 Section 4 of 20 Short Science Fiction Stories by Various Authors This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Less Than Human by Zoe Blade From the roof of the legal bookstore I have a clear shot at my target, John Russell. He's sitting down at a table outside a cafe where Chancery Lane meets Fleet Street, sipping a cardboard cup of coffee. I briefly ponder how ironic it seems that he's actually bought a drink. It must be for show. Although there's no way he can tell that right now, he has a very specific audience. Even in the sunshine, the guiding beam of my tripod-mounted rifle is brightly illuminating a thick circle of skin on his neck, just below his white beard. But even if any of the passers-by can see infrared as well as I can, they won't have time to do anything, even if they notice it. My eyes are already over two years old now, but they were expensive enough at the time to still be considered detailed even by today's standards. With their magnification, I can see the circle of light on his neck clearly, growing steadier with every passing second as a familiar cocktail of drugs calms my metabolism. I try not to let the lasers fan distract me. The guidance beams one thing, but the main laser, the one that generates the lethal pulse, gives off heat like you wouldn't believe. With the midday sun shining straight down on me, the laser needs all the cooling it can get, and the fan sounds like someone standing next to me drying their hair. Once I can hold the laser still enough, I brace myself. For just a few precious seconds, I let myself ponder the consequences of what I'm about to do. I'm about to execute this guy, although he's broken the law. I'm no sheriff. I think about the effect that what I'm about to do will have on people who look up to John Russell, and that makes me nervous. I have nothing against them, if anything. I actually sympathize with their cause. I put the thought out of my mind. It's unprofessional, a pause at best and a hindrance at worst. It's far too late to start developing emotions at this stage of my career, after months of training and almost three years of missions. I pull the trigger. Just for half a second, my eyes momentarily shielding themselves from the visible end of the beam on his neck. There's no recoil on my weapon, giving the eerie feel of a stimulation. The only sign that it's firing is a loud popping noise like someone squashing a bag of chips. It's over in an instant. I can almost convince myself that I haven't done anything wrong, but not quite. The bright circle is instantly replaced with a gushing stream of blood pumping out in rhythmical bursts. His cardboard cup drops to the floor, and I unscrew the rifle from the tripod, duck below the top of the brick wall of the bookstore, fold up the tripod and put everything in my hold-all, hidden beneath a pair of jogging bottoms. In a fleece t-shirt and designer jeans, I hopefully pass for someone on her way to one of the gyms scattered around the legal district, where people who help corporations sue their customers for a living would feel far too inconvenienced by taking a detour on their way home just to stay in shape. I put on a pair of designer sunglasses to cover up my designer eyes, as if anyone could spot their tell-tale trademark without being close enough to kiss me. I pulled the scrunchie out of my hair and tie it in again, keeping my dark brown ponytail as taut and professional as it is glossy. By the time anyone can work out what happened to Russell and where the brief burst of energy came from, I'm already halfway down the fire escape. By the time anyone's dialed the emergency services, I'm already briskly walking down Fleet Street and out of the scene. Explain me why I had to kill Russell. I dropped my bag onto the desk of my boss, Mike Vegas, and it lands with a satisfying thud. Frankly, I'm glad to be rid of the evidence, if only until tomorrow. Because it's your job, Mike slides the bag under his desk without even glancing at its contents, then finally looks up to meet my gaze. The facial expression looks as blank as usual to me, but a piece of software I installed on my eyes starts flashing up a translucent yellow warning sign, pointing out that he's making tiny involuntary movements. A momentary flicker of the cheek here, a curl of the lip there, nothing a human could consciously spot, but my eyes have a sufficient refresh rate and resolution to pick up that sort of thing. The bottom line is that he's uncharacteristically uncomfortable, for whatever reason. You know what I mean, I continue. He was hardly violent. Don't you think that actually having him taken out was kind of overkill on Godin's part? It's not our job to question our client's motives, only their ability to pay. Besides, he was a liability. Copyright violation is one of the most serious crimes there is these days, given the structure of our fragile economy. He gets up and makes his way to a shelf filled with various photos and figurines, where he pours himself a shot of whiskey from an expensive-looking decanter. As he glances back at me, I decline his offer of the same with the subtle shake of my head. He's very paranoid, but in my line of work I never could feel comfortable if I was anything less than a hundred percent sober. They couldn't just have him running around pirating their intellectual property. Mike continues. But it's food, I protest. It's not like it's a rich kid's luxury like music or films. There are homeless people I've seen eating decent meals thanks to him. There are plenty of public domain staple foods. The homeless can eat the same handouts as the starving children in Africa. Rice, grains, vegetables, pulses. No one's trying to stop people from eating. They have more than enough to live on. He takes a sip of his drink. All Godin wants to do is ensure the uniqueness of the very specific dishes served in their chain of five-star restaurants. So don't give me any of that melodramatic bullocks about starving homeless people just because they have to eat boiled rice and steamed vegetables instead of foie gras and brioche. It still doesn't feel right. Which brings me to my next point. Have you given any more thought to my offer? Most people would kill for another free synaptic implant. That all depends on the implant. The uplink to the mesh and the map are well and good, but I'm still not sure about suppressing my emotions. It just seems so inhuman. As opposed to all the drugs you take to calm you down as you make the hit? At least they wear off after a few minutes. I walk past the shelf and look out the window at the scenic view of the city, taking a moment to watch the clouds drift along in the summer breeze. The trees are such a vibrant green this time of year. They look somehow unreal, set against the pale gray concrete blocks that people waste their lives in. I quickly inspect all the nearby rooftops, making sure nobody's on any of them. Old habits. You know I've been thinking a lot lately, and between the implants and the drugs, I'm beginning to feel less and less like a real woman, and more and more like some kind of machine, just efficiently fulfilling her job role and nothing else. Efficiently, I hear Mike practically choking on his drink. I turn back around to face him. Is there something wrong with my performance? I've been running over the encrypted video feed of the hit that your eyes sent me. It wasn't exactly a secret he kept from me that when I was on the job, my eyes sent out an encrypted live broadcast straight to the office, hidden in the mesh's entropy. Talk about your body betraying you. I had to take Vegas's word for it that he couldn't spy on me when I was off duty. It was something I tried hard not to think about every time I had a shower. Just the thought gave me the shivers. You stalled. Your heart rate had slowed down just fine. You were as calm as a cow, and yet you didn't fire until almost five seconds later. Why the pause? He was drinking a cup of coffee at a table. I could tell he was going to be there for at least another two minutes. It made no difference. I didn't ask you if you thought it would make a difference. I asked you why you paused. I hire you because you're the sort of woman who knows better than to take unnecessary risks. Why did you wait so long? I let myself sigh. Okay, so I felt a little empathy towards the target. He never hurt anybody. I mean, I read his profile. He was essentially a good man. Which is exactly what I'm talking about. We can't afford to let personal opinions and morals slow you down when you're at work. Those profiles are there to help you to better understand the targets, to better predict them, not to make you feel an emotional attachment towards them. You can do whatever you want at home. Donate your wage to charity. I don't care. But when you're out in the field, I need you to be there for me, performing at one hundred percent. Yes, sir, I say reluctantly. He talks into his glass as he swishes around the remaining dribble of whiskey, as if he has trouble meeting my eyes for once. Someone will meet with you on your way out. This takes me by surprise. I don't need the red warning label that's suddenly superimposed over my vision to tell me that something's wrong. Who? A doctor. I'd like to run a few checks on you, just to be on the safe side. If he's not outright lying, then my software's convinced that he's at least hiding something from me. Checks? Yeah, checks. He takes another sip of his drink. My paranoia starts to kick in as I realize how easy it would be for him to kill me, just as long as he took me unaware. For all my jacked-up reflexes and painstakingly learned skills, in light of the new wholly artificial employs our rivals have been raving about, I'm starting to look a lot like an old deck of television set in a room full of Sony projectors. In all likelihood, Mike would have killed me months ago already if I wasn't still so damn good. And Susie, yes? Arise meet again at last. Do yourself a favor. Don't get emotionally involved. It's just business. I know. I walk out the door, not looking back. Well, all your tests show you're operating within specs, says the man that Mike claims to be some sort of medical doctor. That's a relief, I say sarcastically. Nevertheless, I'm still concerned about these certain imperfections in your performance. I just can't seem to find a neurological or physiological source for them. Did it ever occur to you that I'm only human? A grunt serves him as laughter. Isn't that your main selling point? From what I hear, you're Mike's poster girl. Maybe even the whole industries. He looks me up and down, and I fight the urge to pull out the knife I'm carrying and gouge his inferior eyes out. Shame no one knows what you look like. Perhaps sensing my obvious discomfort he changes the subject. You know how few of you there are left in your line of work? By you, I assume he means humans. Less than a dozen by our estimates. Worldwide. Your a rarity. I let myself flash a brief smile. Professional pride. A dying breed, you might say, he adds with a chuckle. I feel my whole body tense up. There's one more test I'd like to carry out on you. It will take several hours, but thankfully I don't actually need you to be present for it, so you can go do whatever you like. I just need you to take a relatively quick backup of your brain's neural pathways first. Then you can go home and get some rest. A neural backup? It won't hurt, I promise. Another warning sign pops up next to his face, and I finally decide it's time to kick into defense mode. There's no discernible change from an outsider's perspective, but inside my brain and its hardware, a dozen little defense applications are springing to life, waiting for my signal that they should start wreaking havoc. I usually slip into this mode several times a week, but in my line of work it's safer to err on the