 The Troubadour by Peter Michael Sherman. 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 Kelly Taylor. The Troubadour by Peter Michael Sherman. So far as parties go, Jocelyns were no duller than any others. I went to this one mainly to hear Paul Kutrov and Frank Alva bade each other, which is usually more entertaining than most double features. Kutrov adheres to the onward and upward school of linear progress, while Alva is more or less of a Spenglerian. More when he goes along by himself, less when you try to pin him down on it. And since the subject of tonight's revelations would be the pre-Muhammadan Arab culture, I'd find Alva more inclined to my side of the debate, which is strictly morphological and without any pious theories of progress. I completely forgotten that Jocelyn had mentioned something about having a special action, a Mr. Phelous, who she insisted was a Troubadour. I didn't comment. Not wanting to spend a day with Jocelyn on the phone exploring the Provence. The night wasn't too warm for August, and there were occasional gusts of air seeping through the layers of tobacco smoke that hover over the assemblage. As usual, it was a heterogeneous crowd, which rapidly formed into numerous islands of discourse. The trade winds carried salient gyms of intelligence throughout the entire arpeggio at times, and Jocelyn walked upon the water, scurrying from one way to another, sopping up the other flow of culture. She visited our atoll, where Kutraw's passionate exposition had already raised the mean temperature of some degrees, but didn't stay too long. Such debates didn't suggest any course of social or political action and couldn't be trued to any of her causes. My attention was wandering from the Kutraw-Alva variations, for Bill had only been speaking for ten minutes and could not be expected to arrive at any point whatsoever for at least another fifteen. From the east of us came apocalyptic figures of nuclear physics, from the west I heard strains of Mondarian interwoven with Picasso, south of us a post-mortem on the latest betrayal of this or that aspiration of the people, and to the north we heard the mysteries of atonality. It was a while I was looking around and letting all these things roll over me, and I saw the stranger enter. Jocelyn immediately bounced up from a couch, leaving the crucial problem of atmosphere poisoning via fission and or fusion bombs suspended and made effusive noises. This then was the troubadour, Mr. Phalus. The main attraction was decidedly prepossessing, tall, purely graceful, both in appearance and manner, dressed with an immaculateness that seemed excessive in this post-bohemian circle. There was a decidedly musical quality to his speech as he made polite comments upon being introduced to each of us with an exactness in sentence structure, word choices, and enunciation that bespoke the foreigner. Jocelyn took him around with an air of conducting a quick tour through a museum, then settled him momentarily with the music group. Now in the darkest Schoenberg, only partially illuminated by Woziak, I watched Phalus long enough to solidify an oppression that he was at ease here. But not merely in this particular discussion, it was a case of his being simply at ease, period. Kutrov was watching him too, and I saw now that there would be a most likely permanent digression. Too bad. I had a feeling that when he came to his point it would have been a strong one. Hungarian, do you suppose, he asked. Alva examined the evidence. Phalus had high cheekbones, longish eyes with large pupils. He was lean without giving an impression of thinness. He had not taken off his gloves. And I wondered if he would come forth with a monocle. If he had, it would not have seemed an affectation. I wouldn't say Slavic, Alva said. He started off on ethnology, and we toured the Near East again. I jumped into the break when Kutrov was swallowing beer and Alva lighted a cigarette to observe that Phalus reminded me of those Egyptian portraits although I couldn't set the period. If those eyes of his don't shine in the dark, I added, they ought to. A brief pause for appreciation then Jocelyn was calling for all men's attention. She managed to get it in reasonably short order, took a breath, then dived into announcing that our special guest, Mr. Phalus, was going to deliver a song cycle. Phalus arose, bowed slightly, then nodding to Mark Loring who brought forth his oboe. These songs were not conceived or composed in the form I am presenting them, he said. But I believe that this arrangement I use is an effective one. I call this song of the last men. He nodded again to Mark Loring and the performance began. His voice was affecting, his artistry unmistakable. And there were overtones in his voice that gave an added eeriness to the weird music itself. The songs told of the feelings, the memories and despair of a nearly extinct people, one which had achieved a great culture and a worldwide civilization. The singer knows that the civilization has been destroyed, that the people created by this culture and civilization are gone, the few survivors being pettiful, philahine, unable to rebuild or bring forth a culture of their own. There is despair at the loss of the comfort the civilization they knew brought them, sorrow at their inability to share in its greatness even in memory and a resigned certainty