter suggestions of the orator, it appeared that Alamistachio had certain scruples of conscience, the nature of which I did not distinctly learn, but he expressed himself satisfied with the apologies tendered, and getting down from the table shook hands with the company all around. When this ceremony was at an end, we immediately busied ourselves in repairing the damages which our subject had sustained from the scalpel. We sewed up the wound in his temple, bandaged his foot, and applied a square inch of black plaster to the tip of his nose. It was now observed that the count, this was the title, it seems, of Alamistachio, had a slight fit of shivering, no doubt from the cold. The doctor immediately repaired to his wardrobe and soon returned with a black dress coat made in Jennings best manner, a pair of sky blue plaid pantaloons with straps, a pink gingham chemise, a flapped vest of brocade, a white sack overcoat, a walking cane with a hook, a hat with no brim, patent leather boots, straw-coloured kid gloves, an eyeglass, a pair of whiskers, and a waterfall cravat. Owing to the disparity of size between the count and the doctor, the proportion being as two to one, there was some little difficulty in adjusting these hablements upon the person of the Egyptian. But when all was arranged, he might have been said to be...dressed. Mr. Glidden, therefore, gave him his arm and led him to a comfortable chair by the fire, while the doctor rang the bell upon the spot and ordered a supply of cigars and wine. The conversation soon grew animated. Much curiosity was, of course, expressed in regard to the somewhat remarkable fact of Alamistachio's still remaining alive. I should have thought, observed Mr. Buckingham, that it is pie time you were dead. Why, replied the count very much astonished? I am little more than seven hundred years old. My father lived a thousand and was by no means in his dotage when he died. Here ensued a brisk series of questions and computation by means of which it became evident that the antiquity of the mummy had been grossly misjudged. It had been five thousand and fifty years and some months since he had been consigned to the catacombs at Aletheus. But my remark, resumed Mr. Buckingham, had no reference to your age at the rate of internment. I am willing to grant in fact that you are still a young man. And my illusion was to the immensity of time during which by your own showing you must have been done up in Asfaltum. In what, said the count? In Asfaltum persisted Mr. B. Ah, yes, I have some faint notion of what you mean. It might be made to answer no doubt. But in my time we employed scarcely anything else than the bichloride of mercury. But what we are especially at a loss to understand, said Dr. Pondiner, is how it happens that, having been dead and buried in Egypt five thousand years ago, you are here today, all alive and looking so delightfully well. Had I been, as you say, dead, replied the count, it is more than probable that dead I should still be. For I perceive you are yet in the infancy of Calvinism and cannot accomplish it with what was a common thing among us in the old days. But the fact is I fell into catalepsy and it was considered by my friends that I was either dead or should be. They accordingly embalmed me at once. I presume you are aware of the chief principle of the embalming process. Why, not altogether. Why, I perceive a deplorable condition of ignorance. Well, I cannot enter into details just now, but it is necessary to explain that to embalm, properly speaking, in Egypt, was to arrest indefinitely all the animal functions subjected to the process. I use the word animal in its widest sense, as including the physical, not more than the moral and vital being. I repeat that the leading principle of embalmment consisted with us in the immediately arresting and holding in perpetual abeyance all the animal functions subjected to the process. To be brief, in whatever condition the individual was at the period of embalmment, in that condition he remained. Now, as it is my good fortune to be of the blood of the scarabias, I was embalmed alive, as you see me at present. The blood of the scarabias exclaimed Dr. Ponnerner. Yes, the scarabias was the insignium or the arms of a very distinguished and very rare patrician family. To be of the blood of the scarabias is merely to be one of that family, of which the scarabias is the insignium. I speak figuratively. But what has this to do with you being alive? Why it is the general custom in Egypt to deprive a corpse before embalmment of its bowels and brains. The race of the scarabia alone did not coincide with the custom. Had I not been a scarabias, therefore, I should have been without bowels and brains, and without either it is inconvenient to live. I perceive that, said Mr. Buckingham, and I presume that all the entire mummies that come to hand are of the race of scarabias. Beyond doubt. I thought, said Mr. Glidden very meekly, that the scarabias was one of the Egyptian gods. One of the Egyptian what exclaimed the mummy staring to its feet? Gods, repeated the traveler. Mr. Glidden, I am astonished to hear you talk in this style, said the count, resuming his chair. No nation upon the face of the earth has ever acknowledged more than one god. The scarabias, the ibis, etc., were with us, as similar creatures have been to others, the symbols or media through which we offered worship to