 The Link. 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 Jerry Dixon. The Link. By Alan Edward Norris. It was nearly sundown when Rovden eased the ship down into the last slow arc toward the Earth's surface. Stretching his arms and legs, he tried to relax and eased the tension in his tired muscles. Carefully, he tightened the seatbelt for landing. Below him, he could see the vast tangled expanse of jungle land spreading out to the horizon. Miles ahead was the bright circle of the landing field and the sparkling glow of the city beyond. Rovden peered to the north of the city, hoping to catch a glimpse of the concert before his ship was swallowed by the brilliant landing lights. A bell chimed softly in his ear. Rovden forced his attention back to the landing operation. He was still numb and shaken from the warp passage. His mind still muddled by the abrupt and incredible change. Moments before, the sky had been a vast starry blanket of black velvet. Then abruptly, he had been hovering over the city, sliding down toward warm friendly lights and music. He checked the proper switches and felt the throbbing purr of the anti-grav motors as the ship slid in toward the landing slot. Tall spires of other ships rose to meet him, circle upon circle of silver needles pointing skyward. A little later, they were blotted out as the ship was grappled into the berth from which it had risen days before. With a sigh, Rovden eased himself out of the seat, his heart pounding with excitement. Perhaps he thought he was too excited, too eager to be home, for his mind was still reeling from the fearful discovery of his journey. The station was completely empty as Rovden walked down the ramp to the shuttles. At the desk, he checked in with the shiny punch card robot and walked swiftly across the polished floor. The wall panels pulsed to somber blue-green, broken sharply by brilliant flashes and overtones of scarlet, reflecting with subtle accuracy the tumult in his own mind. Not a sound was in the air, not a whisper nor sign of human habitation. Vaguely, uneasiness grew in his mind as he entered the shuttle station. Suddenly, the music caught him, a long, low cord of indescribable beauty rising and falling in the wind, a distant whisper of life. The concert, of course, everyone would be at the concert tonight, and even from two miles away, the beauty of four hundred perfectly harmonized voices was carried on the breeze. Rovden's uneasiness disappeared. He was eager to discharge his horrible news, get it off his mind, and join the others in the great amphitheater, set deep in the hillside outside the city. But he knew instinctively that Lord Nehman, anticipating his return, would not be at the concert. Riding the shuttle over the edges of jungle land, toward the shining bright beauty of the city, Rovden settled back, trying to clear his mind of the shock and horror he had encountered on his journey. The curves and spires of glowing plastic passed him, lighted with a million years. He realized that his whole life was entangled in the very beauty of this wonderful city. Everything he had ever hoped or dreamed lay sheltered here in the ever-changing rhythm of colors and shapes and sounds. But now he knew he would soon see his beloved city burning once again, turning to flames and ashes in a heartbreaking memorial to the age-old fear of his people. The little shuttle car settled down softly on the green terrace near the center of the city. The building was a masterpiece of smoothly curving walls and tasteful lines, opening a full side to the south to catch the soft sunlight and warm breezes. Rovden strode across the deep carpeting of the terrace. There was other music here, different music, a wilder, more intimate fantasy of whirling sound. An oval door opened for him, and he stopped short, staggered for a moment by the overpowering beauty in the vaulted room. A girl with red hair, the color of new flame, was dancing with enthralling beauty and abandon, her body moving like ripples of wind to the music, which filled the room with its throbbing cry. Her beauty was exquisite, every motion, every flowing turn, a symphony of flawless perfection, as she danced to the wild music. Lord Nummon! The dancer threw her head back sharply, eyes wide, her body frozen in mid-air, and then abruptly she was gone, leaving only the barest flickering image of her fiery hair. The music slowed, singing softly, and Rovden could see the old man waiting in the room. Nummon rose, his gaunt face and graying hair, belying the youthful movement of his body. Smiling, he came forward, clapped Rovden on the shoulder and took his hand warmly. You're too late for the concert. It's a shame. Mishana is the master tonight, and the whole city is there. Rovden's throat tightened as he tried to smile. I had to let you know, he said. They're coming, Nummon. I saw them hours ago. The last overtones of the music broke abruptly, like a glass shattered on stone. The room was deathly still. Lord Nummon searched the young man's face. Then he turned away, not quite concealing the sadness and pain in his eyes. You're certain you couldn't be mistaken? No chance. I found signs of their passing in a dozen places. Then I saw them, their whole fleet. There were hundreds. They're coming. I saw them. Did they see you? Nummon's voice was sharp. No, no, the warp is a wonderful thing. With it I could come and go in the twinkling of an eye. But I could see them in the twinkling of an eye. And it couldn't have been anyone else. Could anyone else build ships like the hunters? Nummon sighed wearily. No one that we know. He glanced up at the young man. Sit down, son. Sit down. I'll just have to rearrange my thinking a little. Where were they? How far? Seven light years, Robden said. Can you imagine it? Just seven and moving straight this way. They know where we are, and they are coming quickly. His eyes filled with fear. They couldn't have found us so soon, unless they too have discovered the warp and how to use it to travel. The older man's breath cut off sharply, and there was real alarm in his eyes. You're right, he said softly. Six months ago it was eight hundred light years away, in an area completely remote from us. Now just seven. In six months they have come so close. The scout looked up at Nimmon in desperation. But what can we do? We have only weeks, maybe days before they're here. We have no time to plan. No time to prepare for them. What can we do? The room was silent. Finally, the aged leader stood up wearily. Some fraction of his six hundred years of life showing in his face for the first time in centuries. We can do once again what we always have done before when the hunters came. He said sadly. We can run away. The bright street below the oval window was empty and quiet. Not a breath of air stirred in the city. Robden stared out in bitter silence. Yes, we can run away, just as we always have before. After we've worked so hard to accomplish so much here, we must burn the city and flee again. His voice trailed off to silence. He stared at Nimmon, seeking in the old man's face some answer, some reassurance. But he found no answer there. Only sadness. Think of the concerts. It's taken so long. But at last, we've come so close to the ultimate goal. He gestured toward the thought sensitive sounding boards lining the walls, the panels which had made the dancer illusion possible. Think of the beauty and peace we found here. I know how well I know. Yet now the hunters come again. And again, we must run away. Robden stared at the old man, his eyes suddenly bright. Nimmon, when I saw those ships, I began thinking. I've spent many years thinking, my son. Not what I've been thinking. Robden sat down, clasping his hands in excitement. The hunters come and we run away, Nimmon. Think about that for a moment. We run and we run and we run. From what? We run from the hunters. They're hunting us, these hunters. They've never quite found us because we've always already run. We're clever, we're fortunate, and we have a way of life that they do not. So whenever they have come close to finding us, we have run. Nimmon nodded slowly for thousands of years. Robden's eyes were bright. Yes, we flee, we cringe, we hide under stones, we break up our lives and uproot our families, running like frightened animals in the shadows of night and secrecy. He gulped a breath and his eyes saw Nimmon's angrily. Why do we run, my lord? Nimmon's eyes widened. Because we have no choice, he said. We must run or be killed. You know that. You've seen the records. You've been taught. Oh, yes, I know what I've been taught. I've been taught that eons ago, our remote ancestors fought the hunters and lost and fled and were pursued. But why do we keep running? Time after time, we've been cornered and we've turned and fled. Why? Even animals know that when they're cornered, they must turn and fight. We are not animals. Nimmon's voice cut the air like a whiplash. But we could fight. Animals fight, we do not. We fought once like animals. And now we must run from the hunters who continue to fight like animals. So be it. Let the hunters fight. Robden shook his head. Do you mean that the hunters are not men like us? He said. That's what you're saying that they're animals. All right. We kill animals for our food. Isn't that true? We kill the tiger beasts in the jungle to protect ourselves. Why not kill the hunters to protect ourselves? Nimmon sighed and reached out a hand to the young man. I'm sorry. He said gently. It seems logical, but it's false logic. The hunters are men just like you and me. Their lives are different. Their culture is different. But they are men. And human life is sacred to us above all else. This is the fundamental basis of our very existence. Without it, we would be hunters too. If we fight, we're dead even if we live. That's why we must run away now and always. Because we know that we must not kill men. On the street below, the night air was suddenly full of voices, chattering, intermingled with whispers of song and occasional brief harmonic flutterings. The footfalls were muted on the polished pavement as the people passed slowly, their voices carrying a hint of puzzled uneasiness. The concert's over. Robden walked to the window, feeling a chill pass through him. So soon, I wonder why. Eagerly, he searched the faces passing in the street, for Dana's face, sensing the lurking discord in the quiet talk of the crowd. Suddenly, the soundboards in the room tinkled a corillian of ruby tones in his ear. And she was in the room, rushing into his arms with a happy cry, pressing her soft cheek to his rough chin. You're back. Oh, I'm so glad. So very glad. She turned to the old man. Neman, what has happened? The concert was run tonight. There was something in the air. Everybody felt it. For some reason, the people seemed afraid. Rafton turned away from his bride. Tell her, he said to the old man. Dana looked at them, her