 Attention, St. Patrick, by Mary Leinster. Reading by Greg Marguerite. Attention, St. Patrick, by Mary Leinster. In the future, the passage across space to other planets may cause a slight modification here and there. President O'Harahan of the planetary government of ERA listened unhappily to his official guest. He had to, because Sean O'Donoghue was chairman of the Dahl of ERA on Earth, committee on the condition of the planet ERA. He could cut off all support from the still struggling colony if he chose. He was short and opinionated. He had sharp, gimlet eyes. He had bristling white hair that once had been red, and he was the grandfather of Moira O'Donoghue who traveled to ERA with him on a very uncomfortable spaceship. That last was a mark in his favor, but now he stood four square upon the sagging porch of the presidential mansion of ERA and laid down the law. I've been here three days, he told the president sternly, while his granddaughter looked sympathetic. And I'm of the opinion that there's been shenanigans going on to keep this fine world from becoming what it was meant for. A place for the people of ERA on Earth to emigrate to when there was more of them than Aaron has room for. Which is now. We've had difficulties, began the president uneasily. This world should be ready, snapped Sean O'Donoghue accusingly. It should be waitin' for the Casey's and Brady's and Fitzpatrick's and other fine Earth's people to move to and thrive on while the rest of the galaxy goes to pot with its new-fangled notions. That's the reason for this world's very existence. What set aside Aaron on Earth, where our ancestors lived and where their descendants are breathin' down each other's necks because there's so many of them? There was no snakes there. St. Patrick drove them out. What sets this world apart from all the other livable planets men have put down their smelly spaceships on? There's no snakes here. St. Patrick has great influence up in heaven. He knew his fine Earth's people would presently need more room than there was on Earth for them. So he'd a world set aside and marked by the sign that no least trace of a serpent could exist on it. No creature like the one that Blarney Mother Eve could be here. No. Our trouble's been that Deeneys began the president apologetically, but he froze. Something dark and sinuous and complacent oozed around the corner of the presidential mansion. The president of Era sweated. He recognized the dark object. He believed it safely put away in pleasant confinement until the doll committee went away. But it wasn't. It was Timothy, the amiable six-foot black snake who faithfully and cordially did his best to keep the presidential mansion from falling down. Without him innumerable mouse-sized holes gnawed by mouse-sized Deeneys would assuredly have brought about its collapse. The president was grateful, but he'd meant to keep Timothy out of sight. Timothy must have escaped, and as a faithful snake loyal to his duty, he'd wriggled straight back to the presidential mansion. Like all Era, he undoubtedly knew of the pious tradition that St. Patrick had brought the snakes to Era, and he wasn't one to let St. Patrick down. So he'd returned and doubtless patrolled all the Deeney tunnels in the sagging structure. He'd cleaned out any miniature dinosaur-like creatures who might be planning to eat some more nails. He now prepared to nap with a clear conscience, but if Sean O'Donoghue saw him. Perspirations stood out on President O'Harahan's forehead. The droplets joined and ran down his nose. It's evident, said the chairman of the Dowel Committee with Truculence, that we're a pack of worthless finagling and baby-even Protestant renegades from the ways and the traditions of your fathers. There's been shenanigans going on. I'll find them. The president could not speak with Timothy in full view, but then what was practically a miracle took place. A Deeney popped out of a hole in the turf. He looked interestingly about. He was all of three inches long with red eyes and a blue tail, and in every proportion he was a miniature of the extinct dinosaurs of Earth. But he was an improved model. The Deeneys of era were fitted by evolution, or Satan, to plague human settlers. They ate their crops, destroyed their homes, devoured their tools, and when other commestibles turned up, they'd take care of them, too. This Deeney surveyed its surroundings. The presidential mansion looked promising. The Deeney moved toward it, but Timothy, not plans abandoned, flung himself at the Deeney like the crack of a whip. The Deeney plunged back into its hole. Timothy hurdled after it in pursuit. He disappeared. The president of era breathed. He'd neglected that matter for some minutes, it seemed. He heard a voice continuing, formatively. And I know you'll try to hide the shenanigans that have destroyed all these sacrifices Earth's made to have era a true Earth's colony. Ready for Earth's lads and calleens to move to and have room for their children and their grandchildren, too. I know you'll try, but unless I do find out, not another bit of help will this colony get from Earth. No more tools. No more machinery that you can't have worn out. No more provisions that you should be raising for yourselves. Your cold storage plant should be bulging with food. It's nearly empty. It will not be refilled. And even the ship that we pay to have stopped here every three months for mail. No ship. It's the Deeneys, said the president feebly. They're a great trouble to us, sir. They're our great handicap. Blather and nonsense, snapped Sean O'Donoghue. They're no bigger than mice. Ye could have trapped them. Ye could have raised cats. Don't tell me that fancy-colored little lizards could hinder a world, especially set aside by the intercession of St. Patrick for the Earth's people to thrive on. The token's plain. There's no snakes. And with such a sign to go by, there must have been shenanigans going on to make things go wrong. Until those shenanigans are exposed and stopped, there'll be no more help from Earth for ye blaggards. He stamped his way into the presidential mansion. The door slammed shut. Moira, his granddaughter, regarded the president with sympathy. He looked bedraggled and crushed. He mopped his forehead. He did not raise his eyes to her. It was bad enough to be president of a planetary government that couldn't even pay his salary. So there were patches in his breeches that Moira must have noticed. It was worse that the colony was as a whole entirely too much like the remaining shanty areas in Ere back on Earth. But it was tragic that it was ridiculous for any man on Ere to ask a girl from Earth to join him on so unpromising a planet. He said, numbly, I'll be wishing you good morning, Moira. He moved away. His chin sunk on his breast. Moira watched him go. She didn't seem happy. Then fifty yards from the mansion a loridly colored something leaped out of a hole. It was a deanie some eight inches long in enough of a hurry to say that something appalling was after it. It landed before the president and took off again for some far horizon. Then something sinuous and black dropped out of a tree upon it and instantly violent action took place in a patch of dust. A small cloud arose. The president watched with morbid interest as the sporting event took place. Moira stared incredulous. Then out of the hole from which the deanie had leaped a dark round head appeared. It could have been Timothy, but he saw that this deanie was disposed of. That was that. Timothy, if it was Timothy, withdrew to search further among the deanie tunnels about the presidential mansion. Half an hour later the president told the solicitor general of Ere about it. He was bitter. And when it was over there was Moira, staring dazed-like from the porch. And the bedamned snake picked up the deanie it killed and started off to dine on it in private. But I was in the way, so the snake waited, polite, with the deanie in its mouth for me to move on. But it looked exactly like he'd brought over the deanie for me to admire, like a cattle showed dead mice to a person she thinks will be interested. Holy St. Patrick! said the