 2nd Sight. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recorded by Jody Crangle. 2nd Sight by Alan Edward Norse. Note, the following excerpts from Amy Valentine's journal have never actually been written down at any time before. Her account of impressions and events has been kept in organized fashion in her mind for at least nine years. Even she is not certain when she started, but it must be understood that certain inaccuracies in transcription could not possibly have been avoided in the excerpting attempted here. The Editor Tuesday, 16th May. Lambertson got back from Boston about two this afternoon. He was tired. I don't think I've ever seen Lambertson so tired. It was more than just exhaustion, too. Maybe anger, frustration? I couldn't be sure. It seemed more like defeat than anything else, and he went straight from the copter to his office without even stopping off at the lab at all. It's good to have him back, though. Not that I haven't had a nice enough rest. With Lambertson gone, Dakin took over the reins for the week, but Dakin doesn't really count, poor man. It's such a temptation to twist him up and get him all confused that I didn't do any real work all week. With Lambertson back, I'll have to get down to the grind again, but I'm still glad he's here. I never thought I'd miss him so for such a short time away. But I wish he'd gotten a rest, if he ever rests. And I wish I knew why he went to Boston in the first place. Certainly he didn't want to go. I wanted to read him and find out, but I don't think I'm supposed to know yet. Lambertson didn't want to talk. He didn't even tell me he was back, even though he knew I'd catch him five miles down the road. I can do that now with Lambertson. Distance doesn't seem to make so much difference anymore if I just ignore it. So all I got was bits and snatches on the surface of his mind, something about me and Dr. Custer, and a nasty little man called Arons or Barons or something. I've heard of him somewhere, but I can't pin it down right now. I'll have to dig that out later, I guess. But if he saw Dr. Custer, why doesn't he tell me about it? Wednesday, 17th May. It was Arons that he saw in Boston. And now I'm sure that something's going wrong. I know that man. I remember him from a long time ago, back when I was still at Bairdsley, long before I came here to the study centre. He was the consulting psychiatrist, and I don't think I could ever forget him, even if I tried. That's why I'm sure something very unpleasant is going on. Lambertson saw Dr. Custer, too, but the directors sent him to Boston because Arons wanted to talk to him. I wasn't supposed to know anything about it, but Lambertson came down to dinner last night. He wouldn't even look at me, the skunk. I fixed him. I told him I was going to peek, and then I read him in a flash before he could shift his mind to Boston traffic or something. He knows I can't stand traffic. I only picked up a little, but it was enough. There was something very unpleasant that Arons had said that I couldn't quite get. They were in his office. Lambertson had said, I don't think she's ready for it, and I'd never try to talk her into it at this point. Why can't you people get it through your heads that she's a child, and a human being, not some kind of laboratory animal? That's been the trouble all along. Everybody has been so eager to grab, and nobody has given her a wretched thing in return. Arons was smooth, very sad and reproachful. I got a clear picture of him, short, balding, mean little eyes in a smug, self-righteous little face. Michael, after all, she's twenty-three years old. She's certainly out of diapers by now. But she's only had two years of training, aimed at teaching her anything. Well, there's no reason that that should stop, is there? Be reasonable, Michael. We certainly agree that you've done a wonderful job with the girl, and naturally you're sensitive about others working with her. But when you consider that public taxes are footing the bill... I'm sensitive about others exploiting her, that's all. I tell you, I won't push her, and I wouldn't let her come up here even if she agreed to do it. She shouldn't be tampered with for another year or two at least. Lambertson was angry and bitter. Now, three days later, he was still angry. And you're certain that your concern is entirely professional? Whatever Arons meant, it wasn't nice. Lambertson caught it, and oh my! charts slapped down on the table, door slamming, swearing from mild patient Lambertson. Can you imagine? And then later, no more anger, just disgust and defeat. That was what hit me when he came back yesterday. He couldn't hide it, no matter how he tried. Well, no wonder he was tired. I remember Arons all right. He wasn't so interested in me back in those days. Wild one, he called me. We haven't the time or the people to handle anything like this in a public institution. We have to handle her the way we'd handle any other defective. She may be a plus defective, instead of a minus defective, but she's as crippled as if she were deaf and blind. Good old Arons. That was years ago, when I was barely thirteen. Before Dr. Custer got interested and started a thalmascoping me and testing me, before I'd even heard of Lambertson or the study center. For that matter, before anybody had done anything but feed me and treat me like some kind of peculiar animal or something. Well, I'm glad it was Lambertson that went to Boston and not me, for Arons' sake. And if Arons tries to come down here to work with me, he's going to be wasting his time, because I'll lead him all around Robin Hood's barn and get him so confused he'll wish he'd stayed home. But I can't help but wonder just the same. Am I a cripple, like Arons said? Does being sci-hi mean that? I don't think so, but what does Lambertson think? Sometimes when I try to read Lambertson, I'm the one that gets confused. I wish I could tell what he really thinks. Wednesday night. I asked Lambertson tonight what Dr. Custer had said. He wants to see you next week, he told me. But, Amy, he didn't make any promises. He wasn't even hopeful. But his letter. He said the studies showed that there wasn't any anatomical defect. Lambertson leaned back and lit his pipe, shaking his head at me. He's aged ten years this past week. Everybody thinks so. He's lost weight and he looks as if he hasn't slept at all. Custer's afraid that it isn't a question of anatomy, Amy. But what is it, then, for Heaven's sake? He doesn't know. He says it's not very scientific, but it may just be that what you don't use, you lose. Oh, but that's silly! I chewed my lip. Granted. But he thinks that there's a chance? Of course there's a chance. And you know he'll do everything he can. It's just that neither of us wants you to get your hopes up. It wasn't much. But it was something. Lambertson looked so beat. I didn't have the heart to ask him what Aaron's wanted, even though I know he'd like to get it off his chest. Maybe tomorrow will be better. I spent the day with Charlie Dakin in the lab and did a little work for a change. I've been disgustingly lazy and poor Charlie thinks it's all his fault. Charlie reads like twenty point type, ninety percent of the time, and I'm afraid he knows it. I can tell just exactly when he stops paying attention to business and starts paying attention to me. And then all of a sudden he realizes I'm reading him and it flusters him for the rest of the day. I wonder why. Does he really think I'm shocked or surprised or insulted? Poor Charlie. I guess I must be good enough looking. I can read it from almost every fellow that comes near me. I wonder why. I mean, why me and not Marjorie over in the main office. She's a sweet girl, but she never gets a second look from the guys. There must be some fine differential point I'm missing somewhere, but I don't think I'll ever understand it. I'm not going to press Lambertson, but I hope he opens up tomorrow. He's got me scared silly by now. He has a lot of authority around here, but other people are paying the bills and when he's frightened about something it can't help but frighten me. Thursday, 18th May. We went back to reaction testing