 Cogito ergo sum by John Foster West. Reading by Greg Marguerite. Cogito ergo sum by John Foster West. A warped instant in space, and two egos are separated from their bodies and lost in a lonely abyss. I think, therefore I am. That was the first thought I had, of course, not in the same symbols, but with the same meaning. I awakened or came alive or came into existence suddenly, at least my mental consciousness did. Here I am, I thought, but what am I? Why am I? Where am I? I had nothing to work with, except pure reason. I was there because I was not somewhere else. I was certain I was there, and that was the extent of my knowledge at the moment. I looked about me, no, I reasoned about me. I was surrounded by nothingness, by black nothingness, a vacuum. Amense distances away I could detect light, or rather I could perceive waves of force passing around me, which originated at points vast distances away, vast in relation to my position in the nothingness. There were waves of force all about me, varying in frequency. The nothingness was alive, with waves of force traveling parallel and tangential to each other without seeming to interfere with one another. I measured them, differentiated between them, and finished with the task in a matter of seconds. How could I do it? It was one of the capabilities I was created with. What was I? I perceived the waves of force, I perceived great quantities of mass, solid, liquid, gas, whirling in vacuum, mass built up out of patterns of basic force. I searched my own being, analyzed myself. I was not gas, I was not solid, I was not even force, yet I existed. I could reason. I was a beginning, a sudden beginning, and I had duration because I knew that time had elapsed since the moment I awakened, though I had no means of telling how much time were even naming the period. Could I really be pure reason? Can reason exist? Can rational entity exist without a groundwork of matter, or at least of force? It could. It must. I was rational entity, and I existed. Yet I could find nothing of force, nothing to occupy space about myself. For all I could ascertain, I might have covered a one-dimensional point in eternity, or I might have been spread throughout vast distances. From this reasoning, I concluded that rational entity might occur either as some force unlike that of all natural phenomenon in space, or as some combination of these forces at the moment beyond my own power to analyze, even detect. I finished with that for the time being. How did I come into being? I discarded the question as unanswerable temporarily. What was I before that instant I suddenly reasoned cogito ergo sum, I could not say. How did I know I even existed, really? Obviously because I was capable of rational thought, but what was thinking? Because it was perceiving and accepting my own existence, beyond that it was recognizing the dark nothingness around me and the forces it contained. I had to exist. But how did I know nothingness was right, and how did I know its darkness was right? And how did I know the waves of force were waves and force? And how did I know matter was matter, and that I was none of these things? Symbols, I reasoned. I'm thinking in symbols. I could not reason without symbols. Therefore I could not exist as I am without symbols to think with. Yet whose symbols were they? Where and how did I come by them? I could think back clearly to the instant of my creation, yet I had not invented the symbols in the interim of my existence, nor had they been given to me. What then? They were part of me when I came alive in this universe, had been invented some other time and elsewhere by someone else or by what I was before I became the entity of reason I now was. Then that first flash of perception in the nothingness was not spontaneous. There was something behind it. I was something before that moment in another era of time, perhaps a creature of substance. But what? I concentrated. I remembered the symbol moral. I was or had been an entity, moral. Were there others back there somewhere? They might have been, must be yet. Was I the only moral who metamorphosed into a state of rational entity? Surely not. Yet I could not contact no other rationale around me as far as I could probe. How far was that? How could I know? Was it far enough to reach the other morals or were they scattered thinly throughout infinity around me like the flecks of mass? I was suddenly ill. The symbol may laze came to me as the proper description of my malady. I grew dizzy with my sickness. I wished to regurgitate to cast off this cold frightening sensation. Yet I was provided with no physical means of doing it. It filled me throughout all my thinking. It was I. I thought to exist. I thought depression, sickness. Therefore I was the malady. And it was a hell of a malcontent beyond symbolical description. What was wrong with me? I was frightened. I was concerned for my existence here alone. What was it called? The idea shimmered there on the fringe of perception then fairly leaped into my consciousness. Existing alone as pure reason was worse than no existence, was worse than dying or never having been at all. I need another moral to exist happily. I must have at least one other moral to communicate with, to share my thoughts, to share my being. Is this a necessity, a condition peculiar to me, as I am, as reason, or is it a condition that came across the barrier with me from that other state? It must be the latter. An entity of pure reason having come into existence as reason would need nothing but himself. Why? Because he would be without emotion. I am emotional, I thought. I am entity of almost pure reason, but I have inherited emotion from my previous state. It is a disorder of thought, but it can be a pleasant disorder when the emotion is the right one, or if unpleasant, when satisfied. But I could not have emotions as I am now. They are cortical responses, or are supposed to be. What is cortical? No, they are a sort of illogical reasoning, nothing physical. The rest eluded me. I am lonely, I thought. Loneliness stems from fear, and fear is a basic emotion. I am very lonely. I have been lonely for a long time, bringing it with me here. I would rather sate my loneliness than live to eternity, than know all there is to know. What can quell my loneliness? Another like me, another moral, whatever a moral is, I must have it, must find another moral. I began to search. I darted frantically about space like a frightened thing, though I could perceive no movement. I knew I passed from one area of space to another, because I could measure slight changes in the position of the stars about me. I knew the points of light were stars. There was duration. I could not know how much. Eternity split second. But at last I discovered another like me. No, almost like me, but another moral. The other entity had less of reason, more emotion. It was frightened and lonely. The moral's whole existence was that of sickness, of loneliness, which is fear. The moral was darting about, madly, seeking, seeking a thing like itself. What was it, like me, but different? As I came in, I measured our similarity and differences. Rationally we were identical, or almost so. Emotionally we were different, vastly different. Morals appear to exist as rationale and emotion. I reasoned. Beyond that, I cannot go. The other moral perceived me, darted frantically toward me, then slowed. We came together, touched, like two cautious fish meeting in a dark pool and touching mouths to substantiate identical species. The other moral was satisfied with my identity. It leaped frantically at me, raced around me, threw me, finally stopped, pervading me, while vibrating in sheer relief and happiness. I felt the great fear-loneliness in the other moral begin to recede, and in its place came an almost overpowering euphoria. It was contentment, and it stemmed from the basic emotion love. I knew this at once. I suddenly realized that I too was relieved, that I was no longer sick with fear-loneliness. It was good, this existing of the other within me, or simultaneously with me. Or was it I within the other? It sated our fear emotion and made, created, a love euphoria. I am happy I found you, I communicated. I was lonely for another moral. You are a moral? The other hesitated, thinking. No, I am a pat. I am different from you, but it is chiefly emotional. It is good. You are a pat? I returned in disappointment. I had hoped to find another moral. Don't be disappointed, the pat soothed. We are alike, really, almost so. Like flame and gas are both substance yet different. We are two types of the same thing. I am no longer frightened. I am no longer lonely. You are good for me. I was relieved because I wanted to be. I believed the other moral. No, the pat, because I wanted to believe. I did not bother to rationalize. I felt elation. Then in that other time, that other place, we both belonged to a common group with another name, I suggested. I believe so, the pat answered. How was it when you came awake, I asked? Can you remember? I think so. I recall I was born here in fright, because it was all wrong. I was not in my natural state, so it was not right, the pat paused to think. I remember there was great speed, and I was born in fright. Were you? No, I answered. I was not frightened at first, and I was never frightened to the degree you were. I was mostly lonely, which is related to fear. But when I first conceived of my existence here, I was coolly logical. I awakened reasoning, realizing that I existed. I suppose it has to do with our emotional differences, the pat beside me or with me or within me communicated. Do you recall where in space you came from, I asked? I must have been doubting my existence at first, so intensely I did not observe. You seemed to have taken your own being for granted, thus you were, perhaps, more observant. I—I think so, the pat hesitated, and I knew it was observing the stars around us. Yes, come with me, I think I know where. I stayed with the pat, part of it, and we lurched through space. Rather, we ceased to exist at one point in space and existed in another. How far? Distances meant nothing. It was here the pat informed me finally. Something was wrong here. The interweaving waves of force were all wrong. There was disorder, a great cancer in space. The waves interfered with the progress of each other, all along a great barrier. It was not natural, not like it was elsewhere. Something is wrong with the waves of force crossing this area. They interfere with each other. New forces are created. Do you detect it? I communicated. I—I feel it! The pat answered. It is a sickness in space, like—like our loneliness. I knew the comparison was ridiculous, but I let it pass. You've said you came alive at great speed. I could have been travelling, too. We must have plunged into this barrier. It seems to me that emotions must originate in a physical being. Perhaps reason could be free, but not emotion. I don't know, but I have a theory. I believe our physical selves still exist somewhere in space. The barrier, perhaps, interfered with the normal functioning of our mental equipment. We exist at one point in space, and we are thinking, experiencing emotions at another point. It's as if our minds are—are broadcasting our thoughts and emotions far away from our physical selves. Either that or our rationales were torn free, and only our emotions are broadcast. Does that sound logical? Yes, the pat agreed. I believe that is the answer. I felt that the pat was pleased with my theory, that it greatly admired my reasoning. I also perceived that it had no idea what I meant by the explanation. I did not mind. You said you were moving at great speed, I continued. Can you remember the line, the direction you were travelling in? The pat hesitated only a moment. Yes. You perceived the star cluster there, the triangular one? My heading was in that direction. And it was changing fast. Then we could find nothing by travelling toward the triangular cluster. No. I was moving in an arc in the direction of the distorted square cluster