gray eyes widening in horror. The hunters, they found us. Robden nodded wordlessly. Her hands trembled as she sat down and there were tears in her eyes. We came so close tonight, so very close. I felt the music before it was sung. Do you realize that? I felt the fear around me, even though no one said a word. It wasn't vague or fuzzy. It was clear. The transference was perfect. She turned to face the old man. It's taken so long to come this far, Neman. So much work, so much training to reach a perfect communal concert. We've had only 200 years here. Only 200. I was just a little girl when we came. I can't even remember before that. Before we came here, we were undisturbed for a thousand years. And before that, 4,000. But 200. We can't leave now. Not when we've come so far. Robden nodded. That's the trouble. They come closer every time. This time they will catch us or the next time or the next. And that will be the end of everything for us unless we fight them. He paused watching the last groups dispersing on the street below. If we only knew for certain what we were running from. There was a startled silence. The girl's breath came in a gasp and her eyes widened as his words sank home. Rafton, she said softly. Have you ever seen a hunter? Rafton stared at her and felt a chill of excitement. Music burst from the sounding board odd, wild music suddenly hopeful. No, he said. No, of course not. You know that the girl rose from her seat. Nor have I never not once. She turned to Lord Nehman. Have you never? The old man's voice was harsh. Has anyone ever seen a hunter? Rafton's hands trembled. I don't know. None of us living now. No. It's been too long since they last actually found us. I've read. Oh, I can't remember. I think my grandfather saw them or my great grandfather somewhere back there. It's been thousands of years. Yet we've been tearing ourselves up by the roots, fleeing from planet to planet, running and dying and still running. But suppose we don't need to run anymore. He stared at her. They keep coming. They keep searching for us. What more proof do you need? Dana's face clothed with excitement, alive with new vitality, new hope. Rafton, can't you see? They might have changed. They might not be the same. Things can happen. Look at us. How we've grown since the wars with the hunters. Think how our philosophy and culture have matured. Oh, Rafton, you were to be a master at a concert next month. Think how the concerts have changed. Even my grandmother can remember when the concerts were just a few performers playing and everyone else just sitting and listening. Can you imagine anything more silly? They hadn't even thought of transference then. They never dreamed what a real concert could be. Why, those people had never begun to understand music until they themselves became a part of it. Even we can see these changes. Why couldn't the hunters have grown and changed just as we have? Neman's voice broke in, almost harshly as he faced the excited pair. The hunters don't have concerts, he said grimly. You're diluting yourself Dana. They laugh at our music. They scoff at our arts and twist them into obscene mockeries. They have no concept of beauty in their language. The hunters are incapable of change. And can you be certain of that when nobody has seen them for thousands of years? Neman met her steady eyes, read the strength and determination there. He knew despairingly what she was thinking. That he was old. That he couldn't understand. That his mind was channeled now beyond the approach of wisdom. You mustn't think what you're thinking, he said weakly. You'd be blind. You wouldn't know. You couldn't have any idea what you would find. If you tried to contact them, you could be lost completely. Tortured. Killed. If they haven't changed, you wouldn't stand a chance. You'd never come back Dana. But she's still right all the same, Robbin said softly. You're wrong my lord. We can't continue this way if we're to survive. Sometime our people must contact them. Find the link that was once between us and force it strong again. We could do it, Dana and I. I could forbid you to go. Dana looked at her husband and her eyes were proud. You could forbid us, she said, facing the old man. But you could never stop us. At the edge of the jungle land, a great beast stood with green gleaming eyes, licking his fang jaws as he watched the glowing city. Sensing somehow that the mystifying circle of light and motion was soon to become his jungle land again. In the city, the turmoil bubbled over as wave after wave of the people made the short safari across the intervening jungle to the circles of their ships. Husbands, wives, fathers, mothers, all carried their small frail remembrances out to the ships. There was music among them still, but it was a different sort of music now, an eerie, hopeless music that drifted out of the city in the wind. It caused all but the bravest of the beasts, their hair prickling on their backs, to run and panic through the jungle darkness. It was a melancholy music carried from thought to thought, from voice to voice as the people of the city weirdly prepared themselves once again for the long journey. To run away in the darkness of secrecy, to be gone without a trace, without a symbol or vestige of their presence, leaving only the scorched circle of land for the jungle to reclaim, so that no eyes, not even the sharpest, would ever know how long they had stayed, nor where they might have gone. In the rounded room of his house, Lord Neman dispatched the last of his belongings, a few remembrances, nothing more, because the space on the ships must take people not remembrances, and he knew that the remembrances would bring only pain. All day Neman had supervised the loading, the intricate preparation, following plans laid down millennia before. He saw the libraries and records transported, mile upon endless mile of microfilm, carted to the ships prepared to carry them, stored until a new resting place was found. The history of a people was recorded on that film, a people once proud and strong, now equally proud, but dwindling in numbers as told for the constant roving. A proud people, yet a people who would turn and run without thought, in a panic of age old fear. They had to run, Neman knew, if they were to survive. And with a blaze of anger in his heart, he almost hated the two young people waiting here with him for the last ship to be filled, for these two would not go. It had been a long and painful night. He had pleaded and begged, tried to persuade them that there was no hope, that the very idea of remaining behind, or trying to contact the hunters, was insane. Yet he knew they were sane, perhaps unwise, naive, but their decision had been reached and they would not be shaken. The day was almost gone as the last ships began to fill. Neman turned to Ravdan and Dana, his face lined and tired. You'll have to go soon, he said. The city will be burned of course as always. You'll be left with food and with weapons against the jungle. The hunters will know that we've been here, but they'll know when nor where we have gone. He paused. It will be up to you to see that they don't learn. Dana shook her head. We'll tell them nothing unless it's safe for them to know. They'll question you, even torture you. She smiled calmly. Perhaps they won't, but as a last resort we can blank out. Neman's face went white. You know there is no coming back once you do that. You would never regain your memory. You must save it for a last resort. Down below on the street, the last groups of people were passing. The last sweet eerie tones of the concert were rising in the gathering twilight. Soon the last families would have taken their refuge in the ships. Waiting for Neman to trigger the fire bombs to ignite the beautiful city after the ships started on their voyage. The concerts were over. There would be long years of aimless wandering before another home could be found. Another planet saved from the hunters and their ships. Even then it would be more years before the concerts could again rise from their hearts and throats and minds. Generations before they could begin work again toward the climatic expression of their heritage. Ravden felt the desolation in the people's minds. Saw the utter hopelessness in the old man's face and suddenly felt the pressure of despair. It was such a slender hope. So frail and so dangerous. He knew of the terrible fight, the war of his people against the hunters, so many thousand years before. They had risen together, a common people, their home, a single planet. And then the gradual splitting of the nations, his own people living in peace, seeking the growth and beauty of the arts, despising the bitterness and barrenness of hatred and killing. And the hunters, under an iron hill of militarism, of government for the perpetuation of government, split farther and farther from them. It was an ever-widening split as the hunters sneered and ridiculed and then grew to hate Ravden's people for all the things the hunters were losing, peace, love, happiness. Ravden knew of his people slowly donning awareness of the sanctity of life, shattered abruptly by the horrible wars, and then the centuries of fear and flight, hiding from the wrath of the hunter's vengeance. His people had learned much in those long years. They had conquered disease. They had grown in strength as they dwindled in numbers. But now the end could be seen, crystal clear, the end of his people in a ghastly grave. Neman's voice broke the silence. If you must stay behind, then go now. The city will burn an hour after the countdown. We will be safe outside the city. Dana gripped her husband's hand, trying to transmit to him some part of her strength and confidence. Wish us the best, Neman. If a link can be forged, we will forge it. I wish you the best in everything. There were tears in the old man's eyes as he turned and left the room. They stood in the jungle land, listening to the scurry of frightened animals and shivering in the cool night air as the bright sparks of the ship's exhaust faded into the black starry sky. A man and a woman alone, speechless, watching, staring with awful longing into the skies as the bright rocket jets dwindled the specks and flickered out. The city burned. Purple speams of flame shot high into the air, throwing a ghastly light on the frightened jungle land. Spires of flames seemed to be seeking the stars with their fingers as the plastic walls and streets of the city hissed and shriveled, blackening, bubbling into a vanishing memory before their eyes. The flames shot high, carrying with them the last remnants of the city which had stood proud and tall an hour before. Then a silence fell, deathly, like the lifeless silence of a grave. Out of the silence, little whispering sounds of the jungle land crept to their ears, first frightened, then curious, then bolder and bolder as the wisp of grass and little