 The Old Goat by Charles L. Fontenay. It's been said that the soul is the form that makes the body, which may just possibly explain what happened on that fatal day at Ivy College. Dr. Angstrom was known to his students and many of his colleagues on the faculty as the Old Goat. Very appropriate that name. He had the disposition of a goat with dyspepsia. He had the cold blue eyes of a goat. He had the waggling whiskers of a goat. Perhaps it's in memory of Dr. Angstrom that Ivy College has a goat for its mascot now. Dr. Angstrom was even more goatish than usual that day last summer when half a dozen top scientists in the field gathered to see his preview experiment on matter transmission of a live animal. He had been working hard for weeks on the transmitter and keeping up classes at the same time, which did not improve his disposition. Besides, he had a real goat for an experimental animal and goats are notoriously hard on the nervous system. This particular animal at the moment the scientists entered was straining at his rope trying to get a mouthful of tablecloth, which graced a nearby table full of jars and retorts. Filling this, the goat exhibited that typical lack of discrimination in matters edible and began to chew on his rope. I felt a little out of place among all these giant brains. My reason for being there was that I had been serving during my college career as a sort of a factotum and fetching carryman for Dr. Angstrom. And I was to take notes for him. I had acquired considerable affection for the old goat. Maybe that's one reason I hate to see his great scientific work kept under wraps because people still insist it's dangerous. I have proved to my own satisfaction that the matter transmitter works. Dr. Angstrom told the assembled scientists, I have made a number of transmissions of inanimate matter. In theory it should work just as well for animate objects and I have invited you to be present at the first test of this theory. I need not go into detail with you about the basic theory of matter transmission. The transmitter itself picks up the atomic and electronic image of the object inside it, much as a television scanner picks up a scene, except that it is done in three dimensions instead of two. This is made possible by the four-dimensional element which is the heart of the apparatus and was made available to us through recent intra-atomic research. The receiver picks up the image as a television receiver does except again in three dimensions. The matter is not duplicated because the transmitter strips down the object within it as it transmits. Now the question that has been raised by some scientists about the transmission of animate objects is whether the soul or life force can be transmitted. I consider the question ridiculous and will prove it so. It is my contention that such life force is not a thing apart from the physical shell. The matter transmitter was a large closed cylinder on one side of the room. The receiver was a similar cylinder on the other. Both were raised slightly from the floor. As a sort of hors d'oeuvre, Dr. Angstrom transmitted a large chunk of lead across the room, then a glass jar. In each case the object was placed in the transmitter and a moment later removed from the receiver across the room. There was no possible way for it to have been moved across the intervening space except by broadcast transmission. As you see, said Dr. Angstrom, I have eliminated the necessity for a switch by building the switch into the door of the transmitter. As soon as the door is closed, transmission occurs. Now we shall send our animate object. He untied the goat and, with some difficulty, hauled the animal by its collar to the transmitter. There the goat balks and Dr. Angstrom, having got its head through the door, got behind it and shoved heartily, hanging onto the edge of the door so he could shut it quickly when the goat was inside. As goats will, the goat suddenly changed its mind and leaped into the transmitter. Caught off balance, Dr. Angstrom fell in after it and the door, given a last frantic jerk, slammed on them both. There were gasps of horror and alarm from the scientists, but I held up my hand to calm them. There's no danger, gentlemen, I said. It's just as well this way. I happened to know that Dr. Angstrom's next step, after proving to you with the goat that animate objects could be transmitted, was to prove that human beings could also be transmitted. He planned to be his own first subject. With serene confidence, I went to the receiver and threw open the door. Just as I had anticipated, the goat leapt out unharmed, followed by Dr. Angstrom. I told you animate objects could be transmitted successfully, said the goat triumphantly, said Dr. Angstrom, and began eating the tablecloth. End of The Old Goat by Charles L. Fontenay. Recording by Colleen McMahon. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Eyes Have It by James McKimmy Jr. Joseph Heidel looked around the dinner table at the Five Men, hiding his examination by a thin screen of smoke from his cigar. He was a large man with thick blonde gray hair cut close to his head. In three more months, he would be 52, but his face and body had the vital look of a man 15 years younger. He was the president of the Superior Council, and he had been at that post, the highest post on the occupied planets of Mars, four of the six years that he had lived here. As his eyes flicked from one face to another, his fingers unconsciously tapped the table, making a sound like a miniature drum roll. One, two, three, four, five. Five top officials selected, tested, screened on Earth to form the nucleus of governmental rule on Mars. Heidel's bright narrow eyes flicked, his fingers drummed. Which one? Who was the imposter? The ringer. Who was the Martian? Sadler's dry voice cut through the silence. This is not an ordinary meeting, then, Mr. President. Heidel's cigar came up and was clamped around his teeth. He stared into Sadler's eyes. No, Sadler, it isn't. This is a very special meeting. He grinned around his cigar. This is where we take the clothes off the sheep and find the wolf. Heidel watched the five faces, Sadler, Meehan, Locke, Forbes, Clark. One of them. Which one? I'm a little thick tonight, said Harry Locke. I didn't follow what you meant. No, no, of course not, Heidel said, still grinning. I'll explain it. He could feel himself alive at that moment, every nerve-seeing, every muscle-toned. His brain was quick and his tongue rolled the words out smoothly. This was the kind of situation Heidel handled best, a tense, traumatic situation, full of atmosphere and suspense. Here it is, Heidel continued, simply and brief. He touched the cigar against an ashtray, watching with slitted, shining eyes while the ashes spilled away from his glowing tip. He bent forward suddenly. We have an imposter among us, gentlemen, a spy. He waited, holding himself tense against the table, letting the sting of his words have their effect. Then he leaned back carefully. And tonight I'm going to expose this imposter right here at this table. He searched the faces again, looking for a tell-tale twitch of a muscle, a movement of a hand, a shading in the look of an eye. There was only Sadler, Meehan, Locke, Forbes, Clark, looking like themselves, quizzical, polite, respecting. One of us, you say, Clark said noncommittally, his phrase neither a question nor a positive statement. That is true, said Heidel. Bit of a situation at that, said Forbes, letting a faint smile touch his lips. Understatement, Forbes, Heidel said. Understatement. Didn't mean to sound capricious, Forbes said, his smile down. Of course not, Heidel said. Edward Clark cleared his throat. May I ask, sir, how this was discovered and how it was narrowed down to the Superior Council? Surely, Heidel said crisply. No need to go into the troubles we've been having. You know all about that. But how these troubles originated is the important thing. Do you remember the missionary affair? When we were going to convert the Eastern Industrial Section. That's right, Heidel said, remembering, horrible massacre. Bloody, agreed John Meehan. Sixty-seven missionaries lost, Heidel said. I remember the Martian note of apology, Forbes said. We have worshiped our own God for two hundred thousand years. We would prefer to continue. Thank you. Blinking nerve, eh? Either here nor there, Heidel said abruptly. The point is that no one knew those sixty-seven men were missionaries except myself and you five men. Heidel watched the faces in front of him. One case, he said. Here's another. Do you recall when we outlawed the free selection system? Another bloody one, said Sadler. Forty-eight victims in that case, Heidel said. Forty-eight honorable colonists sanctioned by us to legally marry any couple on the planet and sent out over the country to abolish the horrible free-love situation. Forty-eight justices of the peace, dead as Pickerel's, Forbes said. Do you remember that note of apology? Heidel asked, a slight edge in his voice. He examined Forbes' eyes. Matter of fact, yes, said Forbes, returning Heidel's stare steadily. You love your way, we'll love ours. Terribly caustic, what? Terribly, said Heidel. Although that too is neither here nor there. The point again, no one except the six of us right here knew what those 48 men were sent out to do. Heidel straightened in his chair. The slow-grating voice of Forbes had taken some of the sharpness out of the situation. He wanted to hold their attention minutely, so that when he was ready, the dramatics of his actions would be tense and telling. There is no use, he said, in going into the details of the other incidents. You remember them. When we try to install a free press? The sensible art galleries? I am a Martian Day, wrestling, and all the rest. I remember the wrestling business awfully well, said Forbes. Martians drove a wrestler through the street