that they are the last of the race. They will soon be gone and no others shall arise after them. There was silence when Phyllis finished, then discreet but firm of applause, as if the audience felt that giving full reign to their approval would make an imperious racket. Phyllis seemed to sense this feeling and smiled as he bowed. These are not the songs of your people, are they? asked Jocelyn. Phyllis shook his head. Oh, no! They are far removed from us. I am merely an explorer of past civilizations and cultures, and I enjoy adapting such masterpieces of the past as I can find. This arrangement was made for you. I shall make a different one for my own people so that the sonic values of the music and the words agree with one another. Kutrov blinked, then asked him, Well, can you tell us something more about the people who created this cycle? It has a familiar ring to it, yet I cannot tie it in with any past culture I have heard of. Jocelyn cut in with the regretful announcement that Mr. Phyllis had another appointment and called for a note of thanks to him for coming. More applause, this time unrestrained. Phyllis smiled again and swept his eyes around us as if filled with some amusing secret. Then he said to Kutrov, You would find them quite understandable. I wandered over to the window in search of air and noted that someone had indiscreetly left a comfortable chair vacant. I was near the door so that I could hear Jocelyn say to Phyllis, It was very moving. Why, I could almost feel that you were singing about us. Phyllis smiled again. That is as it should be. Of course, chimed in lowering, who'd come up to ask Phyllis if he could have a copy of the score. That's the test of an expert performance. The lights were dimmed again by the fog of tobacco smoke and I could see the street quite clearly by moonlight. I decided I would watch Phyllis and see if his eyes did glow in the dark. I saw him go down to the sidewalk with that graceful stride of his hands in his pockets but I couldn't see his eyes at all. Then Augusta Wynn tugged at his hat and for an instant I thought he'd have to go scrambling after it. But quick as a rapier thrust, a tail darted out from beneath his dress coat caught the hat and set it back on his head. End of The Troubadour by Peter Michael Sherman Out of 10 by Jay Anthony Furlain This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Kelly Taylor One out of 10 by Jay Anthony Furlain I watched Don Phillips, the commercial announcer, out of the corner of my eye. The camera in front of me swung around and lined up on my set. And now on with the show Phillips was saying And here ready to test your wits is your quizzing quiz master smiling Jim Parsons. I smiled into the camera and waited while the audience applauded. The camera tally life went on and the stage manager brought his arm down and pointed at me. Good afternoon I said into the camera and here we go again with another half hour of fun and prizes on television's newest most exciting game, Parler Quiz. In a moment I'll introduce you to our first contestant, but first here is a special message to you mothers. The baby powder commercial appeared on the monitor and I walked over to the next set. They had the first contestant lined up for me. I smiled and took her card from the floor man. She was a middle-aged woman with a faded print dress and old style shoes. I never saw the contestants until we were on air. They were screened before the show by the staff. They usually tried to pick contestants who would make good show material. Odd name or occupation or somebody with 20 kids, something of that nature. I looked the card for the tip-off. Mrs. Frida Dunney, the card said, asked her where she comes from. I smiled at the contestant again and took her by the hand. The tally light went on again and I grinned into the camera. Well now we're all set to go. And for our first contestant today is this charming little lady right here beside me, Mrs. Frida Dunney. I looked at the card. How are you, Mrs. Dunney? Fine, I'm just fine. All set to answer a lot of questions and win a lot of prizes. Oh, I win, all right, said Mrs. Dunney, smiling around at the audience. The audience tittered a bit at that remark. I looked at the card again. Where are you from, Mrs. Dunney? Mars, said Mrs. Dunney. Mars, I laughed, anticipated the answer. Mars, Montana, Mars, Peru. No, Mars, up there, she said, pointing up into the air. The planet Mars, the fourth planet out from the sun. My assistant looked unhappy. I smiled again, wondering what the gag was. I decided to play along. Well, well, well, I said all the way from Mars, eh? And how long have you been on earth, Mrs. Dunney? Oh, about 30 or 40 years. I've been here nearly all my life. Came here when I was just a wee bit of a girl. Well, I said, you're practically an earth woman by now, aren't you? The audience laughed. Do you plan on going back someday, or have you made up your mind to stay here on earth for the rest of your days? Oh, I'm just here for the invasion, said Mrs. Dunney. When that's over, I'll probably go home again. The invasion? Yes, the invasion of earth. As soon as enough of us are here, we'll get that started. You mean there are others here, too? Oh yes, there are several million of us here in the United States already, and more on the way. There are only about 170 million people in the United