side of paranoia. What's this really for? Insurance in case I mess up? I can't slip anything past you, the Dr. Grins, revealing two rows of surprisingly well-worn teeth. Let's just say your employer doesn't like to take chances, and you're the best person in the business. From what you're saying, I'm pretty much the only person in the business. Exactly. Now, please lie down here. While I perform a quick scan of your neural pathways, it'll only take a few minutes. For some reason, I black out. I feel rain on my face, a light drizzle. My nostrils fill with the sound of wet plants and damp soil. I open my eyes to discover that I'm lying on a parked bench less than a mile from my flat. That's never happened to me before. I've always stayed awake, just fine for brain scans in the past, both objectively and subjectively. I summon my clock application, its translucent display fading into my vision and out again for just long enough for me to tell that I was out for almost two hours, which is about right for the journey home. I stand up, a little giddy at first, and tentatively start to make my way through the park. By the time I'm striding through the streets, stepping around all the puddles on the pavement, I've had a few minutes to reflect on the day's events. I decide not to let Mike or his crony doctor get to me. Let him be pissed off at me. I'm the last human assassin. Replacing me with an android would be a terrible PR move, and he knows it. Still, I can't overlook the fact that something is terribly wrong, although it's probably just healthy paranoia on my part to assume that it all concerns me at all. Maybe he's just shielding me from some dull business problems he's having. Whatever it is, I'm glad I don't have to think about it any more tonight. As I walk into my driveway, I think about how I can spend the rest of the evening. Maybe a hot shower followed by a stir-fry and a nature documentary. Both the matter and the subject matter were popular torrents on my favorite Swedish tracker the previous week. It really puts my job into perspective when I'm reminded how the human race is the only species that isn't still wrapped up in daily life-or-death struggles for food, or at least, not for copyright-free food. As I approach my block of flats, for some reason I feel uneasy. I realize something's wrong, although I can't quite work out what it is yet. I switch to defense mode yet again as I press the palm of my hand against the security pad, look into the retina scanner and open the doors quietly as I can. To my surprise, my eyes-app seems to have been upgraded. I have them set not to update automatically, which means they must have been switched while I was out from the brain scan. No wonder I lost consciousness. They'd been altering me, not just passively examining me. I switch modes again, figuring that it's better to take my chances on my own rather than risk firing off unknown software that could do anything from Crash to Sabotage me. I creep along the corridor, then open the door to my flat just as quietly. I switch my eyes to the plus-IR mode, so that they overlay the infrared frequencies of the electromagnetic radiation around me over the top of the human-visible ones. The eerie glow of the walls and pipes is familiar enough, but the human-sized and shaped blob glowing in the living room isn't. I switch the vision to only 20% infrared overlay, so that I don't have as much information to distract me, and I brace myself. I keep two katanas hung up decoratively on the wall in my living room, and with the element of surprise I might manage to grab one before the intruder knows I'm there. I have no idea if he or she is even armed, so I don't want to take any chances. The blur moves like he or she is about to stand up, so I run into the room as quickly as I can and grab a katana. Despite bracing myself, I'm not prepared for what I see next. The figure dashes for the other katana, then leaps back to the other side of the room so we can properly study each other. I can see her clearly now, from her thermal imprint to the deep brown color of the artificial eyes hidden beneath her epicanthic folds. In every discernable way, she looks identical to me. She's even wearing the fleece t-shirt and jeans I picked out this morning. Even more incredibly, she looks just as confused as I feel. Oh, that's just perfect, she says. Did Mike send you? What? I don't take my eyes off her. Her face is serious. Her poise calculated. She's ready to attack me without warning, just wanting to know for sure that I'm a threat. I nod, gesturing towards her. Who are you? Suzy Yamada, she says. That's impossible. Evidently it isn't. She speaks without moving her head a single degree, watching me carefully. Listen, I've had a really bad day today. Some phony doctor tried to kill me earlier and it doesn't look like you're shaping up to be any friendlier. You killed him? I asked. It's a habit. She lunges towards me. Her sword pointed directly at my chest, aiming straight for my heart. I managed to nudge her blade out of the way of my body with my own sword, redirecting the force of her sprint away from me. I didn't come here to kill you. Can't we just talk like civilized adults? I then sweep my blade around, aiming to slice off her bicep, but she similarly counters my move. In a weird sort of way, it's exhilarating to finally have a worthy opponent to fight, someone who could actually beat me. Let me guess. She swings her blade around to my hip and I counter it. The last thing you remember is Mike sending you to some creepy bastard who gave you a brain scan, then you just woke up somewhere strange. How do you know that? I tried to stab her in the stomach, but she sweeps my blade away. Surely it must have occurred to you by now that one of us is an android. Actually, I'd kind of been preoccupied. So why'd they build you? How do you know they didn't build you? Because androids are damn near infallible, she says, as I take one last sweep at her neck, and you're better than me. As I'm taking in what she said, my sword's edge slices through the air towards her neck. I lunge backwards, managing to just barely nick her skin instead of slicing her head clean off. She starts to bleed a tiny dribble of bright red blood, but I know she'll live. You've got a point. I stare at the blood, real blood, and we've got a problem. We can't trust each other? Trust is simply a matter of being able to predict someone's moves. Since I'm a pretty good facsimile of you, I figure we can both predict each other just fine by working out what we would do in each other situation. It just doesn't feel right calling myself a copy. Have I really become a commodity? I keep my sword raised, on guard just in case the other Susie tries anything. So what's the problem? Our boss tried to kill you. You mean you've had a change of heart? I'd like to propose an alternative, but we're going to have to trust each other. I throw my katana on to the floor as a sign of good faith. While I'm not exactly ready to commit harikari just yet, suddenly my imitation of a life doesn't seem to be worth fighting for so hard. I figure that if either one of us lives on, I haven't really lost much. The gamble's worth it, because if she'll go along with my plan, and I'm pretty sure she will, because I'm pretty sure I would, then we can both get what we deserve. Mike doesn't get into his office until seven the next morning. When he sees me he freezes, and just for a second he reveals fear in his eyes. You're early, he says. I briefly wonder how much effort he's putting in to keeping his voice steady, trying his best not to give away how scared he is, but that brief glance has already betrayed his fear. He knows the doctor's dead. I figure I should have taken him up on his offer a few months back to join in his poker games. I'd have made a fortune off him. I didn't get much sleep. I figure I can trust him not to try to kill me yet, because I haven't revealed my intentions. He's far too trusting like that. The right move would have been to kill me as soon as he saw me in the room. But he can't do that. He needs me. So I turn my back to him, walking up to the window. Bad night, asks Mike, feigning ignorance. You could say that. When I got home I found an intruder waiting for me. My God, says Mike, what happened? I dispatched her naturally. The first rule in my line of work is never trust anybody, not even somebody pretending to be your friend. Her? asks Mike, pretending to be shocked by her gender, knowing full well how rare human assassins are, let alone women. I nodded silently. Did she say anything? asks Mike. No, nothing. She didn't have a chance to. Wow, says Mike. I guess that's too bad, in a way. I shrug. We all get what's coming to us eventually. She just wasn't smart enough to quit while she was ahead. Mike sighs. I'm not an idiot, you know. You have to understand, it's business, nothing personal. He's sweating now. I watch a little bead of perspiration make its way down his forehead. How much do you know? I make my way to the shelf and pour a shot of whiskey. It's a bit early for that, isn't it? Special occasion, I insist. It always helps to inebriate your opponent, to give yourself any edge over him that you can when it comes to reflexes. I know how attached people can get to certain ways of doing things, the comfort of the familiar. I look at my glass thoughtfully. I think it's time to make a clean break. I get another glass, pour another shot, and hand it to him. Raising my glass, I declare a toast. To the future. Mike has a dubious look in his eye like he knows I'm up to something, just not what. For a manager he sure lacks vision. He looks out the window at the ant-like people all those floors below, oblivious to the woman pointing a high-powered laser rifle straight at him from the next block along, and raises his glass, too. Despite giving my new business partner the order to fire, the laser burst still somehow makes me jump. I've never seen it up close before. On the receiving end, it's deadly silent, the only sound being the sloshed gurgles of the target. The smell, on the other hand, is overwhelming, searing flesh with a hint of burnt cotton from his shirt. The great thing about biometrics is that they still work when the person's dead. With the help of Mike's eyes and fingers, it takes me less than five minutes to drain his bank accounts, both his companies and his own. Nothing personal. Sitting on a bench in the local park, I take a second to close my eyes and just listen to the birds. I open them again just in time to see a young woman waving at me as she walks towards me. To an outside observer, she looks like she could be my identical twin. I wave back, smiling as I watch her familiar mannerisms from an unfamiliar point of view. She sits down beside me. How long do you reckon we've got till someone realises what happened to Mike? I shrug, a few hours maybe, long enough to get a few things from her flat, move the money to a safe account, and walk away. Ah, yes, the money! She smiled sweetly, a smile I've never seen outside of a mirror before. What do you figure we should do with it? I say we take what's owed to us, enough to start a new life, and give the rest to John Russell's charity. He did bring about this turn of events in a weird sort of way. She nods, I guess so. After a few seconds silent reflection she turns to look at me, and us. I've been thinking about that, I say. I think we should continue to do what we're doing, only freelance. If you're up for it, I mean. We'd have to really start trusting each other, but at least we'd get to choose our clients, and we'd get to stay human. Well, you would, anyway. That smile again, turning into a broad grin. Twin assassins, no one would see it coming. It's a hell of an edge. Exactly. I smiled back at my new business partner. Maybe things didn't turn out so bad after all. End