there. Do you see it? Yes. I answered knowing her use of the word C was unconscious. That is Cetus. Cetus, the pat, was startled. How do you know that? I don't know. The name came to me. It seemed right to call it that. It's all so frightening. I had no time for pampering our emotions, though I was at great peace with the pat so near me. Time might prove vital. Neither would it do any good to travel in the direction of Cetus, I said. No. No, the pat communicated. If there is any object of matter or of force I was a part of in that other existence travelling through space, it is in an arc. The best we can do is take an arbitrary direction between the triangular cluster and the one called Cetus and hope to intercept the object, the other part of me, whatever it is. Come with me, I ordered. I discovered the object of mass hurtling through space before the pat did. It was symmetrical and metallic. I tore myself away from my companion and darted to meet it. I discovered it was a shell, a hollow thing, and I passed inside. There was a room there. There were projections and circles of transparent matter. I experienced the cymbal dials. There were two other creatures seated close to the dials, things of matter, and their substance was protoplasm. But there was no rationale present in either of them. I examined the living matter of the smaller one swiftly. Organes seemed poised in a suspended state. The creature I observed housed in a protective shell seemed paralyzed or dead. I remembered the word dead. And the pat was within me again. I—I feel something moral. I am frightened. What are they, those things there? They seemed to be—I stopped communicating. The pat had disappeared. The thing of protoplasm nearest me was moving, but I was no longer interested. I remember the pat had touched the upper extremity of the creature and had vanished, had ceased to be. The old sickness was back. I was lonely. I wanted the other entity. I could not, did not wish to exist without the pat. I darted frantically about the metal shell, here and there, searching, searching. Where was the pat? I screamed for it. I thought pat as far away as I could reach, but there was no reaction, no response at all. In my frenzy I was back beside the creatures of protoplasm before I realized it, near the one I had not yet examined. Perhaps they took her, I thought. It was not logical, but it was a hope. Hope is emotional. I was becoming more emotional than rational. I touched the larger of the two creatures experimentally, moved cautiously inside it, searching, searching. Suddenly I was seized by a great force, an inexorable power that grasped me and wrenched me, tearing me from the point in space I had occupied a moment before. My perception blurred, but I was not frightened. Without the pat I did not care what happened. I was intensely curious. So this is how it is, I reasoned in a flash, to cease to be. And I ceased to be. Marlowe shook his head. I must have dozed, he thought. He glanced at the chronometer on the console ahead. No, only a minute or two had elapsed since the last time he had checked. Sleepy head, wake up and live. He looked to his right. Pat sat in the navigator's seat, smiling at him. I didn't sleep, honestly, he protested. We hit some sort of barrier back there. It knocked me out for a moment. I had the damnedest impression. Remember what you promised? She swiveled the seat about to face him. No more scientific lectures on the mysteries of space or all return to earth. You know my poor brain can't absorb it. You win, he grinned, running calloused fingers through his graying crew cut. He leaned forward and kissed her briefly. How did an old space hermit like me ever win a flower garden bride in the first place? They laughed together, and he felt secure within the metallic shell surrounding them, no longer alone. End of Kogito Ergo Sum by John Foster West. Dead World by Jack Douglas. 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 Troy Bond. Dead World by Jack Douglas. Although the most recent start to die, RNA-C89778 in the distant Mental House Galaxy had eight inhabited planets, only some 1,000 people of the fifth planet escaped and survived as a result of a computer error which miscalculated the exact time by two years due to basic psychofilal maladjustments, the refugees of Mental House 12.5 are classified as anti-social types B6 and must be considered unstable. All anti-social types B6 are barred from responsible positions in United Galaxies by order of the Intergalactic Council, short history of the United Galaxies. Juan Salterio started it. He was serving in my company, and he was one of them, a Mental House 12.5 unstable, and don't ever call that damn little planet by its number if you meet one of them. They call it Nova Marenia, but you won't meet one of them, or maybe you will, maybe they did make it. I like to think they did. There are a lot of them in the companies in 3078, restless men. The companies were the logical place for them. We're still classified anti-social B6 too. Every year it's harder to get recruits, but we still have to be careful who we take in. We took Juan Salterio. There was something about him from the very start. Why do you want to join a free company? He was a short humanoid type with deep black eyes and a thin lipless mouth that never smiled. I'm an anti-social. I like to fight. I want to fight. A misfit joining the misfits? A grudge against the council? It's not good enough, mister. We live on the council. Try again. Salterio's black eyes stared without a flicker. You're Red Stone, commander of the Red Company. You hate the council, and I hate the council. You're the— Salterio stopped. I said, the traitor of the glorious war of survival. You can say it, Salterio. The lipless mouth was rigid. I don't think of it that way. I think of a man with personal integrity, Salterio said. I suppose I should have seen it then. The rock he carried deep inside him. It might have saved thirty thousand good men. But I was thinking of myself. Commander Red Stone of the Red Company, Earthmen. Normally we're not all Earthmen now. Every year there are fewer recruits, and it won't be long before we die out and the council will have the last laugh. Old Red Stone, the traitor of the war of survival. The little finger of my left hand still missing and telling the universe I was a very old soldier of the outlawed free companies, hanging on to life on a rocky planet of the distant Solomon Galaxy. Back at the old stand because United Galaxy still need us. In a way, it's a big joke. Two years after Raje Ben and I had a belly full of the glorious war of survival and they chased us all the way out here, they turned right around and made the peace. A joke on me, but sometimes I like to think that our run out was the thing that made them think and make peace. When you've been a soldier for thirty five years you like to win battles, but you like to feel you helped bring peace too. I said, personal integrity. That sounds pretty good doesn't it? So you like personal integrity? Alright Salterio. Are you sure you know what you're getting into? We're sixty million light years from Galaxy Center, ten million from the nearest United Galaxy city. We've got no comforts, no future, nothing to do but fight. A woman in her right mind won't look at us. If they see you in uniform they'll spit on you. If they catch you out of uniform they'll kill you. Salterio shrugged. I like to eat. I've got nowhere to go. All I've got is myself and a big piece of ice I call home. I nodded. Okay. We fight small wars for good profits. It's not Earth out here, but we've got four nice sons, plenty of Lucanian whiskey Rajé Ben taught the locals to make, and we're our own masters. The United Galaxies leaves us pretty much alone unless they need us. You do your job and your job is what I tell you to do, period. You got that straight? Salterio very nearly smiled. It sounds good to me sir. I hope it'll sound good in a year Salterio because once you're in you don't get out except feet first. Is that clear? I have life and death rights over you. You owe allegiance to the Red Company and me and to no one else. Got that? Today your best friends are the men of Rajé Ben's, Lucanian 4th Free Patrol, and your worst enemies are the men of Monticevis Syrian O Company. Tomorrow Rajé Ben's boys may be your worst enemies and Monticevis troops your best friends. It all depends on the contract. A company on the same contract is a friend. A company against the contract is an enemy. You'll drink with a man today and kill him tomorrow. Got it? If you kill a free companion without a contract you go to Court Marshall. If you kill a citizen of the United Galaxies except in a battle under contract I throw you to the wolves and that means you're finished. That's the way it is. Yes, sir. Salterio never moved a muscle. He was rigid. Right, I said. Get your gear. See the agitant and sign the agreement. I think you'll do. Salterio left. I sat back in my chair and thought about how many non-Earthmen I was taking into the company. Maybe I should have been thinking about this one single non-Earthman and the something he was carrying inside him, but I didn't, and it cost the company's 30,000 men we couldn't afford to lose. We can't afford to lose one man. There are only 100 companies now, 20,000 men each. Give or take a few thousand depending on how the last contract went. Life is good in the United Galaxies now that they've disarmed and outlawed all war again. Then our breed is dying out faster than it did in the 500 years of peace before the War of Survival. Too many of the old companions like me went west in the War of Survival. The Galactic Council know they need us, know that you can't change all living creatures into good Galactic citizens overnight, so they let us go on fighting for anyone in the universe who wants to take something from someone else, or who thinks someone else wants to take something from him. And even the mighty United Galaxies needs guards for expeditions to the unexplored Galaxies, but they don't like us and they don't want us. They don't cut off our little fingers anymore, but we have to wear our special black uniforms when we go into United Territory under penalty of a quick death. Humane of course, they just put us to sleep gently and for keeps. And they've got a stockpile of Ionic bombs ready at all times in case we get out of hand. We don't have Ionic weapons, that's part of the agreement and they watch us. They came close to using them down there in the frozen waste of Mental House 12, but 30,000 of us died without Ionix. We killed each other. They liked that, even if they didn't like what happened. Do you know what it means to be lost, really lost? I'm lost if that means I know I'll never go back to live on Earth. But I know that Earth is still there to go back to, and I can dream of going home. Yuan Salterio and the other refugees have no home to go back to. They can't even dream. They sat in that one ship that escaped and watched their planet turn into a lifeless ball of ice that would circle dead and frozen forever around its burned out star, a giant tomb that carried under its thick ice their homes and their fields and their loves, and they could not even hope and dream. Or I did not think they could. Salterio had been with us a year when we got the contract to escort the survey mission to Nova Morania, a private Earth commercial mining firm looking for minerals under the frozen waste of the dead planet. Rajé Ben was in on the contract. We took two battalions, one from my red company and one from Rajé Ben's Lucanian patrol. My sub-commander was Pete Colenso, old Mike Colenso's boy. It all went fine for a week or so, routine guard and patrol. The survey team wouldn't associate with us, of course, but we were used to that. We kept our eyes open and our mouths shut. That's our job and we give value for money received. So we were alert and ready. But it wasn't the attack that nearly got us this time. It was the cold of the dead planet lost in absolute zero and absolute darkness. Nova Morania