solicitor general appalled. What'll happen now? I reasoned, said the president morbidly. She'll tell her grandfather and he'll collar somebody and use those gimlet eyes on him. And the poor omidum will blurt out that on Ere here it's known that St. Patrick brought the snakes and is the more reverenced for it. And that'll mean there'll be no more ships or food or tools from Ere. And it'll be lucky if we're evacuated before the planets left abandoned. The solicitor general's expression became one of pure hopelessness. Then, the jigs up, he said gloomily. I'm thinking, Mr. President, we'd better have a cabinet meeting on it. What's the use, demanded the president? I won't leave. I'll stay here alone, though I may be. There's nothing left in life for me anywhere, but at least as the only human left on Ere, I'll be able to spend the rest of my years knocking deenies on the head for what they've done. Then suddenly he bellowed, Who let loose the snakes? I'll have his heart's blood! The chancellor of the Exchequer peered around the edge of the door into the cabinet meeting room. He saw the rest of the cabinet of Ere assembled. Relieved, he entered. Something stirred in his pocket and he pulled out a reproachful snake. He said, Don't be indignant now. You were walking on the public street. If Sean O'Donoghue had seen you, he added to the other members of the cabinet. The other two members of the Dahl committee seemed to be good honest drinking men. One of them now, the ship-builder, I think it was, wanted a change of scenery from looking at the bottom of a glass. I took him for a walk. I showed him a bunch of deenies playing leapfrog, trying to get one of their number up to a rain-spout so he could bite off pieces and drop them down to the rest. They were all collars and it was quite something to look at. The committee man, good man that he is, staggered a bit and looked again and said grave that whatever of evil might be said of Ere, nobody could deny that its whiskey had imagination. He looked about the cabinet room. There was a hole in the baseboard underneath the sculptured coat of arms of the colony world. He put the snake down on the floor beside the hole. With an air of offended dignity, the snake slithered into the dark opening. Now, what's the meeting for? he demanded. I'll tell you immediate that if money's required it's impractical. President O'Harahan said morbidly, T'was called it seems to put the curse of O'Cromwell on whatever let the black snakes loose. But they'd been cooped up and they knew they were not keeping the deenies down and they got worried over the work they were neglecting. So they took turns digging like prisoners in a penitentiary and presently they broke out and like the faithful creatures they are they set anxiously to work on their backlog of deenie catching, which they're doing. They've ruined us entirely, but they meant well. The Minister of Information asked apprehensively, What will O'Dahue do when he finds out they're here? He's not found out yet, said the President without elation. Moira didn't tell him. She's an angel. But he's bound to learn. And then if he doesn't detonate with the rage in him he'll see to it that all of us are murdered, slowly, for treason to the earth and blasphemy directed at St. Patrick. Then the President said with a sort of yearning pride, Do you know what Moira offered to do? She said she'd taken biology at college and she'd try to solve the problem of the deenies, the darlin'. Being gathered together observed the Chief Justice we might as well try again to think of something plausible. We need a good shenanigan, agreed the President unhappily, but what could it be? Has anybody the trace of an idea? The Cabinet went into session. The trouble was, of course, that the Earth's colony on Aero was a bust. The first colonists built houses, broke ground, planted crops, and encountered deenies. Large ones, 50 and 60 feet long with growing families. They had thick bodies with unlikely bony excrescences. They had long necks which ended in very improbable small heads, and they had long tapering tails which would knock over a man or a fence post or the corner of a house impartially if they happened to swing it that way. They were not bright. That they ate the growing crops might be expected, though cursed, but they ate wire fences. The colonists at first waited for them to die of indigestion, but they digested the fences. Then between bales of more normal foodstuffs they browsed on the corrugated iron roofs of houses. Again the colonists eventually expected dyspepsia. They digested the roofs, too. Presently the lumbering creatures nibbled at axes, the heads, not the handles. They went on to plows. When they gathered sluggishly about a ground car and began to lunch on it, the colonists did not believe. But it was true. The Dinis' teeth were mere calcium phosphate like other beasts. An amateur chemist found out that they were an organically deposited boron carbide, which is harder than any other substance but crystallized carbon, diamond. In fact, Dini teeth being organic seem to be an especially hard form of boron carbide. Dinis could chew iron. They could masticate steel. They could grind up and swallow anything but tool steel reinforced with diamond chips. The same amateur chemist worked it out that the surface soil of the planet era was deficient in iron and ferrous compounds. The Dinis needed iron. They got it. The big Dinis were routed by burning torches in the hands of angry colonists. When scorched often enough their feeble brains gathered the idea that they were unwelcome. They went lumbering away. They were replaced by lesser Dinis, approximately the size of kangaroos. They also ate crops. They also hungered for iron. To them steel cables were the equivalent of celery. And they ate iron pipe as if it were spaghetti. The industrial installations of the colony were their special targets. The colonists unlimbered guns. They shot the Dinis. Ultimately they seemed to thin out, but once a month was shoot a Dini day on era and the populace turned out to clear the environs of their city of Tara. Then came the little Dinis. Some were as small as two inches in length. Some were larger. All were cute. Colonists' children wanted to make pets of them until it was discovered that miniature they might be, but harmless they were not. Tiny Dini teeth smaller than the heads of pins were still authentic boron carbide. Dinis kept as pets cheerily gnawed away wood and got at the nails of which their boxes were made. They ate the nails. Then, being free, they extended their activities. They and their friends tunneled busily through the colonists' houses. They ate nails. They ate screws. They ate bolts, nuts. The nails out of shoes, pocket knives and pants buttons, zippers, wire staples and the tacks out of upholstery. Gnawing even threads and filings of metal away, they made visible gaps in the frames and moving parts of farm tractors. Moreover it appeared that their numbers previously had been held down by the paucity of ferrous compounds in their regular diet. The lack led to a low birth rate. Now supplied with great quantities of iron by their unremitting industry, they were moved to prodigies of multiplication. The chairman of the Dahl Committee of the Condition of the Planet Era had spoken of them scornfully as equal to mice. They were much worse. The planetary government needed at least a pied piper or two, but it tried other measures. It imported cats. Descendants of the felines of earth still survived, but one had only to look at their frustrated neurotic expressions to know that they were failures. The government set traps. The dinis ate their springs and metal parts. It offered bounties for dead dinis, but the supply of dinis was inexhaustible and the supply of money was not. It had to be stopped. Then upon the spaceport of Era, a certain Captain Patrick Brownicud of Boston Earth descended. It was his second visit to Era. On the first, he'd learned of the trouble. On his second, he brought what still seemed the most probable solution. He landed 1,800 adult black snakes, 2,000 teenagers of the same species, and two