 Flight Through Tomorrow. 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 Derek Beaver. Flight Through Tomorrow by Stanton A. Koblenz. Nothing was further from my mind when I discovered the release drug, Relen, than the realization that it would lead me through as strange and ghastly and revealing a series of adventures as any man has ever experienced. I encountered it, in a way, as a mere byproduct of my experiments. I am a chemist by profession, and as one of the staff of the Morgenstern Foundation have access to some of the best equipped laboratories in America. The startling new invention, I must call it that, though I did not create it deliberately, came to me in the course of my investigations into the obscure depths of the human personality. It has long been my theory that there is, in man, a psychic entity which can exist for at least brief periods apart from the body, and have perceptions which are not those of the physical senses. In accordance with these views, I have been developing various drugs, compounded of morphine and adrenaline, whose object was to shock the psychic entity loose for limited periods and so to widen the range and powers of the personality. I shall not go into the details of my researches, nor tell by what accident I succeeded better than I had hoped. The all-important fact, a fact so overwhelming that I shudder and gasp and marvel, even as I tell of it, is that I did obtain a minute quantity of a drug which, by putting the body virtually in a state of suspended animation, could release the mind to travel almost at will across time and space. Yes, across time and space, for the drag of the physical having been stricken off, I could enter literally into infinity and eternity. But let me tell precisely what happened that night, when at precisely 1008 in the solitude of my apartment room, I swallowed half an ounce of relin and stretched myself out on the bed, well knowing that I was taking incalculable risks and that insanity and even death were by no means remote possibilities of the road ahead. But let that be as it may, in my opinion, there is no coward more despicable than he who will not face danger for the sake of knowledge. My head reeled and something seemed to buzz inside it as soon as the bitter half ounce of fluid slipped down my throat. I was barely able to reach the bed and throw myself upon it when there came a snapping as of something inside my brain, then for a period, blankness. Then a gradual awakening with that feeling of exhilaration one experiences only after the most blissful sleep. I opened my eyes feeling strong and light of limb and charged with the marvel as the vital energy, but as I peered about me, my lips drew far apart in astonishment, and I am sure that I gaped like one who has seen a ghost. Where were the familiar walls of my two by four room, the bureau, the book rack, the ancient portrait of Pasteur that hung in its glass frame just above the foot of the bed, gone, vanished as utterly as though they had never been. I was standing on a wide and windy plane with the gale beating in my ears and with rapid sunset-colored clouds scutting across the blood-stained west. Mingled with the wailing of the blast, there was a deep sobbing sound that struck me in successive waves, like the ululations of great multitudes of far-off mourners. While I was wondering what this might mean and felt a prickling of horror along my spine, the first of the portents swept across the sky. I say portents, for I do not know by what other term to describe the apparitions, high in the heavens, certainly at an altitude of many miles, the flaming things swept across my view, comet-shaped and stretching over at least ten degrees of arc, swift as a meteor, brilliantly flesh-red, sputtering sparks like an anvil and leaving behind it a long, ruddy trail that only slowly faded out amid the darkening skies. It must have been a full minute after its disappearance before the hissing of its flight came to my ears, a hissing so sharp, so nastily insistent that it reached me even above the noise of the wind, and more than another minute had passed before the earth beneath me was wrenched and jarred as if by an earthquake and the most thunderous detonations I had ever heard burst over me in a prolonged series. Let me emphasize that none of this had the quality of a dream. It was clear cut, as vivid as anything I had ever experienced. My mind worked with an unusual precision and clarity, and not even a fleeting doubt came to me of the reality of my observations. This is some sort of bombing attack, I remember reflecting, some assault of super-monsters of the skies perfected by a super-science, and I did not have to be told the fact I knew as by an all-illuminating inner knowledge that I had voyaged into the future. Even as this realization came to me, I made another flight, and one that was in space more than in time. It did not surprise me, but I took it as the most natural thing in the world when I seemed to rise and go floating away through the air. It was still sunset time, but I could see clearly enough as I went drifting at a height of several hundred yards above a vast desolated space near the junction of two rivers. Perhaps, however, desolated is not the word I should use. I should say, rather, shattered, pulverized, obliterated. For seen of more utter and hopeless ruin I have never seen nor imagined. Over an area of many square miles, there was nothing but heaps and mounds of broken stone, charred and crumbling brick, fire-scarred timbers, and huge contorted masses of rustling steel like the decaying bones of superhuman monsters. From the great height and extent of the piles of debris, and from the occasional sight of the splintered cornice of a roof or of some battered window frame or door, I knew that this had once been a city, one of the world's greatest. But no other recognizable feature remained amid the gray masses of ruins, and the very streets and avenues had been erased. But here and there a tremendous crater, 300 feet across, 100 to 150 feet deep, indicated the source of destruction. As if to reinforce the dread idea that had taken possession of my brain, one of the comet-like red prodigies went streaking across the sky, even as I gazed down at the dead city. And I knew, as clearly as if I had seen the whole spectacle with my own eyes, that the missile had sprung from a source hundreds or thousands of miles away, possibly across the ocean. And that laden with scores and tons of explosives, it had been hurled with unerring mechanical accuracy upon its mission of annihilation. Then I seemed to float over vast distances of that sunset-tinted land, and saw great craters in the fields, and villages shot to ribbons, and farms abandoned. And the wild dogs fought for the wild cattle, and thistles grew deep on acres where wheat had been planted, and weeds sprouted thickly in the orchards, and blights, and mildew competed for the crops. But, through here and there, I could see a dugout, which traces of fire and abandoned tools flung about at random, nowhere, in all that dismal world that I observed a living man. After a time I returned to a place near the ruined city by the two rivers, and in the rocky palisades above one of the streams I made out some small circular holes, barely large enough to admit a man. And, borne onwards by some impulse of curiosity and despair, I entered one of these holes, and went downward, far downward into the dim recesses. And now, for the first time, at a depth of hundreds of yards, I did at last encounter living men. My first thought was that I had gone back to the day of the caveman, for a cave-like hollow had been scooped out in the solid rock. It was true that the few hundreds of people huddled together there had the dress and looks of moderns. It was true also that the gloom was lighted for them by electric bulbs, and that electric radiators kept them warm. Yet Dante himself, in painting the ninth circle of his inferno, could not have imagined a drearier and more despondent group than these that slouched and drooped and muttered in that cavernous recess, seated with their heads fallen low upon their knees, or moodily pacing back and forth like captives who can hope for no escape. Here, at least, we will be safe from the sky, marauders, I heard one of them muttering. Yet I could not help wondering what the mere safety of the body could mean when all the glories of man's civilization were annihilated. There came a whirring in my head and another blank interval, and when I regained my senses I knew that another period of time had passed, possibly months or even years. I stood on the palisade above the river near the entrance of the caves, and the sun was bright above me, but there was no brightness in the men and women that trailed out of a small circular hole in the ground. Drabba's dock rats and pasty pail of countenance as hospital inmates, with bent backs and dirty tattered clothes in a mouse-like nosing manner, they emerged with the wariness of hunted refugees, and they flung up their hands with low cries to shield them from the brilliance of the sun, to which they were evidently unaccustomed. From the packs on their backs and the bundles in their hands, I knew that they were emerging from their subterranean refuge to try to begin a new life in the ravaged world above. My heart went out of them, for I saw that, few as they were, not more than fifteen all, they were the sole survivors of a once populous region, would have a bitter fight to wage in the man-made wilderness that had been a world metropolis. But as they roamed above through the waste of ash and rubble, and as they wandered abroad where the fields had been, and saw how every brush and tree had been seared from the earth or poisoned by chemical brews, I knew that their fight was not merely a bitter one, it was hopeless. As I heard them muttering among themselves, we have not even any tools, and again, we have no fuel left for the great machines, for they had lived in a highly mechanical world, and the technicians who alone understood the workings of that world had all been destroyed, and the sources of power had all been cut off, and power was food without which they would not long survive. Unable to endure their haggard, hangdog looks and grim, despondent eyes, I went wandering far away, over the length and breadth of many lands. And nowhere did I see a factory that had not been hammered to dust, nor a village that had not been unroofed or burned, nor a farm where the workers went humming on their merry, toilsome way. Yet here and there I did observe little knots of