 THE HAND by Jerry Sol 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 Dale Grofman. Alice knew that Dobie was a good dog, even if he did have an alarming habit of hunting down rabbits and gophers. But one day he brought her THE HAND by Jerry Sol. Alice McNearby was washing breakfast dishes and looking out the kitchen window at the November sky when she first spied Dobie. The way he was sneaking up to the house she knew he had killed something. She dried her hands on her apron and tried to put down the suspicion that nod at the edge of her mind as she went to the door. During the past month Dobie had killed a cat, a pheasant, two rabbits, a field mouse, and it seemed that it would only be a question of time until he got one of the chickens or even one of the suckling pigs. That would be all Mack would need to throw one of his wild spells and he'd probably take a gun to Dobie as he had threatened to do. To make it worse, Dobie seemed to know how Mack felt and often growled at him. Mack didn't growl back but the look in her husband's eyes was enough to convince her Dobie's continued existence was in doubt. It was a wonder to Alice that Mack hadn't done away with him already, judging from the comfort she derived from the dog. Dobie never fretted, never wanded, and seemed so appreciative of everything she did for him. She had scolded him for his killing but found herself unable to put her heart into it because he seemed to love it so. Instead she always managed to clear away any bones before Mack returned from town or come up from the barn and she was thankful he seemed as yet unaware of the brown dog's hunting nature. Now it appeared that she'd have to cover up for the dog once again and she opened the door. Dobie was under a bush halfway across the barnyard, his kill still in his mouth. He was circling around and she knew he'd soon be on his stomach enjoying his feast. Dobie, she called in a low voice hoping it would not carry to the barn. Dobie's ears came up. He looked her way. Dobie, come here, Dobie! The dog was undecided, looking at her, unmoving for a moment. Then his tail started flicking and he lowered his head and came up to her. Then she saw what he had in his mouth and her blood stopped and only a great effort on the part of her heart started it going again. It was a human hand. Blood still oozed from the severed wrist. Dobie! The way she said it, the way she looked, something made the dog drop the hand. It fell to the ground, limp, palmed down. Dobie, head hung, tail down, ventured forward, nuzzled her hand. But Alice could not tear her eyes away from the thing on the cold ground. She had cared for Dobie like a baby ever since someone dropped him off out in the country and she had adopted the name Dobie because a passing child had called him that and it seemed like a good name and she loved him. But this, this hand, that was too much. She looked around, saw a milk-pail, put it open and down over the hand and carried two large rocks from the garden border to put on top to secure it. She didn't want it to be gone when she brought Mack back to see it. She heard her ring on the telephone. Rather early for Mrs. Swaringen or Mrs. Abbey, wasn't it? But ignored it. There was something else she had to do and do quickly. For the first time in months she felt thankful for Mack's presence. Surely he would know what to do. Though it was cold she was unmindful of the fact that she did not wear a coat as she hurried to the barn. She was thinking instead that perhaps she should have answered the phone in case it might have been someone other than her women friends, possibly something in connection with the severed hand. She shuddered as she remembered how it had looked. Alice found Mack in the loft. He had a forkful of hay over the opening when he saw her below. He stopped, narrowed his eyes before he slowly brought the hay back to the loft floor and leaned on the pitchfork. Alice found something, she said, and wished her voice hadn't quavered so. Mack spat a blob of tobacco on the floor above her. He's a no-good dog, he said. Scares the pigs. Always sneaking round. Aught to be rid of him. Should have got round to it before this. What'd he find? A hand, she swallowed and shivered. A what? A hand. A human hand. He suddenly took pride in the fact that she was telling him something he didn't know, and that he was interested. I don't know where he got it! Mack put down the fork and lowered his burly frame over the edge of the opening and came down the ladder without a word. He followed her up to the house, and she was thankful Dobie was nowhere around. When he kicked over the pail she was gratified to hear his sharp intake of breath. By God, he said, staring down at it. Then he flicked it over with his boot. By God, he said again. Alice had never seen him so agitated. He turned to her, his eyes narrower than she had ever seen them. You take a good look at it? She nodded, looked down at the way the fingers were bent upward as if the hand were holding an invisible ball. She heard Mack spit, looked at him running his fingers along his stubbly jaw. It ain't human, he said. Anybody with any sense could see that. It's got six fingers. Just then the phone rang again. It seemed to come from a long way off, and Alice hadn't consciously noticed it until her husband said, Ain't you going to answer the phone? And then she went to the door, dazed and wondering. She turned before she went in. What are you going to do with it? She asked. You just go in and gab with those women, folks, he said. I'll take care of it. Shouldn't we call the sheriff? His eyes came up level with hers. We ain't gonna call nobody. I don't want no trouble. And don't you go talking about it with them either. The phone was Mrs. Flaringen, who told her that she had been trying to get her for the last half hour, ever since she heard about the ship that crashed, and wasn't it awful that a person wasn't safe in his bed, asleep anymore, with these planes flying around and crashing, and so far from the airport, too? Mrs. Flaringen was surprised that Alice had noticed no smoke, and didn't she know the wreck was closer to the McNearby place than it was to the Flaringen's? It's right south of year, lower 40 on the old Carnahan land, Alice. I figure it was about a mile from your place. Lots of people down there. And then there was a call from Mrs. Abby, who told her she'd come from the crash site, and wasn't in a peculiar plane with those funny windows, and that once broken one, somebody had patched up from inside. And the sheriff won't let anybody go near it, Mrs. Abby said. He says it's a spaceship, and the army ought to have a look at it first. But I saw him trying to find where to get in, except for that broken window, and the crumpled nose. It doesn't look too bad off. Big clouds of smoke were shooting out of the tail when I first got there. But it's not smoking anymore. Really, you ought to go down there and see it, Alice. Alice told her husband about it. He had gone back to the barn, and she didn't see the severed hand anywhere on the way there. So that's where it came from, he said. Good thing it didn't land on my place. He spat and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his overalls. He'd always bothered Alice when he did this, because the stain was so difficult to get out. But she had long ceased trying to change him. If it had landed here, I'd have blown it up like a stump. Should we go down and see it? Alice asked, knowing too late, that she had phrased the question the wrong way. Curiosity killed the cat, he said. And there was the faintest sliver of a smile on his face, but it was only fleeting. Let everybody else go down and I'll get my work done while they're standing around with their mouths hanging open. I'm running a farm and I aim to run it right. I think I'll go down. She tried to make it have resolve, but didn't quite succeed. He glared at her and spat again. Then get, he said. He threw down a large forkful of hay, and she had to jump out of the way. She went right after dinner. She saw a silver cylinder that looked ever so much like the pictures of the guided missiles she had seen in the newspapers, except this one was bigger than any of them. Its nose was dug she could not tell how far into the earth. And some of the metal on the sides were battered and bent. And the tail was, she guessed, about 150 feet in the air. It was about 25 feet across. There were clusters of people about, and she recognized many of them she hadn't seen for a long time. And she was glad she had come because it gave her a rare chance to visit. Mack seldom cared for just visiting. She talked to the Blains and the Purvises and to the Gordon children whose parents had let them remain at the wreck site even after they had gone home for chores. To the barfords and to hawk holders and many others. They asked about back and she offered her usual excuses for him. While she was there she saw an army car driven up. She watched while some men got out and went through the roped off area and pounded and scraped on the cylinder and then stood off looking at the tail of it, scratching their heads. When she went home she was surprised to see how far the sun had moved across the sky and hoped Mack wouldn't be upset by her prolonged absence. She was gratified to see that he wasn't in the house. She petted Dobie for a while before she went in to stir up the stove and prepare supper. During the meal Alice tried to tell her husband something of what she had seen at the wreck site. But if he paid any attention to her he didn't reveal it. He had propped up a farm equipment catalog against the sugar bowl and studied the pages without saying a word. She resigned herself to eating in silence with this great hulk of a man before her and reflected that this night was no different than most of the others. She wondered what it was that made him the way he was so intent on his farm to the exclusion of everything else, including humanity. It was a fetish, an obsession that didn't pay off because she couldn't see that they were any better off than the swearing-gins or the abbeys or any of the others in the neighborhood. When he was through he simply got up, put on his overcoat and went outside. In a few minutes she could hear the car start and knew that it would be another lonely evening. Mack would be home when he felt like it, reeking of liquor but handling it well. She did not begrudge him these absences because the man obviously needed something to take his mind off his work. But she wished she had some comparable escape. She had got out her riding-board and settled herself comfortably with a pen in hand in Mack's big chair, and had even put the date on the letter to her mother who lived in Canada when she heard Dobie's excited bark. She picked up a shawl on the way to the kitchen, turned on the big light on the windmill and looked out the window. Dobie was in the middle of the yard, barking at something she couldn't see. She went out. Dobie, she called, what is it? The dog whined and moved about nervously, looking first at her and then at the darkness between the big barn and the machine shed. As she sought to pierce the blackness there, a shape moved out from between the buildings and the sudden move caused her to step back. Dobie at once set up a loud and furious barking. Quiet, Dobie, she managed to say, laying a hand aside the dog's head and viewing the figure before her. It was a man, at least a man's shape, with hands. She thanked