 Now We Are Three by Joe L. Hensley. It didn't matter that he had quit. He was still one of the guilty. He had seen it in her eyes and in the eyes of others. John Rush smoothed the covers over his wife, tucking them in where her restless moving had pulled them away from the mattress. The twins moved beside him, their smooth hands following his in the task, their blind eyes intent on nothingness. Thank you, he said softly to them, knowing they could not hear him, but it made him feel better to talk. His wife, Mary, was quiet. Her breathing was smooth, easy, almost as if she were sleeping. The long sleep. He touched her forehead, but it was cool. The doctor had said it was a miracle she had lived this long. He stood away from the bed for a moment, watching before he went on out to the porch. The twins moved back into what had become a normal position for them in the past months. One on each side of the bed, their thin hands holding Mary's tightly, the milky blind eyes surveying something that could not be seen by his eyes. Sometimes they would stand like this for hours. Outside the evening was cool, the light not quite gone. He sat in the rocking chair and waited for the doctor who had promised to come, and yet might not come. The bitterness came back, the self-hate. He remembered a young man and promises made, but not kept. A girl who had believed and never lost faith even when he had retreated back to the land away from everything. Long, sullen silences, self-pity, brooding over the news stories that got worse and worse. And the children, one born dead, two born deaf and dumb and blind. Worse than dead. You helped, he accused himself. You worked for those who set off the bombs and tested and tested, while the cycle went up and up beyond human tolerance. Not the death level, but the level where nothing was sure again, the level that made cancer a thing of epidemic proportions, replacing statistically all of the insane multitude of things that man could do to kill himself. Even the good things that the atom had brought were destroyed in the panic that ensued. No matter that you quit, you are still one of the guilty. You have seen it hidden in her eyes, and you have seen it in the milky eyes of the twins. Worse than dead. Dusk became night and finally the doctor came. It had begun to lightning and a few large drops of rain stroked Russia's cheek. Not a good year for the farming he had retreated to. Not a good year for anything. He stood to greet the doctor and the other man with him. Good evening, doctor, he said. Mr. Rush, the doctor shook hands gingerly. I hope you don't mind me bringing someone along. This is Mr. North. He is with the county juvenile office. The young doctor smiled. How is the patient this evening? She is the same, John Rush said to the doctor. He turned to the other man, keeping his face emotionless, hands at his side. He had expected this for some time. I think you will be wanting to look at the twins, there by her bed. He opened the door and motioned them in and then followed. He heard the juvenile man catch his breath a little. The twins were playing again. They had left their vigil at the bedside and they were moving swiftly around the small living room, their hands and arms and legs moving in some synchronized game that had no meaning, their movements quick and sure, their faces showing some intensity, some purpose. They moved with grace, avoiding obstructions. I thought these children were blind, Mr. North said. John smiled a little. It is unnerving. I have seen them play like this before, though they have not done so for a long time, since my wife has been ill. He lowered his head. They are blind, deaf and dumb. How old are they? Twelve. They do not seem to be more than eight, nine at the most. They have been well fed, John said softly. How about schooling, Mr. Rush? The teaching of handicapped children is not something that can be done by a person untrained in the field. I have three degrees, Mr. North. When my wife became ill and I began to care for them, I taught them to read braille. They picked it up very quickly, though they showed little continued interest in it. I read a number of books in the field of teaching handicapped children. He let it trail off. Your degrees were in physics, were they not, Mr. Rush? Now the touch of malice came. That is correct, he sat down in one of the wooden chairs. I quit working long before the witch hunts came. I was never indicted. Nevertheless your degrees are no longer bona fide. All such degrees have been stricken from the records. He looked down and John saw that his eyes no longer hid the hate. If your wife dies, I doubt that any court would allow you to keep custody of these children. A year before, even six months, and John would not have protested. Now he had to make the effort. They are my children, such as they are, and I will fight any attempt to take them from me. The juvenile man smiled without humor. My wife and I had a child last year, Mr. Rush, or perhaps I should say that a child was born to us. I am glad that child was born dead. I think my wife is even glad. Perhaps we should try again. I understand that you and your kind have left us an even chance on a normal birth. He paused for a moment. I shall file a petition with the circuit court, asking that the juvenile office be appointed guardians of your children, Mr. Rush. I hope you do not choose to resist that petition. Feeling would run pretty high against an ex-physicist who tried to prove he deserved children, he turned away stiffly and went out the front door. In a little while Rush heard the car door slam decisively. The doctor was replacing things in the black bag. I am sorry, John. He said he was going to come out here anyway, so I invited him to come with me. John nodded. My wife? There is no change. And no chance? There never has been one. The brain tumor is too large and too inaccessible for treatment or surgery. It will be soon now. I am surprised that she has lasted this long. I am prolonging a sure process. He turned away. That's all I can do. Thank you for coming, doctor. I appreciate that. Rush smiled bitterly, unable to stop himself. But aren't you afraid that your other patients will find out? The doctor stopped, his face paling slightly. I took an oath when I graduated from medical school. Sometimes I want to break that oath, but I have not so far. Try as I may. I cannot blame them for hating you. You know why. Rush wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Don't you realize that the government that punished the men I work for, for their criminal negligence, is the same government that commissioned them to do that work? That officials were warned and re-warned of the things that small increases in radiation might do? And that such things might not show up immediately? And yet they ordered us ahead? He stopped for a moment and put his head down, touching his work-roughened hands to his eyes. They put us in prison for refusing to do a job, or investigated us until no one could or would trust us in civilian jobs. Then when it was done, they put us in prison, or worse, because the very things we warned them of came true. Perhaps that is true, the doctor said stiffly. But the choice of refusing was still possible. Some of us did refuse to work, Rush