in the lab with Lambertson today. That study is almost finished as much as anything I work on is ever finished, which isn't very much. This test had two goals. To clock my stimulus response pattern in comparison to normals, and to find out just exactly when I pick up any given thought signal from the person I'm reading. It isn't a matter of developing speed. I'm already so fast to respond that it doesn't mean too much from anybody else's standpoint, and I certainly don't need any training there. But where along the line do I pick up a thought impulse? Do I catch it at its inception? Do I pick up the thought formulation or just the final crystallized pattern? Lambertson thinks I'm with it right from the start, and that some training in those lines would be worth my time. Of course we didn't find out, not even with the ingenious little random firing device that Dakin designed for the study. With this gadget neither Lambertson nor I know what impulse the box is going to throw at him. He just throws a switch and it starts coming. He catches it, reacts. I catch it from him and react, and we compare reaction times. This afternoon it had us driving up a hill and sent a ten ton truck rolling down on us out of control. I had my flasher on two seconds before Lambertson did, of course, but our reaction times are standardized. So when we corrected for my extra speed, we knew that I must have caught the impulse about 0.07 seconds after he did. Crude, of course, not nearly fast enough, and we can't reproduce on a stable basis. Lambertson says that's as close as we can get without cortical probes, and that's where I put my foot down. I may have a gold mine in this head of mine, but nobody is going to burr holes through my skull in order to tap it, not for a while yet. That's unfair, of course, because it sounds as if Lambertson were trying to force me into something and he isn't. I've read him about that, and I know he wouldn't allow it. Let's learn everything else we can learn without it first, he says. Later, if you want to go along with it, maybe, but right now you're not competent to decide for yourself. He may be right, but why not? Why does he keep acting as if I'm a child? Am I really? With everything, and I mean everything, coming into my mind for the past twenty-three years, haven't I learned enough to make decisions for myself? Lambertson says, of course, everything has been coming up. It's just that I don't know what to do with it all, but somewhere along the line I have to reach a maturation point of some kind. It scares me sometimes, because I can't find an answer to it, and the answer might be perfectly horrible. I don't know where it may end. What's worse, I don't know what point it has reached right now. How much difference is there between my mind and Lambertson's? I'm sigh high, and he isn't, granted. But is there more to it than that? People like Aaron's think so. They think it's a difference between human function and something else. And that scares me, because it just isn't true. I'm as human as anybody else, but somehow it seems that I'm the one who has to prove it. I wonder if I ever will. That's why Dr. Custer has to help me. Everything hangs on that. I'm to go up to Boston next week for final studies and testing. If Dr. Custer can do something, what a difference that will make. Maybe then I could get out of this whole frightening mess, put it behind me, and forget about it. With just the sigh alone, I don't think I ever can. Friday, 19th May. Today Lambertson broke down and told me what it was that Aaron's had been proposing. It was worse than I thought it would be. The man had hit on the one thing I'd been afraid of for so long. He wants you to work against normals, Lambertson said. He swallowed the latency hypothesis whole. He thinks that everybody must have a latent sigh potential, and that all that is needed to drag it into the open is a powerful stimulus from someone with full-blown sigh powers. Well, I said, do you think so? Who knows? Lambertson slammed his pencil down on the desk angrily. No, I don't think so, but what does that mean? Not a thing. It certainly doesn't mean I'm right. Nobody knows the answer, not me, nor Aaron's, nor anybody, and Aaron's wants to use you to find out. I nodded slowly. I see. So I'm to be used as a sort of refined electrical stimulator, I said. Well, I guess you know what you can tell Aaron's. He was silent, and I couldn't read him. Then he looked up. Amy, I'm not sure we can tell him that. I stared at him. You mean you think he could force me? He says you're a public charge. That as long as you have to be supported and cared for, they have the right to use your faculties. He's right on the first point. You are a public charge. You have to be sheltered and protected. If you wandered so much as a mile outside these walls, you'd never survive, and you know it. I sat stunned. But Dr. Custer... Dr. Custer is trying to help, but he hasn't succeeded so far. If he can, then it will be a different story, but I can't stall much longer, Amy. Aaron's has a powerful argument. You're Psi High. You're the first full-fledged, wide-open, freewheeling Psi High that's ever appeared in human history. The first. Others in the past have shown potential, maybe, but nothing they could ever learn to control. You've got control. You're fully developed. You're here, and you're the only one there is. So I happened to be unlucky, I snapped. My genes got mixed up. That's not true when you know it, Lambertson said. We know your chromosome's better than your face. They're the same as anyone else's. There's no gene difference, none at all. When you're gone, you'll be gone, and there's no reason to think that your children will have any more Psi potential than Charlie Dakin has. Something was building up in me then that I couldn't control any longer. You think I should go along with Aaron's, I said, Dolly. He hesitated. I'm afraid you're going to have to sooner or later. Aaron's has some latents up in Boston. He's certain that they're latents. He's talked to the directors down here. He's convinced them that you could work with his people, draw them out. You could open the door to a whole new world for human beings. I lost my temper then. It wasn't just Aaron's or Lambertson or Dakin or any of the others. It was all of them, dozens of them, compounded year upon year upon year. Now listen to me for a minute, I said. Have any of you ever considered what I wanted in this thing? Ever? Have any of you given that one single thought just once, one time, when you were so sick of thinking great thoughts for humanity, that you let another thought leak through? Have you ever thought about what kind of a shuffle I've had since all this started? Well, you'd better think about it right now. Amy, you know I don't want to push you. Listen to me, Lambertson. My folks got rid of me fast when they found out about me. Did you know that? They hated me because I scared them. It didn't hurt me too much because I thought I knew why they hated me. I could understand it. And I went off to Bairdsley without even crying. They were going to come see me every week, but do you know how often they managed to make it? Not once after I was off their hands. And then at Bairdsley, Aaron's examined me and decided that I was a cripple. He didn't know anything about me then, but he thought Psy was a defect. And that was as far as it went. I did what Aaron's wanted me to do at Bairdsley, never what I wanted, just what they wanted, years and years of what they wanted. And then you came along, and I came to the study center and did what you wanted. It hurt him, and I knew it. I guess that was what I wanted, to hurt him and to hurt everybody. He was shaking his head, staring at me. Amy, be fair. I've tried. You know how hard I've tried. Tried what? To train me? Yes, but why? To give me better use of my Psy faculties? Yes, but why? Did you do it for me? Is that really why you did it? Or was that just another phony front like all the rest of them in order to use me to make me a little more valuable to have around? He slapped my face so hard it jolted me. I could feel the awful pain and hurt in