survivors. Sometimes they were half-clad groups, lean and ferocious as famished wolves, who roamed the houseless countryside with stones and clubs, hunting the wild birds and hares, or making meager meals from barks and roots. Sometimes three or four men, with the frenzied eyes and hysterical shrieks and shouts of maniacs, would emerge from a brush hut by a river flat. Sometimes little bands of men and women, in a dazed, aimless way, would go wandering about a huge jagged hole in the ground, where their homes and loved ones lay buried. I came upon solitary refugees high up on the scarred mountain slopes, with nothing but a staff to lean upon and a deer skin to keep them warm. I saw more than one twisted form lying motionless at the foot of a precipice. I witnessed a battle between two half-crazed, ravenous bands with murder and cannibalism and horrors too grisly to report. I observed brave men resolutely trying to till the soil, whose productive powers had been ruined by a poison spray from the sky. And I noted some who, though the fields remained fertile enough, had not the seed to plant, and others who had not the tools with which to plow and reap. And some who, with great labor, managed to produce enough for three or four mouths, had twenty or thirty to feed, and where the three or four might have lived, the twenty or thirty perished. Then, with a great sadness, I knew that man, having become civilized, cannot make himself into a savage again. He has come to depend upon science for his sustenance, and when he himself has destroyed the means of employing that science, he is as a babe without milk. And it is not necessary to destroy all men to exterminate mankind, one need only take from him the prop of his mechanical inventions. Again there came a blankness, and I passed over a stretch of time, perhaps over years or even decades. And I had wandered far in space, to an island somewhere on a sunny sea, and there once more I heard the sound of voices. And somehow, through some deeper sense, I knew that these were the voices of the only men left anywhere on the whole wide planet. And I looked down on them, and saw that they were but few, no more than a dozen men and women and all, with three or four children among them. But their faces, unlike those which I had seen before, were not haggard and seemed, nor avid like those of hunting beasts, nor distorted by fury or famine. Their brows were broad and noble, and their eyes shone with the sweetness of great thoughts, and their smiles were as unuttered music. And when they glanced at me with their clear, level gaze, I knew that they were such beings as poets had pictured as dwellers in a far tomorrow. And I did not feel sad, though I could not forget that they were the only things in human form that one could find on all earth's shores. And though I knew that they were too few to perpetuate their kind for long, somehow I felt a vast benevolent spirit in control, that these most perfect specimens of our race should endure when all the records had vanished. As I watched, I saw the people all turning their eyes to an eastern mountain, whose summit still trailed the golden of the dawn clouds. And from above the peak a great illuminated sphere, like a chariot of light, miraculously came floating down, and the blaze was such that I could hardly bear to look at it. And exclamations of wonder and joy came from the people's throats, and I too cried out in joy and wonder as the radiant globe descended, and as it alighted on the plain before us, casting a sun-like aura over everything in sight. Then through the sides of the enormous ball, I would not say through the door, for nothing of the kind was visible, a glorious being emerged, followed by several of his kind. He was shaped like a man, and no taller than a man, and yet there was that about him which said he was greater than a man. For light seemed to pour from every cell of his body, and a golden halo was about his head, and his eyes shot forth golden beams so intense and so magnetic that once having observed them, I could hardly take my gaze away. With slow steps he advanced, motioning the people to him, and they drew near and flung themselves before him on the ground, and cried out in adoration. And I too threw myself to earth in worship of this superhuman creature, and I heard the words he spoke, and with some deeper sense I translated them, though they were not uttered in any language I knew. Out of the stars we come, oh men, and back to the stars we shall go, that the best of your race may be transplanted there, and survive through means known to us, and again be populace and great. Through the immense evil within the breasts of your kind, you have been purged and all but annihilated, but the good within your race has also been mighty, and can never be expunged, and that good has called through you surviving few to us your guardians, that we may take you to another planet and replenish you there, and teach you that lore of love and truth and beauty, which the blind members of your species have neglected here while they unfitted the earth for human habitation. So speaking the radiant one, motioned to the people who arose and followed him inside the gray sphere of light, and when they had all entered it slowly began to ascend, and slowly dwindled and disappeared against the morning skies. And now I knew there was no longer a man left anywhere on earth, yet as I gazed at the deserted shore, the empty beach and the bare mountain side, a sense of supreme satisfaction came over me, as though I knew that in the end, after fire and agony and degradation, all was eternally well. That sense of supreme satisfaction remained with me when, after still another blank interval, I opened my eyes as from a deep slumber, and stared at the familiar book rack, the bureau, the mottled paper walls of my own room. The clock on the little table at my side indicated that the hour of 1009, in other words, all that had happened had occupied the space of one minute. Yet I know as surely as I know that I write these words, that the release drug had freed my spirit to range over thousands of miles of space, and that I have looked on people in events which no other eye will view for scores, hundreds or even thousands of years to come. End of Flight Through Tomorrow by Stanton Arthur Koblenz. Recording by Derek Beaver. Ending by Fredrick Brown and Mac Reynolds. Sometimes the queerly shaped Venusian trees seemed to talk to him, but their voices were soft. They were loyal people. There were four men in the lifeboat that came down from the space cruiser. Three of them were still in the uniform of the galactic guards. The fourth sat in the prowl of the small craft, looking down at their goal, hunched and silent, bundled up in a great coat against the coolness of space, a great coat which he would never need again after this morning. The brim of his hat was pulled down far over his forehead, and he studied the nearing shore through dark-lensed glasses. Bandages as though for a broken jaw covered most of the lower part of his face. He realized suddenly that the dark glasses, now that they had left the cruiser, were unnecessary. He slipped them off. After the cinematographic rays his eyes had seen through these lenses for so long, the brilliance of the color below him was almost like a blow. He blinked and looked again. They were rapidly settling toward a shoreline beach. The sand was a dazzling, unbelievable white, such as had never been on his home planet. Blue the sky and water, and green the edge of the fantastic jungle. There was a flash of red in the green as they came still closer, and he realized suddenly that it must be a margie, the semi-intelligent Venusian parrot once so popular as pets throughout the solar system. Throughout the system blood and steel had fallen from the sky and ravished the planets, but now it fell no more. And now this, here in this forgotten portion of an almost completely destroyed world it had not fallen at all, only in some place like this, alone, was safety for him. Elsewhere, anywhere, imprisonment or more likely death. There was danger even here. Three of the crew of the space cruiser knew. Perhaps someday one of them would talk. Then they would come for him, even here. But that was a chance he could not avoid. Nor were the odds bad for three people out of a whole solar system knew where he was, and those three were loyal fools. The lifeboat came gently to rest. The hatch swung open, and he stepped out and walked a few paces up the beach. He turned and waited while the two spacemen who had guided the craft brought his chest out and carried it across the beach and to the corrugated tin shack just at the edge of the trees. That shack had once been a space radar relay station. Now the equipment it held was long gone, the antenna mast taken down, but the shack still stood. It would be his home for a while, a long while. The two men returned to the lifeboat, preparatory to leaving. And now the captain stood facing him, and the captain's face was a rigid mask. It seemed with an effort that the captain's right arm remained at his side, but that effort had been ordered. No salute. The captain's voice, too, was rigid with unemotion. Number one, silence. And then, less bitterly, come further from the boat before you again let your tongue run loose here. They had reached the shack. You are right, number. No, I am no longer number one. You must continue to think of me as Mr. Smith, your cousin, whom you brought here for the reasons you explained to the under- officers before you surrender your ship. If you think of me so, you will be less likely to slip in your speech. There is nothing further I can do, Mr. Smith? Nothing. Go now. And I am ordered to surrender thee. There are no orders. The war is over, lost. I would suggest, though, as to what spaceport you put into. In some you may receive humane treatment. In others, the captain nodded. In others, there is great hatred. Yes. That is all? That is all. And, captain, your running of the blockade, your securing of fuel en route, have constituted a deed of high valor. All I can give you in reward is my thanks. But now go. Goodbye. Not goodbye, the captain blurted impulsively. But, hasta la vista, auf wiedersehen, until the day. You will permit me for the last time to address you in salute? The man in the great coat shrugged. As you will. Click of heels and a salute that once greeted the Caesars, and later the pseudo-Aryan of the twentieth century, and, but yesterday, he who was now known as the last of the dictators. Farewell, Number One. Farewell, he answered