said softly. I did for one. Perhaps you think that we alone will bear the blame. You are wrong. Sooner or later the stigma will spread to all of the sciences and to you, doctor. Too many now that you can't save? In a little while the hate will surround you also. When we are gone and they must find something new to hate, they will blame you for every malformed baby and every death. You think that one of you will find a cure for this thing? Perhaps you would if you had a hundred years or a thousand years, but you haven't. They killed a man on the street in New York the other day because he was wearing a white laboratory smock. What do you wear in your office, doctor? Hate-blind eyes can't tell the difference. Physicists, chemists, doctor? We all look the same to a fool. Even if there were a cancer cure, that is only a part of the problem. There are the babies. Your science cannot cope with the cause. Only mine can do that. The doctor lowered his head and turned away toward the door. There was another thing left to say. If the plumbing went bad in your home, doctor, you would call a plumber, for he would be the one competent to fix it. Rush shook his head slowly. But what happens when there are no plumbers left? The children were by the bed, their hands holding those of the mother. Gently John Rush tugged those hands away and led them toward their own bed. The small hands were cold in his own, and he felt a tiny feeling of revulsion as they tightened. Then the feeling slipped away and was replaced, as if a current had crossed from their hands to his. It was a warm feeling, one that he had known before when they touched him, but for which he had never been able to find mental words to express the sensation. Slowly he helped them undress. When they were in the single bed, he covered them with the top sheet. Their milky eyes surveyed him, unseeing, somehow withdrawn. I have not known you well, he said. I left that to her. I have sat and brooded and buried myself in the earth until it is too late for much else. He touched the small heads. I wish you could hear me. I wish! Outside on the road a truck roared past. Instinctively he set to hear it. The faces below him did not change. He turned away quickly then and went back out on the porch. He filled his pipe and sat down in the old creaky rocker. A tiny rain had begun to fall hesitantly, as if afraid of striking the sun-hardened ground. Somewhere out there, somewhere hunted, but not found, the plumbers gathered. There had been a man. What was his name? Masser, that was it. He had been working on a way to inhibit radioactivity, speed up the half-life until they had taken the grant away. If a man can do whatever he thinks of, can he undo that which he has done? Masser was the Theoreticist. I was the Applier, the one who translated equations into cold blueprints. And I was good until they... They had hounded him back to the land when he quit. Others had not been so lucky. When a whole people panic, then an object for their hate must be found. A naming. An immediate object. He remembered the newspaper story that began. They lynched twelve men, twelve X-men, in New Mexico last night. Have I been wrong? Have I done the right thing? He remembered the tiny hands in his own, the blind eyes. Those hands. Why do they make me feel like... He let his head slide back against the padded top of the rocking chair and fell into a light uneasy sleep. The dreams came as they had before. Tiny, inhumanly capable hands clutched at him and the sun was hot above. There was a background sound of hydrogen bombs, heard mutely. He looked down at the hands that touched and asked something of his own. The eyes were not milky now. They stared up at him, alert and questioning. What is it you want? The wind tore holes in tiny voices and there was the sound of laughter and his wife's eyes were looking into his own, sorry only for him, at peace with the rest. And they formed a ring around him, those three, hands caught together and closing him. What is it you are saying? It seemed to him that the words would come clear, but the rain came then. Great torrents of it, washing all away, all sight and sound. He awoke and only the rain was true. The tiny rain had increased to a wind-driven downpour and he was soaked where it had blown under the eaves onto the porch. From inside the house he heard a cry. She was sitting upright in bed. Her eyes were open and full of pain. He went quickly to her and touched her pulse. It was faint and reedy. I hurt, she whispered. Quickly as the doctor had taught him he made up a shot of morphine, a full quarter grain, and gave it to her. Her eyes glazed down but did not close. John, she said softly. The children, they talked to. She twisted on the bed and he held her with strong arms until the eyes closed again and her breathing became easy. He pushed the ruffled hair back from her eyes and straightened the awry sheets. The vibration of his walking might have wakened the twins. He tiptoed to their bed for they refused to be parted even in sleep. For a second he thought that the small nightlight had tricked him by shadows on shadows. He reached down to touch. They were gone. He fought down, sudden panic. Where can two children, deaf and dumb and blind, go in the middle of the night? Not far. He opened the door to the kitchen, hand-hunted for the hanging light. They were not there. Nor were they on the small back porch. The panic past critical mass exploded out of control. He lurched back into the combination living-room-bedroom. He looked under all of the beds and into the small closet, everywhere the two children might conceal themselves. Outside the rain had increased. He peered out into the lightning night. A truck-horn blew ominously far down the road. The road? He slogged through the mud, instantly soaking as soon as he was out of shelter, not knowing or caring. Through the front yard, out to the road. He could see the lights of the truck coming from far away. Two tiny points in the darkness, but no twins. He waited helplessly while the truck rushed past, its headlights cutting holes in the darkness. Fearing those lights would outline something that he had not seen, but there was nothing. For another eternity he hunted the muddy fields, the small barn, and outbuildings. The clutch of fear made him shout their names, though he knew they could not hear. And then suddenly all fear was gone, like a summer squall near the sea, with the sun close behind. It was as if their hands had reached out and touched him and brought the strange feeling again. They are in the house, he said aloud, and knew he was right. He took time to discard muddy shoes on the porch before he opened the door, and they were there, by the mother's bed, hands clasped over hers. He felt a tiny chill. Their eyes were watching the door as he opened it, their faces set to receive some stimuli already set, as if they had known he was coming. Mary was breathing softly. On her face all trace of pain had disappeared, and now there was the tiny smile that had been hers long ago. Her breathing was even, but light as forgotten conversation. Gently he tried to pry their resisting hands away from hers. The hands fought back with a terrible strength beyond normality. By sheer greater force he tore one of the