his mind as he stared at me, and I sensed the stinging in his palm that matched the burning in my cheek. And then something fell away in his mind, and I saw something I had never seen before. He loved me, that man. Incredible, isn't it? He loved me. Me, who couldn't call him anything but Lambertson, who couldn't imagine calling him Michael to say nothing of Mike, just Lambertson who did this or Lambertson who thought that? But he could never tell me. He had decided that. I was too helpless. I needed him too much. I needed love, but not the kind of love Lambertson wanted to give. So that kind of love had to be hidden, concealed, suppressed. I needed the deepest imaginable understanding, but it had to be utterly unselfish understanding. Anything else would be taking advantage of me, so a barrier had to be built, a barrier that I should never penetrate, and that he should never be tempted to break down. Lambertson had done that. For me. It was all there, suddenly, so overwhelming it made me gasp from the impact. I wanted to throw my arms around him. Instead I sat down in the chair, shaking my head helplessly. I hated myself then. I had hated myself before, but never like this. If I could only go somewhere, I said. Some place where nobody knew me, where I could just live by myself for a while and shut the doors and shut out the thoughts and pretend for a while, just pretend that I'm perfectly normal. I wish you could, Lambertson said, but you can't, you know that. Not unless Custer can really help. We sat there for a while, then I said, let Aaron's come down, let him bring anybody he wants with him, I'll do what he wants, until I see Custer. That hurt too, but it was different. It hurt both of us together, not separately anymore. And somehow it didn't hurt so much that way. Monday, 22nd May Aaron's drove down from Boston this morning with a girl named Mary Bolton, and we went to work. I think I'm beginning to understand how a dog can tell when someone wants to kick him and doesn't quite dare. I could feel the back of my neck prickle when that man walked into the conference room. I was hoping he might have changed since the last time I saw him. He hadn't, but I had. I wasn't afraid of him anymore, just awfully tired of him after he'd been here about ten minutes. But that girl! I wonder what sort of story he told her. She couldn't have been more than sixteen, and she was terrorized. At first I thought it was Aaron she was afraid of, but that wasn't so. It was me. It took us all morning just to get around that. The poor girl could hardly make herself talk. She was shaking all over when they arrived. We took a walk around the grounds alone, and I read her bit by bit, a feeler here, a planted suggestion there, just getting her used to the idea and trying to reassure her. After a while she was smiling. She thought the lagoon was lovely, and by the time we got back to the main building she was laughing, talking about herself, beginning to relax. Then I gave her a full blast, quickly, only a moment or two. Don't be afraid. I hate him, yes, but I won't hurt you for anything. Let me come in. Don't fight me. We've got to work as a team. It shook her. She turned white and almost passed out for a moment. Then she nodded slowly. I see, she said, it feels as if it's way inside, deep inside. That's right. It won't hurt, I promise. She nodded again. Let's go back now. I think I'm ready to try. We went to work. I was as blind as she was at first. There was nothing there at first, not even a flicker of brightness. Then probing deeper, something responded. Only a hint, a suggestion of something powerful, deep and hidden. But where? What was her strength? Where was she weak? I couldn't tell. We started on dice, crude of course, but as good a tool as any. Dice are no good for measuring anything, but that was why I was there. I was the measuring instrument. The dice were only reactors, sensitive enough, two balsam cubes, tossed from a box with only gravity to work against. I showed her first, picked up her mind as the dice popped out, led her through it. Take one at a time, the red one first, work on it, see? Now we try both. Once more, watch it, all right now. She sat frozen in the chair. She was trying. The sweat stood out on her forehead. Erin sat tense, smoking, his fingers twitching as he watched the red and green cubes bounce on the white backdrop. Lamperson watched too, but his eyes were on the girl, not on the cubes. It was hard work. Bit by bit she began to grab. Whatever I had felt in her mind seemed to leap up. I probed her, amplifying it, trying to draw it out. It was like waiting through knee-deep mud, sticky, sluggish, resisting. I could feel her excitement growing, and bit by bit I released my grip, easing her out, baiting her. All right, I said. That's enough. She turned to me, wide-eyed. I—I did it. Erin's was on his feet, breathing heavily. It worked? It worked. Not very well, but it's there. All she needs is time and help and patience. But it worked, Lamperson. Do you know what that means? It means I was right. It means others can have it, just like she has it. He rubbed his hands together. We can arrange a full-time lab for it and work on three or four latents simultaneously. It's a wide-open door, Michael. Can't you see what it means? Lamperson nodded and gave me a long look. Yes, I think I do. I'll start arrangements tomorrow. Not tomorrow. You'll have to wait until next week. Why? Because Amy would prefer to wait, that's why. Erin's looked at him, and then at me, peevishly. Finally he shrugged, if you insist. We'll talk about it next week, I said. I was so tired I could hardly look up at him. I stood up and smiled at my girl. Poor kid, I thought. So excited and eager about it now, and not one idea in the world of what she was walking into. Certainly Erin's would never be able to tell her. Later, when they were gone, Lamperson and I walked down towards the lagoon. It was a lovely cool evening. The ducks were down at the water's edge. Every year there was a mother duck hurting a line of ducklings down the shore and into the water. They never seemed to go where she wanted them to, and she would fuss and chatter, waddling back time and again to prod the reluctant ones out into the pool. We stood by the water's edge in silence for a long time. Then Lamperson kissed me. It was the first time he had ever done that. We could go away, I whispered in his ear. We could run out on Erin's in the study centre, and everyone just go away somewhere. He shook his head slowly. Amy, don't. We could. I'll see Dr. Custer and he'll tell me he can help. I know he will. I won't need the study centre any more, or any other place, or anybody but you. He didn't answer, and I knew there wasn't anything he could answer, not then. Friday, 26th May. Yesterday we went to Boston to see Dr. Custer, and now it looks as if it's all over. Now even I can't pretend that there's anything more to be done. Next week Erin's will come down, and I'll go to work with him just the way he has it planned. He thinks we have three years of work ahead of us before anything can be published, before he can really be sure we have brought a latent into full use of his sigh potential. Maybe so, I don't know. Maybe in three years I'll find some way to make myself care one way or the other. But I'll do it anyway, because there's nothing else to do. There was no anatomical defect. Dr. Custer was right about that. The eyes are perfect, beautiful grey eyes, he says, and the optic nerves and auditory nerves are perfectly functional. The defect isn't there, it's deeper, too deep ever to change it. What you no longer use, you lose, was what he said. Apologizing because he couldn't explain it any better. It's like a price tag, perhaps. Long ago, before I knew anything at all, the sigh was so strong it started compensating, bringing in more and more from other minds such a wealth of rich, clear, interpreted, visual and auditory impressions that there was never any need for my own. And because of that, certain hookups never got hooked up. That's only a theory, of course, but there isn't any other way to explain it. But am I wrong to hate