crates of soft-shelled eggs he guaranteed to hatch into fauna of the same kind. He took away all the cash on the planet. The government was desperate. But the snakes chased dinis with enthusiasm. They pounced upon dinis while the public watched. They lay in wait for dinis, they publicly digested dinis, and they went pouring down into any small hole in the ground from which a dini had appeared or into which one vanished. They were superior to traps. They did not have to be set or emptied. They did not need bait. Except that snakes when overfed tend to be less romantic than when hungry. In ten years a story began, encouraged by the Ministry of Information, to the effect that St. Patrick had brought the snakes to Era, and it was certain that if they didn't wipe out the dinis, they assuredly kept the dinis from wiping out the colony. And the one hope of making Era into a splendid new center of earth's culture and tradition, including a reverence for St. Patrick, lay in the belief that someday the snakes would gain a permanent upper hand. Out near the spaceport there was an imported monument to St. Patrick. It showed him pointing somewhere with his bishop's staff while looking down at a group of snakes near his feet. The sculptor intended to portray St. Patrick telling the snakes to get the hell out of Era, but on Era it was sentimentally regarded as St. Patrick telling the snakes to go increase and multiply. But nobody dared tell that to Sean O'Donoghue. It was past history in a way, but also it was present fact. On the day of the emergency cabinet meeting it was appalling fact. Without snakes the planet Era could not continue to be inhabited because of the little dinis, but the Republic of Era on earth would indignantly disown any colony that had snakes in it, and the colony wasn't ready yet to be self-supporting. The cabinet discussed the matter gloomily. They were too dispirited to do more. But Moira, the darlin', did research. It was strictly college freshman biology lab research. It didn't promise much, even to her. But it gave her an excuse to talk anxiously and hopefully to the president when he took the Dowel committee to McGillicuddy Island to look at the big dinis there, while the populace tried to get the snakes out of sight again. Most of the island lay two miles off the continent named for County Kerry back on earth. At one point a promontory lessened the distance greatly, and at one time there had been a causeway there. It had been built with great pains and with pains destroyed. The president explained as the boat bearing the committee neared the island. The big dinis, he said sadly, trampled the fences and houses and ate up the roofs and tractors. It could not be borne. They could be driven away with torches, but they came back. They could be killed, but the people could only dispose of so many tons of carcasses. Remember, the big males run 60 feet long and the most girlish females run 40. You wouldn't believe the new hatched babies. They were a great trial in the early days. Sean O'Donoghue snorted. He bristled. He and the other two of the committee had been dragged away from the city of Tara. He suspected shenanigans going on behind his back. They did. His associates looked bleary-eyed. They'd been treated cordially and were not impassioned leaders of the Earth's people like the O'Donoghue. One of them was a ship-builder and the other a manufacturer of precision machinery elected to dowl for no special reason. They'd come on this junket partly to get away from their troubles and their wives. The shortage of high-precision tools was a trouble to both of them, but they were forgetting it fully. So the causeway was built, explained President O'Harahand. We moved the big beasts over and rounded up all we could find, driving them with torches. And then we broke down the causeway. So there they are on McGillicuddy Island. They don't swim. The boat touched ground, a rocky, uninviting shore. The Solicitor General and the Chancellor of the Exchequer hopped ashore. They assisted the committee members to land. They moved on. The President started to follow, but Moira said anxiously, Wait a bit. I've something to tell you. I said I'd experiment with the Dines. I did. I learned something. Did you now?" asked the President, his tone at once admiration and despair. It's a darling you are, Moira, but... I wondered how they knew where iron was, said Moira hopefully, and I found out. They smell it. Ah, they do, do they? said the President with tender reverence. But I have to tell you, Moira, and I proved it, said Moira, searching his face with her eyes. If you change a stimulus and a specimen reacts, then its reaction is to the change. So I made the metal smell stronger. President O'Harahan blinked at her. I heated it, said Moira. You know how hot metal smells? I heated a steel hairpin and the Dines came out of holes in the wall. Right away, the smell drew them. It was astonishing. The President looked at her with a strange expression. That's all I had time to try, said Moira. It was yesterday afternoon there was an official dinner I had to go. You remember. So I locked up the Dines. Moira, darling, said President O'Harahan gently. You don't lock up Dines. They gnaw through steel safes. They make tunnels and nests and electric dynamos. You don't lock up Dines, darling. But I did, she insisted. They're still locked up. I'd looked just before we started for here. The President looked at her very unhappily. There's no need for shenanigans between us, Moira. Then he said, couldn't ye be mistaken keeping Dines locked up is like bottle and moonlight or writing down the color of Moira O'Donohue's eyes or he stopped. How did you do it? The way you keep specimens, she told him. When I was in college we did experiments on frogs. They're cold-blooded just like Dines. If you let them stay lively, they'll wear themselves out trying to get away. So you put them in a refrigerator, in the vegetable container. They don't freeze there, but they do get torpid. They just lay still till you let them warm up again to room temperature. The President of the planet, Airy, stared. His mouth dropped open. He blinked and blinked and blinked. Then he whooped. He reached forward and took Moira into his arms. He kissed her thoroughly. Darling, he said in a broken voice. Sit still while I drive this boat back to the mainland. I've got to get back to Tara immediately. You've done it, my darling. You've done it. And it's a great day for the Irish. It's even a great day for the Urse. It's your birthday. It will be a planetary holiday long after we're married and our grandchildren think I'm as big a nuisance as your grandfather, Sean O'Donohue. It's a fine grand marriage we'll be having. He kissed her again and whirled the boat about and sent it streaking for the mainland. From time to time he whooped. Rather more frequently he hugged Moira exuberantly. And she tended to look puzzled, but she definitely looked pleased. Behind them, of course, the committee of the doll on the condition of the planet, Aira, explored McGillicuddy Island. They saw the big dinis, 60-footers and 50-footers and lesser ones. The dinis ambled aimlessly about the island. Now and again they reached up on elongated tapering necks with incongruously small heads on them to snap off foliage that looked a great deal like palm leaves. Now and again without enthusiasm one of them stirred the contents of various green scummed pools and apparently extracted some sort of nourishment from it. They seemed to have no intellectual diversions. They were not interested in the visitors. But one of the committee members, not Moira's grandfather, shivered a little. They had dreamed about them, he said, plaintively, but even when I was dreaming I didn't believe it. Two youthful dinis they would weigh no more than a couple of tons a piece engaged in languid conflict. They whacked each other with blows which would have destroyed elephants. But they weren't really interested. One of them sat down and looked bored. The other sat down. Presently, reflectively, he gnawed at a piece of whitish rock. The gnawing made an excruciating sound. It made one's