God the creature had both its hands, a head, a neck, shoulders, and legs. But the head was a lot larger than a man's and there was no hair on it and the eyes were smaller and the nose longer and the mouth a narrow slash across the face. The neck was short and the shoulders thin and the legs and arms were spindly. She saw that each hand had six fingers. Across the narrow shoulders had been flung what looked like a carpet and from beneath this fell a shirt that went to the knees, held to the body with a metal rope belt just under his ribs. The shoes were enormous things for such pipe-stamped legs until she saw that they were soft and furry and that this gave them their size. For a moment she almost laughed because he presented such a grotesque figure, but she did not dare. The creature spoke. Good evening, Mrs. McNearby. It said in a not unpleasant whistling voice, and Alice wondered how it could talk so well to her. I come from the crashed ship. You know of it, of course. You were there this afternoon. Alice was on the point of asking how he knew she had been at the wreck site when he started in again. We have traced the severed hand of one of our crew to your place here. We came down at considerable velocity when our ship went out of control. We were lucky to escape with our lives. But one of us was thrown from the ship with such force that his hand was cut off by an obstruction on the ship. Your dog happened on the scene before we could find the hand. The chill of the November air was beginning to penetrate her shawl, and Alice could feel the stirring of air on her legs. Doby moved restlessly at her side, but she did not let go of his neck hair for fear of what he might do. We need that hand, Mrs. McNearby. Without it the man who lusted will be at a tragic disadvantage among us. That is why we were looking so hard for it this morning after the crash. If we can return the hand to him in time, it can, through proper treatment, be made as good as new. Would you be so kind as to return it to me now, please? The eyes, though tiny, seemed not unkind, and the alien stood silent. She was moved by his pleas. Mac, that's my husband, has it, Alice said. I saw Doby here with it and put it under a milk-pail, and then Mac saw it, and he said he'd take care of it. She hoped she was making sense. Do you know where it is? I don't know where, Mac put it. Would you find it for me, please? I'll wait. Alice agreed, and, wondering what Mac would say when he got home and found the hand gone, started looking for it. But surely Mac would understand about the hand, she thought. I'll explain to him the urgency of it, that one of the aliens needs it to live and be useful. She looked in the obvious places, in the storeroom just off the kitchen, in the cellar, then in the house itself, in Mac's room, and through his things, and even in the attic, though she knew it couldn't be there. She became frantic then, paced by the alien's necessity of his hand, and did not bother to straighten things up after she looked. It simply couldn't be in the house. But where else? She went out and told the alien that she could not find it, but that she would look in the barn. In the end she could find it nowhere, and when she told the alien he seemed as disappointed as she. I have seen you searching, he said. I want to thank you for your trouble. I'm awfully sorry, if you said. I don't know where Mac could have hid it. When he comes home I'll ask him. I'll wait for him, said the alien. It's imperative that we have the hand. It is the only thing standing in the way of our leaving your planet. Your husband will know where it is, and return it to us. I'm sure he will, she said, hoping she was right, but knowing how stubborn Mac could be, then she got to worrying about what would happen if he refused, and as she went back to the house with Dobie at her side, she was overcome with the shakes. She did not get her composure back until she had drunk a cup of steaming hot coffee. Then she looked at the clock, saw it was eleven, and that she had spent nearly two hours looking for the hand. She saw, too, that the figure was still in the yard, standing there motionless, like something carved out of stone. Her husband drove in about midnight, and it seemed an eternity between the time the engine stopped, and he entered the house. From the way he looked at her, he was surprised to find her still in the kitchen. You're still up? His face was flushed, his tongue thick. Mac, she said, not knowing how to begin. Where is that hand? You're still worried about that? He took off his coat and threw it on the table. But Mac, they've come after it. He looked at her dully. Who's come after it? The aliens from the ship. That's one of them in the yard. Look out the window! He turned around and saw the stationary figure in the yard. He took a deep breath. So that's one of them, eh? He laughed in a way that chilled her, and then went to the cupboard and reached for his shotgun on the wall next to it. Alice put her hand on his shoulders, and he stopped before he touched the gun. Listen, Mac, they need that hand. It belongs to one of their men, and they need it back because they're going to put it back on, and it will be as good as new. Then they're going to leave. He looked down at her with bloodshot, narrow eyes, and she could see where tobacco had run out of the corner of his mouth, and the only thing she could think of was what it would look like on the coveralls when she washed them. That thing out there, Mac said, ain't got no business round here scaring the pigs and the chickens. I aimed to get it. I wish you had told me where the hand is, Alice said, her eyes scalded with tears. I tried to find it. I looked everywhere, and if I'd found it, I would have given it to him, and now they'd be gone. He shoved her from him rudely, just like a woman to do a thing like that, and without even asking me. He was breathing hard, and he moved to the window to look at the alien again. You, out there, you want that hand, eh? He laughed again, then turned to her. You looked for it. That's what you said. Well, you just looked in the wrong place. I hid it good. He went over to his coat and withdrew a newspaper-wrapped package from one of the pockets. He unfolded it on the table. It was the hand. Please take it out to him, Mac, Alice said. He's waiting for it. His face was sour, and his lips a sneer. Give it to him, hell, he said. Dobie brought it here, didn't he? I have a mind to let Dobie have it. No, no! Mac put his hand on the table, staring down at the hand, and shook his head. But Dobie don't deserve it. He picked up the hand, and a queasiness prevented Alice from looking directly at it. It's a matter of time, she pleaded. Please take it to them. They've got to have it right away, or they can't use it. She heard the clink of one of the stove lids, and watched in horror as Mac dropped the hand through the hole into the fire beneath. She was suddenly sick. During it, all she could hear was Mac's laughter. Get on upstairs, he said a few minutes later. Get on up to bed. Alice looked at him, knowing her face was pale, and her eyes were wet, and hating him for what he had done to her, and what he had done to the aliens. But she felt fear, too, because she had never seen him quite like this. What are you going to do? He went over and took down a box of shells from the cupboard. What do you suppose? I'm going to run that thing off my place. You can't do that. You wait and see. But he hasn't done nothing to you. He's on my property, ain't he? Now you get on upstairs like I told you, yet! Alice went up the stairs engulfed by a feeling of sorrow for the aliens, particularly for the one that would never get his hand back, and filled with fury for her husband. From her bedroom window she could see the aliens still standing in the yard, and she wondered what he would think of them for burning the hand, and for what Mac was about to do. She stood there a long time before the alien moved. She heard the downstairs door open and close, and she knew Mac was outside, and that the two were approaching each other. The alien finally moved from her field of vision. Listening, she heard the aliens' calm, whistling voice, but she could not make out what he said. She could only hear the raving of her husband, and this she did not want to hear. When the shotgun blast came, she jumped as if she herself had been hit, and once again she was flooded with compassion for the creature from another world somewhere who had come in friendship, and who had been given something hateful in return. She went to the window, but she could see nothing. She did not dare go downstairs again with Mac in the mood he was in. She sat in an armchair at the window, looking out into the barn lot illuminated by the lone electric light high in the windmill, and eventually she did not know when. She fell asleep. When she woke up the day was dawning, and with a rush she remembered everything that had happened the night before, and she found that she had slept through the night in the chair without removing her clothes. When she stood up her muscles screamed protestingly. She looked out into the yard and saw that the light in the windmill was still burning. She went to Mac's bedroom expecting to find him sprawled across his bed, but his bed had not been slept in. Downstairs she expected to find him, head in hands, asleep at the kitchen table, but he was not there, and the shotgun was not in its place on the wall. She found the gun on the doorstep, but Mac wasn't in sight. Dobie came up to her and nuzzled her hands. Where is he, Dobie? She asked. Where's Mac? Dobie turned and trotted before her, looking back at her as if to say, this is the way. She found Mac behind the barn. He was alive but in a state of shock, moaning in pain and fear. His right hand was missing, severed neatly at the wrist. The end of The Hand by Jerry Soul. Exploiter's End by James Kausi. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Exploiter's End by James Kausi. People or termites. It's all the same. There's a limit to how far you can drive them. We time studied the term. It moved with a pliant liquid grace. It's forearms flickering over the instrument panel, installing studs, tightening screws. It's antennae glowing with the lambed yellow that denoted an agony of effort. See? Harvey's freckled face was smug. He rates an easy hundred and ten. Whoever took that first study. I took it, I said, squinting at the stopwatch. You could hear him bite his lip. After only two weeks on the job, on a strange planet ninety light years from home, you don't tell your boss he's cock-eyed. The term hurried. It's faceted termite eyes were expressionless diamonds, but the antennae gleamed with a desperate saffron. If bugs could sweat, I thought, Riley. Now the quartz panel installation. Those forearms moved in a blinding frenzy. But the stopwatch was faster. The second hand caught up with the term. It passed him. Rating seventy four percent. I tucked the clipboard under my arm, squeezed through the airlock, and down the ramp. Harvey followed sullenly. The conveyor groaned on, bringing up the next unit, a sleek little cruiser. The term seized a fifty pound air wrench, fled up the ramp to the airlock. A dozen feet back to the operation, I pointed out. After the next job, he'll have to return forty feet. Then sixty. He's in the hole. Harvey looked at his shoes. John Berry, the trim superintendent, came puffing down the line. His jowled face anxious about direct labor cost. The way every good super should be. Anything wrong, Jake? You can't cut it, I said. Berry frowned up through the airlock at the term. Those antennae now shone the soft, sad, purple of despair. We walked past the body jigs. The air was a haze of blue smoke, punctuated with yellow splashes of flame from the electronic welding guns. Terms scuttled like gigantic spiders over the great silver hulls, their antennae glowing in a pattern of swift bright harmony. Right on standard, good cost. Harvey's face was wrapped as he watched them. I said harshly, give me your third production axiom. Harvey's shoulders squared. He said stiffly, beauty is functional. The quintessence of grace is the clean, soaring beauty of a spaceship's hull. Extrapolate, Harvey. His lips were tight. What I see is ugly. Terms must be taught individuality. What I see is a fascinating, deadly beauty, deadly because it's useless. We must sublimate it, grind it down, hammer it out into a useful pattern. Waste of motion is a sin. Excellent. We turned into the administration lift, leaving the iron roar behind us, and on the way up, Harvey didn't say a word. I listened for the tinkle of shattering ideals and said patiently, you're here to build spaceships, to build them better and cheaper than consolidated or solar. Hell, we've even set up a village for the terms. Electricity, plumbing, luxuries they wouldn't normally enjoy for the next million years. Will they fire him? Harvey's voice was flat. My temper was shredding. Four-day layoff is third this month. Terms kick in most of their salary for village maintenance. They can't afford a part-time producer. I could see that term read out of the gang, leaving the company village, stoically, while his fellows played a wailing dirge of color on the antennae, the farewell song. I could see him trudging over the windswept peak of Cobalt Mountain, staring down at his native village, and shaking with the impact of the Stamverstand, the tribe of mind, the ache and the longing, a wheel shaken out of orbit, the lonely cog searching for its lost slot. I could see that term returning to his tribe, and how they'd tear him to pieces, because he was a thing apart now, an alien. We walked down the gray corridor, past Psyche, past the conference hall, till the silver door marked methods and standards. Harvey's blue eyes were remote, stubborn. I clapped him paternally on the shoulder. Anyone can call one wrong, lad. Forget it. Harvey slumped down at a computer, and I walked into my private office and shut the door. Harvey's personnel dossier was in my desk. IQ, 178, fair. Stability quotient, 2.8, very bad. Adaptability rating, 0.7, borderline. Those idiots in Psyche. Couldn't they indoctrinate a new man properly? I waited. In a moment, Harvey came in without knocking and said, Mr. Egan, I want to quit. I took my time lighting a cigar, not raising my head. His defiant, pleading look. I blew smoke rings at the Visicom and finally said, since you're 16, you've dreamed of this. Elimination tests, the weeding out, 10,000 other smart hungry kids fighting you for this job. I tasted the words. When your contract's up, you can write your own ticket anywhere in the system. He blurted, I came here full of ideas about the wonderful work Amalgamated was doing to advance backward civilization. Sure, the terms have a union, they're paid at standard galactic rates for spacecraft assembly, but you make them live in that village. It costs to run that village. You give it to them with one hand and take it back with the other. All the time you're holding out the promise of racial advancement, individuality, someday the terms will reach the stars. Nuts. That's guild propaganda, I said softly. The guild is just a bogey you created to keep the inter-solar spacecraft's union in line. There's a Venus port liner to do in next week. When it leaves, I'll be on it. I played Dutch Uncle. I told him he wasn't used to Terminorbs one and a half Graves, that this was just a hangover from the three to five oxygen ratio he wasn't used to. But he said no. Finally, I shrugged, scribbled something on an AVO and handed it to him. All right, Harvey, I said mildly. Take this down to Carmody in psych. He'll give you a clearance. Harvey's face went white. Since when do you go to psych for a clearance? I pressed a stud under the desk and two analysts came in. I told them what to do and Harvey screamed. He fought and bit and clawed. He mouthed unutterable things about what we were doing to the terms until I chopped him mercifully behind the ear. Poor devil, panted one of the analysts. Obviously insufficient indoctrination, sir. Would you mind if I spent an hour in psych for reorientation? He... he upset me. My eyes stung with pride. Sam had loyalty plus. Sure thing, Sam. You'd better go to Barney. He said some pretty ugly things. They dragged Harvey out and I went over to the Visicom, punched a button. I was trembling with an icy rage as Carmody's lean hawk face swam into view. Hello, Jake, he said languidly, has cost. I told him curtly about Harvey. Another weak sister I rasped. Can't you scream them anymore? Didn't you note his stability index? I'm going to report this to Starza, Don. Relax, Carmody smiled. Those things happen, Jake. We'll do a few gentle things with scalpel and narcosynthesis and he'll be back in a week, really eager. A perfect cost analyst. I'd never liked Carmody. He was so smug. He didn't realize the sacredness of his position. I said coldly, put Miss Davis on. Carmody's grin was knowing. The screen flickered and Fern's face came into focus. Her moist red lips parted and I shivered, looking at her even on a Visicom screen. The shining glory of her hair, those cool green eyes. Three months hadn't made a difference. How was little old Earth? I said awkwardly. Wonderful. She was radiant. I'll see you for lunch. Today's grievance day. Dinner? I promised Don, she said demurely. I swallowed hard. How about the term festival tomorrow night? Well, Don sort of asked. I tried to laugh it off and Fern said she'd see me later and the screen went blank and I sat there shaking. The screen flickered again. Starza's great moon face smiled at me and said sweetly, we're ready to start grieving. I picked up the time studies that were death sentences for two terms and went down the hall to ulcer Gulch, the conference room. Lura termite away from his tribe, promise him the stars, make him bust his thorax on an assembly line. He makes a wonderful worker with reflexes twice as fast as a humans, but he still isn't an individual. Even when putting a spaceship together, he's still part of the tribe, part of a glowing symphony of color and motion. That's bad for production. Accent on individuality, that was the keynote. The terms in their union representatives could argue grievance right to the letter of the contract, but when it came to production standards, we had them. Terminal four was 90 light years from the system, and the terms couldn't afford a home office time and motion analyst. It wasn't worth it. Terms were expendable. Los Titchnet was committee man at large for the term local. He sat regally at the head of the conference table, seven gleaming kite in his feet of him, with his softly pulsating antennae and faceted eyes, and said in a clicking, humorless voice, the first item is second stage grievance. Brother Nadkek, in final assembly, was laid off for one day. Reason? He missed an operation. The grievance, of course, is a mere formality. You will deny it. David Starza winked at me from behind horn-rimmed glasses. He sat like some great bland Buddha, director of industrial relations, genius in outer psychology, ruthless, soft-spoken, anticipator of alien trends. He said in that beautiful velvet voice, ordinarily yes. In this case, Nadkek wished to ask his foreman about emitting a welding phase of the operation. While the suggestion was declined, Nadkek showed unmistakable initiative. Starza stressed the word. We appreciate his interest in the job. He will receive pay for the lost day. Around the table, antennae flashed amazed colors. A precedent had been set. Interest in the job transcended even the contract. Management sustains the grievance. Titch Nat droned incredulously. Of course, Starza said. Nadkek left the conference room. His antennae appuzzled mauve. Next, Starza said pontifically. The next grievance was simply that foreman had spoken harshly to a term. The term resented it. In his tribe, he had been a fighter, prime guardian of the queen mother. Fighters could not be reprimanded, as could spinners and workers. Starza and Titch Nat split hairs wide dozed and thought about fern. Starza finally promised to reprimand the foreman. It was lovely the way he thumped on the table, a flame with righteousness, his voice golden thunder, the martyr, hurt by Titch Nat's unfairness, yet so eager to compromise, to be fair. The next grievance was work standards. Starza looked at me. This one mattered. This was cost. I pulled out my study proofs, said Radnor in final assembly, consistently in the hole, rating seventy-four percent. The operation was too tight, Jake. Admit it. The thought uncoiled darkly, thundering and reverberating in the horrified caverns of my brain. A thought caster. So the guild had thought casters now. The guild had finally come. I sat in the dank silence, shaking. A drop of ice crawled slowly down my temple. I stared around the conference table at Starza's frown. At those term faces, the great faceted eyes. We gave this worker every chance, I said, licking my lips. We put him on another operation. He still couldn't cut it. Even though we've got production to meet, we still gave as many chances. The thought slashed. It grew into a soundless roar. Stop it, Jake. Tell them how amalgamated, under the cloak of liberation, is strangling the terms with an alien culture. Tell them what a mockery their contract really is. Tell them about that term you condemned this morning. I fought it. Feeling the blood run from my lip, I fought it. I'd seen strong men driven insane by a thought caster within seconds. My stability index was 6.3. Damned high. I fought it. I got to my feet. The room reeled. Those damned term faces, the shining antennae. I stumbled towards the door. The thought became a whiplash of molten fury. Uphold that grievance, Jake. Tell them the truth. Admit the standard was impossible to meet. I slammed the door. The voice stopped. My skull was a shattered flywheel, a sunburst of agony. I was retching. I stumbled down the corridor to psych. Fern was there. I was screaming at her. The guild was here. They had thought casters. My brain was melting. Fern was white faced. She had a hypo. I didn't feel it. The last thing I saw was the glimmer of tears in her green eyes. The near on flow stars his voice. No too alike, like fingerprints. But a pity they can't refine the transmittal waves. I tried to open my eyes. The guild atomized solar's plant on proikon, comedy's voice said quietly. It's just a question of time, Dave. No, stars have said thoughtfully. Proikon was a sweat shop. I think maybe they're hinting that our production standards are a trifle rough. Look, his eyelids fluttered. Bet you he takes refuge in amnesia. You lose. My voice was an iron groan. We were in stars' office. Comedy peered at me with a clinical eye. I took the liberty of narcosynthesis while you were out, Jake. You told us all about it. How do you feel? I told them how I felt, and spades. I want my