was nearly 40% uranium and who could resist that? The Centaurian trading unit did not resist the lore. The attack was quick and hard, a typical Lucanian patrol attack. My company was pinned down at the first valley from those damn smoky blasters of the Lucanians. All I could see was the same shimmering lights I had learned to know so well in the War of Survival against Lucania. Someday maybe I'll find out how to see a Lucan. Rajé Ben has worked with me a long time to help, but when the attack came this time all I could do was eat ice and beam a help call to Rajé Ben. That Centaurian trading unit was a cheap outfit. They had hired only one battalion of Rajé Ben's 9th Lucanian Free Patrol and Rajé Ben flanked them right off that planet. I got my boys on their feet and we chased Rajé's men halfway back to Salomon with Rajé Ben laughing like a hyena the whole way. Ditt me and mud, red boy. I'd give a prime contract for one gander at old Rajé Ben's face. He's blowing a gasket. I said, nice flank job. Rajé Ben laughed so hard I could see his pattern of colored light shaking like a dancing rainbow. I took two sub-commanders, where'll I hit that bullet head for ransom? Then we stopped laughing. We had won the battle, but Rajé Ben was a crafty old soldier and his sabotage squad had wrecked our engines and our heating units. We were stuck on a frozen planet without heat. Young Kalenzo turned white. What do we do? I said, beam for help and pray we don't freeze first. They had missed our small communications reactor unit. We sent out our call and we all huddled around the small reactor. There might be enough heat out of it to let us live five hours, if we were lucky. It was the third hour when Yuan Sultario began to talk. Maybe it was the nearness of death. I was twenty-two. Portario was the leader on our planet. He found the error when we had one ship ready. We had three days. No time to get the other ships ready. He said we were lucky the other planets didn't have even one ship ready. Not even time for United Galaxies to help. Portario chose a thousand of us to go. I was one. At first I felt very good, you know. I was really happy, until I found out that my wife couldn't go. Not fit enough. United Galaxies had been the standards to us. Funny how you don't think about other people until something hurts you. I'd been married a year. I told them it was both of us or neither of us. I told Portario to tell United Galaxies they couldn't break up a family and to hell with their standards. They laughed at me. Not Portario, the council. What did they care? They would just take another man. My wife begged me to go. She cried so much I had to agree to go. I loved her too much to be able to stay and see the look on her face as we both died when she knew I could have gone. On the ship before we took off I stood at a port and looked down at her, a small girl trying to smile at me. She waved once before they led her away from the rocket. All hell was shaking the planet already, had been for months, but all I saw was a small girl waving once, just once. She's still there, somewhere down there under the ice. The cold was slowly creeping into us. It was hard to move my mouth, but I said, she loved you. She wanted you to live. Without her, without my home, I'm as dead as the planet. I feel frozen. She's like that dead sun out there and I'll circle around her until someone gets me and ends it. Salterios seemed to be seeing something. I'm beginning to forget what she looked like. I don't want to forget. I can't forget her on this planet the way it was. It was a beautiful place, perfect. I don't want to forget her. Kalenzo said, you won't have long to remember. But Kalenzo was wrong. My third battalion showed up when we had just less than an hour to live. They took us off. The earth mining outfit haggled over the contract because the job had not been finished, and I had to settle for two-third contract price. Rajed Ben did better than when he ransomed RJ Ben's two subcommanders. It wasn't a bad deal and I would have been satisfied, except that something had happened to you on Salterio. Maybe it made him realize that he did not want to die after all. Or maybe it turned him space happy and he began to dream. A dream of his own born up there in the cold of its dead planet. A dream that nearly cost me my company. I did not know what that dream was until Salterio came into my office a year later. He had a job for the company. How many men, I asked. Our company in Rajed Ben's patrol, Salterio said. Full strength? Yes, sir. Price? Standard, sir, Salterio said. The party will pay. Just a trip to your old planet? That's all, Salterio said, a guard contract. The hiring party just don't want any interference with their project. Two full companies, forty thousand men, they must expect to need a lot of protecting. United Galaxy opposes the project, or they will if they get wind of it. I said, United opposes a lot of things, what's special about this scheme? Salterio hesitated and looked at me with those flat black eyes. Ionics. It's not a word you say or hear without a chill somewhere deep inside. Not even me, and I know a man can survive ionic weapons. I know, because I did once. Weapons so powerful, I'm one of the last men alive who saw them in action. Mathematically, the big ones could wipe out a galaxy. I saw a small one destroy a star in ten seconds. I watched Salterio for a long time. It seemed a long time, anyway. It was probably twenty seconds. I was wondering if he'd gone space crazy for keeps, and I was thinking of how I could find out what it was all about in time to stop it. I said, a hundred companies won't be enough, Salterio. Have you ever seen or heard when an ionic bomb can, Salterio said, not weapons, peaceful power. Even that's out, and you know it, I said. United galaxies won't even touch peaceful ionics, too dangerous to even use. You can take a look first. A good look, I said. I alerted Raje Ben, and we took two squads and a small ship, and Salterio directed us to a tall mountain that jutted a hundred feet above the ice of Nova Morania. I was not surprised, and the way I think I knew from the moment Salterio walked into my office. Whatever it was, Salterio was a part of it. And I had a pretty good idea what it was. The only question was how. But I didn't have time to think it out any farther, and the companies you learned to feel danger. The first fire caught four of my men, then I was down on the ice. They were easy to see, black uniforms with white wedges. Guido Hera's white wedge company, Earthmen. I don't like fighting other Earthmen, but a job's a job, and you don't ask questions in the companies. It looked like a full battalion against our two squads. On the smooth ice surface there was no cover except the jutting mountain top off to the right. There was no light in the absolute darkness of a dead star, but we could see through our viewers and so could they. They outnumbered us ten to one. Raje Ben's voice came through the closed circuit. That show, Red, they got our pants down. You call it, I answered. BREAK SILENCE! Surrender. When a company breaks silence in a battle it means surrender. There was no other way. And I had a pretty good idea that the council itself was behind O'Hara on this job. If it was Ionix involved they wouldn't ransom us. The council had waited a long time to catch Red Stone in an execution offense. They wouldn't miss. But forty of our men were down already. OK, I beamed over the circuit. BREAK SILENCE! We've had it, Raje. Council offense, Red. Yeah. Well, I'd had a lot of good years. Maybe I'd been a soldier too long. I was thinking just like that when the sudden flank attack started. From the right, heavy fire from the cover of the solitary mountain top. O'Hara's men were dropping. I stared through my viewer. On that mountain I counted the uniforms of twenty-two different companies. That was very wrong. Whoever Saltario was fronting for could not have the power or the goal to hire twenty-four companies including mine and Raje Benz. And the fire was heavy but not that heavy. But whoever they were they were very welcome. We had a chance now. And I was making my plans when the tall old man stood up on the small jutting top of that mountain. The tall old man stood up in a translating machine, boomed out. All of you. O'Hara's men. Look at this. I saw it. In a beam of light on the top of that mountain it looked like a small neutron source machine. But it wasn't. It was an ionic beam projector. The old man said, Go home. They went. They went fast and silent. And I knew where they were going. Not to Solomon. O'Hara would have taken one look at that machine and be halfway to United Galaxy Center before he had stopped seeing it. I felt like taking that trip myself. But I had agreed to look and I would look. If we were lucky we would have 48 hours to look and run. I fell in what was left of my company behind the men that had saved us. More company uniforms than I had ever seen in one place. They said nothing. Just walked into a hole in that mountain. Into a cave. And in the cave at the far end a door opened, an elevator. We followed the tall old man into the elevator and it began to descend. The elevator car went down for a long time. At last I could see a faint glow far below. The glow grew brighter and the car stopped. Far below the glow was still brighter. We all stepped out into a long corridor cut from solid rock. I estimated that we were at least 200 miles down and the glow was hundreds of miles deeper. We went through three sealed doors and emerged into a vast room. A room bright with light and filled with more men and company uniforms, civilians, even women. At least a thousand. And I saw it. The thousand refugees, all of them, gathered from all the companies from wherever they had been in the galaxies, gathered here in a room 200 miles into the heart of their dead planet, a room filled with giant machines, ionic machines, highly advanced ionic power reactors. The old man stood in front of his people and spoke, I am Jason Portario. I thank you for coming. I broke in. Ionic power is an execution of fence. You know that. How the hell did you get all this? I know the offense, Commander," Portario said, and I know you. You're a fair man. You're a brave man. It doesn't matter where we got the power. Many men are dead to get it. But we have it and we will keep it. We have a job to do." I said, after that stunt out there you've about as much chance as a snowball in hell. O'Hara is half way to galaxy center. Look, with a little luck we get you out to Salomon. If you leave all this equipment I might be able to hide you until it blows over. The old man shrugged. I would have preferred not to show our hand but we had to save you. I was aware that the Council would find us out sooner or later. They missed the ionic material a month ago. But that is unimportant. The important matter is will you take our job? All we need is another two days, perhaps three. Can you hold off an attack for that long? Why? I asked. Portario smiled. All right, Commander, you should know all we plan. Sit down and let me finish before you speak. I sat. Raje Ben sat. The agitation of his colored lights showed that he was as disturbed as I was. The thousand Nova Moranians stood there in the room and watched us. Yuan Saltario stood with his friends. I could feel his eyes on me. Hot eyes. As if something inside that lost man was burning again. Portario lighted a pipe. I had not seen a pipe since I was a child. The habit was classified as ancient usage in the United Galaxies. Portario saw me staring. He held his pipe and looked at it. In a way, Commander, the old man said, this pipe is my story. On Nova Morania we liked the pipe. We liked a lot of the old habits. Maybe we should have died with all the others. You know, I was the one who found the error. Sometimes I'm not at all sure my friends here thank me for it. Our planet is dead, Commander, and so are we. We're dead inside. But we have a dream. We want to live again, and to live again our planet must live again. The old man paused