 History repeats by George O. Smith. There are, and very probably will always be, some terrestrials who can't. And for that matter, don't want to call their souls their own. Xanabar lays across the spiral arm a sprawling sphere of influence vast, mighty, solid at the core. Only the far-flung boundary shows the slight ebb and flow of contingent cultures that may win a system or two today and lose them back tomorrow or a hundred years from now. Xanabar is the trading post of the galaxy, for only Xanabar is strong enough to stand over the trading table when belligerents meet and offer to take them both at once, if they do not shead their swords. For this service Xanabar assesses her percentage, therefore Xanabar is rich. Her riches buy her mercenaries to enforce her doctrines. Therefore Xanabar is rotten at the under-core, for mercenaries have no god but gold. The clatter of a hundred tongues mingled with the clink of glasses and floated through strata of smoke from the burning weeds of a hundred planets. From one of the tables, voices rise in mild disagreement, there is a jeering laugh from one side and a roar of anger from the other. Two men rise and face one another, ready to follow their insults with violence. Before the eruption can start, a mercenary steps forward on lithe feet and lightly catches the backswung arm. A quick hand removes the poised glass before it can be thrown into the adversary's face. Set, says the mercenary, in a cold voice, and they sit, still glaring at one another. Now, says the mercenary, settle your differences by talk, or depart in opposite directions. This is Xanabar. He lies, he brags. I do not lie, they are barbarians. I do not brag, I can bring you one. You, a wager, said the mercenary, a wager, Xanabar can take no tax in blood. He faces one. You claim you can do that which he says you cannot. Then not waiting for a reply, he faces the other. And if he does, how much are you willing to pay? How much is his life worth? How much are you willing to pay? Demands the mercenary coldly. Five hundred weight in crystal-cut, an honourable sum. Do you agree? Not enough. For a task as easy as you claim it to be, said the mercenary, five hundred weight of crystal-cut seems honourable. But it means we in Xanabar are not interested in the details, only in the tax, an honest wager contract outlanders. Otherwise, I rule that your eruption here disturb the peace. The two outlanders look at one another, schoolboys caught fighting in the alley by a monitor who demands a bite of their apple in lieu of a visit to the principal. As if loathe to touch one another they reach forward hesitantly and handshake in a quick light grip. Good! closed the mercenary. He waves a hand and his fellows converge with contract-platin and etching stylus. Now, gentlemen, please state the terms for Xanabar. Peter Holly strolled down a side street with a dog at his heel. It was a dog of many breeds, but not a mixture of careless parentage. Peter paused at a cross-street and looked uncertainly to left and right. What do you make, burregard? The noble dog says right, replied burregard, right, said Peter, turning up the street, and stopped this noble dog routine. One is dog's best friend, said burregard. If you'd called me something sensible, I wouldn't have looked it up. There's a statue to me in the Okefenoke's back on earth. I am the noble dog. Pogo says so. I— Easy, Peter, said the dog, and in your whisperer, all right, do we play down the chatter? Burregard sat, lifted his nose and sniffed. His natural voice gave a faint whine of discontent. I'm supposed to have a nose, he complained. This is like trying to smell out a lone mouse in a zoological garden in mid-summer. Why the warning? asked Peter. All races smell the same when they are poised for violence, said the dog. Trouble is that man's smell isn't pointed the way it's going, only where it's coming from. Peter grunted, catch any woman's smell? Just the usual whiff, stale scent. She was here. She passed this way. But which way? We can guess they made it away from the spaceport. Unless, said the dog, taking another sniff of the air, they're taking her back to some other spacecraft. Burregard looked up at Peter. Do you catch anything? Just the usual mingled fright and danger, frantic despair, directional? Peter shook his head. No, he said. The source is too close. Let's stroll up the street to the end and come back on the other side, said the dog, quietly. In a saunter they went, alert and poised. A man and his dog, from all appearances. But in Zanibar, the principal city of Zanibar the Empire, they were huntsmen and companion. Like all cities of more than ten million souls, Zanibar had its glistening and lofty area and its slums. And what would have been a waterfront region in a seafaring city? The conditions were the same as they'd been everywhere for a few decades, of thousands of years. Only the technology changes. His cave is stainless steel and synthetic plastic. The cave's man is swinging a better axe, and his hide is protected from the weather by stuff far more durable than his own skin. But he's the same man with the same hackles. They just rise for a few more thousand reasons than the hackles of his ancestors. Got it, said Beauregard, coming to a brief point at a closed door. Let's go in. Beauregard's reply was half snarl and half, look out! Peter Whirl'd catch a glimpse of a man upon him with pencil-ray coming to point. He faded down and toward the other, almost in a fall out of the path of the pencil-ray that flicked on and began to sweep upward and in. Peter caught his balance, at the same time he clutched the wrist in his right hand. Then he went on down, around, and over, rising on his knees, to flip the other man heels high in an arc that ended with a full-length, spine-thutting body smash on the pavement. Beauregard leapt in and slashed at the hand, clutching the pencil-ray, snapped his head back and forth thrice, and sent the weapon flying. Then with a savage growl he set a soft mouth against the other's throat and let the man feel the pressure of his fangs. Easy, said Peter. Beauregard backed away a few inches. Easy, nothing! He snapped. This man is the noble dog's worst enemy. He wanted your blood. Take it easy. I want his information. The man looked up. Barbarian terrestrial! He snarled. Peter sneered. And this is the capital city of the glorious civilization called Zanibar, marble palaces with nobles of the blood and slinking alleys with human rats. Where is she? The stranger spat. Beauregard wants some red meat. He'd make me upchuck. Only rodents eat their own kind. Just a bite? Do I have to swallow? No, just slash. Wait, Barbarian. Barbarian terrestrial, am I? You were maybe going to invite me for tea and cakes with that pencil-ray? I talk! I snap, Peter. Where is she? Who? Beauregard? Yes, boss. The throat or the other hand? All right. For the good it'll do you. She's in there. Go on in, and we'll have two of you. Beauregard growled, three of us, and we might be hard to handle. Peter stood up and hauled the stranger to his feet. His right hand dripped blood