animals ventured out and out toward the clearing where the city had stood. Bit by bit, the jungle land gathered courage and the clearing slowly, silently, began to disappear. Days later, new sparks of light appeared in the black sky. They grew to larger specks, then to flares and finally settled to the earth as powerful flaming jets. There were squat misshapen vessels, circling down like vultures, hissing, screeching, landing with a grinding crash in the tall thicket near the place where the city had stood. Rovedon's signal had guided them in and hunters had seen them standing on a hilltop above the demolished amphitheater. Men had come out of the ships, large men with cold faces and dull eyes, weapons strapped to their trim uniforms. The hunters had blinked at them, unbelieving, with their weapons held at ready. Rovedon and Dana were seized and led to the flagship. As they approached it, their hearts sank and they clasped hands to bolster their failing hope. The leader of the hunters looked up from his desk as they were thrust into his cabin. Frankle's face was a graven mask as he searched their faces dispassionately. The captives were pale and seemed to cringe from the pale interrogation light. Chickens, the hunters snorted, we've been hunting down chickens. His eyes turned to one of the guards. They have been searched, of course, master. And questioned, the guard frowned. Yes, sir, but their language is almost unintelligible. You've studied the basic tongues, haven't you? Frankle's voice was as cold as his eyes. Of course, sir, but this is so different. Frankle stared and contempt at the fair-skinned captives, fixing his eyes on them for a long moment. Finally, he said, well? Rovedon glanced briefly at Dana's white face. His voice seemed weak and high-pitched in comparison to the hunter's baritone. You were the leader of the hunters? Frankle regarded him sourly without replying. His thin face was swarthy, his shortcut gray hair matching the cold gray of his eyes. It was an odd face, completely blank of any thought or emotion, yet capable of shifting to a strange biting slowness in the briefest instant. It was a rich face, a face of inscrutable depth. He pushed his chair back, his eyes watchful. We know your people were here, he said suddenly. Now they've gone and yet you remain behind. There must be a reason for such rashness. Are you sick? Crippled. Rovedon shook his head. We're not sick. Then criminals perhaps, being punished for rebellious plots? We're not criminals. The hunter's fist crashed on the desk. Then why are you here? Why? Are you going to tell me now or do you propose to waste a few hours of my time first? There is no mystery, Robin said softly. We stayed behind to plead for peace. For peace? Frankel stared in disbelief. Then he shrugged, his face tired. I might have known. Peace. Where have your people gone? Rovedon met him eye for eye. I can't say. The hunter laughed. Let's be precise. You don't choose to say just now. But perhaps very soon you will wish with all your heart to tell me. Dana's voice was sharp. We're telling you the truth. We want peace, nothing more. This constant hunting and running is senseless, exhausting to both of us. We want to make peace with you, to bring our people together again. Frankel snorted. You came to us in war once long ago. Now you want peace. What would you do, clasp us to your bosom, smother us in your idiotic music, or have you gone on to greater things? Rovedon's face flushed hotly. Much greater things, he snapped. Frankel sat down slowly. No doubt, he said. Now understand me clearly. Very soon you will be killed. How quickly or slowly you die will depend largely upon the civility of your tongues. A civil tongue answers questions with the right answers. That is my definition of a civil tongue. He sat back coldly. Now shall we commence asking questions? Dana stepped forward suddenly. Her cheeks flushed. We don't have the words to express ourselves, she said softly. We can't tell you in words what we have to say, but music is a language even you can understand. We can tell you what we want in music. Frankel scowled. He knew about the magic of this music. He had heard of the witchcraft these weak chicken people could weave. Of their strange magic power to still strong men's minds from them, and make them like children before wolves. But he had never heard this music with his own ears. He looked at them, his eyes strangely bright. You know I cannot listen to your music. It is forbidden. Even you should know that. How dare you propose. But this is different music. Dana's eyes widened, and she threw an excited glance at her husband. Our music is beautiful, wonderful to hear. If you could only hear it. Never, the man hesitated. Your music is forbidden, poisonous. Her smile was like a sweet wine, a smile that worked into the hunter's mind like a gentle lazy drug. But who is to permute or forbid? After all, you are the leader here. And forbidden pleasures are all the sweeter. Frankel's eyes were on hers, fascinated. Slowly, with a graceful movement, she drew the gleaming thought-sensitive stone from her clothing. It glowed in the room with a pearly luminescence, and she saw the man's eyes turning to it, drawn as if by magic. Then he looked away, and a cruel smile curled his lips. He motioned toward the stone, All right, he said mockingly, Do your worst, show me your precious music. Like a tinkle of glass breaking in a well, the stone flashed its fiery light in the room. Little swirls of music seemed to swell from it, blossoming in the silence. Frankel tensed, a chill running up his spine, his eyes drawn back to the gleaming jewel. Suddenly, the music filled the room, rising sweetly like an overpowering wave, filling his mind with strange and wonderful images. The stone shimmered and changed, taking the form of dancing clouds of light, swirling with the music as it rose. Frankel felt his mind groping toward the music, trying desperately to reach into the heart of it, to become part of it. Rovden and Dana stood there, trance-like, staring transfixed at the gleaming center of light, forcing their joined minds to create the crashing majestic chords, as the song lifted from the depths of oblivion to the heights of glory in the old, old song of their people. A song of majesty and strength and dignity, a song of love, of aspiration, a song of achievement, a song of peoples driven by ancient fears across the eons of space, seeking only peace, even peace with those who drove them. Frankel heard the music and could not comprehend, for his mind could not grasp the meaning, the true overtones of those glorious chords, but he felt the strangeness in the pangs of fear which groped through his mind, cringing from the wonderful strains, dazzled by the dancing light. He stared wide-eyed and trembling at the couple across the room, and for an instant it seemed that he was stripped naked. For a fleeting moment, the authority was gone from his face, gone too was the cruelty, the avarice, the sardonic mockery. For the briefest moment, his cold gray eyes grew incredibly tender with a sudden ancient, long-forgotten longing, crying at last to be heard. And then, with a scream of rage, he was stumbling into the midst of the light, lashing out wildly at the heart of its shimmering brilliance. His huge hand caught the hypnotic stone and swept it into crashing, ear-splitting cacophony against the cold still bulkhead. He stood rigid, his whole body shaking, eyes blazing with fear and anger and hatred as he turned on Ravdan and Dana. His voice was a raging storm of bitterness drowning out the dying strains of the music. Spies, you thought you could steal my mind away, make me forget my duty, and listen to your rotten, poisonous noise. Well, you failed. Do you hear? I didn't hear it. I didn't listen. I didn't. I'll hunt you down as my father's hunted you down. I'll bring my people their vengeance and glory, and your foul music will be dead. He turned to the guards wildly, his hand still trembling. Take them out, whip them, burn them, do anything, but find out where their people have gone. Find out. Music will take the music out of them, once and for all. The Inquisition had been horrible. Their minds had no concept of such horror, such relentless racking pain. The blazing lights, the questions screaming in their ears, Frankl's vicious eyes burning in frustration, and their own screams, rising with each question they would not answer until their throats were scorched and they could no longer scream. Finally they reached the limit they could endure, and muttered together the hoarse words that could deliver them. Not words that Frankl could hear, but words to bring deliverance, to blank out their minds like a wet sponge over slate. The hypnotic key clicked into the lock of their minds. Their screams died in their brains. Frankl stared at them, and knew instantly what they had done, a technique of memory obliteration, known and dreaded for so many thousands of years that history could not remember. As his captive stood mindless before him, he let out one hoarse agonized scream of frustration and defeat. But strangely enough, he did not kill them. He left them on a cold stone ledge, blinking dumbly at each other, as the ships of his fleet rose one by one and vanished like fireflies in the dark night sky. Naked, they sat alone on the planet of jungle land. They knew no words, no music, nothing, and they did not even know that in the departing ships a seed had been planted, for Frankl had heard the music. He had grasped the beauty of his enemies for that brief instant, and in that instant they had become less his enemies. A tiny seed of doubt had been planted, the seed would grow. The two sat dumbly, shivering, far in the distance a beast roared against the heavy night, and a light rain began to fall. They sat naked, the rain soaking their skin and hair. Then one of them grunted, and moved into the dry darkness of the cave. Deep within him some instinct spoke, warning him to fear the roar of the animal. Blinking dullly, the woman crept into the cave after him. Three thoughts alone filled their empty minds. Not thoughts of Neman and his people. To them, Neman had never existed, forgotten as completely as if he had never been. No thoughts of the hunters either, nor of their unheard of mercy and leaving them their lives. Lives of memoryless oblivion, like animals in this green jungle land, but lives nonetheless. Only three thoughts filled their minds. It was raining. They were hungry. The saber-tooth was prowling tonight. They never knew that the link had been forged. End of The Link by Alan Edward Norse. Recording by Jerry Dixon, Zephyr Hills, Florida. Meeting of the Board 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 Corey Snow Meeting of the Board By Alan E. Norse It was going to be a bad day. As he pushed his way nervously through the crowds toward the exit strip, Walter Town turned