the Creator, to August to be more directly approached. There was here a pause. At length the callylic we was renewed by Dr. Ponaner. It is not improbable then from what you have explained, said he, that among the catacombs near the Nile there may exist other mummies of the scarabias tribe in a condition of vitality. There can be no question of it, replied the count. All the scarabia embalmed accidentally while alive are alive now. Even some of those purposely so embalmed may have been overlooked by their executors and still remain in the tomb. Will you be kind enough to explain, I said, what do you mean by purposely so embalmed? With great pleasure answered the mummy after surveying me leisurely through his eyeglass, for it was the first time I had ventured to address him a direct question. With great pleasure, he said, the usual duration of a man's life in my time was about eight hundred years. A man died unless by most extraordinary accident before the age of six hundred. Few lived longer than a decade of centuries, but eight were considered the natural term. After the discovery of the embalming principle, as I have already described it to you, it occurred to our philosophers that a laudable curiosity might be gratified and, at the same time, the interests of science much advanced by living this natural term in installments. In the case of history, indeed, experience demonstrated that something of this kind was indispensable. An historian, for example, having attained the age of five hundred would write a book with great labor and then get himself carefully embalmed, leaving instructions to his executors pro tem that they should cause him to be revivified after the lapse of a certain period, say five or six hundred years. Resuming existence at the expiration of this time, he would invariably find his great work converted into a species of haphazard notebook. That is to say, into a kind of literary arena for the conflicting guesses, riddles and personal squabbles of whole herds of exasperated commentators. These guesses, etc., which passed under the name of annotations or emmendations, were found so completely to have enveloped, distorted and overwhelmed the text that the author had to go about with a lantern to discover his own book. When he discovered it was never worth the trouble of the search. After rewriting it throughout, it was regarded as the bound and duty of the historian to set himself to work immediately and correcting from his own private knowledge and experience the traditions of the day concerning the epoch at which he had originally lived. Now this process of prescription and personal rectification pursued by various individual sages from time to time had the effect of preventing into absolute fable. I beg your pardon, said Dr. Pondiner at this point, laying his hand gently upon the arm of the Egyptian. I beg your pardon, sir, but may I presume to interrupt you for one moment? By all means, sir, replied the Count, drawing up. I merely wish to ask you a question, said the doctor. You mentioned the historian's personal correction of traditions respecting his own epoch. Pray, sir, upon an average what proportion of these cabala were usually found to be right? The cabala, as you properly term them, sir, were generally discovered to be precisely on a par with the facts recorded in the unrewritten histories themselves. That is to say, not one individual iota of either was ever known under any circumstances to be not totally and radically wrong. But since it is quite clear, resumed the doctor, that at least five thousand years have elapsed since the procurement, I take it for granted that your histories at that period if not your traditions were sufficiently explicit on that one topic of universal interest. The creation which took place, as I presume you are aware, only about ten centuries before. Sir, said the Count Alamistachio. The doctor repeated his remarks, but it was only after much additional explanation that the foreigner could be made to comprehend them. The latter at length said, hesitatingly, the ideas you have suggested are, to me, I confess, utterly novel. During my time I never knew anyone to entertain so singular or fancy as that the universe, or this world if you will have it so, ever had a beginning at all. I remember once and only once hearing something remotely hinted by a man of many speculations concerning the origin of the human race, and by this individual the very word Adam, or red earth, which you make use of, was employed. He employed it, however, in a generical sense, with reference to the spontaneous germination from rank soil just as a thousand of the lower genera of creatures are germinated, the spontaneous germination, I say, of five vast hordes of men simultaneously upspringing in five distinct and nearly equal divisions of the globe. Here in general the company shrugged their shoulders, and one or two of us touched our foreheads with a very significant air. Mr. Silk Buckingham first glancing slightly at the oxapod, and then the sensapod of Alamistachio spoke as follows. The long duration of human life in your time, together with the occasional practice of passing it as you have explained in installments, must have had indeed a strong tendency to the general development and conglomeration of knowledge. I presume therefore that we are to attribute the marked authority of the old Egyptians in all particulars of science