 Jimzie and the Monsters by Walt Sheldon. Reading by Greg Marguerite. Jimzie and the Monsters by Walt Sheldon. Hollywood could handle just about anything, until Mildome's machine brought in two real aliens. Mr. Maximilian Unce regarded the monsters with a critical eye. Scriptgirls, cameramen, sometimes even stars quailed under Mr. Unce's critical eye, but not these monsters. The first had a globe-like head and several spidery legs. The second was willowy and long clawed. The third was covered with hair. The prop department had outdone itself. Get Jimzie, said Mr. Unce snapping his fingers. A young earnest assistant producer with a crew cut turned and relayed the summons. Jimzie, Jimzie La Roche. Down the line of cables and cameras it went. Jimzie, Jimzie. A few moments later from behind the wall flat where he had been playing canasta with the electricians emerged Jimzie La Roche, the eleven-year-old sensation. He took his time. He wore powder-blue slacks and a sports shirt, and his golden hair was carefully ringletted. He was frowning. He had been interrupted with a meld of a hundred and twenty. OK, so what is it now? He said coming up to Mr. Unce. Mr. Unce turned and glared down at the youth. Jimzie returned to the glare. There was a sort of cold war between Mr. Unce and Master Jimzie La Roche. The sort you could almost hear hotting up. Mr. Unce pointed to the monsters. Look, Jimzie, look at them. What do you think? He watched the boys' expression carefully. Jimzie said, To use one of your own expressions, Max. They wouldn't scare a mouse. And then Jimzie shrugged and walked away. Mr. Unce turned to his assistant. Harold, he said in an injured tone. You saw it. You heard it. See what I've got to put up with. Sure, said Harold Potter sympathetically. He had mixed feelings towards Mr. Unce. He admired the producer's occasional flashes of genius. He deplored his more frequent flashes of stupidity. On the whole, however, he regarded himself as being on Mr. Unce's side in the war between Mr. Unce and the world and Hollywood. He knew Mr. Unce's main trouble. Some years ago, Maximilian Unce had been brought to Hollywood heralded as Vienna's greatest producer of musicals. So far he had been assigned to westerns, detectives, documentaries, a fantasy of the future, but no musicals. And now it was a psychological thriller. Jimzie played the killer as a boy and there was to be a dream sequence, a nightmare full of monsters. Mr. Unce was determined it should be the most terrifying dream sequence ever filmed. Only up to now he wasn't doing so good. I would give, said Mr. Unce to Harold Potter, my right eye for some really horrible monsters. He gestured at the world in general. Think of it, Harold. We got atom bombs and B-29s, both vitamins and airplanes, and stuff to cure you of everything from broken legs to dropsy, a whole world of modern science. But nobody can make a fake monster. It looks anything but fake and wouldn't scare an eleven-year-old boy. It's a thought, agreed Harold Potter. He had a feeling for things scientific. He had taken a B.S. in college, but had drifted into photography and dense into movie production. He had a wife and a spaniel and a collection of pipes and a house in Santa Monica with a workshop basement. I gotta do some thinking, Mr. Unce said. I believe I will change my clothes and take a shower. All along to the cottage, Harold. Okay, said Harold. He never liked to say yes for fear of being tagged a yes man. Anyway, he enjoyed relaxing in the office cottage while Mr. Unce showered and changed, which Mr. Unce did some three or four times a day. When he got there Mr. Unce disappeared into the dressing room and Harold picked up a magazine. There was a knock on the door. Harold got up and crossed the soft cream-colored carpet and opened the door and saw a goat-like person. Yes, said Harold. Mil Doome, said the goat-like person. Dr. John Mil Doome, don't ask a lot of questions about how I got in, had a hard enough time as it was. Fortunately, I have several relatives connected with the studio. That's how I heard of your problem, as a matter of fact. My problem? Said Harold. Dr. Mil Doome pushed right in. He was no more than five feet five but had a normal-sized head. It was dome-like. Wisps of tarnished white hair curled about his ears and crown. He had an outthrust underjaw with a small white beard on its prowl. He was dressed in moderately shabby tweeds. He moved across the room in an energetic hopping walk and took the place on the sofa Harold had vacated. Now then, Mr. Uncey said, the first thing we must do is come to terms. Just a minute, said Harold. I'm Mr. Uncey's assistant, Harold Potter. Mr. Uncey's in the shower. Was he expecting you? Dr. Mil Doome blinked. No, not exactly, but he can't afford not to see me. I know all about it. All about what, asked Harold. The beasts, the doctor said. The witch? Beasts, Potter, snapped the goat-like man. The nightmare monsters, get with it, lad. And what is a dream sequence without them? Uh, yes, said Harold a little uncertainly. Mil Doome's fingers shot out. You fellows understand that I'm no dreamy-eyed impractical scientist. Let's face it, it takes money to carry on experiments like mine. Good, old-fashioned money. I'll need at least $10,000. Harold raised his eyebrows. Just what, Dr. Mil Doome, do you propose to give us for $10,000? Beasts, said Mil Doome, real monsters. I beg your pardon, said Harold. He began to work out strategies in his mind. Maybe he could casually walk over to the phone and pick it up quickly and call the studio police. Maybe he could get the jump on this madman before he pulled a knife. The thing to do was to humor him. Meanwhile, Dr. Mil Doome said, I will not deal with underlings. I demand to see Mr. Unce himself. Well, said Harold, you understand that Mr. Unce is a busy man. It's my job to check propositions people have for him. Suppose you tell me about these beasts of yours? Mil Doome shrugged. Doubt if you'll understand it any better than Unce will, but it's no more complicated than television when you boil it right down. You're familiar, I take it, with the basic principle of television? Oh, sure, said Harold Brightening. Keep things moving, have a master of ceremonies who keeps jumping in and out of the act. Give something away to the audience, if possible, to make them feel ashamed not to tune in. No, no, no, no, no, said Mil Doome. I mean the technical principles. A photoelectric beam scans the subject, translates light and dark into electrical impulses, which eventually alter a cathode ray played upon a fluorescent screen, hence the image. You grasp that roughly, I take it. Roughly, said Harold. Well, continued Mil Doome, just as spots of light and dark are the building blocks of an image, so subatomic particles are the building blocks of matter. Once we recognize this, the teleportation theory becomes relatively simple. There are engineering difficulties, of course. We must go back to Faraday's Three Laws of Electrolysis and Chadwick's establishment in 1931 of the fact that radiation is merely the movement of particles of proton mass without proton charge. Neutrons, you see? Also, that atomic weights are close integers when hydrogen is 1.008. Thus, I use hydrogen as a basis. Simple, isn't it? Harold frowned. Wait a minute. What's this you're talking about? Teleportation? You mean a way of moving matter through space just as television moves an image through space? Well, not precisely, said Mil Doome. It's more of a duplication of matter. My Mil Doome beam, really another expression of the quanta or light energy absorbed by atoms, scans and analyzes matter. The wave variations are retranslated into form or formulae at a distant point. The receiving point. Harold lowered one eyebrow. And this really works? Of course, said Mil Doome. Oh, it's still crude. It doesn't work all the time. It works only along vast distances. I won't announce it until I perfect it further. Meanwhile, I need more money to carry on and when through certain relatives I heard of Mr. Unce's problem, well, it was simply too much to resist. You see, I've managed to teleport a couple of frightful monsters from somewhere out of space. I was wondering what on earth to do with them. Where, where are they? Asked Harold. In my backyard, said Dr. Mil Doome. At that point, Mr. Maximilian unsubruptly reappeared. He smelled of lotion and he was now dressed in a relatively conservative gabardine of forest green with a lavender shirt and a black knitted tie. Hello, he said. He looked at Mil Doome. So who's this? He says he has monsters for the dream sequence in his backyard, explained Harold. Real ones. Look, said Mr. Unce. Kindly ask the gentleman to get lost. Will you, Harold? No, wait, Harold said. He may have something. He explained some of it to me. It sounds almost possible. We can't lose much by taking a look. Only a few thousand dollars a minute, said Mr. Unce. Bah, money, said Dr. Mil Doome. Which reminds me, these monsters of mine are going to cost you. Let's have that understood right now. Mr. Unce's eyebrows went up. This kind of talk he understood. He reached into the side pocket of the gabardine for his cigarette case. He kept a separate gold case in each suit. Yow, said Mr. Unce. His hand came out of the pocket with a small green snake in it. Drop it, stand back, said Harold, being cool. Don't worry about it, said Dr. Mil Doome in a calmer voice. He was blinking mildly at the snake. It's merely an ordinary species of garden snake, sometimes erroneously called garter snake. Curious it should be there. Harold looked at Dr. Mil Doome sharply. This teleportation of yours wouldn't have anything to do with it by any chance. Of course not, snapped Mil Doome. I know how it got there, said Mr. Unce. His jowls trembling. He had already dropped the snake. A certain child star whose initials are Jimzy LaRouche. Last week he gives me a hot foot. Monday a wetsy, soaked newspapers in my chair under one thin dry one. Yesterday a big frog in my shower. I should take that brat over my knee and spank him to his face. Um, uh, of course, said Dr. Mil Doome without much interest in the topic. Shall we go to inspect the monsters now? Mr. Unce thought it over only long enough to keep himself within the time limits of a man of decision. Then he said, okay, so we'll go now. They passed Jimzy LaRouche on the way out. He was drinking pineapple juice and sitting with his tutor, studying his lines. He smirked as Mr. Unce passed. Mr. Unce scowled back but didn't say anything. In Jovian silence he led the way to his car. It turned out to be a longer ride than they had expected. Dr. Mil Doome lived in 29 Palms and as Mr. Unce explained it, this was too short for an airplane and too long for an automobile. Mr. Unce was not in his best humor when they stopped before Dr. Mil Doome's stucco and tile roof house. Mil Doome directed them immediately to a walled-in patio in the rear of the place. A shed roof covered one side of the patio and under it were racks of equipment. Harold recognized banks of relays, power amplifiers, oscillographs and some other familiar devices. There were also some strange ones. Mil Doome waved his long fingers at it all. My teleportation setup is entirely too bulky so far for practical use as you can see. Mf! said Mr. Unce, eyeing it. During the drive, Dr. Mil Doome and Harold had explained more to him about teleportation and the monsters and he was more doubtful than ever about the whole thing. So, let's see the monsters, he said now. Time is fleeting. Mil Doome went in his hopping step across the patio to a huge tarpaulin that covered something square and bulky. He worried the tarpaulin away. Two steel cages stood there. Sacred carp, said Mr. Unce. Two, some things, were in the steel cages. They were both iridescent, greenish gray in color. They had globular bodies, no discernible heads and eyes on stalks growing from their bodies. Three eyes apiece, if they were eyes. Anyway, they looked like eyes. Sweeping fibrillae came down to the ground and seemed to serve as feet. Great saw-toothed red gashes in the middle of each body might have been mouths. They're real? They're alive? said Harold Potter Horsley. That was the thing about them. They had the elusive quality of life about them and of course they were thus infinitely more terrifying than the prop department's fake monsters. They're alive, all right, said Dr. Mildum, chattely. Took me quite a bit of experimenting to discover what to feed them. They like glass, broken glass. They're evidently a silicon rather than a carbon form of life. This I'll buy, said Mr. Unce, still staring. Of course, said Mildum, I knew you would. They will cost you exactly $10,000 per day, per 24-hour period. Profiteer burglar, said Mr. Unce glaring at Mildum. Mildum shrugged. There was an abrupt high-pitched squeak Harold stared at the monsters. The smaller one was