flesh crawl. The dini dozed off. His teeth had cut distinct curved grooves in the stone. The manufacturer of precision machinery back on earth turned pale. Let's get out of here. The committee and the two members of the cabinet returned to the shore. There was no boat. It was far away, headed for the mainland. Shenanigans, said Sean O'Donohue in a voice that would have curdled sulfuric acid. I warned him no shenanigans. The dirty young bog trotters left us here to be eaten up by the beasts. The solicitor general said hastily, Divel a bit of it, sir. We're his friends and he left us in the same boat. No, he left us out of the same boat. It must have been that something important occurred to him. But it was not convincing. It seemed highly unconvincing later because some long delayed perception produced a reaction in the dini's minuscule brains. They became aware of their visitors. They appeared in a slow motion fashion to become interested in them. Slowly, heavily, numbly, they congated about them. The equivalent of a herd of several hundred elephants of all the colors of the rainbow. With small heads, wearing plaintive but persistent expressions. Long necks reached out hopefully. The devil, said the chancellor and the exchequer, fretfully. I'm just thinking. You've iron in your shoes and mainsprings in your watches and maybe pocket knives in your pockets. The dini's have a longing for iron and they go after it. They'll eat anything in the world that's got the barest bit of taste of iron in it. Oh, it's perfectly all right, of course, but you'll have to throw stones at them till the boat comes back. Better find a good stout stick to whack them with. Ye will, roared the solicitor general vengefully, take that. Whack! Trying to take something out of the gentleman's hip pocket and aimin' to grab the rump beyond it just to make sure. Whack! A large head moved plaintively away. But another reached hopefully forward and another. The dini's were not bright. The three committeemen and two members of the cabinet were thigh deep in water when the boat came back. In fact, valorously, if wearily at intrusive dini heads, they still had made no progress in implanting the idea that the dini's should go away. The men from the mainland hauled them into the boat. They admitted that the president had returned to Tara. Sean O'Donohue concluded that he had gone back to supervise some shenanigans. He had. On the way to the mainland, Sean O'Donohue ground his teeth. On arrival he learned that the president had taken off him. He ground his teeth. Shenanigans he cried hoarsely. After him, he stamped his feet. His fury was awe-inspiring. When the ground-car drivers started back to Tara, Sean O'Donohue was a small, rigid embodiment of raging death and destruction, held only temporarily in leash. On the way, even his companions of the committee were uneasy. But one of them, now and again, brought out a small piece of Swedish rock and regarded it incredulously. It was not an unusual kind of rock. It was ordinary milky quartz. But it had tooth marks on it. Some deemie at some time had gnawed casually upon it as if it were soft as cheese. Faint cheering could be heard in the distance as the ground-cars carrying the committee neared the city of Tara. To those in the vehicles it seemed incredible that anybody should dare to rejoice within at least two light-years on O'Donohue as he was at this moment. But the cheering continued. It grew louder as the cars entered a street where houses stood side by side. But there came a change in the chairman of the Dahl Committee too. The cars slowed because the pavement was bad to nonexistent. Trees lined the way. An overhanging branch passed within two yards of Moira's grandfather. Something hung on it in a sort of graceful drapery. It was a black snake. On air, Sean O'Donohue saw it. It took no notice of him. It hung comfortably in the tree and looked with great interest toward the sounds of enthusiasm. The deathly pallor of Sean O'Donohue changed to pale lavender. He saw another black snake. It was climbing down a tree-trunk with a purposeful air as if intending to look into the distant uproar. The ground-cars went on and the went automatically to avoid two black snakes moving companionably along together toward the cheering. One of them politely gave the ground-car extra room, but paid no other attention to it. Sean O'Donohue turned purple. Yet another burst of cheering. The chairman of the Dahl Committee almost, but not quite, detonated like a fission bomb. The way ahead was blocked by people lining the way on a cross-street. The cars beeped and nobody heard them. With stiff, jerky motions, Sean O'Donohue got out of the enforceably stopped car. It had seemed that he could be no more incensed. But he was. Within ten feet of him a matronly black snake moved along the sidewalk with a manner of such assurance and such impeccable respectability that it would have seemed natural for her to be carrying a purse. Sean O'Donohue gasped once. His face was then a dark purple. He marched blindly into the mob of people before him. Somehow the people of Tara gave way, but the sides of this cross-street were crowded. Not only was all the population out and waiting to cheer, but the trees were occupied by black snakes. They hung in tasteful draperies among the branches, sometimes two or three together. They gazed with intense interest at the scene below them. The Solicitor General, following Sean O'Donohue, saw a black snake wriggling deftly between the legs of the packed populace, packed as if to observe a parade, to get a view from the very edge of the curb. The Chancellor of the Exchequer came apprehensively behind the Solicitor General. Sean O'Donohue burst through the ranks of onlookers. He stalked out into the empty center of the street. He looked neither to right nor left. He was headed for the presidential mansion, there to strangle President O'Haraan in the most lingering possible manner. But there came a roar of rejoicing which penetrated even his single-tracked murder-obsessed brain. He turned, purple-faced and explosive to see what the obscene sound could mean. He saw. The lean and lanky figure of the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of the Planet Era came running down the street toward him. He bore a large slab of sheet-iron. As he ran, he played upon it the blue flame of a welding torch. The smell of hot metal diffused behind him. The Chief Justice ran like a deer, but he wasn't leaving anything behind, but the smell. Everything else was close on his heels. A multicolored multitudinous swarming tide of dinis filled the highway from gutter to gutter. From the two-inch dwarves to the purple-striped variety which grew to eight inches and sometimes fought the dinis were in motion. They ran in the wake of the Chief Justice, enthralled and entranced by the smell of hot sheet-iron. They were fascinated. They were bemused. They were aware of nothing but that ineffable fragrance. They hopped, ran, leaped, trotted and galloped in full cry after the head of the Planet Supreme Court. He almost bumped into the stunned Sean O'Donohue. As he passed, he cried, Duckman, the dinis are coming, Trala! But Sean O'Donohue did not duck. He was fixed, stuck, paralyzed in his tracks. And the dinis arrived. They ran into him. He was an obstacle. They played leapfrog over each other to surmount him. He went down and was merely a bump in the flowing river of prismatic colorings which swarmed after the Racing Chief Justice. But there was a limit to things. This was not the first such event in Tara this day. His time filled no more than a block of the street. They swarmed past him. They raced on into the distance and Sean O'Donohue struggled to a sitting position. His shoes were in shreds. Dinis had torn them swiftly apart for the nails in them. His garters were gone. Dinis had operated on his pants to get at the metal parts. His pockets were ripped. The bright metal buttons of his coat were gone. His zippers had vanished. His suspenders dangled without the belts to hold them together. Nor were there any pants buttons for them to hold on to. He opened his mouth