the dismal prospect over and over in his mind. The potential gloominess of this particular day had descended upon him the instant the morning buzzer had gone off, making it even more tempting than usual just to roll over and forget about it all. Twenty minutes later, the water-douse came to drag him, drenched in gurgling, back to the cruel, cold world. He had wolfed down his morning coffee-cup with one eye on the clock, and one eye on his growing sense of impending crisis. And now to make things just a trifle worse, he was going to be late again. He struggled doggedly across the rumbling exit strip toward the plant entrance. After all, he told himself, why should he be so upset? He was, Vice President, in charge of production of the Robling Titanium Corporation. What could they do to him, really? He had rehearsed his part many times, squaring his thin shoulders, looking the union-boss straight in the eye and saying, now see here, Torkelson! But he knew, when the showdown came, that he wouldn't say any such thing. And this was the morning that the showdown would come. Oh, not because of the lateness. Of course, Bailey, the shop steward, would take his usual delight in bringing that up. But this seemed hardly worthy of concern this morning. The reports waiting on his desk were what worried him. The sales reports. The promotion draw reports. The royalty reports. The anticipated dividend reports. Walter shook his head wearily. The shop steward was a goad, annoying, perhaps even infuriating, but tolerable. Torkelson was a different matter. He pulled his worn overcoat down over frayed shirt sleeves, and tried vainly to straighten the celluloid collar that kept scooting his tie up under his ear. Once off the moving strip, he started up the robling corridor toward the plant gate. Perhaps he would be fortunate. Maybe the reports would be late. Maybe his secretary's two neurons would fail to synapse this morning, and she'd lose them all together. And as long as he was dreaming, maybe Bailey would break his neck on the way to work. He walked quickly past the workers lounge, glancing in at the groups of men, arguing politics, and checking the stock market reports before they changed from their neat gray business suits to their welding dungarees. Running up the stairs to the administrative wing, he paused outside the door to punch the time clock. Eight-oh-four. Damn. If only Bailey could be sick. Bailey was not sick. The administrative offices were humming with frantic activity, as Walter glanced down the rows of cubby holes. In the middle of it all sat Bailey, in his black and yellow checkered tatters all, smoking a large cigar. His feet were planted on his desktop, but he hadn't started on his morning western yet. He was busy glaring, first at the clock, then at Walter. Late again, I see. The shop steward growled. Walter gulped. Yes, sir. Just four minutes this time, sir. You know those crowded strips. So it's just four minutes now, eh? Bailey's feet came down with a crash. After last month's fine production record. You think four minutes doesn't matter, eh? Think just because you're a vice president, it's all right to mosey in here whenever you feel like it? He glowered. Well, this is three times this month you've been late, town. That's a demerit for each time, and you know what that means. You wouldn't count four minutes as a whole demerit. Bailey grinned. Wouldn't I now? You just add up your pay envelope on Friday. Ten cents an hour off for each demerit. Walter sighed and shuffled back to his desk. Oh, well. It could have been worse. They might have fired him like poor Cartwright last month. He'd just have to listen to that morning buzzer. The reports were on his desk. He picked them up warily. Maybe they wouldn't be so bad. He'd had more freedom this last month than before. Maybe there'd been a policy change. Maybe Torkelson was gaining confidence in him. Maybe the reports were worse than he had ever dreamed. Town! Walter jumped afoot. Bailey was putting down the visifone receiver. His grin spread unpleasantly from ear to ear. What have you been doing lately? Sabotaging the production line? What's the trouble now? Bailey jerked a thumb significantly at the ceiling. The boss wants to see you. And you better have the right answers, too. The boss seems to have a lot of questions. Walter rose slowly from his seat. This was it, then. Torkelson had already seen the reports. He started for the door, his knees shaking. It hadn't always been like this, he reflected miserably. Time was when things had been very different. It had meant something to be Vice President of a huge industrial firm like Robling Titanium. A man could have had a fine house of his own and a copter car and belonged to the country club. Maybe even have a cottage on a lake somewhere. Walter could almost remember those days with Robling before the switchover, before that black day when the exchange of ten little shares of stock had thrown the Robling Titanium Corporation into the hands of strange and unnatural owners. The door was of heavy stained oak with bold letters edged in gold. Titanium Workers of America. Amalgamated Locals. Daniel P. Torkelson. Secretary. The Secretary flipped down the desk switch and eyed Walter with pity. Mr. Torkelson will see you. Walter pushed through the door into the long handsome office. For an instant he felt a pang of nostalgia. The floor to ceiling windows looking out across the long buildings of the Robling Plant. The pine paneling. The broad expanse of desk. Well, don't just stand there. Shut the door and come over here. The man behind the desk hoisted his 300 well-dressed pounds and glared at Walter from under flagrant eyebrows. Torkelson's whole body quivered as he slammed a sheaf of papers down on the desk. Just what do you think you're doing with this company town? Walter swallowed. I'm Production Manager of the Corporation. And just what does the Production Manager do all day? Walter reddened. He organizes the work of the plant, establishes production lines, works with promotion and sales, integrates research and development, operates the planning machines. And you think you do a pretty good job of it, eh? Even asked for a raise last year. Torkelson's voice was dangerous. Walter spread his hands. I do my best. I've been doing it for 30 years. I should know what I'm doing. Then how do you explain these reports? Torkelson threw the heap of papers into Walter's arms and paced up and down behind the desk. Look at them! Sales at rock bottom. Receipts impossible. Big orders canceled. The worst reports in seven years and used to you know your job. I've been doing everything I could, Walter snapped. Of course the reports are bad. They couldn't help but be. We haven't met a production schedule in over two years. No plant can keep up production the way the men are working. Torkelson's face darkened. He leaned forward slowly. So it's the men now, is it? Go ahead. Tell me what's wrong with the men. Nothing's wrong with the men. If they'd only work, but they'd come in when they please and leave when they please and spend half their time changing and the other half on coffee cup. No company could survive this. But that's only half of it. Walter searched through the reports frantically. This international jet transport account. They dropped us because we haven't had a new engine in six years. Why? Because research and development hasn't had any money for six years. What can two starved engineers and a second rate chemist drag out of an attic laboratory for competition in the titanium market? Walter took a deep breath. I've warned you time and again. Robbling had built up accounts over the years with fine products and new models. But since the switch over seven years ago, you and your board have forced me to play the cheap products for the quick profit in order to give your men their dividends. Now the bottoms dropped out. We couldn't turn a profit on the big important accounts, so we had to cancel them. If you had let me manage the company the way it should have been run, Torkelson had been slowly turning purple. Now he slammed his fist down on the desk. We should just turn the company back to management again, eh? Just let you have a free hand to rob us blind again. Well, it won't work, town. Not while I'm secretary of this union. We fought long and hard for control of this corporation, just the way all the other unions did. I know. I was through it all. He sat back smugly, his cheeks quivering with emotion. You might say that I was a national leader in the movement, but I did it only for the men. The men want their dividends. They own the stock. Stock is supposed to pay dividends. But they're cutting their own throats, Walter wailed. You can't build a company and make it grow the way I've been forced to run it. Details, Torkelson snorted. I don't care how the dividends come in, that's your job. My job is to report a dividend every six months to the men who own the stock, the men working on the production lines. Walter nodded bitterly. And every year the dividend has to be higher than the last, or you and your fat friends are likely to be thrown out of your jobs, right? No more stakes every night. No more private gold-plated buicks for you boys. No more 20 room mansions in Westchester. No more big game hunting in the Rockies. No, you don't have to know anything but how to whip a board meeting into a frenzy, so they'll vote you into office again each year. Torkelson's eyes glittered. His voice was very soft. I've always liked you, Walter. So I'm going to pretend I didn't hear you. He paused, then continued. But here on my desk is a small bit of white paper. Unless you have my signature on that paper on the first of next month, you are out of a job on grounds of incompetence, and I will personally see that you go on every white list in the country. Walter felt the fight go out of him like a dying wind. He knew what the white list meant. No job anywhere. Ever in management. No chance ever to join a union. No more house. No more weekly pay envelope. He spread his hands weekly. What do you want? He asked. I want a production plan on my desk within 24 hours, a plan that will guarantee me a 5% increase in dividends in the next six months. And you better move fast because I'm not fooling. Back in his cubby-hole downstairs, Walter stared hopelessly at the reports. He had known it would come to this sooner or later. They all knew it. Hendricks of promotion. Pendleton of sales. The whole managerial staff. It was wrong, all the way down the line. Walter had fought it tooth and nail since the day Torkelson had installed the moose heads in Walter's old office and moved him down to the cubby-hole under Bailey's watchful eye. He had argued and battled and pleaded and lost. He had watched the company deteriorate day by day. Now they blamed him and threatened his job and he was helpless to do anything about it. He stared at the machines