 THE PUTNUM TRADITION It was an old house not far from the coast, and had descended generation by generation to the women of the Putnam family. Progress literally went by it. A new four-lane highway had been built two hundred yards from the ancient lilacs at the doorstep. Long before that, in the time of Cecily Putnam's husband, power lines had been run in and now on cold nights the telephone wires sounded like a concert of cellos, while inside would a sound like the breaking of Beatles the grandmother Cecily moved to the walls in the grooves of tradition. Simone Putnam, her granddaughter, Nina Putnam, her great-granddaughter, the unbroken secession of matriarchs continued, but times the old woman thought that in Simone it was weakened, and she looked at the four-year-old Nina a scance, waiting, waiting, for some good sign. Sometimes one of the Putnam women had given birth to a son, who grew sickly and died, or less often grew healthy and fled. The husbands were usually strangers to the land, the house, and the women, and spent a lifetime with the long-lived Putnam wives and died, leaving their strange signs. Phone wires, electric lights, water pumps, brass plumbing. Sam Harris came and married Simone, bringing with him an invasion of washer, dryer, toaster, mixer, coffee master, until the current poured through the walls of the house with more vigor than the blood in the old woman's veins. "'You don't approve of him,' Simone said to her grandmother. "'It's his trade,' Cecily Putnam answered. Our men have been carpenters, or farmers, or even schoolmasters, but an engineer, Pooie. Simone was washing the dishes, gazing out across the windowsill, where two pink and white murex shells stood, to the tidy garden beyond where Nina was engaged in her private games. She dried the dishes by passing her hand once above each plate or glass, bringing it to a dry sparkle. It saved wear on the dish towels, and it amused her. "'Sam's not home very much,' she said in a placating voice. She herself had grown terrified since her marriage, that she wouldn't be able to bear the weight of her past. She felt its power on her, and couldn't carry it. Cecily had brought her up after her father had disappeared, and her mother had died in an unexplained accident. Daily she saw the reflection of her failure in the face of her grandmother, who seemed built to the same seasoned and secure wood as the old Putnam house. Simone looked at her grandmother, whom she loved, and became a mere vapor. "'He's not home so much,' Simone said. Her face was small, what a pointed chin, and she had golden red hair, which she wore loose on her shoulders. Nina too had a small face, but it was neither so pale nor so delicate as her mother's, as if Sam's tougher substance had filled her out and strengthened her bone structure. If it was true that she, Simone, was a weak link, then Sam's strength might have poured into the child, and there would be no more Putnam family and tradition. "'People don't change that easily,' the old woman said. "'But things,' Simone began. The china, which had a history of five generations, slipped out of her hands and smashed. Sam's toaster wouldn't toast or pop up. Simone couldn't even use the telephone for fear of getting a wrong number or no number at all. "'Things, things,' her grandmother cried. "'It's blood that counts. If the blood is strong enough, things dissolve. They're just garbage, all those things floating on the surface of our history. It's our history that's deep. That's what counts.' "'You're afraid of Sam,' the young woman, accused. "'Not afraid of any man,' Sicily said, straightening her back. "'But I'm afraid for the child. Sam has no family tradition, no depth, no talent handed down and perfected. A man with his head full of wheels and wires.' Simone loved him. She leaned on him and grew about him, and he supported her tenderly. She wasn't about to give him up for the sake of some abstract tradition. It's not abstract, her grandmother said, with spirit. It's in your blood. For why don't you sweep the floors the way other women do, the way Sam's mother must? Simone had begun to clean the house while she was thinking, moving her hand horizontally across the floor at the height of her hip, and the dust was following the motion of her hand and moving in a small sun-brightened river toward the trash basket in the kitchen corner. Simone raised her hand to her face to look at it, and the river of dust rose like a serpent and hung a foot below her hand. "'Yes,' she agreed. "'At least I can clean the house. If I don't touch the good China, and look where I'm going.' "'Pooey!' the old woman said again angrily. Don't feel so sorry for yourself.' "'Not for myself,' Simone mumbled, and looked again toward the garden where her daughter was doing something with three stones and a pie plate full of spring water. "'I do despair of Nina,' Sicily said as she had said before. She's four and has no appearance, not even balance. She fell out of the apple-rose tree, and couldn't even help herself. Suddenly the old woman thrust her face close to her granddaughter. It was smooth, round, and sweet as a young kernel of corn. The eyes, sunk down under the bushy gray brows, were cold and clear gray. "'Simon,' the old woman said, "'you didn't lie to me. You did know she was falling, and couldn't get back in time to catch her.' A shudder passed through Simone's body. There was no blood in her veins, only water, no marrow in her bones. They were empty and porous as a bird's. Even the roots of her hair were weak, and now the sweat was starting out of her scalp as she faced her grandmother and saw the bristling shapes of seven generations of Putnam women behind her. "'You lied,' the old woman said. You didn't know she was falling. Simone was a vapor, a mere froth, blowing away on the first breeze. "'My poor dear,' the old woman said in a gentle voice. "'But how could you marry someone like Sam? Don't you know what will happen? He'll dissolve us, our history, our talents, our pride. Nina is nothing but an ordinary little child.' "'She's a good child,' Simone said, trying not to be angry. She wanted her child to be loved, to be strong. Nina isn't a common child,' she said, with her head bent. She's very bright. "'A man with his head full of wheels, who's at home with electricity and wires,' the old woman went on. "'We've had them before, but never allowed them to dominate us. My own husband was such a man. But he was only allowed to make token gestures, such as having the power lines put in. He never understood how they worked. She lowered her voice to a whisper. "'Your Sam understands. I've heard him talk to the water pump.' "'That's why you're afraid of him,' Simone said. "'Not because I'm weak, and he might take something away from me, but because he's strong, and he might give us something. And everything would change, and you're afraid of that. Nina might be our change,' she pointed toward the garden. Following the white line of her granddaughter's finger, Cecily looked out into the garden and saw Nina turn toward them as though she knew they were angry. The child pointed with one finger directly at them in the house. There was a sharp crackle, and something of a brilliant and vibrating blue leapt between the outstretched fingers of mother and daughter and flew up like a bird to the power lines above. "'Mommy,' Nina called. Simone's heart nearly broke with wonder and fright. Her grandmother contemptuously passed through the kitchen door and emerged on the step outside. But Simone opened the door and left it open behind her. "'What was that?' she asked Nina. Was it a bluebird?' "'Don't be silly,' Nina said. She picked up the pie plate and brought it toward them. Cecily's face was white and translucent. One hand went to her throat as the child approached. Brimful of crackling blue fire with a fluctuating heart of yellow, the pie plate came toward them, held between Nina's small dusty hands. Nina grinned at them. I stole it out of the wires,' she said. Simone thought she would faint with a mixture of joy and fear. Put it back, she whispered. Please put it back. "'Oh, Mommy,' Nina said, beginning to whine. Not now. Not right away. I just got it. I've done it lots of times.' The pie plate crackled and hissed in the steady, small hands. Simone could feel the old woman's shocked silence behind her. "'You mustn't