from the dog's teeth. Peter looked for and found the pencil-ray smashed against the stone front of the building. He cuffed the stranger across the face, turned him around, and pointed him toward the far corner. I count three, he said. If you're not out of sight by three, it'll be a pleasure, Peter, said Beauregard. The stranger loped away on a crazy run. As he turned the corner, he ran face on to one of the uniformed mercenaries of Zanibar. The mercenary collared the stranger and took a quick inventory of the slashed right hand, the ripped clothing, and adding those to the frightened gallop, he came back with the stranger's left arm held in a backlock. Hottily he demanded. What goes on in Zanibar? Peter eyed the mercenary sourly, kidnapping and attempted murder. Who says such lawlessness runs rife in Zanibar? I say so. Peter Hawley, of the extraterrestrial service, I say so. You are mistaken, barbarian. I say so, said Beauregard. You're an animal. I am. And so are you. I'll not be insulted by an animal. I am. Take it easy, Beauregard. Take it easy, nothing. This mercenary foot soldier forgets one thing, or maybe he doesn't know about it. Don't call his excellencies peacekeepers mercenaries, snap the mercenary. Peacekeeper, chuckled the dog. Well, listen and become wise. Dog and man, man and dog, have been together for about a half million years. Once dog helped man and war and peace, and man gave dog food and shelter, dog helped man rise above the level of the savage, and man has helped dog rise to the level of intelligence. But dog has one advantage. None of us has been intelligent long enough to really believe that dog has a soul. And those of us who do believe that also know that dog's soul is devoted to man. Do you know about dog, Xenavian, peacekeeper? No. Then don't force me to show you what kind of adversary intelligent dog can be. Beauregard loped in a mad circle around the mercenary. His excellencies peacekeeper turned to stay, facing the dog, but found himself turning his back on Peter. He stepped back and to one side and reached for his heavy-duty pencil. The dog gave a low growl of warning and crouched for a leap. He means it, peacekeeper, said Peter Holly quietly, draw that pencil and he'll have your hand and ribbons before you can level it. The mercenary drew in his breath. Whistle for help and he'll have your throat. I shall not permit this high-handed. Then stop sounding off and listen to us, snapped Peter. I charged the Empire of Zanibar with the crime of being indifferent to the welfare of the stranger within her gate. I charged kidnapping and attempted murder, and I charged the latter against the specimen you hold in your hand. An outlander. Does he bring his own law to Zanibar? If he does, then so do I. I arrest you all for breaking the peace of Zanibar. Me too, asked Burregard. The mercenary ignored the dog's eager sally. You are armed, terrestrial. So was he. So am I, snarled Burregard, showing a fine set of white fangs in the most effective gesture. This must cease, thundered the mercenary. You cannot threaten his excellencies, peacekeepers! Burregard growled. Slip the mercenary a crystal-cut, boss. We've got a girl of fine. A girl? A terrestrial girl? asked the mercenary, with his eyes opening. The daughter of our envoy to Lonefight, Miss Vanessa Lewis, last reported in her stateroom aboard the terrestrial spacecraft Polaris, during landing pattern at Zanibar's citadel spaceport. The mercenary said. The work of outlander's riff-raff, such as this. Well, snapped Peter Holly, do his excellencies, peacemakers, condone such goings on? We keep the peace of Zanibar. Your charge is your word, terrestrial. Terrestrial barbarian, isn't it? I arrest you. I'll stop it. For five weight a crystal-cut, can you be bribed to haul that specimen off to jail, and let me go about making my own peace with Zanibar? You accuse me of accepting bribes? You're a mercenary, aren't you? One weight of crystal-cut. Ten. Seven, said Peter. Ten, said the mercenary, and you have one more caper coming. Ten, agreed Peter Holly, and you look the other way when I take the lid off. Still got it, said Borogard, sniffing at the closed door, but keeping one eye on the disappearing mercenary and his prisoner. I've got it, too. Still fright and concern. Fear of harm? Concern over what happens next. Strong? Definitely, said Peter, closing his eyes and holding his breath. Nothing measurable? Asked the dog after a full minute. No. Too bad I was never introduced to her. I have no idea of her strength of mind. Wait. After a minute went by in personal silence, Peter Holly's concentration far too deep to be disturbed by the sounds of the city's spaceport slum by night. The dog backed away from the door and took an alert position to guard Peter while the man was immersed in his own mind. Finally Peter alerted and shook his head sadly. I thought for a moment that she caught me, a fleeting thought of rescue or escape, except the freedom, flight, safety, but wish-thinking, not communication. Let's go in. Barge or slink? Asked the dog. Slink. Habit your way, said Beauregard. Outside the place looked closed. The door was solid, a plastic in imitation of bronze, through which neither light nor sound passed. The windows were dark, but once the door was cracked the wave of sound came pouring out along the slit of light and filled the street with echo and re-echo. Slink, no, said the dog. So everybody makes mistakes. Inside a woman leaned over a low counter. Check your whip! Say! You can't bring that animal in here! Beauregard said. He isn't bringing me. I'm here because I like it. The woman's eyes bugged. What? Kind? I am man's best friend, the noble dog of Barbarian Terra. Yes, but— Oh, said Peter airily, we're looking for a friend. Friend? Who is he? It's a she, and her name is Vanessa Lewis. She ain't here. The dames are lyreous, Peter. I sent her strong. We'll just take a look around, said Peter, to the check-girl. You'll have to check your weapons. I'd rather go in naked—sorry, not today. Weapons happen to be my business today. Come on, Beauregard. Man and dog started along the hallway, warily. Beauregard said. Any touch? Got a faint impression of alarm. Danger! Call out the guards. I sent. Violence! Said the dog. And the door at the end of the hallway opened, and a big man stepped out. What's going on here? He demanded flatly. The check-girl said. He wouldn't check! The big man reached for his hip pocket. Peter said. Take him high! And they plunged. Peter dove for the man's knees. Beauregard went in a three-stride lope, like an accordion, folding and unfolding, and then arched in a long leap, with his snarling fangs aimed at the man's throat. Man and dog hit him low and high before he could open his mouth, before he could free the snub pencil ray. There was a short scrabble that ended when Beauregard lifted the man's head and whammed it down hard against the floor. Weekly, the check-girl finished her statement. His weapons! And killed over, and a dead faint. Beauregard shook himself violently and worked his jaws, licking blood from his chops. Beauregard