quivering. They do that when they're angry, Dr. Mildum said. Some sort of skin vibration. This smaller one here seems to take the initiative in things, must be a male, unless there's a female dominance as in birds of prey, whichever these things come from. I've been unable to ascertain which is which, if any. Mr. Unce frowned suddenly. Look, just how dangerous are these things? Don't know exactly, said Dr. Mildum. A pigeon got to near the cage the other day. They seem to enjoy it. Although, as I say, their staple appears to be silicon forms. I carelessly set a Western analyzer to near them the other day and they had it for lunch. If they're too dangerous, began Mr. Unce. What if they are, said Mildum. You make pictures with wild lions and tigers and alligators, don't you? Seems to me you can find a way. I don't recommend letting them out of the cage, however. Mr. Unce nodded and said, well, maybe we can get AT&T Flow Bear to do something with them. He's the animal trainer we call on. Anyway, Unce always figures something out. Only, that's why I like musicals better. There isn't so much to figure out and you can play Victor Herbert backwards and get new tunes out of him. So anyway, we'll get a truck and get these monsters to the studio right away. It was arranged. It was arranged with utmost secrecy too. There were other studios after all and in spite of their wealth of creative talent, it was easier to steal an idea than cook up a new one. Adam Baum's secrecy descended upon the Crusader Pictures lot and most especially upon soundstage six where the dream sequence for the psychological thriller Jolt was being filmed. Even Jimzie LaRouche, the star of the picture was excluded from the big barn-like stage. Mr. Unce prepared to get his first stock shots of the beasts. There were gasps and much popping of eyebrows when Dr. Mildum, who had come along as technical advisor, removed the tarpaulins from the cages. The cameraman, the grips, the electricians, the sound men all stared unbelievably. The script girl grabbed Mr. Unce's hand and dug her fingernails into it. The makeup stylist clutched the lapels of his mauve jacket and fainted. Nothing to be afraid of, Mr. Unce said to everybody. He was sort of convincing himself too. Dr. Mildum here knows all about the monsters. He's got everything under control. So tell everybody about them, Dr. Mildum nodded, bobbing his short white beard. He thrust his hands into his tweed jacket, looked all around for a moment, then said, I don't know exactly where the monsters are from. I had my cue being pointed into space and I was focusing it, intending to put it on Mars at the time of proper conjunction. All is very complicated. However, the beam must have worked prematurely. These monsters began to form in the hydrogen chamber. Several of the listeners looked at other listeners with unmistakable doubt. Unruffled, Dr. Mildum went on. Now, we can make certain rough assumptions from the form and structure of these monsters. You will notice that except for their appendages, they are globularly formed. Any engineer can tell you that the arch and hemisphere sustain the greatest weight for their mass. We may concede that they come from a planet of very strong gravity. Their skin, for instance, is tough and rigid compared with ours. They have difficulty staying rooted to Earth. Often a simple multipot movement will send them bouncing to the top of the cage. There's one other factor. The smaller of these creatures seems the more dominant, suggesting that on their home planet, smaller beings are more agile and therefore better able to take care of themselves. There, you see? Interrupted Mr. Hunt's slipping into a pause. That's all there is to it. So now, let us please get down to business. So they got down to business. And it was not easy business photographing these monsters. Keeping the cage wires out of focus required a critical distance for each lens, but whenever a camera came too near the fibrola, would shoot forward at the glass, no doubt, and scare the wits out of the cameraman. The shorter lenses got too much of the surrounding area into the picture. The crew tried and tried. One technician muttered darkly that the organization contract didn't cover this sort of thing. Mr. Hunt's pleaded and cajoled and heckled and moved about and tried to keep things going. Somehow, anyhow. Eddie Tamato, the chief cameraman, finally came up to him and said, It's no use, Max. These cages simply don't allow us to do anything. Why don't we put them in the cages they use for jungle pictures? They're big and camouflaged, and the mesh size is right. So, maybe we'll have to do that, said Mr. Hunt's. Dr. Mildum dipped his head. I don't know. I'd like to see these other cages first. Look, said Mr. Hunt's. Don't worry about it. If they hold lions, they will hold your whatever you call them. I'll get the animal trainer, Flo Bear, to stand by. He practically talks to animals, except horses, which is his hard luck. The jungle cages were duly summoned, and so was Etienne Flo Bear of the Golden West Animal Education Studios on Sunset Boulevard. While they waited, Mr. Hunt stood aside with Harold Potter. He mopped his brow. He gestured at the whole group. This, he said, is the story of my life. It is, asked Harold. Mr. Hunt's nodded. Me? I am an expert on musicals. Musicals I can do with my left hand. But ever since I am in Hollywood, I do everything but a musical. And always, something gets fouled up. Always there is trouble. You will not believe this, Harold, but I am an unhappy man. I believe it, said Harold. Mr. Hunt's looked at him sharply and said, you don't have to believe it so quickly. You could give me a chance to explain. Look, said Harold, now being truly interested and forgetting some of the first principles of buttering up one's boss. Take the scientific attitude. Everything is relative. Yes, said Mr. Hunt's. In Hollywood, everything is relative. Believe me. No, no, I wasn't referring to nepotism, said Harold. I was thinking that you and many others, of course, prefer musicals. But there are vast other groups who prefer westerns, detectives, comedies, or what have you. One man's meat is another man's poison. But nourishment stays the same principle. The artistic demands still hold, and a good picture is a good picture, whatever it's filled. Now, if you, as a producer, can shift to the other fellow's viewpoint, find out why the thing that terrifies you amuses him or vice versa. Harold, said Mr. Hunt's, not without suspicion. Are you an assistant producer or a philosopher? Sometimes to be the one, said Harold. You have to be the other. The big jungle cage arrived presently. While it was being set up, another assistant came to Mr. Hunt's and said, Jimzy LaRoche is outside yelling to get in, Mr. Hunt's. Mr. Hunt's whirled on the assistant and said, tell that overpaid brat who I personally didn't want in my picture in the first place, tell him in the second place. The President of the United States could not get in here this afternoon. No, wait a minute, that wouldn't mean anything to him. He makes more money than the President. Just tell him no. Yes, sir, said the assistant. He left. About then the animal trainer, A.T.N. Flaubert was admitted. He walked right up to Mr. Hunt's. Flaubert was nearly seven feet tall. He had tremendous shoulders and none of it was coat padding. He had a chest one might have gone over Niagara Falls in. He had a huge golden beard. When he spoke it sounded like the base viola section of the Los Angeles Symphony tuning up. He said to Mr. Hunt's, where are these monsters I hear about? I'd like to see the monster that isn't just a big kitty like all the rest. Big kitties, that's all they are. You gotta know how to handle them. Mr. Hunt's led Flaubert to the cage and said, there, Flaubert gasped. Then he steadied himself. The monsters had been maneuvered into the bigger cage by now. Dr. Mildum had enticed them with broken electric light bulbs and slammed the drop doors behind them by a remote control rope. They had finished their meal of glass. They were curled in a corner of the cage now. Tentacles wrapped about each other, squeaking contentedly. Flaubert recovered a bit. Kitties, just big kitties, he growled. Eddie Tomato called, hey, Max, we'd like to get him in the center of the cage for a shot. He was gesturing from the camera boom seat, only moving around, you know, looking fierce. Can you do it, Flaubert? Said Mr. Hunt's turning to the big trainer. Just big kitties, said Flaubert. He had brought his own whip and blank cartridge pistol. His assistant stood by with a 30-30 rifle. Dr. Mildum opened the door quickly and Flaubert slipped into the cage. Okay, get set, everybody, yelled Mr. Hunt's. People scurried. An attendant switched on the warning light and rocker arm that warned people outside of the stage not to barge in. Quiet, yelled Mr. Hunt's. Quiet, quiet, yelled several assistants. The order went down the line, through channels. And there stood Etienne Flaubert, huge and more or less unafraid in the middle of the cage. The monsters in the corner began slowly to uncoil their tentacles from about each other. Their eye stalks rose and began to wave slowly. Their red saw-toothed mouths worked into pouts, gaps, and grins. The smaller of the two suddenly shuttered all over. Its angry chirping noise shrilled through the sound stage. Its tough skin vibrated, blurred. It sprang suddenly to its multipods and charged Flaubert. Flaubert screamed an unholy scream. He threw the chair and the whip and the gun at the monster and drove from the exit. Dr. Mildome opened the cage door with his rope and Flaubert went through it, himself a blur. The monster in his wake slammed into the door and stayed there, trembling, still chirping its rage. Holy gee, what kitties! Said Flaubert, pale and sweating. Mr. Hunt's groaned. I got some of it, yelled Etienne Tomotto from his camera. It was terrific, but we need more. Then, simultaneously, there were several loud screams of alarm. Mr. Hunt's looked at the cage again. The smaller monster had found a crack and was moving the cage door and squeezing through. Harold shouted Mr. Hunt's, do something! Harold stepped forward. Back, everybody, he said in his best calm voice. Walk, do not run to the nearest exit. The second monster was already vibrating across the cage and the smaller one was holding the door open for it. Dr. Mildome had tried to maneuver the control ropes to close the door again, but hadn't been able to work them. And now, he had left his post. Harold pointed to the man with the rifle and said, fire. The rifleman fired. Nothing, nothing had all happened. He fired several times more. The monsters didn't even jerk when the bullets hit them. They're, they're impervious yet, cried Mr. Hunt's. After that, it was every man for himself. Moments later, Harold found himself outside of the soundstage and on the studio street, bunched with the others and staring at the thick closed door. Nobody spoke. Everybody just thrummed silently with the knowledge that two alien monsters were in there, wreaking heaven knew what damage. And then, as they stared, the thick door began to open again. It isn't locked, breathed Mr. Hunt's. Nobody remembered to lock it again. A tentacle peeked out of the crack of the door. Everybody scattered a second time. Harold never remembered the order in which things happened amidst the confusion that followed. It seemed he and Mr. Hunt's ran blindly, side by side, down the studio street for a while. It seemed all kinds of people were also running in all kinds of directions. Bells were ringing, sirens blew. A blue studio police car took a corner on two wheels and barely missed them. Harold had a glimpse of uniformed men with drawn pistols. They ended up somehow at Mr. Hunt's office cottage. They went inside and Mr. Hunt's locked the door and slammed his back to it. He leaned there panting. He said, Trouble, trouble, trouble, I should have stayed in Vienna. And in Vienna I should have stayed in bed. The door of the shower and dressing room opened and Jimzy LaRouche came out. He had a number of snails in his outstretched hand and he coolly kept them there, making no attempt to conceal his obvious purpose in the shower. He looked directly at Mr. Hunt's with his dark, disconcerting 11-year-old eyes and said, Well, Max, what goof-off did you pull this time? You roared Mr. Hunt's whirling and shooting a finger at the child star, a focusing point for all his troubles at last. His jowls shook. You, Jimzy LaRouche, he said, are going to get your first old-fashioned spanking on the bottom from me personally. He advanced toward the boy who backed away hastily. Jimzy began to look a little frightened. Now, wait a minute, Max, said Harold, stepping forward. We've got enough big monsters to think about without worrying about this little monster, too. Mr. Hunt stared at Harold queerly. Suddenly