vacation now, I said. I've accrued seven months. I'm going to Venus. Now now, stars have said, mustn't desert the sinking ship, Jake. I shut my eyes. His voice was soothing oil. Jake, the guild as a whole doesn't know of this plant. Guild agents are freelancers in the full sense of the word. They exercise their own initiative, and only report to Guild HQ when the job is done. Then, comedy said, if we can find out who, precisely, stars' eyes revealed. Incidentally, Don, you've been gone the last four days. Why? Comedy regarded him steadily. Recruiting. You knew that. Yet you brought back only a dozen terms. Comedy drew a deep, slow breath. Words gotten around, Dave. The tribes have finally forgotten their petty wars and united against a common enemy. Us. Any term that exhibits undesirable traits of individuality is now destroyed. I think a dozen was a good haul. You had the whole planet. Comedy's grin was diamond hard. You think maybe I spent a few hours under a guild man control? Is that it? Stars have said, on your way out, send Los Titchnats in. Comedy flushed. Titchnats the one and you know it. But if he's not, if you haven't run down the spy by tomorrow, you can accept my resignation. I saw what they left of pro icon. The door slammed behind him. Stars have smiled at me. What do you think, Jake? Titchnat, the second I got out of there, the thoughtcaster stopped. Doesn't mean a thing. They can beam through solid rock. Hundred foot radius. No exploitation, I'm used. Fanatics, Stars have said. They'd impede the progress of man. Sacrifice man's rightful place in the cosmos for the sake of crawling things. We'll fight them, Jake. Titchnat entered. He stood stiffly before Stars' desk, his antennae a cheerful emerald. Stars has said carefully. What do you know about the guild? Impractical visionaries, Titchnat clicked. Lovers of status, well-meaning fools. They approached me yesterday. A vein throbbed purple in Stars' forehead, yet he kept his voice soft. And you didn't report it. And precipitate a crisis? Titchnat sounded amused. I was asked if my people were being persecuted. Had I answered in the affirmative there might have been repercussions, perhaps a sequel to Proikon. Oh yes, we know of Proikon. Your foremen are sometimes indiscreet. Who is the agent? Stars have breathed. Should I tell you and disrupt the status quo? You would destroy the agent. In retaliation, the guild might destroy this plant. Impossible. Guild agents have no such authority. A chance I cannot afford to take. Titchnat was adamant. Amalgamated, Stars have prodded, offers a standing reward of 100,000 solar credits for apprehension of any guild agent. Your village could use those credits. You could equip an atomic lab. You could maintain your own research staff. Stop it. The antenna throbbed brilliantly. We are your friends, Titchnat. Symbiosis, I believe, is the word. Titchnat clicked dryly. You need us. We need your science. We need your terrifying concept of individuality. We need to lose our old ways, the dance of harvest time, the queen mother. One by one, the rituals drop away. The old life, the good tribal life, is dying. You sift out us misfits who chafe at tribal oneness. You offer us the planets. The antenna flashed an angry scarlet. You think to keep us chained a millennium. 100 years will suffice. We will leave you. We exiles you have made. We who would be destroyed if we dared return to the tribe, we shall rule this world. You aliens drive a hard bargain, but the dream is worth it. Prometheus in a bug's body. The shining strength and the dark, terrible pride. It is no dream, Starrza said gently. But perhaps you go about achieving it in the wrong way. You still refuse to divulge the spy? I am sorry. Good day. Starrza brooded after him. He's a fool. But he's grasping mankind's concepts, Jake. I'd give my right eye for a good semanticist. Basic English does it. Self. Want. Mine. Selfish ego words. The cornerstones of grasping humanity. Sure, we'll raise hell with your aesthetic sense. But in the end they'll thank us. I sat, worrying about a secret fanatic somewhere in the plant who, in the holy interests of Mars for the Martians, Terminor for the Terms, might soon plant an atomic warhead in our body shop. I finally said, What are we going to do? Do? Starrza chuckled. Why, slack in line speeds, lower production standards, 50% at least. By tomorrow we'll be down to 40 jobs an hour. They want loose standards, we'll give it to them. But my cost, obscenity your cost. Look, Jake, no matter how you set an operation up, the Terms manage to work in some glittering little ritual. They have to create beauty. Their aesthetic sense must be fed. They can't adjust to quick change. Suppose you cut line speeds by 10%. They adjust, but it almost kills them. Then drop 30%. Their ritual loses timing, becomes disordant. What happens? I blinked. They go mad. And our little gear saboteur will be guilty of a few-term deaths. He'll have violated a basic guild tenet. He'll go home with its tail between his legs. Catch? I caught. By band afternoon we had the conveyor speeds down 30%. The red line on my cost chart soared precariously. The entire production line slowed to a crawl. We waited. At five o'clock it happened. Three terms in the body shop went mad. It started a chain reaction throughout the trim line. Six more terms ran amuck and had to be destroyed. Final assembly became a shambles. Stars are called me on the Visicom. Delighted. Our guild agent played right into our hands, Jake. By forcing a production slump he's harming the workers. His next move will probably be a bluff. I wasn't so sure. That evening the executive dining room was choked with a tight, gnawing tension. Department heads spoke in a hundred whispers, eyes darting. The man across the table could be a mindless controlled, a gild pawn. Smile at him politely and keep your mouth shut. I ordered thar, a terminal arthropod that was usually more delicious than Venusian lobster. But tonight it tasted like broiled leather. It was like eating in a morgue. I saw Carmody at the next table. I nodded coolly to him and he hitched his chair over and said, By the way, Jake, I'm sorry about Harvey. He's going back to Earth next week. Why? His stability index was too low, Carmody said smoothly. Sure we could have given him the works, but you didn't want a robot. I said deliberately. I needed that boy, Don. Carmody got up, his smile infinitely contemptuous. We don't all have your stability index, Jake? I stared after him, and the thought suddenly struck me that not once had I considered quitting ever. Somehow the thought disturbed me. Abruptly the public address speaker boomed. Attention, stars his voice crackled. To the guild agent wherever he may be, today you murdered 37 terms. Is this your altruism? Is this your vaunted justice? He went on, his voice like organ music, sweeping away all doubt, making you proud and glad to be a part of amalgamated, part of production, when quite suddenly his voice choked off. Simultaneously another voice ripped through the hall. A cold ironic whisper lashing at the mind. Altruism, yes. But not as you conceive it. Today you passed your own judgment. You have 24 hours to evacuate before the plant is destroyed. The verdict is final. The dining hall echoed with moans. Hands leaned to agonize temples. The thought cast her again on a wide band frequency. Through the pain I was conscious of stars' voice. The guild was trying to bluff us. We wouldn't let them. I stumbled out of the hall, my teeth chattering, took the lift down to the first level and got outside to walk free in the park. Here was Eden. Giant conifers and ferns wove a cool green pattern of delight, and the laughter of the crystal fountains soothed. Terms had fashion of this garden, had created a poem in living green, a quiet fugue of oneness, each leaf blending exquisitely with the next. The unity, the perfect whole. For one weak moment I let the pattern seep insidiously into me, and then, ashamed, focused my eyes on that jarring splash of white in the center of the garden. The ten-foot model of the amalgamated X3M, squat with power, lifting on her stern jets. A symbol of amalgamated strength, the indomitable spirit of mankind, beauty born of pure utility. Oddly, a half-remembered poem of the ancients flitted through my brain. Dirty British coaster with her salt-caked smokestack, budding through the channel on the mad March days. That was man. On an infinity of planets he had met resistance, through force, through guile, even through beauty, and he had conquered. I drew a slow, deep breath and sat on one of the benches, staring up at the gigantic horseshoe of the factory, hearing the muted hum of the atomics. Twenty-four hours. I tried to run through my axioms, and I was suddenly terrified. I couldn't remember them, that damned thought-caster, twice in one day. Perhaps there was some gradual neural disintegration. My head hurt terribly. Tomorrow I'd go to psych for a check-up. I thought about that marble villa in Venusport, and about my bank account. Not enough. Another year, just one more year, and I could retire at thirty-four. I thought about the Venusian twilights and the turquoise mists off the deeps, and wondered dully if I'd ever see Venus or the Earth again. I saw Fern walking among the conifers, her face a pale mask of strain. You heard it, Jake? I nodded. We sat in the aquamarine twilight, and Fern was shivering, and I put my arm around her. Looks like altruism is a relative thing, I said. What do they want? Uncontaminated terms, she said bitterly. No science, no stars, no wars, and no progress. A big, beautiful planet-mind, the term mind, forever static and forever dead. It's a bluff, I said. Our little fanatic stalling for time, hoping to stampede us while he finds another way. For example, why do you think we insist on basic English for all terms? Supposing a foreman should start jabbering terminese during an operation. The terms would revert. We'd have a line shut down. They can't adjust. Say. A random thought was nibbling at my brain. Where was Carmody this morning, just before I reeled in? Her fine brows knitted. Why, he went, oh Jake, surely you don't think, went where? Down the hall, towards personnel. Towards the conference hall, you mean. He never even examined Harvey. It wasn't necessary, she said, uncomfortably. Don just wanted to verify his stability index. Sure, so he stood outside the conference hall and put a whammy on me. Fern was smiling. I scowled. It fits. It has to be him. Or titch-natt, she said. Or Starza. Or me. I stared at her. You'd do. My voice shook. You were gone three months. They could have got to you. Her rich, warm laughter sifted through the twilight, and I wanted to hit her. They did, she gurgled. But I've decided to relent, Jake. I'll spare the plant on one condition that you take me to the term festival tomorrow night. I grunted. Carmody working overtime, I supposed. If the plant's still standing, I changed the subject. Two hours later, Starza called a council of war. The conference room was crammed with quivering executives. Starza carefully let the tension build to a shrill crescendo before he said, One of you gentlemen is a gild mindless controlled. Ragged silence. Starza's smile was very faint. You gave us an ultimatum. But destroying this plant is an admission of failure you're not willing to make, yet. You'll try another tack. You're just beginning to discover that this environment we've created for the terms