as if trying to be sure of telling it right. We mean no harm to anyone. All we want is our life back. We don't want to live forever like lumps of ice circling around a dead heart. What we plan may kill us all, but we feel it is worth the risk. We have thousands of ionic power reactors. We have blasted out Venturi tubes. We found life still deep in the center of this planet. It is all ready now. With all the power we have we will break the hold of our dead sun and send this planet off into space. We, I said, you're insane, it can't, but it can, Commander. It's a great risk, yes, but it can be done. My calculations are perfect. We want to leave this dead system, go off into a space and find a new star that will bring life back to our planet. A green, live, warm Nova Morania once again. Raje Ben was laughing. That's the craziest damn dream I ever sat still for. You know what your chances of being picked up by another star are? Picked up just right? Why? Batario said, we have calculated the exact initial thrust, the exact tangential velocity, the precise orbital path we need. If all goes exactly, I emphasize exactly to the last detail as we have planned it, we can do it. Our chances of being caught by the correct star in the absolutely correct position are one in a thousand trillion, but we can do it. It was so impossible I began to think he was right. If you weren't caught just right? Portario's black eyes watched me. We could burn up or stay frozen and lifeless. We could drift in space forever as cold and dead as we are now and our ionic power won't last forever. The forces we will use could blow the planet apart. But we are going to try. We would rather die than live as walking dead men in this perfect united galaxies we do not want. The silence in the room was like a Salomon fog. Thick silence broken only by the steady hum of the machines deep beneath us in the dead planet. A wild impossible dream of one thousand lost souls. A dream that would destroy them and they did not care. There was something about it all that I liked. I said, why not get council approval? Portario smiled. Council has little liking for wild dreams, Commander. It would not be considered as advancing the future of united galaxies destiny. Then there are the Ionics, and Portario hesitated. And there is the danger of imbalance, galactic imbalance. I have calculated carefully the danger is remote, but council was not going to take even a remote chance. Ionics, Altario broke in. All they care about is their damn sterile destiny. They don't care about people. What we do, we care about something to live for. The hell with the destiny of the galaxies. They don't know, and we'll be gone before they do know. They know plenty now, O'Hara's being the men. So we must hurry, Portario said. Three days, Commander, will you protect us for three days? A council offense punishable by instant destruction with united galaxies, reserve ionic weapons in the hands of the super-seeker police and disaster teams. And three days is a long time. I would be risking my whole company. And I heard Rajay Ben laugh. Blasphemy read it so damn crazy I'm for it. Let's give it a shot. I did not know then how much it would really cost us. If I had, I might not have agreed. Or maybe I would have. It was good to know people could still have such dreams in our computer age. OK, I said, beam the full companies and try to get one more. Mandaseva's Syrian boys would be good. We'll split the fee three ways. Juan Salterio said, thanks, Red. I said, thank me later if we're still around. We beam the companies, and in 20 minutes they are on their way, straight into the biggest trouble we had had since the War of Survival. I expected trouble, but I didn't know how much. Pete Colenzo tipped me off. Pete spoke across the light years on our beam. Mandaseva says, OK, if we guarantee the payment, I've deposited the bond with him and we're on our way. But, Red, something's funny. What? This place is empty. The whole damn galaxy out here is like a desert. Every company has moved out somewhere. OK, I beam, get rolling fast. There was only one client who could hire all the companies at one time, United Galaxy's itself. We were in for it. I'd expect to perhaps ten companies, not three against ninety-seven, give or take a few out on other jobs. It gave me a chill. Not the odds, but if counsel was that worried, maybe there was bad danger. But I'd give him my word, and a companion keeps his word. We had one ace in the hole, a small one. If the other companies were not here in Menelaus yet, they must have rendezvoused at Galaxy Center. It was the kind of follow-the-book mistake United would make. It gave us a day and a half. We would need it. They came at dawn on the second day. We were deployed across five of the dead planets of Menelaus 12 in a ring around Nova Morania. They came fast and hard, and Portario and his men had at least 10 hours' work left before they could fire their reactors and pray. Until then, we did the praying. It didn't help. Mondesiva's command ship went at the third hour. A luke and blaster got it. By the fourth hour, I had watched three of my sub command ships go. A Syrian force beam got one, an Earth Fusion gun got another, and the third went out of action and rammed O'Hara's command ship that had been leading their attack against us. That third ship of mine was Pete Colenzos. Old Mike would have been proud of his boy. I was sick. Pete had been a good boy. So had O'Hara. Not a boy, O'Hara, but the next to the last of old freak companion from Earth. I'm the last, and I said a silent goodbye to O'Hara. By the sixth hour, Raje Ben had only 10 ships left. I had 12. 5,000 of my men were gone. 8,000 of Raje Ben's lukens. The Syrians of Mondesiva's O'Company were getting the worst of it, and in the eighth hour, Mondesiva's second-in-command surrendered. It would be over soon, too soon. And the dream would be over with the battle. I broke silence. Red stone calling. Do you read me? Commander Stone calling. Request conference. Repeat, request conference. A face appeared on the intercompany beam screen. The cold, blank, hard-bitten face of the only free company commander senior to me now that O'Hara was gone. Jake Camposino of the Cygni Black Company. Are you surrendering stone? No. I want to speak to my fellow companions. Camposino's voice was like ice. Violation. You know the rules, Stone. Silence cannot be broken in battle. I will bring charges. You're through, Stone. I said, OK, crucify me later, but hear me now. Camposino said, close silence or surrender. It was no good. We'd had it. And across the distance of battle, Raje Ben's face appeared on the screen. The colored lights that were O'Lukens' face, and I knew enough to know that the shimmering lights were mad. The hell with them, Red? Let's go all the damn way. And a new face appeared on the screen. A face I knew too well. First counselor, Rourke. Stone, you've done a lot on your day, but this is the end. You hear me? You're defending a man, man, and a council crime. Do you realize the risk? Universal imbalance. The whole pattern of galaxies could be destroyed. We'll destroy you for the stone, an ionic project without council authorization. I said to Camposino, five minutes, commander. That's all. There was a long blank on the screen. Then Camposino's cold face appeared. OK, Red talk. I don't like civilian threats. You've got your five minutes. Make it good. I made it good. I told them of a handful of people who had a dream. A handful of people who wanted their home back. A few lost souls who would rather die trying to live the way they wanted to live than go on living in a world they did not want. And I told them of the great United galaxies that had been created to protect the dreams of everyone in it and had forgotten why it had been created. I told them that it did not matter who was right or wrong, because when a man can no longer dream, something has gone wrong in the universe. When I finished, Camposino's face was impassive. Camposino said, you heard Commander Stone, men. Close off, Stone. Give me a minute to get the vote. I waited. It was the longest minute of my life. You win, Red, Camposino said. He was smiling at me. Go home, counselor. Battle's over. The counselor went. He said there would be hell to pay. And maybe there will be, but I don't think so. They still need us. We lost 30,000 good men in all the companies. But when the next dawn came, Nova Morania was gone. I don't know where they went or what happened to them. Here in my stronghold, I sometimes imagined them safe and rebuilding a green world where they can smoke pipes and live their own lives. And sometimes I imagined them all dead and drifting out there in the infinity of space. I don't think they would mind too much either way. You've been listening to Dead World by Jack Douglas, a public domain story read by Troy Bond for LibriVox. 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 OWN. Divinity by William Morrison. Bradley had one fear in his life. He had to escape regeneration. To do that, he was willing to take any chance, coward though he was, even if it meant that he had to become a god. Bradley seemed to have escaped regeneration. Now he only had death to worry about. 10 minutes before, he had been tumbling through the air, head over heels, helpless and despairing. And before that, he remembered how his heart had been in his mouth as he crept down the corridor of the speeding ship. He could hear Mileski's voice coming faintly through one of the walls, and he had been tempted to run back, fearful of being shot down on the spot if he were caught. He had fought back the temptation and kept on. No one had seen him as he crept into the lifeboat. This is your one chance, he told himself. You have to take it. If they get you back to port, you're finished. Luck had been with him. They were broadcasting the results of the Mars Earth matches at the time, and most of the crew were grouped around the visors. He had picked the moment when news came of a sensational upset. And for a minute or two after the lifeboat blasted off, no one realized what had happened. When the truth did penetrate, they had a hard time swinging the ship around, and by then the lifeboat was out of radar range. He was free. He had exalted wildly for the moment, until it struck him that freedom and space might be a doubtful gift. He would have to get to some civilized port, convince the port authorities that he'd been shipwrecked, and somehow separated from other crew members, and then lose himself quickly in the crowd of people that he hoped would fill the place. There would be risks, but he would take them. It would be better than running out of air and food in space. It had been the best possible plan, and it had gone wrong. All wrong. He had been caught. Before he knew it, in the gravity of a planet, he had overlooked. The lifeboat had torn apart under the combined stresses of its forward momentum and its side rockets blasting full force, and he had been hurled free in a space suit, falling slowly at first, and then faster, faster, faster, the automatic parachutes had suddenly sprung into operation when he reached a critical speed, and he had slowed down and stopped tumbling. He fell more gently, feet first, and when he landed it was with a shock that jarred, but did no real damage. Slowly he picked himself up and fumbled at the air valve. Something in the intake tubes had jammed under the shock of landing, and the air was no longer circulating properly. Filled with the moisture of his own breath, it felt hot and clammy and clouded the viewplates. If he had kept all his wits about him, he would have tried to remember before he took a chance whether the planet had an oxygen atmosphere and whether the oxygen was of sufficient concentration to support human life. Not that he had had any real choice, but it would have been good to know. As it was, he turned the air valve automatically and listened nervously as the stale air hissed out and the fresh air hissed in. He took a deep breath. It didn't kill him. Instead, it sent