twins away. It was like releasing a bomb. Sudden pain stabbed through his body. The twin struggled in his arms, the small hands reaching blindly out for the thing they had lost, and Mary's eyes opened and all of the uncontrolled pain came back into those eyes. Her body writhed on the bed, tearing the coverings away. The twins squirmed away from his slackening hold and once again caught at the hands of the mother. All struggle ceased. Mary's eyes shut again. The plain lines smoothed themselves. The tiny smile flowered. He reached out and touched the small hands on each side of the mother and the feeling for which there were no words came through more strongly than ever before. Tiny voices tried to whisper within the corners of his mind, partially blotted, sometimes heard. The real things, the things of hate and fear and despair, retreated beyond the bugle-call that sounded somewhere. She will die, the voice said, one voice for two. This part of her will die. And then her voice came, as it had been once before when all the world was young. You must not be afraid, John. I have known for a long time, for they were a part of me. And you could not know, for your mind was hiding and alone. I have seen. He cried out and pulled his hands away. Sound died. The room was normal again. The milky white eyes surveyed him. The hands remained locked securely over those of the mother. The thin, carven features of the children were emotionless, waiting. He strove for rational meaning within his brain. These are my sons. They cannot see or hear or speak. They are identical twins, born with those defects. Take two children, blind them, make them deaf to all sound, cut away their voices. They are identical twins, facing the same environment, sharing the same heredity of blasted chromosomes. They will have intelligence and curiosity that increases as they mature. They will not be blinded by the senses the easy way. The first thing they will discover is each other. What else might they then discover? It has been said that when sight is lost, the sense of touch and hearing increased to almost unbelievable acuteness. Rush knew that. The blind often also develop a sense almost like radar, which allows them to perceive an object ahead of them and gives them the ability to follow twisting paths. Take one child and put them under the disability that the twins were born with. As intelligence grows, so does single bewilderment. The world is a puzzling and bewildering place. Braille is a great discovery, a way to communicate with the unknown that lies beyond. But the twins had shown almost no interest in Braille. He reached back down for the tiny hands. Yes, we can communicate, the single voice that spoke for two said. We have tried with you before, but we could not break through. Your mind speaks in a language we do not understand, in figures and equations that are not real to us. Those things lie all through your mind. On the surface we have sensed only your pity for us and your hate for the shadowy ones around you, the ones we do not know. It was a wall we could not climb. She is different. A part of her will go with us, the voice said. There is another place that touches this one, which we perceive and know more fully than this one. The voice died away and brief pictures of a land of other dimensions beyond sight flashed in his brain. He had seen them before imperfectly in the disquieting dreams. She must go with us, for she can no longer exist here, the voice said softly. Perhaps there are others like us to come. We do not yet know what we are or whether there will be others like us. But we must go now, before we were ready, because of her. The mother's voice came. You must go too. There is nothing here for you but sorrow. They will take you, John. A softness touched at him. Please, John. The longing was a thing of fire. To cast off the world that had already given him all of the hate and fear that he could stand, that had made him worse than a coward, to go with her. But she no longer needed him. She was complete, as they were, only necessary to themselves. He could not go. During the long night he kept the vigil by the bedside, long after any need to keep it. The twins were gone, and she with them. He could not cry, for all tears seemed useless. He set a small prayer, something he had not done in years, over the cold thing left behind. The rain had ceased outside. Somewhere out there in his world there were men trying to undo the harm that had been done, harm that he had helped to do, then retreated from. He had no right to retreat further. Something spoke a requiem sentence in his consciousness, light as late sunset, only vaguely there. We are here. We will wait for you. Come to us. Come. He wrote a short note for the doctor and the others who would come and hunt and go through the motions that men must live by. Perhaps the doctor might even understand. I have gone plumbing, the note said. End of Now We Are Three by Joe L. Hensley. 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 Reynard. Rex X Machina. By Frederick Max. The domination of the minds of tractable men is not new. Many men have dreamed of it. Certainly some of them have tried. This man succeeded. One final lesson. A dying man's last letter to his only son that completes the young man's education. My dear son. The doctors have left, and I am told that in a few hours I shall die. In my lifetime the world has progressed from the chaotic turmoil of the early atomic era to the peacefulness and tranquillity of our present age. And I die content. For ten years I have instructed you in all that you will need for the future. One final lesson remains to be taught. On the wall of my bedchamber hangs a citation. From a grateful government for service is too secret to be herein set forth. In past years you have asked me repeatedly about this citation. But each time I have taken pains to avoid the direct answer. Now it is proper that you should know. Forty years ago I was an obscure army captain stationed at the Armed Forces Language School in Monterey, California. I had, at that time, just completed a tour of duty in Korea. A minor skirmish of that era. And despite an excellent reputation for resourcefulness I had drawn Monterey as my next assignment. An attitude for foreign languages had led to an instructorship in the Russian department with additional duties instructing in the Slavic tongues. My life was pleasant and uneventful. And it was with mixed emotions that I received orders to report to Washington for a new duty assignment. The chain of events which precipitated those orders were to change the world. For while you and I were playing on the lawn of our Monterey home an unknown Hungarian physicist working under Russian supervision had made a startling discovery. Within a matter of days alarming rumors of his work reached Washington. Our embassies in Moscow and Belgrade reported furious activity in the field of psychic research and large-scale experiments in mass hypnosis. Four of us were selected to investigate the rumors. Before we could commence our undertaking word reached Washington that the rumors were now actualities. A device capable of the mass hypnosis of great segments of the world's population was rapidly reaching perfection. After three months of