is superior to the primitive jungle. Titchnat. Titchnat stepped forward. His antennae were a proud, brilliant gold. Do you want to shut down? Starza asked softly. Are we fools? Titchnat clicked. To lose what we've gained? To return to our tribe? To be destroyed? Starza's congeyes caressed each face, probing. You see? Stalemate. Whoever you are, you're bluffing. Tomorrow our conveyer's speeds return to normal. You'll do nothing. You may try to agitate the terms, but they're satisfied. One of the superintendents cleared his throat. Look, he said, unsteadily. Sometimes you can't afford to call a bluff. Starza said pleasantly, any resignations will be accepted right now. You can wait safely in the term village until next week's freighter arrives. No repercussions, I promise. The lie was blatant. Carmody stood by the door, his smile strained. It was all too obvious what would happen to any resignees. None? Starza's brows rose. I'm proud of you. That's it, gentlemen. The next day was a frenetic nightmare. My cost dropped, but it didn't matter. That was one day when the best company man became a clock watcher. Line foreman, department heads, cracked under the strain, and were summarily removed to psych. Carmody and staff worked over time. I toiled feverishly over operation schedules, the crazy fluctuating cost charts. My headache was gone, but I still couldn't remember my axioms. I felt guilty over not going to psych, but there just wasn't the time. Hell, I'd never needed indoctrination. I was an amalgamated man through and through. Finally, I grabbed an engineering manual, leafed angrily through it, and sat there empty and shaking. I'd gone insane. The words were gibberish. Oh, I could read them all right, but they didn't make sense. What a filthy trick. Semantic block, Starza would call it. I kept staring at the meaningless words, conscious of a tearing sense of loss, and I wanted to cry. Six o'clock was zero hour. Six o'clock came, and the factory held its collective breath while nothing happened. At six thirty, Starza made a long speech over the public address, about the selfless spirit of man, helping the terms reach the stars, about how we would never admit defeat, and about how, after tonight, the term festival would be discontinued. The terms had adopted mankind's culture. They had no further need of their effet native customs. At seven, Fern and I were walking past administration towards the lighted square mile enclosure of the term village. Fern had never seen a festival. A throwback, I said, to their old tribal days, their harvest, when they pay tribute to the Queen Mother and pray for good crops and work well done. It's their yearly substitute for Stamverstand. Back in the native villages, whenever a term's in trouble, he goes to the council huts, and the others join him in a silent group telepathy. But we've just about weaned them, Angel. They'll be individuals soon. We walked down the deserted row of term huts, past the council hall, to the great stone amphitheater, and sat with the other execs. Fern was very gay and cheerful, but I kept thinking about my axioms, trying to bring them back to life. I felt dead, all dead inside. Starza came up, frowning, and I congratulated him. It's too pat, Jake, it worries me. Where's Carmody? Setting up the semantic reaction tests you gave him, Fern said. But I never gave him abruptly the lights snuffed out. At one end of the arena loomed a 12-foot statue of a bloated term, limbed in a soft pale glow, the queen mother, the hush, then the radiance. Slowly the terms filed into the arena, rank upon rank of living flame. First the fighters, their antennae shining crimson, and splendid against the tall night. Then the twin glows of blue that denoted the spinners, the weavers, the golden blaze of the harvesters, the lambend colors crept through the air like a mood, like a dream, and deepened into a shimmering cataract of rainbow fire, a peon of light and glory that whirled and spun in a joyous rhythm, as old as the race itself. Then, chaos. A blinding flare cascaded from the six-foot antennae of the statue. The radiance grew, brighter than an atomic flare, more terrible than the sun. The term stood frozen. Beside me, stars a swore. This wasn't in the script. That colossal voice, ear snapping clicks and liquid vowels, termines, the forbidden tongue, the voice blared. I caught most of it. Children, you have sinned. You are defiled with the taint of alien monsters. You have failed the queen mother. Return, my children, return to your tribes. Return to the tabernacle of unity, the one in all, the queen mother. For in death there is life, and there is joy in immolation. Return. Lastly, the climax, that last shattering hung of propaganda that would have been so tritely amusing if it hadn't been so terrifying. You have nothing to lose, but your chains. The giant antennae faded to a liquid silver, the silver of hope, of forgiveness. For a moment I was blind. I felt fern trembling against me. The execs were chattering like frightened sheep. Then I could see. I saw Starza. He was moving down the aisle, cursing in a tight, dull monotone. I followed him down into the arena. The term stood shriveled, mute. Starza was fumbling at the base of the statue, and said in a thick, horrible voice, Look! The loudspeaker. The coiled wiring. The term stirred. Starza leaped to the lap of the statue. He bawled, Listen! This is sacrilege. You have been victims of a hoax. Not listening, they filed in silent groups out of the arena. Their antennae were the color of ashes. Starza jumped down. He pounded after them. He was shouting at Los Titchnet. I know, Titchnet droned. He kept walking. You are right. It does not matter that you are right. The queen mother called. Listen! Starza mouthed. It was a fraud, a trick. You can't. We must. Titchnet paused. For a long moment, the great faceted eyes stared somberly. It was a splendid dream, the thing you offered us. But this is the final reality. And yours is but a dream. He tramped stolidly on, after the others. The council hall door closed. Starza clawed at the door. It opened. He was too late. They sat silently around the great table. The faceted eyes dead. Their antennae, corresponding indigo, now green, now rose. Communion, the meshing of minds. Starza shouted at them. Stillness. Starza looked blindly at me. He was shaking. Carmody, he said. Carmody knows the term mind. He can do something. Come on, he said. We found Carmody in his quarters, methodically packing. His eyebrows rose as we burst in. Did you gentlemen ever try knocking? Starza just looked at him. Carmody drew a long breath. You'll find my resignation on your desk, Dave. Ah? Starza's voice was very soft. It's only a question of time, Carmody said. Call it the rat deserting the ship if you like, but I'm through. Starza was smiling, a fat man's smile. So you really think you can pull it off? He whispered. Carmody shrugged, and Starza calmly took out a sonic pistol and shot him in the belly. A sonic blast hemorrhages. It rends the capillaries, plows the flesh into a flaccid collection of shattered nerve fibers and ruined arteries. It's a rotten way to die. Starza watched Carmody thrash himself to death on the floor. I turned away. For the record, Jake, he made a full confession. We both heard him. Just for the record, I said. It had to be him, Starza said. That thought castor blast yesterday morning made reference to your study on the term. Only Harvey and Carmody knew about that. It couldn't have been Harvey. He cut his throat this morning. I've decided, Starza said. This is a Type L planet after all. The natives are chronically unstable, hostile in fact. Pursuant to Solar Regulation 3, we have the right to enforce martial law. It should be six months before an investigation. Meanwhile, we'll get production, I said. We'll get production. He wiped his forehead, relaxed. Better turn in, Jake, he said kindly. I'll need you in the morning. I turned in. You lie awake, staring into the blackness. It gnaws. My head throbbed. I should have felt a triumphant relief, but I could not remember my axioms, and I felt a sick, dull hate for the thing that Gild's by Carmody had done to me. What happens when you strip a man of everything he believes in? He remembers other things. Those memories came trooping back like ghosts, and I fought them, sweating, but they came. Once upon a time there was a starry-eyed young engineer who started out to set the galaxy on fire. But he got squeamish somewhere along the way, so Carmody operated on him. Carmody did things to his brain, made a good production man out of him. I remembered now. That time I had argued with Starza about standards nine years ago, and I had resigned. And Starza sent me to psych. Good old Carmody. There never would be a white marble villa on Venus. It was a harmless dream, a substitute for what I had lost. But it didn't matter. Those superimposed patterns had been removed. That thoughtcaster had crippled my thinking, but by heaven I was still an amalgamated man. They couldn't take that away. But Starza had been wrong about Carmody. Nothing definite. But when you dedicate your life into extrapolating curves, frozen chunks of time and motion, into the thunder of jets lifting amalgamated ships from Terminorb, your mind becomes a very efficient analog computer, if you know how to use. I used it now. I fed little things, facts, variables, into that computer, and it told me three times. Probability, 60% at least. I got up dressed stiffly. I was trembling. I could still serve, after all. I took the lift up to administration, and walked down that long gray corridor on leaden feet towards the illuminated rectangle of Starza's office. I opened the door. Hello, darling, Fern said. She was unhurriedly burning Starza's report. Starza sat mutely in his chair, head tilted back at an impossible angle, staring at nothing. It had to be you. I had never felt so tired. You would have destroyed the plant, wouldn't you? Only I showed you another way. Make the terms revert. And you had that hypo already when I reeled into psych. I moved towards her carefully. You're so damned altruistic. A gild mindless controlled, I said. Fern's smile was compassionate. She methodically ground the ashes to powder, lifted that calm green gaze. Stupid words to frighten children, Jake. Yes, they kidnapped me. I never reached her three months ago. I was indoctrinated. Oh, they didn't have far to go. Each race to its own fulfillment. Her eyes were shining. Look out the window. Numbly I moved past her. I stared. In the distant blackness a column of living flame flickered up the slope of Cobalt Mountain. Ice green, ruby, silver, and blue. The terms were leaving. They're not ready for individuality yet, Fern breathed. In a million years, perhaps. Not now. They're going home. To die. The race will live. Individuality isn't the penultimate, darling. You'll find out. I moved towards her. You've got a very tough mind, Jake. You'll make a wonderful guild agent. I got both hands on her throat. Fern moved. Her right arm was a snake striking, and a steel strength lifted me, turning, against one and a half gravities, and the floor wavered up to hit me in the face. Something broke. I tasted blood. Through the agony, I moved. I crawled towards her. They gave me six weeks of hand combat under two grabs, she said. Soon you'll be one of us, Jake. One of the guild. I stared up at her in a dull horror. I kept crawling. We'll heal you, Fern said. We'll give you back the