clicking busily against the wall. An idea began to form in his head. Helpless. Not quite. Not if the others could see it go along with it. It was a repugnant idea. But there was one thing they could do, that even Torkelson and his fat-jewelled crew would understand. They could go on strike. It's ridiculous, the lawyer spluttered, staring at the circle of men in the room. How can I give you an opinion on the legality of the thing? There isn't any legal precedent that I know of. He mopped his bald head with a large white handkerchief. That just hasn't been a case of a company's management striking against its own labor. It isn't done. Oh, there have been lockouts, but this isn't the same thing at all. Walter nodded. Well, we couldn't very well lock the men out. They owned the plant. We were thinking more of a lock-in sort of thing. He turned to Paul Hendricks and the others. We know how the machines operate. They don't. We also know that the data we keep in the machines is essential to running the business. The machines figure production quotas, organize blueprints, prepare distribution lists, test promotion schemes. It would take an office full of managerial experts to handle even a single phase of the work without the machines. The man at the window hissed, and Pendleton quickly snapped out the lights. They sat in darkness, hardly daring to breathe. Then, OK, just the man next door coming home. Pendleton sighed, You're sure you didn't let them suspect anything, Walter? They wouldn't be watching the house? I don't think so. And you all came alone at different times. He nodded to the window-guard and turned back to the lawyer. So we can't be sure of the legal end. You'd have to be on your toes. I still don't see how we could work it, Hendricks objected. His heavy face was wrinkled with worry. Torkelson is no fool, and he has a lot of power in the National Association of Union Stockholders. All he'd need to do is ask for managers, and a dozen companies would throw them to him on loan. They'd be able to figure out the machine system and take over without losing a day. Not quite. Walter was grinning. That's why I spoke of a lock-in. Before we leave, we throw the machines into feedback, every one of them. Lock them into reverberating circuits with a code sequence key. Then all they'll do is buzz and sputter until the feedback is broken with the key. And the key is our secret. It'll tie the robbling office into granny knots, and scabs won't be able to get any more data out of the machines than Torkelson could. With a lawyer to handle injunctions, we've got them strapped. For what? asked the lawyer. Walter turned on him sharply. For new contracts. Contracts to let us manage the company the way it should be managed. If they won't do it, we won't get another titanium product off their production lines for the rest of the year, and their dividends will really take a nosedive. That means you'll have to beat Torkelson, said Bates. He'll never go along. Then he'll be left behind. Hendricks stood up, brushing off his dungarees. I'm with you, Walter. I've taken all of Torkelson that I want to, and I'm sick of the junk we've been trying to sell people. The others nodded. Walter rubbed his hands together. All right, tomorrow we work as usual, until the noon whistle. When we go off for lunch, we throw the machines into lockstep. Then we just don't come back. But the big thing is to keep it quiet until the noon whistle. He turned to the lawyer. Are you with us, Jeff? Jeff Bates shook his head sadly. I'm with you. I don't know why. You haven't got a leg to stand on. But if you want to commit suicide, it's all right with me. He picked up his briefcase and started for the door. I'll have your contract demands by tomorrow. He grinned. See you at the lynching. They got down to the details of planning. The news hit the afternoon telecasts the following day. Headlines screamed. Management sabotages robbling machines. Office strikers threatened labor economy. Robbling lock-in creates pandemonium. There was a long indignant statement from Daniel P. Torkelson, condemning town and its followers for, quote, flagrant violation of management contracts and illegal fouling of managerial processes, end quote. Ben Starkey, president of the Board of American Steel, expressed, quote, shock and regret, end quote. The amalgamated buttonhole makers held a mass meeting in protest, demanding that, quote, the instigators of this unprecedented crime be permanently barred from positions in American industry, end quote. In Washington, the nation's economists were more cautious in their views. Yes, it was an unprecedented action. Yes, there would undoubtedly be repercussions. Many industries were having managerial troubles. But as for long-term effects, it was difficult to say just at present. On the robbling production lines, the workmen blinked at each other and at their machines, and wondered vaguely what it was all about. Yet in all the upheaval, there was very little expression of surprise. Step by step, through the years, economists had been watching with wary eyes the growing movement toward union control of industry. Even as far back as the 40s and 50s unions, finding themselves oppressed with the administration of growing sums of money, pension funds, welfare funds, medical insurance funds, accruing union dues, had begun investing in corporate stock. It was no news to them that money could make money, and what stock more logical to buy than stock in their own companies? At first it had been a quiet movement. One by one the smaller firms had tottered, bled drier and drier by increasing production costs, increasing labor demands, and an ever dwindling margin of profit. One by one they had seen their stocks tottering as they faced bankruptcy, only to be gobbled up by the one ready buyer with plenty of funds to buy with. At first changes had been small and insignificant. Boards of directors shifted. The men were paid higher wages and worked shorter hours. There were tighter management policies, and a little less money was spent on extras like research and development. At first, until that fateful night, when Daniel P. Torkelson of TWA and Jake Squill of amalgamated button-hole makers spent a long evening with beer and cigars in a hotel room, and floated the loan that threw steel to the unions. Oil had followed with hardly a fight, and as the unions began to feel their oats, the changes grew more radical. Walter Town remembered those stormy days well. The gradual undercutting of the managerial salaries, the tightening up of inter-union collusion to establish the infamous white list of recalcitrant managers, the shift from hourly wage to annual salary for the factory workers, and the change to the other poll for the managerial staff. And then, with creeping malignancy, the hungry howling of the union bosses for more and higher dividends year after year, moving steadily toward the inevitable crisis. Until Shop Steward Bailey suddenly found himself in charge of a dozen sputtering machines, and an empty office. Torkelson was waiting to see the Shop Steward when he came in the next morning. The union's boss's office was crowded with TV cameras, newsmen, and puzzled workmen. The floor was littered with piles of ominous-looking paper. Torkelson was shouting into a telephone, and three lawyers were shouting into Torkelson's ear. He spotted Bailey and waved him through the crowd into an inner office room. Well, did they get them fixed? Bailey spread his hands nervously. The electronics boys have been at it since yesterday afternoon. Practically had the machines apart on the floor. I know that stupid! Torkelson roared. I ordered them there. Did they get the machines fixed? Uh, well, no, as a matter of fact. Well, what's holding them up? Bailey's face was a study in misery. The machines just go in circles. The circuits are locked. They just reverberate. Then call American electronics. Have them send down an expert crew. Bailey shook his head. They won't come. They what? They said thanks, but no thanks. They don't want their fingers in this pie at all. Wait till I get O'Gilvy on the phone. They won't do any good, sir. They've got their own management troubles. They're scared silly of a sympathy strike. The door burst open, and a lawyer stuck his head in. What about those injunctions, Dan? Get them moving, Torkelson howled. They'll start those machines again, or I'll have them in G.L. so fast. He turned back to Bailey. What about the production lines? The shop stewards faced, lighted. Well, they slipped up there. There was one program that hadn't been coded in the machines yet. Just a minor item, but it's a starter. We found it in town's desk. Blueprints already. Promotion all planned. Good. Good, Torkelson breathed. I have a director's meeting right now. Have to get the workers quieted down a bit. You put the program through and give those electronics men three more hours to unsnarl this knot, or we throw them out of the union. He started for the door. What were the blueprints for? Trash cans, said Bailey. Pure titanium steel trash cans. It took Robling Titanium approximately two days to convert its entire production line to titanium steel trash cans. With the total resources of the giant plant behind the effort, production was phenomenal. In two more days, the available markets were glutted. Within two weeks, at a conservative estimate, there would be a titanium steel trash can for every man, woman, child, and hound dog on the North American continent. The jet engines, structural steels, tubing, and other pre-strike products piled up in the freight yards. Their routing slips and order requisitions tied up in the reverberating machines. But the machines continued to buzz and sputter. The workers grew restive. From the first day, Town and Hendricks and all the others had been picketing the plant until angry crowds of workers had driven them off with shotguns. Then they came back in an old weather-beaten copter which hovered over the plant entrance, carrying a banner with a plaintive message, robling titanium unfair to management. Tomatoes were hurled, fists were shaken, but the copter remained. The third day, Jeff Bates was served with an injunction ordering Town to return to work. It was duly appealed, legal machinery began tying itself in knots, and the strikers still struck. By the fifth day there was a more serious note. You're going to have to appear, Walter. We can't dodge this one. When? Tomorrow morning, and before a labor-rigged judge too. The little lawyer paced his office nervously. I don't like it. Torkelson's getting desperate. The workers are putting pressure on him. Walter grinned. Then Pendleton is doing a good job of selling. But you haven't got time, the lawyer wailed. They'll have you in jail if you don't start the machines again. They may have you in jail if you do start them too, but that's another bridge. Right now they want those machines