intensive grooming in the fields of physics and psychology we four agents set out individually with orders to track down and destroy both the scientist and his machine. I never saw the other three again. During the three months of schooling other members of our vast intelligence organization had been engaged in laying the groundwork for our efforts. In December 1955 I slipped into Russia and took the place of a government official who felt that Western civilization offered greater reimbursement than Soviet communism. I entered into my new role with trepidation but my fears were unfounded. Thanks to a remarkable resemblance which was the original reason for my selection and also due to a most thorough briefing I found myself making the substitution with ease. I pride myself on the fact that by diligent application I was able to increase my worth to the Russian government to the extent that I was shortly able to secure my transfer to the psychological warfare section of the secret police. From there it was a simple procedure to have myself assigned to what was known as Project Parchak. The device was in its final stage of development. Only the problem of increasing its effective range remained to be solved. Three weeks after my assignment to the project its successful conclusion was accomplished. In June 1956 the Russian government ordered me to a small house on the outskirts of Brelia, Hungary where I was to attend a private showing of the device. By design I arrived one day early and made my way to the laboratory immediately. Dr. Michael Parchak, the inventor, stood facing me as I entered. On a table between us lay a small, complicated mechanism resembling a radio transmitter but it was infinitely more than that. The device was a thought generator capable of hypnotizing every thinking creature on the face of the Earth. The power of infinite goodness or evil which the machine embodied was terrifying to consider. I listened to Parchak's boasting with revulsion. Although he had the ability to work for the ultimate good of mankind this creature intended, instead, to use his newly found power for selfish aggrandizement. I drew him out. Let him explain the inner workings of his device and killed him. My orders were to destroy the machine. I disobeyed them. Utilizing the machine to make good my escape I left Hungary and returned to the United States. The citation which you have seen was only one of the many honors which were bestowed upon me. A few weeks later I resigned my commission and retired to a country hideaway to experiment further with the device I was supposed to have destroyed. The peace and tranquility in which we of the Earth now live marked the successful culmination of my experiments. You will find the machine walled up in the north alcove of my bed chamber. Your education is now complete, my son. Use it well. Be kind to our slave peoples. The world is yours. Your affectionate father. France is the first Emperor of the Earth End of Rex X Machina by Frederick Max Read by Reynard A transmutation of muddles. 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 A transmutation of muddles by Horace Brown Fife The rugged little stellar scout ship flared down to the surface of Kappa Orionis 7 about a mile from the aboriginal village. The pilot, Lieutenant Eric Harohiku scorched an open field but pointed out to Lewis Main that he had been careful to disturb neither Woodland nor Shoreline. The Capons are touchy about those, Judge, he explained. They fish a lot, as you'd guess from all these shallow seas, and they pick fruit in the forests, but they don't farm much. Don't use provoking trouble, Main approved. It's a long way from Riegel. It's a longer way from Saul, said the pilot. Don't I know it, boy? If it weren't, I'd be just another retired space captain who quietly is struggling with my ranch on Riegel 9. As it is, to get at the ground, I had to remain on call as an arbitrator. Somebody had to settle these things, said Harohiku. There's not much law way out here, except what the Space Force can't apply. Well, if you'll excuse me, sir, I'll have them get out the helicopter and take us over to the village. Let me see that last message again. Oh, Main requested. The pilot extracted a sheet from his clipboard and handed it to Main as he left. Main studied the text with little pleasure. Terran Space Force headquarters on Riegel 9 wished to inform him that the long-awaited envoy from Terra to Kappa, Arianus, Seven, not only had arrived, but had departed two days behind Main. It was hoped, the communication continued, that nothing would interfere with the desired objective of coming to some friendly agreement with the Capons that would permit Terran use of the planet as a base for spaceships. The envoy, of course, was prepared to offer trade inducements and various other forms of help to the semi-civilized natives. Main was requested to lay whatever groundwork he could. In my spare time, no doubt, he reflected, I have to settle this silly business any way at all, as long as the natives get their way. But has anybody told the government about insurance companies? If it costs money or a lawsuit, will they back me up? He felt himself to be in a ridiculous dilemma. The Capons were reported to have seized a Terran spaceship as it landed to trade. Naturally, the captain had squawked for help. He claimed he had crashed. His insurance company thought otherwise. The Capons seemed to have some entirely different idea in mind. Main had been summoned into action to render a decision after the rough and ready system of these settlements on the surface of Terra's sphere of explored space. Regretfully, he made his way now to the cubbyhole allowed him on the cramped scout, where he changed to a more formal tunic of bright blue he hoped would look impressive to native eyes. By the time he was ready, the helicopter was waiting. He and Harajiku entered, and the crewmen at the controls took off for the scene of the dispute. Arriving over the village, they hovered a few minutes. Well, Harajiku studied the lay of the land. The Lieutenant had been to this world before, long enough to pick up some of the language and customs, so Main was content to follow his advice about landing a little way off from a spaceship that towered outside the village. They came down about a hundred yards away between a redded sort of road and a long hut covered by a curved, thatched roof. They're expecting us, said Harajiku, gesturing at the group before the hut. It consisted of half a dozen humans and several of the capon natives. The latter naturally caught Main's eye first. The most imposing individual among them stood about five feet tall. The planet being of about the same mass as Terra, the capon probably weighed over two hundred and fifty pounds. He was a rugged biped with something saurian in his ancestry, for his skin was scaled, and bony plates grew into a low crown upon his long skull. His arms and legs were heavy and bowed, with joints obscured by thick muscles and loose skin. Main was struck by the fancy that the capon's color, a blend of brown and olive, was that of a small dragon who had achieved a good suntan. A yellow kilt was the main article of attire, although he wore a few decorations of polished bone. One of the Terrans stepped