of section 4 Section 5 of 20 short science fiction stories by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Citadel by Alges Boudrys He was looking for a privacy his strange personality needed, and never quite seemed to achieve it. All his efforts were, somehow, great triumphs of the race, and great failures for him. The aging man was sweating profusely, and he darted side-long glances at the windowless walls of the outer office. By turns he sat stiffly in a corner chair, or paced uneasily, his head swiveling constantly. His hand was clammy when Meade shook it. Hello, Mr. Meade, he said in a husky, hesitant voice. His eyes never quite still, never long on Meade's face, but darting hither and yawn, his glance rebounding at every turn from the walls, the floor, the ceiling, the closed outer door. Christopher Meade, assistant undersecretary for external affairs, returned the handshake, smiling, please come into my office, he said quickly. It's much more spacious. Thank you! The aging man said gratefully, and hurried into the next room. Meade rapidly opened the windows, and some of the man's nervousness left him. He sank down into the visitor's chair in front of Meade's desk, his eyes drinking in the distances beyond the windows. Thank you! he repeated. Meade sat down behind his desk, leaned back, and waited for the man's breathing to slow. Finally he said, it's good to see you again, Mr. Holiday, what can I do for you? Martin Holiday tore his glance away from the window, long enough to raise his eyes to Meade's face, and then drop them to the hands he had folded too deliberately in his lap. I'd—his voice husked into unintelligibility, and he had to begin again. I'd—I'd like to take an option on a new planet, he finally said. Meade nodded. I don't see why not. He gestured expressively at the star-chart papered over one wall of his office. We've certainly got plenty of them, but what happened with your first one? Mr. Holiday, I certainly won't be offended if you prefer to look out the window, Meade said quickly. Thank you! After a moment he began again. It didn't work out, he said, his glance flickering back to Meade for an instant before he had to look out the window again. I don't know where my figuring went wrong. It didn't go wrong. It was just—just things. I thought I could sell enough subdivisions to cover the payments and still keep most of it for myself, but it didn't work out. He looked quickly at Meade with a flash of groundless guilt in his eyes. First I had to sell more than I had intended, because I had to lower the original price. Somebody'd optioned another planet in the same system, and I hadn't counted on the competition. Then, even after I'd covered the option and posted surety on the payments, there were all kinds of expenses. I couldn't lease the mineral rights. He looked at Meade again, as though he had to justify himself. I don't know how that deal fell through. The company just—just withdrew, all of a sudden. Do you think there might have been anything peculiar about that? Meade asked. I mean, could the company have made a deal with the colonists for a lower price after you'd been forced out? Holiday shook his head quickly. No, no, nothing like that. The colonists and I got along fine. It wasn't as though I hadn't put the best land up for sale, or tried to make myself rich. Why, after I had to sell some of the remaining land, I knew it wasn't worth staying any more. Some of them offered to lend me enough money to keep fifty thousand square miles for myself. He smiled warmly, his eyes blank while he focused on memory. But that wasn't it, of course, he went on. I had my original investment back, but I couldn't tell them why I couldn't stay. It was people, even if I never saw them. It was the thought of people, with aircraft and rockets and roads. I understand, Mr. Holiday, Meade said, in an effort to spare him embarrassment. Holiday looked at him helplessly. I couldn't tell them that, could I, Mr. Meade? They were good, friendly people, who wanted to help me. I couldn't tell them it was people, could I? He wet his dry lips and locked his eyes on the view outside the window. All I want, Mr. Meade, is half a planet to myself, he said softly. He shook his head. Well, it'll work out this time. This time I won't have to sell so much, and I'll have a place to spend what time I've got left in peace. Without this, this... He gestured helplessly in an effort to convey his tortured consciousness of his own fear. Meade nodded quickly as he saw his features not convulsively. Of course, Mr. Holiday, we'll get you an option on a new planet as quickly as we can. Thank you, Holiday said again. Can... we... can we handle it today? I've had my credit transferred to a local bank. Certainly, Mr. Holiday, we won't keep you on earth a moment longer than absolutely necessary. He took a standard form out of a desk drawer and passed it to Holiday for his signature. I'll be smarter this time, the aging man said, trying to convince himself as he uncapped his pen. This time it'll work out. I'm sure it will, Mr. Holiday, Meade said. Marlowe was obese. He sat behind his desk like a tuskless sea lion crouched behind a rock, and his cheeks merged into jowls and obliterated his neck. His desk was built specially so that he could get his thighs under it. His office chair was heavier and wider by far than any standard size. Its casters rolling on special composition base that had been laid down over the carpeting, for Marlowe's weight would have cut any ordinary rug to shreds. His jacket stretched like a plio film to enclose the bulk of his stooped shoulders, and his eyes surveilled his world behind the embattlemented heaviness of the puffing flesh that filled their sockets. A bulb flickered on his interphone set, and Marlowe shot a glance at the switch beneath it. Secretary, quite contrary, he muttered inaudibly. He flicked the switch. Yes, Mary? His voice rumbled out of the flabby cavern of his chest. Mr. Meade has just filed a report on Martin Holiday, Mr. Secretary. Would you like to see it? Just give me a summary, Mary. Under his breath he whispered, Summary that mummery, Mary, and a thin smile fell about his lips while he listened. Gave him Carl's Haven Foray, he observed, when his secretary'd finished. OK, thanks, Mary. He switched off and sat thinking. Somewhere in the bowels of the body administrative he knew, notations were being made and cross-filed. The addition of Carl's Haven Foray to the list of planets under colonization would be made, and Holiday's asking prices for land would be posted with immigration, together with a prospectus abstracted from the General Galactic Survey. He switched the interphone on again. Oh, Mary, supply me with a copy of the GenServe on the entire Carl's Haven system. Tell Mr. Meade I'll expect him in my office sometime this afternoon. You schedule it, and we'll go into it further. Yes, Mr. Secretary. Will 1515 be all right? 1515's fine, Mary, Marl said gently. Yes, sir, his secretary replied, abashed. I keep forgetting about proper nomenclature. So do I, Mary. So do I. Marl sighed. Anything come up that wasn't scheduled for today? It was a routine question, born of futile hope. There was always something to spoil the carefully planned daily schedules. Yes, and no, sir. Marl caught an eyebrow at the interphone. Well, that's a slight change, anyway. What is it? There's a political science observer from Duvenel. That's more too on our map, sir, who requested permission to talk to you. He's here on the usual exchange program, and he's within his privileges in asking, of course. I assume it's an ordinary thing. What's our foreign policy? How do you apply it? Can you give specific instances and the like? Precisely, Marl thought. For ordinary questions there were standard answers, and Mary had been his secretary for so long that she could supply them as well as he could. Duvenel. More too, eh? Obviously there was something special about the situation, and Mary was leaving the decision to him. He scanned through his memorized star catalogs, trying to find the correlation. Mr. Secretary. Marl grunted. Still here. Just thinking. Isn't Duvenel that nation we just sent Harrison to? Yes, sir, on the same exchange program. Marlowe chuckled. Well, if we've got Harrison down there, it's only fair to let their fellow learn something in exchange, isn't it? What's his name? Daly Shood Clavin, sir. Marlowe muttered to himself. Daly Shood Clivan? Irish? Corned beef and cabbage? His mind filed it away together with a primary color picture of Jigs and Maggie. All right, Mary. I'll talk to him, if you can find room in the schedule somewhere. Tell you what. Let him in at fifteen-thirty. Mead and I can finish a working example for him. Does that check all right with your book? Yes, sir. There'll be time if we carry over on the Saroi incidents. Saroi's waited six years, four months, and twenty-three days. They'll wait another day. Let's do that, then. Huh, Mary? Marlowe switched off and picked up a report which he began to read by the page block system. His eyes almost unblinking between pages. Harrison, eh? He muttered once, stopping to look quizzically at his desktop. He chuckled. At fifteen-fifteen the light on his interphone blinked twice, and Marlowe hastily initialed a directive with his right hand while touching the switch with his left. Yes, Mary? Mr. Mead, sir. OK. He switched off, pushed the directive into his outbox, and pulled the genserv and the folder on Martin Holiday out of the hold tray. Come in, Chris, he said, as Mead knocked on the door. How are you today, Mr. Marlowe? Mead asked as he sat down. Four ounces heavier, Marlowe answered dryly. I presume you're not. Cigarette, Chris? Apparently the use of the first name finally caught Mead's notice. He looked thoughtful for a moment, then took a cigarette and lit it. Thanks, Dave. Well, I'm glad that settled, Marlowe chuckled, his eyes almost disappearing in wrinkles of flesh. How's Mary? Mead grinned crickedly. Miss Folsom is in fine fiddle today, thank you. Marlowe rumbled a laugh. Mead at once made the mistake of addressing the woman as Mary, under the natural assumption that if Marlowe could do it, everyone could. Mary, I fear, Marlowe observed, lives in more stately times than these. She'll tolerate informality from me because I'm indirect authority over her, and direct authority, of course, is law. But you, Mead, are a young whippersnapper. But that's totally unrealistic, Mead protested. I don't respect her less by using her first name. It's just, just friendliness, that's all. Look, Marlowe said. It makes sense, but it ain't logical, not on her terms. Mary Folsom was raised by a big, tough, tight-lipped authoritarian of a father, who believed in bringing kids up by the book. By the time she got tumbled out into the world, all big men were unquestionable authority, and all young men were callow whippersnappers. Sure, she's unhappy about it, inside. But it makes her a perfect secretary for me, and she does her job well. We play by her rules on the little things, and by the world's rules on the big ones. Cuppees? Sure, Dave, but... Marlowe picked up the folder on holiday and gave Mead one weighty but understanding look before he opened it. Your trouble, Chris, is that your viewpoint is fundamentally sane, he said. Now about holiday. Martin. Options. 06-26-8729. 