dream. We may even work together. Maybe I'll fall in love with you again, who knows? Her eyes were brimming. She took out a sonic pistol. It's all right, darling. I'll adjust it for knockout. In three hours we'll be on a guild-flyer. Please, darling, she said, and I kept crawling. And Fern's smile was a benediction, as she pulled the trigger. End of Exploiter's End by James Cousey. Naturally, he wanted to go along. But could he smuggle himself aboard? Illustrated by Lloyd Rogman. Ted had already gone when Bobby got up. This disappointed Bobby a little. But then he remembered, this was the big day. Naturally, Ted would get over to the project early. And at four o'clock, Bobby shivered deliciously at the thought of it. Hate his breakfast in silence with mom across the table, drinking a cup of coffee and looking at a fashion catalog. He was glad she was occupied. Because he didn't want to talk. Not today, he didn't. Might spill something secret. Might even let out the big secret. That would be terrible. Of course, all things were secret at Buffalo Flats. So secret top scientists like dad didn't even discuss them with wives like mom. And wives like mom never asked. So it was really something to sit there eating breakfast knowing that today, dad was going to rocket to the moon. And with mom not even knowing the lunar project was in the works, so naturally not dreaming that he was going with dad, the thrill was overpowering. Maybe they wouldn't have radio communication after they got there. And he would call back and say, Hello mom, guess where I am? On the moon with dad. And mom would say, Hi, Bobby. He's carrying me to death like this. I was looking all over for you. Sounding very angry, but not being really angry after all. Because maybe dad would cut in and say, Yeah, he's right here with me, dear. What do you think of this boy of ours? Bobby gulped to the last of his cereal so he could go outside and wriggle for joy. As he got up from his chair, mom said, And what's your plan for today, young man? David Crockett or Buck Rogers? Bobby had a quick thought. A sudden temptation. Why not give mom a hint? Why? He could even tell her and she still wouldn't know. Then later after he was gone, she would remember back and say, That boy, when he tells you something, he really means it. Bobby smiled and said, I think I'll go to the moon today. Mom smiled too and went back to her fashions. Well, I'll see to it your fuel mixture is correct. I'll check it. And mom, I might not be home for lunch. What will you be? Oh, I don't know. Well, mind your manners and say thank you when you leave. Mrs. Kendall still smiling, watched Bob dash out into the yard. Living in a restricted government area had one compensation, at least. You didn't have to worry about your children. Four dozen families, all with offspring, trapped behind 10 foot patrol fence. Here, nobody worried about their children. They came and went and at noon, a mother fed whatever number happened to be in the house at the time. Mrs. Kendall usually drew six or seven. It would be a relief to dodge the chore for one Saturday. Out in the backyard, Bobby first around his space rocket a little, tightening a screw here, hammering in a nail bear, just until he could slip away without mom noticing his direction. Wasn't a bad rocket at that, he thought. Six feet long with two seats and a king instrument panel. But kid stuff, of course. After he found the way in through the sewer, he hadn't paid any more attention to his own ship. He could see mom through the window, back in her book. So he went casually out through the back gate and turned left, kicking at pebbles, as he sauntered along and tried to look as though he had no place to go. Had to be careful, didn't want to bump into any of the other kids today either. The way in through the sewer was at a place behind Laboratory B. It was a kind of an alley there that nobody ever walked through. And then this round lid you could lift up and look under. In a ladder, you could climb down. Bobby hadn't dared go down at first. But after thinking about it overnight, his curiosity won out. He went back and took down to the lower level. He called it a sewer because of sewers being underground, but this place was clean. It had bunches of wires strong in every direction and faint little lights he could see by. Bobby went further and further every trip he took, never telling anybody because he weren't supposed to talk about things at both of the flats, not even to the other kids. Then he found the big drum where they were building the rocket. It was so sleek and beautiful and shiny that he just stared at it up through the grating on the floor that was for air circulation or something. Didn't know it was the moon rocket at first, not until he'd gone back several times to pick up at it and then one day, two scientists came walking along right in front of his nose. One of them was dead. Bobby almost culled out but he caught himself and just listened to them talking. This was the first time his conscience bothered him about going underneath the drum. He thought about it a lot, whether it was the right thing to do. And while he was never able to still his conscience completely, he quieted down by saying he really wasn't doing any harm. Because he'd never told anybody what he saw. He learned the rocket was going to the moon by listening to dad and the other scientists talk when they thought they were alone. It was funny because even there, they spoke in low voices and didn't give too much away. He had known over three days that at four o'clock the roof would open and the drum would be turned into a blast pit and the rocket would shoot out their space to the moon. That was all he did know for sure. None of the men had said who was going on the first trip to the moon. Nothing had been said on the subject at all, but Bobby knew dad would go. He wouldn't have to. After all, dad was the second biggest scientist at the Buffalo Flats. Second only to Schleimer himself. Professor Schleimer was very old and certainly wouldn't make the trip. Dad left dad. Dad would just have to go in order to run the rocket. There probably wasn't anybody else smart enough in the whole place. The idea of going himself had been born the previous day when he found a larger grating in the floor near the rocket and realized if he was very careful he could climb out the sewer and duck into the rocket when nobody was looking. Once inside, he was pretty sure he'd find a place to hide until blast off. All the men would probably be stripped in bunks, but if he found a place and could wedge himself in, he didn't think it'd get hurt. Then halfway to the moon he would come out and find dad and would he be surprised? At first thinking about it he'd been scared, but after he realized how proud dad and mom would be he made up his mind. Now, crouched beside the grating near the ship, he waited while two men, technicians in white overalls, walked by. One of them said, Well, whatever happens she'll make a big splash. He said it. Hope the brains know what they're doing. Dad made Bobby mad. Who said dad didn't know what he was doing? Dad was just about the smartest scientist in the world. After the two men left he waited a long time. He heard voices, but no one came in sight. Taking a deep breath he opened the grating and got out. It was only four steps to the open port of the rocket. There was a little ramp they'd used to roll things in and Bobby's feet touched it, but lightly as he jumped into the ship. He found himself in some kind of a storeroom. It would be a good place to hide, all right. It was full of aluminum barrels all the same size. He found a space between two rows in said town and got his breath back. Was very quiet around him. Scary quiet. But he set his lips firmly. He was going to the moon with dad. John Kendall was a little late that night. He kissed his wife and said, well, did you see the big sky rocket? How could I miss it, Tony? Your supper is in the oven. I could use a martini first. Coming right up. While Mara fixed the drink, John lay back in his easy chair and closed his eyes. We'd hoped to stage a little ceremony at the launching, but Washington said no. The Russians? The Eastern Coalition. It was a race. That's why it had to be so secret. Washington said life of use and fire the thing. Is it still hush hush? No, not between us at least. We fired an explosion rocket at the moon. We'll hit in about an hour and telescopes will show a big purple spot where explosives go off and throw dye all over the place. Mara handed in a dry martini. I see. Lots of fun, no doubt. But what's the purpose? Fourth of July in the moon? Oh no. If the experiment is a success, the next rocket will carry man instead of a bomb. Mara went to the kitchen to see about supper. John called. Where's Bobby? In bed, I suppose. Mara didn't hear, and John sat his drink down and moved toward the bedroom. Maybe he was still awake. Bobby rolled over. His eyes popped open. Dad? I thought you went to... John Kendall sat down on the edge of the bed and tussled his son's hair. No, son. It's the old terra forma for me. Did you see that rocket blast? Uh-huh. It was really something. You went to the moon, didn't it? That's right. Kendall smiled and thought. Try to keep a secret from the kids. You just can't be done. How's your moon rocket coming along, son? Pretty good. Gee, dad. As long as you didn't go, I'm glad it didn't go either. You were planning to make the trip also? Uh-huh. I got into the rocket and was all set, but I got to thinking about Mom. How one of us should stay and take care of her in case anything happened. Smart thinking, son. Now you get to sleep. I'll have a little time tomorrow. We'll play some ball. That will be keen. John Kendall smiled as he left the bedroom. Kids were wonderful. Give them a few old boards and a steering wheel and they could build a ship to fly to the moon. What a wonderful dream world they lived in. Too bad they had to grow out of it. The End of Zero Hour by Alexander Blight. The Aggravation of Elmer by Robert Arthur. 