he said, Why didn't I think of it before? Think of what? asked Harold. But Mr. Hunt's had already grabbed Jimzy LaRouche's hand and dragged him through the door. There were several reasons why Harold Potter did not immediately pursue. For one thing, he stood there for several moments, stupefied with surprise. Then when he did recover, he plunged forward and promptly tripped on the cream-colored carpet and fell flat on his face. He tripped again, going over the step to the cottage door. He bumped into a studio policeman rounding the next corner. He snagged his coat on a fence picket going around the corner after that. But he kept Mr. Hunt's and the dragged youngster in sight. Eventually he came to the door of soundstage six. Speaking from a police standpoint, all laymen had disappeared. A ring of studio police and firemen, along with some policemen and detectives from the outside had been drawn around the monsters and everybody and his brother was shooting off pistols and rifles at them, with no result, of course. Nor did anyone dare get too close. Harold caught up with Mr. Hunt's about the time a man he recognized as a reporter did. The reporter was stout, freckled, and bespectacled. Hunt's barked the reporter with all the power of the press and his voice. Do you realize this is a national danger? If those monsters can't be stopped by bullets, what will stop them? Where will it all end? Where did it come from? Look in tomorrow's paper, groud Mr. Hunt's brushing the reporter aside. He kept Jimzie's arm in a firm grip. Jimzie was bawling at the top of his lungs now. Mr. Hunt's breasted the police cordon broke through. Max, stop! shouted Harold. Max, have you gone mad? Max evidently had. He moved so swiftly that everyone was too surprised to stop him. He burst into the small human walled area where the two bewildered monsters squatted and he thrust little Jimzie LaRouche out before him, right at the monsters. An extraordinary thing happened. The monsters suddenly began to quiver and squeak again, but this time it was clear to the ear somehow, not with rage, but with fear. Pure and terrible fear. They trained their eye stalks on Jimzie LaRouche. They paled to a lighter shade of brown and green, then slowly they began to back away. Hold your fire, man, called a police captain, probably just to get into the act. Dr. Mildome appeared again from somewhere. So did ATM Flowbear. So did Eddie Tamato and some of the other technicians. They gaped and stared. Slowly, inexorably, using Jimzie LaRouche as his threat, Mr. Hunt's backed the two monsters into the studio and gradually to the cage. Dr. Mildome leaped forward to shut them in once more. And through it all, Jimzie LaRouche continued to ball at the top of his lungs. Later in Mr. Hunt's office cottage, Harold read the newspaper accounts. He read every word while Mr. Hunt's was in the other room taking a shower. He had to admit that Max had even thrown a little credit his way. My assistant, Mr. Potter, Hunt's was quoted as saying, indirectly gave me the idea when he said that one man's meat was another man's poison. Dr. Mildome had already explained that the monsters came from a high gravity planet that the smaller of the species evidently seemed the more capable and therefore the dominant one. Harold was now sure that the statement had been polished up a bit by the publicity department. The only logical assumption then, the statement continued, was that small stature would dominate these life forms rather than large stature as in the environment we know. They were in other words terrified by tiny Jimzie LaRouche, whose latest picture the atomic fissionist and the wave is now at your local theater by the way, as an earth being might have been terrified by a giant. Mr. Hunt's came out of the shower at that point. He was radiant in a canary colored rayon shark skin. He was rubbing his hands. He was beaming. Harold, he said. They're putting me on a musical next. I got them twined around my little finger. Life is good. I think that screwy Dr. Mildome was smart to send those things back out into space before they could get to him. Otherwise, we might have had to put them in pictures and with contracts yet. Max said Harold staring at him quietly. Yes, Harold? Just answer me one thing truthfully. I swear I'll never repeat it or even blame you, but for my own curiosity, I've got to know. Why, certainly Harold, what is it? Harold Potter swallowed hard. Did you, he asked, really figure out that Jimzie would scare the beasts? Or were you about to throw the little brat to them? End of Jimzie and the Monsters by Walt Sheldon. Mr. Chipfellow's Jackpot by Dick Purcell. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording by Rachel Craig of Colorado Springs, USA. www.ttb.org. Mr. Chipfellow's Jackpot by Dick Purcell. I'm getting old, Sam Chipfellow said, and old men die. His words were an indirect answer to a question from Carter Hagan, his attorney. The two men were standing in an open glade some distance from Sam Chipfellow's mansion at Chipfellow's Folly. This being the name Sam himself had attached to his huge estate. Sam lived there quite alone except for visits from relatives and those who claimed to be relatives. He needed no servants nor help of any kind because the mansion was completely automatic. Sam did not live alone from choice, but he was highly perceptive and it made him uncomfortable to have relatives around with but one thought in their minds. When are you going to die and leave me some money? Of course, the relatives could hardly be blamed for entertaining this thought. It came as naturally as breathing because Sam Chipfellow was one of those rare individuals, a scientist who had made money, all kinds of money, more money than almost anybody. And after all, his relatives were no different than those of any other rich man. They felt they had rights. Sam was known as the genius of the space age, an apt title because there might not have been any space age without him. He had been extremely versatile during his long career, having been responsible for the so-called eternal metals, metal against which no temperature, corrosive, or combinations of corrosives would prevail. He was also the pioneer of telepower, the science of control over things mechanical through the electronic emanations of thought waves. Because of his investigations into this power, men were able to direct great ships by merely thinking them on their proper courses. These were only two of his contributions to progress, there being many others. And now Sam was facing the mystery neither he nor any other scientist had ever been able to solve, mortality. There was a great deal of activity near the point at which the men stood. Drills and rock cutters had formed three sides of an enclosure in a ridge of solid rock, and now a giant crane was lowering thick slabs of metal to form the walls. Nearby, waiting to be placed, lay the slab which would obviously become the door to whatever Sam was building. Its surface was entirely smooth, but it bore great hinges and some sort of a locking device was built in along one edge. Carter Hagan watched the activity and considered Sam's reply to his question. This is to be a mausoleum? Sam chuckled, only in a sense, not a place to house my dead bones if that's what you mean. Carter Hagan, understanding this lonely old man as he did, knew further questions would be useless. Sam was like that. If he wanted you to know something, he told you. So Carter held his peace and they returned to the mansion where Sam gave him a drink after they concluded the business he had come on. Sam also gave Carter something else, an envelope. Put that in your safe, Carter. You're comparatively young and I'm taking it for granted you will survive me. And this is my will. All old men should leave wills and I'm no exception to the rule. When I'm dead, open it and read what's inside. Carter Hagan regarded the envelope with speculation. Sam smiled. If you're wondering how much I left you, Carter, I'll say this, you might get it all. Hagan strove to appear nonchalant but his eyes widened regardless. Sam enjoyed this. He said, yes, you'll have as much chance as anyone else. You mean as much chance as any of your relatives? I mean what I said, as much as anyone. I've given them no more consideration than anyone else. Carter Hagan stared puzzled. I'm afraid I don't understand you. I didn't expect you to but that will come later. I'll tell you this much though. No one will be barred. The winner will take it all and the winner may be anyone on this planet. My one regret is that I won't be around to see who gets the jackpot. Carter Hagan dutifully pocketed the will and left. He returned on other business a week later. Sam Chipfellow's first question was, well, what did you think of it? Think of what? My will. Carter Hagan straighted to an indignant five foot six. Mr. Chipfellow, I don't like having my integrity questioned. Your will is in a sealed envelope. You instructed me to read it after your death. If you think I'm the sort of man who would violate a trust, Sam put a drink into his attorney's hand. Here, take this, calm down. Carter Hagan gulped the drink and allowed his feathers to smooth down. As he sat down his glass, Sam leaned back and said, now, now that that's over, let's get on with it. Tell me, what did you think of my will? The attorney flushed. It was no use trying to fool Chipfellow. He was a master at that damned thought business. I, I did look at it. I couldn't resist the temptation. The envelope was so easily opened. Sam was regarding him keenly but without anger. I know you're a crook, Hagan, but no more so than most people. So don't sit there cringing. This will is, well, amazing and getting an advanced look at it didn't help me a bit. Unless, Hagan looked up hopefully, unless you're willing to give me a slight clue, I'll give you nothing. You take your chances along with the rest. Hagan sighed. As to the will itself, all I can say is that it's bound to cause a sensation. I think so too, Sam said, his eyes turning a trifle sad. It's too bad a man has to die just at the most interesting point of his life. You'll live for years, Mr. Chipfellow. You're in fine condition. Cut it out. You're itching for me to shuffle off so you can get a crack at what I'm leaving behind. Why, Mr., shut up and have another drink. Carter Hagan did not have long to wait as far as lifetimes go. 18 months later, Sam Chipfellow dropped dead while walking in his garden. The news was broadcast immediately, but the stirrup caused was nothing to the worldwide reaction that came a few days later. This was after all the relatives, all those who thought they had a faint chance of proving themselves relatives, and representatives of the press, radio and video gathered in the late Sam Chipfellow's mansion to hear the reading of the will. Carter Hagan, seeking to control his excitement, stood before a microphone installed for the benefit of those who couldn't get in. He said, this is the last will and testament of Samuel Chipfellow, deceased. As his lawyer, it becomes my duty to, an angry murmur went up from those assembled, exclamations of impatience. Come on, get on with it. Quit making a speech and read the will. We can't wait all day. Quiet, please, and give me your closest attention. I will read slowly so all may hear. This is Mr. Chipfellow's last testament. I, Samuel, will be Chipfellow, have made a great deal of money during my active years. The time now comes when I must decide what will become of it after my death. I have made my decision, but I remain in the peculiar position of still not knowing what will become of it. Frankly, I'm of the opinion that no one will ever benefit from it, that it will remain in the place I have secreted it until the end of time. A murmur went up from the crowd. A treasure hunt, someone cried. I wonder if they'll distribute maps. Carter Hagan raised his hand. Please, let's have a little more order or the reading will not continue. The room quieted and Hagan's droning voice was again raised. This place consists of a vault I have erected upon my grounds. This vault, I assure you, is burglar-proof, weather-proof, cyclone-proof, tornado-proof, bomb-proof. Time will have no effect upon its walls. It could conceivably be thrown free in some great volcanic upheaval, but even then, the contents would remain inaccessible. There is only one way the vault can be opened. Its lock is sensitized to respond to a thought. That's what I said, a thought. I have selected a single, definite, clear-cut thought to which the combination will respond. There is a stone bench in front of the vault door and I decree that any person who wishes may sit down on this bench and direct his or her thought at the door. If it is the correct one, the door will open and the person causing this to happen shall then be the possessor of all my worldly wealth