looked in through the open wall door opposite the check-counter. The racket had not been noticed by the room full of spacemen and riff-raff. The babble of a hundred tongues still went on amid the clink of glasses and the disturbing strands of Xenabian music. Smoke from a hundred semi-noxious weeds lay in strata across the room, and at a table in the far corner two men faced one another, their expressions a mixed pair. One held heavily begrudged admiration as he paid off five hundred weight of crystal cut in the legal tender of Xenabar to the other, whose expression was greedy self-confidence. One of his excellencies peacekeepers presided over the exchange. Finally he extracted a fifty weight from the pile and folded it into the signed and completed wager contract. For his own coffer he extracted a five weight and slipped it into his boot-top. Peter Holly and Beauregard passed on, went through the far door dragging their late adversary ignominiously by the heels. amid the lessened publicity of the distant hall, Peter checked the man and shrugged. He may live, he said coldly, if he doesn't bleed to death. You really ought to take him on the high side, said Beauregard, planatively. All I've got is my teeth to grab with. They don't bleed so bad from the ankle. They don't say stop that way either, said Peter harshly. You'd not be getting any praise from the chief for that sort of brutality. If Xenabar weren't rotten to the core, we wouldn't be plowing through it in the first place. Now, let's get going. Shouldn't you call for the rest of the crew? Not until I'm certain the girl's here. I'd hate to cut the citywide search for cold evidence. She's here. I sent her. Maybe it's past tense, Beauregard, or maybe it's another woman. Could be, but one thing. It is definitely terrestrial woman. The dog sniffed again. You get anything? No more than before. It's close, and they're the same sort of impressions. Yet any woman would be frantic with fear and concern. I, Beauregard's sharp ears lifted instinctively at a distant sound not heard by the man. With a toss of his head, the dog folded one ear back, uncovering the inner shell. Like a sonic direction finder, Beauregard turned his head and listened. Man, he finally said, with a low growling voice, Peter, there'll be hell to pay around here directly. He stumbled over our recent conquest. Let's get cuttin'. Peter started trying doors and peering in. The dog raced on ahead of the man, sniffing deep at the bottom of each. It was the dog that found the room. He called, here, and Peter raced forward just as the fellow on the stairs yelled something in his native tongue. Peter hit the door with the heel of his foot, and slammed it open by spluttering the door frame. The dog crouched low and poised. Peter slipped in and around, feeling for a light switch. From inside there was a voiceless whimper of fright, and from outside and below there came the pounding of several sets of heavy feet. Peter found the switch and flooded the room with light. The girl, whether she was Miss Vanessa Lewis or someone else, and kidnap-wise, it was still a terrestrial girl, lay trust on the bed, a patch of surgical tape over her mouth. Sorry, said Peter in a voice that he hoped was soothing. He reached, free to corner the tape, and ripped it off in a single swipe. The girl howled. Peter slapped her lightly. Stop it, he commanded sharply. Vanessa Lewis? Yes, but— Call out the Marines, Peter. Snarled the dog. No! Bow! Back! Reluctantly, the dog backed into the room. He crouched low, poised to spring, with his nose just beyond the door frame. Four of them, he whimpered pleadingly. I can get two! Well, I can't get the other two unless I'm lucky, snapped Peter. Don't be so eager to die for nothing, barregard. All this calculation grumbled the dog sourly. I don't call it a loss if I get two for one. I call it a loss if I don't get four for nothing, or the whole damn empire of Zanabar for nothing, for that matter. Leave a job to do, and it ain't dying, until Miss Lewis is out of this glorious citadel. The girl looked from one to the other. They did not need any identification. They were their own bona fides. Only man, terrestrial man, had intelligent dogs to work beside him. Period! Question closed. Barregard snarled at the door, warningly, while Peter stripped surgical tape from wrists and ankles. Outside, someone called, Come out, are we blast! Barregard snarled, Come in, and we'll cut you to bits! The quick flash of a pencil ray flicked in a lance above the dog's nose. Barregard snapped back as the lancet of light cut downward, then snapped forward for a quick look outside, as the little pencil of danger flickered dark. Careful, Beau! You call the boys, snapped the dog, I'll— Something came twisting forward to hit the door frame. It dropped just inside the door-jam. Barregard leapt, snapped at the thing, and caught it in mid-air. Snapped his head in a vicious shake, and sent it whirling back outside again before it could be identified. The dog sun-fished and landed on all four. Then the thing went off with a dull poof outside. There was a gentle flash of quick light that was smothered by a billow of smoke. Barregard leapt into the cloud and disappeared. There was a horse shriek and a mad scrabble of dog claws on the hard floor, the sound of a heavy thud, and the angry snarl of a dog with its teeth fastened into something soft. Then there was the fast patter of dog feet, and Barregard came around the door on a dead run, sliding sideways to quram off the open door into safety just as a pencil ray flicked to follow him. Got him! said the dog in a satisfied tone. That's one! He took his post by the door frame again, the tip of his nose just outside. There was a consultation out there in the hallway, at which Barregard called. Make a wild rush for us! Miss Lewis said, What are we going to do? Fight it out! said Peter. They can't win so long as we're alive now. I've got my crew on its way, and a dead run, and if we make enough noise some of his excellencies' peacemakers will step in and demand their cut of the finances. He grinned. How much are you worth, Miss Lewis? She shuddered. I don't know how much my father would pay. At a mellow Peter came Barregard's snarl. Three of them came in, a slant, bounced shoulders against the open door, caught their bearings, and hell was out for known. Barregard caught the first with a slash at the throat. They went down in a mad whirl of dog and thug, paws, tail, arms, legs, and a spurt of blood. The second flicked his pencil-ray at Peter. Its capsule charge faded to a mere sting before it cut into him. The third aimed a kick at the struggling dog. Vanessa Lewis snatched a box from the bureau and hurled it at the second. Here thumbed his pencil-ray and winged the third man in the biceps. Barregard leapt for the second man's gun-hand and closed on it as the hurled box opened and scatter-shot at his face with brick-a-brack. The man with a bloody throat flailed out and caught Peter by the ankle. Peter stomped his face with his other heel. Miss Lewis picked up the table-lamp and, with a single