it? More than anything else in the world I want to see Lambertson, see him smile and light his pipe, hear him laugh. I want to know what colour really is, what music really sounds like unfiltered through somebody else's ears. I want to see a sunset just once. Just once I want to see that mother duck take her ducklings down to the water. But I never will. Instead, I see and hear things nobody else can. And the fact that I am stone blind and stone deaf shouldn't make any difference. After all, I've always been that way. Maybe next week I'll ask Aaron's what he thinks about it. It should be interesting to hear what he says. End of Second Sight by Alan Edward Norse. Recording by Jody Crangle, www.voiceoversandvocals.com 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 Anton Epp. Solomon's Orbit by William Carroll Comrades, said the senior technician, notice the clear view of North America. From here we watch everything. Rivers, towns, almost the people. And see our upper lens shows the dark spot of a meteor in space. Comrades, the meteor gets closer. It's going to pass close to our wondrous machine. Comrades, comrades, turn to my channel. It is no meteor. It is a square. The accursed Americans have sent up a house. Comrades, an ancient automobile is flying toward our space machine. Comrades, it's going to... the picture is gone. Moscow reported a conversation verbatim. To prove their space vehicle was knocked from the sky by a capitalistic plot. Motion pictures clearly showed an American automobile coming toward the Russian satellite. Russian astronomers ordered to seek other strange orbiting devices reported. We've observed cars for weeks have been exiling technicians and photographers to Siberia for making jokes of Soviet science. If television proves ancient automobiles are orbiting the world, Americans are caught in obvious attempt to ridicule our efforts to probe mysteries of space. Confusion was also undermining American scientific study of the heavens. Amount Polymar, the busy 200-inch telescope, was photographing a strange new object. But plates returned from the laboratory caused astronomers to explode angrily. In full glory, the photograph showed a tiny image of an ancient car. This first development only affected two photographers, Amount Polymar. They were fired for playing practical jokes on the astronomers. Additional exposures of other newfound objects were made. Again, the plates were returned, this time with three little old cars parading proudly across the heavens as though they truly belonged among the stars. The night the Russian protest crossed trails with the Polymar report, Washington looked like a kid with chicken pox. As dozens of spotty yellow windows marked midnight meetings of the nation's greatest minds, the military denied responsibility for cars older than 1942. Civil aviation proved they had no projects involving motor vehicles. Central intelligence swore on their classification manual they were not dropping junk over Cuba in an attempt to hit Castro. Disgusted, the president established a civilian commission which soon located three more reports. Two were from Flyers. The pilot, Flight 26, New York to Los Angeles, had two weeks before reported a strange object rising through Southern California about 10 the evening of April 3. A week after this report, a private pilot on his way from Las Vegas claimed to see an old car flying over Los Angeles. His statement was ignored as he was arrested later for trying to drink himself silly because no one believed his story. Fortunately at the appropriate times both planes claimed citing unknown objects, radar at Los Angeles International recorded something rising from Earth's surface into the stratosphere. Within hours after the three reports met in the president's commission's office, mobile radar was spotted on Southern California hilltops in 24 hour watches for unscheduled flights not involving aircraft. Number 7, stationed in the Mt. Wilson television tower parking lot, caught one first. Hey, fellers! came his excited voice. Check 1, 2, 4 degrees, Vector 6, 2, now. Risen, 1, 2, 4 degrees, Vector 6, 6, Risen. 9 and 4 caught it moments later. Then 3. Army long range radar picked it up. Okay, we're on it. It's still Risen, leaving atmosphere and gown. Anyone else? Catch it! Negative responses came from all but 7, 9 and 4. So well spread were they that within minutes headquarters had laid four lines over Southern California. They crossed where the unsuspecting community of Fullerton was more or less sound asleep, totally unaware of the making of history in its backyard. The history of what astronomers call Solomon's orbit had its beginning about three months ago. Solomon, who couldn't remember his first name, was warming tired bones in the sun in front of his auto-wrecking yard, a mile south of Fullerton. Though sitting, he was propped against the office, a tin shed decorated like a Christmas tree with hundreds of hubcaps dangling from sagging wooden rafters. The back door opened on two acres of what Solomon happily agreed was the finest junk in all California. On the left, Chevy's on the right, and across the sagging back fence, a collection of honorable sedans whose makers left the business world years ago. They were known as Solomon's classics. The bright sun had Solomon's tiny eyes burrowed under a shaggy brow which, added to an Einstein-like shock of white hair, gave him the appearance of a professor on sabbatical. Eyes closed, Solomon was fondling favorite memories, when as a lad he repaired steam tractors and followed wheat across central plains of the United States. Happiness faded as the reverie was broken by spraying gravel signaling the arrival of a customer's car. There's Uncle Solomon, dad! A boy's voice was saying, he gives us kids good deals on hot rod parts. You just gotta take a look at his old cars, because if you want a classic, Uncle Solomon would make you a good deal, too. I just know he would. Sure, son, let's go in and see what he's got. Replied a man's voice. As Solomon opened his eyes, the two popped into reality. Heaving himself out of the sports car bucket seat that was his office chair, Solomon stood awaiting approach of the pair. Mr. Solomon, Georgia here tells me you have some found old cars for sale. Sure have, sure have. They're in back. Come along, I'll show you the shortcuts. Without waiting for a reply, Solomon started, head bent, white hair blowing, through the office, out the back door, and down passages hardly wide enough for a boy let alone a man. He disappeared around a hearse and surfaced on the other side of a convertible, leading the boy and his father a chase that was more of a guided tour of Solomon's yard than a shortcut. Yes, here they are. Announce Solomon over his shoulder. Stepping aside, he made room for the boy and his father to pass between a couple of four tutors. Three pairs of eyes, one young, one old, the other tired, were faced by two rows of hulks, proud in the silent agony of their fate. Sold, resold, and sold again, used until exhaustion set in, they reached Solomon's for a last brave stand. No matter what beauties they were to Solomon's prejudiced eyes, missing fenders, rusted body panels, broken wheels, and rotted woodwork bespoke the utter impossibility of restoration. See that, aren't they great? Georgie gleefully asked. He could just imagine shaking the guys at school with the old packard after Dad restored it. Are you kidding? Georgie's Dad exploded. Those wrecks aren't good for anything but shooting at the moon. Let's go. Not another word did he say. Heading back to the car parked outside Solomon's office, his footsteps were echoed by those of a crestfallen boy. Solomon, a figure of lonely dejection in the gloom, overshadowing his unloved cars, was troubled with smog causing his eyes to water as tired feet aimlessly found their way back to his seat in the sun. That night, to take his mind off worrisome old cars, Solomon began reading the previous Sunday's newspaper. There were pictures of moonshots, rockets, and astronauts which started Solomon to thinking. So, my classics are good only for shooting at the moon. This thing called an