and closed it and opened it again and closed it. His expression was that of a man in delirium. And even before the chancellor of the Exchequer and the Solicitor General could lift him gently and bear him away, there came a final catastrophe for the O'Donohue. The snakes who had watched events from the curbs as well as those willingly from aloft now began to realize that this was an affair which affected them. They came out and began to follow the vanishing procession, very much as small dogs and little boys pursue a circus parade. But they seemed to talk uneasily to each other as they flowed past Sean O'Donohue sitting in the dust of the street. All his illusions vanished and all his hopes destroyed. But the people of Tara did not notice. They cheered themselves off the horse. President O'Harahand held himself with some dignity in the tumble-down reception hall of the presidential mansion. Moira gazed proudly at him. The two still active members of the Dahl committee looked uncomfortably around them. The cabinet of Aira was assembled. It's sorry I am, said the president of Aira, to have to issue a defiance to the Aira on earth we owe so much to. But it can't be helped. We had to have the black creatures to keep the dinis from eating us out of house and home altogether. We've been fighting a rear-guard battle, and we needed them. In time we'd have won with their help, but time we did not have. So this morning Moira told me what she'd done yesterday. The Darlan had used the brains God gave her and maybe Holy Saint Patrick put a flea in her ear. She figured out that dinis must find metal by its smell and if its smell was stronger by simply heatin' they'd be unable to resist it. And it was so. Ye saw the Chief Justice running down the street with all the dinis after him. The two members of the committee nodded. He was headin', said the president, for the cold storage plant that Sean O'Donohue had tweeted me was empty of the provisions we had to eat up because of the dinis. It's no matter that it's empty now, though. We can grow visuals in the fields from now on because now the cold rooms are packed solid with dinis that ran heedless into a climate they are not used to and fell what was the word, Moira Darlan? Torpid, said Moira gazing at him. Torpid agreed the president, from now on when there's too many dinis we can send somebody runnin' through the streets with a hot plate to call them into cold storage. We've pied pipers at will to help out the black creatures that have done so much for us. If we've offended error on earth by havin' the black creatures to help us, we're sorry, but we had to. Till Moira and doubtless St. Patrick gave us the answer he saw today. If we're disowned, be damned if we don't hang on. We can feed ourselves now. We can feed some extra mouths. There'll be a ship dropin' by outta curiosity now and then and we'll trade with them. If we're disowned, we'll be poor. But when were the Irish ever rich? The committee man who was a manufacturer of precision machinery mopped his forehead. We're rich now, he said resignedly. You'd be bound to learn it. Do you know what the dinis teeth are made of? It's been said, said President O'Hanrahan, that it's boron carbide in organic form. What that means, I wouldn't know, but we've got a fine crop of it. It's the next hardest substance to diamond, said the committee man dowerly. It's been been guessed that an organic type might be harder. It's used for the tools for lathe and precision machinery and it sells at close to the price of diamonds of industrial quality. And I'll make a deal to handle all we've got. What Earth don't need, other planets will. You're rich. The President stared. Then he gazed at Moira. It's a pity we're being disowned, he said mournfully. It would be a fine thing to be able to tell whether air is rich and can feed more colonists and even maybe pay back what it's cost to keep us here so long. It would be a fine thing to hire colonists, to build the houses they'll be given free when they're finished. But, since Sean O'Donohue was a stern man, the ship owner scratched his head. He paused on the way to the presidential mansion. He'd had restoratives for his distress. He'd looked at the bottom of a bottle of wax. I'll tell you, he said warmly, it's the O'Donohue who's been battling to keep the colony going against the politicians that wanted to economize. He's made a career of believing in this world. He's ruined if he stops, so it might be that a little bit of Blarnean with him, desperate to find reasons to stay friends, black creatures or no black creatures. The President took Moira's hand. Come, my darlin', he said sadly. We'll reason with him. Long, long minutes later he shook his head as Sean O'Donohue stormed at him. The back of my hand to you said Sean O'Donohue in the very quintessence of bitterness. And to Moira too, if she has more to do with you, I'll have not to do with shenanigan and renegades and blasphemers that actually import snakes into a world St. Patrick had set off for the earth from ancient days. It was dark in the old man's room. He was a small and pathetic figure under the covers. He was utterly defiant. He was irreconcilable to all seeming. Renegades, he said indignantly. Snakes, he say. The devil a snake there is on Arra. I'll admit that we've some good black creatures that in a bad light and with prejudice he might mistake. But snakes? He might as well call the denies lizards, those same denies that are native air and porcupines. Bad luck to them. There was an astounded silence from the bed. It's a matter of terminology, said the President sternly. And it's not the name that makes a thing but what it does. Actio sequitur esse, as the saying goes. You'll not be denying that. Now Adini hangs round a man's house and it eats his food and his tools and it's no sort of good to anybody while it's alive. Is that the action of a lizard? But it's notorious that porcupines hang around men's houses and eat the handles of their tools for the salt in them, ignoring the poor man whose sweat had the salt in it when he was labouring to earn a living for his family. And when a thing acts like a porcupine, a porcupine it is and nothing else. So Adini is an airy and porcupine native to the planet and no man can deny it. And what then is a snake? Demanded President O'Hanrahan oratorically. It's a creature that sneaks about upon the ground and poisons by its bite when it's not blarney and unwise females into tasting apples. Do the black creatures here do anything of that sort? They do not. They go about their business plain and open, given a half of the road and a howdy-do to those they meet. They're sober and they're industrious. They mind their own business, which is killing the airy and porcupines we inaccurately call by the name of these. It's their profession. Did ye ever hear of a snake with a profession? I'll not have it said that they're snakes on air, and I'll denounce ye as a consciousness politician if ye dare to put such a name on an honest, friendly, industrious, airy and porcupine eaters that's up to this moment have been the savin' of the colony. I'll not have it. There was a long silence. Then Sean O'Donoghue spoke dryly. Porcupine eaters you say. Not snakes? Not snakes! repeated the president defiantly. Porcupine eaters. Hmm! said Sean O'Donoghue. That's better. The doll's not immune to Blarney when it's needful to accept it. And Aira, back on earth, is hard put for breathein' room you say can be had from now on. What would be the reason for Moira standin' so close to you? She's marrying me, said president O'Hanrahan firmly. Sean O'Donoghue's voice was waspish. But I forbid it, it said sharply. Until I'm up and about and able to be given her in marriage as her grandfather ought to be doin'. You'll wait the few days till I'm able. Understand? Yes, sir, said the president. Meekness seemed called for. Then be gone, snapped Sean O'Donoghue. Then he added sternly, remember, no shenanigans. The solicitor general watched them depart on a wedding journey to a cottage in Ballyhanich which was on Donegal Peninsula fronting the Emmet Sea. He waved like the assembled populace, but