carry it in a pie plate. It's dangerous,' Simone said to her child. But she could see Nina was in no danger. "'How often have you done this?' She could feel her skirt and her hair billow with electricity. "'Lots of times. You don't like it, do you?' She became teasing and rogish when she looked most like Sam. Suddenly she threw back her head and opened her mouth, and tilting up the pie plate she drank it empty. Her reddish gold hair sprung out in crackling rays around her face, her eyes flashed, and sparks flew out between her teeth before she closed her mouth. "'Nina,' the old woman cried, and began to crumple, falling slowly against Simone in a complete faint. Simone caught her in trembling hands and lowered her gently. She said to her daughter, "'You mustn't do that in front of Grandi. You're a bad child. You knew it would scare her.' And to herself she said, "'I must stop babbling. The child knows I'm being silly. Oh, isn't it wonderful? Isn't it awful? Oh, Sam, how I love you!' Daddy said it would scare you, Nina admitted. That's why I never showed you before. Her hair was softly falling into place again, and she was gazing curiously at her great-grandmother lying on the doorstep. "'It did scare me,' Simone said. "'I'm not used to it, darling, but don't keep it secret any more.' "'Is Grandi asleep?' Simone said hastily. "'Oh, yes, she's taking a nap. She is old, you know, and likes to take naps.' It's not a nap, Nina said, leaning over and patting the old woman's cheeks. I think she's having a bad dream.' Simone carried her grandmother into the house. If that old, tired heart had jumped and floundered like her own, there must be some damage done to it. If anything happened to her grandmother, the world would end, Simone thought, and was furious with Nina, and at the same time full of joy for her. Cecily Putnam opened her eyes widely, and Simone said, "'It does change, you see, but it's in the family, after all.' The old woman sat upright quickly. "'That wicked child,' she exclaimed. "'To come and frighten us like that, she ought to be spanked.' She got up with great strength and rushed out to the garden. "'Nina,' she called imperiously. The child picked up one of the small stones from the pie plate, now full of spring water, and came to her great-grandmother. "'I'll make something for you, Grandi,' she said seriously. She put the stone in the palm of her hand and breathed on it, and then held out her hand and offered the diamond. "'It's lovely, thank you,' the old woman said with dignity, and put her hand on the child's head. "'Let's go for a walk, and I'll show you how to grow rose apples. "'That's more becoming,' to a young lady. "'You slept on a step. "'Oh, I'm old, and I like to take little naps,' Cecily answered.' Simone saw them disappear among the apple-rose trees side by side. She was still trembling, but gradually as she passed her hand back and forth, and the dust followed, moving in a sparkling river toward the trash-basket, Simone stopped trembling, and began to smile with the natural pride of a Putnam woman. "'End of the Putnam Tradition,' by Sonia Dorman.' A scientist rises. 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 David Adamson. A scientist rises. By D.W. Hall. On that summer day the sky over New York was unflecked by clouds, and the air hung motionless, the waves of heat undisturbed. The city was a vast oven, where even the sounds of the coiling traffic in its streets seemed heavy and weary under the press of heat that poured down from above. In Washington Square the urchins of the neighborhood splashed in the fountain, and the usual midday assortment of mothers, tramps, and out-of-works lounged listlessly on the hot park benches. As a bowl, the square was filled by the torrid sun, and the trees and grass drooped like the people on its walks. In the surrounding city, men worked in sweltering offices, and the streets rumbled with a never-ceasing tide of business. But Washington Square rested, and then a man walked out of one of the houses lining the square. And all this was changed. He came with a calm, steady stride down the steps of a house on the north side, and those who happened to see him gazed with surprised interest. For he was a giant in size. He measured at least eleven feet in height, and his body was well formed at an perfect proportion. He crossed the street and stepped over the railing into the nearest patch of grass, and there stood, with arms folded, and legs a little apart. The expression on his face was preoccupied and strange and strangely apart, nor did it change when, almost immediately from the park bench nearest him, a woman's excited voice cried, Look! Look! Oh, look! The people around her craned their necks and stared, and from them grew a startled murmur. Others from farther away came to see who had cried out, and remained, to gaze, fascinated at the man on the grass. Quickly the murmur spread across the square, and from its every part men and women and children streamed towards a center of interest. And then, when they saw, backed away slowly and fearfully, with staring eyes from where the lone figure stood, there was about that figure something uncanny and terrible. There in the hot midday hush, something was happening to it which men would say could not happen, and men seeing it backed away in alarm. Quickly they dispersed. Soon there were only white frightened faces peering from behind buildings and trees. Before their very eyes the giant was growing. When he had first emerged he had been around eleven feet tall, and now within three minutes he had risen close to sixteen feet. His great body maintained its perfect proportions. It was that of an elderly man clad in a simple gray business suit. The face was kind, its clear chiseled features indicating fine spiritual strength. On the white forehead beneath the sparse gray hair were deep sunken lines which spoke of years of concentrated work. No thought of malevolence could come from that head with its gentle blue eyes that showed the peace within. But fear struck ever stronger into those who watched him and in one place a woman fainted, for the great body continued to grow and grow ever faster until it was twenty feet high, then swiftly twenty-five, and the feet still separated were as long as the body of a normal boy. Clothes and body grew effortlessly, the latter apparently without pain, as if the terrifying process were wholly natural. The cars coming into Washington Square had stopped as their drivers sighted what was rising there, and by now the bordering streets were tangled with traffic. A distant crowd of milling people heightened the turmoil. The northern edge was deserted, but in a large semi-circle was spread a fear-struck, panicky mob. A single policeman, his face white and his eyes wide, tried to straighten out the tangle of vehicles, but it was infinitely beyond him and he sent in a riot call, and as a giant with the kind dignified face loomed silently higher than the trees in the square and ever higher, a dozen blue-coated figures appeared and saw, and knew fear too, and hung back awestricken at a loss what to do. For by now the rapidly mounting body had risen to the height of forty feet. An excited voice raised itself above the general hubbub, why, I know him, I know him, it's Edgar Wesley, Dr. Edgar Wesley. A police sergeant turned to the man who had spoken, and it, and he knows you, well, then go closer to him, and ask him what it means. But the man looked fearfully at the giant and hung back. Even as they talk, his gigantic body had grown as high as the four storied buildings lining the square, and his feet were becoming too large for the place where they had first been put, and now a faint smile could be seen on the giant's face, an enigmatic smile with something ironic and bitter in it. Well, then shout to him from here. Press the sergeant nervously, we've got to find out something. This is crazy, impossible, my God, higher yet and faster. Summoning his courage, the other man cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, Dr. Wesley, can you speak and tell us? Can we help you to stop it? The ring of people looked up, breathless at the towering figure, and a wave of fear passed over them, and several hysterical streaks rose up as, very slowly, the huge head shook from side to side. But the smile on its lips became stronger and