063-108-1004. I didn't get time to read the gentserv on the Carl's Haven planets, so I'll ask you to brief me. Yes, sir. What's forelike? Good, arable land. A little mountainous in spots, but that's good. Loaded with minerals, industrial stuff, like silver. Some tin, but not enough to depress the monetary standard. Lots of copper. Cold beds, petroleum basins, the works. Cell-supporting practically from the start. A real asset to the Union in 56 years. Marlowe nodded. Good. Nice picking, Chris. Now. Got a decoy? Yes, sir. Carl's Haven 2's a falsy. I've got a dummy option on it in the works, and will be able to undercut holiday's prices for his land by about 20%. Falsy, huh? How long do you figure until the colony can't stick on it any longer? A fair-sized one, with lots of financial backing, might even make it permanently. But we won't be able to dig up that many loafers, and naturally, we can't give them that big a subsidy. Eventually we'll have to ferry them all out, in about eight years, say. But that'll give us enough time to break holiday. Marlowe nodded again. Sounds good. Something else, Meade said. 2's mineral pour. He looked hesitantly at Marlowe. What's up, boy? Well, sir, Meade began, then stopped. Nothing important, really. Marlowe gave him a surprising look full of sadness and brooding understanding. You're thinking he's an old, frightened man, and why don't we leave him alone? Why, yes, sir. Dave. Yes, Dave. You're quite right. Why don't we? We can't, sir. I know that. But it doesn't seem fair. Exactly, Chris. It ain't right, but it's correct. The light on Marlowe's interphone blinked once. Marlowe looked at it in momentary surprise. Then his features cleared, and he muttered, cabbage. He reached out toward the switch. We've got a visitor, Chris. Follow my lead. He reviewed his information on Devonelyd titular systems while he touched the switch. Askud Klavin to come in. Ah, Mary. Daily Shut Klavin was almost a twin for the pictured typical Devonelyd and Marlowe's library. Since the pictures were usually idealized, it followed that Klavin was an above-average specimen of his people. He stood a full eight feet from fetters to crest, and had not yet begun to thicken his toes in compensation for the stoop that marked advancing middle age for his race. Marlowe, looking at him, smiled inwardly. No Devonelyd could be so obviously superior, and still only a lowly student. Well, considering Harrison's qualifications, it might still not be tit for tad. Mead began to get to his feet, and Marlowe hastily planted a foot atop his nearest shoe. The assistant winced and twitched his lips, but at least he stayed down. Davish Ut Klavin, the Devonelyd pronounced in good English. David Marlowe, Secretary for External Affairs, Solar Union, Marlowe replied. Ut Klavin looked expectantly at Mead. Christopher Mead, Assistant Under-Secretary for External Affairs, the assistant said, orienting himself. If you would do us the honor of permitting us to stand, Marlowe asked politely. On the contrary, Marlowe, if you would do me the honor of permitting me to sit, I should consider it a privilege. Please do so. Mr. Mead, if you would bring our visitor a chair. They lost themselves in formalities for a few minutes, Marlowe being urbanally correct. Mead following after as best he could through the maze of Devonelyd Morays. Finally they were able to get down to the business at hand. Ut Klavin sitting with considerable comfort in the carefully designed chair which could be snapped into almost any shape. Marlowe bulking behind his desk, Mead sitting somewhat nervously beside him. Now, as I understand it, Ut Klavin, Marlowe began, you'd like to learn something of our policies and methods. That is correct, Marlowe and Mead. The Devonelyd extracted a block of opaque material from the flat wallet at his side and steadied it on his knee. I have your permission to take notes. Please do. Now, as it happens, Mr. Mead and I are currently considering a case which perfectly illustrates our policies. Ut Klavin immediately traced a series of ideographs on the note block, and Marlowe wondered if he was actually going to take their conversation down verbatim. He shrugged mentally. He'd have to ask him, at some later date, whether he'd missed anything. Undoubtedly, there'd be a spare recording of the tape he himself was making. To begin, as you know, our government is founded upon principles of extreme personal freedom. There are no arbitrary laws governing expression, worship, the possession of personal weapons, or the rights of personal property. The state is construed to be a mechanism of public service, operated by the body politic, and the actual regulation and regimentation of society is accomplished by natural socio-economic laws, which, of course, are both universal and unavoidable. We pride ourselves on the high status of the individual in comparison to the barely tolerable existence of the state. We do, naturally, have ordinances and injunctions governing crimes, but even these are usually superseded by civil action at the personal level. Marlowe leaned forward to trifle. For getting exact principles for a moment, Ut Klavin, you realize that the actuality will sometimes stray from the ideal. Our citizens, for example, do not habitually carry weapons except under extraordinary conditions. But that is a civil taboo, rather than a fixed amendation of our constitution. I have no doubt that some future generation, mores having shifted, will, for example, revive the Code Dwello. Ut Klavin nodded. Quite understood. Thank you, Marlowe. Good. Now to proceed. Under conditions such as those, the state and its agencies cannot lay down a fixed policy of any sort and expect it to be in the least permanent. The people will not tolerate such regulation, and with each new shift in social mores and the institution of any policy is itself sufficient to produce such a shift within a short time. Successive policies are repudiated by the body politic, and new ones must be instituted. Marlowe leaned back and spread his hands. Therefore, he said with a roofful smile, it can be fairly said that we have no foreign policy, effectively speaking. We pursue the expedient, Ut Klavin, and hope for the best. The case which Mr. Mead and I are currently considering is typical. The Union, as you know, maintains a general survey corps whose task it is to map the galaxy, surveying such planets as harbor alien races or seem suitable for human colonization. Such a survey team, for example, first established contact between your people and ours. Exchange observation rights are worked out, and representatives of both races are given the opportunity to acquaint themselves with the society of the other. In the case of unoccupied, hattable planets however, the state's function ceases with the filing of a complete and definitive survey at the Under Ministry for Immigration. The state, as the state, sponsors no colonies and makes no establishments except for the few staging bases which are maintained for the use of the survey corps. We have not yet found any need for the institution of an offensive service analogous to a planetary army, nor do we expect to. War in space is possible only under extraordinary conditions, and we foresee no such contingency. All our colonization is carried out by private citizens who apply to Mr. Mead here for options on suitable, unoccupied planets. Mr. Mead's function is to act as a consultant in these cases. He maintains a roster of surveyed, human-habitable planets and either simply signs the requested planet or recommends one to fit specified conditions. The cost of the option is sufficient to cover the administrative effort involved, together with sufficient profit to the government to finance further surveys. The individual holding the option is then referred to immigration, which provides copies of a prospectus taken from the General Survey Report and advertises the option holder's asking prices on subdivisions. Again, there is a reasonable fee of a nature similar to ours, devoted to the same purposes. Then the state ceases to have any voice in the projected colonization whatsoever. It is a totally private enterprise, a simple real estate operation, if you will, with the state acting only as an advertising agency, and occasionally as the lesser of suitable transportation from Earth to the new planet. The colonists, of course, are under our protection, containing full citizenship unless they request independence, which is freely granted. If you would like to see it for purposes of clarification, you're welcome to examine our file on Martin Holiday, a citizen who is fairly typical of these real estate operators and who has just filed an option on his second planet. Smiling, Marlowe extended the folder. Thank you, I should like to, Oud-Claven said, and took the file for Marlowe. He leafed through it rapidly, pausing, after asking Marlowe's leave, to make notes on some of the information, and then handed it back. Most interesting, Oud-Claven observed. However, if you'll enlighten me, this man Martin Holiday, wouldn't there seem to be very little incentive for him, considering his age, even if there is the exception of a high monetary return? Particularly since his first attempt, while not a failure, was not an outstanding financial success. Marlowe shrugged helplessly. I tend to agree with you thoroughly, Oud-Claven. But, he smiled, he'll agree, I'm sure, that one Earthman's boredom is another's incentive. We are not a rigorously logical race, Oud-Claven. Quite, the Devonalid replied. Marlowe stared at his irrevocable clock. His inner phone light flickered, and he touched the switch absently. Yes, Mary? Will there be anything else, Mr. Secretary? No, thank you, Mary. Good night. Good night, sir. There was no appeal. The day was over, and he had to go home. He stared helplessly at his empty office, his mind automatically counting the pairs of departing footsteps that sounded momentarily, as clerks and stenographers crossed the walk below his partly open window. Finally he rolled his chair back and pushed himself to his feet. Disconsolate, he moved irresolutely to the window and watched the people leave. Washington, aging, crowded Washington, seized by narrow streets, carrying the burden of the severe, unimaginative past on its grimy architecture, respired heavily under the sinking sun. The capital ought to be moved, he thought, as he thought every night at this time. Near the heart of the empire, out of this steamy bog, out of this warren, his heavy lips moved into an ironical comment on his own thoughts. No one was ever going to move the empire's traditional seat. There was too much nostalgia concentrated here, along with the humidity. Some day, when the union was contiguous with the entire galaxy, men would still call Washington, an old, out-of-the-way earth, their capital. Man was not a rigorously logical race, as a race. The thought of going home broke out afresh, sediously avoiding the barriers of bemusement which he had tried to erect, and he turned abruptly away from the window, moving decisively so as to be able to move at all. He yanked open a desk drawer and stuffed his jacket pockets with candy bars, ripping the film from one and chewing it on its end, while he put the papers in his briefcase. Finally, he could not delay any longer. Everyone else was out of the building, and the robots were taking over. Metal treads spun along the corridors, bearing brooms and the robot switchboards guarded the communications of the ministry. Soon the char robots would be bustling into this very office. He sighed and walked slowly out, down the empty halls where no human eye could see him waddling. He stepped into his car, and as he opened the door the automatic recording said, Home, please, in his own voice. The car waited until he was settled and then accelerated gently, pointing for his apartment. The recording had been an unavoidable but vicious measure of his own. He'd had to resort to it, for the temptation to drive to a terminal, to an airport, or a rocket field, or a railroad station, anywhere, had become excruciating. The car stopped for a pedestrian light, and a sports model bounced jointly to a stop beside it. The driver cocked an eyebrow at Marlowe and chuckled, Hey, Fatso, which one of you is the Buick? Then the light changed. The car spurred it away and left Marlowe cringing. He would not get