going again. We'll see, said Walter. What time tomorrow? Ten o'clock. Bates looked up. And don't try to skip. You be there because I don't know what to tell them. Walter was there a half hour early. Torkelson's legal staff glowered from across the room. The judge glowered from the bench. Walter closed his eyes with a little smile as the charges were read. Breach of contract, malicious mischief, sabotage of the company's machines, conspiring to destroy the livelihood of ten thousand workers. Your Honor, we are preparing briefs to prove further that these men have formed a conspiracy to undermine the economy of the entire nation. We appeal to the spirit of orderly justice. Walter yawned as the words went on. Of course if the defendant will waive his appeals against the previous injunctions and will release the machines that were sabotaged, we will be happy to formally withdraw these charges. There was a rustle of sound through the courtroom. His Honor turned to Jeff Bates. Are you the counsel for the defendant? Yes, sir. Bates mopped his bald scalp. The defendant pleads guilty to all counts. The union lawyer dropped his glasses on the table with a crash. The judge stared. Mr. Bates, if you plead guilty, you leave me no alternative, but to send me to jail, said Walter Towne. Go ahead. Send me to jail. In fact, I insist upon going to jail. The union lawyer's jaw sagged. There was a hurried conference. A recess was pleaded. Telephones buzzed. Then, Your Honor, the plaintiff desires to withdraw all charges at this time. Objection! Bates exclaimed. We've already pleaded. We feel sure that a settlement can be affected out of court. The case was thrown out on its ear. And still the machines sputtered. Back at the plant, rumor had it that the machines were permanently gutted and that the plant could never go back into production. Conflicting Scuttlebut suggested that persons high in uniondom had perpetrated the crisis deliberately, bullying management into the strike for the sole purpose of cutting current dividends and selling stock to themselves cheaply. The rumors grew easier and easier to believe. The workers came to the plants in business suits, it was true, and lounged in the finest of lounges and read the Wall Street Journal and felt like stockholders. But to face facts, their salaries were not the highest. Deduct union dues, pension fees, medical insurance fees, and sundry other little items which had formerly been paid by well-to-do managements and very little was left but the semi-annual dividend checks. And now the dividends were tottering. Production lines slowed. There were daily brawls on the plant floor in the lounges and locker rooms. Workers began joking about the trash cans. Then the humor grew more and more remote. Finally, late in the afternoon of the eighth day, Bailey was once again in Torkelson's office. Well, speak up. What's the beef this time? Sir, the men... I mean, there's been some nasty talk. They're tired of making trash cans. No challenge in it. Anyway, the stock room is full and the freight yard is full and the last run of orders we sent out came back because nobody wants any more trash cans. Bailey shook his head. The men won't swallow it anymore. There's... Well, there's been talk about having a board meeting. Torkelson's ruddy cheeks paled. Board meeting, huh? He licked his heavy lips. Now look, Bailey, we've always worked well together. I consider you a good friend of mine. You've got to get things under control. Tell the men we're making progress. Tell them management is beginning to weaken from its original stand. Tell them we expect to have the strike broken in another few hours. Tell them anything. He waited until Bailey was gone. Then with a trembling hand he lifted the vizephone receiver. Get me Walter Town, he said. I'm not an unreasonable man, Torkelson was saying miserably, waving his fat paws in the air as he paced back and forth in front of the spokesman for the striking managers. Perhaps we were a little demanding. I conceded. Over enthusiastic with our ownership and all that. But I'm sure we can come to some agreement. A hike in wage scale is certainly within reason. Perhaps we can even arrange for better company houses. Walter Town stifled a yawn. Perhaps you didn't understand us. The men are agitating for a meeting of the Board of Directors. We want to be at that meeting. That's the only thing we're interested in right now. But there wasn't anything about a board meeting in the contract your lawyer presented. I know, but you rejected that contract, so we tore it up. Anyway, we've changed our minds. Torkelson sat down, his heavy cheeks quivering. Gentlemen, be reasonable. I can guarantee you your jobs. Even give you a free hand with the management. So the dividends won't be so large. The men will have to get used to that. That is, we'll put it through at the next executive conference, give you— The board meeting, Walter said gently. That'll be enough for us. The union boss swore and slammed his fist on the desk. Walk out in front of those men after what you've done. You're fools! Well, I've given you your chance. You'll get your board meeting. But you'd better come armed, because I know how to handle this kind of board meeting, and if I have anything to say about it, this one will end with a massacre. The meeting was held in a huge auditorium in the Robling Administration building. Since every member of the union owned stock in the company, every member had the right to vote for members of the board of directors. But in the early days of the switchover, the idea of a board of directors smacked too strongly of the old system of corporate organization to suit the men. The solution had been simple, if a trifle ungainly. Everyone who owned stock in Robling Titanium was automatically a member of the board of directors, with Torkelson as chairman of the board. The stockholders numbered over ten thousand. They were all present. They were packed in from the wall to the stage, and hanging from the rafters. They overflowed into the corridors. They jammed the lobby. Ten thousand men rose with a howl of anger when Walter Town walked out on the stage. But they quieted down again as Dan Torkelson started to speak. It was a masterful display of rabble-rousing. Torkelson paced the stage, his fat body shaking with agitation, pointing a chubby finger again and again at Walter Town. He pranced and he ranted. He paused at just the right times for thunderous peals of applause. This morning in my office we offered to compromise with these jackals, he cried, and they rejected compromise. Even at the cost of lowering dividends, of taking food from the mouths of your wives and children, we made our generous offers. They were rejected with scorn. These thieves have one desire in mind, my friends, to starve you all and to destroy your company and your jobs. To every appeal they heartlessly refused to divulge the key to the lock-in. And now this man, the ringleader who keeps the keyword buried in secrecy, has the temerity to ask an audience with you. Your angry men, you want to know the man to blame for our hardship. He pointed to Town with a flourish. I give you your man, do what you want with him. The hall exploded in angry thunder. The first wave of men rushed onto the stage as Walter stood up. A tomato whizzed past his ear and splattered against the wall. More men clambered up on the stage, shouting and shaking their fists. Then somebody appeared with a rope. Walter gave a sharp nod to the side of the stage. Abruptly the roar of the men was drowned in another sound, a soul-rending, teeth-grating, bone-rattling screech. The men froze, jaws sagging, eyes wide, heartily believing their ears. In the instant of silence as the factory whistle died away, Walter grabbed the microphone. You want the codeword to start the machines again? I'll give it to you before I sit down. The men stared at him, shuffling, a murmur rising. Torkelson burst to his feet. It's a trick! He howled, wait till you hear their price. We have no price and no demands, said Walter Town. We will give you the codeword and we ask nothing in return, but that you listen for sixty seconds. He glanced back at Torkelson and then out to the crowd. You men here are an electing body, right? You own this great plant and company, top to bottom, right? You should all be rich, because Rombling could make you rich. But not one of you out there is rich. Only the fat ones on this stage are. But I'll tell you how you can be rich. They listened. Not a peep came from the huge hall. Suddenly Walter Town was talking their language. You think that since you own the company, times have changed. Well, have they? Are you any better off than you were? Of course not, because you haven't learned yet that oppression by either side leads to misery for both. You haven't learned moderation and you never will, until you throw out the ones who have fought moderation right down to the last ditch. You know whom I mean. You know who's grown richer and richer since the switchover. Throw him out and you too can be rich. He paused for a deep breath. You want the codeword to unlock the machines? All right, I'll give it to you. He swung around to point a long finger at the fat man sitting there. The codeword is Torkelson. Much later, Walter Town and Jeff Bates pried the trophies off the wall of the big office. The lawyer shook his head sadly. Pity about Dan Torkelson. Grew some affair. Walter nodded as he struggled down with the moose head. Yes, a pity, but you know the boys when they get upset. I suppose so. The lawyer stopped to rest panting. Anyway, with the newly elected board of directors, things will be different for everybody. You took a long gamble. Not so long. Not when you knew what they wanted to hear. It just took a little timing. Still didn't think they'd elect you, Secretary of the Union. He just doesn't figure. Walter Town chuckled. Doesn't it? I don't know. Everything's been a little screwy since the switchover. And in a screwy world like this, he shrugged and tossed down the moose head. Anything figures. End of Meeting of the Board by Alan E. Norse. Recording by Corey Snow. Olympia, Washington. http://www.cyclometh.com My friend Bobby. 