kinder, and the bitterness seemed to leave it. There was fear at that motion of the enormous head, but a roar of panic sounded from the watcher's win with marked caution. The growing giant moved one foot from the grass into the street behind, and the other into the nearby base of Fifth Avenue, just above the arch. Fearing harm, they were gripped by terror, and they fought back while the trembling policemen tried vainly to control them. But the panic soon ended when they saw that the Leviathan's arms remained crossed, and his smile kinder yet. By now he dwarfed the houses, his body looming a hundred and fifty feet into the sky. At this moment a woman at the back of the semicircle slumped to her knees and prayed hysterically. Someone's coming out of the house! shouted one of the closest onlookers. The door of the house from which the giant had first appeared had opened, and a figure of a middle-aged, normal-sized man emerged. For a second he crouched on the steps, gaping up at the monstrous shape in the sky. Then he hurried down and made a desperate run for the nearest group of policemen. He gripped the sergeant and cried frantically, That's Dr. Wesley! Why don't you do something? Why don't—who are you? The officer asked, with a return of some authoritative manner. I work for him. I'm his janitor. But can't you do anything? Just look at him! Look! The crowd pressed closer. What do you know about this? went on the sergeant. The man gulped and stared around wildly. He's been working on something. Many years I don't know what, for it kept it a close secret. All I know is that an hour ago I was up in my room upstairs when I heard some disturbance in his laboratory on the ground floor. I came down and knocked on the door, and he answered from inside and said everything was all right. You didn't go in. No. I went back up, and everything was quiet for a long time. Then I heard a lot of noise down below, a smashing, as if things were being broken. But then I thought he was just destroying something he didn't need. I didn't investigate. He hated to be disturbed. Then a little later, I heard him shouting down here in the square, and I looked out, and I saw. I saw him, just as I knew him, but a giant. Oh, look at his face! Why, he is the face of a God! A God! He's as if he's looking down on us and pitying us. For a moment all were silent as they gazed, transfixed at the vast form that towered two hundred feet above them, almost as awe-inspiring as the astounding growth was the fine, dignified calmness of the face. The sergeant broke in. The explanation of this must be in his laboratory. We'll go have a look. You lead us there. The other man nodded, but just then the giant moved again, and they waited. And watched. With the utmost caution the Titanic's shape changed position. Gradually one great foot over thirty feet in length soared up from the street and lowered farther away, and then the other distant foot changed its position. And the Leviathan came gently to rest against the tallest building bordering the square, and once more folded his arms and stood quiet. The enormous body appeared to waver slightly as a breath of wind washed against it. Obviously it was not gaining weight as it grew. Almost now it appeared to float in the air. Swiftly it grew another twenty-five feet, and the gray expanse of its clothes shimmered strangely as a ripple ran over its colossal bulk. A change of feeling came gradually over the watching multitude. The face of the giant was indeed that of a god in the noble irony-tinged serenity of his calm features. It was as if a further world had opened, and one of divinity had stepped down, a further world of kindness and fellow-love, where none of the discords that bring conflicts and slaughtering of the weary people of earth, spiritual peace radiated from the enormous face under the silvery hair, peace with an undertone of sadness, as if the giant knew of the sorrows of the swarm of dwarfs beneath him, and pitied them. From all the roofs and towers of the city, for miles around, men saw the mammoth shape and the kindly smile grow more and more tenuous against the clear blue sky. The figure remained quietly in the same position, his feet filling two empty streets, and under the spell of his smile all fear seemed to leave the nearer watchers, and they became more quiet and controlled. The group of policemen and the janitor made a dash for the house from which the giant had come. They ascended the steps, went in, and found the door of the laboratory locked. They broke the door down. The sergeant looked in. Anyone in here? He cried. Nothing disturbed the silence, and he entered, the others following. A long, dimly lit room met their eyes, and in its middle the remains of a great mass of apparatus that had dominated it. The apparatus was now completely destroyed. Its dozen rows of tubes were shattered. Its intricate coils of wire and machinery hopelessly smashed. Fragments lay scattered all over the floor. No longer was there the least shape of meaning to anything in the room. There remained merely a litter of glass and stone, and scrap metal. Conspicuous on the floor was a large hammer. The sergeant walked over to pick it up, but instead paused and stared at what lay beyond it. A body, he said. A sprawled-out dead man lay on the floor, his dark face twisted up, his sightless eyes staring at the ceiling, his temple crushed, as with a hammer. Clutched tight in one stiff hand was an automatic. On his chest was a sheet of paper. The captain reached down and grasped the paper. He read what was written on it, and then he read it to the others. There was a fool who dreamed the high dream of the pure scientist, and who lived only to ferret out the secrets of nature, to harness them for his fellow men. He studied and worked and thought, and in time came to concentrate on the manipulation of the atom, especially the possibility of contracting and expanding it. A thing of greatest potential value. For nine years he worked along this line, hoping to succeed and give new power, new happiness, a new horizon to mankind. Hermetically sealed in his laboratory, self-exiled from human contacts, he labored hard. There came a day when the device into which the fool had poured his life stood completed, and a success. And on that very day an agent for a certain government entered his laboratory to steal the device, and in that moment the fool realized what he had done. That, apart from the apparatus he had invented, not happiness and new freedom would come to his fellow men but instead slaughter and carnage and drunken power increased a hundredfold. He realized suddenly that men had not yet learned to use fruitfully the precious, powerful things given to them. But as yet could only play with them like greedy children and kill as they played. Already his invention had brought death, and he realized even on this day of his triumph that it at its secret must be destroyed, and with them he who had fashioned so blindly. For the scientist was old, his whole life was the invention, and with its going there would be nothing more, and so he used the device's great powers on his own body, and then with those powers working on him he destroyed the device at all the papers that held its secrets. Was the fool also mad? Perhaps, but I do not think so. Into his lonely laboratory with this marauder had come the wisdom that men must wait, that the time is not yet for such power as he was about to offer. A gesture his strange death which you who read this have seen. Yes, a gesture but a useful one, for with it he and his invention and its hurtful secrets go from you and a fitting one, for he dies through his achievement, through his very life. But in a better sense he will not die, for the power of his achievement will dissolve his very body among you infinitely. You will breathe him in your air, and in you he will live incarnate until that later time when another will give you the knowledge he now destroys, and he will see it used as he wished it used. Signed EW, the sergeant's voice ceased, and wordlessly the men in the laboratory looked at each other. No comment was needed. They went out. They watched from the steps of Edgar Wesley's house. At first sight of the figure in the sky, a new awe struck them, for now the shape of the giant towered a full five hundred feet into the sun, and it seemed almost a mirage, for definite outline was gone from it. It shimmered and wavered against the bright blue like a mist, and the blue shone through it, for it was quite transparent, and yet still they imagined they could discern the slight ironic smile on the face, and the peaceful understanding light in the serene eyes, and their hearts swelled at the knowledge of the spirit of the courage of the fine far-seeing mind of that outflung titanic martyr to the happiness of men. The end came quickly. The great misty body rose. It floated over the city like a wraith, and then it swiftly dispersed, even as steam dissolves in the air. They felt a silence over the thousands of watching people in the square, a hush, broken at last by a deep low murmur of awe and wonderment as the final misty fragments of the vast sky-held figure wavered and melted imperceptibly, melted and were gone from sight in the air that was breathed by the men whom Edgar Wesley loved. End of A Scientist Rises by D. W. Hall. Recording by David Adamson, Baltimore, Maryland. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Greg Marguerite. The Shadow and the Flash by Jack London When I look back I realize what a peculiar friendship it was. First there was Lloyd Inwood, tall, slender and finely knit, nervous and dark, and then Paul Ticklorn, tall, slender and finely knit, nervous and blonde. Each was the replica of the other in everything except color. Lloyd's eyes were black, Paul's were blue. Under stress of excitement the blood coarsed olive in the face of Lloyd, crimson in the face of Paul. But outside this matter of coloring they were as like as two peas. Both were high-strung, prone to excessive tension and endurance, and they lived at concert pitch. But there was a trio involved in this remarkable friendship, and the third was short and fat and chunky and lazy and, loath to say, it was I. Paul and Lloyd seemed born to rivalry with each other, and I to be peacemaker between them. We grew up together, the three of us, and full often have I received the angry blows each intended for the other. They were always competing, striving to outdo each other, and when entered upon some such struggle there was no limit either to their endeavors or passions. This intense spirit of rivalry obtained in their studies and their games. If Paul memorized one canto of Marmion, Lloyd memorized two cantos. Paul came back with three, and Lloyd again with four, till each knew the whole poem by heart. I remember an incident that occurred at the swimming-hole, an incident tragically significant of the life struggle between them. The boys had a game of diving to the bottom of a ten-foot pool and holding on by submerged roots to see who could stay under the longest. Paul and Lloyd allowed themselves to be bantered into making the descent together. When I saw their faces, set and determined, disappear in the water as they sank swiftly down, I felt a foreboding of something dreadful. The moments sped, the ripples died away, the face of the pool grew placid and untroubled, and neither black nor golden head broke the surface in quest of air. We above grew anxious. The longest record of the longest-winded boy had been exceeded, and still there was no sign. Air bubbles trickled slowly upward, showing that the breath had been expelled from their lungs, and after that the bubbles ceased to trickle upward. Each second became interminable, and unable longer to endure the suspense, I plunged into the water. I found them down at the bottom, clutching tight to the roots. Their heads not a foot apart, their eyes wide open, each glaring fixedly at the other. They were suffering frightful torment, writhing and twisting in the pangs of voluntary suffocation, for neither would let go and acknowledge himself beaten. I tried to break Paul's hold on the root, but he resisted me fiercely. Then I lost my breath and came to the surface, badly scared. I quickly explained the situation, and half of a dozen of us went down, and by main strength tore them loose. By the time we got them out, both were unconscious, and it was only after much barrel rolling and rubbing and pounding that they finally came to their senses. They would have drowned there had no one rescued them. When Paul Ticklorn entered college, he let it be generally understood that he was going for the social sciences. Lloyd Inwood, entering at the same time, elected to take the same course, but Paul had it secretly in mind all the time to study the natural sciences, specializing on chemistry, and at the last moment he switched over. Though Lloyd had already arranged his year's work and attended the first lectures, he at once followed Paul's lead and went in for the natural sciences and especially for chemistry. Their rivalry soon became a noted thing throughout the university. Each was a spur to the other, and they went into chemistry deeper than did ever students before. So deep, in fact, that ere they took their sheepskins, they could have stumped any chemistry or Cal College professor in the institution, save old Moss, head of the department, and even him they puzzled and edified more than once. Lloyd's discovery of the death bacillus of the C-toad and his experiments on it with potassium cyanide sent his name and that of his university ringing around the world. Nor was Paul a wit behind when he succeeded in producing laboratory colloids exhibiting amoeba-like activities, and when he cast new light upon the processes of fertilization through his startling experiments with simple sodium chlorides and magnesium solutions on low forms of marine life. It was in their undergraduate days, however, in the midst of their profoundest plunges into the mysteries of organic chemistry, that Doris Van Ben-Shorten entered into their lives. Lloyd met her first, but within 24 hours Paul saw to it that he also made her acquaintance. Of course they fell in love with her, and she became the only thing in life worth living for. They wooed her with equal ardor and fire, and so intense became their struggle for her that half the student body took to wagering wildly on the result. Even old Moss one day after an astounding demonstration in his private laboratory by Paul was guilty to the extent of a month's salary of backing him to become the bridegroom of Doris Van Ben-Shorten. In the end she solved the problem in her own way, to everybody's satisfaction except Paul's and Lloyd's. Getting them together she said that she really could not choose between them because she loved them both equally well, and that unfortunately since Polandrie was not permitted in the United States she would be compelled to forgo the honor and happiness of marrying either of them. Each blamed the other for this lamentable outcome, and the bitterness between them grew more bitter. But things came to a head enough. It was at my home, after they had taken their degrees and dropped out of the world's sight that the beginning of the end came to pass. Both were men of means with little inclination and no necessity for professional life. My friendship and their mutual animosity were the two things that linked them in any way together. While they were very often at my place, they made it a fastidious point to avoid each other on such visits, though it was inevitable under the circumstances that they should come upon each other occasionally. On the day I have in recollection, Paul Ticklorn had been mooning all morning in my study over a current scientific review. This left me free to my own affairs and I was out among my roses when Lloyd Inwood arrived, clipping and pruning and tacking the climbers on the porch with my mouth full of nails, and Lloyd following me about and lending a hand now and then. We felt a discussing the mythical race of invisible people, that strange and vagrant people the traditions of which have come down to us. Lloyd warmed to the talk in his nervous jerky fashion and was soon interrogating the physical properties and possibilities of invisibility. A perfectly black object, he contended, would elude and defy the acutest vision. Color is a sensation, he was saying. It has no objective reality. Without light, we can see neither colors nor objects themselves. All objects are black in the dark, and in the dark it is impossible to see them. If no light strikes upon them, then no light is flung back from them to the eye, and so we have