States, Mrs. Dunney, I said. If there are several million Martians among us, one out of every hundred would have to be a Martian. One out of every ten, said Mrs. Dunney. That's what the boss said just the other day. We're getting pretty close to the number we need to take over earth. What do you need, I said, one to one? One Martian for every earthman? Oh no, said Mrs. Dunney. One Martian is worth ten earthmen. The only reason we're waiting is we don't want any trouble. You don't look any different from us earth people, Mrs. Dunney. How does one tell the difference between a Martian and an earthman when one sees one? Oh, we don't look any different, said Mrs. Dunney. Some of the kids don't even know their Martians. Most mothers don't tell their children until they're grown up. And there are other children who never are told because they just don't develop their full powers. What powers? All telepathy, thought control, that sort of thing. You mean that Martians can read other people's thoughts? Sure, it's no trouble at all. It's really very easy once you get the hang of it. Can you read my mind, I asked, smiling? Sure, said Mrs. Dunney, smiling up at me. That's why I said I'd know the answers. I'll be able to read them from your mind when you look at that little sheet of paper. Now that's hardly sporting, is it, Mrs. Dunney? I said, turning to the camera, the audience laughed. Everybody else has to do it the hard way, and here you are reading it from my mind. Old fair and love and war, said Mrs. Dunney. Tell me, Mrs. Dunney, why are you telling me about all this? Isn't it supposed to be a secret? I have my reasons, said Mrs. Dunney. Nobody believes me anyhow. Oh, I believe you, Mrs. Dunney, I say gravely. And now let's see how you do on the questions. Are you ready? She nodded. Name the one and only mammal that has the ability to fly, I said, reading from the script. I bet, she said. Right, did you read that from my mind? Oh yes, you're coming over very clear, said Mrs. Dunney. Try this one, I said. A prince is any daughter of a sovereign. What is a princess royal? The eldest daughter of a sovereign, she said. Correct, how about this one? Is a Kodiak a kind of simple box camera, a type of double bowed boat, or a type of Alaskan bear? A bear, said Mrs. Dunney. Very good, I said, that was a hard one. I asked her seven more questions and she got them all right. None of the other contestants even came close to her score, so I wound up giving her the gas range and a lot of other small prizes. As we were off the air, I followed the audience out into the hall. Mrs. Dunney was walking towards a lobby with an old paper shopping bag under her arm, and the attendant was following her with an arm full of prizes. I caught up with her before she reached the door. Mrs. Dunney, I said, and she turned around. I want to talk with you. Where do I get the gas stove, she said. Your local dealer will send it to you in a few days. Did you give them your address? Yes, I gave it to them. My Philadelphia address, that is, I don't remember my address at home anymore. Come on, now Mrs. Dunney, you don't have to keep up that Mars business now that we're off the air. It's the truth, and I didn't come here just by accident, said Mrs. Dunney, looking over her shoulder towards the attendant who was still holding the prizes. I came here to see you. Me? Mrs. Dunney set the paper bag down on the floor and dug into her pocketbook. She took out a dog-geared piece of white paper and bent it up in her hand. Yes, she said finally. I came to see you, and you didn't follow me out here because you wanted to. I commended you to come. Commended me to come, I spluttered. What for? To prove something to you. Do you see this piece of paper? She held out the paper in her hand with the blank side toward me. My address is on this paper. I am reading the address. Concentrate on what I'm reading. I looked at her. I concentrated. Suddenly, I knew. 251 South 8th Street, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, I said out loud. Yes, see, it's very easy once you get the hang of it, she said. I nodded and smiled down at her. Now I understood. I picked up her bag and put my hand on her shoulder. Let's go, I said. We have a lot to talk about. End of 1 out of 10 by J. Anthony Furlain. Show business by Boyd Ellenby. 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 Kelly Taylor. Show business by Boyd Ellenby. Except for Old Dworkin, Catha's bar was deserted when I dropped in shortly after midnight. The ship from Earth was still two days away and the Martian flagship would get in the next morning with 700 passengers for Earth on it. Dworkin must have been waiting in Luna City for a whole week at 6,000 credits a day. That's as steep to me as to you, but money seemed to never worry Dworkin. He raised the heavy green lids from his protruding brown eyes as I came in. He waved his tail. Sit down and join me, he invited, in his guttural voice. It is not good for a man to drink alone, but I have no company in these mighty gods, the third whole. A man must something be doing, why? I sat down in the booth across from my Venusian friend and stared at him while he punched a new order into the drinkboard. Well, be another shtika, he announced. An foyo deteim. Against my better judgment, for I knew I'd have plenty to do with that marble tourist, the first crowd of the