forward. He wore a semi-military uniform. I suppose you're Louis Main, he asked. Right, answered Main, you would be Captain Voorhis of the Gemsbach? Check. This here is Emak. He's more or less chief of the village or tribe, or whatever you want to call it. Main found his gaze sinking into cat-like slits of jet and a pair of huge orange eyes shaded by massive brow ridges. The native made some statements and a clicking language that had a harsh choppy rhythm. He welcomes you to Kappa, Haruhiku, interpreted. He hopes the gods will not be displeased. What a warm welcome, commented Main. Have you been getting along that well, Captain Voorhis? Just about, said the spacer. One of my boys knows a few words. Rest of the time, we make signs. I gotta admit, they ain't been too unfriendly. But they have seized your ship. You're damn right, that insurance guy they sent out. Don't see it that way, though. Where is this representative of the Belt Insurance Company? Asked Main. Mielin? His ship landed over on the other side of the village, about half a mile. He ought to be along soon. Must have seen you land. Main wondered whether it were necessary to await the arrival of the insurance adjuster before asking any questions. To cover his hesitation, he turned to take his first good look at the hull of the Jemsbach. What did they think they're doing? He demanded, staring. The Jemsbach was, or had been, an ungraceful, thick starship on the verge of aging into scrap. Towering here between the village and the huge, bluish-green leaves of the Capon Forest, she was in the process of being transformed into a planet-bound object of a certain weird grace. A framework was being constructed about the hull by a swarm of natives. They had reached halfway up the ship, which served as a central column. Much of the exterior appeared to be a network of strangely curved sections of wood that had been given a high polish. Main suspected the greenish highlights were reflections of the forest color. Bone, said Voorhees succinctly. They collected from things they catch in the sea. Main supports of timber, of course, built to fit the hull. The fish here grow very large, put in Harohiku. If you could call them fish, that is, I once saw them butchering what looked more like a dinosaur. Main realized that the bone framework formed a sort of curtain wall. At the lower levels some of the natives seemed to be experimenting with a coating of wet leaves, which they were molding to the wall. They've soaked them in something they boil out of fish parts, his pilot explained, like the village roofs. When it dries it's pretty hard, even waterproof. The stink never dries out. But what do they have in their bony little brains? asked Main. Just what is that mess supposed to be? A temple, believe it or not, answered Voorhees. They tell me I set her down on land sacred to the great god Miig. Main looked at Harohiku. Oh, come on now. I came all the way from... He stopped as he noticed the pilot's grave expression. Oh, that sort of thing could be serious, I guess. He imagined he had seen the chief, Imak, coming alert at the mention of the local god. Main sighed, it was going to be a long day. He was saved for the time being of the village. A procession was approaching along the set of ruts between Main and the ship. The place of honour appeared to be occupied by a two-wheeled cart of crude but massive design. Upon it rode a cap and driver, two capons with spears and the look of official guards and a taran with a death-grip upon the side railing. A brace of truculent beasts, a frightening lesarian, Mien, shuffled ponderously along in the loose harness. From time to time one or the other would stumble over a turn in his rut and emit a menacing rumble as if he suspected his team-mate of causing the misstep. Before and behind this conveyance marched a guard of honour of capon warriors. The rear-condendant kept close to the cart, but the advance party had opened a noticeable gap between themselves and the hulking team. The procession halted. The soldier in charge raised his spear in salute to Emak, and the shaken taran was assisted to dismount. He introduced himself to Main as Robert Melon. Let's go over to the hut they made for us and sit down, suggested for his. Melon, a tall, gloomy blond whose civilian suit seemed a trifle formal for the surroundings, asseded gratefully. He mopped the dust from his long face and watched the cart being turned around. The procession moved off in the direction of the village. The advance guard stepping out especially smartly, and Main began to get his conference arranged. He learned that the evicted crew of the gemsbok had been living in the hut nearby. Before it stood a long table with benches all evidently knocked together from recently felled timber. Melon was given credit for this by Voorhis. Since before the arrival of the insurance adjuster and his crew no power tools had been available to the men from the gemsbok. Main took a place at the end of the table. Some of the gemsbok's crew went to the village. Most of the capon warriors attending the chief took up stations between the table and the ship in a manner suggesting long habit. Main guessed that attempts had been made to re-enter the ship. He put Harohiku at his right hand to translate should it be necessary. Melon and Voorhis sat at his left, their backs to the hut. To the other side of the table there were two capons who were explained to Main as being the tribal high priest Igrilik and Kanox who represented a sort of district overlord. I meant to land up by their city, Voorhis put in, but we hit some bad winds up in the stratosphere. We got knocked around a bit in the storm and sat down where we could. Well, tell me about the details, I want to get this straight from the start if I can. By the way, Lieutenant Harohiku explained to the chief that a special envoy is on the way, that we want his friendship and that he will be dealt with fairly. He waited out the exchange of choppy speech between the pilot and Imak. He says he is sure he will be fairly dealt with, reported Harohiku. I wonder what he meant by that, Murmured Main. If we make a deal here and thereby with his overlord will that cover enough territory to be official? As much as you can get together anywhere on this world, sir. Main nodded then turned to Captain Voorhis. Now about the so-called crash, he prompted. Well, there was the storm, like I said. Trouble was we didn't expect to hit it Well, somebody took it in his head to blow some of the fuel tanks for a crash landing. That's why I'm not claiming anything on the fuel, he finished, turning to Mainland. We are perfectly willing to pay on that item, replied the insurance man. Anyhow, continued Voorhis. I sat down here where we saw the open spot and then of course we were stuck with nothing to lift off with. That's all right. We'd unload our goods and if the local crowd couldn't use them all, why they'd pass the rest on at a profit to themselves. So we come out to Palaver and then they won't let us go back in the ship. We were just lucky my comm man had sent out a landing report when it looked like we piled up or the Space Force patrol never would have heard of us. Was there any trouble? Any unnecessary hostility? Voorhis considered rubbing the back of his head