motion, turned off the light and finished felling the one with the ray-burn shoulder. Barregard dropped from the second man's wrist and crouched to spring. The man cowered back, his good arm covering his throat and his other arm hanging limp. He mouthed fright-noises and some tongue native to some star a thousand light-years across the galaxy. Coldly Peter stepped forward and belted him in the plexus. "'Now,' he said calmly, we shall vacate the premises. They went side by side, facing slightly outward, Barregard between them and slightly ahead. "'We're coming out,' called the dog, three barbarians from Tara. Down on the dark street they met their mercenary again. We eyed them, sourly. I see you were, in a sense, successful. Peter Holley faced the mercenary. We were successful, and would you like to make something of it?' "'I'm going to have to arrest you, you know.' "'You'll lose an arm trying,' snapped the dog. "'There's murder been committed to-night,' said his Excellencies peacemaker. The peace of Zanibar has been disturbed.' "'Why, you chiseling crook, there's been kidnapping tonight, and I'm afraid that I shall have to ask that the young lady produce her passport,' said the mercenary. "'Otherwise, she's in Zanibar's citadel illegally,' Barregard said. "'Hit them low, Peter. Here come the boys.' "'No, just for once, for fun?' "'No. I want our money-grubbing peacekeeper to carry a message to his Excellency. I want his Excellency to read some terrestrial history. Once upon a time there was a place called the Byzantine Empire that laid across the trade routes. The upper crust of people used to serve the presence of God in a golden throne whilst their underlings dealt in human slaves and procured cumbly concubines for the emperor. Their policemen took bribes, and human life was cheap. And when Byzantium fell, all the world was forced to seek a new trade route. So tell his Excellency that he better clean up his own foul mess, or some barbarians will clean it up for him.' "'And that,' said Barregard, goes for your dad-ratted cat.' End of History repeats by George R. Smith. "'Keep out,' by Frederick Brown. With no more room left on earth, and with Mars hanging up there empty of life, somebody hit on the plan of starting a colony on the red planet. It meant changing the habits and physical structure of the immigrants, but that worked out fine. In fact, every possible factor was covered, except one of the flaws of human nature. Daptein is the secret of it. That teen they called it first, then it got shortened to Daptein. It let us adapt. They explained it all to us when we were ten years old. I guess they thought we were too young to understand before then, although we knew a lot of it already. They told us just after we landed on Mars. "'Your home, children,' the head teacher told us after we had gone into the glass-eyed dome they'd built for us there. And he told us there'd be a special lecture for us that evening, an important one that we must all attend. And that evening he told us the whole story, then the whys and wherefores. He stood up before us. He had to wear a heated spacesuit and helmet, of course, because the temperature in the dome was comfortable for us, but already freezing cold for him and the air was already too thin for him to breathe. His voice came to us by radio from inside his helmet. "'Children,' he said, "'you are home. This is Mars, the planet on which you will spend the rest of your lives. You are Martians, the first Martians. You have lived five years on earth and another five in space. Now you will spend ten years, until you are adults, in this dome. Although toward the end of that time you will be allowed to spend increasingly long periods outdoors. Then you will go forth and make your own homes, live your own lives as Martians. You will intermarry and your children will breed true. Only two will be Martians. It is time you were told the history of this great experiment of which each of you is a part." Then he told us. Man, he said, had first reached Mars in 1985. It had been uninhabited by intelligent life. There's plenty of plant life and a few varieties of non-flying insects, and he had found it by terrestrial standards uninhabitable. Man could survive on Mars only by living inside glassite domes and wearing spacesuits when he went outside of them. Except by day in the warmer seasons it was too cold for him. The air was too thin for him to breathe and long exposure to sunlight, less filtered of rays harmful to him than on earth because of the lesser atmosphere, could kill him. The plants were chemically alien to him, and he could not eat them. He had to bring all his food from earth or grow it in hydroponic tanks. For fifty years he had tried to colonize Mars, and all his efforts had failed. Of this dome which had been built for us there was only one other outpost, another glassite dome, much smaller and less than a mile away. It had looked as though mankind could never spread to the other planets of the solar system besides earth, for of all of the Mars was the least inhospitable. If he couldn't live here there was no use even trying to colonize the others. And then, in 2034, thirty years ago, a brilliant biochemist named Weymouth had discovered Daptein, a miracle drug that worked not on the animal or person to whom it was given, but on the progeny he conceived during a limited period of time after inoculation. It gave his progeny almost limitless adaptability to changing conditions, provided the conditions were made gradually. Dr. Weymouth had inoculated and then made it a pair of guinea pigs. They had borne a litter of five, and by placing each member of the litter under different and gradually changing conditions he had obtained amazing results. When they attained maturity one of those guinea pigs was living comfortably at a temperature of forty below zero Fahrenheit. Another was quite happy at one hundred and fifty above. A third was thriving on a diet that would have been deadly poison for an ordinary animal, and a fourth was contented under a constant x-ray bombardment that would have killed one of its parents within minutes. Subsequent experiments with many litters showed that animals who had been adapted to similar conditions bred true, and their progeny was conditioned from birth to live under those conditions. Ten years later, ten years ago, the head teacher told us, you children were born. Born of parents carefully selected from those who volunteered for the experiment, and from birth you have been brought up under carefully controlled and gradually changing conditions. From the time you were born the air you have breathed has been very gradually thinned, and its oxygen content reduced. Your lungs have compensated by becoming much greater in capacity, which is why your chests are so much larger than those of your teachers and attendants. When you are fully mature and are breathing air like that of Mars, the difference will be even greater. Your bodies are growing fur to enable you to stand the increasing cold. You are comfortable now under conditions which would kill ordinary people