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 Moose Boy Alfonso. My friend Bobby. By Alan Edward Norse. My name is Jimmy. And I am five years old. And my friend Bobby is five years old too. But he says he thinks he's really more than five years old. Because he's already grown up and I'm just a little boy. We live out in the country because that's where mommy and daddy live. And every morning daddy takes the car out of the barn and rides into the city to work. And every night he comes back to eat supper and to see mommy and Bobby and me. One time I asked daddy why we don't live in the city like some people do and he laughed and said you wouldn't really want to live in the city would you? After all he said you couldn't have Bobby in the city so I guess it's better to live in the country after all. Anyway daddy says that the city is no place to raise kids these days. I asked Bobby if I am a kid and he said he guessed so but I don't think he really knows because Bobby isn't very smart. But Bobby is my friend even if he doesn't know much and I like him more than anybody else. Mommy doesn't like Bobby very much and when I am bad she makes Bobby go outdoors even when it's cold outside. Mommy says I shouldn't play with Bobby so much because after all Bobby is only a dog but I like Bobby. Everyone else is so big and when mommy and daddy are home all I can see is their legs unless I look way up high and when I do something bad I'm scared because they're so big and strong. Bobby is strong too but he isn't any bigger than I am and he is always nice to me. He has a long shaggy brown coat and a long pointed nose and a nice collar of white fur and people sometimes say to daddy what a nice collar that is and daddy says yes isn't he and he takes to the boy so. I don't know what a collie is but I have fun with Bobby all the time. Sometimes he lets me ride on his back and we talk to each other and have secrets even though I don't think he is very smart. I don't know why mommy and daddy don't understand me when I talk to them the way I talked to Bobby but maybe they just pretend they can't hear me talk that way. I am always sorry when daddy goes to work in the morning. Daddy is nice to me most times and takes me and Bobby for walks but mommy never takes me for walks and when we are alone she is busy and she isn't nice to me. Sometimes she says I am a bad boy and makes me stay in my room even when I haven't done anything bad and sometimes she thinks things in her head that she doesn't say to me. I don't know why mommy doesn't like me and Bobby doesn't know either but we like it best when mommy lets us go outdoors to play in the barn or down by the creek. If I get my feet wet mommy says I am very bad so I stay on the bank and let Bobby go in but one day when Bobby went into the water just before we went home for supper mommy scolded me and told me I was bad for letting Bobby go into the water and when I told her she hadn't told me not to let Bobby go in the water she was angry and I could tell that she didn't like me at all that day. Almost every day I do something that mommy says is bad even when I try specially to be good. Sometimes right after daddy goes away in the morning I know that mommy is angry and is going to spank me sooner or later that day because she is already thinking how she will spank me but she never says so out loud. Sometimes she pretends that she's not angry and takes me up on her lap and says I'm her nice little boy but all the time I can hear her thinking that she doesn't really like me even when she tries and she doesn't even want to touch me if she can help it. I can hear her wondering why my hair doesn't grow nice like the Bennett twins that live up the road. I don't see how mommy can be saying one thing out loud and something else inside her head at the same time but when I look at her she puts me down and says she's busy and will I get out from underfoot and then pretty soon I do something that makes her angry and she makes me go to my room where she spanks me. Bobby doesn't like this. Once when she spanked me he growled at mommy and mommy chased him outdoors with a broom before she sent me to bed. I cried all day that day because it was cold outdoors and I wanted to have Bobby with me. I wonder why mommy doesn't like me. One day I was a bad boy and let Bobby come into the house before mommy told me I could. Bobby hadn't done anything bad but mommy hit him on the back with a broom and hurt him and chased him back outdoors and then she told me I was a very bad boy. I could tell that she was going to spank me and I knew she would hurt me because she was so big and I ran upstairs and hid in my room. Then mommy stamped her foot hard and said Jimmy you come down here this minute. I didn't answer and then she said if I have to come upstairs and get you I'll whip you until you can't sit down and I still didn't answer because mommy hurts me when she gets angry like that. Then I heard her coming up the stairs and into my room and she opened the closet door and found me. I said please don't hurt me mommy but she reached down and caught my ear and dragged me out of the closet. I was so scared I bit her hand and she screamed and let go and I ran and locked myself in the bathroom because I knew she would hurt me bad if I didn't. I stayed there all day long and I could hear mommy running the sweeper downstairs and I couldn't see why she wanted to hurt me so much just because I let Bobby come in before she told me I could. But somehow it seemed that mommy was afraid of me even though she was so big and strong. I don't see why anybody as big as mommy should be afraid of me but she was. When daddy came home that night I heard him talking to mommy and then he came up to the bathroom and said open the door Jimmy I want to talk to you. I said I want Bobby first so he went down and called Bobby and then I opened the door and came out of the bathroom. Daddy reached down and lifted me high up on his shoulder and took me into my bedroom and just sat there for a long time patting Bobby's head and I couldn't hear what he was thinking very well. Finally he said out loud Jimmy you've got to be good for your mommy and do what she says and not lock yourself up in rooms anymore. I said but mommy was going to hurt me and daddy said when you're a bad boy your mommy has to punish you so you'll remember to be good but she doesn't like to spank you. She only does it because she loves you. I knew that wasn't true because mommy likes to punish me but I didn't dare say that to daddy. Daddy isn't afraid of me the way mommy is and he is nice to me most times so I said all right if you say so. Daddy said fine will you promise to be nice to mommy from now on? I said yes if mommy won't hit Bobby anymore with the broom and daddy said well after all Bobby can be a bad dog just the way you can be a bad boy can't he? I knew Bobby was never a bad dog on purpose but I said yes I guess so. Then I wanted to ask daddy why mommy was afraid of me but I didn't dare because I knew daddy liked mommy more than anybody and maybe he would be angry at me for saying things like that about her. That night I heard mommy and daddy talking down in the living room and I sat on the top step so I could hear them. Bobby sat there too but I knew he didn't know what they were saying because Bobby isn't very smart and can't understand word talk like I can. He can only understand think talk and he doesn't understand that very well but now even I couldn't understand what mommy was saying. She was crying and saying Ben I tell you there's something wrong with the child he knows what I'm thinking I can tell it by the way he looks at me and daddy said darling that's ridiculous how could he possibly know what you're thinking mommy said I don't know but he does ever since he was a little boy he's known oh Ben it's horrible I can't do anything with it because he knows what I'm going to do before I do it. Then daddy said Carol you're just upset about today and you're making things up the child is just a little smarter than most kids there's nothing wrong with that and mommy said no there's more to it than that and I can't stand it any longer we've got to take him to a doctor I don't even like to look at him daddy said you're tired you're just letting things get on your nerves so maybe the boy does look a little strange you know the doctor said it was just that the fontanels hadn't closed as soon as they should have and lots of children don't have a good growth of hair before they're six or seven after all he said he isn't a bad looking boy then mommy said that is true he's horrible I can't bear it Ben please do something and daddy said what can I do I talked to the boy and he was sorry and promised he'd behave himself and mommy said then there's that dog it follows him around wherever he goes and it's simply wicked if the dog isn't around and daddy said isn't that perfectly normal for a boy to love his dog mommy said no not like this talking to him all the time and the dog acting exactly as if he understands there's something wrong with the child something horribly wrong the daddy was quiet for a while then he said all right if it will make you feel any better we can have Dr. Grant take another look at it maybe he can convince you that there's nothing wrong with the boy and mommy said please Ben anything I can't stand much more of this when I went back to bed Bobby curled up on the floor I asked him what were fontanels and Bobby just yawned and said he didn't know but he thought I was nice and he would always take care of me so I didn't worry anymore and I went to sleep I have a panda out in the barn and the panda's name is Bobby too and at first Bobby the dog was jealous of Bobby the panda until I told him that the panda was only a make-believe Bobby and he was a real Bobby then Bobby liked the panda and the three of us played out in the barn all day we decided not to tell mommy and daddy about the panda and kept it for our own secret it was a big panda as big as mommy and daddy and sometimes I thought maybe I would make the panda hurt mommy but then I knew daddy would be sorry so I didn't Bobby and I were playing with Bobby the panda the day the doctor came and mommy called me in and made Bobby stay outside I didn't like the doctor because he smelled like a dirty old cigar and he had a big red nose with three black hairs coming out of it and he wheezed when he bent down to look at me daddy and mommy sat on the couch and the doctor said let me have a look at you young fellow and I said but I'm not sick and the doctor said ha ha of course you aren't you're a fine looking boy just let me listen to your chest for a minute so he put a cold thing on my chest and stuck some tubes in his ears and listened and then he looked in my eyes with a bright light and looked into my ears and then he felt my head all over he had big hairy hands and I didn't like him touching me but I knew mommy would be angry if I didn't hold still so I let him finish then he told daddy some big words that I couldn't understand but in think talk he was saying that my head still hadn't closed up right and I didn't have as much hair as you would expect but otherwise I seemed to be all right he said I was a good stout looking boy but if they wanted a specialist said to look at me he would arrange it daddy asked if that would cost very much and the doctor said yes it probably would he didn't see any real need for it because my bones were just a little slow and developing and mommy said have you seen other children like that the doctor said no but if the boy seems to be normal and intelligent why should she be worrying so