emotionally. Mr. Smith, a black dot on the dazzling white sand, watched the lifeboat disappear up into the blue, finally into the haze of the upper atmosphere of Venus, that eternal haze that would always be there to mock his failure and his bitter solitude. The slow days snarled by, and the sun shone dimly, and the margie screamed in the early dawn, and all day, and at sunset, and sometimes there were the six-legged baroons, monkey-like in the trees that gibbered at him, and the rains came, and went away again. At nights there were drums in the distance, not the martial roll of marching, nor yet a threatening note of savage hate, just drums, many miles away, throbbing rhythm for native dances or exercising perhaps the forest night demons. He assumed these Venetians had their superstitions, all other races had. There was no threat for him in that throbbing that was like the beating of the jungle's heart. Mr. Smith knew that for although his choice of destinations had been a hasty choice, yet there had been time for him to read the available reports. The natives were harmless and friendly. A Terran missionary had lived among them some time ago, before the outbreak of the war. They were a simple, weak race. They seldom went far from their villages. The space radar operator who had once occupied the shack reported that he had never seen one of them. So there would be no difficulty in avoiding the natives, nor danger if he did encounter them. Nothing to worry about, except the bitterness. Not the bitterness of regret, but of defeat. Defeat at the hands of the defeated, the damned Martians who came back after he had driven them halfway across their damned planet. The Jupiter Satellite Confederation landing endlessly on the home planet, sending their vast armadas of spacecraft daily and nightly to turn his mighty cities into dust. In spite of everything, in spite of his score of ultra-vicious secret weapons and the last desperate efforts of his weakened armies, most of whose men were under twenty or over forty, the treachery even in his own army among his own generals and admirals. The turn of Luna, that had been the end. His people would rise again, but not now after Armageddon in his lifetime. Not under him, nor another like him, the last of the dictators. Hated by a solar system, and hating it. It would have been intolerable save that he was alone. He had foreseen that, the need for solitude. Alone he was still number one. The presence of others would have forced recognition of his miserably changed status. Alone his pride was undamaged, his ego wasn't intact. The long days and the margies screams and slithering swish of the surf, the ghost-quiet movements of the baroons in the trees, and the raucousness of their shrill voices. Drums. Those sounds, and those alone, but perhaps silence would have been worse. For the times of silence were louder. Times he would pace the beach at night, and overhead would be the roar of jets and rockets, the ships that had roared over New Albuquerque, his capital in those last days before he had fled. The crump of bombs, and the screams, and the blood, and the flat voices of his folding generals. Those were the days when the waves of hatred from the conquered peoples beat upon his country as the waves of a stormy sea beat upon crumbling cliffs. Leagues back of the battered lines you could feel that hate and vengeance as a tangible thing. A thing that thickened the air that made breathing difficult and talking futile. From the spacecraft, the jets, the rockets, the damnable rockets, more every day and every night and ten coming for every one shot down. Rocket ships raining hell from the sky, havoc and chaos and the end of hope. And then he knew that he had been hearing another sound, hearing it often and long at a time. It was a voice that shouted invective and ranted hatred and glorified the steel might of his planet and the destiny of a man and his people. It was his own voice, and it beat back the waves from the white shore. It stopped their wet encroachment upon this, his domain. It screamed back at the baroons, and they were silent. And at times he laughed, and the Margees laughed. Sometimes the queerly shaped Venusian trees talked too, but their voices were quieter. The trees were submissive. They were good subjects. Sometimes fantastic thoughts went through his head. The race of trees, the pure race of trees that never interbred, that stood firm always. Someday the trees. But that was just a dream, a fancy. More real were the Margees and the Kiffs. They were the ones who persecuted him. There was the Margee who would shriek, all is lost. He had shot at it a hundred times with his needle-gun, but always it flew away unharmed. Sometimes it did not even fly away. All is lost. At last he wasted no more needle-darts. He stalked it to strangle it with his bare hands. That was better. On what might have been the thousandth try he caught it and killed it, and there was warm blood on his hands and feathers were flying. That should have ended it, but it didn't. Now there were a dozen Margees that screamed that all was lost. Perhaps there had been a dozen all along, now he merely shook his fist at them or threw stones. The Kiffs, the Venusian equivalent of the Terran ant, stole his food. But that did not matter. There was plenty of food. There had been a cash of it in the shack meant to restock a space cruiser and never used. The Kiffs would not get at it until he opened a can, but then unless he ate all of it at once they ate whatever he left. That did not matter. There were plenty of cans, and always fresh fruit from the jungle, always in season, for there were no seasons here except the rains. But the Kiffs served a purpose for him. They kept him sane by giving him something tangible, something inferior to hate. Oh, it wasn't hatred at first, mere annoyance. He killed them in a routine sort of way at first, but they kept coming back. Always there were Kiffs. In his larder wherever he did it, in his bed. He sat the legs of the cot in dishes of gasoline, but the Kiffs still got in. Perhaps they dropped from the ceiling, although he never caught them doing it. They bothered his sleep. He'd feel them running over him, even when he'd spent an hour picking the bed clean of them by the light of the carbide lantern. They scurried with tickling little feet, and he could not sleep. He grew to hate them, and the very misery of his nights made his days more tolerable by giving them an increasing purpose. A pogrom against the Kiffs. He sought out their holes by patiently following one bearing a bit of food, and he poured gasoline into the hole and the earth around it, taking satisfaction in the thought of the writhings in agony below. He went about hunting Kiffs to step on them, to stamp them out. He must have killed millions of Kiffs. But always there were as many left. Never did their numbers seem to diminish in the slightest, like the Martians. But unlike the Martians, they did not fight back. There's was the passive resistance of a vast productivity that bred Kiffs ceaselessly, overwhelmingly. Billions to replace millions. Individual Kiffs could be killed, and he took savage satisfaction in their killing, but he knew his methods were useless save for the pleasure and the purpose they gave him. Sometimes the pleasure would pawl in the shadow of its utility, and he would dream of mechanized means of killing them. He read carefully what little material there was in his tiny library about the Kiff. They were astonishingly like the ants of Terra. So much that there had been speculation about their relationship. That didn't interest him. How could they be killed? Oh, Maas! Once a year, for a brief period, they took on the characteristics of the army ants of Terra. They came from their holes in endless numbers and swept everything before them in their devouring march. He wet his lips when he read that. Perhaps the opportunity would come then to destroy, to destroy, and destroy. Almost Mr. Smith forgot people and the solar system and what had been. Here in this new world there was only he and the Kiffs. The Baroons and the Marijis didn't count. They had no order and no system. The Kiffs. In the intensity of his hatred there slowly filtered through a grudging admiration. The Kiffs were true totalitarians. They practiced what he had preached to a mightier race, practiced it with a thoroughness beyond the kind of man to comprehend. There's the complete submergence of the individual to the state. There's the complete ruthlessness of the true conqueror, the perfect selfless bravery of the true soldier. But they got into his bed, into his clothes, into his food. They crawled with intolerable tickling feet. Nights he walked the beach, and that night was one of the noisy nights. There were high-flying, high-wining jet-craft up there in the moonlight sky, and their shadows dappled the black water of the sea. The planes, the rockets, the jet-craft, they were what had ravaged his cities and turned his railroads into twisted steel, had dropped their H-bombs on his most vital factories. He shook his fist at them and shrieked implications at the sky. And when he had ceased shouting, there were voices on the beach, Conrad's voice in his ear, as it had sounded that day when Conrad had walked into the palace, white-faced, and forgotten the salute. There was a breakthrough at Denver, number one. Toronto and Monterey are in danger, and in the other hemispheres, his voice cracked. The damned Martians and their traitors from Luna are driving over the Argentine. Others have landed near New Petrograd. It's a rout. All is lost. Voices crying number one, hail, number one, hail, a sea of hysterical voices, number one, hail, number one, a voice that was louder, higher, more frenetic than any of the others. His memory of his own voice, calculated but inspired as he'd heard it on playbacks of his own speeches. The voices of children chanting to the O number one. He couldn't remember the rest of the words, but they had been beautiful words. That had been at the public school meet in the New Los Angeles. How strange that he should remember here and now the very tone of his voice and inflection, the shining wonder in the children's eyes. Children only, but they were willing to kill and die for him. Convince that all that was needed to cure the ills of the race was a suitable leader to follow. All is lost. And suddenly the monster jet craft were swooping downward and starkly he realized what a clear target he presented here against the white moonlit beach. They must see him. The crescendo of motors as he ran, sobbing now in fear for