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 Chris Gojin. The Aggravation of Elmer by Robert Arthur. The world would beat a path to Elmer's door, but he had to go carry the door along with him. It was the darkest traffic jam I'd ever seen in white planes. For two blocks ahead of me, Main Street was gutter to gutter with stalled cars, trucks and buses. If I hadn't been in such a hurry to get back to the shop, I might have paid more attention. I might have noticed nobody was leaning on his horn. Or that at least a quarter of the drivers were out peering under their hoods. But at the time, it didn't register. I gave the tie up a passing glance and was turning up the side street toward built-in electronics. Bill Chan. Get it? When I saw Marge, threading her way to the curb, she was leading a small, blonde girl of about eight who clutched a child-sized head box in her hand. Marge was hot and exasperated, but small fry was as cool as composed as a vanilla cone. I waited. Even flushed and disheveled, Marge is a treat to look at. She's tall and slender, with brown eyes that match her hair, a smile that first crinkles around her eyes, then sneaks down and becomes a full-fledged grin. But I'm getting off the subject. Honestly, Bill, Marge said that she saw me. The traffic nowadays. We've been tied up for 15 minutes. I finally decided to get off the bus and walk, even though it's about a hundred in the shade. Come along to the shop, I suggested. The reception room is air-conditioned, and you can watch the world's first baseball game telecast in color. The Giants vs. the Dodgers. Cold vs. kind pitching. Marge brightened. That'll be more fun than shopping, won't it Doreen? She asked, looking down at the kid. Bill, this is Doreen. She lives across the street from me. Her mother is at the dentist, and I said I'd look after her for the day. Hello, Doreen, I said. What have you in the hatbox? Doll clothes? Doreen gave me a look of faint disgust. No, she piped in a high treble. An unhappy genie I. An unhappy? I did a double take. Oh, an unhappy genie I. Maybe he's unhappy because he won't let him out. Even to myself, I sounded idiotic. Doreen looked at me pittingly. It's not a he, it's a thing. Elmer made it. I knew when I was losing, so I quit. I hurried Marge and Doreen along toward a little two-story building. Once we got into the air-conditioned reception room, Marge sinked down gratefully into the setty and switched on the television set with the big 24-inch tube tonhead built. Built-on electronics makes TV components, computer parts, things like that. Tonk Kennedy is the brains. Me, Bill Rawlings, I do the legwork, and I tend to the business details. It sunk any the way all those cars suddenly stopped when our bus broke down, Marge said as we waited for the picture to come on. Any day now, the civilization of ours would get so complicated, a bus breaking down some place will bring the whole thing to a halt. Then where will we be? Elmer says, civilization is doomed, Doreen putting happily. The way she rolled the word out made me stare at her. Marge only nodded. That's what Elmer says, all right. She agreed, trifle grim. Why does Elmer say civilization is doomed, I asked Doreen. Because it's getting hotter. The kid gave it to me straight. All the ice at the North Pole is gonna melt. The ocean is gonna rise 200 feet. Then everybody who doesn't live in a hill is gonna be drowned dead. That's what Elmer says, and Elmer isn't ever wrong. Doreen, they called her. Why not Cassandra? The stuff gets spelt these days. I gave her a foolish grin. I went in March to get the idea was really a family man at heart. That's very interesting, Doreen. Now look, there's the baseball game. Let's watch, shall we? We weren't very late after all. It was the top half of the second inning. The score one to one. Earth's kind in trouble with two men on, and only one down. The colors were beautiful. Marge and I were just settling back to watch, when Doreen wrinkled her nose. I saw that game yesterday, she announced. You couldn't have, sweetheart, I told her. Because it's only being played today. The world's first ball game ever broadcasting color. It was a game on Elmer's TV, Doreen insisted. The picture was bigger, and the colors prettier, too. Absolutely impossible. I was a little sore. I hate kids who tell fibs. There never was a game broadcasting color before. And anyway, you won't find a color tube this big, any place outside of a laboratory. But it's true, Bill. Marge looked at me, white-eyed. Elmer only has a little seven-inch black and white set his uncle gave him. But he has rigged up some kind of lens in front of it, and he projects a big color picture on a white screen. I saw that she was serious. My eyes bugged slightly. Listen, I said. Who is this Elmer character? I wanna meet him. He's my cousin from South America, Doreen answered. He thinks grown-ups are stupid. She turned to Marge. I have to go to the bathroom, she said, primal. Through that door, Marge pointed. Doreen trotted out, clutching her head box. Elmer thinks grown-ups are stupid? I hobbled. Listen, how old is this character who says civilization is doomed and can convert a black and white broadcast into color? He's 13, Marge told me. I goggled at her. 13, she repeated. His father is some South American scientist. His mother died 10 years ago. I sat down beside her. I sat down beside her. I sat down beside her. I lit a cigarette. My hands were shaking. Tell me about him. Oh, about him. Why? I don't know very much, Marge said. Last year Elmer was sick, some tropic disease. His father sent him up here to recuperate. Now, Alice, that's his aunt, Doreen's mother, is at her wit's end. Makes her so nervous. I lit another cigarette before I realized I already had one. And he invents things? A boy genius? Young Tom Edison and all that? Marge frowned. I suppose you could say that, she conceded. He has the garage full of stuff he's made or bought with the allowance his father sends him. And if you come within 10 feet of it without permission, you get an electric shock right out of thin air. But that's only part of it. She gave a helpless gesture. It's Elmer's effect on everybody. Everybody over 15, that is. He sits there. A little, dark, squinched up kid wearing thick glasses and talking about high climatic changes inside 50 years will flood half the world, cause the collapse of civilization. Wait a minute, I cut in. Scientists seem to think that it's possible in a few thousand years. Not 50. Elmer says 50, Marge stated flatly. And the way he talks, I suspect he's figured out a way to speed things up and is going to try it someday just to see if it works. Meanwhile, he fools around out there in the garage, sneering about the billions of dollars spent to develop color TV. He says his lens would turn any ordinary broadcast into color for about $25. He says it's typical of the muddled thinking of our so-called scientists. I'm quoting that. To do everything backward in overlooked fundamental principles. Right there, I said. Doreen came trotting back and then with her head box. I'm tired that I've gained, she said, giving the TV set a bored glance. And as she said it, the tube went dark. It sound cut off. Damn, I swore. Must be a power failure. I grabbed the phone and jiggled a hook. No ties. The phone was dead too. You're funny, Doreen giggled. It's just the unhappy genie I. See? She flicked over the catch on the head box. And the picture came back on. The sound started up. Swings and misses for strike two. The air conditioning began to rum. Marge and I stared. Mouth's open. White. You did that, Doreen? I asked it very carefully. You made the television stop and start again? The unhappy genie I did. Doreen told me. Like this. She flicked the catch back. The TV picture blacked out. The sound stopped in the middle of a word. The air conditioner whispered into silence. Then she flicked the catch the other way. Falls the second ball into the screen, the announcer said. Picture okay. Air conditioning operating. Everything normal except my pulse and respiration. Doreen sweetheart. I took a step toward her. What's in that box? What is an unhappy genie I? Not unhappy. You know how scornful an eight-year-old can be? Well, she was. Unhappen. It makes things unhappen. Anything that works by electricity, it stops. Elmore calls it its unhappen genie. Just for fun. Oh, now I get it. I said brightly. It makes electricity not work. Unhappen. Like television sets and air conditioners and automobiles and bus engines. Doreen giggled. Marge said both upright. Doreen. You caused that traffic jam? You and that that gadget of Elmore's? Doreen nodded. He made all the automobile engines stop. Just like Elmore said. Elmore's never wrong. Marge looked at me. I looked at Marge. A field of some kind, I said. A field that prevents an electric current from flowing, meaning no combustion motor using an electric spark can operate. No electric motors. No telephones. No radio or TV. Is that important? Marge asked. Important? I yelled. Think of the possibilities, just as a weapon. He could blink out a whole nation's transportation, its communications, its industry. I got hold of myself. I smiled my best, I loved children's smile. Doreen, I said. Let me look at Elmore's unhappen genie eye. The kid clutched the box. Elmore told me not to let anybody look at it. He said he'd statuified me if I did. He said nobody would understand it anyway. He said he might show it to Mr. Einstein, but not anybody else. That's Elmore all right, Marge muttered. I found myself breathing hard. I edged toward Doreen and put my hand in the hatbox. Just one quick look, Doreen, I said. No one will ever know. She didn't answer. Just pulled the box away. I pulled it back. She pulled. I pulled. Bill, Marge called warningly. Too late. The later the hatbox came off in my hands. There was a bright flash. The smell of insulation burning, and the unhappen genie eye fell out and scattered all over the floor. Doreen looked smug. Now Elmore will be angry at you. Maybe he'll disintegrate you, or paralyze you and statuify you, forever. He might have that, Bill. Marge shuddered. I wouldn't put anything past him. I wasn't listening. I was scrambling after the mass of tubes, condensters, and power packs scattered over the rug. Some of them were still wired together, but most of them had broken loose. Elmore was certainly one heck of a sloppy workman. Hadn't even soldered the connections. Just twisted the wires together. I looked at the stuff in my hands. He made as much sense as a radio run over by a truck. We'll take it back to Elmore, he told Doreen, speaking very carefully. I'll give him lots of money to build another. He can come down here and use our shop. We have lots of nice equipment he'd like. Doreen tossed her head. I don't think he'll want to. He'll be mad at you. Anyway, Elmore is busy working on aggravation now. That's for sure. Marge said in heartfelt tones. Aggravation, eh? I grinned like an idiot. Well, well. I'll bet he's good at it. But let's go see him right away. Bill, Marge signaled me to one side. Maybe you'd better not try to see Elmore, she whispered. I mean, if he can build a thing like this in his garage, maybe he can build a disintegrator or a paralysis ray or something. There's no use taking chances. You read too many comics. I left it off. He's only a kid, isn't he? What do you think he is? A Superman? Yes. Marge said quietly. Look, Marge. I said in feverish excitement. I've got to talk to Elmore. I've got to get the rights to that TV color lens and this electricity interrupter or anything else he may have developed. Marge kept trying to protest, but I simply grabbed her and Doreen and hustled them out to my car. Doreen lived in a wooden, hilly section a little north of White Plains. I made it in 10 minutes. Marge had said Elmore worked in the garage. I kept going up the driveway, swung sharp around the big house, and slammed on the brakes. Marge screamed. We skidded to a stop with her front end hanging over what looked like a bomb crater in the middle of the driveway. I swallowed my heart down again, while backed away fast. We had almost plunged into a hole 40 feet across and 20 feet deep in the middle. The hole was perfectly round, like a half-section of grapefruit. What's this? I asked. Where is the garage? That's where the garage should be, Marge looked taste. But it's gone. I took another look at that hole, scooped out with geometrical precision, and turned to Doreen. What did you say Elmore was working on? Egg, she sobbed. Aggravation. She began to bawl in earnest. Now he's gone. He's mad. He will never come back. I betcha. That's a fact, I muttered. He may not have been mad, but he certainly was aggravated. Marge, listen. This is a mystery. We've just got to let it stay a mystery. We don't know anything, understand? The cops will finally decide Elmore blew himself up, and we'll leave it at that. One thing I'm pretty sure about. He's not coming back. So that's how it was. Tom Kennedy keeps trying and trying to put Elmore's unhappened genii back together again. And every time he fails, he takes it out on me because I didn't get to Elmore sooner. But you can see perfectly well his way off base, trying to make out I could have done a thing to prevent what happened. Is it my fault if the dumb kid didn't know enough to take the proper precautions when he decided to develop anti-gravitation and got shot off, garage and all, someplace into outer space? Why do they teach kids nowadays anyway? The End of The Aggravation of Elmore by Robert Arthur. One Out of Ten by J. Anthony Furlain. 