then mommy told me to go upstairs and I went but I stopped on the top stairs and listened when I was gone the doctor said now Carol what is it that's really bothering you then mommy told him what she had told daddy how she thought I knew what she was thinking and the doctor said to daddy Ben have you ever felt any such thing about the boy daddy said of course not sometimes he gives you the feeling that he's smarter than you think he is but all parents have that feeling about their children sometimes and the mother broke down and her voice got loud and she said he's a monster I know it there's something wrong and he's different from us him and that horrible dog the doctor said but it's a beautiful collie and mommy said but he talks to it and it understands him and the doctor said now Carol let's be reasonable mommy said I've been reasonable too long you men just can't see it at all don't you think I'd know a normal child if I saw one and then she cried and cried and finally she said all right I know I'm making a fool of myself maybe I'm just overtired and the doctor said I'm sure that's the trouble try to get some rest and sleep longer at night mommy said I can't sleep at night I just lie there and think the doctor said well we'll fix that enough of this nonsense now you need your sleep and if you're not sleeping well it's you that should be seeing the doctor he gave her some pills from his bag and then he went away and pretty soon daddy let Bobby in and Bobby came upstairs and jumped up and licked my face as if he'd been away for a hundred million years later mommy called me down for supper and she wasn't crying anymore and she and daddy didn't say anything about what they had said to the doctor mommy made me a special surprise for dessert some ice cream with chocolate syrup on top and after supper we all went for a walk even though it was cold outside and snowing again and then daddy said well I think things will be all right and mommy said I hope so but I could tell that she didn't really think so and she was more afraid of me than ever for a while I thought mommy was really going to be nice to me and Bobby then she was especially nice when daddy was home but when daddy was away at work sometimes mommy jumped when she saw me looking at her and then she sent me outdoors to play and told me not to come in until lunch I liked that because I knew if I weren't near mommy everything would be all right when I was with mommy I tried hard not to look at her and I tried not to hear what she was thinking but lots of times I would see her looking first at me and then at Bobby and those times I couldn't help hearing what she was thinking because it seemed so loud inside my head that it made my eyes hurt but I knew mommy would be angry so I pretended I couldn't hear what she was thinking at all one day when we were out in the barn playing with Bobby the panda we saw mommy coming down through the snow from the kitchen and Bobby said look out Jimmy mommy is coming and I quickly told Bobby the panda to go hide under the hay so mommy couldn't see him but the panda was so big his whole top and his little pink nose stuck out of the hay mommy came in and looked around the barn and said you've been out here a long time what have you been doing I said nothing and Bobby said nothing too only in think talk and mommy said you are too you've been doing something naughty and I said no mommy we haven't done anything and then the panda sneezed and I looked at him and he looked so funny with his nose sticking out of the hay that I laughed out loud mommy looked angry and said well what's so funny what are you laughing at I said nothing because I knew mommy couldn't see the panda but I couldn't stop laughing because he looked so funny sticking out of the hay then mommy got mad and grabbed my ear and shook me until it hurt and said you naughty boy don't you lie to me what have you been doing out here she hurt me so much that I started to cry and then Bobby snarled at mommy loud and low and curled his lips back over his teeth and snarled some more and mommy got real wide in the face and let go of me and she said get out of here you nasty dog and Bobby snarled louder and then snapped at her she screamed and she said Jimmy you come in the house this minute and leave that nasty dog outdoors and I said I won't come I hate you then mommy said Jimmy you wicked ugly little monster and I said I don't care when I get big I'm going to hurt you and throw you in the wood shed and lock you in until you die and make you eat coconut pudding and Bobby hates you too mommy looked terrible and I could feel how much she was afraid of me and I said you just wait I'll hurt you bad when I get big and then she turned and ran back to the house and Bobby wagged his tail and said don't worry I won't let her hurt you anymore and I said Bobby you shouldn't have snapped at her because daddy won't like me when he comes home but Bobby said I like you and I won't let anything ever hurt you I'll always take care of you no matter why and I said promise no matter what and Bobby said I promise and then we told Bobby the panda to come out but it wasn't much fun playing anymore after a little while mommy called me and said lunch was ready she was still white and I said can Bobby come too and she said of course Bobby can come Bobby's a nice dog so we went in to eat lunch mommy was talking real fast about what fun it was to play in the barn and was I sure I wasn't too cold because it was below zero outside and the radio said a snowstorm was coming but she didn't say anything about Bobby and me being out in the barn she was talking so fast I couldn't hear what she was thinking except for little bits when she set my lunch on the table and then she set a bowl of food on the floor for Bobby even though it wasn't Bobby's time to eat and said nice Bobby here's your dinner Bobby came over and sniffed the bowl and then he looked up at me and said it smells funny and mommy said nice Bobby it's good hamburger just the way you like it and then for just a second I saw what she was thinking and it was terrible because she was thinking that Bobby would soon be dead and I remember daddy saying a long time ago that somebody fed bad things to the Bennett's dog and then the dog died and I said don't eat it Bobby and Bobby snarled at the dish and then mommy said you tell the dog to eat it and I said no you're bad and you want to hurt Bobby and then I picked up the dish and threw it at mommy it missed and smashed on the wall and she screamed and turned and ran out into the other room she was screaming for daddy and saying I can't stand it he's a monster a murderous little monster and we've got to get out of here before he kills us all he knows what we're thinking he's horrible and then she was on the telephone and she couldn't make the words come out right when she tried to talk I was scared and I said come on Bobby let's lock ourselves up in my room and we ran upstairs and locked the door mommy was banging things and laughing and crying downstairs and screaming we've got to get out he'll kill us if we don't and a while later I heard the car coming up the road fast and saw daddy run into the house just as it started to snow then mommy was screaming please Ben we've got to get out of here he tried to kill me and the dog is vicious he bit me when I tried to make him stop the next minute daddy was running up the stairs two at a time and I could feel him inside my head for the first time and I knew he was angry he'd never been this angry before and he rattled the knob and said open this door Jimmy and a loud voice I said no I won't and he said open the door or I'll break your neck when I get in there and then he kicked the door and kicked it again the third time the lock broke and the door flew open and daddy stood there panting his eyes looked terrible and he had a leather belt doubled up in his hand and he said now come out here and his voice was so loud it hurt my ears down below mommy was crying please Ben take me away he'll kill us both he's a monster I said don't hurt me daddy it was mommy she was bad to me and he said I said come out here even louder I was scared and then I said please daddy I'll be good I promise then he started for me with the belt and I screamed out Bobby don't let him hurt me Bobby and Bobby snarled like a wild animal and jumped at daddy and bit his wrist so bad the blood spurred it out daddy shouted and dropped the belt and kicked it Bobby but Bobby was too quick he jumped for daddy again and I saw his white teeth flash and heard him snap close to daddy's throat and then Bobby was snarling and snapping and I was excited and I shouted hurt him Bobby he's been bad to me too and he wants to hurt me and you've got to stop him then I saw daddy's eyes open wide and I felt something jump in his mind something that I'd never felt there before and I knew he was understanding my think talk I said I want Bobby to hurt you and mommy because you're not nice to me only Bobby and my panda are nice to me go ahead Bobby hurt him bite him again and make him bleed and then daddy caught Bobby by the neck and threw him across the room and slammed the door shut and dragged something heavy up to block it in a minute he was running downstairs shouting Carol I heard it you were right all along I felt him I felt what he was thinking and mommy cried please Ben take me away let's leave them and never come back never and daddy said it's horrible he told that dog to kill me and it went right for my throat the boy is evil and monstrous even from downstairs I could feel daddy's fear pounding into my head and then I heard the door banging and looked out the door and saw daddy carrying suitcases out through the snow to the car and then mommy came out running and the car started down the hill and they were gone everything downstairs was very quiet I looked out the window and I couldn't see anything but the big falling snowflakes and the sun going down over the hill now Bobby and I and the panda are all together and I'm glad mommy and daddy are gone I went to sleep for a little while because my head hurt so but now I'm awake and Bobby is lying across the room licking his feet and I hope mommy and daddy never come back because Bobby will take care of me Bobby is my friend and he said he'd always take care of me no matter what and he understands my think talk even if he isn't very smart it's beginning to get cold in the house now because nobody has gone down to fix the fire but I don't care about that pretty soon I will tell Bobby to push open the door and go down and fix the fire and then I will tell him to get supper for me and then I will stay up all night because mommy and daddy aren't here to make me go to bed there's just me and Bobby and the panda and Bobby promised he'd take care of me because he's my friend it's getting very cold now and I'm getting hungry end of my friend Bobby by Alan Edward Norse