an official car and protect himself with its license number. He would not be a coward. He would not. Marlowe huddled in his chair. The notebook clamped on one broad thigh by his heavy hand, his lips mumbling nervously while his pencil-point checked off meter. Dwell in aching discontent, he muttered. No, not that. He stared down at the floor, his eyes distant. Bitter discontent, he whispered. He grunted softly with breath that had to force its way past the constricting weight of his hunch. Bitter Dwell. He crossed out the third line, substituted the new one, and began to read the first two verses to himself. We are born of humankind, this is our destiny, to bitter Dwell in discontent wherever we may be, to struggle with the burden of that which heals on us, to stake our fresh beginnings when frailer breeds have done. He smiled briefly, content, it still wasn't perfect, but it was getting closer. He continued, to pile upon the ashes of racist indices, such citadels of our kind's own, as fortify know. What are you doing, David? His wife asked over his shoulder. Flinching he pulled a notebook closer into his lap, bending forward in an instinctive effort to protect it. The warm, loving, signed voice went on. Are you writing another poem, David? Why, I thought you'd given that up. It's, it's nothing really, uh, Leonora. Nothing much, just a, a thing I've had running around in my head. Wanted to get rid of it. His wife leaned over and kissed his cheek clumsily. Why, you big old deer, I'll bet it's for me. Isn't it, David? Isn't it for me? He shook his head in almost desperate regret. I'm, I'm a freak. Uh, snorter. It's about something else, Leonora. Oh, she came around the chair and he furtively wiped his cheek with a hasty hand. She sat down facing him, smiling with entreaty. Would you read it to me anyway, David? Please, dear? Well, it's not, not, not finished yet. Not right. You don't have to, David. It's not important. Not really. She sighed deeply. He picked up the notebook. His breath cold and his constricted throat. All right, he said, the word's coming out huskily. I'll read it, but it's not finished yet. If you don't want to. He began to read hurriedly. His eyes locked on the notebook. His voice a suppressed, hoarse, spasmatic whisper. Such cividdles of our own kind, as fortify no peace, no walken off her shoulder, no roof concealed from pain. We cannot rest. We are the damned. We must go forth again. Unnumbered we must. David, are you sure about those last lines? She smiled apologetically. I know I'm old-fashioned, but couldn't you change that? It seems so, so harsh. And I think you may have unconsciously borrowed it from someone else. I can't help thinking I've heard it before somewhere. Don't you think so? I don't know, my dear. You may be right about that word, but it doesn't really matter, does it? I mean, I'm not going to try to get it published or anything. I know, dear, but still. He was looking at her desperately. I'm sorry, dear, she said contritely. Please go on. Don't pay any attention to my stupid comments. They're not stupid. Please, dear, go on. His fingers clamped the edge of the notebook. Unnumbered we must wander. Break, and bleed and die. Implacable as the ocean, our tide must drown the sky. What is our expiation? For what primeval crime? That we must go on marching until the crash of time. What hand has shaped so cruelly? What whim has cast such fate? Where is, in our creation, the botch that makes us great? Oh, that's good, darling. That's very good. I'm proud of you, David. I think it stinks, he said evenly. But, anyway, there are two more verses. David. Grimly he spat out the last eight lines. Why are we ever gimleted? By empire's irony, or discontent the cancer prize of Earthman's galaxy? Leonora, recoiling from his cold fury, was a shaking pair of shoulders and a mass of lank hair supported by her hands on her face while she sobbed. Are souls so much perverted we cannot relent? Or are the stars the madman's cost, for his inborn discontent? Good night, Leonora. The light flickered on Marlowe's interphone. Good morning, Mr. Secretary. Good morning, Mary. What's up? Harrison's being deported from Davenil, sir. There's a civil crime charged against him, quite a serious one. Marlowe's eyebrows went up. How much have we got on it? Not too much, sir. Harrison's report hasn't come in yet. But the story's on the news broadcasts now, sir. We haven't been asked to comment yet, but immigration has been called by several news outlets, and the Ministry for Education just called here and inquired whether it would be all right to publish a general statement of their exchange students' careful instructions against violating local customs. Marlowe's glance brooded down the mass of papers piled in the tray of his inbox. Give me a tape of a typical broadcast, he said at last. Hold everything else. Present explanation to all news outlets. None now, statement forthcoming after preliminary investigation later in the day, the Ministry regrets this incident deeply and will try to settle matters as soon and as amicably as possible, et cetera, et cetera. OK? Yes, sir. He swung his chair round to face the screen, led into a sidewall, and colors began to flicker and run in the field almost immediately. He steadied and sharpened, and the broadcast tape began to roll. Dateline. Davenil, sector 3, day 183. 2417 GST. Your local news reporter on this small planet at the Union's rim was unable today to locate for comment any of the high officials of this alien civilization directly concerned with the order for the deportation of exchange student observer Hubert Harrison, charged with theft and violent assault on the person of a Davenil-led citizen. Union citizen Harrison was unavailable for comment at this time, but topical news will present his views and other such clues when more ensues. Marlowe grunted. Journalese was getting out of hand again. That last rhyming sentence was sure to stick in the audience's brains. It might be only another advertising gimmick, but if they start doing it with the body of the news's self, it might well be to feed topical enough false leads to destroy what little reputation for comprehensibility they had left. He touched his interphone switch. Uh, Mary, what was the hooper on that broadcast? Under one percent, sir. Which meant that so far the body politic hadn't been reached. Thank you. Is there anything else coming in? Not at the moment, sir. What's Cabbage? What's Dalish Unclavin doing? His residence is the solar hotel, sir. The management reports that he is still in his room and has not reserved space on any form of long-distance transportation. He has not contacted us, either, and there's a strong probability that he may still be unaware of what's happened. How many calls did he make yesterday, either before or after he was here, and to whom? I can get you a list in ten minutes, sir. Do that, Mary. He switched off, sat slapping the edge of his desk with his hand, and switched on again. Mary, I want the gen-serves on the Dovanil area to a depth of ten cubic lights. Yes, sir. And get me Mr. Mead on the phone, please. Yes, sir. Marlowe's lips pulled back from his teeth as he switched off. He snatched a candy bar out of his drawer, tore the film partway off, then threw it back in the drawer as his desk phone chimed. Here, Chris. Here, Mr. Marlowe. Look, Chris, has Holiday left Earth yet? Yes, sir, yes, Dave. Where is he? Luna en route to Carl's Haven. He was lucky enough to have me arrange for his accidentally getting a ride on a gen-serve ship that happened to be going out that way, if you follow me, Mead grinned. Get him back. The smile blanked out. I can't do that, Mr. Marlowe. He'd never be able to take it. You should have seen him when I put him on the shuttle. We doped him up with easy rest, and even then his subconscious could feel the bulkheads around him, even in his sleep. Those shuttles are small, and they don't have ports. We can't help that. We need him, and I've got to talk to him first, personally. Mead bit his lip. Yes, sir. Dave. Yes, Dave. Daily shoot Clavin sat easily in his chair opposite Marlowe. He rested one digit on his notebook and waited. Oot Clavin, Marlowe said amiably. You're undoubtedly aware by now that your opposite number on Dov'nil has been charged with a civil crime and deported. The Devonal Ed nodded. An unfortunate incident, one that I regret personally, and which I am sure my own people would much rather not have had happen. Naturally, Barl smiled. I simply wanted to reassure you that this incident does not reflect on your own status in any way. We are investigating our representative, and will take appropriate action, but it seems quite clear that the fault is not with your people. We have already forwarded reparations and a note of apology to your government. As further reparation, I wish to assure you, personally, that we will cooperate with your personal observations in every possible way. If there is anything at all you wish to know, even that might, under ordinary conditions, be considered restricted information. Just call on us. Oot Clavin's crest stirred a fraction of an inch, and Marlowe chuckled inwardly. Marlowe, even a brilliant spy, might be forgiven an outward display of surprise under these circumstances. The Devonal Ed gave him a piercing look, but Marlowe presented a featureless façade of bulk. The secretary chuckled in his mind once more. He doubted if Oot Clavin would accept the hypothesis that Marlowe did not know that he was a spy. But the Devonal Ed must be a sorely confused being at this point. Marlowe, he said finally, I am most grateful. I am sure my people will construe it as yet another sign of the Union's friendship. I hope so, Oot Clavin, Marlowe replied. Having exchanged his last friendly lie, they went through the customary Devonal Ed formula of leaf-taking. Marlowe slapped his interphone switch as soon as the alien was gone. Ah, Mary, what's the latest on holiday? His shuttle lands at Idlewild in half an hour, sir. All right, get Mr. Mead, have him meet me out front, and get an official car to take us to the field. I want somebody from Immigration to go with us. Call Idlewild and have them set up a desk and chairs for four out in the middle of the field. Call the Ministry for traffic, and make sure that field stays clear until we're through with it. My ministerial prerogative, and no back-talk. I want that car in ten minutes. Yes, sir. Mary's voice was perfectly even, without the slightest hint that there was anything unusual happening. Marlowe switched off and twisted his mouth. He picked up the genserv on the Devonal area and began skimming it rapidly. He kept his eyes carefully front as he walked out of his office, past the battery of clerks in the outer office, and down the hall. He kept them rigidly fixed on the door of his personal elevator, which, during the day, was human-operated under the provisions of the Human Employment Act of 2302. He met Mead in front of the building, and did not look into the eyes of Bussard, the man from Immigration, as they shook hands. He followed them down the walk in a sweaty agony of obliviousness, and climbed into the car with carefully normal lack of haste. He sat sweating, chewing a candy bar for several minutes before he spoke. Then slowly he felt his battered offenses reassert themselves, and he could actually look at Bussard before he turned to Mead. Now then, he wrapped out a shade to abruptly before he caught himself. Here's the genserv on the Devonal area, Chris. Anything in it you don't know already? I don't think so, sir. OK, dig me up a habitable planet, even a long-term, falsy will do, close to Devonal, but not actually in their system. I want that world in a system without any rich planets, and I don't want any rich systems anywhere near it. If you can't do that, arrange for the outright sale of all