which lies inside. Because of the number of persons who will no doubt wish to try their luck, I decree further that each shall be given 30 seconds in which to project their thought. A force of six men shall be hired to supervise the operation and handle the crowds in the neighborhood of the vault. A trust fund has been already set up to pay this group. The balance of my wealth lies awaiting the lucky thinker in the vault. All save this estate itself, an item of trifling value in comparison to the rest, which I bequeath to the state with the stipulation that the other terms of the will are rigidly carried out. And so, good luck to everyone in the world. May one of you succeed in opening my vault, although I doubt it. Samuel B. Chipfellow. P.S. The thought-throwing shall begin one week after the reading of the will. I add this as a precaution to keep everyone from rushing to the vault after this will is read. You might kill each other in the stampede. S.B.C. There was a rush regardless. Reporters knocked each other down getting to the battery of phones set up to carry the news around the world. And Sam Chipfellow's will pushed all else off the video screens and the front pages. During the following weeks, millions were made through the sale of Chipfellow's thought to the gullible. Great commercial activity began in the area surrounding the estate as arrangements were made to accommodate the hundreds of thousands who were heading in that direction. A line began forming immediately at the gate to Chipfellow's folly and a brisk market got underway in positions therein. The going figure of the first 100 positions was in the neighborhood of $10,000. A man 3,000 thoughts away was offered $1,000 two days before the week was up. And on the last day, the woman at the head of the line sold her position for $18,000. There were many learned roundtables and discussions as to the nature of Chipfellow's thought. The majority leaned to the belief that it would be scientific in nature because Chipfellow was the world's greatest scientist. This appeared to give scientifically turned brains the edge and those fortunate in this respect spent long hours learning what they could of Sam Chipfellow's life trying to divine his performance in the realm of thought. So intense was the interest created that scarcely anyone paid attention to the activities of Chipfellow's closer relatives. They sued to break the will but met with defeat. The verdict was rendered speedily after which the judge who made the ruling declared a recess and bought the 11,000th position in line for $500. On the morning of the appointed day the gates were opened and the line moved toward the vault. The first man took his seat on the bench. A stopwatch clicked. A great silence settled over the watchers. This lasted for 30 seconds after which the watch clicked again. The man got up from the bench $18,000 poor. The vault had not opened. Nor did it open the next day, the next, nor the next. A week passed, a month, six months. And at the end of that time it was estimated that more than 25,000 people had tried their luck and failed. Each failure was greeted with a public sigh of relief. Relief from both those who were waiting for a turn and those who were getting rich from the commercial enterprises abutting from Chipfellow's estate. There was a motel, a hotel, a few nightclubs, a lot of restaurants, a hastily constructed bus terminal, an airport, and several turned into parking lots at a dollar ahead. The line was a permanent thing and it was soon necessary to build a cement walk because the ever-present hopeful were standing in a ditch a foot deep. There also continued to be an active business in positions, a group of professional standards having sprung up, each with an assistant to bring food and coffee and keep track of the ever-flexuating market in positions. And still no one opened Mr. Chipfellow's vault. It was conceded that the big endowment funds had the inside track because they had the money to hire the best brains in the world, men who were almost as able scientifically as had been Chipfellow himself, but unfortunately hadn't made as much money. The moneyed interest also had access to the robot calculators that turned out far more plausible thoughts than there were positions in the line. A year passed, the vault remained locked. By that time, the number of those who had tried and failed and were naturally disgruntled was large enough to be heard. So a rumor got about that the whole thing was a vast hoax. A mean joke perpetrated upon the helpless public by a lousy old crook who hadn't any money in the first place. Vituperative editorials were written by editors who had stood in line and thrown feudal thoughts at the great door. These editorials were vigorously rebutted by editors and columnists who as yet had not had a chance to try for the jackpot. One senator who had tried and missed introduced the law making it illegal to sit on a stone bench and hurl a thought at a door. There were enough congressional failures to pass the law. It went to the Supreme Court but was tossed out because they said you couldn't pass a law prohibiting a man from thinking. And still the vault remained closed. Until Mr. and Mrs. Wilson, farm people impoverished by reverses, spent their last $10 for two thoughts and waited out the hours and the days in line. Their daughter Susan, age nine, waited with them, passing the time by telling her doll fairy tales and wondering what the world looked like to a bird flying high up above the treetops. Susan was glad when her mother and father reached the bench because they all could go home and see how her pet rabbit was doing. Mr. Wilson hurled his thought and moved on with drooping shoulders. Mrs. Wilson threw hers and was told to leave the bench. The guard looked at Susan. Your turn, he said. But I haven't got any thought, Susan said. I just want to go home. This made no sense to the guard. The line was being held up. People were grumbling. The guard said, all right, but that was silly. You could have sold your position for good money. Run along with your mother and father. Susan started away. Then she looked at the vault which certainly resembled a mausoleum and said, wait, I have to got a little thought. And she popped onto the bench. The guard frowned and snapped his stopwatch. Susan screwed her eyes tight shut. She tried to see an angel with big white wings like she sometimes saw in her dreams. And she also tried to visualize a white-haired, jolly-faced little man as she considered Mr. Chipfellow to be. Her lips moved soundlessly, as she said. Dear God and all the angels, please have pity on poor Mr. Chipfellow for dying and please make him happy in heaven. Then Susan got off the bench to run after her mother and father who had not waited. There was the sound of metal grinding upon metal and the great door was swinging open. The end of Mr. Chipfellow's jackpot by Dick Purcell as read by Rachel Craig, www.ttb.org. Old Crumpton's Secret by Harle Vincent. 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 Nick Number. Old Crumpton's Secret by Harle Vincent. Two miles west of the village of Laketon, there lived an aged recluse who was known only as Old Crumpton. As far back as the villagers could remember, he had visited the town regularly twice a month, each time tottering his lonely way homeward with a load of provisions. He appeared to be well supplied with funds but purchased sparingly as became a miserly hermit. And so vicious was his tongue that few cared to converse with him, even the young hoodlums of the town hesitating to harass him with the banter usually accorded the other bizarre characters of the streets. The oldest inhabitants knew nothing of his past history and they had long since lost their curiosity in the matter. He was a fixture as was the old town hall with its surrounding park. His lonely cabin was shunned by all who chanced to pass along the old dirt road that led through the woods to nowhere and was rarely used. His only extravagance was in the matter of books and the village bookstore profited considerably by his purchases. But at the instigation of Cass Harman, the bookseller, it was whispered about that Old Crumpton was a believer in the black art that he had made a pact with the devil himself and was leagued with him and his imps. For the books he bought were strange ones, ancient volumes that Cast must need's order from New York or Chicago and that cost as much as 10 and even $15 a copy. Translations of the writings of the alchemists and astrologers and philosophers of the dark ages. It was no wonder Old Crumpton was looked at a scance by the simple living and deeply religious natives of the small Pennsylvania town. But there came a day when the hermit was to have a neighbor and the town buzzed with excited speculation as to what would happen. The property across the road from Old Crumpton's hut belonged to Alton Forsythe, Lakedon's wealthiest resident, hundreds of acres of scrubby woodland that he considered well nigh worthless. But Tom Forsythe, the only son, had returned from college and his ambitions were of a nature strange to his townspeople and utterly incomprehensible to his father. Something vague about biology and chemical experiments and the like is what he spoke of. And when his parents objected on the grounds of possible explosions and other weird accidents, he prevailed upon his father to have a secluded laboratory built for him in the woods. When the workmen started the small frame structure, not a quarter of a mile from his own hut, Old Crumpton was furious. He raged and stormed, but to no avail. Tom Forsythe had his heart set on the project and he was somewhat of a successful debater himself. The fire that flashed from his cold gray eyes matched that from the pale blue ones of the elderly anchorite and the law was on his side. So the building was completed and Tom Forsythe moved in, bag and baggage. For more than a year, the hermit studiously avoided his neighbor, though truth to tell this required very little effort. For Tom Forsythe became almost as much of a recluse as his predecessor, remaining indoors for days at a time and visiting the home of his people scarcely oftener than Old Crumpton visited the village. He too became the target of village gossip and his name was air long linked with that of the old man in similar animate version. But he cared not for the opinions of his townspeople, nor for the dark looks of suspicion that greeted him on his rare appearances in the public places. His chosen work engrossed him so deeply that all else counted for nothing. His parents were monstrated with him in vain. Tom laughed away their recriminations and fears continuing with his labors more strenuously than ever. He never troubled his mind over the nearness of Old Crumpton's hut, the existence of which he hardly noticed or considered. It so happened one day that the old man's curiosity got the better of him and Tom caught him prowling about on his property, peering wonderingly at the many rabbit hudges, chicken coops, dove coats and the like which cluttered the space to the rear of the laboratory. Seeing that he was discovered, the old man wrinkled his face into a toothless grin of conciliation. "'Just looking over your place, Forsythe,' he said. "'Sorry about the fuss I made when you built the house, but I'm an old man, you know, and changes are unwelcome. Now I have forgotten my objections and would like to be friends, can we?' Tom peered searchingly into the flinty eyes that were set so deeply in the wrinkled, leathery countenance. He suspected an ulterior motive but could not find it within him to turn the old fellow down. "'Why, I guess so, Crompton,' he hesitated. "'I have nothing against you, but I came here for seclusion and I'll not have anyone bothering me in my work. "'I'll not bother you, young man, but I'm fond of pets and I see you have many of them here, guinea pigs, chickens, pigeons and rabbits. "'Would you mind if I make friends with some of them?' "'They're not pets,' answered Tom dryly. "'They are material for use in my experiments, but you may amuse yourself with them if you wish. "'You mean that you cut them up, kill them, perhaps?' "'Not that, but I sometimes change them in physical form, "'sometimes cause them to become of huge size, "'sometimes produce pygmy offspring of normal animals. "'Don't they suffer?' "'Very seldom, though occasionally a subject dies, "'but the benefit that will accrue to mankind "'is well worth the slight inconvenience "'to the dumb creatures and the infrequent loss "'of their lives,' old Crompton regarded him dubiously. "'You are trying to find,' he interrogated. "'The secret of life,' Tom Forsythe sighs, "'took on the stare of fanaticism. "'Before I have finished, I shall know the nature "'of the vital force, how to produce it. "'I shall prolong human life indefinitely, "'create artificial