thoughtfully. Well, I suppose, looking at it their way they could have been a lot rougher. A couple of punches got thrown and one of my boys got a spear busted over his head. But mostly they acted, well, maybe more like cops than cannibals. Just enforcing the native laws, I would say. Voorhis did not swallow that quite so graciously. He did not know or care what the local laws might be but he thought it's suspicious in the extreme that he should have plopped down exactly upon the spot chosen by the natives for a temple. So do they have to use my ship to hang it on? He finished plentifully. The company is in an agreement Melon put in. You see, Judge, our point is that nothing is really lost or seriously damaged, neither ship nor cargo. They are merely being withheld from their rightful owner and we believe that puts the responsibility for recovery upon the Terran Government. Captain Voorhis has our entire sympathy. Yeah, said Voorhis and if I get my head sliced off trying to get at that undamaged will come to my funeral. I say it's a loss. Now gentlemen, interrupted man, let me get on with this. Both of you, I'm sure, realize that I'm not a lawyer in spite of being a special judge. If the colonies way out here had enough lawyers to spare I certainly wouldn't be sticking my head into this. Nevertheless any decision I make here will be regarded as legally binding so let us remain level-headed. Very well, Judge, said Melon. Here are the figures on please round them off, said Melon. If I have to listen to a long list of synthetic credits, I'll probably go off to see what kind of beer they brew here. You wouldn't like it, muttered Voorhis, staring sourly at the village. No doubt, grinned Melon. Melon swallowed and returned to an inner pocket a sheaf of papers he had withdrawn. Speaking very loosely, he went on, as if hating to do anything loosely. The coverage was about as follows. For the Genesbach herself two million. But that was really a nominal figure accorded as a sort of courtesy. Otherwise at her true worth the authorities would hardly have permitted Captain Voorhis to take her into space. Get on with it, urged Maine to forestall any wrangle. Er, yes. Then on the cargo the purchase cost of two hundred thousand credits. Voorhis visibly flinched and began to acquire a ruddy hue. And finally, on the fuel load the cost price of three hundred thousand. Of course, Judge, there are detailed clauses as to the normal use of fuel. He was actually ensured against defects, premature explosions, accidental loss, etc. Maine did some addition in his head. So, your company, he said aloud, is prepared to pay two and a half million for the loss sustained by Captain Voorhis. What seems to be wrong with that? Both men began to talk. But Mellon, struggling less with temper, got the lead. Actually, he said, we feel liable for only three hundred thousand. Now it will get tough, thought Maine. He silently awaited elicitation. The combined stares of all parties including the enigmatic glance of Emak, calm the splittering Voorhis. Mellon continued. In the first place, the true value of the ship, even if we consider her to be incapacitated which we do not, is only about one hundred and fifty thousand. She is worth more than that as scrap. No, Captain, just about that. It is exactly how we valued her. Do you have any idea, Judge, of how old that crock is? Let's not go into that yet, suggested Maine. As to the fuel, said Mellon, I am willing as a gesture of goodwill to stick my company's neck out and mine with it, you may be sure, and honor a full claim. Even though he used about half the fuel getting here, asked Maine. We'll ignore that. We admit that he is out of fuel and we want to you want to give me a moon and take a star, said Voorhees. Just a minute, Maine held up his hand, that's the ship and the fuel. What about the cargo? Why, as to that, Judge, we do not admit that it is lost. It is right over there easily accessible. We consider it more the job of the Space Force to restore rightful possession than it is the responsibility of the company to reimburse Captain Voorhees for the inflated value he sets upon it. I begin to see, Merman Maine, you can't stick each other, so you're out to slip me in the bill. That aroused a babble of denials. Maine eventually made himself heard and demanded to know how the Spacer's evaluation differed from Mellon's, Voorhees pulled himself together, with the insurance man. In the first place, he growled, I don't want his lousy payment for fuel. I'd said I'd take the blame for that, and I will. On the ship, well, maybe she ain't worth two million. Maybe she ain't been for a few years now. Mellon made a show of counting on his fingers. But they charged me premiums by that figure, and I say they ought to pay by that figure. But can you prove she's a total loss? Captain asked Maine. Voorhees grimaced and spat upon the ground. Try to get nearer, Judge. You'll get proof fast enough. Well, about the cargo then. That's where he's gouging me, exploded Voorhees. The idea of using the cost as a loading on Rykel 9. Hell, you know, the margin of profit there is in trading on these new planets twenty to one at least. I figured to lift off with four million worth of oars, gems, curios, and what not. So your point is that the mere transportation of the goods through space to this planet increased their value. What about that, Mr. Mellon? Mellon shifted uncomfortably on his bench. Maine would have liked to change his own position, but feared splinters. There is an element of truth in that, admitted Mellon. Still, it would be rash to expect such a return every time a tramp spaceship lands to swap with some aboriginal easy marks. I suppose, said Maine, that our orange-eyed friends speak no Terran. I hope not, exclaimed Voorhees. Anyway, Mellon said after his startled pause, how can we be expected to pay off on hopes? He wants the paper figure for the ship, but he refuses the paper figure for the cargo. Maine shrugged. He turned to Harohiku. If Captain Voorhees and Mr. Mellon don't mind, Lieutenant, I'd like to get the chief's view of all this. Ha! Mellon was holding both hands to his head. Mellon contented himself with rolling his eyes skyward. With Harohiku translating, Maine began to get acquainted with the Capons. The visitor from the neighboring city chose mostly to listen attentively, but Igrilic, the priest, occasionally leaned over to whisper sibilantly into Emak's recessed ear. Maine fancied he saw the difference between the two, despite Igrilic's professional trappings, a long robe of rough material that had been dyed in stripes and figures of several crude colors, and a tall cap to which were attached a number of pairs of membranous wings. The first thing that Maine learned was that the Gemsbok was not a spaceship. It was a symbol, a sign sent to the Capons and why did he send it, asked Maine. He had sent it as a sign that he was impatient with his children. They had vowed him a temple. They had set aside the necessary land and yet they had not begun the work. Is that why they're all over there slaving away so feverishly? It was indeed the reason. After all, Migue was the god of the inner moon, one that passed so speedily across the sky. If he could guide the stranger's ship directly to his own plot