mineral and other resource rights to suitable companies. I want that planet to be habitable, but I want it to be impossible for any people on it to get at enough resources to achieve a technological culture. Can do? Mead shook his head. I don't know. You've got about fifteen minutes to find out. I'm going to start talking to Holiday, and when I tell him I've got another planet for him. I'll be depending on you to furnish one. Sorry to pile it on like this, but must be. Mead nodded. Right, Mr. Marlowe, that's why I draw a pay. Good boy. Now, uh... Rabbit? Boussard, I want you to be ready to lay out a complete advertising and prospectus program. Straight routine work, but about four times normal speed. The toughest part of it will be following the lead that Chris and I set. Don't be surprised at anything, and act like it happens every day. Yes, Mr. Marlowe? Right. Boussard looked uncomfortable. Uh, Mr. Marlowe? Yes. About this man Harrison. I presume all this is the result of what happened to him on Dovenel. Do you think there's any foundation in truth for what they say he did? Or do you think it's just an excuse to get him off their world? Marlowe looked at him coldly. Don't be an ass, he snorted. Martin Holliday climbed slowly out of the shuttle's lock and moved fumblingly down the stairs, leaning on the attendance arm. His face was emalted gray, and his hand shook uncontrollably. He stepped down to the tarmac and his head turned from side to side as his eyes gulped in the field's distances. Marlowe sat behind the desk that had been put up in the middle of its emptiness, his eyes brooding as he looked at Holliday. Boussard stood beside him, trying nervously to appear noncommittal. While he went up to the shaking old man, grasped his hand and brought him over to the desk. Marlowe shifted uncomfortably. The desk was standard size, and he had to sit far away from it. He could not feel at ease in such a position. His thick fingers went into the side pocket of his jacket and peeled the film off a candy bar, and he began to eat it, holding it in his left hand, as Meade introduced Holliday. How do you do, Mr. Holliday? Marlowe said, his voice higher than he would have liked it, and he shook the man's hand. I'm quite pleased to meet you, Mr. Secretary, Holliday replied. His eyes were darting past Marlowe's head. This is Mr. Boussard of Immigration, and you know Mr. Meade, of course. Now I think we can all sit down. Meade's chair was next to Holliday's, and Boussard's was to one side of the desk, so that only Marlowe, unavoidably, blocked his complete view of the stretching tarmac. First of all, Mr. Holliday, I'd like to thank you for coming back. Please believe me when I say we would not have made such a request if we're not urgently necessary. It's all right, Holliday said, in a slow, apologetic voice. I don't mind. Marlowe went, but he had to go on. Have you seen the news broadcast recently, Mr. Holliday? The man shook his head in embarrassment. No, sir, I've been asleep most of the time. I understand, Mr. Holliday. I didn't really expect you had under the circumstances. The situation is this. Some time ago our survey ships, working out in their usual expanding pattern, encountered an alien civilization on a world that designated more two on our maps, and which the natives called Ovenil. It was largely a routine matter, no different from any other alien contact which we've had. They had a relatively high technology, embracing the beginnings of interplanetary flight, and our contract teams were soon able to work out a diplomatic status mutually satisfactory to both. Social observers were exchanged, in accordance with the usual practice, and everything seemed to be going well. Holliday nodded out of painful politeness, not seeing the connection with himself. Some of his nervousness was beginning to fade, but it was impossible for him to be really at ease with so many people near him, with all of Earth's billions lurking at the edge of the tarmac. However, Marlowe went on as quickly as he could. Today our representative was deported on a trumped up charge. Undoubtedly, this is only the first move in some complicated scheme directed against the Union. What it is, we do not know yet. But further observation of the actions of their own representative on this planet has convinced us that they are a clever, ruthless people, living in a society which would have put Machiavelli to shame. They are single-minded of purpose, and welding into a tight group whose major purpose in life is the surface of the state in its major purpose, which, by all indications, is that of eventually dominating the universe. You know our libertarian society. You know that the Union government is almost powerless, and that the Union itself is nothing but a loose federation composed of a large number of independent nations tied together, by very little more than the fact that we are all Earthmen. We are almost helpless in the face of such a nation as the Dovonellids. They have already outmaneuvered us once, despite our best efforts. There is no sign that they will not be able to do so again, at will. We must somehow discover what the Dovonellids intend to do next. For this reason, I earnestly request that you accept our offer of another planet than the one you have optioned, closer to the Dovonellid system. We are willing, under these extraordinary circumstances, to consider your credit sufficient for the outright purchase of half the planet. And Mr. Boussard here will do his utmost to get you suitable colonists for the other half as rapidly as it can be done. Will you help us, Mr. Holiday? Marlowe sank back in his chair. He became conscious of a messy feeling in his left hand, and looked down to discover the half-eaten candy bar had melted. He tried furtively to wipe his hand clean on the underside of the desk, but he knew Boussard had noticed, and he cringed and cursed himself. Holiday's face twisted nervously. I-I-I don't know. Please don't misunderstand us, Mr. Holiday, Marlowe said. We do not intend to ask you to spy for us, nor are we acting with the intention of now establishing a base of any sort on the planet. We simply would like to have a union world near the Dovonellid system. Whatever Dovonell does will not have gathered significant momentum by the end of your life. You will be free to end your days exactly as you have always wished, and the precautions we have outlined will ensure that there will be no encroachments on your personal property during that time. We are planning for the next generation, when Dovonell will be initiating its program of expansion. It is then that we will need an established outpost near their borders. Yes, Holiday said hesitantly. I can understand that. I don't know, he repeated. It seems all right. And as you say, it won't matter during my lifetime, and it's more than I'd really hoped for. He looked nervously at Mead. What do you think, Mr. Mead? You've always done your best for me. Mead shot one quick glance at Marlowe. I think Mr. Marlowe's doing his best for the union, he said, finally, and I know he's fully aware of your personal interests. I think what he's doing is reasonable under the circumstances, and I think his proposition to you, as he's outlined it, is something which you cannot afford to not consider. The final decision is up to you, of course. Holiday nodded slowly, staring down at his hands. Yes, yes, I think you're right, Mr. Mead. He looked up at Marlowe. I'm glad to help, and I'm grateful for the consideration you have shown me. Not at all, Mr. Holiday. The union is in your debt. Marlowe wiped his hand on the underside of the desk again, but he only made matters worse, for his fingers picked up some of the chocolate he had removed before. Mr. Mead, will you give Mr. Holiday the details on the new planet, he said, trying to get his handkerchief out without smearing his suit. He could almost hear Boussard snickering. Holiday signed the new option contract and shook Marlowe's hand. I'd like to thank you again, sir. Looking at it from my point of view, it is something for nothing, at least, while I'm alive. And it's a very nice planet, too, from the way Mr. Mead described it, even better than Carl's Haven. Nevertheless, Mr. Holiday, Marlowe said, you have done the union a great service. We would consider it an honour if you allowed us to enter your planet in our records under the name of Holiday. He kept his eyes away from Mead. Martin Holiday's eyes were shining. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe, he said huskily. Marlowe could think of no reply. Finally he simply nodded. It's been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Holiday. We've arranged transportation and your shuttle will be taking off very shortly. Holiday's face began to bead with fresh perspiration at the thought of bulkheads enclosing him once more, but he managed to smile, and then asked, hesitantly, may I wait for the shuttle out here, sir? Certainly. We'll arrange for that. Well, good-bye, Mr. Holiday. Good-bye, Mr. Marlowe. Good-bye, Mr. Boussard. And good-bye, Mr. Mead. I don't suppose you'll be seeing me again. Good luck, Mr. Holiday, Mead said. Marlowe twisted awkwardly in the car's back seat, wiping futely at the long smear of chocolate on his trouser pocket. Well, he thought, at least he'd given the old man his name on the star maps until Earthmen stopped roving. At least he'd given him that. Mead was looking at him. I don't suppose we've got time to let him die in peace, have we? he asked. Marlowe shook his head. I suppose we'll have to start breaking him immediately, won't we? Marlowe nodded. I'll get at it right away, sir. Dave, does everybody have to hate me? Can't anyone understand? Even you, Creed, even you, Mead! Daily shoot Clavin, stooped and withered, sat hopelessly opposite Marlowe, who sat behind his desk like a grizzled polar bear, his thinning mane of white hair unkempt and straggling. Marlowe, my people are strangling, the old Dovah Naled said. Marlowe looked at him silently. The Holiday Republic has signed treaty after treaty with us and still their citizens raid our mining planets, driving away our own people, stealing the resources we must have if we are to live. Marlowe sighed, there's nothing I can do. We have gone to the Holiday Government repeatedly, would Clavin pleaded. Tell us the raiders are criminals, that they're doing their best to stop them, but they still buy the metal the raiders bring them. They have to, Marlowe said. There are no available resources anywhere within practicable distances. If there do have any civilization at all, they've got to buy from the outlaws. But they are members of the Union, would Clavin protested. Why don't you do anything to stop them? We can't, Marlowe said again. They're members of the Union, yes. But they're also a free republic. We have no administrative jurisdiction over them, and if we attempted to establish one, our citizens would rise and protest all over our territory. Then we're finished. Dovah Naled is a dead world. Marlowe nodded slowly. I'm very sorry, if there's anything I can do, or that the Ministry can do, we will do it. But we cannot save the Devon Naled's state. Ud Clavin looked at him bitterly. Thank you, he said. Thank you for your generous offer of a gracious funeral. I don't understand you," he burst out suddenly. I don't understand you people. Diplomatic lies, yes. Expediency, yes. But this, this madness, this fanatical, illogical devotion of the state in the cause of the people who will tolerate no state. This, no. This I cannot understand. Marlowe looked at him, his eyes full of tears. Ud Clavin, he said. You are quite right. We are a race of maniacs, and that is why earthmen rule the galaxy. For our treaties are not binding, and our promises are worthless. Our government does not represent our people. It represents our people as they once