no vision evidence of their being. But we see black objects in daylight, I objected. Very true, he went on warmly, and that is because they are not perfectly black. Were they perfectly black, absolutely black as it were, we could not see them. I, not in the blaze of a thousand suns could we see them, and so I say, with the right pigments properly compounded an absolutely black paint could be produced, which would render invisible whatever it was applied to. It would be a remarkable discovery, I said noncommittally, for the whole thing seemed too fantastic for ought but speculative purposes. Remarkable, Lloyd slapped me on the shoulder. I should say so. Why old chap to coat myself with such a paint would be to push the world at my feet. The secrets of kings and courts would be mine, the machinations of diplomats and politicians, the play of stock gamblers, the plans of trusts and corporations. I could keep my hand on the inner pulse of things, and become the greatest power in the world. And I, he broke off shortly, then added, well, I have begun my experiments, and I don't mind telling you that I'm right in line for it. A laugh from the doorway startled us. Paul Ticklorn was standing there, a smile of mockery on his lips. You forgot, my dear Lloyd, he said. Forgot what? You forgot, Paul went on. Ah, you forgot the shadow. I saw Lloyd's face drop, but he answered sneeringly. I can carry a sunshade, you know. Then he turned suddenly and fiercely upon him. Look here, Paul. You'll keep out of this if you know what's good for you. A rupture seemed imminent, but Paul laughed good-naturedly. I wouldn't lay fingers on your dirty pigments. Succeed beyond your most sanguine expectations, yet you will always fetch up against the shadow. You can't get away from it. Now I shall go on the very opposite tack. In the very nature of my proposition, the shadow will be eliminated. Transparency ejaculated Lloyd instantly, but it can't be achieved. Oh, no! Of course not! And Paul shrugged his shoulders and strolled off down the briar rose path. This was the beginning of it. Both men attacked the problem with all the tremendous energy for which they were noted, and with a rancour and bitterness that made me tremble for the success of the either. Each trusted me to the utmost, and in the long weeks of experimentation that followed, I was made a party to both sides, listening to their theorisings and witnessing their demonstrations. Never by word or sign did I convey to either the slightest hint of the other's progress, and they respected me for the seal I put upon my lips. Lloyd Inwood, after prolonged and uninterminate application, when the tension upon his mind and body became too great to bear, had a strange way of obtaining relief. He attended prize fights. It was at one of these brutal exhibitions, whether he had dragged me in order to tell his latest results, that his theory received striking confirmation. Do you see that red-whiskered man he asked pointing across the ring to the fifth tier of seats on the opposite side? And do you see the next man to him, the one in the white hat? Well, there is quite a gap between them, is there not? Certainly, I answered, they are a seat apart. The gap is an unoccupied seat. He leaned over to me and spoke seriously. Between the red-whiskered man and the white-hatted man sits Ben Wasson. You have heard me speak of him. He is the cleverest pugilist of his weight in the country. He is also a Caribbean negro, full-blooded, and the blackest in the United States. He has on a black overcoat buttoned up. I saw him when he came in and took that seat. As soon as he sat down, he disappeared. Watch closely. He may smile. I was for crossing over to verify Lloyd's statement, but he restrained me. Wait, he said. I waited and watched till the red-whiskered man turned his head as though addressing the unoccupied seat, and then in that empty space I saw the rolling whites of a pair of eyes and the white double crescent of two rows of teeth, and for the instant I could make out a negro's face. But with the passing of the smile his visibility passed, and the chair seemed vacant as before. Were he perfectly black, you could sit alongside him and not see him, Lloyd said, and I confessed the illustration was apt enough to make me well-nigh convinced. I visited Lloyd's laboratory a number of times after that and found him always deep in the search after the absolute black. His experiments covered all sorts of pigments, such as lamp-blacks, tars, carbonized vegetable matters, soots of oils and fats, and the various carbonized animal substances. White light is composed of the seven primary colors, he argued to me, but it is itself, of itself, invisible. Only by being reflected from objects do it and the objects become visible, but only that portion of it that is reflected becomes visible. For instance, here is a blue tobacco box. The white light strikes against it, and with one exception all of its component colors, violet, indigo, green, yellow, orange, and red, are absorbed. The one exception is blue. It is not absorbed, but reflected, wherefore the tobacco box gives us a sensation of blueness. We do not see the other colors because they are absorbed. We see only the blue. For the same reason grass is green. The green waves of light are thrown upon our eyes. When we paint our houses, we do not apply color to them, he said at another time. What we do is to apply certain substances that have the property of absorbing from white light all the colors except those that we would have our houses appear. When a substance reflects all the colors to the eye, it seems to us white. When it absorbs all the colors, it is black. But as I said before, we have as yet no perfect black. All the colors are not absorbed. The perfect black, guarding against high lights, will be utterly and absolutely invisible. Look at that, for example. He pointed to the palette lying on his work table. Different shades of black pigments were brushed on it. One in particular I could hardly see. It gave my eyes a blurring sensation, and I rubbed them and looked again. That, he said impressively, is the blackest black you or any mortal man ever looked upon. But just you wait, and I'll have a black so black that no mortal man will be able to look upon it and see it. On the other hand, I used to find Paul Ticklorn plunged as deeply into the study of light polarization, diffraction, and interference, single and double refraction, and all manner of strange organic compounds. Transparency, a state or quality of body which permits all rays of light to pass through it, he defined for me. That is what I am seeking. Lloyd blunders up against the shadow with his perfect opaqueness. But I escape it. A transparent body casts no shadow. Neither does it reflect light waves. That is, the perfectly transparent does not. So, avoiding high lights not only will such a body cast no shadow, but, since it reflects no light, it will also be invisible. We were standing by the window at another time. Paul was engaged in polishing a number of lenses which were ranged along the sill. Suddenly, after a pause in the conversation, he said, oh, I've dropped the lens. Stick your head out, old man, and see where it went to. Out! I started to thrust my head, but a sharp blow on the forehead caused me to recoil. I rubbed my bruised brow and gazed with reproachful inquiry at Paul, who was laughing in gleeful boyish fashion. Well, he said. Well, I echoed. Why don't you investigate, he demanded, and investigate I did. Before thrusting out my head, my senses automatically active had told me there was nothing there, that nothing intervened between me and the out-of-doors, that the aperture of the window opening was utterly empty. I stretched forth my hand and felt a hard object smooth and cool and flat, which my touch, out of its experience, told me to be glass. I looked again, but could see positively nothing. White Quartzos sand, Paul rattled off. Sodic carbonate, slacked lime, collet, manganese peroxide. There you have it. The finest French plate glass made by the great Saint-Gobain company, who made the finest plate glass in the world. And this is the finest piece they ever made. It cost a king's ransom. But look at it. You can't see it. You don't know it's there till you run your head against it. Hey, old boy, that's merely an object lesson. Certain