when compared with the moderns and more especially with the Yankees altogether to the superior solidity of the Egyptian skull. I confess again, replied the count with much suavity, that I am somewhat at a loss to comprehend you. Pray to what particulars of science do you elude. Here our whole party joining voices detailed at great length the assumptions of phrenology and the levels of animal magnetism. Having heard us to an end, the count proceeded to relate a few anecdotes which rendered it evident that prototypes of Gaul and Spursheim had flourished and faded in Egypt so long ago as to have been nearly forgotten, and that the maneuvers of Mesmer were really very contemptible tricks when put in collation with the positive miracles of the Theban savans who created lice and a great many other similar things. I here asked the count if his people were able to calculate eclipses. He smiled rather contemptuously and said they were. This put me a little out, but I began to make other inquiries in regard to his astronomical knowledge. When a member of the company who had never as yet opened his mouth whispered in my ear that for information on this head I had better consult Ptolemy, whoever Ptolemy is, as well as one Plutarch de Faixa-Lune. I then questioned the mummy about burning glasses and lenses and, in general, about the manufacture of glass, but I had not made an end of my queries before the silent member again touched me quietly on the elbow and begged me for God's sake to take up peep at Diodorus Siculus. As for the count he merely asked me in way of reply if we modern possessed any such microscopes as would enable us to cut cameos in the style of the Egyptians. While I was thinking how I should answer this question little Dr. Ponner committed himself in a very extraordinary way. Look at our architecture, he exclaimed greatly to the indignation of both travelers who pinched him black and blue to no purpose. Look, he cried with enthusiasm at the bowling-green fountain in New York or if this be too vast a contemplation regard for a moment the capital at Washington, D.C. and the good little medical man went on to detail very minutely the proportions of the fabric to which he referred. He explained that the portico alone was adorned with no less than four and twenty columns five feet in diameter and ten feet apart. The count said that he regretted not being able to remember, just at that moment, the precise dimensions of any one of the principal buildings of the city of Asnak whose foundations were laid in the night of time but the ruins of which were still standing at the epoch of his entombment in a vast plain of sand to the westward of Thebes. He reflected, however, talking of the porticoes, that one affixed to an inferior palace in a kind of suburb called Karnak, consisted of a hundred and forty-four columns thirty-seven feet in circumference and twenty-five feet apart. The approach to this portico from the Nile was through an avenue two miles long composed of Sphinx's statues and Oblesque's twenty-sixty and a hundred feet in height. The palace itself, as well as he could remember, was in one direction two miles long and might have been altogether about seven in circuit. Its walls were richly painted all over, within and without, with hieroglyphics. He would not pretend to assert that even fifty or sixty of the doctor's capitals might have been built within these walls but he was by no means sure that two or three hundred of them might not have been squeezed in with some trouble. That palace at Karnak was an insignificant little building after all. He, the Count, however, not conscientiously refused to admit the ingenuity, magnificence and superiority of the fountain at the bowling green, as described by the doctor. Nothing like it he was forced to allow had ever been seen in Egypt or elsewhere. I here asked the Count what he had to say to our railroads. Nothing, he replied in particular, they were rather slight, rather ill-conceived and clumsily put together. They could not be compared of course with the vast level of direct iron-grooved causeways upon which the Egyptians conveyed entire temples and solid obelisks of a hundred and fifty feet in altitude. I spoke of our gigantic mechanical forces. He agreed that we knew something in that way, but inquired how I should have gone to work in getting up the imposts on the lintels of even the little palace at Karnak. This question I concluded not to hear and demanded if he had any idea of artesian wells, but he simply used his eyebrows while Mr. Glidden winked at me very hard and said in a low voice that one had been recently discovered by the engineers employed to bore for wooder in the great oasis. I then mentioned our steel, but the foreigner elevated his nose and asked me if our steel could have executed the sharp-carved work seen on the obelisks and which was wrought altogether by edge-tools of copper. This disconcerted us so greatly that we thought it advisable to vary the attack to metaphysics. We sent for a copy of a book called The Dial and read out of it a chapter or two about something that is not very clear but which the Bostonians call the great movement of progress. The Count merely said that great movements were awfully common things in his day and as for progress it was at one time quite a nuisance, but it had never progressed. We then spoke of the great beauty and importance of democracy