were. The delay in the democratic process is such that the treaty signed today fulfills the promise of yesterday, but today the body politics has formed a new opinion, is following a new logic, which is completely at variance without of yesterday. And earthman's promise, expressed in words or deeds, is good only at the instant he makes it. A second later, new factors have entered into the old circumstances, and a new chain of logic has formed in his head to be altered again a few seconds later. He thought suddenly of that poor, claustrophobic devil holiday, harried from planet to planet, never given a moment's rest, and civilizing, civilizing, spreading the race of humankind wherever he was driven, civilizing with a fervor no hired dummy could have accomplished, driven by his fear to sell with all the real estate agents' talent that had been born in him, selling for the sake of money, with which to buy that land he needed for his peace, and always being forced to sell a little too much. Bud Clavin rose from his chair. You are also right, Marlowe. You are a race of maniacs, gibbering across the stars. And know, Marlowe, that the other races of the universe hate you. Marlowe, with a tremendous effort, heaved himself out of his chair. Hate us? He lumbered around the desk and advanced on the frightened Dovina-led, who was retreating backwards before his path. Can't you see it? Don't you understand that if we are to pursue any course of action over a long time, if we are ever going to achieve a galaxy in which an Earthman can someday live in peace with himself, we must each day violate all the moral codes and creeds which we held in violet the day before. That we must fight against every ideal, every principle which our fathers taught us, because they no longer apply to our new logic. You hate us? He thrust his fat hand, its nails bitten down to the quick and beyond, in front of the cringing alien's eyes. You poor, weak, single-minded, ineffectual thing, we hate ourselves! End of section 5 Section 6 of 20 short science fiction stories by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. McElvane Star by August Derlith McElvane sat down to his machine, turned complex knobs, and a message flamed across the void. Ol' Thaddeus McElvane discovered a dark star and took it for his own, thus he inherited a dark destiny, or did he? Call them what you like," said Tex Harrigan. Lost people or strayed, crackpots or warped geniuses. I know enough of them to fill an entire department of queer people. I've been a reporter long enough to have run into quite a few of them. For example, I said, recognizing Harrigan's smelloness. Take Thaddeus McElvane, said Harrigan. I've never heard of him. I suppose not, said Harrigan, but I knew him. He was an eccentric old fellow who had a modest income, enough to keep up his hobbies, which were three. He played cards and chess at a tavern called Bixby's on North Clark Street. He was an amateur astronomer, and he had the fixed idea that there was life somewhere outside this planet and that it was possible to communicate with other beings. But unlike most others, he tried it constantly with queer machinery he had rigged up. Now this old fellow had a trio of cronies, with whom he played on occasion down at Bixby's. He had no one else to confide in. He kept them up with his progress among the stars and his communication with other life in the cosmos beyond our own, and they made a great joke out of it. From all I could gather, I suppose, because he had no one else to talk to. McElvane took it without complaint. Well, as I said. I never heard of him until one morning the city editor. It was old Bill Henderson then. Called me in and said, Harrigan, we've just got a lead on a fellow named Thaddeus McElvane who claims to have discovered a new star. Amateur astronomer up North Clark. Find him and get a story. So I set out to track him down. It was a great moment for Thaddeus McElvane. He sat down among his friends almost portentiously, adjusted his spectacles, and peered over them in his usual manner, halfway between a querulous oldster and a reproachful schoolmaster. I've done it, he said quietly. I, and what? asked Alexander Testly. I discovered a new star. Oh, said Leopold Flatley, a cinder in your eye. It lies just off Arcturus. McElvane went on, and it would appear to be coming closer. Give it my love, said Richardson, with a rye smile. Have you named it yet? Or don't the discoverers of new stars name them any more? McElvane Star, that's a good name for it. A hard port of Arcturus, with special displays on windy nights. McElvane only smiled. It's a dark star, he said presently. It doesn't have light. He spoke almost apologetically, as if somehow he had disappointed his friends. I'm going to try and communicate with it. That's the ticket, said Alexander. Cut for a deal, said Leopold. That was how the news about McElvane Star was received by his cronies. Afterward, after McElvane had dutifully played several games of Eukra, Richardson conceived the idea of telephoning the globe to announce McElvane's discovery. The old fellow took himself seriously. Harrigan went on, and yet he was so damned moussy about it. I mean, you got the impression that he had been trying for so long that now he hardly believed in his star himself any longer. But there it was. He had a long detailed story of its discovery, which was an accident as those things usually are. They happen all the time, and his story sounded convincing enough. Just the same. You didn't feel that he really had anything. I took down notes, of course. That was routine. I got a picture of the old man, with never an idea we'd be using it. To tell the truth, I carried my notes around with me for a day or so before it occurred to me that it wouldn't do any harm to put a call into Yerkes Observatory up in Wisconsin. So I did, and they confirmed McElvane's star. The globe had the story, did it up in fine style. It was two weeks before we heard from McElvane again. That night McElvane was more than usually diffident. He was not like a man bearing a message of considerable importance to himself. He slipped into Bixby's, got a glass of beer, and approached the table where his friend sat, almost with trepidation. It's a nice evening for me, he said quietly. Richardson grunted. Leopold said, by the way, Mac, whatever became of that star of yours, the one the papers wrote up. I think, said McElvane cautiously, I'm quite sure, I have got in touch with them. Only, his brow wrinkled and furrowed. I can't understand their language. Ah! said Richardson, with an edge to his voice. The thing for you to do is to tell them that's your star, and they'll have to speak English from now on, so you can understand them. Why, next thing we know, you'll be getting yourself a rocket or a spaceship and going over to that star to set yourself up as king or something. King Thaddeus I said Alexander loftily. All you star-dwellers may kiss the royal foot. That would be unsanitary, I think, said McElvane frowning. Poor McElvane, they made him the butt of their jests for over an hour before he took himself off to his quarters, where he sat himself down before his telescope and found his star once more, almost huge enough to blot out actress, but not quite, since it was moving away from that amber star now. McElvane's star was certainly much closer to earth than it had been. He tried once again to contact it with his homemade radio, and once again he received a succession of strange, rhythmic noises which he could not doubt were speech of some kind or other, a rasping, grating speech to be sure, utterly unlike the speech of McElvane's own kind. It rose and fell, became impatient, urgent, despairing. McElvane sensed all this and strove mightily to understand. He sat there for perhaps two hours when he received the distant impression that someone was talking to him in his own language, but there was no longer any sound on the radio. He could not understand what had taken place, but in a few moments he received the clear conviction that the inhabitants of his star had managed to discover the basic elements of his language by the simple process of reading his mind, and were now prepared to talk with him. What manner of creatures inhabited the earth, they wished to know? McElvane told them. He visualized one of his own kind and tried to put him into words. It was difficult, since he could not read himself of the conviction that his interlocutors might be utterly alien. They had no perception of man and doubted man's existence on any other star. There were plant people on Venus, and people on Andromeda, six legged and four armed beings which were equal parts mineral and metal on betelges, but nothing resembling man. You are evidently alone of your kind in the cosmos," said his interstellar correspondent. What about you? cried McElvane with unaccustomed peat. Silence was his only answer, but presently he conceived a mental image which was remarkable for its vividness. But the image was nothing he had ever seen before, of thousands of miniature beings, utterly alien to man. They resembled amphibious insects with thin, elongated heads, large eyes, and antennae set up on a scaled, four-legged body with rudimentary beetle-like wings. Curiously they seemed ageless. He could detect no difference among them. All appeared to be the same age. We are not, but we rejuvenate regularly," said the creature with whom he corresponded in the strange manner. Did they have names? McElvane wondered. I am guru," said the star's inhabitant. You are McElvane. And the civilization of their star? Instantly he saw in his mind's eye vast cities which rolls from beneath the surface which appeared to bear no vegetation recognizable to any human eye, in a terrain which seemed to be desert, of monolithic buildings which were windowless and had openings only of sufficient size to permit the free passage of its dwarf dwellers. Within the buildings was evidence of a great and old civilization. You see, McElvane really believed all this. What an imagination the man had! Of course the boys at Bixby's gave him a bad time. I don't know how he stood it, but he did. And he always came back. Richardson called the story in. He took a special delight in deviling McElvane, and I was sent out to see the old fellow again. You couldn't doubt his sincerity, and yet he didn't sound touched. But of course that part about the insect-like dwellers of the star comes straight out of Wells, doesn't it, I put in. Wells and scores of others, said Harrigan. Wells was probably the first writer to suggest insectivorous inhabitants on Mars. His were considerably larger, though. Go on. While I talked with McElvane for quite a while, he told me all about their civilization and about his friend Guru. You might have thought he was talking about a neighbor of his who had only to step outside to meet. Later on I dropped around at Bixby's and had a talk with the boys there. Richardson let me in on the secret. He had decided to rig up a connection to McElvane's machine and do a little talking to the old fellow, making him believe Guru was coming through in English. He meant to give McElvane a harder time than ever, and once he had him believing everything he planned to say, they would wait for him at Bixby's and let him make a fool of himself. It didn't work out that way, however. McElvane, can you hear me? McElvane started with astonishment. His mental impression of Guru became confused. The voice speaking English came clear as a bell, as if from no distance at all. Yes, he said hesitantly. Well, then, listen to me, listen to Guru. We have now had enough information from you to suit our ends. Within twenty-four hours we, the inhabitants of Ali, will begin a war of extermination against earth. But why? cried McElvane astounded. The image before his mind's eye cleared. The cold, precise features of