ion engine which creates a force field to move satellites. Seems like a lot of equipment. Could do it easier with one of my old engines, I bet. As Solomon told the people in Washington several months later, he was only resting his eyes, thinking about shop manuals and parts in the backyard, when suddenly he figured there was an easier way to build a satellite power plant. But as it was past his bedtime, he'd put one together tomorrow. It was late the next afternoon before Solomon had a chance to try his satellite power plant idea. Customers were gone and he was free of interruption. The engine of his elderly Moorland tow truck was brought to life by Solomon almost hidden behind the huge wooden steering wheel. The truck lumbered carefully down rows of cars to an almost completely stripped wreck holding only a broken engine. In a few minutes, Solomon had the engine waving behind the truck while he reversed to a clear space near the center of his yard. Once the broken engine was blocked upright on the ground, Solomon backed his Moorland out of the way, carried a tray of tools to the engine, and squatted in the dirt to work. First, the intake manifold came off and was bolted to the clutch housing so the carburetor mounting flange faced skyward. Solomon stopped for a minute to worry. If it works, he thought, when I get them near each other, it will go up on my face. Scanning the yard he thought offenders, doors, wheels, hubcaps, and that was it. A hubcap would do the trick. At his age, running was a senseless activity. But walking faster than usual, Solomon took a direct route to his office. From the ceiling of hubcaps, he selected a small cap from an old Chevy truck. Back at the engine, he punched a hole in the cap through which he tied a length of strong twine. The cap was laid on the carburetor flange and stuck in place with painter's masking tape. He then bolted the exhaust manifold over the intake so the muffler connection barely touched the hubcap. Solomon stood up, kicked the manifolds with his heavy boots to make sure that they were solid and granted with satisfaction of a job well done. He moved his tray of tools away and trailed the hubcap twine behind the solid body of a big old Ford station wagon. He'd read of scientists in block houses when they shot rockets and was taking no chances. Excitement glistened Solomon's old eyes as what blood pressure there was rose a point or two with happy thoughts. If his idea worked, he would be free of the old cars yet not destroy a single one. Squatting behind the station wagon to watch the engine, Solomon gingerly pulled the twine to eliminate slack. As it tightened, he tensed, braced himself with a free hand on the wagon's bumper and taking a deep breath, jerked the cord. Tired legs failed and Solomon slipped backward when the hubcap broke free of the tape and sailed through the air to clang against the wagon's fender. Lying on his back, struggling to rise, Solomon heard a slight swoosh as though a whirlwind had come through the yard. The scent of airborne dust bit his nostrils as he struggled to his feet. Deep in the woods behind Solomon's yard, two boys were hunting crows. Eyes high, they scanned branches and horizons for game. Look, there goes one. The younger cried as a large object majestically rose into the sky and rapidly disappeared into high clouds. Yup, maybe so said the other, but it's flying too high for us. Ah, must be a silly old man. Solomon thought scanning the cleared space behind his tow truck where he remembered an engine. There was nothing there and as Solomon now figured it, never had been. Heart heavy with belief in the temporary foolishness of age, Solomon went to the hubcap, glittering the sun where it lit after bouncing off the fender. It was untied from the string and in the tool tray before Solomon realized he'd not been daydreaming. In the cleared area were two old manifold gaskets, several rusty nuts, and dirt blown smooth in a wide circle around greasy blocks on which he'd propped the now missing engine. That night was a whirlwind of excitement for Solomon. He had steak for dinner, then set back to consider a future success. Once the classic cars were gone, he could use the space for more profitable fords and sheddies. All he'd have to do would be bolt manifolds from spare engines on a different car every night and he'd be rid of them. All he used was vacuum in the intake manifold, drawing pressure from the outlet side of the exhaust. The resulting automatic power flow raised anything they were attached to. Solomon couldn't help but think. The newspaper said scientists were losing rockets and space capsules so a few old cars could get lost in the clouds without hurting anything. Early the next morning he towed the oldest Hulk and Essex to the cleared space. Manifolds from junk engines were bolted to the wheels, but this time carburetor flanges were covered by wooden shingles because Solomon figured he couldn't afford to ruin four saleable hubcaps just to get rid of his old sedans. Each shingle was taped in place so they could be pulled off in unison with a strong pull on the twine. The tired Essex was pretty big so Solomon waited until bedtime before stumbling through the dark to the launching pad in his yard. Light from kitchen matches helped collect the shingles' cords as he crouched behind the forward wagon. He held the cords in one calloused hand, a burning match in the other, so he could watch the Essex. Solomon tightened his fist, gave a quick tug to jerk all the shingles at the same time and watched in excited satisfaction as the old sedan rose in the soft swish of mid-summer air flowing through ancient curves of four rusty manifold assemblies. Day after day, only a mile from Fullerton, Solomon busied himself buying wrecked cars and selling usable parts. Each weekday night Solomon never worked on Sunday. Another old car from his back lot went silently heavenward with the aid of Solomon's unique combination of engine vacuum and exhaust pressure. His footsteps were light with accomplishment as he thought in four more days they'll all be gone. While the Fullerton radar net smoked innumerable cigarettes and cursed luck ruining the evening, Solomon scrambled two eggs, enjoyed his coffee, and relaxed with the newly found set of old 1954 Buick shop manuals. As usual, when the clock near ten he closed his manuals and let himself out the back door. City lights reflected in low clouds brightened the way Solomon knew well. He was soon kneeling behind the Ford wagon without having stumbled once. Only two kitchen matches were needed to collect accords from a big packard. Handsome in the warmth of a moonless summer night. With a faint God bless you, Solomon pulled the shingles and watched his massive hawk rise and disappear into orbit with his other orphans. If you'd been able to see it all, you'd have worried. The full circle of radar and communications crews around Fullerton had acted as though the whole town were going to pussyfoot away at sundown. Nine was hidden in a curious farmer's orange grove. Seven was tucked between station wagons in the back row of a used car lot. Four was assigned the loading dock of a meat-packing plant, but the night watchmen wouldn't allow them to stay. They moved across the street behind a fire station. Three was too big to hide, so it opened for business inside the National Guard armory. They all caught the packard's take-off. Degree lines from the four stations around Fullerton were crossed on the map long before Solomon reached his back door. By the time bedroom lights were out and covers under his bristly chin, a task force of quiet men was speeding on its way to surround four blocks of country land, including a chicken ranch, Solomon's junkyard, and a small frame house. Dogs stirred, yapping at sudden activity they alone knew of, then nose to tail returned to sleep when threats of intrusion failed to materialize. The sun was barely up when the chicken farmer was stopped a block from his house. Highway patrolmen slowly inspected his truck from front to back, while three cars full of civilians by the side of the road watched every move. Finding nothing unusual, patrolmen