life, "'and the solution is more closely approached "'with each passing day.'" The hermit blinked and pretended mystification, but he understood perfectly and he bitterly envied the younger man's knowledge and ability that enabled him to delve into the mysteries of nature, which had always been so attractive to his own mind. And somehow he acquired a sudden deep hatred of the coolly confident young man who spoke so positively of accomplishing the impossible. During the winter months that followed, the strange acquaintance progressed but little. Tom did not invite his neighbor to visit him, nor did old Crompton go out of his way to impose his presence on the younger man, though each spoke pleasantly enough to the other on the few occasions when they happened to meet. With the coming of spring, they encountered one another more frequently, and Tom found considerable of interest in the quaint borrowed philosophy of the gloomy old man. Old Crompton, of course, was desperately interested in the things that were hidden in Tom's laboratory, but he never requested permission to see them. He hid his real feelings extremely well and was apparently content to spend as much time as possible with the feathered and furred subjects for experiment, being very careful not to incur Tom's displeasure by displaying too great interest in the laboratory itself. Then there came a day in early summer when an accident served to draw the two men closer together and old Crompton's long-sought opportunity followed. He was starting for the village when, from down the road, there came a series of tremendous squawkings, then a bellow of dismay in the voice of his young neighbor. He turned quickly and was astonished at the sight of a monstrous rooster which had escaped and was headed straight for him with head down and wings fluttering wildly. Tom followed close behind but was unable to catch the darting monster, and monster it was for this rooster stood no less than three feet in height and appeared more ferocious than a large turkey. Old Crompton had his shopping bag, a large one of burlap, which he always carried to town and he summoned enough courage to throw it over the head of the screeching, oversized fowl. So tangled did the panic-stricken bird become that it was a comparatively simple matter to affect his capture and the old man rose to his feet triumphant with the bag securely closed over the struggling captive. Thanks, panted Tom when he drew alongside, I should never have caught him and his appearance at large might have caused me a great deal of trouble, now of all times. It's all right, Forsythe, smirked the old man, glad I was able to do it. Secretly he gloated, for he knew this occurrence would be an open sesame to that laboratory of Tom's and it proved to be just that. A few nights later he was awakened by a vigorous thumping at his door, something that had never before occurred during his nearly 60 years' occupancy of the tumbledown hut. The moon was high and he cautiously peeped from the window and saw that his late visitor was none other than young Forsythe. With you in a minute, he shouted, hastily thrusting his rheumatic old limbs into his shabby trousers. Now to see the inside of that laboratory, he chuckled to himself. It required but a moment to attire himself in the scanty, raimenty war during the warm months but he could hear Tom muttering and impatiently pacing the flagstones before his door. What is it? he asked as he drew the bolt and emerged into the brilliant light of the moon. Success, breathed Tom excitedly. I had produced growing living matters synthetically. More than this I have learned the secret of the vital force, the spark of life. Immortality is within easy reach, come and see for yourself. They quickly traversed the short distance to the two-story building which comprised Tom's workshop and living quarters. The entire ground floor was taken up by the laboratory and old cromptons stared aghast at the wealth of equipment it contained. Furnaces there were and retorts that reminded him of those pictured in the woodcuts in some of his musty books. Then there were complicated machines with many levers and dials mounted on their faces and with huge glass bulbs of peculiar shape with coils of wire connecting to knob-like protuberances of their transparent walls. In the exact center of the great single room there was what appeared to be a dissecting table with a brilliant light overhead and with two of the odd glass bulbs at either end. It was to this table that Tom led the excited old man. This is my perfected apparatus, said Tom proudly, and by its use I intend to create a new race of supermen, men and women who will always retain the vigor and strength of their youth and who cannot die accepting by actual destruction of their bodies. Under the influence of the rays all bodily ailments vanish as if by magic and organic defects are quickly corrected. Watch this now. He stepped to one of the many cages at the side of the room and returned with a wriggling cottontail in his hands. Old Crompton watched anxiously as he picked a nickled instrument from a tray of surgical appliances and requested his visitor to hold the protesting animal while he covered its head with a handkerchief. Ethel Chloride explained Tom, noting with amusement the look of distaste on the old man's face. We'll just put him to sleep for a minute while I amputate a leg. The struggles of the rabbit quickly ceased when the spray soaked the handkerchief and the anesthetic took effect. With a shining scalpel and a surgical saw Tom speedily removed one of the forelegs of the animal and then he placed the limp body in the center of the table removing the handkerchief from its head as he did so. At the end of the table there was a panel with its glittering array of switches and electrical instruments and Old Crompton observed very closely the manipulations of the controls as Tom started the mechanism. With the ensuing hum of a motor generator from a corner of the room the four bulbs adjacent to the table sprang into life each glowing with a different color and each emitting a different vibratory note as it responded to the energy within. Keep an eye on Mr. Rabbit now, admonished Tom. From the body of the small animal there emanated an intangible though hazely visible aura as the combined effects of the rays grew in intensity. Old Crompton bent over the table and peered amazingly at the stump of the foreleg from which blood no longer dripped. The stump was healing over. Yes, it seemed to elongate as one watched. A new limb was growing on to replace the old. Then the animal struggled once more this time to regain consciousness. In a moment it was fully awake and with a frightened hop was off the table and hobbling about in search of a hiding place. Tom Forsythe laughed. Never knew what happened, he exalted, and accepting for the temporary limb is not inconvenienced at all. Even that will be gone in a couple of hours for the new limb will be completely grown by that time. But Tom, stammered the old man, this is wonderful, how do you accomplish it? Ah, don't think I'll reveal my secret, but this much I will tell you. The life force generated by my apparatus stimulates a certain gland that's normally inactive in warm-blooded animals. This gland, when active, possesses the function of growing new members to the body to replace lost ones in much the same manner as this is done in the case of the lobster and certain other crustaceans. Of course, the process is extremely rapid when the gland is stimulated by the vital rays from my tubes, but this is only one of the many wonders of the process. Here is something far more remarkable. He took from a large glass jar the body of a guinea pig, a body that was rigid in death. This guinea pig, he explained, was suffocated 24 hours ago and is stone dead. Suffocated? Yes, but quite painlessly, I assure you, I merely removed the air from the jar with a vacuum pump and the little creature passed out of the picture very quickly. Now we'll revive it. Old Crompton stretched forth a skinny hand to touch the dead animal, but withdrew it hastily when he felt the clammy rigidity of the body. There was no doubt as to the lifelessness of this specimen. Tom placed the dead guinea pig on the spot where the rabbit had been subjected to the action of the rays. Again, his visitor watched carefully as he manipulated the controls of the apparatus. With the glow of the tubes and the ensuing haze of eerie light that surrounded the little body, a marked change was apparent. The inanimate form relaxed suddenly and it seemed that the muscles pulsated with an accession of energy. Then one leg was stretched forth spasmodically. There was a convulsive heave as the lungs drew in a first long breath and with that an astonished and very much alive rodent scrambled to its feet, blinking, wondering eyes in the dazzling light. See, see, shouted Tom, grasping Old Crompton by the arm in a vice-like grip. It is the secret of life and death. Aristocrats, plutocrats, and beggars will beat a path to my door, but never fear, I shall choose my subjects well. The name of Thomas Forsythe will yet be emblazoned in the Hall of Fame. I shall be master of the world. Old Crompton began to fear the glitter in the eyes of the gaunt young man who seemed suddenly to have become demented and his envy and hatred of his talented host blazed anew as Forsythe gloried in the success of his efforts. Then he was struck with an idea and he affected his most ingratiating manner. It is a marvelous thing, Tom, he said, and is entirely beyond my poor comprehension, but I can see that it is all you say and more. Tell me, can you restore the youth of an aged person by these means? Positively, Tom did not catch the eager note in the old man's voice. Rather, he took the question as an inquiry into the further marvels of his process. Here, he continued enthusiastically, I'll prove that to you also. My dog's spot is around the place somewhere and he's a decrepit old hound, blind, lame, and toothless. You've probably seen him with me. He rushed to the stairs and whistled. There was an answering yelp from above and the pad of uncertain paws on the bare wooden steps. A dejected old beagle blundered into the room, dragging a crippled hind leg as he fawned upon his master, who stretched forth a hand to pat the unsteady head. Guess spot is old enough for the test, laughed Tom, and I've been meaning to restore him to his youthful vigor anyway, no time like the present. He led his trembling pet to the table of the remarkable tubes and lifted him to its surface. The poor old beast lay trustingly where he was placed, quiet, safe for his husky, asthmatic breathing. Hold him, Crompton, directed Tom as he pulled the starting lever of his apparatus. And old Crompton watched in fascinated anticipation as the ethereal luminosity bathed the dog's body in response to the action of the four rays. Somewhat vaguely it came to him that the baggy flesh of his own wrinkled hands took on a new firmness and color where they reposed on the animal's back. Young foresight grinned triumphantly as spot's breathing became more regular and the rasp gradually left it. Then the dog whined in pleasure and wagged his tail with increasing vigor. Suddenly he raised his head, perked his ears in astonishment and looked his master straight in the face with eyes that saw once more. The low throat cry rose to a full and joyous bark. He sprang to his feet from under the restraining hands and jumped to the floor in a lithe-muscled leap that carried him halfway across the room. He capered about with the abandon of a puppy making extremely active use of four sound limbs. Why, why foresight, stammered the hermit. It's absolutely incredible. Tell me, tell me, what is this remarkable force? His host laughed gleefully. You probably wouldn't understand it anyway, but I'll tell you, it is as simple as a nose on your face. The spark of life, the vital force is merely an extremely complicated electrical manifestation which I've been able to duplicate artificially. This spark or force is all that distinguishes living from inanimate matter and in living beings the force gradually decreases in power as the years pass causing loss of health and strength. The chemical composition of bones and tissue alters, joints become stiff, muscles atrophied and bones brittle. By recharging as it were with the vital force the gland action is intensified, youth and strength is renewed. By repeating the process every 10 or 15 years the same degree of vigor can be maintained indefinitely. Mankind will become immortal. That is why I say I am to be master of the world. For the moment old Crompton forgot his jealous hatred in the enthusiasm with which he was imbued. Tom, Tom, he pleaded in his excitement, use me as a subject, renew my youth. My life has been a sad one and a lonely one, but I would that I