quickly. Since you were four years old your nurses and teachers have had to wear special protection to survive conditions that seem normal to you. In another ten years, at maturity, you will be completely acclimated to Mars. Its air will be your air. Its food plants your food. Its extremes of temperature will be easy for you to endure, and its median temperatures pleasant to you. Already because of the five years we spent in space under gradually decreased gravitational pull, the gravity of Mars seems normal to you. It will be your planet to live on and to populate. You are the children of Earth, but you are the first Martians. Of course we had known a lot of those things already. The last year was the best. By then the air inside the dome, except for the pressurized parts where our teachers and attendants live, was almost like that outside, and we were allowed out for increasingly long periods. It is good to be in the open. The last few months they relaxed segregation of the sexes so we could begin choosing mates, although they told us there is to be no marriage until after the final day, after our full clearance. Choosing was not difficult in my case. I had made my choice long since, and I'd felt sure that she felt the same way. I was right. Tomorrow is the day of our freedom. Tomorrow we will be Martians, THE Martians. Tomorrow we shall take over the planet. Some among us are impatient, have been impatient for weeks now, but wiser counsel prevailed and we are waiting. We have waited twenty years and we can wait until the final day, and tomorrow is the final day. Tomorrow at a signal we will kill the teachers and other earthmen among us before we go forth. They do not suspect, so it will be easy. We have disseminated for years now and they don't know how we hate them. They do not know how disgusting and hideous we find them with their ugly misshapen bodies, so narrow-shouldered and tiny-chested, their weak, sibilant voices that need amplification to carry in our Martian air, and above all their white, pasty, hairless skins. We shall kill them, and then we shall go and smash the other dome so all earthmen there will die too. If more earthmen ever come to punish us, we can live and hide in the hills where they'll never find us, and if they try to build more domes here we'll smash them. We want no more to do with earth. This is our planet, and we want no aliens. Keep off. End of Keep Out by Frederick Brown. 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 Patricia Oakley. My Father, the Cat, by Henry Slazar. My mother was a lovely, delicate woman from the coast of Brittany, who was miserable sleeping on less than three mattresses, and who, it is said, was once injured by a falling leaf in her garden. My grandfather, a descendant of the French nobility, whose family had ridden the tum-drills of the Revolution, tended her fragile body and spirit with the same loving care given rare, brief-blooming flowers. You may imagine from this his attitude concerning marriage. He lived in terror of the vulgar, heavy-handed man who would one day win my mother's heart. And, at last, this persistent dread killed him. His concern was unnecessary, however. For my mother chose a suitor who was as free of mundane brutality as a husband could be. Her choice was Dauphin, a remarkable white cat which strayed onto the estate shortly after his death. Dauphin was an unusually large angora, and his ability to speak in cultured French, English, and Italian was sufficient to cause my mother to adopt him as a household pet. It did not take long for her to realize that Dauphin deserved a higher status, and he became her friend, protector, and confidante. He never spoke of his origin, nor where he had acquired the classical education which made him such an entertaining companion. Over two years it was easy for my mother, an unworldly woman at best, to forget the dissimilarity in their species. In fact, she was convinced that Dauphin was an enchanted prince, and Dauphin, in consideration of her illusions, never dissuaded her. At last they were married by an understanding clergyman of the locale, who solemnly filled in the marriage application with the name of M. Edward Dauphin. I, Etienne Dauphin, am their son. To be candid, I am a handsome youth, not unlike my mother in the delicacy of my features. My father's heritage is evident in my large feline eyes, and in my slight body and quick movements. My mother's death, when I was four, left me in the charge of my father and his coterie of loyal servants, and I could not have wished for a finer upbringing. It is to my father's patient tutoring that I owe whatever graces I now possess. It was my father, the cat, whose gentle paws guided me to the treasure-houses of literature, art, and music, whose whiskers bristled with pleasure at a goose well-cooked, at a meal well-served, at a wine well-chosen. How many happy hours we shared! He knew more of life and the humanities, my father, the cat, than any human I have met in all my twenty-three years. Until the age of eighteen, my education was his personal challenge. Then it was his desire to send me into the world outside the gates. He chose for me a university in America, for he was deeply fond of what he called that great, raw country, where he believed my feline qualities might be tempered by the aggressiveness of the rough-coating, barking dogs I would be sure to meet. I must confess to a certain amount of unhappiness in my early American years, torn as I was from the comforts of the estate and the wisdom of my father, the cat. But I became adapted, and even upon my graduation from the university, sought and held employment in a metropolitan art museum. It was there I met Joanna, the young woman I intended to make my bride. Joanna was a product of the great American Southwest, the daughter of a cattle-raiser. There was a blooming vitality in her face and her body, a lustiness born of open skies and desert. Her hair was not the gold of antiquity. It was new gold, freshly mined from the black rock. Her eyes were not like old world diamonds. Their sparkle was that of sunlight on a cascading river. Her figure was bold, an open declaration of her sex. She was, perhaps, an unusual choice for the son of fairy-like mother and an Angora cat. But from the first meeting of our eyes, I knew that I would someday bring Joanna to my father's estate to present her as my fiancé. I approached that occasion with understandable trepidation. My father had been explicit in his advice before I departed for America. But on no point had he been more emphatic than secrecy concerning himself. He assured me that revelation of my paternity would bring ridicule and unhappiness upon me. The advice was sound, of course, and not even Joanna knew that our journey's end would bring us to the estate of a large, cultured and conversing cat. I had deliberately fostered the impression that I was orphaned, believing that the proper place for revealing the truth was the atmosphere of my father's home in France. I was certain that Joanna would accept her father-in-law without distress. Indeed, hadn't nearly