reported to the first civilian car, then returned to wave the farmer on his way. When the widow teacher from the frame house started for school, she too was stopped. After cursory inspection, the patrolmen passed her on, two of the three accounted for, what of the third? Quietly a cavalcade formed, converged in Solomon's front yard and parked facing the road, ready for quick departure. Some dozen civilians muddied shoes and trousers circling the junkyard, taking stations so they could watch all approaches. Once they were in position, a highway patrolman and two civilians went to Solomon's door. His last cup of coffee was almost gone as Solomon heard the noise of their shoes, followed by knuckles thumping his front door, wondering who could be in such a hurry so early in the morning, he pulled on boots and buttoned a denim jacket as he went to answer. Hello, said Solomon to the patrolman while opening the door. Why do you bother me so early? You know I only bought cars from owners. No, Mr. Solomon, we're not worried about your car buying. This man from Washington wants to ask you a few questions. Sure, come in. The questions were odd. Do you have explosives here? Can you weld metal tanks? What is your education? Were you ever an engineer? What were you doing last night? To these and bewildering others, Solomon told the truth. He had no explosives. He couldn't weld, didn't finish school, and was here in bed all night. Then they wanted to see his cars. Through the back door, so he'd not have to open the office, Solomon led the three men into his yard. Once inside, and without asking permission, they began searching like a hungry hound trailing a fat rabbit. Solomon's eyes, blinking in the glare of early morning sun, watched invasion of his privacy. What they want, he wondered. He'd broken no laws in all the years he'd been in the United States. For what did they bother a Wreckanyard? He asked himself. His depressing thoughts were rudely shattered by a hail from the larger civilian, standing at the back of Solomon's yard. There, three old cars stood in an isolated row. One, come here a moment, he shouted. Solomon trudged back, followed by the short civilian and the patrolmen who left their curious searching to follow Solomon's lead. When he neared, the tall stranger asked, I see where weeds grew under other cars which from the tracks have been moved out in the past few weeks. How many did you have? Twenty, but these are all I have left. Solomon eagerly replied, hoping at last he'd a customer for the best of his old cars. They make classic cars if you take the time to fix them up. The hump mobiles last. Who about the others? The big man interrupted. No one. Quavered Solomon, terror gripping his throat with a nervous hand. Had he done wrong to send cars into the sky? Everyone else was sending things up. Newspapers said Russians and Americans were racing to send things into the air. What had he done that was wrong? Surely there were no laws he'd broken. Wasn't the air free, like the seas? People dumped things into the ocean. Then where did they go? Snapped his questioner. Up there! pointed Solomon. I needed space. They were too good to cut up. No one would buy them. So I sent them up. Newspapers. You did what? I sent them up into the sky. Quavered Solomon. So this is what he did wrong. Would they lock him up? What would happen to his cars and his business? How did you- No. Wait a minute. Don't say a word. Officer, go and tell my men to prevent anyone from approaching or leaving this place. The patrolman almost saluted. Thought better of it than left grumbling about being left out of what must be something big. Solomon told the civilians of matching vacuum and intake manifolds to pressure from exhaust manifolds. A logical way to make an engine that would run on pressure. Like satellite engines he'd read about in newspapers. It worked on a cracked engine block so he'd used scrap manifolds to get rid of old cars no one would buy. It hadn't hurt anything. Had it? Well no it hadn't. But as you can imagine things happened rather fast. They let Solomon get clean deniments and his razor. Then without a goodbye your leave hustled him to the Ontario airport where an unmarked jet flew him to Washington and a hurriedly arranged meeting with the president. They left guards posted inside the fence of Solomon's yard so they'll cause no attention while protecting his property. A rugged individual sits in the office and tells buyers and sellers alike that he is Solomon's nephew. The old man had to take a trip in a hurry because he knows nothing of the business. They'll have to wait until Solomon returns. Where's Solomon now? Newspapers stories have him in Nevada showing the Air Force how to build gigantic intake and exhaust manifolds which the strategic air command is planning to attach to a stratospheric decompression test chamber. They figure if they can throw it into the sky they can move anything up to what astronomers now call Solomon's orbit where at last count 16 of the 17 cars are still merrily circling the earth. As you know one recently hit the Russian television satellite. The Russians were told they're still burning their fingers trying to orbit a car. They can't figure out how to control vacuum and pressure from the manifolds. Solomon didn't tell many people about the shingles he uses for control panels and the Russians think control is somehow related to kitchen matches a newspaper reporter found scattered behind a station wagon in Solomon's junkyard. End of Solomon's orbit by William Carroll. The Troubadour This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Read by Corey Samuel. The Troubadour by Robert Augustine Ward Lowndes writing as Peter Michael Sherman. So far as parties go Jocelyn's were no duller than any others. I went to this one mainly to listen to Paul Kutrov and Frank Alva bait each other which is usually more entertaining than most double features. Kutrov adheres to the onward and upward school of linear progress while Alva is more or less of a Spenglerian more when he goes along by himself less when you try to pin him down to it. And since the subject of tonight's revelations would be the pre-Mohammed Arabian culture I'd find Alva inclined toward my side of the debate strictly morphological and without any pious theories of progress. I'd completely forgotten that Jocelyn had mentioned something about having a special attraction, a Mr. Phalis who, she insisted, was a Troubadour. I didn't comment not wanting to spend a day with Jocelyn on a phone exploring the province. The night wasn't too warm for August and there were occasional gusts of air seeping through the layers of tobacco smoke that hovered over the assemblage. As usual it was a heterogeneous crowd which rapidly formed numerous islands of discourse. The trade winds carried salient germs of intelligence throughout the entire archipelago at times and Jocelyn walked upon the water scurrying from one body to another sopping up the overflow of culture. She visited Aratol where Kutrov's passionate exposition had already raised the mean temperature some degrees but didn't stay long. Such debates didn't suggest any course of social or political action and couldn't be trued in to any of her causes. My attention was wondering from the Kutrov-Alva variations for Bill had only been speaking for ten minutes and could not be expected to arrive at any point whatsoever for at least another fifteen. From the east of us came apocalyptic figures of nuclear physics. From the west I heard the strains of Mondrian interwoven with Picasso. South of us a post-mortem on the latest betrayal of this or that aspiration of the people and to the north we heard the mysteries of Aeternality. It was while I was looking around and letting these things roll over me that I saw the stranger enter. Jocelyn immediately bounced up from a couch leaving the crucial problem of atmosphere poisoning via fission and or fusion bombs suspended and made effusive noises. This then was the troubadour Mr. Phalis. The main attraction was decidedly pre-possessing. Tall, peculiarly graceful both in appearance and manner, dressed with an immaculateness