and were at much trouble in impressing the Count with a due sense of the advantages we enjoyed in living where there was suffrage ad libitum and no king. He listened with marked interest and in fact seemed not a little amused. When we had done he said that a great while ago there had occurred something of a very similar sort. Thirteen Egyptian provinces determined all it wants to be free and to set a magnificent example to the rest of mankind. They assembled their wise men and concocted the most ingenious constitution it is possible to conceive. For a while they managed remarkably well, only their habit of bragging was prodigious. The thing ended, however, in the consolidation of the thirteen states with some fifteen or twenty others in the most odious and insupportable despotism that was ever heard of upon the face of the earth. I asked what was the name of the usurping tyrant. As well as the Count could recollect it was mob. To say to this I raised my voice and deplored the Egyptian ignorance of steam. The Count looked at me with much astonishment but made no answer. The silent gentleman, however, gave me a violent nudge in the ribs with his elbows. Told me I had sufficiently exposed myself for once and demanded if I was really such a fool as not to know that the modern steam engine is derived from the invention of hero through Solomon D. Kos. We were now in imminent danger of being defeated, but as good luck would have it Dr. Ponaner having rallied returned to our rescue and inquired if the people of Egypt would seriously pretend to rival the moderns in the all-important particular of dress. The Count at this glanced downward to the straps of his pantaloons and then taking hold of the end of one of his coattails held it up close to his eyes for some minutes. Letting it fall at last his mouth extended itself very gradually from ear to ear, I do not remember that he said anything in the way of reply. Hereupon we recovered our spirits and the doctor approaching the mummy with great dignity desired it to say candidly upon its honor as a gentleman if the Egyptians had comprehended at any period the manufacture of either Ponaner's locenges or Brandwith's pills. We looked with profound anxiety for an answer, but in vain. It was not forthcoming. The Egyptian blushed and hung down his head. Triumph, more consummate, never was defeat born with so ill a grace. Indeed, I could not endure the spectacle of the poor mummy's mortification. I reached my hat, bowed to him swiftly, and took leave. Upon getting home I found it past four o'clock and went immediately to bed. It is now ten a.m. I have been up since seven penning these memoranda for the benefit of my family and of mankind. The former I shall behold no more. My wife shrew. The truth is I am heartily sick of this life of the nineteenth century in general. I am convinced that everything is going wrong. Besides, I am anxious to know who will be president in 2045. As soon, therefore, as I shave and swallow a cup of coffee, I shall just step over to Ponaner's and get embalmed for a couple of hundred years. End of Some Words With a Mummy by Edgar Allan Poe. Summit by Dallas McCord Mack Reynolds. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by M. White. Summit by Mack Reynolds. Almost anything, if it goes on long enough, can be reduced to first a routine and then to a tradition, and at that point it is obviously necessary. Two king-sized bands blared martial music, the International and the Star-Spangled Banner, each seemingly trying to drown the other in a Gotherdamarang of acoustics. Two lines of troops, surface-ly differing in uniforms and in weapons, but basically so very the same, so evenly matched, came to attention. A thousand hands slapped a thousand submachine gun stocks. Marshal Vladimir Ignuthov slowed stiff-necked down the long march, the stride of a man for years used to cavalry boots. He was flanked by frozen visage subordinates, but none so cold a face as he himself. At the entrance to the conference hall, he stopped, turned, and waited. At the end of the corridor of troops, a car stopped and several figures emerged, most of them in civilian dress, several bearing briefcases. Day in their turn ran the gauntlet. At therefore walked James Voron Donlevy, sprightly, his eyes darting here, there, politician-like, a half-smile on his face, as though afraid he might forget to greet a voter he knew or was supposed to know. His hand was out before that of Vladimir Ignuthov's. Your Excellency, he said. Ignuthov shook hands stiffly. Dropped that of the others as soon as protocol would permit. The field marshal indicated the door of the conference hall. There is little reason to waste time, Mr. President. Exactly Donlevy snapped. The door closed behind them, and the two men, one uniformed and be meddled, the other, natally attired in his business suit, turned to each other. Nice to see you again, Vovo. How are Olga and the baby? The soldier grinned back in response. Two babies now. You don't keep up on the real news, Jim. How's Martha? They shook hands. Not so good, Jim said, scowling. I'm worried. It's that new cancer. We conquer one type, two more we're up. How are you people doing on cancer research? Vovo was stripping off his tunic. He hung it over the back of one of the chairs, began to unbutton his high, tight military color. I'm not really up on it, Jim, but I think that's one field where you can trust