a score of human servants remained devoted to their feline master for almost a generation, we had agreed to be wed on the 1st of June and on May the 4th and planned in New York for Paris. We were met at Orly Field by Francois, my father's solemn man-servant, who had been delegated not so much as escort as he was chaperone, my father having retained much of the old world proprieties. It was a long trip by automobile to our estate in Brittany and I must admit to a brooding silence throughout the drive, which frankly puzzled Joanna. However, when the great stone fortress that was our home came within view, my fears and doubts were quickly dispelled. Joanna, like so many Americans, was thrilled at the aura of venerability and royal custom surrounding the estate. Francois placed her in charge of Madame Jolynette, who clapped her plump old hands with delight at the sight of her fresh blonde beauty, and chattered and clucked like a mother hen as she led Joanna to her room on the second floor. As for myself, I had one immediate wish, to see my father, the cat. He greeted me in the library, where he had been anxiously awaiting our arrival, curled up in his favorite chair by the fireside, a wide-mouthed goblet of cognac by his side. As I entered the room, he lifted a paw formally. But then his reserve was dissolved by the emotion of our reunion, and he licked my face in unashamed joy. Francois refreshed his glass and poured another for me, and we toasted each other's well-being. To you, Montpere, I said, using the affectionate name of my childhood memory, to Joanna, my father said. He smacked his lips over the cognac, and wiped his whiskers gravely. And where is this paragon? It's Madame Jolonette. She will be down shortly. And you have told her everything? I blushed. No, Montpere, I have not. I thought it best to wait until we were home. She is a wonderful woman, I added impulsively. She will not be horrified, my father said. What makes you so certain, my son? Because she is a woman of great heart, I said stoutly. She was educated at a fine college for women in eastern America. Her ancestors were rugged people, given to legend and folklore. She is a warm, human person, human, my father sighed. And his tail swished. You are expecting too much of your beloved, Etienne. Even a woman of the finest character may be dismayed in this situation. But my mother? Your mother was an exception. A changeling of the fairies. You must not look for your mother's soul in Joanna's eyes. He jumped from his chair and came towards me, resting his paw upon my knee. I am glad you have not spoken of me, Etienne. Now you must keep your silence for ever. I was shocked. I reached down and touched my father's silky fur, saddened by the look of his age in his gray, gold-flecked eyes, and by the tinge of yellow in his white coat. No, Montpere, I said, Joanna must know the truth, Joanna must know how proud I am to be the son of Edouard Dauphin. Then you will lose her. Never! That cannot happen. My father walked stiffly to the fireplace, staring into the gray ashes. Ring for Francois, he said. Let him build the fire. I am cold, Etienne. I walked to the court and pulled it. My father turned to me and said, You must wait, my son. At dinner this evening, perhaps. Do not speak of me until then. Very well, father. When I left the library, I encountered Joanna at the head of the stairway, and she spoke to me excitedly. Oh, Etienne! What a beautiful old house! I know I will love it. May we see the rest? Of course, I said. You look troubled. Is something wrong? No, no. I was thinking how lovely you are. We embraced. And her warm, full body against mine confirmed my conviction that we should never be parted. She put her arm in mine, and we strolled through the great rooms of the house. She was ecstatic at their size and elegance exclaiming over the carpeting, the gnarled furniture, the ancient silver and pewter, the gallery of family paintings. When she came upon an early portrait of my mother, her eyes misted. She was lovely, Joanna said. Like a princess. And what of your father? Is there no portrait of him? No, I said hurriedly. No portrait. I had spoken my first lie to Joanna. For there was a painting, half-completed, which my mother had begun in the last year of her life. It was a whispering little water-color, and Joanna discovered it to my consternation. What a magnificent cat! She said, was it a pet? It is Dauphin, I said nervously. She laughed. He has your eyes, Etienne. Joanna, I must tell you something. And this ferocious gentleman with the mustaches, who is he? My grandfather, Joanna, you must listen. Francois, who had been following our inspection tour at Shadow's Length, interrupted. I suspected that his timing was no mere coincidence. We will be serving dinner at 7.30, he said. If the lady would care to dress. Of course, Joanna said. Will you excuse me, Etienne? I bowed to her, and she was gone. At fifteen minutes to the appointed dining-time I was ready, and hastened below to talk once more with my father. He was in the dining-room, instructing the servants as to the placement of the silver and accessories. My father was proud of the excellence of his table, and took all his meals in the splendid manner. His appreciation of food and wine was unsurpassed in my experience. And it had always been the greatest of pleasures for me to watch him at table, stalking across the damosque, and dipping delicately into the silver dishes prepared for him. He pretended to be too busy with his dinner preparations to engage me in conversation. But I insisted. I must talk to you, I said. We must decide together how to do this. It will not be easy, he answered with a twinkle. Consider Joanna's view. A cat, as large and as old as myself, is cause enough for comment. A cat that speaks is alarming. A cat that dines at table with the household is shocking. And a cat whom you must introduce as your... Stop it, I cried. Joanna must know the truth. You must help me reveal it to her. Then you will not heed my advice. In all things but this. Our marriage can never be happy unless she accepts you for what you are. And if there is no marriage, I would not admit to this possibility. Joanna was mine, nothing could alter that. The look of pain and bewilderment in my eyes must have been evident to my father. For he touched my arm gently with his paw and said, I will help you, Etienne. You must give me your trust. Always. Then come to dinner with Joanna and explain nothing. Wait for me to appear. I grasped his paw and raised it to my lips. Thank you, father. He turned to Francois and snapped. You have my instructions? Yes, sir. The servant replied. Then all is ready. I shall return to my room now, Etienne. You may bring your fiancee to dine. I hastened up the stairway and found Joanna ready, strikingly beautiful and shimmering white satin. Together we descended the grand staircase and entered the room. Her eyes shone at the magnificence of the service set upon the table. At the soldiery array of fine wines. Some of them already poured into their proper glasses for my father's enjoyment. I poured