that seemed excessive in this post-Bohemian circle. There was a decided musical quality to his speech as he made polite comments upon being introduced to each of us and an exactness in sentence structure, word choices and enunciation that bespoke the foreigner. Jocelyn took him around with the air of conducting a quick tour through a museum, and settled him momentarily with the music group, now in darkest Schoenenberg, only partially illuminated by Wozak. I watched Phalis long enough to solidify an impression that he was at ease here, but not merely in this particular discussion. It was a case of his being simply at ease, period. Kutrov was watching him too, and I saw now that there would be a most likely permanent digression. Too bad! I'd had a feeling that when he came to his point it would have been a strong one. Hungarian, do you suppose? he asked. Alva examined the evidence. Phalis had high cheekbones, longish eyes, with large pupils. He was lean, without giving an impression of thinness. He had not taken off his gloves, and I wondered if he would come forth with a monocle. If he had, it would not have seemed an affectation. I wouldn't say Slavic, Alva said. He started off on ethnology, and we toured the near-east again. I jumped into the break, when Kutrov was following beer and Alva lighting a cigarette, to observe that Phalis reminded me of some Egyptian portraits, although I couldn't set the period. If those eyes of his don't shine in the dark, I added, they ought to. A brief pause for appreciation. Then Jocelyn was calling for all men's attention. She managed to get at him reasonably short-order, took a deep breath, then dived into announcing that our special guest, Mr. Phalis, was going to deliver a song-cycle. Phalis arose, bowed slightly, then nodded to Mark Loring, who brought forth his oboe. These songs were not conceived or composed in the form I am presenting them, he said. But I believe that the arrangement I use is an effective one. I call this Song of the Last Men. He nodded again to Loring, and the performance began. His voice was affecting, and his artistry unmistakable, and there were overtones in his voice that gave an added eeriness to the weird music itself. The songs told of the feelings, the memories, and despair of an early extinct people, one which had achieved a great culture and a world-wide civilization. The singer knows that the civilization has been destroyed, that the people created by this culture and civilization are gone, the few survivors, being pitiful fellowheen, unable to rebuild or bring forth a culture of their own. There is despair at the loss of the comforts the civilization they knew brought them, sorrow at their inability to share in its greatness, even in memory, and a resigned certainty that they are the last of the race. They will soon be gone, and no others shall arise after them. There was silence when Phyllis finished, then discreet but firm applause, as if the audience felt that giving full reign to their approval would make an empire's racket. Phyllis seemed to sense this feeling, and smiled as he bowed. These are not songs of your people, are they? asked Jocelyn. Phyllis shook his head. Oh, no! They are far removed from us. I am merely an explorer of past cultures and civilizations, and I enjoy adapting such masterpieces of the past as I can find. This arrangement was made for you. I shall make a different one for my own people, so that the sonic values of the music and the words agree with each other. Kutrov blinked, then asked him, Well, can you tell us something more about the people who created this cycle? It has a familiar ring to it, yet I cannot tie it in with any past culture I have heard of. Jocelyn cut in with the regretful announcement that Mr. Phyllis had another appointment, and called for a note of thanks to him for coming. More applause, this time unrestrained. Phyllis smiled again and swept his eyes around us as if filled with some amusing secret. Then he said to Kutrov, You would find them quite understandable. I wandered over to the window in search of air, and noted that someone had indiscreetly left a comfortable chair vacant. I was near the door, so that I could hear Jocelyn say to Phyllis, It was very moving. Why, I could almost feel that you were singing about us. Phyllis smiled again. That is as it should be. Of course, chimed in luring, who'd come up to ask Phyllis if he could have a copy of the score. That's the test of expert performance. The lights were dimmed again by the fog of tobacco smoke, and I could see the street quite clearly by moonlight. I decided I would watch Phyllis and see if his eyes did glow in the dark. I saw him go down the sidewalk with that graceful stride of his, his hands in his pockets, but I couldn't see his eyes at all. Then a gust of wind tugged his hat, and, for an instant, I thought he'd have to go scrambling after it. But quick as a rapier thrust, a tail darted out from beneath his dress-coat, caught the hat, and set it back upon his head. End of The Troubadour by Robert Augustine Ward-Lownes This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Ultimate Experiment by Thornton Decay Read by Nicodemus No living soul breathed upon the earth, only robots carrying on the last great order. They were all gone now, the masters, all dead and their atoms scattered to the never-ceasing winds that swept the great Chrysalite city towers in ever-increasing fury. That had been the last wish of each as he had passed away, dying from sheer old age. True, they had fought on as long as they could to save their kind from utter extinction, but the comet that had trailed its poisoning wake to leave behind it upon earth, a noxious lethal gas vapor had done its work too well. No living soul breathed upon the earth, no one lived here now but Chiron and his kind. And so thought Chiron to himself, he might as well be a great unthinking robot able to do only one thing instead of the mental giant he was. So obsessed had he become with the task he had set himself to do. Yet in spite of a great loneliness and a strong fear of a final frustration, he worked on with the others of his people, hardly stopping for anything except the very necessities needed to keep his big body working in perfect coordination. Tirelessly he worked for the masters had bred, if that is the word to use, fatigue and the need for restoration out of his race long decades ago. Sometimes though he would stop his work when the great red dying sun began to fade into the west and his round eyes would grow wistful as he looked out over the great city that stretched in towering minarets and lofty spires of purest crystal blue for miles on every side, a fairy city of rarest hue and beauty, a city for the gods and the gods were dead. Chiron felt at such times the great loneliness that the last master must have known. They had been kind the masters and Chiron knew that his people as they went about their eternal tasks including the great city and perfect shape for the masters who no longer needed it, must miss them as he did. Never to hear their voices ringing, never to see them again gathered in groups to witness some game or to play amid the silver fountains and flowery gardens of the wondrous city made him infinitely saddened. It would always be like this, unless, but thinking, dreaming, reminiscing would not bring it all back and answer to still the longing. Work. The others worked and did not dream, but instead kept busy tending to the thousand and one tasks the master had set them to do, had left them doing when the last master perished. He too must remember the trust they had placed in his hands and fulfill it as best he could. From the time the great red eye of the sun opened itself in the east until it disappeared in the blue haze beyond the Christelite city, Chiron labored with his fellows. Then, at the appointed hour, the musical signals would peel forth their sweet, sad chimes whispering good night to ears that would hear them no more and all operations would halt for the night, just as it had done when the masters were here to supervise it. Then, when morning came, he would start once more