anything we know to be in the regular scientific journals our people exchange with yours. I'll make some inquiries when I get back home, though. You never know. This new strain, I guess you'd call it, is one that we're up on and you aren't. Yeah, Jim said. Thanks a lot. He crossed to the small portable bar. How about a drink? Whiskey? Vodka? Rum? There's ice. Vovo slumped into one of the heavy chairs that were arranged around the table. He grimaced. No vodka. I don't feel patriotic today. How about one of those long, cold drinks with the cola stuff? Cuba Libra, Jim said. Coming up. Look, would you rather speak Russian? No, Vovo said. My English is getting rusty. I need the practice. Jim brought the glasses over and put them on the table. He began stripping off his own coat, loosening his tie. God, I'm tired, he said. This sort of thing wears me down. Vovo zipped his drink. Now, there's a good a thing to discuss as any. In the way of killing time, the truth now, Jim, do you really believe in a God? After all that's happened to this human race of ours, do you really believe in divine guidance? He lifted his mouth sarcastically. The other relaxed. I don't know, he said. I suppose so. I was raised in a family that believed in God. Just as, I suppose, you were raised in one that didn't. He lifted his shoulders slightly in a shrug. Neither of us seems to be particularly brilliant in establishing a position of our own. Vovo snorted. Never thought of it that way, he admitted. We're usually contemptuous of anyone still holding to the old beliefs. There aren't many left. More than new people admit, I understand. Vovo shook his heavy head. No, not really. Mostly crackpots. Have you ever noticed how it is that the non-conformists in any society are usually crackpots? The people on your side that admit belonging to our organizations are usually on the wild-eyed and uncomed-hair side, I admit it. On the other hand, the people in our citizenry who subscribe to your system, your religion, that sort of thing, crackpots, too, applies to religion as well as politics. An atheist in your country is a non-conformist. In mine, a Christian is. Both crackpots. Jim laughed and took a sip of his drink. Vovo yawned and said, How long are we going to be in here? I don't know. Up to us, I suppose. Yes, how about another drink? I'll make it. How much of that cola stuff do you put in? Jim told him, and while the other was on his feet mixing the drinks, said, Figure on sticking on the same line this year. Have to, Vovo said over his shoulder. What's the alternative? I don't know. We're building up a whale of a depression as it is. Even with half the economy running full blast producing defense materials. Vovo chuckled. Defense materials. I wonder if, ever in the history of the human race, anyone ever admitted to producing offense materials. Well, you call it the same thing. All your military equipment is for defense. And of course, according to your press, all ours is for offense. Of course, Vovo said. He brought the glasses back and handed one to the other. He slumped back into his chair again, loosened two buttons of his trousers. Jim, Vovo said, Why don't you divert more of your economy to public works, better roads, reforestation, dams, that sort of thing? Jim said, weirly, You're a better economist than that. Didn't your boy Marx, write a small book on the subject? We're already overproducing, turning out more products than we can sell. I wasn't talking about your government building new steel mills, but dams, roads, that sort of thing. You could plow billions into such items and get some real use out of them. We both know that our weapons will never be used. They can't be. Jim ticked them off on his fingers. We already are producing more farm products than we know what to do with. If we build more dams, it'll open up a lot. If we build more and better roads, it'll improve transportation which will mean fewer men will be able to move greater tonnage and throw transportation employees into the unemployed. If we go all out for reforestation it'll eventually bring down the price of lumber and the lumber people are howling already. No, he shook his head. There's just one really foolproof way of disposing of surplus and using up labor power and that's war. Hot or cold? I suppose so. It amounts to building pyramids of course. Jim twisted his mouth sourly. And since we're asking questions about each other's way of life, when is your state going to begin to wither away? How was that? According to your sainted founder once you people came to power the state was going to wither away. Class rule would be over and Utopia would be on hand. That was a long time ago and your state is stronger than ours. How can we wither away the state as long as we are threatened by capitalist aggression? Jim said, ha! Vovo went on, you know better than that Jim. The only way my organization can keep in power is by continually beating the drums, keeping our people stirred up to greater and greater sacrifices by using you as a threat. Didn't the old Romans have some sort of maxim to the effect that when you're threatened with unease at home stir up trouble abroad? You're being even more frank than usual, Jim said. But that's one of the pleasures of these get-togethers. Neither of us resorts to hypocrisy. But you can't keep up with these tensions forever. You mean we can't keep up with these tensions forever Jim. And