season is always the roughest tomorrow. I consented. Dworkin had already consumed six of the explosive things, as the empty glasses on the table showed, but he exhibited no effects. I made a mental note, as I'd so often done before, that this time I would not exceed the safe terrestrial limit of two. You must be on the money again, drinking imported shtika, I remark. What are you doing in Luton City this time? He merely lifted his heavy eyelids and stared at me without expression. No, in the money I am not. There are too many chisels in business, just when I think I have a good thing, I have schvendel. It is always too bad. He snorted through his ugly snout, making the Venusian equivalent of a sigh. I knew there was a story waiting behind that warty skin, but I was not sure if I wanted to hear it. For the next rounds of drinks would be on me, and shtika cost 150 credits a shot. Still, a man on a moon assignment has to amuse himself somehow. So I said, what's the latest episode in the Dworkin soap opera? What is the merchandise this time? Gems, pet mercury and fire insects? A new supply of dangara? I do not smuggle drugs. That is a beast lie, replied my friend, solidly. He knew, of course, that I still suspected him to be the source of that last load of the potent narcotic, although I had no more proof than did the planetary bureau of investigation. He only took a long pull in his drink before he spoke again. But Dworkin is never down for long. This time it is show business. You remember how I have always been by the theater so fascinated? Well, I decided to open a show here in Lunacity. Think of all the travelers, bored stiff by space, and the emptiness thereof, who passed through here during the season. Even if only half of them go to my show, it cannot be. I waited for some mention of free tickets, but none was made. I was about as anxious to see Dworkin's show as I was to walk barefoot across the mayor Ibrahim, but I asked with what enthusiasm I could force. What sort of actor are you putting on, girls? I shuddered as I recall the pathetic shop-horn chorus girls that sound low had tried to pass off last year on the gullible tourist of the spaceways. That show had lasted ten nights, nine more than it deserved to. There are limits, even to the gullibility of earth-lovers. Yes, girls, said Dworkin, but not what you are teaching, Martian girls. This was more interesting. Even if the girls were now a little too old for the stage in the Martian capital, they would still get loud cheers on the moon, I knew. I started to say so, but Dworkin interrupted. And not the miserable girls they'd buy from the slave markets in Behasting. These girls, I collected myself from the country along the upper canal. I repressed my impulse to show my curiosity. It could all be perfectly true, and if it were not the opening night would tell, but it sounded a lot like one of Dworkin's taller tales. I had never been able to disprove any one of them, but I found it a little hard to believe that so many improbable things had ever happened to one man. However, I liked being entertained, if it doesn't cost me too much, so I finally said, I suppose you were going to tell me you ventured out into the interior of Mars carrying a six-week supply of water and oxygen on your back and visited the Zio theaters on the spot. How did you know? That is just what I did, solemnly affirmed my companion. He snorted again and looked at his glass. It was empty, but he tilted it into his face again in an eloquent gesture. No words were needed. I punched the cymbals for shtike into the drinkboard on my side of the table. Then, after hesitating, I punched the two-in signal. I must remember, though, that this was my second and last. His eight shtike seemed to instill some animation into Dworkin. I know you feel it skeptically, I mean skepticism after my exploits. You will see tomorrow night that I speak truth. Amazing, I said. Especially as I just happened to remember that three different expeditions from Earth tried to penetrate more than a hundred kilometers from Bahaston, but either they couldn't carry the water and oxygen that far or they resorted to breathing Mars air and never came back. And they were earthmen, not Venusians who were accustomed to two atmospheres of carbon dioxide. My friend, you must not reason. It was so, it will always be so. The principle of induction is long-exploded. I did indeed breathe Mars airs. Wait, I tell you how. He took another long shtike. What your earthmen did not realize was that they cannot acclimatate themselves as do Venusians. You know the character of our planet made adaptability a condition of survival. It is true that our atmosphere is heavy, but on top of our so high mountains, the air is thin. We must live everywhere, the space is so few. I first adapted myself on Earth to live. I was there a whole year. You will recollect. Then I go further. Your engineers construct air tanks that make delight the air of mountains thin. So I learned to live in those tanks. Each day I have spent one, two, three hours in them. I get so I can breathe air at one-third the pressure of your already thin atmosphere. And at one-sixth in the tension of oxygen. No, my friend, you could not do this. Your lungs burst. But all the work and heat has done it. I take with me only some water, for I know the Martians do not give water. To trade