when they were out of sight he said darkly to the chief justice and the chancellor of the exchequer. I didn't have the heart to bring it up before, but there's the devil of a problem building up against the time he comes back. Which problem? The chancellor of the exchequer warily. It's the sn- The porcupine killers, said the solicitor general. Things look bad for them. They're out of work. Even Timothy, there's no deenies to speak of for them to earn a living by killin'. It's technological unemployment. They earned their way faithfully. Doin' work they knew and loved. Now they're jobless. There's no work for them. What's to be done? Put them on retirement? There was a pause. The solicitor general said firmly, I mean it. They've a claim on us. A claim of the highest order. They can't starve. It's sure. But would you have them have to hold mass meetings and set up picket lines and the like to get justice done them? Ah, said the chief justice. Some way we'll turn up to handle the matter. Like Sean O'Donoghue was saying to me yesterday at the very bottom of a bottle, we earths can always depend on St. Patrick to take care of things. End of Attention, St. Patrick by Mary Leinster Bad Medicine This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Megan Argo. Bad Medicine by Robert Sheckley On May 2nd, two thousand one hundred and three, Elwood Castle walked rapidly down with a loaded revolver hidden in his coat pocket. He didn't want to use the weapon but feared he might anyhow. This was a justifiable assumption for Castle was a homicidal maniac. It was a gentle misty spring day and the air held the smell of rain and blossoming dogwood. Castle gripped the revolver in his sweaty right hand and tried to think of a single valid reason why he should not kill a man named Magnuson, who, the other day, had commented on how well Castle looked. What business was it of Magnuson's how he looked? Damn busybodies? Always spoiling things for everybody? Castle was a colourate little man with fierce red eyes, bulldog jowls and ginger red hair. He was the sort you would expect to find perched on a detergent box or aiding to a crowd of lunching businessmen and amused students shouting Mars for the Martians! Venus for the Venusians! But, in truth, Castle was uninterested in the deplorable social conditions of extraterrestrials. He was a jet bus conductor for the New York Rapid Transit Corporation. He minded his own business and he was quite mad. Fortunately, he knew this at least part of the time, with at least half of his mind. Perspiring freely, Castle continued down Broadway toward the 43rd Street branch of Home Therapy Appliances Inc. His friend Magnuson would be finishing work soon, returning to his little apartment less than a block from Castle's. He, how pleasant to just saunter in, exchange a few words and... No! Castle took a deep gulp of air and reminded himself that he didn't really want to kill anyone. It was not right to kill people. The authorities would lock him up. His friends wouldn't understand. His mother would never have approved. But these arguments seemed pallid, over-intellectual and entirely without force. The simple fact remained, he wanted to kill Magnuson. He didn't want a desire be wrong or even unhealthy. Yes, it could. With an agonised chrome, Castle sprinted the last few steps into the Home Therapy Appliances Store. Just being within such a place gave him an immediate sense of relief. The lighting was discreet, the draperies were neutral. The displays of glittering therapy machines were neither too bland nor obstreperous. It was the kind of place where a man could happily lie down on the carpet when the trouble was at hand. A clerk, with fair hair and a long, supercilious nose, glided up softly, but not too softly, and murmured, May one help? Therapy, said Castle. Of course, sir, the clerk answered, smoothing his lapels and smiling winningly. That is what we are here for. He gave Castle a searching look, performed an instant mental diagnosis and tapped a gleaming white-and-copper machine. Now this, the clerk said, is the new alcoholic reliever built by IBM and advertised in the leading magazines. A handsome piece of furniture I think you will agree, and not out of place in any home. It opens into a television set. With a flick of his narrow wrist, the clerk opened the alcoholic reliever, revealing a 52-inch screen. I need Castle, the gank. Therapy, the clerk finished for him. Of course, I just wanted to point out that this model need never cause embarrassment for yourself, your friends or loved ones. Notice, if you will, the recess dial which controls the desired degree of drinking. See? If you do not wish total abstinence, you can set it to heavy, moderate, social or light. That is a new feature, unique in mechanotherapy. I am not an alcoholic, Castle said, with considerable dignity. The New York Rapid Transit Corporation does not hire alcoholics. Oh, said the clerk. Glancing distrustfully at Castle's bloodshot eyes. You seem a little nervous. Perhaps the portable Bendix anxiety reducer. Anxiety is not my ticket, either. What have you got for homicidal mania? The clerk pierced his lips. Schizophrenic or manic depressive origins. Ah, I don't know. Castle admitted, somewhat taken aback. Ah, it really doesn't matter, the clerk told him. Just a private word. I am not an alcoholic. I am not an alcoholic. The clerk told him. Just a private theory of my own. From my experience in the store, redheads and blondes are prone to schizophrenia, while brunettes incline toward the manic depressive. That's interesting. Have you worked here long? A week. Now then, here is just what you need, sir. He put his hand affectionately on a squat black machine with chrome trim. What's that? That, sir, is the Rex Regenerator built by General Motors. Awesome. It can go with any decor and opens up into a well-stocked bar. Your friends, family, loved ones need never know. Will it cure a homicidal urge? Caswell asked. A strong one. Absolutely. Don't confuse us with the little 10 amp neurosis models. This is a hefty, heavy-duty 25 amp machine for a really deep-rooted major condition. That's what I've got, said Caswell, with pardonable pride. This baby all jolted out of you. Big, heavy-duty thrust bearings. Oversized heat absorbers completely insulated. Sensitivity range of over. I'll take it. Caswell said. Right now. I'll pay cash. Fine. I'll just telephone storage, and this one will do. Caswell said, pulling out his billfold. I'm in a hurry to use it. I want to kill my friend Magnuson, you know. The clock clucked sympathetically. Oh, you wouldn't want to do that. Plus 5% sales tax? Thank you, sir. Full instructions are inside. Caswell thanked him, lifted the regenerator in both arms, and hurried out. After figuring his commission, the clock smiled to himself and lighted a cigarette. His enjoyment was spoiled when the manager, a large man impressively equipped with a pints'nay, marched out of his office. Haskins! the manager said. I thought I asked you yourself of that filthy habit. Yes, Mr. Follensby. Sorry, sir. Haskins apologised, snapping out the cigarette. I'll use the display denicotineiser at once. Make rather a good sale, Mr. Follensby. One of the big Rex regenerators. Really? Said the manager, impressed. It is nothing, we... Wait a minute. You didn't sell the floor model, did you? Why... Why I'm afraid I didn't, Mr. Follensby. The customer was in such a terrible hurry. Was there any reason... Mr. Follensby gripped his prominent white furrowed in both hands, as though he wished to rip it off. Haskins, I told you! I must have told you! That display regenerator was a Martian model for giving mechanotherapy to Martians. Oh, Haskins said. He thought for a moment. Oh... Mr. Follensby stared at his clock in grim silence. But does it really matter? Haskins asked quickly. Surely the machine won't discriminate. I should think it would treat a homicidal tendency even if the patient were not a Martian. The Martian race has never had the slightest tendency towards homicide. A Martian regenerator doesn't even process the concept. Of course the regenerator will treat him. It has