in a yellow jetmobile, had flowers around his neck, and a crown on his head. He was dead, of course, stuffed, I think. Alright, snapped Heidel. Each one of our efforts to offer these people a chance to benefit from our culture was snapped off at the bud. And only a leak in the Superior Council could have caused it. It is a simple matter of deduction. There is one of us, here tonight, who is responsible, and I am going to expose him. Heidel's voice was a low, vibrant sound that echoed in the large dining room. The five men waited. Forbes, his long arms crossed. Saddler, his eyes on his fingernails. Mehan, blinking placidly. Clark, twirling his thumbs. Locke, examining his cigarette. Kasit, Heidel called. A grey-haired man in a black butler's coat appeared. We'll have our wine now, Heidel said. There was a slight quirk in his mouth, so that his teeth showed between his lips. The butler moved methodically from place to place, pouring wine from a silver decanter. Now then Kasit, Heidel said, when the butler had finished, would you be kind enough to fetch me that little pistol from the mantel over there? He smiled outwardly this time. The situation was right again. He was handling things, inch by inch, without interruption. He took the gun from the old man's hand. One more thing, Kasit. Would you please light the candles on the table and turn out the rest of the lights in the room? I've always been a romanticist, Heidel said, smiling around the table. Candle light with my wine. Oh, excellent, said Locke. Quite, said Forbes. Heidel nodded and waited while the butler lit the candles and snapped off the overhead lights. The yellow flames wavered on the table as the door closed gently behind the butler. Now then, Heidel said, feeling the tingling in his nerves, this gentleman is a replica of an antique of the 20th century. A working replica, I might add. It was called a P-38, if my memory serves me. He held the pistol up so that the candlelight reflected against the glistening black handle and the blue barrel. There was a polite murmur as the five men stretched forward to look at the gun in Heidel's hands. Crude, Sadler said, but devilish looking, Forbes added. My hobby, Heidel said, I would like to add that not only do I collect these small arms, but I am very adept at using them. Something I will demonstrate to you very shortly, he added, grinning. Say now, nodded mehan. That should be jolly, Forbes said, laughing courteously. I believe it will at that, Heidel said. Now if you will notice, gentlemen, he said while touching the clip ejector of the pistol and watching the black magazine slip out into the other hand. I have but five cartridges in this clip. Just five, you see. They all bent forward, blinking. Good, said Heidel, shoving the clip back into the grip of the gun. He couldn't keep his lips from curling in his excitement, but his hands were as steady as though his nerves had turned to ice. The five men leaned back in their chairs. Now then, mehan, he said to the man on the opposite side of the table. Would you mind moving over to your left so that the end of the table is clear? Oh, said mehan, yes, of course. He grinned at the others and there was a ripple of amusement as mehan slid his chair to the left. Yes, said Heidel. All pretty foolish looking, perhaps, but it won't be a few minutes when I discover the man of a Martian who's in this group. I'll tell you that. His voice rose and rang in the room and he brought the glistening pistol down with a crack against the table. There was dead silence and Heidel found his smile again. All right, now I'll explain a bit further. Before Dr. Kingley, the head of our laboratory, died a few days ago, he made a very peculiar discovery. As you know, there has been no evidence to indicate that the Martian is any different physically from the Earthman. Not until Dr. Kingley made his discovery, that is. Heidel looked from face to face. This is how it happened, he went on. Dr. Kingley, he paused and glanced about in false surprise. I beg your pardon, gentlemen. We might as well be enjoying our wine. Excellent port, very old, I believe, shall we? He asked, raising his glass. Five other glasses shimmered in the candlelight. Let us toast success to the unveiling of the Rotten Martian who sits among us, shall we? Heidel's smile glinted and he drank a quarter of his glass. The five glasses tipped and were returned to the table. Again there was silence as the men waited. To get back, Heidel said, listening with excitement in his own voice, Dr. Kingley, in the process of an autopsy on a derelict Martian, made a rather startling discovery. I beg your pardon, Forbes said, did you say autopsy? Yes, said Heidel. We've done this frequently, not according to base orders you understand. He winked. But a little infraction now and then is necessary. I see, said Forbes. I just didn't know about that. No, you didn't, did you? said Heidel, looking at Forbes closely. At any rates, Dr. Kingley had developed in his work a preserving solution, which he used in such instances thereby prolonging the time for examination of the cadaver without experiencing deterioration of the tissues. This solution was merely injected into the bloodstream, and Sorry again, sir, but you said bloodstream. Yes, Heidel nodded. This had to be done before the cadaver was a cadaver, you see. I think so, yes, said Forbes, leaning back again. Murdered for an autopsy. What? Heidel's fingers closed around a pistol. I don't like that, Forbes. Thoroughly sorry, sir. To get on, Heidel said finally, his voice a cutting sound, Dr. Kingley had injected this solution, and then, well, at any rate, when he returned to his laboratory it was night. His laboratory was black as pitch. I'm trying to paint the picture for you gentlemen, and the cadaver was stretched out on the table, you see. And before Dr. Kingley switched on the lights, he saw the eyes of the dead Martian glowing in the dark like a pair of hot coals. Weird, said Sadler. Ghostly, said Clark. The important thing, Heidel said curtly, is that Dr. Kingley discovered the difference then between the Martian and the Earthman. The difference is the eyes. The solution, you see, had reacted chemically to the membranes of the eyeballs, so that it happened they lit up like electric lights. I won't go into what Dr. Kingley found further when he dissected the eyeballs. Let it suffice to say, the Martian eyeball is a physical element entirely different from our own. At least from those of five of us, I should say. His grin gleamed. He was working this precisely and carefully, and it was effective. Now, however, he continued, it is this sixth man who is at issue right now. The fly in the soup shall we say, and in just a few seconds I am going to exterminate that fly. He picked up the pistol from the table. As I told you, gentlemen, I am quite versatile with this weapon. I am a dead shot, in other words, and I am going to demonstrate it to you. He glanced from face to face. You will notice that since Mr. Mehan has moved, I have a clear field across the table. I don't believe a little lead in the woodwork will mar the room too much, would you say, Forbes? Forbes sat very still. No, I shouldn't think so, sir. Good. Because I am going to snuff out each of the four candles in the center of this table by shooting the wick away. You follow me, gentlemen? Locke, Mehan, Sadler? Heads nodded. Then perhaps you are already ahead of me. When the last candle is extinguished, we will have darkness, you see. And then I think we'll find our Martian rat. Because, as a matter of fact, I have taken the privilege of adding to the wine we have been drinking, Dr. Kingley's preserving solution, non-tasteful, non-harmful, except that is to one man in this room. Heidel motioned his gun. And God rest the man's soul. Because if you will remember, I have five bullets in the chamber of this pistol, four for the candles and one for the brain of the man whose eyes light up when the candles go out. There was a steady, deadly silence while the flames of the candles licked the air. I think, however, Heidel said, savoring the moment, that we should have one final toast before we proceed. He lifted his glass. May the receiver of the fifth bullet rest in peace. Drink up. The glasses were drained and placed again on the table. Watch carefully, Heidel said, and lifted the pistol. He aimed at the first candle. The trigger was taught against his finger. The explosion loudened the room. One, said Heidel. He aimed again. The explosion. Two, he said, rather good, eh? Oh yes, Sadler said. Quite, said Forbes. Again, said Heidel. A third shot echoed. Now, he said, pointing the muzzle at the last candle. I would say this is it, wouldn't you, gentlemen? And as soon as this one goes, I'm afraid one of us is going to find a bullet right between his sparkling eyes. Are you ready? He squinted one eye and looked down the sights. He squeezed the trigger, the room echoed, and there was blackness. Heidel held this pistol poised over the table. Silence. Whoa, said Forbes finally. There you have it, surprise, what? Heidel balanced the pistol. Feeling his palm go suddenly moist against the black grip, and he looked around at the five pairs of glowing eyes. But it was shock, I should imagine, said, discovering all of us as it were. Heidel looked his lips. How? How could you do this? Forbes remained motionless. Simple as one, you know. Put men on rockets going back to Earth in place of returning colonists, study, observe, learn, shift a record here and there, forge, change pictures, all that sort of thing. Poor contact between here and Earth, you know. Not too difficult. I'll get one of you, heidel said, still balancing his pistol tightly. Well, possibly, Forbes said. But no more than one, and you have three guns pointed at you. We can see you perfectly, you know, as though it were broad daylight. One shiver of that pistol and you're dead. Why have you done this? Heidel said suddenly. Why? Everything was done for the Martian. We tried to give you freedom and culture, the benefit of our knowledge. We didn't like your wrestlers, Heidel's nostrils twitched, and suddenly he swung the pistol. There was a crashing explosion, and then silence. Good, said Forbes. I don't think he got the last one fired. You're all right, then, asked Meehan, putting his gun on the table. Oh, quite. Rather dramatic altogether, eh? Nerve-tingling, Locke agreed. Forbes turned in his chair and called, Okay, sit. The butler opened the door to the darkened room, hesitated, and reached for the light switch. No, no, Forbes said, smiling. Never mind that. Come over here, will you, please? The butler crossed the room slowly. It's all right, Forbes said. The president will notice nothing whatsoever, Kassit. Would you mind pouring us all another glass of wine? I'm frightfully crazy about that port, eh? There was a murmur of agreeing voices. The butler lifted the silver to cancer and filled glasses, moving easily and surely in the darkness. Cheers, said Forbes. Cheers, said the others, over a clink of glasses. The end. The Eyes Have It by James McKimmy, Jr. Of Time and Texas by William F. Nolan. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Dale Grossman. Open the C. Sidwick Ohm Time Door. Take but a single step. And Of Time and Texas by William F. Nolan. In One Fail Swoop, declared Professor C. Sidwick Ohms, releasing a thin blue ribbon of pipe smoke and rocking back on his heels. I intend to solve the greatest problem facing mankind today. Colonizing the polar waste was a messy and fruitless business. And the Enforced Birth Control Program can't be enforced. Overpopulation still remains the thorn in our side, gentlemen. He paused to look each of the assembled reporters in the eye. There is but one answer. Mass annihilation quavered a cub reporter. Posh, boy, certainly not. The Professor bristled. The answer is time. Time? Exactly not at Ohms. With a dramatic flourish, he swept aside a red velvet drape to reveal a tall structure of gleaming metal. Has witness. Golly, what's that thing? queried the cub. This thing, replied the Professor acidly, is the C. Sidwick Ohms Time Door. Willikers, a time machine. Not so, not so. Please, boy, a time machine in the popular sense is impossible. Wild fancy. However, the Professor tapped the dotty from his pipe. By a mathematically precise series of infinite calculations I have developed the remarkable C. Sidwick Ohms Time Door. Open it. I speak but a single step. And presto. The past. But where in the past, prof? Ohms smiled easily down at the tense ring of faces. Gentlemen, beyond this door lies the sprawling giant of the Southwest. Enough land to absorb Earth's overflow like that, he snapped his fingers. I speak, gentlemen, of Texas, 1957. What if the Texans object? They have no choice. The Time Door is strictly a one-way passage. I saw to that it will be utterly impossible for anyone in 1957 to re-enter our world of 2057. And now, the past awaits. He tossed aside his professorial robes. Under them, Sidwick Ohms wore an ancient and bizarre costume. Black writing boots. Highly polished and trimmed in silver. Woolchaps. A wide, jewel-studded belt with an immense buckle. A brightly checked shirt topped with a brazing red bandana. Briskly, he snapped a tall 10-gallon hat on his head and stepped to the Time Door. Gripping an ebony handle, he tugged upward. A huge metal door oiled slowly back. Time, said Sidwick Ohms simply, gesturing toward the grey nothingness beyond the door. The reporters and photographers surged forward. Notebooks and cameras at the ready. What if the door swings shut after you're gone? One of them asked. A groundless fear, boy, assured Ohms, I have seen to it no one else. And now, good-bye, gentlemen, or to use the proper colloquialism, so long, ombres. Ohms, bowed from the waist, gave his 10-gallon hat a final tug and took a single step forward and did not disappear. He stood, blinking. Then he swore, beat upon the unyielding wall of greyness with clenched fists all back panting to his desk. I've failed, he moaned in a lost voice. The C. Sidwick Ohms' time door is a botch. He buried his head in trembling hands. The reporters and photographers began to file out. Suddenly the professor raised his head. Listen, he warned. A slow rumbling muted with distance emanated from the dense greyness of the time door. Faint yips and whoops were distinct among the rumble. The sound grew steadily to a thousand beating drums to a rolling sea of thunder. Shrieking, the reporters and photographers scattered for the stairs. Ah, another naughty problem to be solved, mused Professor Sidwick Ohms hanging with some difficulty onto one of the 3,000 Texas steers stampeding into the laboratory. The End of Time and Texas by William Nolan. Max, by William Logan. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Thanks for watching. I'll see you next time. Next, kid, one of the men said. A big red-haired bully with his sleeves rolled back and muscles like ropes on his big hairy arms. Stot knows little Max Brack. I called him back and asked him, what's your name? I said, what's your name? I said, what's your name? I said, Max Brack. I called him a name. He only laughed back at me and turned his back, waving a hand for the bartender. Maybe in a big city in the north it would be different, but it probably would not. This toleration we hear about is no more good than an open fight and there must be understanding instead. But here, near the border, just on the American side of the border is called Fair Game and a 17-year-old like me is less than nothing to them to the white ones who go to the big bars. I thought carefully about what to do and finally when I had made up my mind I went for him and tried to hit him. But the other men held me back and I was kicking and shouting with my legs off the ground. When I stopped they put me down so I started for the big red-haired and they had to stop me again. The red-haired man was laughing all this time. I wanted to run back to my own family and their little house and yet running would have been wrong. I was too angry to run so I stayed. My sister, I said, my sister is a witch and I will get her to put a curse on you. I was very angry. You must understand this. And of course they had no idea that my sister is a real witch and her curses are real and only last year Manuel Valdez had died from the effects of her curse. Of all people sometimes I wish I were my sister most of all to curse people and see them shrivel and sicken and choke and die. Go ahead, half-pint. One of the other men yelled get your sister and put a curse on me. I bet she knows who I am. I have been with every mechs girl this side of the border. This may be seen red. My sister is pure and must be pure since she is a witch and she is not like some of the others even aside from that. I have heard her talk about them and I know. I called him a name and I knew him and hit him. My fist against his solid side felt good, but some other men pulled me off again. Yet it was impossible to leave. This was wrong for me and I had to make it right. I shall get my father to fight you since he is a giant ten feet tall. The men laughed at me not knowing, of course, that my father is a giant ten feet tall in truth and my mother eats siren like those in the books. The old books with spells in her eyes and strange power. They did not know I was not a daydreaming child but a man who told the truth. And they laughed. I grew angry again and told them many things calling them names in Spanish which they did not understand. That only made them laugh the more. Finally I left. It was necessary for me to leave since I was not wanted but it was necessary too for me to make things right. Nights later they were dead for what they had said and done. For I tell the truth always and I had told them about my sister and my father and my mother but one thing I had not told them. I am sorry they could never know I was the wing thing that frightened and killed them one by one. The end of Max by William Logan Deep Freeze by Robert Donald Locke. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Chad Jackson Deep Freeze by Robert Donald Locke. Life and the future belong to the strong. So Dollar laughed as he fled Earth and mankind's death agony but the last laugh was yet to come. Edwin Dollar's nervous stubby fingers spilled three precious drops of his fifth Scotch Highball as he veered his head away from the horrors on the telescreen. He was in time to observe Garth enter by the paneled tunnel door. Two more hours and the ship will be ready Garth announced. The men still know nothing. His thin lips cracked into a forced smile. I slipped them the poison at noon mess. There'll be no tails out of those grease balls. Dollar's pudgy features relaxed. Just you and I Garth to survive. The others stupid cheap let them die. Lust spread his heavy cheeks into a wide grin. As for women, there'll be time enough for them on Venus. I know Garth said slowly plague untouched women. It'll be like being reborn again. His pain somber eyes lit up. It's right good we understand each other. Just see that we continue understanding one another. Edwin Dollar snapped. I'm still the boss. The last of America's industrial tycoons refocused his attention on the world telecasts. Since breakfast, he had sat glued to the news while a battery of video announcers reported from central strongholds on the progress of the bacterial epidemic that had already swept the Atlantic seaboard. Any late news Garth asked over Dollar's shoulder. Free information I picked up a flash from Denver just before you came in. Bad eh? You said it Garth. A thousand new cases. Some think the Asiatics got another two or three missiles through the Canadian radar barrier. More likely the germs hitchhiked westward on human