some miniature kerosene lamps. You know they got no fuel or oil now, only atomics. But these little lamps, they like for antiques, for sentiment, because their great-grandfathers used them. Well, I walk through the house and not stop, too close by capital. Too close contact with men of other planets. I walk also through Burr and Zemat. I come to a place where they never see a foreigner, named Tajasa. Oh, I tell you, the men of the other planets do not know Mars. How delightful. How unspilled are the Martians. Once you get away from the people by the tourists, so subdued. How wonderful. Across the sands to go free as birds. The so friendly greeting of the Martian men and the Martian women. Well, in Tajasa I go to a theater. Such lovely girls. You shall see. But I saw something else that, my friend, you hardly believe. Dworkin looked down at his empty glass and snorted gently. I took the hint, although for myself I ordered the less lethal Martian, Azadanadi. I was already having difficulty believing parts of his narratives. It would be interesting to see if the rest of it were any harder. My companion continued, They not only have the chorus, which you have seen on Earth imported from Mars, and such a chorus, such girls, but they have something else. You recall your terrestrial history? Once your ancestors had performers on the stage who did funny emotions and said, Ami wu sig rai marx, the spectators, to make laugh. I think you call it vodvil. Well, on Mars they also have vodvil. He paused and looked at me from under half-shut islands and grinned widely to show his reptilian teeth. I wondered if he'd really found something new. I would even be willing to pay for a glimpse of Martian vodvil. I wondered if my Martian was too rusty for me to understand the jokes in the spoken lingo. They have not only men and women telling jokes, they have kind animals acting funny. Dworkin went on. This was too much. I suppose the animals talk too, I ask sarcastically. Did they speak Earth or Martian? He regarded me approvingly. My friend, you catch on quick. He raised a paw. Now, don't at conclusions jump. Let me explain. At first, I did not believe it either. They sprung it with no warning. At this stage came a tool, you know him, I think, and a shallow deed. The shallow deed was riding a bicycle, I mean a monocle, one wheel. The towel moved just as awkward as he always does and tried to ride a tandem four-wheeled vehicle, which had been especially for him made. By my resolve, I chuckled the picture of a tool riding a four-wheeled bicycle pumping each of his eight three-legged joints up and down in turn while maintaining his usual supercilious and indifferent facial expression was irresistibly funny. Wait, said my friend and raised a paw. You have as yet nothing heard. They make jokes at the same time. The shoe I did asked the towel, who was that towel I saw you with up the canal? And the towel replies, that was no towel. That was my shikai. I doubled up laughing. Unless you have visited Mars, this might not strike you as funny, but I collapsed into a heap. I put my head on the table and wept with mirth. It seemed like five minutes before I was able to speak. Oh, no! Yes, yes, I tell you, yes! insisted my friend. He even smiled himself. If you don't know the social system of the Martians, there is no point in my trying to explain why the idea of a towel being out with that neuter of neuters, a shikai, was so devastatingly funny, but that suddenly was not quite the point. Did it happen? I had large doubts. Nobody had ever heard a towel make any sort of sound and it was generally supposed that they do not have vocal cords and no, she all did. They somewhat resembled a big brown hog and live in burrows along the canals of Mars, had ever been heard to make any noise except a high-pitched whistle when frightened. Now, just a minute dworkin', I said. I know, my friend, I know. You take it impossible. You think the talking is faked. I thought so too, but wait. It seemed dworkin' had inquired among the audience as to who owned the performing animals. The local Martians were not as impressed as he was with the performance, but they guided him to the proprietor of the Trained Animal Act. He was a young Martian, hawk-nosed with flashing black eyes, dusky skin and curly hair. I say to him, this Martian, dworkin' continued. If your act on the level is I buy, I had three small diamonds with, he explained. But the Martian, he was hard to deal with. First, he said he would not sell his so valuable and so beloved animals. The only talking animals on Mars, he said, Delire. At long last, I get him to make a price. But on the condition that he bring me the animals around to my inn in the morning for a private audition. I suppose, I interrupted. You are beginning to have some doubts as to the Martian's good faith. After all, a talking to Ull and a talking to Shia-Did all at the same time is quite a lot to ask. I would have, please, my friend, please, interrupted my companion. Do you not think Ull dworkin' knows these things? Of course he does. I think the owner, he is pulling a thick, I guess. I know that animals do not really talk. Next morning, I think he will show up. But no, I am mistaken. Roughly at 9 o'clock, he come to my inn with a little dog cart with the animals. He puts them on the stage in the bar of the inn. They act like before. But