of ground, he might just as easily have caused it to land in the center of the village. They had seen the flames that attended the landing. Could the honored chief from the stars blame them for heating their warning? I see their point, muttered Maine residedly. Well, maybe we can talk sense about the cargo. Tell them there was much in the holds that would make their lives richer. Tools, gems, fine cloth, give them that story, Lieutenant. This time, E.M.A.C. conferred with the High Priest. It developed that the cargo was a sacred gift to be used or not as the god Migue might subsequently direct. The chief meant no insult. The capons realized that Voorhees and his crew were no demons, but starmen such as had often brought valuable goods to trade. The capons had not sought to harm or sacrifice them, had they? This was because they were both welcome as visitors and respected as instruments of Migue. E.M.A.C. wished to be fair. The starmen might think they had lost by the divine mission. Very well, they would be granted land, good land, with forests for hunting and shoreline for fishing, but go near the temple, they should not. Could I get in to inspect the cargo? Asked Mane. Harohikul took this up with the capons who softened, but did not yield. The best I can get, Judge said the pilot, is that they wish it were possible, but only those who serve the purposes of Migue may enter. They would look at it that way, and say, well, let's leave it at that until we can think this over some more. It's time for a lunch break anyway. He and Harohikul were flown back to the scout ship. Mane brooded silently most of the way. Voorhees thought he was entitled to about six million credits for ship and cargo. Melan thought half a million for the ship and fuel would be stretching it. Mane foresaw that he would have to knock heads. Mane was launched in the pilot's cabin, with hardly room to drop a spoon. Except for companionship, Mane would soon have eaten standing in the galley. He considered the vast area of the planet's land surface. Would it be wiser for the envoy to land elsewhere? What sort of ties were there between tribes? Loose, the pilot told him. Still, word gets around with no great mountain or ocean barriers. They've split into groups, but there is a lot of contact. So if the Space Force should seize the Gemsbok, they'll all hear about it. Within a few weeks, sir, that kind of news has wings on any world. I think we could take her for you, but we might do some damage. The size of a scout crew doesn't lend itself to hand brawls. If you sling a couple of torpedoes at the Capon village, you'll probably wipe it out, so Mane thoughtfully. Give the story a month to spread, and no Terran would be trusted anywhere on the planet. Hardly practical. There would also be a chance of damaging the Gemsbok. Actually, Eric, I'd hardly care if you blew her into orbit with worries and mail-in writing the fans, and spread sweetness and light around here, not scraps in parts of spaceships. He nod moodedly upon a knuckle, but saw no way to escape, putting up some government money. Soaking the company would just make them appeal instead of worries. This meag, he said to change the subject, how important is he? Harahiku considered a moment they have a whole mess of gods, like most primitive societies. Meag is pretty important. I think he has special significance to this tribe. You know, like some ancient Terran cities had a special patron. He's the god of that little moon? Mane asked. Oh, more than that, I think. Really the god of speed. A message-bearer for the other divinities. There always seems to be one in every primitive mythology. Yes, murmur, Mane. Let's see, one parallel would be the ancient Terran Hermes, wouldn't it? Something like that agreed Harahiku. I'm a little vague on the subject, sir. At least he isn't one of the bloodthirsty ones. That helps, sighed Mane. But not enough. He got a message blank from the pilot. With some labor, he composed requests to Terran headquarters on Rigle 9 for authorization to spend 2 million credits on goodwill preparations for the Terran, Cap, and treaty conference. It sounds almost diplomatic, he told himself, before having the message sent. The waiting period that followed was more to be blamed upon headquarters pussy-footing than upon the subspace transmission. When an answer finally came, it required a further exchange of messages. Mane's last communique might have been boiled down to But I need it! The last reply granted provisional permission to spend the sum mentioned. But gleaming between the lines like the sweep of a revolving beacon was a strong intimation that Mane had better not hope to charge the item to goodwill. The budget just was not made that way. The hint concluded. It's due to get dark soon, isn't it? He asked Harahiku, crumpling the final message into a side pocket. I don't believe I'll resume the talks till morning. Maybe my head will function again by then. In the morning one of the scouts crew again took the pilot and Mane to the meeting by helicopter. Mane spent part of the trip and received the message Harahiku had received. The spaceship, Diamond Belt, could be expected to arrive in orbit about the planet later the same day, bearing special envoy J.P. McDonald. The captain, having been informed of Harahiku's presence, requested landing advice. I told him what I know, said the pilot. We can give him a beam down, and we'll see what happens. Well, let's see how this goes, said Mane. They seemed to be waiting for us down there. They landed to find Voorhees, Melon, and the native officialdom gathered at the hut facing the new temple. After exchanging greetings they sat down at the table as they had the day before. All right gentlemen, said Mane to the two Terrans The government is going to have to put something in the pot. I want to make it as little as possible, so let us have no more nonsense about the true value of ship or cargo as they stand. They looked startled at his tone. Mane went on before they could recover. The object I have in mind, if it seems at all possible, is to put Captain Voorhees back in business without costing to Melon his job. Now let's put our heads together on that problem and worry about justifying ourselves later. The most difficult part was to convince Voorhees to surrender his dream of fantastic profits. But some time before Mane got horse, the captain was made to see that he could not have his cake and eat it too. Melon agreed that he might pay the paper value of the gemsbok if they likewise for the cargo, in which case he would admit a loss. After all, a spaceship anchored by a temple might reasonably be termed unspaceworthy. He would take over the cargo and cut his losses by allowing the government to buy it at two million. You want to come with me the next trip?" invited Voorhees when he heard this. If that's how you cut loose, straightening up to ease his aching back. He must have been leaning intensely over the table longer than he had thought. The captain gets two and a half million. Mr. Melon gets off with paying only half a million, and you've stuck me for the rest. Congratulations, Judge, said Melon. You now own a ship and cargo which I presume you will present to the Capons. How can he? Mr. Melon said to Voorhees, they figured