to. But what will it treat? Oh... Said Haskins. That poor devil must be stopped before... Oh, you say he was homicidal? I don't know what will happen. Quick, what is his address? Well, Mr. Follensby, he was in such a terrible hurry. The manager gave him a long, unbelieving look. Get the police! Call the General Motor Security Division! Find him! Haskins raced for the door. Wait! yelled the manager, struggling into a raincoat. I'm coming too! Elwood Castle returned to his apartment by taxi copter. He lugged the regenerator into his living room, put it down near the couch, the clerk was right, he said after a while. It does go with the room. Aesthetically, the regenerator was a success. Castle admired it for a few more moments, then went into the kitchen and fixed himself a chicken sandwich. He ate slowly, staring fixedly at a point just above and to the left of his kitchen clock. Damn you, Magnuson! Dirty, no-good, lying, shifty-eyed enemy of all that's decent and clean in the world! The revolver from his pocket, he laid it on the table. With a stiffened forefinger, he poked it into different positions. It was time to begin therapy, except that Castle realized wordly that he didn't want to lose the desire to kill Magnuson. What would become of him if he lost that urge? His life would lose all purpose, all coherence, all flavour and zest. It would be quite dull, really. Moreover, he had a great and genuine grievance against Magnuson. One he didn't even like to think about. Irene. His poor sister, debauched by the subtle and insidious Magnuson, ruined by him and cast aside. What better reason could a man have to take his revolver and... Castle finally remembered that he did not have a sister. Now was really the time to begin therapy. He went into the living room and found the operating instructions tucked into a ventilation louver of the machine. He opened them and read. To operate all REX model regenerators, one, place the regenerator near a comfortable couch. A comfortable couch can be purchased as an additional accessory from any General Motors dealer. Two, plug in the machine. Three, affix the adjustable contact band to the forehead. And that's all. Your regenerator will do the rest. There will be no language bar or dialect problem since the regenerator communicates by direct sense contact, taking blending. All you must do is cooperate. Try not to feel any embarrassment or shame. Everyone has problems and many are worse than yours. Your regenerator has no interest in your morals or ethical standards, so don't feel it is judging you. It desires only to aid you in becoming well and happy. As soon as it is collected and processed enough data, your regenerator will begin treatment. You make the sessions as short or as long as you like. You are the boss. And of course you can end a session at any time. That's all there is to it. Simple, isn't it? Now plug in your General Motors regenerator and get sane. Hmm, nothing hard about that, Castwell said to himself. He pushed the regenerator closer to the couch and plugged it in. He lifted the headband, started to slip it on, stopped. I feel so silly, he giggled. Abruptly he closed his mouth instead pugniciously at the black and chrome machine. So you think you can make me sane, huh? The regenerator didn't answer. Oh well, go ahead and try. He slipped the headband over his forehead, crossed his arms on his chest and leaned back. Nothing happened. Castwell settled himself more comfortably on the couch. He scratched his shoulder and put the headband at a more comfortable angle. Still nothing. His thoughts began to wander. Magnuson, you noisy, overbearing oaf, you disgusting! Good afternoon. A voice murmured in his head. I am your mechanotherapist. Castwell twitched guiltily. Hello, I was just, you know, just sort of... Of course, the machine said soothingly. Don't we all? I am now scanning the material in your pre-conscious with the intent of synthesis, diagnosis, prognosis and treatment. I find, yes, just one moment, the regenerator was silent for several minutes. Then, hesitantly, it said, This is beyond doubt a most unusual case. Really? Castwell asked, pleased. Yes, the coefficients seem... I'm not sure. The machine's robotic voice grew feeble and pilot light began to flicker and fade. Hey, what's the matter? Confusion, said the machine. Of course. It went on in a stronger voice. The unusual nature of the symptoms need not prove entirely baffling to a competent therapeutic machine. A symptom, no matter how bizarre, is no more than a signpost, an indication of inner difficulty, and all symptoms can be related to the broad mainstream of proven theory. Since the theory is effective, the symptoms must relate. We will proceed on that assumption. Are you sure you know what you're doing? The machine snapped back. It's pilot-like blazing. Mechanotherapy today is an exact science and admits no significant errors. We will proceed with the word association test. Fire away, said Castwell. House. Home. Dog. Cat. Fleeful. Castwell hesitated, trying to figure out the word. It sounded vaguely Martian, Anusian, or even Fleeful, the regenerator repeated. Marthouche, Castwell replied, making up the word on the spur of the moment. Loud. Sweet. Green. Mother. Phonagoise. Patamathonga. Arides. Nexothesmadrastica. Cathino helgonoptisees. Rigmaru latacentric propatria, Castwell shot back. It was a collection of sounds he was particularly proud of. The average man would not have been able to pronounce them. Hmm. Said the regenerator. The pattern fits, it always does. What pattern? You have, the machine informed him, a classic case of theme desire, complicated by strong Dworkish intentions. I do. I thought I was homicidal. That term has no referent, the machine said severely. Therefore I must reject it as nonsense syllabification. Now consider these points. The theme desire is perfectly normal. Never forget that. But it is usually replaced at an early age by the Hovindish revulsion. Individuals lacking in this basic environmental response. I'm not absolutely sure. I know what you're talking about. Castwell confessed. Please sir, we must establish one thing at once. You are the patient. I am the mechanotherapist. You have brought your troubles to me for treatment. But you cannot expect help unless you co-operate. All right. Castwell said I'll try. Up to now he had been bathed in a warm glow of superiority. Everything the machine had said seemed mildly humorous. As a matter of fact, he had felt capable of pointing out a few things wrong with the mechanotherapist. Now that sense of well-being had evaporated, as it always did. And Castwell was alone. Terribly alone and lost. A creature in a cage. A creature in a cage. Totally alone and lost. A creature of his compulsions in search of little peace and contempt. He would undergo anything to find them. Stirling he reminded himself that he had no right to comment on the mechanotherapist. These machines knew what they were doing and had been doing it for a long time. He would co-operate, no matter how outlandish the treatment seemed from his layman's viewpoint. But it was obvious, Castwell thought, settling himself grimly on the couch, the therapy was going to be far more difficult than he had imagined. The search for the missing customer had been brief and useless. He was nowhere to be found on the teaming New York streets, and no one could remember seeing a red-haired, red-eyed little man lugging a black therapeutic machine. It was all too common aside. In answer to an urgent telephone call, the police came immediately. Four of them, led by a harassed young lieutenant of detectives named Smith. Smith just had time to ask, say, why don't you people put tags on things when there was an interruption? A man pushed his way past the policeman at the door. He was tall and gnarled and ugly, and his eyes were deep-set and bleakly blue. His clothes, unpressed and uncaring, hung on him like corrugated iron. What do you want? Lieutenant Smith asked. The ugly man flipped back his lapel, showing a small silver badge beneath. I'm John Rath, General Motor Security Division. Oh, sorry, sir. Lieutenant Smith said, saluting. I