carriers. Gangs of them streaming out of the eastern states. The mobs are like vermin. You can't hold them back. They sneak through the quarantine at a hundred points. They're people, aren't they? said Garth quietly. People? There are no more people than the loudish mechs you just did away with today. Under your orders, Garth pointed out. But it had to be done. Let's not be squeamish children. Yes, so it did. You're safe enough. You and I both, Dollard completed. As long as we're together, we're both safe. Dollard gripped his hands together and glanced nervously about the timbered walls of his high Sierra Lodge, that this carefully guarded retreat would protect him from the grisly crawling death that was demolishing his invincible country. Even in the presence of his most trusted hireling, Garth, who had been executive officer of Dollard's Vast Combine, the millionaire was ashamed to admit how the port from Colorado, which claimed the enemy-seeded plague had already crossed the broad prairie states, had been enough to send him into a cowering state of panic. And now, even after assurance, they could soon take off in his private vessel bound for bacteria-free space and the antiseptic sanctuary of Venus. He was still suffering a paroxysm of fear so great that not even a double slug of his costly hoarded alcohol could banish it completely. Outside, hired thugs, outfitted with hydro flame rifles, patrolled the two roads entering the narrow valley, armed with orders to shoot to kill all unauthorized intruders. Already, the guard's task was proving more difficult, as refugees from the Los Angeles area poured into the mountains by way of Bishop and Highway 395. Ragged, foodless marauders, they swarmed through the resort villages in vicious bands, plundering and murdering in feudal efforts to stave off starvation and death. Dollard got up from his position before the tele-set, squinting sidewise at Garth, while he poured himself three fingers of additional courage. You're not sorry, leaving your wife, he inquired? Ellen meant a lot to you, didn't she, Garth? Garth shrugged. She's safe enough where she is. That's all that matters. Dollard poked him in the ribs. All that matters is survival. You know that, Garth, he chuckled. Why bother to save anyone else? That's right, sir, said Garth. The muscles of his face continued to compress his features into an unbending mask. And one thing's certain, there's no hope for humanity, not on this planet at any rate, or not for a long while unpositive. You know what they're saying now? The big domes are asserting that only a complete mutation among the unborn can save the higher forms of organic life. Get this, Garth. They say that all the vertebrates, and particularly all mammals, will have to develop new germ-resistant species, or the plague will eventually kill off even the strongest. What's more, those damned asiatics are now in the same boat with us at last. Garth mulled over the news. He said, then any survivors on Earth will have to mutate into something kind? That sums it up. Edward Dollard raised his highball. Here's to the homo the sap. He said in a mox salute to the vanishing human race. The chump had a short life, but a merry one. On Terra, anyhow, the poor sucker spent his days in a dream world of fraternity and equality. And all along, we, his superiors, enjoyed the liberty to work him to death for our own benefit. It's a shame there won't be any Earthly historians to record man's final irony, how we who made the full use of hordes for our convenience should be virtually the only ones to escape the hordes' destruction. I see, mused Garth. That means there's not really much hope for the ones we're leaving behind. I guess I'd always thought, as words trailed off, that there be a few survivors, Dollard supplied. Perhaps there will, more probably there won't. What does it matter? There's only one chance and a thousand of licking the plague, from the way the bacteriologists are wailing, and even if the race does survive, for instance would it have, battling who knows what kind of monsters some of the other forms of life are bound to change into? No, I'm here to tell you Garth, the remainder of the race is better off exterminated. The few plague-free people we'll find on Venus will be enough to launch a greater, prouder race, provided of course, that I'm their leader. The industrialists waddled back to the telescreen, flicked a metal knob that brought into view a transmission on one of the few ultra-high frequency channels, still in operation. Electrically produced colors provided high visual acuity to a scene that depicted Cleveland in flames. Decontamination squads with fire bombs were shown as they sought to cleanse Euclid Avenue of its infected dead. Scenes like this have been duplicated in a dozen cities already this afternoon, Edwin Dollard said. It'd be enough to turn the stomach of a lesser man. Frankly, I'd hope the health squads could contain the epidemic, but I guess at heart I never entertained any real prospect as long as we've got a little time to expend, we might as well sit here and enjoy the sight. Sit and wallow in it if you like, replied Garth. I think I'd better check the road guards once more. If those plug-ugly smell at your plan to desert them, our lives won't be worth a punctured isotope. You know I'd go with you, Dollard sighed, but I fear my presence antagonizes the lower classes somehow. Considering the pay they're drawing down, I'll never understand why, either. Garth strode to the lodge's steel-plated front entrance, a formidable barrier designed to match the strength of a space cruiser's main airlock. Standing opposite the heavy circular plates, he gestured before the five heat-sensitive electronic tumblers and the heavy doors swung open on oiled hinges. When he stepped outside, the barrier closed behind him. Alone inside the timbered hideaway, Edwin Dollard immediately shed the affected air of corpulent lassitude he generally displayed in the presence of others. After his attempt to sneak off the planet approached, it was essential that he attend to the completion of his personal preparations. Above the mantle of the lodge's thermeomic fireplace was hung a brilliant cascading stereo of Yosemite Falls in misty motion. Dollard pressed a hidden button. The mantle sank to ground level and the stereo swung outward, bringing into view a shining cubicle locker of beryllium steel. From this hiding place, Dollard withdrew two loaded hydroflame pistols, which he strapped under each armpit. Next, he brought out a palm-sized stunner which he concealed in his hand by the aid of a wrist strap. The fourth object to emerge was a small chunky bag from which dangled tightly-drawn leather thongs. Dollard opened the pouch and poured the contents onto a sweaty palm, a thousand carats of glistening, sirteous diamonds from his own private minds. The rarity and value of these jewels, he knew, would be increased by the collapse of the terrestrial civilization that it refined them and polished their rainbow facets. These gleaming objects of unfixed price were the guardians that would stand by him during the months it would take to re-establish himself among the colonies on Venus. Not only would they purchase luxuries, but also new servants, fabrication plants, or boats, possibly even governments. Above all, they would serve to bribe Dollard's way through the tight network of Venusian immigration officials who might seek, in accord with the laws of the sparsely settled but independent world to forbid his landing as refugee from a diseased planet. A full hour passed before Garth returned, an hour that Edwin Dollard spent pacing the narrow confines of the lodge's central room. His eyes constantly consulted the slow march of minutes on the luminescent dial of his platinum chronometer. For while it was not imperative that the space-yacht he had refurbished should soar starward at the precise hour agreed upon, there did reign a crucial period of five hours immediately at hand during which the most advantageous passage to Venus should be commenced. When Garth finally reappeared through the steel doorway, his thin long face reflected the strain he also felt as departure time neared. I checked the roadway two miles up the valley he reported, no activity in sight. There was a riot in Leavening, or Swo-Won-Ear Guards told me, and a big-pitch battle in Bishop between low lenders and high lenders. Another day or two and they'll swarming all over this region, Dollard said. You can bet their first reaction would be to dismantle the ship at sight, Garth informed him. Luckily we're getting out in time. If the mobs couldn't pilot the vessel themselves, it'd be human nature to see it that nobody else got to do so, either. Misery loves company, even in the face of death. The scum, said Dollard. He dawned a jaunty space-cap he had often worn on pleasure flights to his outlying holdings. Hooking his thumbs in his belt, he grinned. Well, Garth, shall we go? Garth nodded. He detached a torch that was collapsed to his waist, then opened the tunnel door that was carved out of a braced section of the real wall where the lodge had been built to shore into the mountainside. Entering, the two men threaded a winding route through a narrow dripping passageway, guided by the thin yellow beam of Garth's light. They emerged several hundred feet further on in a valley of long shadows, cut off from the world on three sides by abrupt cliffs. No ravines opened on this valley. Only by a desperate climb over the surrounding peaks could it be reached, and hence it had been immune to spying eyes. Here, amounting to a feat of superb pilotage in itself, Dollard's vessel had been landed weeks earlier in anticipation of just such a need as it now served. Sturdy shrubberies screamed the tunnel exit, although concealment had not proved to be necessary. As they broke into the light, Dollard and