elements in themselves opaque, yet so compounded as to give a resultant body which is transparent. But that is a matter of inorganic chemistry, you say. Very true. But I dare to assert standing here on my two feet that in the organic I can duplicate whatever occurs in the inorganic. Here, he held a test tube between me and the light, and I noted the cloudy or muddy liquid it contained. He emptied the contents of another test tube into it, and almost instantly it became clear and sparkling. Or here, with quick nervous movements among his array of test tubes, he turned a white solution to a wine color and a light yellow solution to a dark brown. He dropped a piece of litmus paper into an acid when it changed instantly to red, and on floating it in an alkali it turned as quickly to blue. The litmus paper is still the litmus paper he enunciated in the formal manner of the lecturer. I have not changed it into something else, then what did I do? I merely changed the arrangement of its molecules, where at first it absorbed all colors from the light but red. Its molecular structure was so changed that it absorbed all red and all colors except blue. And so it goes at infinitum. Now what I proposed to do is this. He paused for a space. I proposed to seek I and to find the proper reagents which acting upon the living organism will bring about molecular changes analogous to those you have just witnessed. But these reagents which I shall find, and for that matter upon which I already have my hands, will not turn the living body blue or red or black, but they will turn it to transparency. All light will pass through it. It will be invisible. It will cast no shadow. A few weeks later I went hunting with Paul. He had been promising me for some time that I should have the pleasure of shooting over a wonderful dog—the most wonderful dog, in fact, that ever man shot over. So he averred and continued to averr till my curiosity was aroused. But on the morning in question I was disappointed, for there was no dog in evidence. Don't see him about, Paul remarked unconcernedly, and we set off across the fields. I could not imagine at the time what was ailing me, but I had a feeling of some impending and deadly illness. My nerves were all awry, and from the astounding tricks they played me, my senses seemed to have run riot. Strange sounds disturbed me. At times I heard the swish-swish of grass being shoved aside, and once the patter of feet across a patch of stony ground. Did you hear anything, Paul? I asked once. But he shook his head and thrust his feet steadily forward. While climbing a fence I heard the low, eager wine of a dog, apparently from within a couple feet of me. But on looking about me I saw nothing. I dropped to the ground, limp and trembling. Paul, I said, we had better return to the house. I am afraid I am going to be sick. Nonsense, old man, he answered. The sunshine has gone to your head like wine. You'll be all right. It's famous weather. But passing along a narrow path through a clump of cotton-woods, some object brushed against my legs, and I stumbled and nearly fell. I looked with sudden anxiety at Paul. What's the matter, he asked, tripping over your own feet? I kept my tongue between my teeth and plotted on, though sore, perplexed and thoroughly satisfied that some acute and mysterious malady had attacked my nerves. So far my eyes had escaped. But when we got to the open fields again, even my vision went back on me. Strange flashes of very colored rainbow light began to appear and disappear on the path before me. Still, I managed to keep myself in hand till the very colored lights persisted for a space of fully twenty seconds, dancing in flashing and continuous play. Then I sat down, weak and shaky. It's all up with me, I gasped, covering my eyes with my hands. It has attacked my eyes, Paul. Take me home. But Paul laughed long and loud. What did I tell you? The most wonderful dog, eh? Well, what do you think? He turned partly from me and began to whistle. I heard the patter of feet, the panting of a heated animal and the unmistakable yelp of a dog. Then Paul stooped down and apparently fondled the empty air. Here, give me your fist. And he rubbed my hand over the cold nose and jowls of a dog. A dog it certainly was, with the shape and the smooth short coat of a pointer. Suffice to say, I speedily recovered my spirits in control. Paul put a collar about the animal's neck and tied his handkerchief to its tail, and then was vouchsafed thus the remarkable sight of an empty collar and a waving handkerchief cavorting over the fields. It was something to see that collar and handkerchief pin a bevy of quail in a clump of locusts and remain rigid and immovable till we had flushed the birds. Now and again the dog emitted the very colored light flashes I have mentioned. The one thing, Paul explained, which he had not anticipated and which he doubted could be overcome. They're a large family, he said, these sun-dogs, wind-dogs, rainbows, halos, parhealia. They are produced by refraction of light from minerals and ice crystals, from mist, rain, spray, and no end of things, and I am afraid they are the penalty I must pay for transparency. I escaped Lloyd's shadow, only to fetch up against the rainbow flash. A couple of days later, before the entrance to Paul's laboratory, I encountered a terrible stench. So overpowering was it that it was easy to discover the source. A massive, putrescent matter on the doorstep, which in general outlines resembled a dog. Paul was startled when he investigated my find. It was his invisible dog, or rather what had been his invisible dog, for it was now plainly visible. It had been playing about, but a few minutes before in all health and strength. Closer examination revealed that the skull had been crushed by some heavy blow. While it was strange that the animal should have been killed, the inexplicable thing was that it should so quickly decay. The reagents I inject into its system were harmless, Paul explained, yet they were powerful, and it appears that when death comes, they force practically instantaneous disintegration. Remarkable, most remarkable. Well, the only thing is not to die. They do not harm so long as one lives. But I do wonder who smashed in that dog's head. Light, however, was thrown upon this when a frightened housemaid brought the news that Gaffer Bedshaw had that very morning, not more than an hour back, gone violently insane and was strapped down at home in the Huntsman's Lodge, where he raved of a battle with a ferocious and gigantic beast that he had encountered in the Ticklorn pasture. He claimed that the thing whatever it was was invisible, that with his own eyes he had seen that it was invisible, wherefore his tearful wife and daughters shook their heads, and wherefore he but waxed them more violently, and the gardener and the coachman tightened the straps by another hole. Nor, while Paul Ticklorn was thus successfully mastering the problem of invisibility, was Lloyd Inwood a wit behind. I went over an answer to a message of his to come and see how he was getting on. Now his laboratory occupied an isolated situation in the midst of his vast grounds. It was built in a pleasant little glade surrounded on all sides by a dense forest growth, and was to be gained by way of a winding and erratic path. But I have traveled that path so often as to know every foot of it, and conceived my surprise when I came upon the glade and found no laboratory. The quaint shed structure with its red sandstone chimney was not, nor did it look as if it ever had been. There were no signs of ruin, no debris, nothing. I started to walk across what had once been its sight. This, I said to myself, should be where the step went up to the door. Barely were the words out of my mouth when I stubbed my toe on some obstacle, pitched forward, and butted my head into something that felt very much like a door. I reached out my hand. It was a door. I found the knob and turned it, and at once, as the door swung inward on its hinges, the whole interior of the laboratory impinged upon my vision. Greeting Lloyd, I closed the door and backed up the path a few paces. I could see nothing of the building. Returning and opening the door at once, and all the furniture, every detail of the interior were visible. It was indeed startling, the sudden transition from void to light