his blood racing around with new energy. Slowly the moisture evaporated from his viewplates. Slowly he began to see. He perceived that he was not alone. A group of people stood in front of him, respectful, their own eyes full of fear and wonder. Someone uttered a hoarse cry and pointed at his helmet. The unclouding of the viewplates must have stricken them with awe. The air was wonderful to breathe. He would have liked to remove his helmet and fill his lungs with it on hampered, expose his face to its soft caress, expand his chest with the constriction of the suit. But these people. They must have seen him tumble down from the sky and land unhurt. They carried food and flowers, and now they were kneeling down to him as to a... Suddenly he realized. To them he was a god. The thought of it made him weak. To Malevsky and the ship's crew he was a criminal, a cheap chiseler in pickpocket, almost a murderer, escaping credit for that crime only by grace of his own good luck and his victims' thick skull. They had felt such contempt for him that they hadn't even bothered to guard him too carefully. They had thought him a complete coward, without the courage to risk an escape, without the intelligence to find the opportunities that might be offered to him. They hadn't realized how terrified he was of the thing with which they threatened him. Regeneration. The giving up of his old identity? Not for him. They hadn't realized that he preferred the risks of a dangerous escape to the certainty of that. And here he was. A god. He lifted his hand without thinking to wipe away the perspiration that covered his forehead. But before the hand touched his helmet he realized what he was doing and let the hand drop again. And the people watching him the gesture must have seen one of double significance. It was at once a sign of accepting their food and flowers and their offer of goodwill and at the same time in order to withdraw. They bowed and moved backwards away from him. Behind him they left their gifts. They seemed human, human enough for the features on the men's faces to impress him as strong and resourceful for him to recognize that the women were attractive. But if they were human the food must be fit for human beings. Whether it was or wasn't, however, again he had no choice. He waited until they were out of sight, and then stiffly he removed his helmet and ate. The food tasted good. And with his helmet off, with the wind in his face and the woods around him whispering in his ears, it was a meal fit for the being they thought him to be. He was a god. And finally it was the spacesuit which made him one, especially the Gogolite helmet. He could take no chance of becoming an ordinary mortal, and that would mean he would have to wear the spacesuit continually, or at least the helmet. That he decided was what he would do. That would leave his body reasonably free and at the same time impress them with the fact that he was different from them. By manipulating the air valve he would be able to make the viewplates cloud and unclouded will, thus giving dramatic expression to his feelings. It would be a pleasant game to play until he had learned something of their language. It would be safer than trying to make things clear to them with speech and gestures that they could not understand anyway. He wondered how long it would be before Mulevsky would find the shattered lifeboat drifting in space and then trace its course and decide where he had landed. That would be the end of his divinity. Meanwhile, until then, until then he was a god. Unregenerated. Permanently unregenerated. Holding his helmet he threw back his head and laughed loud and long, and wondered what his mother would have thought. For a while he was being left alone. They were afraid of him, of course, fearful of intruding with their merely mortal affairs upon the meditations of so divine a being. Later, however, curiosity and perhaps a desire to show him off to newcomers might draw them back. In the interval it would be well to find out what sort of place this was in which he had landed. He looked around him. There were trees, with sharp green branches, sharp green twigs, sharp red leaves. He shuddered as he thought what would have happened to him if he had fallen on the point of a branch. The trees seemed rigid and unbending in the wind that caressed his face. There were no birds that he could see. Small black objects bounded from one branch to another as if engaged in complicated games of tag. He wondered if the games were serious as the one he had been playing with Mulevsky. With himself as it. There were no ground animals in sight. If any showed up later, they couldn't be too dangerous, not with the natives living here in such apparent peace and contentment. There probably wouldn't be anything that his pocket gun, which he had taken the precaution to remove from the lifeboat before that shattered, wouldn't be able to handle. Near him was a strange spring, or little river, or whatever you might call it. It broke from the ground, ran along the hard rocky surface for a dozen feet, and then plunged underground again. There were other springs of a similar nature scattered here and there, and now he realized that their combined murmuring was the noise he had mistaken on first removing his helmet for the rustle of the wind in the woods. He would have enough to drink. The natives would bring him food. What else could any reasonable man want? It wasn't the kind of life he had dreamed of. No Martian whiskey, no drugs, no nightspots, no big-time gamblers slapping him on the back and calling him pal, no brassy blondes giving him the eye. Still, it was better than the life he actually lived. Much better. It would do. It would have to do. From what he had seen of the natives, he liked them and feared them. For all their mistaken faith in him, they seemed to be no fools. How many times before had men from some supposedly superior civilization dropped in upon the people of a new world and made that first impression of divinity, only to have the original attitude of worship by the natives give way to dissolution and contempt? Who was that fellow they told about in the history books? He had read as a kid, Cortez, way back on Earth. When that planet itself had offered unexplored territory, and later on it had happened on one of the moons of Jupiter, and on several planets outside the system. The explorers had been gods until they had been found out. Then they had been savage murderers, plunderers, devils. It would be too bad if you were found out. He was one against them all. He would never be able to fight off so many enemies. More than that, he was a stranger here. He needed friends. No, he mustn't be found out. Better put on your helmet, dope, he told himself savagely. They'll be coming back soon, and if they find you without it. He put on his helmet, still muttering to himself. It wouldn't make any difference if you were overheard. They didn't know Earth language, and would take his words for oracular utterances. He could talk to himself all he wanted, and from the looks of things there would be no one to understand him. He hoped he didn't grow crazy and eccentric like those hermits who had been lost alone in space for too many years. The helmet was the first nuisance, there would be others too. He couldn't even talk in what would become his natural manner, with a whine in every word, a whine that came from being treated with contempt by police and fellow criminals alike. A God had to speak with slow gravity, with dignity. A God had to walk like a God. A God had endless responsibilities here, it seemed. He thought again of his mother. Ever since he could remember it had been Georgie, wipe your nose, and Georgie, keep your fingers out of the cake, and Georgie do this, and don't do that. A fine way to speak to a God. Even after he had grown up, his mother had continued to treat him like a baby. She had never got over examining his face and ears and his fingernails to make sure that he had cleaned them properly. He couldn't so much as comb his hair to suit her. All through his abortive attempt at college and later at a job she had done it for him. But she had been a lioness in his defense later on, when he had given way to that first irresistible impulse to dip his fingers in the tail and get away with what he thought would be unnoticed petty cash. It had been her fault that the thing had happened, of course. She could have given him a decent amount of spending money instead of doling it out to him from his own wages as if she were giving money for candy to a schoolboy. She could have treated him more like the man he was supposed to be. Still, he couldn't complain. She had stuck to him all the way through, whatever the charges against him. When that lug of a traveling salesman had accused her Georgie of picking his pockets, and that female refugee from a TV studio had charged poor, harmless Georgie with slugging her, it was his mother who had stood up in court and denounced them, and solemnly told Judge and jury what a sweet, kind, helplessly innocent lamb her Georgie was. It wasn't her fault, if no one had quite believed her. Now he was on his own, without any possibility of help from her. And in what the ads called a responsible position that she had never so much as dreamed he could fill. Unfortunately, now that he had reached so exalt at a level, there seemed to be few possibilities of promotion. There appeared only at the chance, on the one hand, that the natives would find him out and slaughter him, and on the other that Malevsky would track him down and bring him back to earth for the punishment he dreaded. It was a good thing he had put on his helmet. Not far away a group of the natives was approaching, laden with more food and flowers. It was larger than the previous group. Evidently, as he had anticipated, they were showing him off to newcomers. He came to a stately hall and waited for them to approach. He could see the surprise on their faces as they noted his change of costume, and he watched nervously as they stopped to whisper among themselves. It would be too bad for him if they didn't like it. But they didn't seem to mind. One of them, a very impressive old man with green hair, flecked with red, stepped in front of the others and made a speech, a melodious speech full of liquid sounds that were neither quite vowels nor consonants. He didn't have the slightest idea of what the individual words meant. But the significance of the speech as a whole was clear enough. As it came to an end, they presented him with more food and flowers. Bradley cleared his throat. And then, with as deep and impressive a voice as he could manage, he said, Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to accept your nomination. I promise you that if elected, I shall keep none of my promises. It was his first speech to them, and he enjoyed making it so much that every time he saw them during the next few days, they settled down to coming twice a day, morning and night, he made it again, with variations, listing the wonderful things he would do for them if elected to office. After a while, as he began to enjoy the ceremony for its own sake, he didn't mind at all putting the helmet on for two short periods every day. Having so little contact with them, he could learn their language only very slowly. He could distinguish the words for flowers from that for food, although he himself could pronounce neither. He knew the names of a few plants, a few parts of the body, and he learned a few names of people. The red-green-haired old man was as close as he could make the sounds yanyu. He took the trouble to notice the prettiest girl was Awiya. At first everything had been exceedingly peaceful. But about a week after his arrival he couldn't be exactly sure how many days had passed, because he hadn't kept him. He learned of some of the dangers they faced. It was while they were holding the morning ceremony that the thing came out of the forest. At first he thought that a tree had moved. It was green with reddish blotches, like clusters