the cover of the jungle, into the screening shadow of the giant trees and the sheltering blackness. He stumbled and fell, was up and running again. And now his eyes could see in the dimmer moonlight that filtered through the branches overhead, starings there in the branches, starings and voices in the night, voices in and of the night, whispers and shrieks of pain. Yes, he shown them pain. And now their tortured voices ran with him through the knee deep night wet grass among the trees. The night was hideous with noise, red noises and almost tangible din that he could nearly feel as well as he could see and hear it. And after a while his breath came raspingly. And there was a thumping sound that was the beating of his heart and the beating of the night. And then he could run no longer and he clutched a tree to keep from falling. His arms trembling about it and his face pressed against the impersonal roughness of the bark. There was no wind, but the tree swayed back and forth and his body with it. Then as abruptly as light goes on when a switch is thrown, the noise vanished, utter silence. And at last he was strong enough to let go his grip on the tree and stand erect again to look about to get his bearings. One tree was like another. And for a moment he thought he'd have to stay here until daylight. Then he remembered that the sound of the surf would give him his directions. He listened hard and heard it, faint and far away. And another sound, one that he had never heard before, faint also, but seeming to come from his right and quite near. He looked that way, and there was a patch of opening in the trees above. The grass was waving strangely in that area of moonlight. It moved, although there was no breeze to move it. And there was an almost sudden edge beyond which the blades thinned out quickly to barrenness. And the sound, it was like the sound of the surf, but it was continuous. It was more like the rustle of dry leaves, but there were no dry leaves to rustle. Mr. Smith took a step toward the sound and looked down. More grass bent and fell and vanished even as he looked. Beyond the moving edge of devastation was a brown floor of the moving bodies of kiffs. Row after row, orderly rank after rank, marching resistlessly onward. Billions of kiffs and army of kiffs eating their way across the night. Fascinated he stared down at them. There was no danger for their progress was slow. He retreated a step to keep beyond their front rank. The sound, then, was the sound of chewing. He could see one edge of the column and it was a neat, orderly edge, and there was discipline, for the ones on the outside were larger than those in the center. He retreated another step, and then quite suddenly his body was a fire in several spreading places. The vanguard, ahead of the rank that ate away the grass. His boots were brown with kiffs. Screaming with pain he whirled about and ran, beating with his hands at the burning spots on his body. He ran head on into a tree, bruising his face horribly and the night was scarlet with pain and shooting fire. But he staggered on, almost blindly, running, writhing, tearing off his clothes as he ran. This, then, was pain. There was a shrill screaming in his ears that must have been the sound of his own voice. When he could no longer run, he crawled, naked now and with only a few kiffs still clinging to him and the blind tangent of his flight had taken him well out of the path of the advancing army. But stark fear and the memory of unendurable pain drove him on. His knees raw now he could no longer crawl. But he got himself erect again on trembling legs and staggered on, catching hold of a tree and pushing himself away from it to catch the next. Falling, rising, falling again. His throat raw from the screaming invective of his hate. Bushes and the rough bark of trees tore his flesh. Into the village compound just before dawn staggered a man, a naked terrestrial. He looked about with dull eyes that seemed to see nothing and understand nothing. The females and young ran before him, even the males retreated. He stood there, swaying, and the incredulous eyes of the natives widened as they saw the condition of his body and the blankness of his eyes. When he made no hostile move they came closer again, formed a wondering, chattering circle about him, these Venusian humanoids. Some ran to bring the chief and the chief's son, who knew everything. The mad naked human opened his lips as though he were going to speak, but instead he fell. He fell as a dead man falls, but when they turned him over in the dust they saw that his chest still rose and fell in labored breathing. And then came Alwa, the aged chief, and Nirana, his son. Alwa gave quick excited orders. Two of the men carried Mr. Smith into the chief's hut and the wives of the chief and the chief's son took over the earthlings' care and rubbed him with a soothing and healing solve. But for days and nights he lay without moving and without speaking or opening his eyes, and they did not know whether he would live or die. Then at last he opened his eyes and he talked, although they could make out nothing of the things he said. Nirana came and listened, for Nirana of all of them spoke and understood best the earthlings' language, for he had been the special protege of the Terran missionary who had lived with them for a while. Nirana listened, but he shook his head. The words, he said, the words are of the Terran tongue, but I make nothing of them. His mind is not well. The aged Alwa said, I, stay beside him. Perhaps as his body heals his words will be beautiful words as were the words of the father of us, who in the Terran tongue taught us of the gods and their good. So they cared for him well and his wounds healed, and the day came when he opened his eyes and saw the handsome blue complexioned face of Nirana sitting there beside him. And Nirana said softly, Good day, Mr. Man of Earth, you feel better? No. There was no answer, and the deep sunken eyes of the man on the sleeping mat stared, glared at him. Nirana could see that those eyes were not yet sane, but he saw, too, that the madness in them was not the same that it had been. Nirana did not know the words for delirium and paranoia, but he could distinguish between them. No longer was the earthling a raving maniac, and Nirana made a very common error, an error more civilized beings than he have made often. He thought the paranoia was an improvement over the wider madness. He talked on hoping the earthling would talk, too, and he did not recognize the danger of his silence. We welcome you, earthling, he said, and hope that you will live among us as did the father of us, Mr. Gerhardt. He taught us to worship the true gods of the high heavens, Jehovah and Jesus and their prophets, the men from the skies. He taught us to pray and to love our enemies. And Nirana shook his head, sadly. But many of our tribe have gone back to the older gods, the cruel gods. They say there has been great strife among the outsiders, and no more remain upon all of Venus. My father all lie, and I are glad another one has come. He will be able to help those of us who have gone back. You can teach us love and kindness. The eyes of the dictator closed. Nirana did not know whether or not he slept, but Nirana stood up quietly to leave the hut. In the doorway he turned and said, We pray for you. And then joyously he ran out of the village to seek the others who were gathering baila berries for the feast of the fourth event. When with several of them he returned to the village, the earthling was gone, the hut was empty. Outside the compound they found at last the trail of his passing. They followed, and it led to a stream and along the stream until they came to the taboo of the green pool, and could go no farther. He went downstream, said Allah gravely. He sought the sea and the beach. He was well then, in his mind, for he knew that all streams go to the sea. Perhaps he had a ship of the sky there at the beach, Nirana said wordly. All earthlings come from the sky. The father of us told us that. Perhaps he will come back to us, said Allah. His old eyes missed it. Mr. Smith was coming back all right, and sooner than they had dared to hope. As soon in fact as he could make the trip to the shack in return, he came back dressed in clothing very different from the garb the other white man had worn. Shining leather boots and the uniform of the galactic guard and a wide leather belt with a holster for his needle gun. But the gun was in his hand when, at dusk, he strode into the compound. He said, I am number one, the Lord of all the solar system and your ruler. Who was chief among you? Allah had been in his hut, but he heard the words and came out. He understood the words, but not their meaning. He said, Earthling, we welcome you back. I am the chief. You were the chief. Now you will serve me. I am the chief. Allah's old eyes were bewildered at the strangeness of this. He said, I will serve you, yes, all of us, but it is not fitting that an Earthling should be chief among the whisper of the needle gun. All was wrinkled hands went to his scrawny neck, where just off the center was a sudden tiny pinprick of a hole. A faint trickle of red coursed over the dark blue of his skin. The old man's knees gave way under him as the rage of the poisoned needle dart struck him, and he fell. Others started toward him. Back, said Mr. Smith, let him die slowly, that you may all see what happens to—but one of the chief's wives, one who did not understand the speech of Earth, was already lifting all was head. The needle gun whispered again, and she fell forward across him. I am number one, said Mr. Smith, and Lord of all the planets, all who opposed me die by—and then suddenly all of them were running toward him. His finger pressed the trigger, and four of them died before the avalanche of their bodies bore him down and overwhelmed him. Norana had been the first in that rush, and Norana died. The others tied the Earthling up and threw him into one of the huts, and then, while the women began wailing for the dead, the men made counsel. They elected Kalana chief, and he stood before them, and said, The father of us, the Mr. Gerhardt, deceived us. There was fear and worry in his voice and apprehension on his blue face. If this be indeed the Lord of whom he told us, he is not a God, said another. He is an Earthling, but there have been such before on Venus many, many of them who came long and long ago from the skies. Now they are all dead, killed in strife among themselves. It is well. This last one is one of them, but he is mad. And they talked