trying, testing, experimenting with his chemicals and plastics, for ever following labyrinth of knowledge seeking for the great triumph that would make the work of the others of some real use. His hands molded the materials carefully, lovingly to a pattern that was set in his mind as a thing to cherish. Day by day, his experiments in their liquid baths took form under his careful modeling. He mixed his chemicals with the same loving touch, the same careful concentration and pains taking thoroughness, studying often his notes and analysis charts. Everything must be just so lest his experiment not turn out perfectly. He never became exasperated at a failure or a defect that proved to be the only reward for his faithful endeavors, but worked patiently on toward a goal that he knew would ultimately be his. Then, one day, as the great red sun glowed like an immense red eye overhead, Chiron stepped back to admire his handiwork. In that instant, the entire wondrous city seemed to breathe a silent prayer by the sight before him. Then it went on as usual, hurrying noiselessly about its business. The surface cars, empty though they were, fled swiftly about, supported only by the rings of magnetic force that held them to their designated paths. The gravel ships raised from the tower-dromes to speed silently into the eye of the red sun that was dying. No one now, Chiron thought to himself as he studied his handiwork. Then he walked unhurriedly to the cabinet in the secondary corner and took from it a pair of earphones resembling those of a long-forgotten radio set. Just as unhurriedly, though his mind was filled with turmoil and his being with excitement, he walked back and connected the earphones to the box upon his bench. The phones dangled into the liquid bath before him as he adjusted them to suit his requirements. Slowly he checked over every step of his experiments before he went further. Then, as he proved them for the last time, his hand went slowly to the small knife switch upon the box at his elbow. Next he threw into connection the larger switch upon his laboratory wall, bringing into his laboratory the broadcast power of the Chrysolite City. The laboratory generators hummed softly, drowning out the quiet hum of the city outside. As they built up, sending tiny living electrical impulses over the wires like minute currents that come from the brain, Chiron sat breathless, his eyes intent. Closer to his work he bent, watching lovingly, fearful least all might not be quite right. Then his eyes took on a brighter light as he began to see the reaction. He knew the messages that he had sent out were being received and coordinated into a unit that would stir and grow into intellect. Suddenly the machine flashed its little warning red light and automatically snapped off. Chiron twisted quickly in his seat and threw home the final switch. This, he knew, was the ultimate test. On the results of the flood of energy impulses that he had set in motion rested the fulfillment of his success or failure. He watched with slight misgivings. This had never been accomplished before. How could it possibly be a success now? Even the Masters had never quite succeeded at this final test. How could he only a servant? Yet it must work for he had no desire in life but to make it work. Then suddenly he was on his feet, eyes wide. From the two long coffin-like liquid baths there arose two perfect specimens of the Homo sapiens. Man and woman they were and they blinked their eyes in the light of the noonday sun, raised themselves dripping from the baths of their creation and stepped to the floor before Chiron. The man spoke, the woman remained silent. I am Adam too, he said, created by you Chiron from a formula they left in their image. I was created to be a Master and she whom you also have created is to be my wife. We shall mate and the race of man shall be reborn through us and others whom I shall help you create. The man halted at the last declaration he entoned and walked smilingly toward the woman who stepped into his open arms returning his smile. Chiron smiled too within his pumping heart. The words the man had entoned had been placed in his still-pregnable mind by the teleteach phones and record that the last Master had prepared before death had halted his experiments. The actions of the man toward the woman Chiron knew was caused by the natural constituents that went to form his chemical body and govern his humanness. He, Chiron, had created a living man and woman. The Masters lived again because of him. They would sing and play to people the magnificent Christ-like city because he loved them and had kept on until success had been his. But then why not such a turn about? Hadn't they, the Masters, created him a superb thinking robot? End of The Ultimate Experiment by Thornton Decay. Read by Nicodemus. UNTECHNOLOGICAL IMPLOYMENT This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Readers note, this story takes the form of a volley of teletype messages between the United States Pacific Space Port and the White House in Washington, D.C. TWX's Teletype Writer Exchange. UNTECHNOLOGICAL IMPLOYMENT Subtitled, the reaction would not have been so deeply bitter if only it hadn't worked. By E.M. Clinton Jr. TWX White House to Colonel K.A. Brown Commander Pacific Space Port. Congress Pressure High Investigation Imminent must have full information why Moon launches behind schedule. TWX Colonel K.A. Brown to White House. Unseasonably constant bad weather prevents launching for past three weeks. TWX White House to Brown PSP. What kind of bad weather? TWX Colonel K.A. Brown to White House. Fog. TWX White House to Brown PSP. Congress Pressure Greater Bad publicity involved. Russians are launching on schedule. Why can't we? Something must be done. TWX Colonel K.A. Brown to White House. Still fogged in. TWX White House to Brown PSP. Chairman Senate Space Committee says fly this week, or he will investigate. TWX Colonel K.A. Brown to White House. Sir, investigate. TWX White House to Colonel A.A. Newman Commander Pacific Space Port. Expect you to act immediately solving previous administration problems, relaunchings. TWX Colonel A.A. Newman to White House. Wish to advise, fog remains was clear for 13 minutes this A.M., please instruct. TWX White House to Newman PSP. Senate Space Committee under Senator Harry Washwater, Arizona do Pacific Space Port this Friday. TWX Colonel A.A. Newman to White House. Advise you, this office regards Washwater suggestion as not acceptable. TWX White House to Newman PSP. In confidence, advise ancillary political considerations make it desirable you reevaluate Washwater recommendation. TWX Colonel A.A. Newman to White House. In confidence, ask what possible political considerations can apply here. TWX White House to Newman PSP. In confidence, high unemployment rate Native Americans in Washwater constituency. TWX Colonel B.M. Doer acting commander Pacific Space Port to White House. In confidence, you, Colonel Newman's death established as suicide. TWX White House to Doer PSP. Regrets officially from this office. Now suggest reevaluation of Washwater recommendation. How is the weather? TWX Colonel B.M. Doer to White House. Re-evaluating weather still unspeakably bad for weather before Space Port facilities built? TWX White House to Doer PSP. Official position is change in Japanese current. Anxious for your decision on Washwater recommendation. TWX Colonel B.M. Doer to White House. Respectfully deferred decision to your office. TWX White House to Doer PSP. Emergency forces on way from Arizona this a.m. per this office decision to follow Washwater recommendation. Please keep hourly information coming to this office. TWX Colonel B.M. Doer to White House. Dancing began at 0420 PST. Every assistance being extended by this base. TWX Colonel B.M. Doer to White House. Dancing still in progress. Chief Blue Sky declares repertoire of sun dances far from exhausted. TWX Colonel B.M. Doer to White House. Countdown completed. Launching successful. Visibility unlimited. Weather control personnel asking for overtime. Please advise and accept my resignation. End of un-technological employment by E.M. Clinton Jr.