Garth pushed aside stunted conifers, and half stumbled, half ran down a shale-strewn incline which led them to the valley's floor. A short northward walk brought them in view of the refitted spacecraft. Based on stubby fins, it pointed vertically at the sky. The high sharp ridges surrounding the valley blotted out the late afternoon sun, casting gloom upon the sheer rock walls and overhanging escarpments, and despite his previous acolytomization to Sierra altitudes, the thin sharp air made breathing difficult for Dollard. A short distance from where the vessel was cradled, the bodies of five cover-alled workmen lay in stiff-huddled forms. At the site, Dollard grunted. Efficient toxin, he commented, good work. Walking contemptuously past the bodies, the tycoon approached a work shack which had housed the spaceship mechanics. He picked up an aluminum platform ladder which rested on the trampled grass. Swinging it above his head, he brought it back to the vessel and hooked it against the rear fin so that the tubular platform lodged itself against the ship's lowest loading hatch. He turned to Garth. Too bad we can't run an engine to met check before taking off, but no mechanics. Garth said, knocking off the men was your idea. My conscience will rest easy with it, Dollard returned. I was making a joke. Very funny joke, said Garth. Very funny for you too, said Dollard. His finger squeezed to the murmur-mounted grips of the stunner concealed in the palm of his left hand. A slight eye-stinging flash burst into the fading light. As the wave moved outward from the tiny device, Garth stiffened and pitched forward, bouncing perceptibly before his body finally succumbed to the compulsion of gravity. Dollard aimed the hard toe of his metallic shoe and kicked him viciously in the temple. Garth's body did not stir. I would have liked an engine to mechanic check very much, Dollard said thoughtfully, but these things can't always be planned need enough to meet every detail. There has to be leeway for diverse of action, should the situation merit it. In this case, the situation seemed to have merit it rather fully. He began to climb the narrow aluminum rungs to the propped up ladder. After reaching the platform, he stood on the grilled support, his fat panning bolt braced against the upper cord of the stabilizer fin. He looked back briefly at Garth's unconscious form on the ground. You were a fool, Garth. A fool to believe that would take you along with me, to share a new empire. Know when I lost complete respect for your intelligence? It was when you banked that past services for me would assure you a future salvation. Very stupid. Didn't know your usefulness would end for me the moment I left Terra? Why should have dragged you along to drink up my oxygen, eat my food, and undermine me later on? No, friend Garth, you were all along just as much a tool as those uniformed carcasses you poisoned on my behalf. May you join them in the sad reflection they must now be experiencing. Garth's paralyzed body lay still. Dollard pressed against the outer panel of the hatch and stepped into the opening that was made by the sliding section. He disappeared into the bowels of the ship and the hatch closed after him. A few seconds later, a rumbling inside announced the vessel's engines had come to life. Stubby atmospheric wings unfolded into place on the shining metal sides. Rocket vents below the scorched tail surface began to glow a cherry red as fused gases bit into the pitted ground. The ship's entire length trembled slightly as it left the surface. Climbing into the blue with an ever-increasing whoosh, it described an arc over the jagged peaks and vanished. Another half hour passed before the cataleptic effect of the stunner eased sufficiently for Garth to sit up and rest his chest and arms upon his knees. He rubbed his forehead, felt the bruise of this temple, and gazed speciatively at the sky. Then he stayed the bubbling earth only a few feet away from him and realized how close he had been to death from the space vessel's glass. He shuddered a moment. After his head cleared, he struggled to his feet and walked over to the damp grass to the workshop. Entering, he searched through a chemical cabinet until he found the vials he wanted. From them he compounded a liquid mixture which he forced into the ampule of a hypodermic needle. When he stepped outside again, he saw the sky at dark and quickly with evening. He walked over to the stricken mechanics and administered an injection into the neck muscles of each man. The counter toxin took hold, speedily erasing the depressant effect of the drug Garth had originally fed the man, a non-fatal dosage of an irritant similar to the one Dollar had ordered be used to slay them. He supervised a lot of Dollar's underhanded work for him, Garth told himself as he waited for the hypostimulant to react, but murdering helpless men had been something he had rebelled at. And now that Dollar had deserved him, at least he would have company on Terra during the last days of life. It was now come Garth had anticipated, although he had been unable to predict just when Dollar would launch his surprise attack. The men came too sluggishly, their reactions pathetic and confused. The first thing they appeared to notice when their conscious minds took hold of their environment was the empty circle of terrain where the space yacht had formally stood. Dollar took off, Garth explained. He drugged us all after we'd gotten the vessel in shape for him. The dirty swine he promised he'd take us, the men protested. Like so many other promises he never intended to keep said Garth. He told you men, for instance, the ship was headed for Luna. Me, he told he was bound for Venus. I think his destination is Venus, but he'll never get there. Not get there, why? Because of a little secret I never let him know, Garth replied, rubbing his nose and grinning riley. My wife is on Venus, where the plague can't reach her. And I promised myself days ago that Dollar should never be given the opportunity to infect that planet. That's one promise that has been kept. At least I know now that Elin will be safe for a while longer. But sir, the big boss is gone. What can you do with him flown the coop? Do now? I've already done it. Dollar thought of me as a fool, but instead I've shown him up as the real fool. A simpleton tricked by carelessness. There's a damned big surprise waiting for him in space. Garth looked up into the twilight sky where a few brilliant stars were now shining. His face born expression of exultant triumph. Yes, he said softly, a real surprise is just around the next curve for you, Edwin Dollar. I hope you enjoy it as well as you've enjoyed buying and selling men's souls. 500 miles above the sun-mirrowing Pacific Ocean, Dollar'd white great beads of perspiration from his shiny jowls. His thick cans tugged and wrestled with stubborn knobs that finally yielded enabling him to apply greater thrust to his stern rockets. From the moment of takeoff, it has seemed to him that the grim bowl of terra below him was taking a bigger bite out of acceleration than it should. Naturally, he hadn't expected his craft to operate with 100% efficiency considering the caliber of the technical help he employed on its refitting. But still, his towel curve should have brought him to his first coasting point four or five minutes earlier. By virtue of being his own pilot, he was obliged to astrogate by rule of thumb and occasional directive spurts from the course calculator. If mechanical troubles piled on top of him now, he'd have to surrender Kroll to his geromatic pilot while he moved aft to track down the power robbing malfunction. No mean task armed in this case with only a slide rule and whatever engineering knowledge remained to him after 30 years of high finance. Whatever the gremlin was, it wasn't exactly an auspicious start for a 50 million mile hop. He grunted and pressed his secondary firing buttons, boosting space velocity by a percentage that should shake the kinks out. At the 4,000 mile mark, the earth retreated to a green ball that floated atop a stream of unbearably bright stars. From this height above the planet's surface, now even the most powerful telescope would have revealed the scenes of rampant disease and flaming destruction being enacted on the broad continents below. The entire vessel shook in a kind of bone cracking vibration, lurching and lumbering as if some malign influence had tampered with every rivet and seamworld in her plates. More apprehensive than ever, Dollard finally yielded to his fears and surrendered his controls to the robot pilot. His huge body rendered almost weightless. He pulled himself along the rail guards of a catwalk that led to the unmanned engine room. Here he inspected every instrument dial to be found, although the readings on many of them were repeated on duplicates in the bow. It was then while the ship was still a thousand miles from the no-pull point where freewheeling alone had been known to carry vessels out of Terra's gravitational range and into Venus's orbit that disaster struck. The fuel being fed to exactly half of the rocket tubes choked out and the blasts from the remaining tubes increased proportionally. Under this new impetus, the vessel's frame shuttered. It's no suddenly described a wild arc among the gyrating stars. The diversion of inertia was a more severe blow than a meteor collision would have been. Thrust was an exceedingly difficult thing to plot in free space. Dollard's screaming and panic was flung against a network of metal braces. Despite his weightlessness, his mass was as great as ever and a sharp steel corner gouged a deep-bleeding slash in his puffy cheek. Sick and decrawled forward through the spinning ship until he was once more able to pull himself up into the pilot's chair. There he discovered the second battery of tubes had ceased firing about a