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 Chris Gojinho. One Out of Ten by J. Anthony Furlain. There may be a town called Mars in Montana, but little Mrs. Frida Dany didn't come from there. I watched Don Phillips, the commercial announcer, out of the corner of my eye. The camera in front of me swung around and lined up on my set. And now, on with the show. Phillips was saying. And here, ready to test your wits, is your quizzing quiz master, Smiling Jim Parsons. I smiled into the camera and waited while the ideas applauded. The camera at tele-light went on and the stage manager brought his arm down and pointed at me. Good afternoon, I said into the camera. Here we go again with another half-hour of fun and prizes on television's newest, most exciting game, Parlor Quiz. In a moment, I'll introduce you to our first contestant. But first, here is a special message to you, mothers. The baby powder commercial appeared in the monitor and I walked over to the next set. They had the first contestant lined up for me. I smiled and took her card from the floorman. She was a middle-aged woman with a faded print dress and old-style shoes. I never saw the contestants until we were in the air. They were screened before the show by the staff. They usually try to pick contestants who would make good show material, an odd name on occupation, or somebody with 20 kids. Something of that nature. I looked at the card for the tip-off. Mrs. Freyda Dunney, the card said, asked her where she comes from. I smiled at the contestant again and took her by the hand. The tele-light went on again and I grinned into the camera. Well now, we're all set to go and our first contestant today is this charming little lady right here beside me, Mrs. Freyda Dunney. I looked at the card. How are you, Mrs. Dunney? Fine, just fine. All set to answer a lot of questions and win a lot of prizes. Oh, I'll win all right, said Mrs. Dunney. Smiling around at the audience. The audience tittered a bit at the remark. I looked at the card again. Where are you from, Mrs. Dunney? Mars, said Mrs. Dunney. Mars, I left, anticipating the answer. Mars, Montana. Mars, Peru. No, Mars. Up there, she said, pointing up in the air. The planet Mars, the fourth planet out from the sun. My assistant looked unhappy. I smiled again, wondering what the gag was. I decided to play along. Well, well, I said. All the way from Mars, eh? And how long have you been on earth, Mrs. Dunney? About 30 or 40 years. I've been here nearly all my life. Came here when I was a wee bit of a girl. Well, I said. You're practically a Nerf woman by now, aren't you? The audience left. Do you plan on going back someday, or have you made up your mind to stay here on earth for the rest of your days? Oh, I'm just here for the invasion, said Mrs. Dunney. When that's over, I'll probably go back home again. The invasion. Yes, the invasion of earth. As soon as enough of us are here, we'll get started. You mean there are others here too? Oh yes, there are several million of us here in the United States already. More are on the way. There are only about 170 million people in the United States, Mrs. Dunney, I said. If there are several million Martians among us, one out of every hundred will have to be a Martian. One out of every ten, said Mrs. Dunney. That's what the boss said just the other day. We're getting pretty close to the number we need to take over earth. What do you need? I asked. One to one? One Martian for every earthman? Oh no, said Mrs. Dunney. One Martian is worth ten earthmen. The only reason we're waiting is we don't want any trouble. You don't look any different from us earth people, Mrs. Dunney. How does one tell the difference between a Martian and an earthman when one sees one? Oh, we don't look any different, said Mrs. Dunney. Some of the kids don't even know they're Martians. Most mothers don't tell their children until they've grown up. There are other children who are never told because they just don't develop their full powers. What powers? Oh, telepathy, thought control, that sort of thing. You mean that Martians can read people's thoughts? Sure, it's no trouble at all. It's very easy really once you get the hang of it. Can you read my mind? I asked, smiling. Sure, sure, said Mrs. Dunney. Smiling up at me. That's why I said that I'd know the answers. I'll be able to read the answers from your mind when you look at that sheet of paper. Now that's hardly sporting, is it Mrs. Dunney? I said, turning to the camera. The audience left. Everybody else has to do it the hard way. And here you are, reading it from my mind. I'll spare in love and war, said Mrs. Dunney. Tell me, Mrs. Dunney. Why are you telling me about all this? Isn't it supposed to be a secret? I have my reasons, said Mrs. Dunney. Nobody believes me anyhow. Oh, I believe you, Mrs. Dunney. I said greatly. And now, let's see how you do in the questions. Are you ready? She nodded. In the one and only memo that has the ability to fly, I asked, reading from the script. A bat, she said. Right. Did you read that from my mind? Oh yes, you're coming over very clear, said Mrs. Dunney. Try this one, I said. A princess is any daughter of a sovereign. What is a princess' royal? The eldest daughter of a sovereign, she said. Correct. How about this one? Is a Kodiak a kind of a simple box camera? A type of double bowed boat? Or a type of Alaskan bear? A bear, said Mrs. Dunney. Very good, I said. That was a hard one. I asked her seven more questions, and she got them all right. None of the other contestants even came close to her score. So I wound up giving her the gas range and a lot of other smaller prices. After we were off the air, I followed the audience out into the hall. Mrs. Dunney was walking towards the lobby with an old paper shopping bag under her arm. An attendant was following her with an arm full of prices. I caught up with her before she reached the door. Mrs. Dunney, I said, and she turned around. I want to talk to you. When do I get the gas stove, she said. Your local dealer will send it to you in a few days. Did you give them your address? Yes, I gave it to them. My Philadelphia address, that is. I don't even remember my address at home anymore. Come now, Mrs. Dunney. You don't have to keep up the Mars business now that we're off the air. It's the truth, and I didn't come here just by accident, said Mrs. Dunney, looking over her shoulder towards the attendant who was still holding the prices. I came here to see you. Me? Mrs. Dunney set the paper bag down on the floor and dug down into her pocketbook. She took out a dog-eared piece of white paper and bent it up in her hand. Yes, she said finally. I came to see you. And you didn't follow me out here because you wanted to. I commanded you to come. Commanded me to come, I spluttered. What for? To prove something to you. Do you see this piece of paper? She held out the paper in her hand with a blank side toward me. My address is on this paper. I am reading the address. Concentrate on what I'm reading. I looked at her. I concentrated. Suddenly, I knew. 251 South 8th Street, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, I said aloud. You see, it's very easy once you get the hang of it, she said. I nodded and smiled down at her. Now I understood. I picked up her bag and put my hand on her shoulder. Let's go, I said. We have a lot to talk about. The end of one out of 10 by J. Anthony Furlain. Earthbound by Lester Del Rey It was an hour after the last official ceremony before Clifton could escape the crowd of planet-lovers with their babblings, their eligible daughters, their stupid self-admiration. They'd paid through the nose to get him here, and they meant to get their money's worth. The exit led only to a little balcony, but it seemed to be deserted. He took a deep breath of the night air, and his eyes moved unconsciously toward the stars. Coming back to Earth had been a mistake, but he'd needed the money. Space Products Unlimited wanted a real deep space hero to help celebrate its 100th anniversary. He had just finished the Regulation of Rigel, so he'd been picked. Damn them and their silly speeches and awards, and damned Earth! What was one planet when there were billions up there among the stars? From the other side of a potted plant there was a sigh. Clifton swung his head, then relaxed when he saw the other man was not looking at him. The eyes behind the dark glasses were directed toward the sky. Aldebaran, Sirius, Deneb, Alpha Centauri, the voice whispered. It was a high-pitched voice with an odd accent, but there was the poetry of ancient yearning in it. He was a small, shriveled old man. His shoulders were bent. A long beard and the dark glasses covered most of his face, but could not entirely conceal the deep wrinkles even in the moonlight. Clifton felt a sudden touch of pity and moved closer, not quite knowing why. Didn't I see you on the platform? Your memory is very good, Captain. I was awarded publicly for fifty years of faithful service making space boots. Well, I was always a good cobbler, and perhaps my boots helped some men out there. The old man's hand swept toward the stars, then fell back to grip the railing tightly. They gave me a gold watch, though time means nothing to me, and a cheap world cruise ticket, as if there were any spot in the world I could still want to see. He laughed harshly. Forgive me if I sound bitter, but you see, I've never been off Earth. Clifton stared at him incredulously. But every one, every one but me, the old man said. Oh, I tried. I was utterly weary of Earth, and I looked at the stars and dreamed. But I failed the early rigid physicals. Then, when things were easier, I tried again. A plague grounded the first ship, a strike delayed another. Then one exploded on the pad, and only a few on board were saved. It was then I realized I was meant to wait here, here on Earth, nowhere else. So I stayed, making space-boots. Pity and impulse forced unexpected words to Clifton's lips. I'm taking off for Rigel again in four hours, and there's a spare cabin on the Mary Lou. You're coming with me. The old hand that gripped his arm was oddly gentle. Bless you, Captain, but it would never work. I'm under orders to remain here. Nobody can order a man grounded forever. You're coming with me if I have to drag you, Mr... A hazardous! The old man hesitated, as if expecting the name to mean something. Then he sighed, and lifted his dark glasses. Clifton met the other's gaze for less than a second. Then his own eyes dropped, though the memory of what he'd seen was already fading. He vaulted over the balcony railing and began running away from a hazardous toward his ship and the unconfined reaches of space. Behind him the eternal wanderer tarried and waited. The End of Earthbound by Lester Del Rey