long, and the dust grew into night while they talked of what they must do, the gleam of fire laid upon their bodies, and the waiting drummer. The problem was difficult. To harm one who was mad was taboo. If he was really a God, it would be worse. Thunder and lightning from the sky would destroy the village. Yet they dared not release him. Even if they took the evil weapon that whispers its death and buried it, he might find other ways to harm them. He might have another where he had gone for the first. Yes, it was a difficult problem for them, but the eldest and wisest of them, one Magani, gave them at last the answer. Oh, Kalana, he said. Let us give him to the kiffs. If they harm him, an old Magani grinned a toothless, mirthless grin. It would be their doing, and not ours. Kalana shuddered. It is the most horrible of all deaths, and if he is a God, if he is a God they will not harm him. If he is mad and not a God, we will not have harmed him. It harms not a man to tie him to a tree. Kalana considered well, for the safety of his people was at stake. Considering he remembered how Alwa and Narana had died. He said, it is right. The waiting drummer began the rhythm of the council end, and those of the men who were young and fleet lighted torches in the fire and went out into the forest to seek the kiffs who were still in their season of marching. And after a while having found what they sought they returned. They took the earthling out with them then, and tied him to a tree. They left him there, and they left the gag over his lips because they did not wish to hear his screams when the kiffs came. The cloth of the gag would be eaten too, but by that time there would be no flesh under it from which a scream might come. They left him, and went back to the compound, and the drums took up their rhythm of propiation to the gods for what they had done. For they had, they knew, cut very close to the corner of a taboo. But the provocation had been great, and they hoped they would not be punished. All night the drums would throb. The man tied to the tree struggled with his bonds, but they were strong, and his writhings made the knots but tighten. His eyes became accustomed to the darkness. He tried to shout, I am number one, lord of— And then because he could not shout, and because he could not loosen himself, there came a rift in his madness. He remembered who he was, and all the old hatreds and bitterness welled up in him. He remembered too what had happened in the compound, and wondered why the Venetian natives had not killed him. Why, instead, they had tied him here alone in the darkness of the jungle. A far he heard the throbbing of the drums, and they were like the beating of the heart of night, and there was a louder, nearer sound that was the pulse of blood in his ears as the fear came to him. The fear that he knew why they had tied him here—the horrible, gibbering fear that for the last time an army marched against him. He had time to savor that fear to the utmost, to have it become a creeping certainty that crawled into the black corners of his soul as would the soldiers of the coming army crawl into his ears and nostrils, while others would eat away his eyelids to get at the eyes behind them. And then, and only then, did he hear the sound that was like the rustle of dry leaves in a dank black jungle, where there were no dry leaves to rustle nor breeze to rustle them. Horribly, number one, the last of the dictators did not go mad again. Not exactly, but he laughed and laughed and laughed. End of Happy Ending by Frederick Brown and Mac Reynolds. Lost in the future. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Reynard. Lost in the future. By John Victor Petersen. Did you ever wonder what might happen if mankind ever exceeded the speed of light? Here is a profound story based on that thought. A story which may well forecast one of the problems to be encountered in space travel. They had discovered a new planet, but its people did not see them until after they had travelled on. All Brecht and I went down in the shuttle ship, leaving the stalatomic orbited pole to pole 2000 miles above Alpha Centauri's second planet. While we took an atmosphere brushing approach, which wouldn't burn off the shuttle skin, we went as swiftly as we could. A week before, we had completed man's first trip through hyperspace. We were now making the first landing on an inhabited planet of another sun. All the preliminary investigations had been made via electron spectroscope and electron telescopes from the stalatomic. We knew that the atmosphere was breathable, and were reasonably certain that the peoples of the world into whose atmosphere we were dropping were at peace. We went unarmed, just the two of us. It might not be wise to go in force. We were silent, and I know that Harry Allbrecht was as perplexed as I was over the fact that our all wave receivers failed to pick up any signs of radio communication whatever. We had assumed that we would pick up signals of some type as soon as we had passed down through the unfamiliar planet's ionosphere. The scattered arrangements of the towering cities appeared to call for radio communications. The hundreds of atmosphere ships flashing along a system of airways between the cities seemed to indicate the existence of electronic navigational and landing aids, but perhaps the signals were all tightly beamed. We would know when we came lower. We dropped down into the airway levels, and still our receivers failed to pick up a signal of any sort. Not even a whisper of static. And strangely, our radarscopes failed to record even a blip from their atmosphere ships. I guess it's our equipment, Harry, I said. It just doesn't seem to function in this atmosphere. We'll have to put Edwards to work on it when we go back upstairs. We spotted an airport on the outskirts of a large city. The runways were laid out with the precision of Earth's finest. I put our ships nose eastward on a runway and took it down fast through a lull in the atmosphere ship traffic. As we went down, I saw tiny buildings spotted on the field which surely housed electronic equipment. But our receivers remained silent. I taxied the shuttle up to an unloading ramp before the airport's terminal building, and I killed the drive. Harry, I said, if it weren't that their ships are so outlandishly stubby, and their buildings so outflung, we might as well be on Earth. I agree, Captain. Strange, though, that they're not mobbing us. They couldn't take this delta-wing job for one of their ships. It was strange. I looked up at the observation ramp's occupants. People who, except for their bizarre dress, might well be of Earth, and saw no curiosity in the eyes that sometimes swept across our position. Be that as it may, Harry. We certainly should cause a stir in these pressure suits. Let's go. We walked up to a DOW-looking individual at a counter at the ramp's end. Clearing my throat, I said rather innately, Hello. But what does one say to an extra Solarian? I realised then that my voice seemed thunderous, that the only other sounds came from a distance. The city's noise. The atmosphere ship's engines on the horizon. The Centaurian ignored us. I looked at the atmosphere ships in the clear blue sky, at the Centaurians on the ramp who appeared to be conversing. And there was no sound from those planes. No sound from the people. It's impossible, Harry said. The atmosphere is nearly Earth normal. It should be. Well, damn it, it is a sound conductive. We're talking, aren't we? I looked up at the Centaurians again. They were looking excitedly westward. Some turned to companions. Mouths opened and closed to form words we could not hear. Wide eyes lowered, following something I could not see. Sick inside, I turned to Albrecht, and read confirmation in his drawn, blanched face. Captain, he said. I suspected that we might find something like this when we first came out of hyperspace and the big sleep. The recorders showed we'd exceeded light speed in normal spacetime, just after the transition. Einstein theorised that time would not pass as swiftly to those approaching light speed. We could safely exceed that speed in hyperspace, but should never have done so in normal spacetime. Beyond light speed, time must conversely accelerate. These people haven't seen us yet. They certainly just observed our landing. As we suspected, they probably do have speech and radio, but we can't pick up either. We're seconds ahead of them in time, and we can't pick up from the past sounds of nearby origin or nearby signals radiated at light speed. They'll see and hear us soon, but will never receive an answer from them. Our questions will come to them in their future, but we can never pick up answers from their past. Let's go Harry, I said quickly. Where? He asked. Where can we ever go that will be an improvement over this? He was resigned. Back into space, I said. Back to circle this system at near light speed. The computer should be able to determine how long and how slow we'll have to fly to cancel this out. If not, we are truly and forever lost. End of Lost in the Future by John Victor Peterson. Master of none. 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 Dan Wiley Sears. Master of none by Neil Goble. The advantages of specialization are so obvious that today we don't even know how to recognize a competent syncretist. Freddie the fish glanced at the folded newspaper beside him on the bench. A little one column headline caught his eye. Mysterious signals from outer space. Probably from Cygnus, he said. Freddie mashed a peanut, popped the meat into his mouth, and tossed the shell to the curb in front of the bench. He munched idly and watched two sparrows arguing over the discarded delicacy. The victor flitted to the head of a statue, let go a triumphant dropping onto the marble nose, and hopped to a nearby branch. Serves him right, Freddie said. He yawned and rubbed the stubble on his chin. Not yet long enough for scissors, he decided. He pulled his feet up on the bench, twisting in an effort to get comfortable. The sun was in his eyes, so he reclaimed the discarded newspaper and spread it over his face. His eyes momentarily focused on mysterious signals from outer space, right over his nose. Sure, Cygnus, he muttered, and closed his eyes and dropped off to sleep. When he was awakened, it was by an excited hand shaking his shoulder and a panting, Freddie, Freddie, look at the extra just came out. Freddie slowly sat up, ascertained the identity of the intruder and the fact that the sun was setting, and said, Good evening, Willie. Please stop rattling that paper in my face. But just read it, Freddie, Willie shrieked, waving the paper so frantically that Freddie couldn't make out the big black headline. Positive contact from another planet, the guy was yelling. They put out an extra, so I snitched one from the boy. Read it to me, huh, Freddie? I'm dying a curious. So give it here, and I'll read it for you. Quit shaking it, or you'll tear it all up, Freddie snorted. Read it to me, huh, Freddie? Willie said, handing over the paper. I don't know no one else that reads so good. Freddie studied the headline in the first paragraph silently, then whistled lightly and lowered the paper. You know, Willie, he said, the last thing I read before I dropped off a while ago was about these signals, but the funny thing is I just assumed they were from Cygnus. What's Cygnus, Freddie? Willie asked, still pop-eyed. A smoke? A dame? Or you mean like from hunger? Cygnus, my boy, Freddie explained patronizingly, is a constellation within which there are two colliding galaxies. These colliding galaxies produce the most powerful electromagnetic radiations in the universe, and undecillion watts. What's an undecillion? An undecillion is 10 raised to the 36th power, Freddie sighed, fearing that he wasn't getting through to Willie. No fooling. What's a watt? Oh, you're pulling my leg again, Freddie, talking riddles. Where'd you ever learn to talk that way anyhow? Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Oxford, Georgia Tech, Oklahoma, picked up a little here, a little there, Freddie said, reflecting on his indiscriminate past. Oh, cut it out, Freddie. Come on, read it to me. Bet you can't. Where'd you say it was from, Cygnus? Not Cygnus, Ganymede. Freddie cleared his throat and rattled the newspaper authoritatively. Washington, White House sources declared today that intelligent beings on a Jupiter moon have contacted the United States government. While the contents of the message have been made secret, the White House emphasized the message was friendly. Freddie continued, The signals, which were intercepted yesterday, were decoded this morning by a team of government scientists and cryptographers who had been at the task all night, while officials were non-committal about the nature of the message contained in the signals, they declared, We are authorized to state that the received message was friendly and appears to represent a sincere attempt by another race of intelligent beings to contact the people of Earth. A reply message is being formulated. Officials further explained that the possibility of the signals being a hoax had been thoroughly investigated and that there is no doubt whatsoever that the message is a genuine interspatial communication from intelligent beings on Ganymede. Ganymede is one of the 12 moons of the planet Jupiter and is larger than the planet Mercury. Freddie stopped. Ain't there any more? Willie whined. The rest of it is about how far away Ganymede is and its relative density and mass and stuff. You wouldn't be interested, Willie. Oh, I guess not. Willie helped himself to appeal it. What's it mean, Freddie? Nothing much, Willie. Just that there's people somewhere besides here on Earth and they called us on the phone. What do you know about that, Willie gasped? I didn't even know they was other people. He steered with disbelief at the paper. I don't suppose anyone knew. How do you suppose they knew, Willie asked? I mean that we was here if we didn't know they was there. I've been wondering about that, Willie. You know that last rocket we shot? From Cape Carnival, you mean? Yeah, it was supposed to go into orbit around Jupiter. I wouldn't be surprised if maybe it didn't land on Ganymede. The people there could have examined it, figured out where it came from, and then radioed us on the same frequency the rocket transmitter used. Paper doesn't say that, of course, but it's a reasonable hypothesis. Freddie, I think you must be a genius or something. Freddie smiled and stretched out to sleep again as Willie wandered off, staring blankly at the newspaper. Carlton Jones, America's number one personnel specialist, scowled at the pamphlet on his desk. Secret, it said, in big red letters across the top and bottom. Special instructions for Operation Space Case, said the smaller letters across the middle of the top sheet. Now I ask you, Dwindle, Jones said to his clerkish aid, where, in this world full of specialists, am I going to find someone with a well-rounded education, much less one who'll take a chance on a flyer like this? Gosh, Mr. Jones, I wouldn't know, Dwindle blinked. Have you tried looking through your files? Have I tried looking through my files, Jones sighed, looking at the ceiling light? Dwindle, my files include every gainfully employed person in the United States of America and its possessions, millions of them. One doesn't just browse through the files looking for things. Oh, Dwindle said, I'm kind of new at this specialty, he explained. Yes, Dwindle, however, Jones continued, one does make IBM runouts to find things. Hey, that's great, Dwindle said, brightening. Why don't you try making an IBM runout? I did, Dwindle. Please let me finish. Our instructions call for finding a person with a well-rounded education, more specifically a person who is capable of intelligently discussing and explaining some two dozen major fields of knowledge, plus, of course, at least a passing acquaintance with some one or two hundred minor fields of knowledge. So I set mathematics into the IBM sorter. Mathematics is one of the major fields of knowledge, you see? Yeah, Dwindle acknowledged. So, I took the few million mathematicians cards which I got, good mathematicians and bad mathematicians, but at least people who can get their decimals in the right place. I set the IBM sorter for biology and ran the mathematicians cards through, so I got several thousand mathematician biologists. That's pretty sharp, Dwindle exclaimed with a twinkle. Who ever thought of that? Please, Dwindle, Jones Moan, pressing his palms to his eyes. Next, I sorted according to geology. Three hundred cards came through. Three hundred people in America who know their math, biology, and geology. That doesn't sound like so many to me, Dwindle said hesitantly, as if wondering what there was to get excited about. And of those three hundred, do you know how many understand even vaguely electronics? Twelve. And of those twelve, guess how many have an adequate background in history and anthropology? Much less an understanding of eighteen other fields? Not very many, I'll bet, Dwindle replied smartly. None. Not even one. I tried running the cards through in every order imaginable. We've bred a race of specialists, and there's not a truly educated man among us. Say, you know what I bet, even if you did find a guy like what all you said? Go ahead, Dwindle. I bet he wouldn't even go up there to Ganymede. I sure wouldn't. I'd be scared to death, Dwindle chattered waving his finger. How's he gonna get back, even if he gets there okay? Couldn't anyone fool me with a bunch of pretty talk? I know the government doesn't have a rocket that could take off again after it got there. Gotta have launching pads and computers and all that stuff. Government ever think about that? Jones held his head in anguish. Dwindle, why don't you be a good boy and run along to the snack bar for a coffee break and bring me some aspirin when you get back? Freddie the Fish, Willie and Oscar Franck were occupying the same bench, a comradeship made necessary by the overpopulation of the park on such a glorious day. Oscar was surveying the passing girls and scouting for worthwhile cigarette stubs. Willie was admiring a hovering beetle's power of flight and Freddie was reading a discarded copy of Scientific American. The beetle landed on Willie's sleeve and promptly located a gaping tear in the fabric through which bare arms showed. Willie raised his other hand menacingly. Don't, Freddie Bart, causing Willie to jump with enough force to dislodge the beetle. Aw, Freddie, Willie Wind, why didn't you let me kill it? What good's a stupid bug? That would have been a rather unfortunate kill, Willie, by your bare hand on your bare arm. You must learn to be cognizant of our insect friends and insect enemies. So what's he, poison or something? Unpleasant at least, Freddie said. That was a blister beetle. Smash it on your arm and you'll grow a nice welt. A member of the Malloy Day family. You mean bugs have families and all too? Willie asked. Beetle families are groupings of similar species of insects, Freddie explained. Not actually kinfolk. For instance, this beetle is related to the litter of Esicatoria of Southern Europe, more commonly known as the Freddy glanced out of the corner of his eye at Oscar, hoping to shield the next bit of information from his perverted brain and whispered the name. Willie's eyes widened. Hey Oscar, he hollered jumping up. You hear what Freddie said? That bug eye almost swatted practically a Spanish fly. Which way'd he go? Oscar squeaked, allowing his collection of stubs to scatter as he hopped around, looking on and under and behind the bench for the escaping insect. Hold it, hold it, Freddie commanded, trying to restore order. I said it's like it, not is it. It doesn't have what it takes, so skip it, huh? Willie and Oscar sat down again. Freddie, Willie sighed with adoration. How'd you ever get so smart? I mean, be an abomin' all. I keep telling you guys, I went to nothing but the finest universities. Well, except toward the end, when I was getting desperate. I guess I wasn't so choosy. Aw, go on now, Freddie. Colleges cost money, and you're as poor as the rest of us, bummin' for a cup of coffee and all the time talkin' about Yale and Oxford and Harvard. What would you say, Willie, if I told you that once I belonged to the richest family in Mississippi? I'd say Mississippi was a pretty poor state, Willie said, and Oscar giggled. I was once Frederick Van Smelt, spoiled son of the wealthy shrimp and oyster scion. And there's nothing as bad, my father said, as spoiled smelt. He disowned me, of course. I owned six Cadillacs, one right after the other. I wrecked them all. I traveled all over the world, and probably counteracted a billion dollars worth of foreign aid. I was kicked out of the best schools in the world. How kind you're so smart, you flunked out of all them schools, Oscar asked. Me, flunked out? I never made less than an A in any course I took during my eight years at war with college. I was expelled from nine schools and barely escaped the highway patrol when I was bootlegging at Oklahoma