minute after the first, but the changed vectors had already done their damage to both ship and heading. A quick run-through on the course calculator soon revealed to Dollard how desperate his position was. Mathematically, Venus was now a goal impossible to attain. To re-correct his altered heading would require more fuel than his tanks had carried at takeoff thanks to sabotage. He also had the vast gravitational field of the Sun to battle a powerful sucking force which, if left to work its will, could grow insidiously from a gentle tug of a few millimeters per second to a powerful acceleration 80 times terrestrial escape velocity. In this, without ever once relinquishing its hold on the slightest particle of mass in its grip. Cursing and fuming, Dollard plotted and re-plotted some of the rustiness of his brain wearing off as he matched his wits against the prospect of death by holocaust, but all the resources of higher mathematics failed to point towards a solution, an artery commenced to throb painfully above his ear. It was Garth who had engineered this hideous accident he told himself. The faithful, unsuspecting Garth had turned out to be a traitor. He was the one who had rigged the fuel lines so that at a certain predicted point along the course the flow along one set of conduits would be shunted to the other. He should have killed Garth instead of merely stunning him, Dollard thought angrily. For the twentieth time he fed three body calculations into the astro computer. Somehow, somewhere, in the maze of the Newtonian science there had to be an answer. The complexities of force and heading analysis weren't so great, but what machinery could eventually solve all the variables involved. That is, if only Sol's overwhelming gravitational attraction didn't provide a free sliding path to hell with no choice of alternates in the meanwhile. The click-click of the tape as it emerged from the electronic calculator seemed to present a different rhythm to Dollard's ears on the twenty-first try. Picking up the ribbon, he led his red and eyes run over the printed symbols translating them into finished equations. Elation suddenly sent his blood pressure soaring as the meaning of what he read became apparent. There was a solution. Of course, he could follow. One which, while it would not guide him to Venus, would prevent him from plunging into the sun. Eagley, he punched the figures for the heading onto a magnetized wire that would be fed into the gyro pilot. After the heading was set, he crawled towards the ship's stern dragging with him on a Hydrojet welding torch, a tool that could sear metal apart or join it by causing regulation of the molten rod protruding from its spring barrel. In the abdomen of the vessel, he found the wreck fuel lines and removed the obstruction Garth had set up repairing the channels. Returning to the pilot chamber, he pressed the firing button and acceleration returned to form of gravity to the ship's interior, giving him weight for the first time since the frigage accident. Sighing with relief, as the heavens slowly rotated in his screen, Dollard slumped back in his chair. He punched new figures into the computer thinking, now once safely back into a no-pull zone, a man with a little luck should be able to make his chunky fingers froze to the keys. There was another flaw to be dealt with. The discrepancy was one the course calculator had clearly pointed out, but he overlooked it in his haste to get underway. The solution he had followed was the only possible one, that was still quite true, but use of it only plunged him into a second predicament. This new course said the equations, a course which would require all the remaining fuel to maintain, which steered the ship into a permanent orbit around Earth, an ellipse with the point of apogee far beyond Luna. He now had the certainty of continued life for a few more days until his provisions gave out. Again he cursed the name of Garth, but for the man's treachery he would be well on his way to Venus. Now he was a helpless trapped massive protoplasm protected from his bitter airless environment only by the same steel walls of the cage that held him. Throughout the next 24 hours, as the nature of the elliptical orbit he had entered he became more and more apparent, dollared full of sleep while his frightened brain racked and racked again its scattered fund of knowledge for an answer to the new problem. But it lasted an arcosis of cellular exhaustion completely overcame him and he slept. When he awoke, he was chilled and hungry. The ship had passed into the shadow of Luna and its bulkheads no longer conducted heat to the convecting air envelope inside from the outer plates, generally warmed by solar radiations. It took him some time to get warm again. He pondered anew his predicament. It would be useless to plead for help to the Terran space authorities. All in a planetary flights had been grounded since the Asiatic had scattered the epidemic over the western world only to have it reinvade their own borders. All the national governments were fighting rebellion and plague simultaneously and most important of all, as far as dollar was concerned, he had effectively outlawed himself from the jurisdiction of all governments by his acts of murder and his treason and fleeing Terra. There could be no help from the officials of Earth. Not in the present years anyhow, he thought. But wait, suppose this plague should ultimately die out or be conquered? Then wouldn't space travel be resumed? If not by the human race, by its successor, whichever race or species, if such could happen, then mutated successfully enough to produce a plague-resistant strain and then evolved a rational brain? Civilizations rose and toppled in cycles he knew. Sometime in the near future, or even another civilization would emerge on Terra and another race would conquer the stars. But what value was that to him if he would die in a few days from lack of oxygen? No, if he were to be rescued, it had to be soon. By the Venusian collards? No hope lay there either. The second planet was an infant world and its people, even if they succeeded in making space travel common, would be apt to avoid the Earth-Luna system like the he choked, there was no other word for it, like the plague. Again, he was conscious of his brief chill. It aroused some elusive connection in his brain with a piece of information he had nearly forgotten. What was it? Celebration set in as he sought to pin down the clue he wanted. He felt his body chilling. Chilling, he thought. That was it. Deep freezing. What cold was colder than the eternal absolute zero of outer space? Or could a person find temperatures lower than those in the celestial space box that extended everywhere around him? Just outside his port window lurked enough chill to keep his body intact for a million years. And in a million years, who knew what cultures would learn to pilot vessels through space and come his way to revive him? Possibly alien cultures whom his superior genius for organizing would enable him to dominate. Already, the contemplation of such a possibility rendered the prospect so alluring he wondered why he was holding back. Why not step out of the airlock immediately? It was calm reasoning that deterred him. The realization that if his scheme for survival were to meet success, he would have to lay his plans deep enough to meet every contingent possibility. Two things became immediately apparent as essential. One, he would have to adopt a method of self-freezing that would assure instantaneous cessation of his life activities without injuring his body cells by converting the water to ice. Two, he would have to leave behind him an explanation of what he had done and sufficient directions concerning his revivification that he would not be restored slowly as to alter his molecular structure, a term of affairs which would in fact make him unalterably dead long before he approached normal body warmth. Now, thoroughly aroused by the possibility of escaping total death, Edwin Dollard fought his way back through the damaged compartments to the tube room. Here were vats of liquid helium used in Collins engines to refrigerate the volatile rocket fuel. The helium Dollard knew was in turn kept super cool by contact with magnetic salts mostly iron ammonium sulfate the magnetic field being generated by the ship's auxiliary dynamos when in operation the ship's batteries at other times. But if one were to open all ports or hatches allowing the atmosphere to escape, the absolute zero of space would infiltrate the ship's interior making it unnecessary for either the helium to cool the fuel or the salts to cool the helium. All would probably approach the state of absolute heat death and the body of a man immersed in the helium vat would be preserved for eternity. Dollard laughed, he would defy Garth yet. He spent the following day in the most efficient of preparations. Moving about the ship he posted complete directions for his recovery in as many languages as he knew. Then he drew with painstaking care a series of diagrams that repeated the information in pictograph form. Finally recorded directions on sound tape and hooked the reproducer to an electron eye so it commenced to play the moment the vessel was entered. This task completed, he set about to prepare his own body. It was imperative that the suspension take place so speedily that none of the animal heat was retained. For this purpose he imbibed a heavy amount of alcohol which served to flush his capillaries and distribute calories more equally through his system. Next he gathered wiring and rigged up a remote control board that would enable him to open the ship's hatches from sanctuary inside the tube room. When finally ready he stood by the helium vats opened a switch on the Jerry built board and listened to the vessel's atmospheric envelope swoosh out in the passages just