they didn't talk, of course. Oh, no, my friend, that's where you are wrong. They talk like nobody's business. The jokes are funnier than ever. Even dirtier, perhaps. But dworkin' is not fool, he think aha. I say to the Martian, you fake this, what? The animals not talk? Suppose you have them do the act while you outside stay, what? Then I think I have them. The Martian tear his curly hair, flash his black eyes. He takes insult that I think he has faith. Name of the Martian gods, he cry. But at last he agree to go away and tell the animals to go ahead. Dworkin', you were a sap to strain along with him, even that far, I said weirdly. I hope you hadn't paid the guy any money, he shook his head. No, my old Andreas, he said. Dworkin' no fool is, even on Mars. No, no money, that way. The animals go on without the owner. Same stage business, same talk, same jokes. Even funnier yet. What? I stared at Dworkin'. He did not smile, but he finished off his eleventh shtip. The fifth I had bought him. Listen, I said. Are you sitting there telling me that you have a tool and a shia deed that can really talk? Listen, my friend. Like you, I think something is wrong. I say to Martian owner, my friend, maybe I buy your act if you tell me how it is done. What you know as a friend is I do that is impossible to these animals to talk. Tell me what is that trick? Dworkin' lifted his glass and shook it, as though he could not believe it was empty. Then looked at me, questioningly. I shook my hand. He snorted, looked melancholy, writhed up from his chair and reached for his fur cape. Well, thanks for the drinks, he said. A dark suspicion crept into my mind, but I could not restrain myself. Wait, Dworkin', I shouted. You can't just leave me up in the air like that. What happened then? Dworkin' snorted into his green handkerchief. Demarsion admitted it was a fake after all, he said mournfully. Can you imagine it? Lots of chiseler. The she-yood, he said, can't really talk. The to-ool just throws his voice. End of Show Business by Boyd Ellenby. Zero Hour by Alexander Blade. 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 Harmon Busby. Zero Hour by Alexander Blade. Dad had already gone when Bobby got up. This disappointed Bobby a little, but then he remembered, this was the big day. Naturally, Dad would get over to the project early, and at four o'clock, Bobby shivered deliciously at the thought of it. He ate his breakfast in silence with Mom across the table, drinking a cup of coffee, and looking at a fashion catalog. He was glad she was occupied, because he didn't want to talk. Not today he didn't. Might spill something secret. Might even let out the big secret. That would be terrible. Of course, all things were secret at Buffalo Flats. So secret, top scientists like Dad didn't even discuss them with wives like Mom. And wives like Mom never asked. So it was really something to sit there, eating breakfast, knowing that today, Dad was going to rock it to the moon. And with Mom not even knowing, the lunar project was in the works. So naturally, not dreaming that he was going with Dad. The thrill was overpowering. Maybe they would have radio communication after they got there, and they would go back and say, Hello, Mom, guess where I am? On the moon with Dad. And Mom would say, Why, Bobby, scaring me to death like this? I was looking all over for you. Sounding very angry, but not being really angry after all. Because maybe Dad would cut in and say, Yeah, he's right here with me, dear. What do you think of this boy of ours? Bobby gulped the last of his cereal so he could go outside and wriggle for joy. As he got up from his chair, Mom said, And what's your plan for today, young man? Davey Crockett or Buck Rogers? Bobby had a quick thought. A sudden temptation. Why not give Mom a hint? Why, he could even tell her and she still wouldn't know. Then, later after he was gone, she would remember back and say, That boy, when he tells you something, he really means it. Bobby smiled and said, I think I'll go to the moon today. Mom smiled too and went back to her fashions. Well, see to it, your fuel mixture is correct. I'll check it and Mom, I might not be home for lunch. Where will you be? Oh, I don't know. Well, mind your manners and say thank you when you leave. Mrs. Kendall still smiling, watched Bobby dash out into the yard. Living on a restricted government area had one compensation at least. You didn't have to worry about your children. Four dozen families, all with offspring, trapped behind ten-foot patrolled fence. Here, nobody worried about their children. They came and went and at noon a mother fed whatever number happened to be in the house at the time. Mrs. Kendall usually drew six or seven. It would be a relief to dodge the chore for one Saturday. Out in the backyard, Bobby fussed around his space rocket a little, tightening a screw here, hammering in a nail there, just until he could slip away without Mom noticing his direction. It wasn't a bad rocket at that, he thought. Six feet long with two seats and a keen instrument panel, but kid stuff, of course. After he found the way in through the sewer, he hadn't paid any more attention to his own ship. He could see Mom through the window, back in her book, so he went casually out through the back gate and turned to left, kicking at pebbles as he sauntered along and trying to look as