Guru betrayed anger. There is interference, the thought-image informed him. He used the machine for a few moments while we used the disintegrators. Before he left the machine, McElvane had the impression of a greater machine being attached to the means of communication, which the inhabitants of his star were using to communicate with him. McElvane's story was that a few moments later there was a blinding flash just outside his window, continued harrigan. There was also a run of instantaneous fire from the window to his machine. When he had collected his wits sufficiently, he ran outside to look. There was nothing there but a kind of graced dust in a little mound, as if, as he put it, somebody had cleaned out a vacuum bag. He went back in and examined the space from the window to the machine. There were two thin lines of dust there, hardly perceptible, just as if something had been attached to the machine and let outside. Now the obvious supposition is naturally that it was Richardson out there, and that the lines of dust from the window to the machine represented the wires he had attached to his microphone while McElvane was at Bixby's entertaining his two other cronies. But this is fact, not fiction, and the point of the episode is that Richardson disappeared from that night on. You investigated, of course, I asked. Quite a lot of us investigated. The police might have done better. There was a gang war on in Chicago just at that time, and Richardson was nobody with any connections. His nearest relatives weren't anxious about anything, but what they might inherit, to tell the truth, his cronies at Bixby's were the only people who worried about him. McElvane was much as the rest of them. Oh, they gave the old man a hard time, all right. He went through his house with a fine-tooth comb. They dug up his yard, his cellar, and generally put him through it, figuring he was a natural to hang a murder wrap on. But there was just nothing to be found, and they couldn't manufacture evidence when there was nothing to show that McElvane ever knew that Richardson was planning to have a little fun with him. And no one had seen Richardson there. There was nothing but McElvane's word that he had heard what he said he heard. He'd needn't have volunteered that, but he did. After the police had finished with him, they wrote him off as a harmless nut. But the question of what happened to Richardson wasn't solved from that day to this. People have been known to walk out of their lives, I said, and never come back. Oh, sometimes they do. Richardson didn't. Besides, if he walked out of his life here, he did so without more than the clothing he had on. And so much was missing from his effects, nothing more. And McElvane? Harrigan smiled thinly. He carried on. You couldn't expect him to do anything less. After all, he had worked out most of his life trying to communicate with the worlds outside, and he had no intention of resigning his contact, no matter how much Richardson's disappearance upset him. For a while he believed that Guru had actually disintegrated Richardson. He offered that explanation, but by that time the dust had vanished, and he was laughed out of face. So he went back to the machine and Guru and the little extersions to Bixby's. What's the latest word from that star of yours? asked Leopold when McElvane came in. They want to rejuvenate me, said McElvane, with a certain shy pleasure. What's that? asked Alexander sourly. They say they can make me young again. Like them up there. They never die. They just live so long, and then they rejuvenate. They begin all over. It's some kind of a process they have. And I suppose they're planning to come down and fetch you up there and give you the works. Is that it? asked Alexander. Well, no, answered McElvane. Guru says there's no need for that. It can be done through the machine. They can work it like the disintegrators. It puts you back to thirty or twenty or whatever you like. Well, I'd like to be twenty-five myself again, admitted Leopold. I'll tell you what, Mc, said Alexander. You go ahead and try it. Then come back and let us know how it works. If it does, we'll all sit in. Better make your will first, though, just in case. Oh, I did, this afternoon. Leopold choked back a snicker. Don't take this thing too seriously, Mac. After all, we're short one of us now. We'd hate to lose you, too. McElvane was touched. Oh, I wouldn't change. He hastened to assure his friends. I'd just be younger, that's all. They'll just work on me through the machine, and overnight I'll be rejuvenated. That's certainly a little trick that's got it all over the monkey-glans, conceded Alexander grinning. Those little bugs on that star of yours have made scientific progress, I'd say," said Leopold. They're not bugs, said McElvane, with faint indignation. They're people, maybe not just like you and me, but they're people just the same. He went home that night filled with anticipation. He had done just what he had promised himself he would do, arranging everything for his rejuvenation. Guru had been astonished to learn that people on earth simply died when there was no necessity of doing so. He had made the offer to rejuvenate McElvane himself. McElvane sat down to his machine and turned the complex knobs until he was in rapport with his dark star. He waited for a long time, it seemed, before he knew his contact had been closed. Guru came through. Are you ready, McElvane? He asked soundlessly. Yes, already," said McElvane, trembling with eagerness. Don't be alarmed now. It will take several hours," said Guru. I'm not alarmed," answered McElvane. And, indeed, he was not. He was filled with an exhilaration akin to mysticism, and he sat waiting for what he was certain must be the experience above all others in his prosaic existence. McElvane's disappearance coming so close on Richardson's gave us a beautiful story," said Harrigan. The only trouble was, it wasn't new when the globe got round to it. We had lost our informant in Richardson. It never occurred to Alexander or Leopold to telephone us or anyone about McElvane's unaccountable absence from Bixby's. Finally, Leopold went over to McElvane's house to find out whether the old fellow was sick. A young fellow opened up. McElvane, Leopold asked. I'm McElvane, the young fellow answered. Thaddeus McElvane, Leopold explained. That's my name, was the only answer he got. I mean that Thaddeus McElvane, who used to play cards with us over at Bixby's, said Leopold. He shook his head. Sorry, you must be looking for someone else. What are you doing here? Leopold asked them. Why, I inherited what my uncle left, said the young fellow. And sure enough, when Leopold talked to me and persuaded me to go around with him to McElvane's lawyer, we found that the old fellow had made a will and left everything to his nephew, a namesake. The stipulations were clear enough. Among them was the express wish that if anything happened to him, the elder Thaddeus McElvane, of no matter what nature, but particularly something allowing a reasonable doubt of his death, the nephew was still to be permitted to take immediate position of the property and effects. Of course, you called on the nephew, I said. Harrigan nodded. Sure, that was the indicated course in any event. It was routine for both the press and the police. There was nothing suspicious about his story. It was straightforward enough, except for one or two little details. He never did give us any precise address. He just mentioned his trite once. I called up a friend on one of the papers there and put him up to looking up Thaddeus McElvane. The only young man of that name he could find appeared to be the same man as the present inhabitants' uncle, though the description fit pretty well. There was, in a resemblance, then. Oh, sure! One could have imagined that old Thaddeus McElvane had looked somewhat like his nephew when he himself was a young man. But don't let the old man's rigmarole about rejuvenation make too deep an impression on you. The first thing the young fellow did was to get rid of that machine of his uncles. Can you imagine his uncle having done something like that? I shook my head, but I could not help thinking what an ironic thing it would have been if there had been something to McElvane's story, and in the process to which he had been subjected from out of space he had not been rejuvenated so much as sent back in time, in which case he would have no memory of the machine nor of the use to which it had been put. It would have been as ironic for the inhabitants of McElvane's Star II. They would doubtless have looked forward to keeping this contact with Earth open and fail to realize that McElvane's construction differed appreciably from theirs. He virtually junked it, said he had no idea what it could be used for, and didn't know how to operate it. And the telescope? Oh, he kept that. He said he had some interest in astronomy and meant to develop that if time permitted. So much ran in the family then. Yes, more than that, old McElvane had a trick of seeming shy and self-conscious. So did this nephew of his. Wherever he came from, his origins must have been backward. I suspect he was ashamed of them, and if I had to guess, I'd put him in the Kentucky Hill Country or the Ozarks. Modern concepts seem to be pretty well too much for him, and his thinking would have been considerably more natural at the turn of the century. I had to see him several times. The police chivied him a little, but not much. He was so obviously innocent of everything that there was nothing for them in him. The search for the old man didn't last long. No one had seen him after that last night at Bixby's, and since everyone had already long since concluded that he was mentally a little off-center, it was easy to conclude that he had wandered away somewhere, probably an amnesiac. That he might have anticipated that is indicated in the hasty preparation of his will, which came out of the blue, said Barnvall, who drew it up for him. I felt sorry for him. For whom? The nephew. He seemed so lost, you know, like a man who wanted to remember something, but couldn't. I noticed the several times when I tried to talk to him I had the feeling each time that there was something he wanted desperately to say. It hovered always on the rim of his awareness, but somehow there was no bridge to it, no clue to put it into words. He tried so hard for something he couldn't put his finger on. What became of him? Oh, he's still around. I think he found a job somewhere. As a matter of fact, I saw him just the other evening. He had apparently just come from work and he was standing in front of Bixby's with his face pressed to the window looking in. I came up nearby and watched him. Leopold and Alexander were sitting inside, a couple of lonely old men looking out, and a lonely young man looking in. There was something in McElvane's face, that same thing I had noticed so often before, a kind of expression that seemed to say there was something he ought to know, something he ought to remember, to do, to say, but there was no way in which he could reach back to it. Or forward, I said with a rye smile. As you like, said Harrigan, pour me another, will you? I did, and he took it. That poor devil, he muttered. He'd be happier if he could only get back to where he came from. Wouldn't we all, I asked. But nobody ever goes home again. Perhaps McElvane never had a home like that. You'd have thought so if you could have seen his face looking in at Leopold and Alexander. Oh, it may have been a trick of the streetlight there. It may have been my imagination. But it sticks to my memory, and I keep thinking how alike the two were. Old McElvane tried so desperately to find someone who could believe him, and his nephew now trying just as hard to find someone to accept him or a place he could accept on the only terms he knows.