University. Freddie, Willie said, you're a lion like a dog, but you make it sound surreal. Jones squirmed uncomfortably in his seat in the briefing room, phrasing and rephrasing his thoughts. It seemed that no matter which arrangement of words he chose, it was still going to be obvious that he'd flopped. He reexamined his fingernails and selected one which was still long enough to chew. General Marcher concluded his current appraisal of the situation and began calling on the various individuals with whom certain phases of Operation Space Case had been entrusted. Jones groaned as each arose and gave favorable progress reports. The pod is completed and has been tested, sir. It will by no means be a plush, but it will be sufficiently comfortable even for the long voyage to Ganymede. The guidance system is perfected to the extent that we need. There are no further deceleration problems to be solved. The crash program has been approved for the two-way rocket. It is on the drawing board and current estimates are that the envoy can be brought back in three years. Ganymede has replied to our last message a suitable artificial environment will be available for the envoy. Personnel Specialist Jones Carlton gave his chin a final sweaty rub and slowly rose to his feet. General Marcher, sir, he choked, I'm... we're experiencing a little difficulty in finding a volunteer so far. Negative perspiration on that count, Jones. The project officer interrupted. The draft has never been abolished. We can grab anyone you put your finger on. Now, who will it be? Sir, it doesn't seem to be that so much as... well, sir, has any consideration been given to perhaps sending a delegation rather than a single envoy? The general smiled broadly. Now, that is more like it. I take it you mean you have a number of equally qualified persons who have expressed an intense desire to go to Ganymede and there is no way to impartially select one of these men over the others? This is commendable. However, our space limitation clearly precludes sending more than one person. I'm afraid you will just have to make your choice from a hat. Jones turned a trifle redder. That's not exactly the problem either, sir. The general's smile wilted and became a frozen frown. Just exactly what are you trying to say, Jones? There's no one who can meet the qualifications, sir, Jones said, feeling sick to his stomach. Are you telling me that in the entire United States there is not one person who has a basic understanding of the 24 major fields? I'm afraid that's right, sir. See me after the briefing, Jones. I'm certain that the foremost personnel specialist in the United States must have some further ideas on this matter. Jones sank slowly back into his seat and covered his face with his hands. I'm a goner, he whispered to himself. Jones, you can be replaced. Dwindle, sitting on his left, suddenly punched him vigorously in the ribs. Say, Mr. Jones, he rattled. I just thought of a great idea. Tell it to the general, maybe then he'll realize what a handicap I've been working under. Hiya, Freddy, Willie said, sitting down on the bench, helping himself to some peanuts. Working a crossword puzzle? Freddy pocketed his pencil stub and laid aside the newspaper. No, not this time. Just playing around with one of those we're looking for bright young men, adds. Freddy, you ain't thinking of? Nothing like that, Freddy laughed, just exercising my mind. Filling out one of those little tests they always have helps keep a fellow sharp, you know? Yeah, I've seen the kind. Like what has pictures and you're supposed to find things wrong in the picture like dames with beard and dog with six feet? Kinda like that. Only this one's all written and is a little tougher. You're supposed to send the answers whoever has good answers gets to take a tougher test and whoever does good on that test gets the job. Probably selling neckties on the corner or something. No kidding, that's what it says. Just says handsome rewards, but that's probably close to it. You gonna send it in? Willie asked. Nah, I just fill him out for fun, like I said. Can you imagine me peddling neckties on the corner? Then how do you know if you got the right answers? Hell, I know the answers, Freddie bragged. Like I said, this is just exercise, mental gymnastics. Like this last one, it was pretty tough compared to most of them. Had some questions about things I hadn't even thought about since college. Things I'd forgotten I knew. What goods in education if you forget what things you know? That's why I never bothered. Willie agreed. Because I never could remember things so good. No, Willie, you've got it all wrong. I still know it. I just didn't know I know it. Ah, Freddie, Willie said unhappily. You're pulling my leg again. Suit yourself, Freddie smiled. Hold down the bench for me, okay? I'll be right back. Willie watched Freddie until he went into the little brick building in the center of the park, and then grabbed Freddie's newspaper and transferred it over to Oscar's bench. Hey, you know how Freddie's always talking big about how much he knows? Willie said breathlessly. I got an idea how to call his bluff. He filled out one of these tests and says he knows all the answers. Let's send it in and see if he's as smart as he says. Yeah, that's great, Willie. Then Oscar's face darkened. Wonder where we can steal a stamp? That was a pretty good idea to mine about advertising in the paper. Wasn't it, Mr. Jones? Dwindle, America's number one personnel specialist, asked his surly assistant. Yes, Dwindle. Jones stared gloomily out the 14th story window into the park where the local bums were loafing and sleeping and feeding peanuts to the pigeons. He was nauseated with the prospect of having to address his new boss as Mr. Dwindle and was toying with the idea of abandoning his specialty completely to join the ranks of the happy, carefree, unemployed. He watched his two uniformed policemen approach one of the less wholesome appearing characters. Now, I don't suppose I could tolerate being in and out of jail every week on a vagrancy charge, he told himself. But then he smiled bitterly as he thought of the strange parallel between the policemen arresting the bum and other officials elsewhere in the United States tapping respectable citizens on the shoulder at this very moment. Dwindle, do you really think it was wise to issue warrants to arrest all those persons who scored perfect on the first test? How many did you say there were? Only a hundred or so, Dwindle smiled sweetly, and besides they're not being arrested, General Marcher explained to you that they are being drafted into the service of the government. Honestly, sometimes I think you worry too much. Jones turned back to the window, brooding over Dwindle's transformation. Maybe so, he sighed, watching the newly arrested vagrant pointing an accusing finger toward one of the other bums. Willie strained and twisted, trying to reclaim his arm from the policemen's grip. Honest, you guys, I didn't know it I figured it was against the rules maybe to send in somebody else's answers, but we was only making a joke Oscar and me. Oscar's the one who actually put in the mailbox and stole the stamp. I bet he's the one you're after. Now calm down, Willie, the beefy policemen coaxed. No one's broken any law, nobody's under arrest. We just want to chat a minute with whoever it was filled out that test. Yeah, Willie, the second policeman broke in. If you didn't do it, and I believe you when you say you didn't, then who did? What's it to ya, Willie asked, his mouth twitching nervously. The first policeman glanced at the second and then back at Willie. Well, it's like this, Willie, he said. Whoever filled out those answers got every one of them right. The people who run the contest want to meet the guy you see, and they asked us to help find him because we know you people better than anyone else does. See, that's all. Yeah, said the second. That's all. Now who did it? Willie stood with his jaw drooping for a moment. You mean he got ever less one of them right? He asked. Freddie was always bragging about his brains, but me and Oscar figured he was making most of it up. Freddie who? Freddie the fish, you mean? Yeah, Freddie. He turned toward Freddie's bench. Hey, Freddie, you know that test you took in the newspaper that you didn't know I sent in? You won the contest or something? Hey, that's great. Jones and Dwindl watched the draftees file into the examination room. I still don't see how this is going to solve the problem, Jones frowned. I believe it will, Dwindl contradicted him. Specialists in each of the major fields provided 50 questions. The hardest questions they could think up, I imagine. No, not at all. The purpose is to provide comprehensive coverage of each field, and each question is of the type that if the examinee knows the answer it can reasonably be assumed that he knows quite a bit in that particular phase of the field. For instance, if he knows what enzyme is associated with the stomach he probably knows what enzyme is associated with the liver. I know one big problem you're going to run into, Jones, Sol, just like the IBM cards, you're going to find one guy who clobbers the electronics part of the test, but completely busts out in history and everything else. I don't think so, Dwindl said. The preliminary test will have taken care of that. It was designed so that in order to answer every question right, a person would have to have at least a rudimentary knowledge of all twenty-four major fields. As Jones was considering whether it would be better to slit his own throat or Dwindl's general marcher entered the room and approached. Excellent, excellent, the general declared. A very distinguished looking group you've assembled here, Dwindl. Hello, Jones. Yes, sir, Dwindl said, with the possible exception of the CD chap in the rear. Jones looked to the rear of the room and his eyes bugged. Freddy the Fish, clean-shaven but tattered, was alternately wetting the pencil lead in his mouth and eating peanuts. That's the bum who feeds sparrows in the park, Jones gassed. How did he get out of jail so quick? I saw a couple of policemen haul him off just a day or so ago. This is where they hauled him to, general marcher said. It just so happens that he answered the question right on the preliminary examination. He says his name's Freddy Smith, although I doubt that he could prove it. He says he never had a father, Dwindl added, says his family was too poor. Jones stared at general marcher, then stared at Dwindl, then turned and stared at Freddy the Fish, who had just left his seat and was ambling