though he had no place to go. Had to be careful. Didn't want to bump into any of the other kids today, either. The way in through the sewer was at a place behind Laboratory B. There was a kind of an alley there that nobody ever walked through and then this round lid you could lift up and look under a ladder you could climb down. Bobby hadn't dared go down at first, but after thinking about it overnight, his curiosity won out and he went back and ducked down into the lower level. He called it a sewer because of sewers being underground, but this place was clean and had bunches of wires strung in every direction and faint little lights you could see by. Bobby went further and further every trip he took, never telling anybody because you weren't supposed to talk about things at Buffalo Flats, not even to the other kids. Then he found the big drone where they were building the rocket. It was so sleek and beautiful and shiny that he just stared at it up through the grating in the floor that was for air circulation or something. He didn't know it was the moon rocket at first, not until he'd gone back several times to peek up at it and one day two scientists came walking along right in front of his nose. One of them was Dad. Bobby almost called out, but he caught himself and just listened to them talking. This was the first time his conscience bothered him about going underneath the drone. He thought about it a lot, whether it was the right thing to do, and while he was never able to still his conscience completely, he quieted down by saying he wasn't doing any harm because he'd never told anybody what he saw. He learned the rocket was going to the moon by listening to Dad and the other scientists talk when they thought they were alone. And it was funny because even there they spoke in low voices and didn't give too much away. He had known now for three days that at four o'clock the roof would open and the drone would be turned into a blast pit and the rocket would shoot out through space to the moon. That was all he did know for sure. None of the men had said who was going on the first trip to the moon. Nothing had been said on that subject at all, but Bobby knew Dad would go. He would have to. After all, Dad was the second biggest scientist at Buffalo Flats. Second only to Schleimer himself and Professor Schleimer was very old and certainly wouldn't make the trip. That left Dad. Dad would just have to go on the rocket. There probably wasn't anybody else smart enough in the whole place. The idea of going himself had been born the previous day when he found a larger grating in the floor near the rocket and realized if he was very careful he could climb out of the sewer and duck into the rocket when nobody was looking. Once inside he was pretty sure he'd find a place to hide until blast off. All the men would probably be strapped in bunks but if he found a place he could wedge himself in he didn't think he'd get hurt. Then halfway to the moon he would come out and find Dad and would he be surprised? At first, thinking about it he'd been scared but after he realized how proud Dad and Mom would be he made up his mind. Now, crouched beside the grating near the ship he waited while two men technicians and white overalls walked by. One of them said well, whatever happens she'll make a big splash. You said it, hope the brains know what they're doing. That made Bobby mad. Who said Dad didn't know what he was doing? Dad was just about the smartest scientist in the world. After the two men left he waited a long time. He heard voices but no one came in sight. Taking a deep breath he opened the grating and got out. It was only four steps to the open port of the rocket. There was a little ramp they used to roll things in and Bobby's feet touched it but lightly as he jumped into the ship. He found himself in some kind of a storeroom. It would be a good place to hide alright. It was full of aluminum barrels all the same size. He found a space between two rows and sat down and got his breath back. It was very quiet around him. Scary quiet. But he set his lips firmly. He was going to the moon with Dad. John Kendall was a little late that night. He kissed his wife and said, well did you see the big skyrocket? How can I miss it darling? Your supper is in the oven. I could use a martini first. Coming right up. While Myra fixed the drink John lay back in his easy chair and closed his eyes. We'd hoped to stage a little ceremony at the launching but Washington said no. The Russians? The Eastern Coalition. It was a race. That was why it had to be so secret. Washington said light the fuse and fire the thing. Is it still hush hush? No, not between us at least. We fired an explosion rocket at the moon. It will hit in about an hour and telescopes will show a big purple spot when our explosives go off and throw dye all over the place. Myra handed him a dry martini. I see. Lots of fun no doubt but what's the purpose? Fourth of July on the moon? Oh no. If the experiment is a success the next rocket will carry men instead of a bomb. Myra went into the kitchen to see about supper. In bed I suppose? Myra didn't hear and John set his drink down and moved towards the bedroom. Maybe he was still awake. Bobby rolled over. His eyes popped open. Dad, I thought you went too. John Kendall sat down on the edge of the bed and tousled his son's hair. No son. It's