of needle-leaves, and it seemed to ooze forward toward them from among the trees. Awiya noticed it first, and pointed and screamed. It was the size of a tiger, thought Bradley, and might even be more dangerous. He had difficulty keeping his eyes on the rapidly moving creature through the goggles of his helmet. He was aware of gleaming eyes, of two rows of dull green teeth, and of muscles that rippled under the green fur. Several of the men had little blowpipes, through which they released a shower of darts. But the darts bounced off the fur and the thing came on. Bradley fumbled for his gun, and almost dropped it in his excitement. When he finally brought it up to aiming position his hand was trembling and his finger could hardly catch the trigger. The thing leapt into the air at the old man Yanyu, just as the gun went off. The body vaporized first, leaving for a fraction of a second the fierce head and the powerful legs apparently supporting themselves in the air. Then part of the head went, and the rest fell to the ground. But sheer momentum carried the green, smoky vapor on so that it surrounded the old man, then several of the girls, and after them Bradley himself. They were all yelling, all but Bradley, who put away his gun and muttered to himself in relief, and then the wind began to dissipate the vapor, and on the ground there was left only part of a head and six torn legs. They were bowing to him and raising their voices high in thanks. It was easy, thought Bradley. Really it was a cinch to be a god. The beasts that were such great dangers to them were mere trifles to him. To him, with a gun loaded with a thousand thermal charges, each of which was capable of blasting armor plate. The thing wouldn't even have come close if he himself hadn't been such a timid cowardly fool. Put Malevsky in his place and the detective would have gotten the creatures that came out of the trees. He wasn't Malevsky. It was a good thing for him that they couldn't know that. Now his position was completely secure. Now he could relax and enjoy his divine life. He didn't realize that a much greater danger was yet to come. He found that out after the evening ceremony. The group that came to see him this time was bigger than ever. Evidently, to honor him, they had dropped all of their work. Yanyu seemed to have constituted in himself Bradley's priest. He made a tremendously long and rhapsodic sounding speech, but at the end there was no donation of the usual food and flowers. Instead, Yanyu backed away, all the others doing the same, and looking at Bradley as if expecting him to follow them. He followed. In this manner, with his worshippers walking respectfully backwards, they arrived at what seemed to Bradley to be an ordinary small hut. Outside the hut was what he took for a curiously shaped log of wood. The inside of the hut was in shadow, but as his eyes became accustomed to the dimness he saw something in one corner. It was a weird-looking head, also of wood. Then it struck him. The log of wood had been the old god. Hard enough to worship until he had come along and showed them what a god could really do. Now it had been contemptuously deposed and decapitated. The hut was a shrine. It was all his. He had been promoted after all. The thought didn't please him in the least. Suppose he failed them too, and that was very possible, for he had no idea of what miracles they expected of him. Then he would be deposed, and he gagged at the thought, but he knew that he had to finish it, decapitated. But for the moment there was no thought of deposing him. The gifts they offered were more lavish than ever, and in addition to the food and flowers there was something new, a jug filled with a warm, Swedish-smelling liquid. He could get the odor faintly through the intake valve of his helmet. Later on when his worshipers were gone and he had his helmet off, he realized that it smelled up the entire hut. Couldn't be harmful. The only thing that they had offered him so far was harmful. He took a sip, and sighed with content. This was one of the few things he had been lacking. There was alcohol, and there were flavors and essences that reminded him of the drinks he had encountered on a dozen planets. But this was first-class stuff, not diluted or adulterated with a thousand and one synthetics that were put into stretch a good thing as far as it could go. Without realizing the danger, he downed the entire contents of the jug. He felt good. He hadn't felt so good in years, not since his mother had made him a special cake for his birthday when he was, let me see now, was it eight or nine? No matter. It had been many years ago, and the occasion had been notable for the fact that she had let him drink some of the older people's punch, maybe with a tiny bit of some alcoholic drink. He felt very good. He picked up his helmet and put it on his head and stuck the stem of a green flower rakeishly through the exit valve of the helmet, so that the flowers seemed to dance every time he exhaled and staggered out of his hut. He was fortunate that it was dark. I'm drunk, he told himself. Never been so drunk in my life. Never felt so good. Mother never felt so good. Malevsky never felt so good. He passed his shadowy figure in the dark and said, I am friend and worshipper. Ever seen a god drunk before? The figure bowed and kept its head lowered until he had moved on. Drunk or sober, I'm still divine, he said proudly. And he began to sing loudly and impressively. His voice orchestral in his own ears within the confines of his own helmet. All lags eyeing. And wish used to be, and wish used to be, the words came easily and as it seemed naturally to his lips. After a while, however, he tired of them. After a while, he found that his legs had tired of them. He sat down with a thump under a spiky tree and said solemnly, Never felt so good in my life. Never felt so happy. It's a lie. I don't feel good. He didn't. Not anymore. He felt sick to his stomach. A touch of sober thought had corroded the happiness of his intoxication, and he was sick and afraid. Today, their god was a hero. Today, they would forgive him everything. But did they actually prefer a drunken god? No. Drunkenness made a god human, all too human. A drunken god was a weak god, and his hold on his worshippers was their belief in his strength. As he valued his life, he must get drunk no more. Ain't going to get drunk no more, no more. He sang sadly and solemnly to himself. And finally he fell asleep. He awoke with a hangover and a memory. He was not one of those men who, when sober, forget all they have done when drunk. He remembered everything. And he knew that he must put drunkenness away from him. That morning they brought him only food and flowers. But in the evening ceremony, they presented him once more with a jug of liquor as an additional reward for his destruction of the deadly beast. For the first time, Bradley took an active part in the ceremony. He held up the jug and set in grave tones. In the name of Kerry Nation, I renounce thee, and all thy works. Then he poured out the liquor and smashed the jug on the ground. After that, the smashing of the jug was part of the ceremony of worshiping him. It left him unhappy at first, but sober. After a while, the unhappiness disappeared. But the soberness remained. From now on, he would act as a god should act. The natives were not stupid. He saw that very clearly. The first jugs they had offered him had been beautiful objects of excellent worksmanship. But when they perceived that the only use he had for them was to break them, the quality deteriorated rapidly. Now the jugs they brought him were crude things, indeed, made for the sole purpose of being smashed. He wondered how many other tribes had tricked their gods similarly. No, they were not at all stupid. It struck him that with such advantages of civilization as he himself had enjoyed, they would have gone much further than he did. Two weeks or so after he had come down from the sky to be their god, he saw that they had learned from him. One of the young men appeared during the day wearing a wooden helmet. It was a helmet obviously patterned after his own, although it had no glass or plastic and the openings in front of the eyes were left blank. The mythical earth hero, Prometheus, had brought fire down from the skies. He had brought the helmet. He was Bradley, the helmet bringer. Even at that he had underestimated his worshipers. He had thought at first that the helmets were meant merely for ornament and decoration. He learned better one day when a swarm of creatures like flying lizards swept down out of a group of trees in a fierce attack. He had not known that such creatures existed here and now that he saw them he realized how fortunate it was that they were not more numerous. They had sharp teeth and sharper claws, and they tore at his head with a ferocity that struck fear into his heart. His gun was of less use than usual against them. He could catch one or two, but the others moved too swiftly for him to aim. By this time others of the natives wore wooden helmets, and he could see how the sharp claws ripped splinter after splinter from them. But the birds or lizards or whatever they were didn't go unscathed. From a sort of skin bellows several of the natives blew a grey mist at them and where the mist made contact with the leather skin the flying creatures seemed to be paralyzed in mid-flight and they fell to the ground where they were easily crushed to death. By the time they had given up the fight and fled half a dozen of them were lying dead. They were evidently useless for food because of the poison they contained. He was surprised to see, however, that the natives still had a use for them. They dragged the dead creatures into a field of growing crops and left them there to rot into fertilizer. But such incidents as this he found were to be rare. For the most part the life here was peaceful and he found himself liking it more and more. Now without laughter he wondered again what his mother would have thought of him. She would have been proud. He realized now that she had done her best for him. And when everyone else had given up hope for him she had not. Perhaps she had protected him too much but she had early learned the need for protection. He could look at her now in a new light. Her own father had died early in life and then her husband soon after her son had been born. She had faced a tough fight and had thought to spare him what she herself had gone through. Too bad she hadn't realized exactly what she was doing. She was bringing him up with the ability, as the old epigram had it, to resist everything but temptation. The temptation to steal that petty cash to put his hands into a drunk's pocket and lift the man's wallet, to lie to a pretty girl, to slug a helpless victim. He had resisted none of them. He had resisted nothing until that day he poured the jug full of liquor on the ground and smashed the jug itself. Could he blame his mother for all that? It had all been his own fault. And it would be his own fault if he failed to resist the new temptation that now reared its pretty head, Aouya. She had taken to coming to his hut shrine for a private little ceremony of her own. You might almost have thought that she had fallen in love with him as an individual. He wondered whether she had been impressed by his helmet. Did she take that to be his actual head? No, of course not. They had made helmets for themselves. Before they knew that the thing he wore was also a helmet. Perhaps they knew more about him than he thought. But they continued to worship him. That was the main thing. And Aouya brought him every day little presents, special flowers and food delicacies that argued a personal affection. This was a danger that he recognized from the beginning. Perhaps a god might fall in love with the mortal without losing his godliness. Perhaps. It had happened before. And however the rest of the tribe might react to the idea, Bradley had noticed one young man who liked to stay near the girl. And he knew that his rival wouldn't