toward the trio. Looks like he's throwing in the towel, Jones said happily. He's bringing his paper with him. Maybe he just wants clarification on a question, Dwindl said. I'm all done, Freddy said. Who gets this? Go ahead, Dwindl. Carlton Jones smirked. Grayed the man's paper. He's all done. Dwindl smiled uncertainly. You're allowed all the time you need, Mr. Smith. Oh, that's okay. I'm done. Dwindl produced his red pencil in the answer sheet, which had 1,200 small circles punched in it. He sat down, placed the key over the test paper, and began searching for white spaces showing through. That's the last one, Sir. Dwindl said six hours later as he added the 112th graded test to the neat stack at the left of his desk. He stared through the 1,000 plus holes in the answer key as if expecting the holes to shift. And still no change in the standings, General Marcher asked again. Mr. Smith still has the best grade, Dwindl answered. The percentages again, the general asked. Overall, 96% for Mr. Smith, Dwindl said for the fourth time. His lowest percentage in any one category was 80%. The next highest score was by Dr. Schmeling, who had 78%, but he failed in six categories. The third highest score was by Dr. Ranson, 76%, failing in seven categories. The fourth highest score was enough, enough, General Marcher interrupted. I think we've found our man, don't you, Dwindl? I hope we don't have to use pressure, Sir, Dwindl replied. Jones turned from the window, from which he was observing the bums in the park. How can you possibly consider such a thing, he blurted, as to send a penniless, unemployed, dirty, ragged tramp to Ganymede as the United States number one emissary? Jones, perhaps I'd best clarify a point or two for you, General Marcher said in measured tones. We've been searching the nation over, seeking a man who can fulfill our exacting requirements. We have found that man. There is no doubt in my mind that Mr. Smith possesses the greatest single store of knowledge about this planet and its people. So far as I'm concerned, which is considerable, it doesn't matter that this man has chosen the way of a philosopher instead of seeking an occupation. It doesn't matter that he lacks the necessary status to be listed on your IBM cards. It doesn't matter that you failed to find this man because Dwindl succeeded, and it doesn't matter whether I ever see you again. Yes, sir, Jones said, and picked up his hat and left. Now, back to the business at hand, Dwindl, you say these prospects don't know the reasons behind the test. That is correct, sir. I feared there might be some temptation for the prospects not to do their best if they knew that success might result in their being removed from the face of the earth. Wise, then I suggest we approach Mr. Smith on the idea cautiously to determine his sentiments. If he doesn't want to go, of course, we've got to draft him. Freddie cracked the peanut, put half in his mouth, and tossed the other half to the sparrows. I might be going away for a while, Willy, he said, ending a rather long silence. You ain't getting a job, are you, Freddie? Watch your language, Oscar scolded. No, not really a job, at least not the kind you think of. Sort of an all-expense-paid vacation with a change of scenery. You ain't had to run in with the bulls, have you, the stricken Willy asked. Me, you know better, Willy, nothing like that. And I'm not even sure the thing will pan out, but you know all those newspaper stories about the message from another planet? Yeah, yeah, you read it to me, Willy jabbered excitedly. And that test I took that you sent in and the fellows talked to me about? Yeah, say, I hope that didn't make you travel, Freddie, because me and Oscar was just kind of joke and sea, and it's okay, Willy. Well, one of the fellows I talked to was General Marcher, who's been mentioned in the newspaper stories in connection with, here Willy, take these. He interrupted himself when he saw the two men approaching. See that new guy at the bench over yonder? Give him these peanuts. I think he'd like to feed my sparrows while I'm gone. Names Jones, and he'll probably be around for a spell. Freddie stood up to greet the two men. Hello, General, he said tipping his battered cap. It's about the trip to Ganymede, I suppose. End of Master of None by Lloyd Neil Gable. Recording by Dan Wiley Sears. No pets allowed by MA Cummings. 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 Greg Marguerite. No pets allowed by MA Cummings. I can't tell anyone about it. In the first place, they'd never believe me, and if they did, I'd probably be punished for having her because we aren't allowed to have pets of any kind. It wouldn't have happened if they hadn't sent me way out there to work. But you see, there are so many things I can't do. I remember the day that chief of vocation took me before the council. I tried him on a dozen things, he reported. People always talk about me as if I can understand what they mean, but I'm really not that dumb. There doesn't seem to be a thing he can do that chief went on. Actually, his intelligence seems to be no greater than that which we believe our ancestors had back in the twentieth century. As bad as that, observed one of the council members. You do have a problem. But we must find something for him to do, said another. We can't have an idle person in the state. It's unthinkable. But what, asked the chief, he's utterly incapable of running any of the machines. I've tried to teach him. The only things he can do are already being done much better by robots. There was a long silence broken at last by one little old council member. I have it, he cried. The very thing will make him guard of the treasure. But there's no need of a guard. No one will touch the treasure without permission. We haven't had a dishonest person in the state for more than three thousand years. That's it exactly. There aren't any dishonest people, so there won't be anything for him to do. But we will have solved the problem of his idleness. It might be a solution, said the chief. At least a temporary one. I suppose we will have to find something else later on, but this will give us time to look for something. So I became guard of the treasure with a badge, and nothing to do unless you count watching the key. The gates were kept locked just as they were in the old days, but the large key hung beside them. Of course, no one wanted to bother carrying it around. It was too heavy. The only ones who ever used it anyway were members of the council. As the man said, we haven't had a dishonest person in the state for thousands of years. Even I know that much. Of course, this left me with lots of time on my hands. That's how I happened to get her in the first place. I'd always wanted one, but pets were forbidden. Busy people didn't have time for them, so I knew I was breaking the law, but I figured that no one would ever find out. First I fixed a place for her, and made a brush screen so that she couldn't be seen by anyone coming to the gates. Then one night I sneaked into the forest and got her. It wasn't so lonely after that. Now I had something to talk to. She was small when I got her. It would be too dangerous to go near a full-grown one. But she grew rapidly. That was because I caught small animals and brought them to her. Not having to depend on what she could catch, she grew almost twice as fast as usual and was so sleek and pretty. Really, she was a pet to be proud of. I don't know how I could have stood the four months there alone if I hadn't heard to talk to. I don't think she really understood me, but I pretended she did, and that helped. Every three or four weeks, three of the council members came to take a part of the treasure or to add to it. Always three of them. That's why I was so surprised one day to see one man coming by himself. It was Graham, the little old member who had recommended that I be given this job. I was happy to see him, and we talked for a while, mostly about my work and how I liked it. I almost told him about my pet, but I didn't think he would be angry at me for breaking the law. Finally, he asked me to give him the key. I've been sent to get something from the treasure, he explained. I was unhappy to displease him, but I said, I can't let you have it. There must be three members. You know that. Of course I know that, but something came up suddenly, so they sent me alone. Now, let me have it. I shook my head. That was the one order they had given me. Never to give the key to a person who came along. Graham became quite angry. You idiot, he shouted. Why do you think I had you put out there? It was so I could get in there and help myself to the treasure. But that would be dishonest, and there are no dishonest people in the state. For three thousand years I know his usually kind face had an ugly look I had never seen before. But I'm going to get part of that treasure, and it won't do you any good to report it, because no one is going to take a fool like you against a respected council member. They'll think you are the dishonest one. Now give me that key. It's a terrible thing to disobey a council member, but if I obeyed him I would be disobeying all the others, and that would be worse. No, I shouted. He threw himself upon me. For his size and age he was very strong, stronger even than I. I fought as hard as I could, but I knew I wouldn't be able to keep him away from the key for very long. And if he took the treasure, I would be blamed. The council would have to think of a new punishment for dishonesty. Whatever it was, it would be terrible indeed. He drew back and rushed at me. Just as he hit me my foot caught upon a root and I fell. His rush carried him past me, and he crashed through the brush screen beside the path. I heard him scream twice, and then there was silence. I was bruised all over, but I managed to pull myself up and take away what was left of the screen. There was no sign of Grim, but my beautiful pet was waving her pearl green feelers as she always did in thanks for a good meal. That's why I can't tell anyone what happened. No one would believe that Grim would be dishonest, and I can't prove it because she ate the proof. Even if I did tell them, no one is going to believe that a flycatcher plant, even a big one like mine, would actually be able to eat a man. So they think that Grim disappeared, and I'm still out here with her. She's grown so much larger now and more beautiful than ever. But I hope she hasn't developed a taste for human flesh. Lately when she stretches out her feelers, it seems that she's trying to reach me. End of No Pets Allowed by MA Cummings