beyond the sealed tube room hatch. Now the only air remaining inside the craft was that in the tube room itself. At that moment the ship circling the mother planet entered the shadow of Terra and chilled perceptibly in the absence of radiated sunlight. Dollard stripped to his skin his lips were blue and his limbs were trembling despite their cushion of fat. He pressed the last button and the pressure inside the room commenced to drop. He stood by the largest fat until all the oxygen was gone except that remaining in his lungs. The outer hatch swung open admitted the penetrating cold of complete vacuum. The trapped industrialist exhaled his breath, counted to three and dived into the tank. His body sank and the atoms of helium temporarily left their random state in flux of heat, but returned quickly as the magnetic field took up the slack vaporizing the ammonium salts. All was quiet again. The human brain and the secondary laws of thermodynamics had combined to thwart the will of relentless universe. Edwin Dollard, financial genius and murderer in his time had entered a state of suspended animation from which only an equal intelligence could ever awaken him. The planets and their satellites revolved in their orbits for uncounted centuries until even the fixed stars shifted and formed new constellations. During this long, almost interminable period no man-made vessels disturbed the equilibrium between the worlds. No man-made radiations penetrated the empty spaces of the solar system. A wanderer from Poseon or Sirius entering the neighborhood of Sol might well have suspected he had found nine lifeless spheres pursuing a feudal and purposeless course around their flaming parent. So immutable, however, are the laws of celestial mechanics once set into operation, the dollarship varied not a centimeter in its elliptical path during those endless dragging years. Organic life, by its very definition is highly viable, highly persistent, is capable of protracted existence in such diverse environments as the embedded hearts of meteors or the currents of briny polar seas. It is likewise capable of infinite modifications under stress such as glacial flow, cessation of moisture, loss of sunlight or the rampant onslaught of bacterial disease. Heartiest of all forms of life has proved in last days the reptilian age are the coniferous mammalian orders. These members are generally the most adaptable, intelligent and ubiquitous of living types. And by their conquest of their stubborn environment they have proven themselves equally the fiercest. Thus it was not surprising that eventually the derelict spaces between the inner planet of Sol were once again the scene of traffic and bristling traffic perhaps, but sufficient to present concrete proof a new intelligent race had developed on Terra. Nor was it any more surprising to Edwin Dollard when Dollard awoke for a rouse from his long sleep and consciousness in the passage of time no more than a second's absence from the world of the sense and light that this life should have found him. He awoke aware of the stinging pain in his eyelids and the jabbing of a thousand needles below the surface of his skin. A glaring white bulb suspended in the blue ceiling dug into his pupils with relentless intensity. A voice couched in a low-throated growl spoke just above his ear in an unteligible language. A second voice, farther away, answered with a guttural purring. Dollard slowly revolved his field of vision until it rested upon the first creature who had spoken. His eyes made out a man-like apparition and a white smock buttoned to a metal harness. A tall, live figure face regarded him with the unblinking interest. You are come too, I notice, the creature said, employing a rasping, blurred form of English. I am Shirkan, of the people of Tegur. Detailed to interpret your meager tongue, O frozen primate. You're not human, but at least you're intelligent, Dollard snorted. Where am I? On board a vessel of the Tagurian fleet bound for the home planet. Which one do you call home? For reply, Shirkan gestured a bull-kead, paneling in the far end of the room. Dollard's eyes focus on a tridimensional photo mural of Terra. In the representation, the continental outlines of the planet were the same, but if the colors were reproduced accurately, then the Earth had lost the bulk of its polar cap and become a tropical world. The Sahara was a verdant green while a great portion of the Amazon Valley was inundated by bluish seas. Dollard attempted to sit up. The struggle was what first caused him to notice his nude body was strapped steel clamps to a long flat porcelain table. Rolling his head to one side, he discovered that the table's rim contained a long shallow trough which had not been scoured too clean. Deepening stains remained of whosoever blood it was that it contributed from the last autopsy performed on the surface of the table. Why am I tied up? Dollard demanded. A temporary precaution, Shirkan replied soothingly. The growl of his voice had now reduced itself to a monotonous pur, which reminded Dollard of nothing so much as a but then he shook his head. No, that couldn't be. Mankind replaced by a thinking species of biped felines descended from a race of giant jungle cats. The development was fantastic. Precaution, Dollard repeated. You might have become violent primate. Only a few anthropoids are extant now and they are scraggly skulkers hiding out in the brush of the second planet, the world you knew as Venus. But even so, many of them had been known to react quite viciously when captured. Then there are humans left? I see you recognize the difference between our race and yours at once, Shirkan stiffened with pride. The gap is quite great. Dollard noticed a very faint striped pattern could be traced in the fuzzy growth on Shirkan's bared arms. Yes, some members of the previous culture do survive, the feline continued, puny specimens. We have been forced to hunt them down. Unfortunately, they breed slowly. I claim no kinship with them, said Dollard. If you're sniffing around in an effort to find out my sentiments about that, you can stop right now. As a man from the past, I'm strictly for myself. He winked. What's more, I never did believe that monkey business. You know about the human race being the only kind of life having souls or intelligence? Strange words from a primate. That's what I say. You look good enough to me. You have an adequate IQ. That's the only test you need to pass with me. Now, how about getting these clamps off me? Dollard's renewed request incited no action. The feline interpreters pointed features were impassive, only the pricked attitude of his tough ears indicated he was listening. Let's go, Dollard cage old. You've arrived me, and I think I've proved I'm not dangerous. You still do not seem to understand. Your animation from the frozen sleep was undertaken solely because it was a challenge to our science that we cannot overlook. And a bang up job you did of it followed my directions perfectly. We used our own methods, sure con corrected. The idea was mine. True, but had you known it, there did exist a mathematical solution to your problem of escaping from the fixed orbit your ship adopted. Apparently to your misfortune, your training failed to include a knowledge of five-body equations, so you never arrived at the proper heading you needed to take. Naturally, not. The revived industrialist snapped an answer, but that couldn't be helped. I never professed to be a super-competent astrogator. In my world, I was a leader of my race, a builder of factories and machines. Our archaeologists have dug into the ruins of your civilization. Without, however, a great deal of curiosity said sure con coldly. We found little in it to interest us. We have translated your language, but even so, we uncovered nothing to equal even the barest rudiments of our own science. Our zoologists dismiss you as extra clever primates, possessed of some knacks, but nowhere on a reasoning, perspicuous level. But that's absurd, from your point of view, no. In fact, we still debate whether you primates could have been intelligent enough to have founded your culture without the aid of some early tigurians. We tigurians have been superior to the anthropoids as far back as our own history goes, which is to the days of the great impetus, the epic when our race was gifted with great powers and the primates degenerated. Nonsense, scoffed Edward and Dollard. Get me off of the statistic table, and I'll demonstrate how smart I am. Did you know that you were acquainted studying the feline's high-domed head and furry chin? Now I've got you pegged, he went on. You're just a specimen of what jacked-up tiger would turn out to be, burned under a few million volts of hard radiation. You may be civilized, you and your people, but I bet it took you a million years of high-speed evolution to do it. If it hadn't been for mankind's work with mutable bacteria, you'd still be chasing your tails under palm trees. Sher Khan interrupted him, remarking, that he was the most realistic of the variant-seminian species. We have an apt axiomongant people of tiger. It might be translated, Channering man, empty brain-pan. At that moment it occurred to Dollard he was pressing his initial luck too far, no use antagonizing present company. All right, I know when I'm bucking the system too hard, he replied cagelly, what do you intend to do with me? For answer the interpreter turned to the second tigurian in the room. The creature had stood motionless near the flow of guttural syllables, climaxed by a high-pitched questioning note. The reply was forthcoming almost immediately, spoken in weightier, more deliberate tones. The commander says you are to be presented to the leaders of our civilization, Sher Khan reported. That'll take place when we dock at the home planet in a few hours. In the meanwhile, you may have the run of the