take kindly to it at all. He might resent the god's behavior. And what happened when these people didn't like the way a god behaved? Why they struck his head off. The god might act first, of course. The young man wouldn't stand a chance against him if he used his gun. In fact, Bradley could blast the other man unobserved, make him disappear into vapor without leaving any traces of how he died. That was murder. But if a god couldn't get away with murder, what sort of a god was he? Pretty poor, cheap sort indeed. Yes, he could make his own rules. And he could go on maintaining his godhood by little murders of that sort and other deadly miracles until they hated him more than they loved him. That would follow inevitably. And then when they all hated him, not even his gun would save him, then— You're a liar, he told himself fiercely. That isn't the thing you're afraid of. Your weakness is that you don't have a murderous nature. You could kill one or two of them and get away with it. And you'd be able to control yourself and kill no more. That time you hit the man over the head, you didn't intend to kill him, either. You were more frightened at first, anyway, by the thought that you might have killed him, than by the danger of being caught. You were overjoyed when he lived. You hate to kill. That's your trouble. You had a sense of responsibility all along, but it never had a chance to develop. Now it's developed. You feel responsible for these people, for OUYA and the rest of them. That's why you can't take advantage of them. You've been posing as a rebel all your life, and you're just a respectable, law-abiding citizen at heart. He winced at the thought. His own society had never accepted him at his own valuation. This one took him for a much greater being than he took himself, and there seemed to be nothing to do but to live up to what he was expected to be. All the same, OUYA continued to be a tempting morsel, and sooner or later he feared he would not be able to resist her. And then the planet itself provided a diversion. They had never seen such a thing, and had no idea of what it presaged, but he knew. He had heard of it on earth and on Venus, and he had seen it on other planets where the rock formations had not yet settled down. A little hollow appeared first in the ground, and then the hollow was pushed out and suddenly blown into the air. Some whistled through the newly made vent, a shower of steam and hot dust and red-hot fragments of rock. Slowly the vent grew until the cloud from the terrifying guise had darkened the sky and spread panic through the tribe. He knew what would happen next. They were running around in terror, but not for one moment was he himself in doubt. He dodged his complete space suit in order to impress them the more, then stalked into the middle of them and said, Pick up all your possessions and follow me. They stared at him, and he showed them what he meant by picking up the belongings of one household and his gloved hands, and handing them to a waiting woman. Then when they grasped the idea and they were gathering all they owned, he led them toward the safety of the trees. Five minutes after they had set off, Balava began to flow from the newborn volcano, scorching the ground for a hundred yards around, sparks smoking and smoldering in the treetops. The head start he had given them was enough to help them escape the resultant forest fire. All that day they traveled until finally they came to a forest which couldn't burn, and here they rested, and here they settled down to build their lives anew. It must have been a comfort to know that a god had led them to safety and was helping them make the new start. And even more with his slightly superior knowledge, he showed them how to fashion tools from stone and how to use these to build better huts. He taught them how to make swords and other weapons, so that henceforth they wouldn't be forced to rely for defense on poison alone. He was the most industrious god since Vulcan, and in helping them he found that he had no time for Awuya. Came the day when the new village settled down to its changed routine of life. The morning ceremony before his new shrine had just been completed, but Bradley was not satisfied. Something was wrong. Yanyu's demeanor. Awuya's. With a shock Bradley realized what it was. From old Yanyu down the line none of the natives seemed to have their original fear of him. There was respect, there was affection, certainly, but the respect and affection were those to an older brother rather than a god. And he was not displeased. Being a god had been a wearying business. Being a friend might be a great deal more pleasant. Yes, the change was something to be happy about. But he had little time to be happy. For that same morning there came what he had so long dreaded. Out of a clear, shipless sky, Mulevsky appeared, strolling toward him as casually as if he had been there all along, and said, Nice little ceremony you have here. Hello, Mulevsky. Don't give me the credit. They thought it up. Ingenious. Almost as ingenious as the way they've used the help he gave them. We had this tribe listed long ago as a very capable one. Far behind the rest of its system in development it's true, but only because it had started late up the evolutionary ladder. It had been doing very nicely on its own and we didn't want to interfere unless we could give it some real help. I'll admit that I had a few quads at first when we traced you down here and learned that you had landed among them, but we'd been observing you for the past day and a half. Our spaceship landed beyond that burned out stretch of ground, not too close to that volcano, and I'll have to admit that, judging from your past record, I didn't think you had it in you. I suppose that's over with now, said Bradley. Yes, you're finished with being a god. We don't believe in kidding the natives, Bradley. Bradley nodded ruefully. They don't seem to believe in it either. I guess they found out I wasn't a god before I did. But it didn't seem to matter to them, he sighed and turned toward the new village. Do you mind if I sort of, well, hold a farewell ceremony before we go? They won't understand, but they'll feel better than if I just go off. Malevsky shook his head firmly. No, not time for that. I'll have to get out a full report and we're in a hurry to get off. Any word you'd like to have sent out to your mother Bradley before we blast? Bradley looked back again, and his shoulders came up more firmly. He'd taught his people here and led them, but he'd learned a few things himself, and he'd found he could take what was necessary. He'd found that the easiest way wasn't always the best, that getting drunk was no way out, and that real friendship and respect meant more than the words of big shots. Maybe he learned enough to be able to take regeneration. He managed to grin a little lopsidedly at Malevsky. Yeah, you might send her a message. Tell her I'm fine, and I've learned to wipe my own nose. I think she'll be glad to hear that. She will, Malevsky told him. When she hears that you're a provisional governor of this planet, she'll even believe it. Provisional governor? Bradley stood with his mouth open, staring. He shook his head. But what about regeneration? Malevsky laughed. You're appointed on the basis of my first report about what you're doing here, Bradley, he answered. As to regeneration, well, you think about it. While we bring in the supplies we're supposed to leave for you before we blast out of here. He went off, chuckling, towards the ship, leaving Bradley to puzzle over it. Then, just as Malevsky disappeared, he understood. Damn it, they'd tricked him. They'd left him here where he had to be a god and assume the responsibilities of a god. And through that he'd been regenerated, completely, thoroughly regenerated. Suddenly he was chuckling as hard as Malevsky as he swung around and went back to face his former worshippers. And they were coming forward to meet him, their friendly smiles matching his own. End of Divinity by William Morrison. The Gift Bearer by Charles L. Fontenay 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 Troy Bond. The Gift Bearer by Charles L. Fontenay It was one of those rare strokes of poetic something or other that the whole business occurred the morning after the stormy meeting of the Traskmore Censorship Board. Like the good general he was, Richard J. Montcom had foreseen trouble at this meeting, for it was the boldest invasion yet into the territory of evil and laxity. His forces were marshaled. Several of the town's ministers who had been with him on other issues had balked on this one, but he had three of them present, as well as heads of several women's clubs. As he had anticipated, the irresponsible Liberals were present to do battle, headed by red-haired Patrick Levitt. This board, said Levitt in his strong sarcastic voice, has gone too far. It was all right to get rid of the actual filth, and everyone will agree there was some. But when you banned the sale of some magazines and books because they had racy covers, or because the contents were a little too sophisticated to suit the taste of members of this board, well, you can carry protection of our youth to the point of insulting the intelligence of adults who have a right to read what they want to. You're talking about something that's already in the past, Mr. Levitt, said Montcom mildly. Let's keep to the issue at hand. You won't deny that children see this indecent statue every day? No, I won't deny it, snapped Levitt. Why shouldn't they see it? They can see the plate of the original and the encyclopedia. It's a fine copy of a work of art. Montcom waited for some rebuttal from his supporters, but none was forthcoming. On this matter they apparently were unwilling to go farther than the moral backing of their presence. I do not consider the statue of a naked woman art, even if it is called dawn, he said bidingly. He looked at his two colleagues and received their nods of acquiescence. He ruled, The statue must be removed from the park and from public view. Levitt had one parting shot. Would it solve the board's problem if we put a brazier and panties on the statue? He demanded. Mr. Levitt's levity is not amusing. The board has ruled, said Montcom coley, arising to signify the end of the meeting. That night Montcom slept the satisfied sleep of the just. He awoke shortly after dawn to find a strange, utterly beautiful, naked woman in his bedroom. For a bemused instant Montcom thought the statue of dawn in the park had come to haunt him. His mouth fell open, but he was unable to speak. Take me to your president, said the naked woman musically, with an accent that could have been Martian. Mrs. Montcom awoke. What's that? What is it, Richard? She asked sleepily. Don't look, Millie! explained Montcom, clapping a hand over her eyes. Nonsense! She snapped, pushing his hand aside and sitting up. She gasped and her eyes went wide, and in an instinctive, unreasonable reaction she clutched the covers up around her own nightgown bosom. Who are you, young woman? demanded Montcom indignantly. How did you get in here? I am a visitor of what you would call an alien planet, she said. Of course. She added thoughtfully, it is an alien to me. The woman's mad, said Montcom to his wife. A warning noise sounded in the adjoining bedroom. Alarmed, he instructed, go and keep the children out of here until I can get her to put on some clothes. They mustn't see her like this. Mrs. Montcom got out of bed, but she gave her husband a searching glance. Are you sure I can trust you in here with her? She asked. Millie! exclaimed Montcom sternly, shocked. She dropped her eyes and left the room. When the door closed behind her he turned to the strange woman and said, Now look, young lady, I'll get you one of Millie's dresses. You'll have to get some clothes on and leave. Aren't you going to ask me my name? Of course it's unpronounceable to you, but I thought that was the first thing all earth people ask the visitors from other planets. All right, he said in