when they end, well... Personally, I can't see my organization going out without a bloodbath in grimace sourly. And since I'd probably be one of the first to be bathed I'd like to postpone the time. It's like having a tiger by the tail, Jim. We can't let go. Happily, I don't feel in the same spot, Jim said. He got up and went to the picture window that took up the entire wall. It faced out over a mountain vista. He looked soberly into the sky. Bobo joined him, glass in hand. Possibly your position isn't exactly the same as ours, but there'll be some awfully great changes if that military-based economy of yours suddenly had peace thrust upon it. You'd have a depression such as you'd never dreamed of. Let's face reality, Jim. Neither of us can afford peace. Well, we've both known that for a long time. They both considered somberly the planet Earth blazing away a small sun there in the sky. Jim said, I sometimes think that the race would have been better off when man was colonizing Venus and Mars if it had been a joint enterprise rather than you people doing one and we the other. If it had all been in the hands of that organization the United Nations? Bobo supplied. Then the Bomb Day hit. Perhaps these new worlds could have gone on too. Well, better things. Perhaps, Bobo shrugged. I've often wondered how Bomb Day started. Who struck the spark? Happily there were enough colonists on both planets to start the race all over again, Jim said. What difference does it make? Who struck the spark? None, I suppose. Bobo began to button his collar, readjust his clothes. Well, shall we merge and let the quaking multitudes know that once again we have made a shaky agreement, one that will last until the next summit meeting? End of Summit by Dallas McCord, Mack Reynolds. Recording by M. White. This is Clon Calling. By Walt Sheldon. 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. This is Clon Calling. By Walt Sheldon. One sure way to live dangerously is to become a practical joker. Should you have any doubts about it, you might ask Professor Day. You didn't have to be a potential Einstein to take Professor Dain's course. For one thing, you got a few easy credits and for another, you were entertained without let up by Professor Lyman Dain's celebrated wit. Take the time he was illustrating terminal velocity. He jumped out of the open third story window, horrifying the class until they learned he'd rigged a canvas life net on the floor below. Or the time he let a mouse loose among the female students to illustrate chain reaction. Or the afternoon he played boogie-woogie on the Heuler Memorial Carillion. The absorption of knowledge, he used to say, increases in direct proportion to the sense of humor. The belly laugh measured in decibels being a constant. He could say a thing like that and make it sound funnier than anybody else could. It was partly the way he looked, tall and mournful and sly, with wispy hair that had once been blond, drooping like a tired willow over his far head. But for all his vaudeville tactics he was by no means a second rate scientist, which was why he had gained his position at Southwestern Tech in the first place. He refused to work directly for the government. No sense of humor, just initials, he said. But this way he could at least be called upon for consultation at the nearby Air Force Development Center, just at the foot of the mountains to the west. Now the AFDC, as it was called, didn't advertise what sort of thing it was developing. But everybody knew that Lyman was an expert on reactive propulsion of rocket motors. He could tell you and frequently would without being asked exactly what mass ratio, nozzle diameter and propulsive velocity would be needed for the first trip to the moon. He knew how many hours a round trip would take, both for landing there or merely circling the body of the satellite. He had the courses to Mars and Venus thoroughly charted, but considered a trip to Jupiter somewhat impractical. So what with Dane's presence and the mysterious white streaks that so often shot up into the sky like fuzzy yarn from the AFDC base, it wasn't hard to guess what was going on. Nevertheless, Professor Dane was surprised and somewhat offended when the young man from the Federal Bureau of Investigation came to call on him one afternoon. And the worst part of it was that the young man didn't have much of a sense of humor. As you know, sir, the young man said, we've been citing and tracking these unidentified objects in the sky. You must have read about those they chased near Atlanta yesterday. Ah! said Professor Dane. Martian threw Georgia, no doubt. The young man stared at him blankly. He seemed to, Professor Dane, one of the most nondescript young men his eyes had ever beheld. He had a clean, shaven, pleasant face without exactly being handsome, and his eyes were sincere and mild. He wore a neat, gray, tropical worsted suit and an unobtrusive tie. He was about thirty. Professor Dane supposed that all this was an advantage in his profession. The young man went on earnestly. Without forming any theories about these things, we've been asked to take certain precautions. I don't know whether they suspect a hostile power or what. That's not my job. At any rate, I've been given the responsibility of instituting certain security techniques. You do, after all, sir, have access to and knowledge of considerable classified information. The lad