the old terra firma for me. Did you see the rocket blast? Uh huh. It went to the moon didn't it? That's right. Kendall smiled and thought. Try to keep a secret from the kids. It just can't be done. How's your moon rocket coming along son? Pretty good. Gee dad, as long as you didn't go I'm glad I didn't go either. You were planning to make the trip also? Uh huh. I got into the rocket and was all set but I got to thinking about Mom and the boys should stay and take care of her in case anything happened. Smart thinking son. Now you go to sleep. I'll have a little time tomorrow. We'll play some ball. That will be keen. John Kendall smiled as he left the bedroom. Kids were wonderful. Give them a few old boards and a steering wheel and they could build a ship to fly to the moon. What a wonderful dream world they lived in. Too bad they had to grow out of it. End of Zero Hour by Alexander Blade Recording by Harman Busby Beyond Pandora by Robert J. Martin This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Dale Grossman The ideal way to deal with a pest any menace is of course to make it useful to you. Beyond Pandora by Robert J. Martin The doctor's pen paused over the chart on his desk. This is your third set of teeth I believe. His patient nodded. That's right doc. But they were pretty slow coming in this time. The doctor looked up quizzically. Is that the only reason you think you need a booster shot? Oh, no, of course not. The man leaned forward and placed one hand palm up on the desk. Last year I had an accident. Stupid. Lost a thumb. He shrugged apologetically. It took almost six months to grow back. Thoughtfully the doctor leaned back in his chair. Hmm, I see. As the man before him made an involuntary movement toward his pocket the doctor smiled. Go on, smoke if you want to. Picking up the chart he muttered. Six months. Much too long. Strange, we didn't catch that at the time. He read silently for a few moments. Then began to fell out of form, clipped to the folder. Well, I think you probably are due for another booster about now. It could be the usual tests. Not that there's much doubt. We like to be certain. The middle-aged man seemed relieved. Then on second thought he hesitated uneasily. Why? Is there any danger? Amusement flickered across the doctor's face, turned smoothly into a reassuring half-smile. Oh, no. There's absolutely no danger involved. None at all. You regenerate pretty well under control now. Still, I'm sure you understand that accurate records and data are very necessary to further research and progress. Reassured the patient thought and became confidential. I see. Well, I suppose it's kind of silly, but I don't much like shots. It's not that they hurt. It's just that I guess I'm old-fashioned. I still feel kind of creepy about the whole business. Slightly embarrassed, he paused and asked defensively, is that unusual? The doctor smiled openly now. Not at all, not at all. Things have moved pretty fast in the past few years. I suppose it takes people's emotional reaction a while to catch up with developments that, logically, we accept as matter of fact. He pushed his chair back from the desk. Maybe it's not too hard to understand. Take fire, for example. Man lived in fear of fire for a good many hundred thousand years, and rightly so because he hadn't learned to control it. The principle's the same. First, you learn to protect yourself from a thing, then control it, and eventually we learn to harness it for a useful purpose. He gestured toward the man's cigarette. Even so, man still instinctively fears fire even while he uses it. In the case of tissue regeneration, where the change took place so rapidly in just a generation or so, that instinctive fear is even more understandable, although quite as unjustified, I assure you. The doctor stood up, indicating that the session was ending. While his patient scrambled to his feet hastily putting out his cigarette, the physician came around the desk. He put his hand on the man's shoulder. Relax, take it easy. Nothing to worry about. This is a wonderful age we live in. Barring a really major accident, there's no reason you shouldn't live at least another 75 years. After all, that's a very remarkable, vital complex we have doing your repair work. As they walked to the door, the man shook his head. Guess you're right, Doc. It's certainly done a good job so far, and I guess you specialists know what you're doing, even if folks don't understand it. At the door, he paused and half turned to the doctor. But, say, something I meant to ask you, this stuff of this vaccine, where did it come from? It seems to me I heard something and the fellows got it tamed. It was something else. Dangerous. There was another name for it. Do you know what I mean? The doctor's hand tightened on the doorknob. Yes, I know, he said grimly, but not many laymen remember. Just keep in mind what I told you. With any of these things, the pattern is protection, then control, then useful application. Back in the days before we put it to work for us, rebuilding tissue, almost ending aging and disease, the active basis for our vaccine caused a whole group of diseases in itself. Returning the man searching gaze, the doctor opened the door. We've come a long way since then. You see, he said quietly, in those days they called it cancer. The End of Beyond Pandora by Robert J. Martin.