Medoc from Saint Estef, Authentic Chablis, Epernaix Champagne, and an American import from the Napa Valley of which he was fond. I waited expectantly for his appearance as we sipped our operetif, while Joanna chatted about innocuous matters, with no idea of the tormented state I was in. At eight o'clock my father had not yet made his appearance, and I grew ever more distraught as Francois signaled for the serving of the bouillon au Madere. Had he changed his mind? Would I be left to explain my status without his help? I hadn't realized until this moment how difficult a task I had allotted for myself, and the fear of losing Joanna was terrible within me. The soup was flat and tasteless on my tongue, and the misery in my manner was too apparent for Joanna to miss. What is it, Etienne? She said, you've been so morose all day. Can't you tell me what's wrong? No, it's nothing, it's just— I let the impulse take possession of my speech. Joanna, there's something I should tell you about my mother and my father. Ahem, Francois said. He turned to the doorway, and our glances followed his. Oh, Etienne! Joanna cried in a voice ringing with delight. It was my father, the cat. Calling us with his gray, gold-flect eyes. He approached the dining-table, regarding Joanna with timidity and caution. It's the cat in the painting, Joanna said. You didn't tell me he was here at Yen. He's beautiful. Joanna, this is D'affa! I would have known him anywhere. Here, D'affa! Here, kitty, kitty, kitty! Slowly my father approached her outstretched hand, and allowed her to scratch the thick fur on the back of his neck. Aren't you the pretty little pussy? Aren't you the sweetest little thing? Joanna! She lifted my father by the haunches, and held him in her lap, stroking his fur and cooing the silly little words that women addressed to their pets. This sight pained and confused me, and I sought to find an opening word that would allow me to explain, yet hoping all the time that my father would himself provide the answer. Then my father spoke. Meow! He said. Are you hungry? Joanna asked, solicitously. Is the little pussy hungry? Meow! My father said. And I believed my heart broke, then and there. He leaped from her lap, and patted across the room. I watched him through blurred eyes as he followed Francois to the corner, where the servant had placed a shallow bowl of milk. He lapped it eagerly until the last white drop was gone. Then he yawned and stretched and trotted back to the doorway, with one fleeting glance in my direction that spoke articulately of what I must do next. What a wonderful animal, Joanna said. Yes, I answered. He was my mother's favourite, and of my father the cat, by Henry Slazar. In one fell swoop, declared Professor C. Sidwick Holmes, releasing a thin blue ribbon of pipe smoke and rocking back on his heels. I intend to solve the greatest problem facing mankind today. Colonising the polar waste was a messy and fruitless business, and the enforced birth control program couldn't be enforced. Overpopulation still remains the thought on our side. Gentlemen, he paused to look at each of the assembled reporters in the eye. There is but one answer. Masniolation, quavered a recovered reporter. The posh boy, certainly not. The Professor bristled. The answer is... Time. Time? Exactly, loathed Holmes, with a dramatic flow she swept aside, a red velvet drape, to reveal a tall structure of gleaming metal. As witness, Golly, what is that thing, queried the cub? This thing, replied the Professor acidly, is the C. Sidwick Holmes time door. Well, look, it's a time machine! Not so, not so, please, boy. A time machine, in a popular sense, is impossible. Wild fancy. However, the Professor tapped on the dovetail from his pipe. By a mathematically precise series of infinite calculations, I've developed a remarkable C. Sidwick Holmes time door. Open it, take but a single step, and presto the past. But where in the past, Professor? Holmes smiled easily down on the tensoring of faces. Gentlemen, beyond this door lies the sprawling giant of the Southwest. Enough land to absorb the air so flowed by that, he snapped his fingers. I speak, gentlemen, of Texas, 1957. What if the Texans object? I have no choice. The time door is strictly one-way passage, I sort of am. It'll be utterly impossible for anyone in 1957 to re-enter our world of 2057. And now, Pastor White. He tossed aside his Professor robes. Under them, Sidwick Holmes wore an ancient and bizarre costume. Black riding boots, highly polished and trimmed in silver. Wallchats, a wide dual-studded belt with an immense buckle. A brightly checked shirt topped with a blazing red bandana. Briskly, he snapped a tall ten-gallon hat on his head and stepped to the time door. Ripping an ebony handle, he tugged upwards. The huge metal door oiled slowly back. Time, said Sidwick Holmes simply, gesturing towards the grain nothingness beyond the door. The reporters and photographers surged forwards, notebooks and cameras at the ready. What if the door swings shut after you've gone one mast? A groundless fairboy as your domes. I've swinted it that the time door can never be closed. And now, goodbye, gentlemen. Or, she used the proper colloquialism. So long on, Brace. Holmes bowed from the waist, gave his ten-gallon hat a final tug, and took a single step forwards. And did not disappear. He stood blinking. Then he swore, beat upon the unyielding wall of grainness with clenched fists, and fell back panting to his desk. I've failed, he moaned in a loss voice. The sea Sidwick Holmes' time door is a botch. He buried his head in his trembling hands. The reporters and photographers began to file out. Suddenly, a professor raised his head. Listen, he warned. A slow rumbling, muted with distance, emanated from the dense grainness of the time door. Faint yips and whoopings were distinct above the rumble. The sound grew steadily, through a thousand beating drums, the rolling sea of thunder. Shrieking, the reporters and photographers scattered to the stairs. Ah, another naughty problem to be solved. Museed, Professor Sidwick Holmes, swinging, with some difficulty, onto one of 3,000 Texas stairs, stumpy eating into the laboratory. End of Time in Texas by William F. Nolan, recording by Joe Pillsbury. Operation Lorelie by William P. Sultan. 