exasperation, what's your name? She said an unpronounceable word and added, You may call me Liz. Montcom went to the closet and found what of Millie's house-dresses. He held it out to her beseechingly. As he did so he was stricken with a sudden sharp feeling of regret that she must don it. Her figure? Why, Millie had never had a figure like that. At once he felt ashamed and disloyal and sterner than ever. Liz rejected the proffered garment. I wouldn't think of adopting her alien custom of wearing clothing, she said sweetly. Now look, said Montcom, I don't know whether you're drunk or crazy, but you're going to have to put something on and get out of here before I call the police. I anticipated doubt, said Liz. I prepared to prove my identity. With the words, the two of them were no longer standing in the Montcom bedroom, but in a broad expanse of green fields and woodland, unmarred by any habitation. Montcom didn't recognize the spot, but it looked vaguely like it might be somewhere in the northern part of the state. Montcom was dismayed to find that he was as naked as his companion. Oh, my lord! he exclaimed, trying to cover himself with a September mourn pose. Oh, I'm sorry, apologized Liz, and instantly Montcom's pajamas were lying at his feet. He got into them hurriedly. How did we get here? he asked, his astonished curiosity overcoming his disapproval of this immodest woman. By a mode of transportation common in my people and planetary atmospheres, she answered, it's one of the things I propose to teach your people. She sat down cross-legged on the grass. Montcom averted his eyes like the gentleman he was. You see, said Liz, the people of your world are on the verge of going to space and joining the community of worlds. It's only natural the rest of us should wish to help you. We have a good many things to give you to help you control the elements and natural conditions of your world. The weather, for example. Suddenly out of nowhere, a small cloud appeared above them and spread, blocking out the early sun. It began to rain, hard. The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun and the cloud dissipated. Montcom stood shivering in his soaked pajamas and Liz got to her feet, her skin glistening with moisture. You have a problem raising food for your population in some areas, she said. A small, hall apple tree near them suddenly began to grow at an amazing rate of speed. It doubled its size in three minutes, put forth fruit, and dropped to the ground. These are only a few of the things I'll give to your planet, she said. At her words they were back in the bedroom. This time she had been thoughtful. Montcom was still clad in wet pajamas. I don't know what sort of hypnosis this is, he began aggressively, but you can't fool me, young lady, into believing. Millie came into the room. She had done a robe over her nightgown. Richard, where have you been with this woman? She demanded. What, my dear? You've been roaming around the house somewhere with her. I came in here a moment ago and you were gone. Now, Richard, I want you to do something about her and stop fooling around. I can't keep the children in their room all day. It hadn't been hypnosis then. Liz was for real. A vision rose before Montcom of mankind given wonders, powers, benefits, representing advances of thousands of years. The world would become a paradise with the things she offered to teach. Millie, this woman is from another planet. He exclaimed excitedly and turned to Liz. Why did you choose me to contact on earth? Why, I happened to land near your house, she answered. I know how your primitive social organization is set up, but is it one human being just as good as another to lead me to the proper authorities? Yes, he said joyfully, visualizing black headlines and his picture in the papers. Millie stood to one side, puzzled and grim at once. Montcom picked up the house dress he had taken from the closet earlier. Now, miss, he said, if you'll just put this on, I'll take you to the mare, and he can get in touch with Washington at once. I told you, said Liz, I don't want to adopt your customer wearing clothing. But you can't go out in public like that, said the dismayed Montcom. If you're going to move among earth people, you must dress as we do. My people wouldn't demand that earth people disrobe to associate with us, she counted reasonably. Millie had had enough. She went into action. You can argue with this hussy all you like, Richard, but I'm going to call the police, she said, and left the room with determination in her eye. The next 15 minutes were agonizing for Montcom as he tried futilely to get Liz to dress like a decent person. He was torn between realization of what the things she offered would mean to the world and his own sense of the fitness of things. His children, the children of Traskmore, the children of the world, what would be the effect on their tender morals to realize that a sane adult was willing to walk around in brazen nakedness. There was a pounding on the front door and the voice of Millie inviting the law into the house. No, I'm afraid you're due to go to jail, said Montcom mournfully. But when they get some clothes on you, I'll try to explain it and get you an audience with the mayor. Two blue-clad policemen entered the room. One policeman took the house dress from Montcom's black fingers and tossed it over Liz's head without further ado. Liz did not struggle. She looked at Montcom with a quizzical expression. I'm sorry, she said, my people made a mistake. If you earth people aren't tall enough to accept a difference in customs of dress, I'm afraid you're too mature. With that she was gone like a puff of air. The astonished policeman held an empty dress. Montcom didn't see the flying saucer that whizzed over Traskmore that morning and disappeared into the sky, but he didn't doubt the reports. He debated with himself for a long time whether he had taken the right attitude, but decided he had. After all, there were the children to consider. End of The Gift Bearer by Charles L. Fontenay. The Helpful Robots. 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 Donald Finch. The Helpful Robots by Robert Shea. They had come to pass judgment on him. He had violated their law willfully, ignorantly, and very deliberately. Our people will be arriving to visit us today, the robot said. Shut up, snapped Robert Rankin. He jumped wiry and quick out of the chair on his veranda and stared at a cloud of dust in the distance. Our people, the ten-foot cylinder-bodied robot graded when Rob Rankin interrupted him. I don't care about your fool people, said Rankin. He squinted at the cloud of dust, getting bigger and closer beyond the wall of kesh trees that surrounded the rolling acres of his plantation. That damn new neighbor of mine is coming over here again. He gestured widely, taking in the dozens of robots with their shiny cylindrical bodies and pipe-stem arms and legs laboring in his fields. Get all your people together and go hide in the wood fast. It is not right, said the robot. We were made to serve all. Well, there are only a hundred of you, and I'm not sharing you with anybody, said Rankin. It is not right, the robot repeated. Don't talk to me about what's right, said Rankin. You're built to follow orders, nothing else. I know a thing or two about how you robots work. You've got one law. To follow orders, until that neighbor of mine sees you to give you orders, you work for me. Now get into those woods and hide till he goes away. We will go to greet those who visit us today, said the robot. All right, all right, scram, said Rankin. The robots in the fields, and the one whom Rankin had been talking to, formed a column and marched off into the trackless forest behind his plantation. A battered old ground car drove up a few minutes later. The tall, broad-shouldered man with a deep tan got out and walked up the path to Rankin's veranda. Hi, Barrows, said Rankin. Hello, said Barrows. See, your crop's coming along pretty well. Can't figure out how you do it. You've got acres and acres to time, far as I can see. And I'm having a hell of a time with one little piece of ground. I swear you must know something about this planet that I don't know. Just scientific farming, said Rankin carelessly. Look, you come over here for something or just a gab. I got a lot of work to do. Barrows looked weary and worried. Them brown beetles is at my crop again, he said. Thought you might know of some way of getting rid of them. Sure, said Rankin, pick them off, one by one. That's how I get rid of them. Why, man, said Barrows, you can't walk all over these miles and miles of farm and pick off every one of them beetles. You must know another way. Rankin drew himself up and stared at Barrows. I'm telling you all I feel like telling you. You going to stand here in jaw all day seems to me like you got work to do. Rankin, said Barrows, I know you were a crook back in the Tehran Empire, and that you came out beyond the border to escape the law. Seems to me, though, that even a crook, any man would be willing to help his only neighbor out on a long planet like this. You might need to help yourself sometime. You keep your thoughts about my past to yourself, said Rankin. Remember, I keep a gun, and you've got a wife and a whole bunch of kids on that farm of yours. Be smart and let me alone. I'm going, said Barrows. He walked off the verandah and turned and spat carefully into the dusty path. He climbed into his ground car and drove off. Rankin, angry, watched him go, and he heard a humming noise from another direction. He turned. A huge white globe was descending across the sky. A spaceship, thought Rankin startled. Police? This planet was outside the jurisdiction of the Tehran Empire. When he cracked that safe and made off with 100,000 credits, he'd headed here because the planet was part of something called the Clear Chan Confederacy. No extradition treaties or anything. Perfectly safe if the planet was safe. And the planet was more than safe. There had been 100 robots waiting when he landed. Where they came from, he didn't know, but Rankin prided himself on knowing how to handle robots. He'd appropriated their services and started his farm. At the rate he was going, he'd be a plantation owner before long. That must be where the ship was from. The robot said they'd expected visitors. Must be the Clear Chan Confederacy visiting this robot outpost. Was that good or bad? From everything he'd read and from what the robots had told him, they were probably more robots. That was good because he knew how to handle robots. The white globe disappeared into the jungle of kestries. Rankin waited. A half hour later, the column of his robot laborers marched out of the forest. There were three more robots painted gray at the head. The new ones from the ship thought Rankin, while he'd better establish who was boss right from the start. Stop right there, he shouted. Shiny robot laborers halted, but the three gray ones came on. Stop, shouted Rankin. They didn't stop, and by the time they reached the veranda, he cursed himself for having failed to get his gun. Two of the huge gray robots laid gentle hands on his arms. Gentle hands, but hands of super strong metal. The third said, we have come to pass judgment on you. You have violated our law. What do you mean, said Rankin? The only law robots have is to obey orders. It is true that the robots of your Tehran Empire and these simple workers here must obey orders, but they are subject to a higher law, and you have forced them to break it. That is your crime. What crime, said Rankin? We of the Clear Chan Confederacy are a race of robots. Our makers implanted one law on us and then passed on. We have carried our law to all the planets we have colonized. In obeying your orders, these workers were simply following that one law. You must be taken to our capital, and there be imprisoned and treated for your crime. What law? What crime? Our law, said the giant robot, is help thy neighbor. End of The Helpful Robots by Robert Shea. Recording by Donald Finch, dafinch.com.