they own it already. We'll worry about that later, said Main. He will! Voorhees got fought. I hope you get some credit out of it. Harohiku interrupted to inform Main that the Capons, who had been interested in, if bewildered listeners, had invited the Terrans to a small feast. I translated enough to let them attempt to disturb their temple building, he explained. They now feel they owe us hospitality. Good, that's something, said Main. I'll tell you what else will be something, Granted, Voorhees, the food. The assemblage repaired to the Capon village. The Terrans, though it took some doing, survived the feast. Main thought it best not to be the nature of the dishes served. Imak was evidently determined to display his village's finest hospitality, so the Terrans even tried the Capon beer. Main absorbed enough to get used to it. Or did it absorb me, he wondered. Igrellex beginning to look almost human. Eventually carts were brought and they rode bumpily out to admire progress made on the temple. A fresh breeze helped Main remember that it was now late afternoon and he had yet to settle one matter with Imak. When they arrived at the site, crewmen from the gems box saw fit to take Voorhees in charge and carry him into their hut. Main sank down at the table outside, watching Mainland rope to a place beside him. He noticed that Harajiko's helicopter pilot handed him a message as soon as the lieutenant alighted. That will be from the diamond belt, Main guessed. He eyed Mainland with some amusement. The insurance man stared very quietly at the board beneath his elbows. His complexion held a tent of green. Even Imak, plotting ponderously up, lowered himself to a bench with a sigh. The high priest seemed less affected by the celebration and Main was proud when Harajiko walked over with his normal bland alertness. They're getting near, he asked. Doing breaking circles, reported the pilot. I sent an order for the scout to give them a beam. There may still be time to send them somewhere else. One more try here first. Main decided, tell Imak we want to straighten out some confusion about Miig and the cargo. Harajiko permitted himself a small shrug and translated. Imak aroused himself to a show of entrust while Igrilic turned a suspicious orange stare upon Main. The latter strove to frame in his mind an argument that would strike them as logical. Tell him, he instructed, that we believe this Miig was known on Terra but by another name. Then describe the mythical Hermes and see what he says. Harajiko began a conversation that lasted several minutes. Igrilic, as an authority, obviously felt moved to deliver a lengthy opinion. At last the pilot turned to Main. They say we are to be congratulated, he reported. Is that all? Well, they do seem a bit more friendly. I was going to try drawing a picture of that famous statue with the winged heels and hat, but it would never match their own conception. Igrilic asked if you claim belief in Miig. Avoid that, said Main. Now, do they know about ship communications? They are aware that it is done, said Harajiko. After all, they just saw me send a message to the scout over the helicopter screen. Good. Point out to them that the gemsbok also has such excitement. Harajiko engaged in another long talk. The campents began to show signs of uneasiness at the end. They remained silent. And that, therefore, added Main, the Terran who had served this machine should rank in their eyes as a servant of Miig just as much as Igrilic. The cargo in the ship was no more his than a message belongs to the messenger bearing it. The pilot put this into Capen, with gestures. And furthermore, said Main, before it could be suggested that the owner might be Miig, what I have arranged here with Melon and Voorhees is that the cargo now belongs to all of the Terran people. Emak began to scow an impressive contortion on a broad olive Capen visage. Main, hurry down. This being the case, the campents have absolutely no right to deny us the privilege of contributing all these goods to the glory of their temple. Oh boy! Granted Harajiko. He rattled off the translation. Main watched it hit home. Igrilic leaned over to purate him, unbelievingly. Emak seemed to have difficulty in focusing his glowing eyes on the Terran. There were, of course, requests for clarification. Main left the repetitions to the pilot. In the end, Emak arose and embraced him, a startling action that left Main feeling introspectively of his ribs. Igrilic called out something to the bodyguard, attending the chief, causing Main to repress a shutter at the flashing display of big Capen teeth. He assumed that a smile was a humanoid constant. Harajiko's pilot approached with a new message. Now they have to land near here in half an hour or less, said the spacer. There's just one more thing Main told him. Vorhace is satisfied. Melon. Look, he's gone to sleep on the table. He's relieved. The Capen's are friendly and JP McDonnell will be happy when he lands. I have to get myself off the hook for two million. He turned to the Jemsbach crewman loitering before the hut. Who was the communications man? He demanded. A lean, freckled youth with a big nose admitted to the distinction. Main draped an arm about his shoulders and told him he was back in business. Say to them, he instructed Harajiko, that if they are to learn how to use the equipment that Migue has provided for their temple, they must not delay one minute in taking our friend here into the ship. Make that temple. He will show them how a spaceship is called down from the skies. Harajiko gave him a straight face glance that was a masked gaffa. He translated and orders began to be shouted back and forth among the Capen's all the way to the topmost level of the construction. He called his pilot. I'll have him flash the scout in order to monitor the Jemsbach and transfer lending control as soon as they hear her on the air, he explained. Main nodded. He clipped the arm of the Jemsbach operator who was being urged away by Igrilic and a group of warrior escorts. Just one thing, son, he shouted over the babble, forget about the ship's call sign. You go on the air calling yourself Kappa Orianas Central Control. Kappa Orianas Central? Repeated the youth distressfully. You've got it, said Main and shoved him on his way. He turned to Harajiko. The last thing to do is to send the helicopter for some paint. I don't care if it isn't dry when the diamond belt touches down. I want a sign over the door of this hut. A sign? Make it read Spaceport Number One. Two million is cheap enough for buying a spaceport already in operation. There won't be any trouble since the Capons promised the land. Everyone seemed to be running somewhere. Main wiped his face with a handkerchief and sat down beside Melon who looked comfortable enough with his head on the table. From inside the hut Main could hear snores of the vorous as a source. The rest of the gems-bocked crewman had followed the crowd to the control tower that was also a temple. After a while Harajiko returned and sat down across from Melon. Magnificent judge, he said, we might even get away with it. Of course we will, said Main, gazing at Melon and listening to Vorhees. After all, Hermes was the god of thieves, too. And of a transmutation of muddles by Horace Brown-Fife.