ship. The feline pushed down a knobbed lever and the steel clamp slid from Dollard's trust form. His relief matched only by his quicken awareness of the need for caution and dealing further with rescuers. Dollard took advantage of his release to stretch his aching muscles. Standing erect caused him a moment's dizziness, which he could not account for until he recalled that alcohol had drunk thousands or wasn't millions of years previously still remained in his bloodstream. Although the interior of the tigurian ship was suffocatingly warm, yet Dollard felt the lack of clothing with what amount to discomfort. He described his feeling to Sher Khan, who told him his apparel had also been found in the circling space yacht. Equally well preserved by the cold of interplanetary space, the clothes we brought to him immediately. After garbing himself, Dollard strode about the tigurian vessel. Its alien construction seemed to defy all the architectural principles familiar to a human's primate mind. Cow walks, especially, lived up fully to their names, appearing as mere unsupported ribbons that stretched across banks of throbbing molecular engines. Mechanics traversed these walks over fuel pits with graceful skill despite the lack of hand holds. Everywhere, Dollard noticed that members of the crew, when relieved of their tasks merely dropped off to slumber without need of intervening recreation. Slightly less than six hours after he was awakened, Edwin Dollard heard whistles scream through the length of the vessel announcing planetfall would take place in only a few minutes. Sher Khan padded up to his side and informed him that he would have to rest in a padded cell while the landing took place. The muscles of his human body would not be up to the shock of deceleration, a magnified strain to which feline muscles had long been accustomed. Dollard obeyed. By now he was weary of his confinement aboard. He was anxious to get aground where he should meet the true leaders of tigur. He could impress THEM with his superior abilities. Of course it would seem strange to find terror ruled by another species, but after all that was a contingency he had fully considered when he voluntarily undertook the deep freeze. Little by little the shock of encountering an alien culture seemed to be wearing off, yet he knew there were still many mind twisting problems to face. Shortly after he had braced himself against the sponge lined bulkheads, a great shock traveled transversely through the ship, followed by a dozen or more lesser shutters. Metal groaned and creaked all about him and the room temperature noticeably increased. Left to himself, Dollard immediately began to formulate new plans. Searching his garments he was relieved to find a pocket still contained the bag of glittering sirtis diamonds with which he had hoped long ago to bribe the Newsean officials. The gems might prove equally useful now in cementing his position with the tigurians. He was angered, however, to find his flame pistols and stunner had been taken away from him. He decided that immediately after his presentation to the leaders he would ask for the privilege of inspecting their factories and other technological facilities. They had never been erected in an industrial plant yet whose efficiency couldn't be in some way approved, Dollard knew. By making himself practically useful, Dollard knew that in time he could build up a personal organization that eventually would result in the acquisition of a new financial empire. All, of course, hinged upon the very vital conference with the upper echelon of tigurian rulers. But at least it could be said that Edwin Dollard had proved himself capable of dealing with fortune on its toughest terms. Now he was in the home stretch of his new career. Seconds after, the tigurian ship landed with a thunderous jolt. The engine stopped on the way and silence rained along the corridors. Dollard found his breath painfully short as renewed anxiety gripped him. This was the crucial moment. A panel slid open and Sheer Khan appeared. Come, he said. The leaders have been notified and are waiting at the banquet hall. Splendid said Dollard, rubbing his hands together. If things work out too advantage for me, I'll remember you, Sheer Khan. The tigurians' yellow eyes blinked as if he had not heard. Outside, Dollard's lungs expanded to draw in deep gulps of air that characterized a warmer terra. At a considerable distance from the nearly deserted spaceport, he saw that a brilliant city of high towers capped by narrow glass spires raised at shining structures to the sky. The sharp pointed buildings could be seen to be interlaced with countless spidery cables and glistening bridges. For Dollard's observing eyes, the vista of the metropolis evoked by some indefinable ancient suggestiveness, a buried terran memory of a giant panion tree pierced by striped bamboos. Bangle, our capital, Sheer Khan told him, this way now. He pointed to a waiting air vehicle on the lonely drone. In there, and you only have five more minutes. The feline nostrils wrinkled. Five more minutes, said Dollard. Aren't you going? No, I wasn't invited. I'm to go alone? Yes, Sheer Khan replied. The prolonged effort of speaking in a strange tongue was reflected in his increasingly roughened tones. I've been ordered to put you in the cage flyer. And my job is done. The cage will transfer you to the leader's quarters or all else will be done. Farewell, primate. It has been interesting. I could almost swear that, he paused. Something troubling you, said Dollard, who didn't usually concern himself with other person's interdisturbances. He wondered now what instinct prompted this particular inquiry of solicitude on his part. You troubled me, replied Sheer Khan. I would almost swear you had a high intelligence and a soul worthy of a Tigurian. But of course I know that isn't so. That's not what I meant, Dollard said fretfully. There's something else. For a moment he felt like screaming, something you haven't told me. Would you really like to know, said Sheer Khan? I had thought it was better you didn't. But then I have often been accused of strange sympathies for a Tigurian. I demand to know. Then I must hurry. Only a few minutes remain. Let me try to draw you a mental picture, primate. Your race, like ours, was carnivorous. You feasted on many delicacies. On species distinct like the steer, the pheasant, the squirrel. It was your very nature, your undeniable primal instincts that made you enjoy the rending and devouring of flesh. True, admitted Dollard, his body was now trembling. I remember, continued Sheer Khan, one of our archaeologists translated an account of how the primates of your time unearthed the body of a mastodon buried in the glacial ice. The mastodon flesh, a delicacy, was so well preserved that it was still edible. And so it was eaten. I don't think I understand what you're getting at, declared Dollard. He looked anxiously about him, but the flat plain bore no shelter, or for that matter, no other object saved the waiting air vehicle and the recently landed spaceship on the drone. Lights began to glow in the far off city. The point is, said the feline interpreter, that it would have made no difference to the primates had the mastodon been intelligent. They would have eaten him anyway. In your epic, primates ate many domestic animals who differed less in intelligence quotient from them than differ civilized to gurins from human primates like yourself. The gap today is much greater than you, not me. Only the leaders of my world shall I say. By virtue of their exalted rank, they have the right to the choices to foods. Since the dawn of our history, the flesh of primates has been our greatest delicacy, but has grown scarcer and scarcer until now as virtually nonexistent. And such specimens, as are trapped, are stringy and barely edible. Dollard looked down guiltily as his own plump body. His face bore the flushed expression of one suddenly conscious of sin. But you, continued your con, your body is fat and well preserved. When we found you on your derelict ship, our commander communicated with the rulers of Tegor immediately. He was ordered to change course and to bring you to Bengal. The feline speech broke off. Edwin Dollard had suddenly commenced to run from the horror of this alien world, recognition of his fate having burst like a rocket in his panic stricken mind. His heart was pounding. Beloping easily along as his ancestors might have pursued a baboon or antelope, Sheercan overtook the screaming human. He seized his obese bulk by the waist and lifted him high above his head. While Dollard kicked and moan, the feline bore him back to the air vehicle and deposited him into a wire mesh cage in the flying craft's cockpit. A tangle of the sticky ropes descended from the cage's roof, further entangling the trapped industrialist and serving to reduce him to helplessness. Sheercan adjusted knobs and switches on the vehicle's control board until he had produced the desired setting. Then he stepped back. As I said before, he declared, this vehicle will automatically transport you to the leader's banquet hall to arrive in five minutes. There you will be prepared and presented to our rulers. I hope you please them. The reward for our commander and his crew will be great. Then all along what you've been trying to tell me is that I'm to be the remainder of Dollard's words melted into a bowl of gibberish. Exactly confirmed the Tagurian walking away from the vehicle. If the creature's feline countenance showed a trace of conscience Dollard from his position within the rising cage could not discern it. Not that it particularly mattered in his last moment of sanity on Earth. And it would puzzle Sheercan for many years just why the last shrill scream of the primate was, Garth! Garth, you did this to me! End of Deep Freeze by Robert Donald Locke. Recording by Chad Jackson.