and form and color. What do you think of it, eh? Lloyd asked, wringing my hand. I slapped a couple of coats of absolute black on the outside yesterday afternoon to see how it worked. How's your head? You bumped it pretty solidly, I imagine. Never mind that, he interrupted my congratulations. I've something better for you to do. While he talked, he began to strip, and when he stood naked before me he thrust a pot and brush into my hand and said, Here, give me a coat of this. It was an oily shellac-like stuff, which spread quickly and easily over the skin and dried immediately. Merely preliminary and precautionary, he explained when I had finished, but now for the real stuff. I picked up another pot he indicated, and glanced inside, but could see nothing. It's empty, I said. Stick your finger in it. I obeyed, and was aware of a sensation of cool moistness. On withdrawing my hand, I glanced at the forefinger, the one I had immersed, but it had disappeared. I moved and knew from the alternate tension and relaxation of the muscles that I moved it, but it defied my sense of sight. To all appearances I had been shorn of a finger, nor could I get any visual impression of it till I extended it under the skylight and saw its shadow plainly blotted on the floor. Lloyd chuckled. Now spread it on, and keep your eyes open. I dipped the brush into the seemingly empty pot, and gave him a long stroke across the chest. With the passage of the brush, the living flesh disappeared from beneath. I covered his right leg, and he was a one-legged man defying all laws of gravitation. And so, stroke by stroke, member by member, I painted Lloyd Inwood into nothingness. It was a creepy experience, and I was glad when not remained in sight but his burning black eyes, poised apparently unsupported in mid-air. I have a refined and harmless solution for them, he said, a fine spray with an airbrush and presto. I am not. This deftly accomplished, he said, now I shall move about, and do you tell me what sensations you experience? In the first place, I cannot see you, I said, and I could hear his gleeful laugh from the midst of the emptiness. Of course, I continued, you cannot escape your shadow, but that was to be expected. When you pass between my eye and an object, the object disappears, but so unusual and incomprehensible is its disappearance that it seems to me as though my eyes had blurred. When you move rapidly, I experience a bewildering succession of blurs. The blurring sensation makes my eyes ache and my brain tired. Have you any other warnings of my presence, he asked? No, and yes, I answered. When you are near me, I have feelings similar to those produced by dank warehouses, gloomy crypts, and deep mines, and as sailors feel the loom of the land on dark nights, so I think I feel the loom of your body, but it is all very vague and intangible. Long we talked at last morning in his laboratory, and when I turned to go, he put his unseen hand in mine with nervous grip and said, Now I shall conquer the world, and I could not dare to tell him of Paul Ticklorn's equal success. At home I found a note from Paul asking me to come up immediately, and it was high noon when I came spinning up the driveway on my wheel. Paul called me from the tennis court, and I dismounted and went over, but the court was empty. As I stood there, gaping open mouth, the tennis ball struck me on the arm, and as I turned about another whizzed past my ear. For ought I could see of my assailant. They came whirring at me from out of space, and right well I was peppered with them. But when the balls already flung at me began to come back for a second time, I realized the situation. Seizing a racket and keeping my eyes open, I quickly saw a rainbow flash appearing and disappearing and darting over the ground. I took out after it, and when I laid the racket upon it for half a dozen stout blows, Paul's voice rang out. Enough! Enough! Oh! Ouch! Stop! You're landing on my naked skin, you know. Ow! Ow! I'll be good! I'll be good! I only wanted you to see my metamorphosis, he said, ruefully, and I imagined he was rubbing his hurts. A few minutes later we were playing tennis, a handicap on my part for I could have no knowledge of his position save when all the angles between himself and the sun and me were in proper conjunction. Then he flashed, and only then. But the flashes were more brilliant than the rainbow. Purist blue, most delicate violet, brightest yellow, and all the intermediary shades, with the scintillant brilliancy of the diamond, dazzling, blinding, iridescent. But in the midst of our play, I felt a sudden cold chill reminding me of deep minds and gloomy crypts, such a chill as I had experienced that very morning. The next moment, close to the net, I saw a ball rebound in mid-air in empty space, and at the same instant, a score of feet away, Paul Ticklorn emitted a rainbow flash. It could not be he from whom the ball had rebounded, and with sickening dread I realized that Lloyd Inwood had come upon the scene. To make sure I looked for his shadow, and there it was, a shapeless blotch, the girth of his body, the sun was overhead, moving along the ground. I remembered his threat, and felt sure that all the long years of rivalry were about to culminate in uncanny battle. I cried a warning to Paul, and heard a snarl as of a wild beast and an answering snarl. I saw the dark blotch move swiftly across the court, and a brilliant burst of very colored light moving with equal swiftness to meet it. And then shadow and flash came together, and there was the sound of unseen blows. The net went down before my frightened eyes. I sprang towards the fighters, crying, For God's sake! But their locked bodies smote against my knees, and I was overthrown. You keep out of this, old man. I heard the voice of Lloyd Inwood from out of the emptiness. And then Paul's voice crying, Yes, we've had enough of peacemaking. From the sound of their voices I knew they had separated. I could not locate Paul, and so approached the shadow that represented Lloyd. But from the other side came a stunning blow on the point of my jaw, and I heard Paul scream angrily. Now will you keep away? Then they came together again, the impact of their blows, their groans and gasps, and the swift flashings and shadow-movings telling plainly of the deadliness of their struggle. I shouted for help, and Gaffer Bedshaw came running onto the court. I could see as he approached that he was looking at me strangely, but he collided with the combatants, and was hurled headlong to the ground. With despairing shriek and a cry of, Oh, Lord, I've got him! He sprang to his feet, and tore madly out of the court. I could do nothing. So I sat up, fascinated and powerless, and watched the struggle. The noonday sun beat down with dazzling brightness on the naked tennis court, and it was naked. All I could see was the blotch of shadow and the rainbow flashes, the dust rising from the invisible feet, the earth tearing up from beneath the straining foot grips, and the wire-screened bulge once or twice as their bodies hurled against it. That was all, and after a time even that ceased. There were no more flashes, and the shadow had become long and stationary, and I remembered their set boyish faces when they clung to the roots in the deep coolness of the pool. They found me an hour afterward. Some inkling of what had happened got to the servants, and they quitted the tick-lorn service in a body. Gaffer Bedshaw never recovered from the second shock he received, and is confined in a madhouse, hopelessly incurable. The secrets of their marvelous discoveries died with Paul and Lloyd, both laboratories being destroyed by grief-stricken relatives. As for myself, I no longer care for chemical research, and science is a tabooed topic in my household. I have returned to my roses. Nature's colors are good enough for me. End of The Shadow and the Flash, by Jack London. We didn't do anything wrong, hardly. 