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. Operation Lorelie by William P. Sultan. It was a new time, and a vast new war of complete and awful annihilation. Yet some things never change, and, as in ancient times, Ulysses walked again, brave and unconquerable. And again the sirens wove their deadly spell with a smile and a song. They came like monsters, rather than men, into the vast ruin of what had once been a great city. They walked carefully, side by side, speaking to each other by radio, as though they were in deep space, rather than upon solid ground. The winding way they followed through the ruins was marked by blurred footsteps in the dust, and the two men, clumsy in their bulky suits, found the going difficult. They stopped, and one of them held out an instrument. He studied the dial. All clear. And both men removed their helmets. They wiped sweat from their faces, and glanced at each other. The blond man said, The air is OK, Jarvis. Everything seems all right. I don't get it. Jarvis, his dark eyes wary, scowled as he looked about. It seems all right, but we know it isn't. It can't be. I'm shook in this suit. Don't be a fool, Mark. But the dial read clear, man. And we know nobody is going to shoot us. All life had to be wiped out. How about minor power installations? Jarvis took a chocolate bar from his pocket, sat down on a piece of broken rubble, and began to eat. You're too careless. Far too careless, Mark. Mark laughed. You've always been cautious enough for both of us. Got me out of plenty of scrapes back in school, too. Don't think I've forgotten. Affection warmed his blue eyes, as they rested on the face of his friend. OK, OK, but what happened to them? Where did they go? Jarvis took nervous bites from his second chocolate bar. Then he, too, peeled off his suit. He sniffed the air distrustfully, as he wiggled his shoulders to freed them from the clinging, damp shirt. Then he took a few experimental steps forward. Seems all right, Mark. But how do you explain about Hank and Garland? Never were two more careful guys. Probably a simple miscalculation, or an accident. We know it couldn't have been enemy action, test-proof conclusively, that we wiped them out, to a man. He took deep gulps of air into his lungs, and stretched, like a cat. We'll find out soon enough. Boy, I feel great. They deflated and folded their safety suits, and added the bundles to the other equipment on their backs. And then, with their instruments held before them, they probed their way into the twisted wreckage, still following the faint, dust-filled footprints. Bent and rusted girders rose on all sides, like the bones of prehistoric monsters. Nothing stirred. The dust lay ages thick on everything. Gives you the spooks, doesn't it? Jarvis was still tense, poised to respond to the first signal of danger. Feels like we're the last men alive. Funny about Hank and Garland. There's nothing here to harm anyone. Jarvis looked at his watch. Better contact HQ for instructions. The two stepped off the path, into the shade of a grotesque chunk of broken masonry. Mark set up the radio, and twirled the dials. Team four, calling HQ. Team four, reporting. HQ here. The voice from the radio blared loud in the stillness. Give your report. Team four. Looks like nothing's moved here in a thousand years. Safe is a baby's dream. Rock solid, air, morning pure. But he hesitated, trying not to sound like a scared school boy. No sign of team three, or of teams one and two, either. Over. Look here, team four. It's your job to find out. The earth didn't just swallow them. Final report from each team placed them well within the city. It's been 10 days since the last contact. Probe every inch of the place. Right. But be careful. We can't afford to lose any more men. Roger. Roger. There was only one way now ahead. It lay clearly marked. The dem footsteps never strayed or faltered. Three hours of search revealed no pitfalls, no dangers, and no trace of the missing men. The night was upon them, and they bedded down, gratefully. Strange isn't it? The war over. The invaders, blasted from the earth, all peril gone. And yet, men disappear. Jarvis stared at the ruins around them. I can't take much more, Mark. 12 years of war is enough. Are we never to have a life? Have our home and women back? And peace? Sure, it's been tough. But think of the women and children isolated on that sub satellite. It's tougher for them. Just waiting. Stretched on his back, Mark stared at the cloudless evening sky. But pretty soon we'll get this planet cleaned up and bring the men. Christ, four years without even seeing a woman. I remember the last time. OK, Jarvis interrupted impatiently. Let's get to sleep. Sure, pal. Good night. They fell asleep to dream of green hills, corn, ripening, apples roasting over an open fire. Peace and home and girls. They're firm legs flashing in the sun. Soldier-like, Mark was suddenly awake. He lay without motion, sensitive to some subtle change in the surroundings. From the corner of his eye he could see Jarvis wrapped in sleep. The silence seemed eternal. Then, whisper soft, came a murmur, a sound, a voice, a girl's voice, sighing and singing from deep in that devastated spot. A woman. Instantly Mark was on his feet. No need to wake Jarvis. Plenty of time for Jarvis to find out afterwards. But not yet. A miracle that a girl had survived in all that wreckage. But a miracle he wanted to save her alone. Ahead the path turned and Mark followed it as he went forward again, downhill between the mast-wall's rubble. Now the voice swelled, a melancholy song. Well, she won't be melancholy for long, Mark thought. Her solitary ordeal was over. Mark, Jarvis stood up on an upturned, lintel, ten feet above Mark's head, as Mark jerked to a stop at the cry. Jarvis jumped into his path. You fool! Don't you know it's a trap? So that's how you want to play it. The noble friend protecting me for myself. He slammed a fist into the side of Jarvis's head. Well, I won't bite. She's mine. I found her. In silence, in the narrow passage between the rocks, the two fought. Suddenly, above the sound of fist on flesh, came the voice of the girl again. Clear, young. She is there, thought Jarvis. He could almost taste her lips on his. The sensation came as a shock. How did he know? He'd never had a woman. That's what came from listening to the tales of Mark's exploits with women. Now he had to have that girl. The mounting tension of the fighting snapped something in Jarvis's seething mind. Danger, friendship, duty all meant nothing. Only one thing mattered. The girl. Mark had had more than his share of girls. He, Jarvis, was the one who should have her. He'd been deprived of his manhood long enough. His frenzied brain hunted a trick to gain his ends. Mark's superior strength began to force Jarvis to give ground. Then a final blow sent him reeling. He reached out to break his fall. His hand closed on a rock. He threw it. Mark crashed to the ground. His knees smashed. His leg useless. Then the tomb stillness of the dead city took over. The dust settled slowly. Mark came to his feet. Jarvis was gone. Dragging his useless leg, Mark forced himself to crawl forward. Jarvis had to be stopped. Ahead a shadow moved, and for a moment the moon threw the silhouette of a man against a cavernous opening in the debris. Jarvis! An electric flash shattered the darkness. The jagged teeth of the bolt spit tongues of fire. Cordite mangled with the raw, nauseant, revolting smell of scorched flesh and hair. The figure tottered and fell into the black mouth of the cave. Then as the flame faded, it lit up small bundles of charred bones near the fallen body. There was a whir and a click of mechanism. Fifteen feet away, Mark watched as the arm of a phonograph rose move slowly back to the starting point. Then the record began once more to grind out its death trap melody. End of Operation Lorelei by William P. Salt.