might live it over. I should make of it a far different one, something worthwhile, see I'm ready. He sat on the edge of the gleaming table and made as if to lie down on its gleaming surface, but his young host only stared at him in open amusement. What, you, he sneered unfeelingly. Why, you old fossil, I told you I would choose my subjects carefully, they are to be people of standing and wealth who can contribute to the fame and fortune of one Thomas Forsythe. But Tom, I have money, old Crompton begged, but when he saw the hard mirth in the younger man's eyes his old animosity flamed anew and he sprang from his position and shook a skinny forefinger in Tom's face. Don't do that to me, you old fool, shouted Tom and get out of here. Think I'd waste current on an old cadre like you? I guess not. Now get out, get out, I say. Then the old anchorite saw red. Something seemed to snap in his soured old brain. He found himself kicking and biting and punching at his host who backed away from the furious onslaught in surprise. Then Tom tripped over a wire and fell to the floor with a force that rattled the windows, his ferocious little adversary on top. The younger man lay still where he had fallen, a trickle of blood showing at his temple. My God, I've killed him, gasped the old man. With trembling fingers he opened Tom's shirt and listened for his heartbeats. Panic stricken he rubbed the young man's wrists, slapped his cheeks and ran for water to dash in his face but all efforts to revive him proved futile. And then in awful fear old Crompton dashed into the night the dog's spots snapping at his heels as he ran. Hours later the stooped figure of a shabby old man might have been seen stealthily re-entering the lonely workshop where the light still burned brightly. Tom Forsyth lay rigid in the position in which old Crompton had left him and the dog growled menacingly. Averting his gaze and circling wide of the body old Crompton made for the table of the marvelous rays. In minute detail he recalled every move made by Tom and starting and adjusting the apparatus to produce the incredible results he had witnessed. Not a moment was to be wasted now. Already he had hesitated too long for soon would come the dawn and possible discovery of his crime, but the invention of his victim would save him from the long arm of the law, for with youth restored old Crompton would cease to exist and a new life would open its doors to the starved soul of the hermit. Hermit indeed, he would begin life anew an active man with youthful vigor and ambition. Under an assumed name he would travel abroad, would enjoy life and would later become a successful man of affairs. He had enough money, he told himself and the police would never find old Crompton, the murderer of Tom Forsythe. He deposited his small traveling bag on the floor and finger the controls of Tom's apparatus. He threw the starting switch confidently and grinned in satisfaction as the answering wine of the motor generator came to his ears. One by one he carefully made the adjustments in exactly the manner followed by the now silenced discoverer of the process. Everything operated precisely as it had during the preceding experiments. Odd that he should have anticipated some such necessity, but something had told him to observe Tom's movements carefully and now he rejoiced in the fact that his intuition had led him aright. Painfully he climbed to the tabletop and stretched his aching body in the warm light of the four huge tubes. His exertions during the struggle with Tom were beginning to tell on him, but the soreness and stiffness of feeble muscles and stubborn joints would soon be but a memory. His pulses quickened at the thought and he breathed deep in a sudden feeling of unaccustomed well-being. The dog growled continuously from his position at the head of his master but did not move to interfere with the intruder and old Crompton and the excitement of the momentous experience paid him not the slightest attention. His body tingled from head to foot with a not unpleasant sensation that conveyed the assurance of radical changes taking place under the influence of the vital rays. The tingling sensation increased in intensity until it seemed that every corpuscle in his veins danced to the tune of a vibration from those glowing tubes that bathed him in an ever-spreading radiance. Aches and pains vanished from his body but he soon experienced a sharp stab of new pain in his lower jaw. With an experimental forefinger he rubbed the gum. He laughed aloud as the realization came to him that in those gums where there had been no teeth for more than 20 years there was now growing a complete new set and the rapidity of the process amazed him beyond measure. The aching area spread quickly and was becoming really uncomfortable. But then, and he consoled himself with the thought, nothing is brought into being without a certain amount of pain. Besides, he was confident that his discomfort would soon be over. He examined his hand and found that the joints of two fingers long crippled with rheumatism now moved freely and painlessly. The misty brilliance surrounding his body was pailing and he saw that the flesh was taking on a faint green fluorescence instead. The rays had completed their work and soon the transformation would be fully affected. He turned on his side and slipped to the floor with the agility of a youngster. The dog snarled anew but kept steadfastly to his position. There was a small mirror over the wash stand at the far end of the room and old Crompton made haste to obtain the first view of his reflected image. His step was firm and springy, his bearing confident and he found that his long stooped shoulders straightened naturally and easily. He felt that he had taken on at least two inches in stature, which was indeed the case. When he reached the mirror he peered anxiously into its dingy surface and what he saw there so startled him that he stepped backward in amazement. This was not Larry Crompton, but an entirely new man. The straggly white hair had given way to soft healthy waves of chestnut hue. Gone were the seams from the leathery countenance and the eyes looked out clearly and steadily from under brows as thick and dark as they had been in his youth. The reflected features were those of an entire stranger. They were not even reminiscent of the Larry Crompton of 50 years ago but were the features of a far more vigorous and prepossessing individual than he had ever seemed even in the best years of his life. The jaw was firm, the once sunken cheeks so well filled out that his high cheekbones were no longer in evidence. It was the face of a man of not more than 38 years of age reflecting exceptional intelligence and strength of character. What a disguise, he exclaimed in delight and his voice echoing in the stillness that followed the switching off of the apparatus was deep throated in mellow, the voice of a new man. Now serenely confident that discovery was impossible he picked up his small but heavy bag and started for the door. Don was breaking and he wished to put his many miles between himself and Tom's laboratories could be covered in the next few hours but at the door he hesitated. Then despite the furious yapping of spot he returned to the table of the rays and with deliberate thoroughness smashed the costly tubes which had brought about his rehabilitation. With a pinch bar from a nearby tool rack he wrecked the controls and generating mechanisms beyond recognition. Now he was absolutely secure. No meddling experts could possibly discover the secret of Tom's invention. All evidence would show that the young experimenter had met his death at the hands of old Crompton the despised hermit of West Lakedon but none would dream that the handsome man of means who was henceforth to be known as George Voight was that same despised hermit. He recovered his satchel and left the scene with long rapid strides he proceeded down the old dirt road toward the main highway where, instead of turning east into the village he would turn west and walk to Kernsburg the neighboring town. There in not more than two hours time his new life would really begin. Had you, a visitor, departed from Lakedon when old Crompton did and returned 12 years later you would have noticed very little difference in the appearance of the village. The old town hall and the little park were the same the dingy brick building among the trees being just a little dingier and its wooden steps more worn and sagged. The main street showed evidence of recent repaving and in consequence of the resulting increase in through automobile traffic there were two new gasoline filling stations in the heart of the town. Down the road about a half mile there was a new building which upon inquiring from one of the natives would be proudly designated as the new high school building otherwise there were no changes to be observed. In his dilapidated chair in the untidy office he had occupied for nearly 30 years sat Asa Culkin popularly known as Judge Culkin. Justice of the peace, sheriff, attorney at law and three times mayor of Lakedon he was still a controlling factor in local politics and government and many a naughty legal problem was settled in that gloomy little office. Many had dispute in the town council was dependent for arbitration upon the keen mind and understanding wit of the old judge. The four o'clock train had just puffed its labored way from the station when a stranger entered his office a stranger of uncommonly prosperous air. The keen blue eyes of the old attorney appraised him instantly and classified him as a successful man of business not yet 40 years of age and with a weighty problem on his mind. What can I do for you sir? He asked removing his feet from the battered desktop. You may be able to help me a great deal judge was the unexpected reply. I came to Lakedon to give myself up. Give yourself up. Culkin rose to his feet in surprise and unconsciously straightened his shoulders in the effort to seem less dwarfed before the tall stranger. Why, what do you mean? he inquired. I wish to give myself up for murder. Answered the amazing visitor slowly and with decision. For a murder committed 12 years ago I should like you to listen to my story first though it has been kept too long but I still do not understand. There was puzzlement in the honest old face of the attorney. He shook his gray locks in uncertainty. Why should you come here? Why come to me? What possible interest can I have in the matter? Just this judge you do not recognize me now and you will probably consider my story incredible when you hear it but when I've given you all the evidence you will know who I am and will be compelled to believe. The murder was committed in Lakedon that is why I came to you. A murder in Lakedon? 12 years ago? Again the aged attorney shook his head. But proceed. Yes, I killed Thomas Forsythe. The stranger looked for an expression of horror in the features of his listener but there was none. Instead the benign countenance took on a look of deepening amazement but the smile wrinkles had somehow vanished and the old face was grave in its surprised interest. You seem astonished, continued the stranger. Undoubtedly you were convinced that the murderer was Larry Crompton, old Crompton, the hermit. He disappeared the night of the crime and has never been heard from since. Am I correct? Yes, he disappeared all right but continue. Not by a lift of his eyebrow did Culkin betray his disbelief but the stranger sensed that his story was somehow not as startling as it should have been. You will think me crazy I presume but I am old Crompton. It was my hand that fell the unfortunate young man in his laboratory out there in West Lakedon 12 years ago tonight. It was his marvelous invention that transformed the old hermit into the apparently young man you see before you but I swear that I am none other than Larry Crompton and that I killed young Forsythe. I am ready to pay the penalty. I can bear the flagellation of my own conscience no longer. The visitor's voice had risen to the point of hysteria but his listener remained calm and unmoved. Now just let me get this straight, he said quietly. Do I understand that you claim to be old Crompton rejuvenated in some mysterious manner and that you killed Tom Forsythe on that night 12 years ago? Do I understand that you wish now to go to trial for that crime and to pay the penalty? Yes, yes and the sooner the better. I can stand it no longer. I am the most miserable man in the world. Hmm, hmm, muttered the judge. This is strange. He spoke soothingly to his visitor. Do not upset yourself, I beg of you. I will take care of this thing for you, never fear. Just take a seat, Mr. Er... You may call me Voight for the present, said the stranger in a more composed tone of voice. George Voight, that is a name I've been using since that fatal night. Very