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 Joelle Peebles. We didn't do anything wrong, hardly, by Roger Kaikendall. I mean, it isn't like we swiped anything. We maybe borrowed a couple of things like. But gee, we put everything back where we found it, pretty near. Even like the compressor we got from Stinky Brinker that his old man wasn't using, and I traded my outboard motor for. My old, my father, made me trade back. But it was like Skinny said. You know, Skinny, Skinny Thompson. He's the one you guys keep calling the boy genius. But shucks, he's no. Well yeah, it's like Skinny said, we didn't need an outboard motor, and we did need a compressor. You've got to have a compressor on a spaceship. Everybody knows that. And that old compression chamber, that old man, I mean, Mr. Fields, let us use, didn't have a compressor. Sure, he said we could use it. Anyway, he said we could play with it, and Skinny said we were going to make a spaceship out of it, and he said go ahead. Well no, he didn't say it exactly like that. I mean, well, like he didn't take it serious, sort of. Anyway, it made a swell spaceship. It had four portholes on it, and an airlock, and real bunks in it, and lots of room for all that stuff that Skinny put in there. But it didn't have a compressor, and that's why. What stuff? Oh, you know, the stuff that Skinny put in there. Like the radar he made out of a TV set, and the anti-gravity, and the atomic power plant he invented to run it all with. He's awful smart, Skinny is, but he's not like what you think of a genius. You know, he's not all the time using big words, and he doesn't look like a genius. I mean, we call him Skinny because he used to be Skinny. But he isn't now. I mean, he's maybe small for his age. Anyways, he's smaller than me, and I'm the same age as he is. Of course, I'm big for my age, so that doesn't mean much does it. Well, I guess Stinky Brinker started it. He's always writing Skinny about one thing or another, but Skinny never gets mad, and it's a good thing for Stinker too. I saw Skinny clean up on a bunch of ninth graders. Well, a couple of them anyway. They were saying, well, I guess I won't tell you what they were saying. Anyway, Skinny used judo, I guess, because there wasn't much of a fight. Anyway, Stinker said something about how he was going to be a rocket pilot when he grew up, and I told him that Stinky had told me that there wouldn't be any rockets and that anti-gravity would be the thing as soon as it was invented. So Stinker said it never would be invented, and I said it would so, and he said it would not, and I said, well, if you're going to keep interrupting me, how can I—all right. Anyway, Skinny broke into the argument and said that he could prove mathematically that anti-gravity was possible, and Stinky said, sure he could, and Skinny said, sure he could, and Stinky said, sure he could, like that. Honestly, is that any way to argue? I mean, sounds like two people agreeing. Only Stinky keeps going, sure, like that, you know? And Stinky, what does he know about mathematics? He's had to take remedial arithmetic ever since. No, I don't understand how the anti-gravity works. Skinny told me, but it was something about mason flow and stuff like that I didn't understand. The atomic power plant made more sense. Where did we get what uranium? Gee, no, we couldn't afford uranium, so Skinny invented a hydrogen fusion plant. Anyone can make hydrogen. You just take zinc and sulfuric acid and deuterium. You mean like heavy hydrogen? No, Skinny said it would probably work better, but like I said, we couldn't afford anything fancy. As it was, Skinny had to pay $5 or $6 for that special square tubing in the anti-gravity, and the plastic space helmets we had cost us 98 cents each, and it cost a dollar and a half for the special tube that Skinny needed to make the TV set into a radar. You see, we didn't steal anything, really. It was mostly stuff that was just lying around, like the TV set was up in my attic, and the old refrigerator that Skinny used the parts to make the atomic power plant out of from, and then a lot of the stuff we already had, like the skin diving suits we made into spacesuits, and the vacuum pump that Skinny had already and the generator. Sure, we did a lot of skin diving, but that was last summer. That's how we knew about Old Man Brinker's compressor that Stinky said was his, and I traded my outboard motor for and had to trade back, and that's how we knew about Mr. Field's old compression chamber and all that like. The rocket? Well, it works on the same principle as the atomic power plant, only it doesn't work except in a vacuum, hardly. Of course, you don't need much of a rocket when you have anti-gravity, everyone knows that. Well, anyway, that's how we built the spaceship, and believe me it wasn't easy. I mean with Stinky all the time bothering us and laughing at us, and I had to do a lot of lawn mowing to get money for the square tubing for the anti-gravity and the special tube for the radar and my space helmet. Stinky called the space helmet's kid stuff. He was always saying things like, say hello to the folks on Mars for me, and bring back a bottle of Canal Number Five, and all like that, you know. Of course, they did look like kid stuff, I guess. We bought them at the Five and Dime, and they were meant for kids. Of course, when Skinny got through with them, they worked fine. We tested them in the airlock of the compression chamber when we got the compressor in. They tested out pretty good for a half hour, then we tried them on in there. Well, it wasn't complete vacuum, just 27 inches of mercury. But that was okay for a test. So anyway, we got ready to take off. Skinny was there to watch, of course. He was saying things like, farewell, oh brave pioneers, and stuff like that. I mean it wasn't enough to make you sick. He was standing there laughing and singing something like up in the air, Junior Birdman, but when we closed the airlock door, we couldn't hear him. Skinny started up the atomic power plant, and we could see Skinny laugh and fit to kill. It takes a couple of minutes for it to warm up, you know, so Skinny started throwing rocks to attract our attention, and Skinny was scared that he'd crack a porthole or something. So he threw the switch and we took off. Boy, you should have seen Skinny's face. I mean you really should have seen it. One minute he was laughing, you know, and the next minute he looked like a goldfish. I guess he always did look like a goldfish, but I mean even more like then. And he was getting smaller and smaller because we had taken off. We were gone pretty near six hours, and it's a good thing my mom made me take a lunch. Sure, I told her where we were going. Well, anyway, I told her we were maybe going to fly around the world in Skinny and my spaceship, or maybe go down to Carson's pond. And she made me take a lunch, and made me promise I wouldn't go swimming alone, and I sure didn't. But we did go around the world three or four times. I lost count. Anyway, that's when we saw the satellite, on radar. So Skinny pulled the spaceship over to it, and we got out and looked at it. The spacesuits worked fine too. Gosh no, we didn't steal it or anything. Like Skinny said, it was just a menace to navigation, and the batteries were dead, and it wasn't working right anyway. So we tied it onto the spaceship and took it home. No, we had to tie it on top. It was too big to take inside with the antenna sticking out. Of course, we found out how to fold them later. Well, anyway, the next day, the Russians started squawking about a capitalist plot, and someone had swiped their satellite. Gee, I mean, with all the satellites up there, who'd missed just one? So I got worried that they'd find out that we took it. Of course, I didn't need to worry because Stinky told them, all right, just like a tattletail. So anyway, after Skinny got the batteries recharged, we put it back. And then, when we landed, there were hundreds of people standing around, and Mr. Anderson from the State Department. I guess you know the rest. Except maybe Mr. Anderson started laughing when we told him, and he said it was the best joke on the Russians he ever heard. I guess it is, when you think about it. I mean, the Russians complaining about somebody swiping their satellite, and then the State Department answering a couple of kids borrowed it, but they put it back. One thing that bothers me, though, we didn't put it back exactly the way we found it. But I guess it doesn't matter. You see, when we put it back, we goofed a little. I mean, we put it back in the same orbit more or less, but we got it going in the wrong direction. The end. End of We Didn't Do Anything Wrong Hardly by Roger Keikendall. Recording by Joelle Peebles.