reminded him somewhat of his old friend and colleague, Fincher, out in California. Wally Fincher was a well-known physicist now, though how anyone ever managed to struggle through his dry, ponderous books Dane didn't know. Probably he had gained most of his fame through his part in those experiments where they bounced radar blips off the moon, Dane thought. Wally always talked in long unnecessary words. He never merely went when he could proceed. He never simply used when it was possible to utilize. He didn't get things done. He implemented them. Professor Dane made a mental note to put in a long-distance call to Wally that evening and tweak his nose a bit. Maybe Dane could pretend he was the FBI, disguise his voice and interrogate Wally as though he were investigating him. He chuckled a little at the idea. Then he realized that the young man had been talking and he hadn't been listening. So, among other things, sir, we thought it best to monitor your hope you won't mind. What? said Dane raising his eyebrows. And your phone. You'll hear a couple of clicks whenever you use it. We're recording what's said over it. Though I assure you all records obtained will be kept in strictest confidence. Dane acquiesced. The young man finally managed to make it clear that all this surveillance would have to be done with Dane's permission and the professor annoyed though he was, didn't want to appear uncooperative. He couldn't resist, however, giving the young man the wrong hat when the young man came back for the right one five minutes later. He was glad to see that something could fluster him. But that wasn't really enough. Professor Dane had been annoyed and he needed to express himself further by means of the joke which was his art in order to regain some measure of his equilibrium and self-respect. Inspiration visited him as he was climbing the stairs to his bedroom at 10.30 that evening. He stopped short, thought a minute, then began to chuckle. He turned and went upstairs again, stepped to the phone. Professor Dane lived alone and no one else would be able to share his planned joke, but this didn't matter. He had been privately enjoying his pranks ever since as a frail boy with an unreasonable and dominating male parent, he had discovered that they were one way in which he could compete with heartier souls, at times even surpass them. Never mind the audience he thought. The jest was the thing. It was an hour earlier in Los Angeles and Dr. Wallace Fincher was home. Dane disguised his voice. He did a lot of university theater work and this kind of thing came to him easily. He listened first to Dr. Fincher's arid humorless. Hello, Dr. Fincher speaking. Then he heard the preliminary clicking just as the FBI man had predicted. Fandor, said Professor Dane. This is Klon calling. I beg your pardon, said Dr. Fincher. The jigs up, said Professor Dane. Captain Axel in Propel Cruiser 9973 will never be able to break through. The Earthlings have set up a close watch. They're suspicious. Who is this? Dr. Fincher sounded startled. Who the devil is calling? Dane could barely keep his laughter from breaking into his voice. Fandor, we can come to no conclusion but that the terrestrials are definitely hostile. We should have expected that from their primitive stage of development. They have orders to shoot any of our Propel cruisers they can take. I suggest that we withdraw all ships of the Frannistan class immediately from their free orbits and send them on a standard Keplerian course to the home planet for further consultation. Is this some kind of joke? Fincher sounded as if he were almost panicky. Furthermore, said Dane, I recommend that we withdraw all agents from Earth. We can't conceal our superior mental development and advanced technology much longer. Someone's bound to catch on pretty soon. I was against this plan council in the first place, you'll remember. Well, farewell, Fandor. I'll be seeing you soon in space. And Professor Dane hung up before he exploded with laughter. He laughed until the tears came to his eyes. He held his stomach with both hands. He was weak. He supported himself on the stair railing and for minutes was unable to take the first tread. With his lively scientists' imagination he could picture the completely bewildered look on the young FBI man's face when he listened to this man on the tape recorder, or whatever it was they used. He was certainly going to have to try and get that recording from them. Play it back for Fincher some time. Lourdy. Fincher would have apoplexy every time he heard it. He finally gained enough strength to climb the stairs. He went into his bedroom still chuckling weekly, still wiping the tears from his eyes, stomach muscles still aching. Dr. Wallace Fincher stood there by his bed. It was Fincher, the same stocky, round-faced man with the steel-rimmed glasses he had always known. It was either Fincher or the damnedest hallucination he had ever. I'm sorry, Lyman," said Dr. Fincher in a kindly but impersonal voice. You were getting a trifle too close. I'm afraid you have left me no choice. He pointed a little silvery tube at Professor Dain and there was a soft buzzing and the smell of ozone and Professor Dain was no longer in the room, or anywhere else. Dr. Fincher sighed, adjusted his glasses and faded into the dimension that would take him back to Los Angeles and his interrupted work. End of This is Clon Calling by Walt Sheldon.