well, Mr. Voight, replied the counselor with an air of the greatest solicitude. Please have a seat now while I make a telephone call. And George Voight slipped into a stiff back chair with a sigh of relief, for he knew the judge from the old days and he was now certain that his case would be disposed of very quickly. With the telephone receiver pressed to his ear, Culkin repeated a number. The stranger listened intently during the ensuing silence. Then there came a muffled, hello? Sounding an impatient response to the call. Hello, Elton, spoke the attorney. This is Asa speaking. The stranger has just stepped into my office and he claims to be old Crompton. Remember the hermit across the road from your son's old laboratory? Well, this man, who bears no resemblance whatever to the old man he claims to be, and who seems to be less than half the age of Tom's old neighbor, says that he killed Tom on that night we remember so well. There were some surprised remarks from the other end of the wire, but Voight was unable to catch them. He was in a cold perspiration at the thought of meeting his victim's father. Why yes, Elton, continued Culkin. I think there is something in this story, although I cannot believe it all, but I wish you would accompany us and visit the laboratory, will you? Lord, man, not that, interrupted the judge's visitor. I can hardly bear to visit the scene of my crime, and in the company of Elton Forsythe, please, not that. Now you just let me take care of this young man, replied the judge, testily. Then, once more speaking into the mouthpiece of the telephone, all right, Elton, we'll pick you up at your office in five minutes. He replaced the receiver on its hook and turned again to his visitor. Please be so kind as to do exactly as I request, he said. I want to help you, but there is more to this thing than you know, and I want you to follow unquestioningly where I lead and ask no questions at all for the present. Things may turn out differently than you expect. All right, Judge. The visitor resigned himself to whatever might transpire under the guidance of the man he had called upon to turn him over to the officers of the law. Seated in the judge's ancient motor car, they stopped at the office of Elton Forsythe a few minutes later and were joined by that red-faced and pompous old man. Few words were spoken during the short run to the well-remembered location of Tom's laboratory, and the man who is known as George Voight caught at his own throat with nervous fingers when they passed the tumbledown remains of the hut in which old Crompton had spent so many years. With a screeching of well-worn breaks, the car stopped before the laboratory, which was now almost hidden behind a mass of shrubs and flowers. Easy now, young man, cautioned the judge, noting the look of fear which had clouded his new client's features. The three men advanced to the door through which old Crompton had fled on that night of horror, 12 years before. The elder Forsythe spoke not a word as he turned the knob and stepped within. Voight shrank from entering, but soon mastered his feelings and followed the other two. The sight that met his eyes caused him to cry aloud in awe. At the dissecting table, which seemed to be exactly as he had seen at last, but with replicas of the tubes he had destroyed once more in place, stood Tom Forsythe. Considerably older and with hair prematurely gray, he was still the young man old Crompton thought he had killed. Tom Forsythe was not dead after all, and all of his years of misery had gone for nothing. He advanced slowly to the side of the wondering young man, out in Forsythe and Asa Culkin watching silently from just inside the door. Tom, Tom, spoke the stranger. You were alive? You were not dead when I left you on that terrible night when I smashed your precious tubes? Oh, it is too good to be true. I can scarcely believe my eyes. He stretched forth trembling fingers to touch the body of the young man to assure himself that it was not all a dream. Why, said Tom Forsythe in astonishment, I do not know you, sir. Never saw you in my life. What do you mean by your talk of smashing my tubes of leaving me for dead? Mean? The stranger's voice rose now. He was growing excited. Why, Tom, I am old Crompton. Remember the struggle here in this very room? You refused to rejuvenate an unhappy old man with your marvelous apparatus, a temporarily insane old man, Crompton. I was that old man and I fought with you. You fell, striking your head. There was blood. You were unconscious. Yes, for many hours I was sure you were dead and that I had murdered you, but I had watched your manipulations of the apparatus and I subjected myself to the action of the rays. My youth was miraculously restored. I became as you see me now. Detection was impossible for I looked no more like old Crompton than you do. I smashed your machinery to avoid suspicion, then I escaped. And for 12 years I have thought myself a murderer. I have suffered the tortures of the damned. Tom Forsythe advanced on this remarkable visitor with clenched fists. Staring him in the eyes with cold appraisal, his wrath was all too apparent. The dog's spot, young as ever, entered the room and, upon observing the stranger, set up an ominous growling and snarling. At least the dog recognized him. What are you trying to do? Catechize me? Are you another of these alienists my father has been bringing around? The young inventor was furious. If you are, he continued, you can get out of here now. I'll have no more of this meddling with my affairs. I'm as sane as any of you and I refuse to submit to this continual persecution. The elder Forsythe grunted and Culkin laid a restraining hand on his arm. Just a minute now, Tom, he said soothingly. This stranger is no alienist. He has a story to tell. Please permit him to finish. Somewhat mollified, Tom Forsythe shrugged his assent. Tom, continued the stranger, more calmly now. What I have said is the truth. I shall prove it to you. I'll tell you things no mortals on earth could know but we too. Remember the day I captured the big rooster for you? The monster you had created? Remember the night you awakened me and brought me here in the moonlight? Remember the rabbit whose leg you amputated and re-grew? The poor guinea pig you had suffocated and whose life you restored? Spot here? Don't you remember rejuvenating him? I was here and you refused to use your process on me, old man that I was. That is when I went mad and attacked you. Do you believe me, Tom? Then a strange thing happened. While Tom Forsythe gazed in growing belief, the stranger's shoulders sagged and he trembled as with the egg you. The two older men who had kept in the background gasped their astonishment as his hair faded to a sickly gray, then became as white as the driven snow. Old Crompton was reverting to his previous state. Within five minutes, instead of the handsome young stranger, there stood before them a bent, withered old man, old Crompton beyond a doubt. The effects of Tom's process were spent. Well, I'm damned, ejaculated Alton Forsythe. You've been right all along, Asa, and I am mighty glad I did not commit Tom as I intended. He has told us the truth all these years and we were not wise enough to see it. We, exclaimed the judge, you, Alton Forsythe, I have always upheld him. You have done your son a grave injustice and you owe him your apologies if ever a father owed his son anything. You're right, Asa. And his aristocratic pride forgotten, Alton Forsythe rushed to the side of his son and embraced him. The judge turned to old Crompton pideingly. Rather a bad ending for you, Crompton, he said. Still, it is better by far than being branded as a murderer. Better? Better, croaked old Crompton. It is wonderful, judge. I've never been so happy in my life. The face of the old man beamed, though scalding tears coursed down the withered and seemed cheeks. The two Forsythe's looked up from their demonstrations of peacemaking to listen to the amazing words of the old hermit. Yes, happy for the first time in my life, he continued. I am 100 years of age, gentlemen, and I now look it and feel it. That is as it should be. And my experience has taught me a final lasting lesson. None of you know it, but when I was but a very young man, I was bitterly disappointed in love. Ha ha, never think it to look at me now, would you? But I was, and it ruined my entire life. I had a little money, inherited, and I traveled about in the world for a few years. Then settled in that old hut across the road where I buried myself for 60 years, becoming crabbed and sour and despicable. Young Tom here was the first bright spot, and though I admired him, I hated him for his opportunities, hated him for that which he had that I had not. With the promise of his invention, I thought I saw happiness, a new life for myself. I got what I wanted, though not in the way I had expected, and I want to tell you, gentlemen, that there is nothing in it. With developments of modern science, you may be able to restore a man's youthful vigor of body, but you can't cure his mind with electricity. Though I had a youthful body, my brain was the brain of an old man. Memories were there which could not be suppressed. Even had I not had the fancy death of young Tom on my conscience, I should still have been miserable. I worked, God how I worked, to forget, but I could not forget. I was successful in business and made a lot of money. I am more independent, probably wealthier than you, Alton Forsythe. But that did not bring happiness. I longed to be myself once more, to have the aches and pains which had been taken from me. It is natural to age and to die. Immortality would make of us a people of restless misery. We would quarrel and bicker and long for death, which would not come to relieve us. Now it is over for me and I am glad, glad, glad. He paused for breath, looking beseechingly at Tom Forsythe. Tom, he said, I suppose you have nothing for me in your heart but hatred and I don't blame you, but I wish, I wish you would try and forgive me, can you? The years had brought increased understanding and tolerance to young Tom. He stared at old Crompton and the long nursed anger over the destruction of his equipment melted into a strange mixture of pity and admiration for the courageous old fellow. Why, I guess I can, Crompton, he replied. There was many a day when I struggled hopelessly to reconstruct my apparatus, cursing you with every bit of energy in my makeup. I could cheerfully have throttled you had you been within reach. For 12 years I have labored incessantly to reproduce the results we obtained on the night of which you speak. People called me insane. Even my father wished to have me committed to an asylum. And until now I've been unsuccessful. Only today as it seems for the first time that the experiments will again succeed. But my ideas have changed with regard to the uses of the process. I was a cock-sure young pup in the old days with foolish dreams of fame and influence, but I have seen the error of my ways. Your experience, too, convinces me that immortality may not be as desirable as I thought, but there are great possibilities in the way of relieving the sufferings of mankind and in making this a better world in which to live. With your advice and help, I believe I can do great things. I now forgive you freely, and I ask you to remain here with me to assist in the work that is to come. What do you say to the idea? At the reverent thankfulness in the pale eyes of the broken old man who had so recently been a perfect specimen of vigorous health, Alton Forsythe blew his nose noisily. The little judge smiled benevolently and shook his head as if to say, I told you so. Tom and Old Crompton gripped hands mightily. End of Old Crompton's Secret. Recording by Nick Number. Old Rambling House by Frank Herbert. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Bologna Times. Old Rambling House by Frank Herbert. All the Graham's desired was a home they could call their own. But what did the home want? On his last night on earth, Ted Graham stepped out of a glass-walled telephone booth, ducked to avoid a swooping moth that battered itself in a frenzy against a bare globe above the booth. Ted Graham was a long-necked man with a head of pronounced egg-shape, topped by prematurely balding sandy hair. Something about his lanky, intense appearance suggested his occupation, certified public accountant. He stopped behind his wife, who was studying a newspaper-classified page and frowned. They said to wait here. They'll come, get us. Said the place is hard to find at night. Martha Graham looked up from the newspaper. She was a dull-faced woman, heavily pregnant, a kind of pink prettiness about her. The yellow glow from the light above the booth subdued the red auburn cast of her ponytail hair. I just have to be in a house when the baby is born, she said. What they sound like? I don't know, there was a funny kind of interruption, like an argument in some foreign language. Did they sound foreign? In a way he motioned along the night-shredded line of trailers toward one with two windows glowing amber. Let's wait inside. These bugs out here are fierce. Did you tell them which trailer is ours? Yes, they didn't sound at all anxious to look at it. That's odd, them wanting to trade their house for a trailer. There's nothing odd about it. They've probably just got itchy feet like we did. He appeared not to hear her. Funny as sounding language he ever heard, but that argument started like a squirt of noise. Inside the trailer, Ted Graham sat down on the green couch that opened into a double bed for a company. They could use a good tax accountant around here. He said, when I first saw the place, I got that definite feeling. The valley looks prosperous. It's a wonder nobody's opened an office here before. His wife took a straight chair by the counter separating kitchen and living area, folded her hands across her heavy stomach. I'm just continental tired of wheels going around under me, she said. I want to sit and stare at the same view for the rest of my life. I don't know how a trailer ever seemed glamorous when it was the inheritance gave us itchy feet, he said. Tires gridded on gravel outside. Martha Graham straightened. Could that be them? Awful quick if it is. He went to the door, opened it, stared down at the man who was just raising a hand to knock. Are you Mr. Graham? asked the man. Yes, he found himself staring at the collar. I'm Clint Rush, you called about the house. The man moved farther into the light. At first he'd appeared an old man, fine wrinkled lines in his face, a tired leather look to his skin. But as he moved his head in the light, the wrinkles seemed to dissolve and with them the years lifted from him. Yes, we called, said Ted Graham. He stood aside. Do you want to look at the trailer now? Martha Graham crossed the stand beside her husband. We've kept it in awfully good shape, she said. We've never let anything get seriously wrong with it. She sounds too anxious, thought Ted Graham. I wish he'd let me do the talking for the two of us. We can come back and look at your trailer tomorrow in daylight, said Rush. My car's right out here, if you'd like to see our house. Ted Graham hesitated. He felt a nagging, worry-tug at his mind. Tried to fix his attention on what bothered him. Hadn't we better take our car? He asked. We could follow you. No need, said Rush. We're coming back into town tonight anyway. We can drop you off then. Ted Graham nodded. Be right with you as soon as I lock up. Inside the car Rush mumbled introductions. His wife was a dark shadow in the front seat, her hair drawn back in a severe bun. Her features suggested gypsy blood. He called her Ramey. Odd name, thought Ted Graham, and he noticed that she, too, gave the strange first impression of age that melted in a shift of light. Mrs. Rush turned her gypsy features toward Martha Graham. You're going to have a baby. It came out as an odd veiled statement. Abruptly, the car rolled forward. Martha Graham said, It's supposed to be born in about two months. We hope it's a boy. Mrs. Rush looked at her husband. I have changed my mind, she said. Rush spoke without taking his attention from the road. It is too—he broke off—spoke in a tumble of strange sounds. Ted Graham recognized it as the language he'd heard on the telephone. Mrs. Rush answered in the same tongue, anger showing in the intensity of her voice. Her husband replied, His voice, calmer. Presently Mrs. Rush fell moodily silent. Rush tipped his head toward the rear of the car. My wife has moments when she does not want to get rid of the old house. It has been with her for many years. Ted Graham said, Oh, then, are you Spanish? Rush hesitated, No, we're Basque. He turned the car down a well-lighted avenue that merged into a highway. They turned onto a side road. There followed more turns, left, right, right. Ted Graham lost track. They hit a jolting bump that made Martha gasp. I hope that was too rough on you, said Rush. We're almost there. The car swung into a lane. Its lights picking out the skeleton outlines of trees, peculiar trees, tall, gaunt, leafless. They added to Ted Graham's feeling of uneasiness. The lane dipped, ending at a low wall of a house. Ted Brick, with plurstery, windows, beneath overhanging eaves. The effect of the wall, and a wide-beamed door, they could see to the left, was ultra-modern. Ted Graham, helped his wife out of the car, followed the rushes to the door. I thought you told me it was an old house, he said. It was designed by one of the first modernists, said Rush. He fumbled with an odd-curved key. The wide door swung open onto a hallway, equally wide, carpeted by a deep pile rug. They could glimpse floor-to-ceiling view windows at the end of the hall, city lights beyond. Martha Graham gasped, entered the hall as though in a trance. Ted Graham followed, heard the door close behind them. It's so, so, so big, exclaimed Martha Graham. You want to trade this for our trailer? asked Ted Graham. It's too inconvenient for us, said Rush. My work is over the mountains, on the coast. He shrugged. We cannot sell it. Ted Graham looked at him sharply. Isn't there any money round here? He had a sudden vision of a tax accountant, with no customers. Plenty of money, but no real estate customers. They entered the living-room. Sectional divans lined the walls. Subdued lighting glowed from the corners. Two paintings hung on the opposite walls. Oblongs of odd lines and twists that made Ted Graham dizzy. Warning bells clamored in his mind. Martha Graham, crossed to the windows, looked at the lights far away below. I had no idea we climbed that far, she said. It's like a fairy city. As Rush emitted a short, nervous laugh, Ted Graham glanced around the room, thought, If the rest of the house is like this, it's worth fifty or sixty thousand. He thought of the trailer, a good one, but not worth more than seven thousand. Uneasiness was like a neon sign flashing in his mind. This seems so, he shook his head. Would you like to see the rest of the house? asked Rush. Martha Graham turned from the window. Oh, yes! Ted Graham shrugged. No harm in looking, he thought. When they returned to the living-room, Ted Graham had doubled his previous estimate on the house's value. His brain reeled with the summing of it, a solarium with an entire ceiling covered by sun-lamps, an automatic laundry where you dropped soiled clothing down a chute, took it washed and ironed from the other end. As you and your wife would like to discuss it in private, said Rush, we will leave you for a moment. And they were gone before Ted Graham could protest. Martha Graham said, Ted, I honestly never in my life dreamed. Something's very wrong, honey. But Ted, this house is worth at least a hundred thousand dollars, maybe more, and they want to trade this. He looked around him for a seven thousand dollar trailer. Ted, they're foreigners, and if they're so foolish they don't know the value of this place, then why should I don't like it? He said. Again he looked around the room, recalled the fantastic equipment of the house, but maybe you're right. He stared out at the city lights. They had a lace-like quality, tall buildings linked by lines of flickering incandescence, something like a Roman candle shot skyward in the distance. OK, he said, if they want to trade, let's go push the deal. Abruptly the house shuttered. The city lights blinked out. A humming sound filled the air. Martha Graham clutched her husband's arm. Ted, what was that? I don't know, he turned. Mr. Rush? No answer, only the humming. The door at the end of the room opened. A strange man came through it. He wore a short, toga-like garment of gray metallic cloth, bolted at the waist by something that glittered and shimmered through every color of the spectrum. An aura of coldness and power emanated from him. A sense of untouchable, whole terror. He glanced around the room, spoke in the same tongue the rushes had used. Ted Graham said, I don't understand you, Mr. The man put a hand to his flickering belt. Both Ted and Martha Graham felt themselves rooted to the floor, a tingling sensation vibrating along every nerve. Again, the strange language rolled from the man's tongue, but now the words were understood. Who are you? My name's Graham, this is my wife. What's going—how did you get here? The rushes. They wanted to trade us this house for our trailer. They brought us. Now look, we—what is your talent? Your occupation? Tax-accountant. Say, why all these— That was to be expected, said the man, clever—oh, excessively clever. His hand moved again to the belt. Now be very quiet. This may confuse you momentarily. Colored lights filled both the Graham's minds. They staggered. You are qualified, said the man. You will serve. Where are we? demanded Martha Graham. The coordinates would not be intelligible to you. He said, I am of the Rojak. It is sufficient for you to know that you are under Rojak sovereignty. Ted Graham said, But you have in a way been kidnapped, and the Rémi's have fled to your planet, an unregistered planet. I'm afraid, Martha Graham said shakily. You have nothing to fear, said the man. You are no longer on the planet of your birth, nor even in the same galaxy. He glanced at Ted Graham's wrists. That device on your wrist, it tells your local time? Yes. That will help in the search. And your son, can you describe its atomic cycle? Ted Graham gripped in his mind for his science memories from school, from the Sunday supplements. I can recall that our galaxy is a spiral like most galaxies are spiral. Is this some kind of practical joke, asked Ted Graham? The man smiled a cold, superior smile. It is no joke. Now I will make you a proposition. Ted nodded warily. All right, let's have the stinger. The people who brought you here were tax collectors we, Rojak, recruited from a subject planet. They were conditioned to make it impossible for them to leave their job untended. Unfortunately, they were clever enough to realize that if they brought someone else in, who could do their job, they were released from their mental bonds very clever. But you may have their job, said the man. Normally you would be put to work in the lower echelons, but we believe in meeting out justice wherever possible. The Rammys undoubtedly stumbled on your planet by accident, and lured you into this position without, how do you know I can do your job? That moment of brilliance was an aptitude test. You passed. Well, do you accept? What about our baby, Martha Graham wordly wanted to know? You will be allowed to keep it until it reaches the age of decision. About the time it will take the child to reach adult stature. Then what, insisted Martha Graham, the child will take its position in society, according to its ability. Will we ever see our child after that? Possibly. Ted Graham said, What's the joker in this? Again the cold, superior smile. You will receive conditioning, similar to that which we gave the Rammys, and we will want to examine your memories to aid us in search for your planet. It would be good to find a new, inhabitable place. Why did they trap us like this, asked Martha Graham? It's lonely work, the man explained. Your house is actually a type of space conveyance that travels along your collection route, and there is much travel to the job. And then you will not have friends, nor time for much other than work. Our methods are necessarily severe at times. Travel, Martha Graham repeated in dismay, almost constantly. Ted Graham felt his mind whirling, and behind him he heard his wife sobbing. The Rammys sat in what had been the Graham's trailer. For a few moments I feared he would not succumb to the bait. She said, I knew you could never overcome the mental compulsion enough to leave them there without their first agreeing. Rammys chuckled, Yes, and now I am going to indulge in everything the Rojak never permitted. I am going to write ballads and poems. And I am going to paint, she said. Oh, the delicious freedom! Greed won this for us, he said. The long study of the Graham's paid off. They couldn't refuse to trade. I knew they'd agree the looks in their eyes when they saw the house. They both had—she broke off—a look of horror coming into her eyes. One of them did not agree. They both did. You heard them. The baby! He stared at his wife, but it is not at the age of decision. In perhaps eighteen of this planet's years it will be at the age of decision. What then? His shoulders sagged, he shuddered, I will not be able to fight it off. I will have to build a transmitter. Call the Rojak and confess. And they will collect another in habitable place, she said. Her voice flat and toneless. I've spoiled it, he said. I've spoiled it. End of Old Rambling House, by Frank Herbert