didn't think you people would move in so fast. Rath made a noncommittal noise. Have you checked for Prince, Lieutenant? The customer might have touched some other therapy machine. I'll get right on it, sir. Smith said. It wasn't often that one of the operatives from GM, GE or IBM came down to take a personal hand. If a local cop showed he was really clicking, there just might be the possibility of an industrial transfer. Rath turned to Farnesby and Haskins and transfixed them with a gaze as piercing and as impersonal as a radar beam. Let's have the full story. He said, taking a notebook and pencil from a shapeless pocket. He listened to the tale in ominous silence. Finally, he closed his notebook, thrust it back into his pocket and said, The therapeutic machines are a sacred trust. To give a customer the wrong machine is a betrayal of that trust, a violation of the public interest and a defamation of the company's good reputation. The manager nodded in agreement, glaring at his unhappy clerk. A Martian model, Rath continued, should never have been on the floor in the first place. I can explain that, Farnesby said hastily. We needed a demonstrator model and I wrote to the company telling them this might, Rath broke in inexorably, be considered a case of gross criminal negligence. Both the manager and the clerk exchanged horrified looks. They were thinking of the General Motors Reformatory outside of Detroit, where company offenders pass their days in sullen silence, monotonously drawing microcircuits for pocket television sets. However, this is out of my jurisdiction, Rath said. He turned his baleful gaze upon Haskins. You are certain that the customer never mentioned his name? No sir, I mean yes sir, I'm sure. Haskins replied rattly. Did he mention any names at all? Haskins plunged his face into his hands. He looked up and said, eagerly, Yes, he wanted to kill someone, a friend of his. Who? Rath asked with terrible patience. The friend's name was, let me think, Magneton? Yes, that was it, Magneton. Or was it Morrison? Oh dear. Mr. Rath's iron face registered a rather corrugated disgust. People were useless as witnesses, worse than useless since they were frequently misleading. For reliability, give him a robot every time. Didn't he mention anything significant? Let me think, Haskins said, his face twisting into a fit of concentration. Rath waited. Mr. Fonsby cleared his throat. I was just thinking, Mr. Rath, about that Martian machine. It won't treat a Terran homicidal case as homicidal, will it? Of course not, homicide is unknown on Mars. Yes, but what will it do? Might it not reject the entire case as unsuitable? Then the customer would merely return the regenerator with a complaint and we would... Mr. Rath shook his head. The Rex regenerator must treat if it finds evidence of psychosis. By Martian standards the customer is a very sick man, a psychotic, no matter what is wrong with him. Fonsby removed his pinstay and polished them rapidly. What will the machine do then? It will treat him for the Martian illness most analogous to his case. Theme desire, I should imagine, with various complications. As for what will happen once treatment begins, I don't know. I doubt whether anyone knows since it has never happened before. Offhand, I would say there are two major alternatives. The patient may reject the therapy out of hand, in which case he is left with his homicidal mania unabated, or he may accept the Martian therapy and reach a cure. Mr. Fonsby's face brightened. Ah, a cure is possible? You don't understand, Rath said. He may affect a cure of his non-existent Martian psychosis, but to cure something that is not there is, in effect, to erect a gratuitous delusional system. You might say that the machine would work in reverse, producing psychosis instead of removing it. Mr. Fonsby groaned and leaned against a bell's psychosomatica. The result, Rath summed up, would be to convince the customer that he was Martian, a sane Martian, naturally. Haskins suddenly shouted, I remember! I remember now! He said he worked for the New York Rapid Transit Corporation. I remember distinctly. Now that's a break, Rath said, reaching for the telephone. Haskins wiped his perspiring face in relief. And I just remembered something else that should make it easier still. What? The customer said he had been an alcoholic at one time. I'm sure of it, because he was interested at first in the IBM alcoholic reliever, until I talked him out of it. He had red hair, you know, and I've had a theory for some time about red-headedness and alcoholism, it seems. Excellent! Rath said alcoholism will be on his records. It narrows the search considerably. As he dialed the NYRT Corporation, the expression on his crag-like face was almost pleasant. It was good, for a change, to find that a human could retain some significant facts. But surely you'd remember your Gorakai, the regenerator was saying. No, Caswell answered wearily. Tell me then about your juvenile experiences with the Thorastrian fleet. Never had any. Hmm, blockage, mutter the machine, resentment, repression. Are you sure you don't remember your Gorakai and what it meant to you? The experience is universal. Not for me, Caswell said, swallowing a yawn. He had been undergoing mechanotherapy for close to four hours, and it struck him as futile. For a while he had talked voluntarily about his childhood, his mother and father, his older brother. But the regenerator had asked him to put aside those fantasies. The patient's relationships to an imaginary parent or sibling, it explained, were unworkable and of minor importance psychologically. The important thing was the patient's feelings, both revealed and repressed, towards his Gorakai. Oh look, Caswell complained, I don't even know what a Gorakai is. Of course you do, you just won't let yourself know. I don't know, tell me. It would be better if you told me. How can I? Caswell raged, I don't know. What do you imagine a Gorakai would be? A forest fire. Caswell said, a salt tablet, a jar of denatured alcohol, a small screwdriver, am I getting warm? A notebook, a revolver. These associations are meaningful, the regenerator assured him. Your attempt at randomness shows a clearly underlying pattern. Do you begin to recognise it? What in hell is a Gorakai? Caswell roared. The tree that nourished you during infancy and well into puberty, if my theory about you is correct. Inadvertently, the Gorakai stifled to unnecessary rejection of the fiend desire. This in turn gave rise to your presentage to dwork someone in a vlendish manner. No tree nourished me? You cannot recall the experience? Of course not, it never happened. You are sure of that? Positive. Not even the tiniest bit of doubt? No, no Gorakai ever nourished me. Look, I can break off these sessions at any time, right? Of course, the regenerator said. But it would not be advisable at this moment. You are expressing anger, resentment, fear. By your rigidly summary of rejection, NUTS! said Caswell and pulled off the headband. The silence was wonderful. Caswell stood up, yawned, stretched and massaged the back of his neck. He stood in front of the humming-black machine and gave it a long leer. You couldn't cure me of a common cold, he told it. Stiffly he walked the length of the living room and returned to the regenerator. Lousy fake! he shouted. Caswell went into the kitchen and opened a bottle of beer. His revolver was still on the table, gleaming dullly. Magnuson, you unspeakable, treacherous filth! You fiend incarnate! You inhuman, hideous monster! Someone must destroy you! Magnuson, someone! Someone? He himself would have to do it. Only he knew the bottomless depths of Magnuson's depravity, his viciousness, his disgusting lust for power. Yes, it was his duty, Caswell thought. But strangely the knowledge brought him no pleasure. After all, Magnuson was his friend. He stood up, ready for action. He tucked the revolver into his right-hand coat pocket and glanced at the kitchen-clock. Nearly six-thirty. Magnuson would be home now, gulping his dinner, grinning over his plans. This was the perfect time to take him. Caswell strode to the door, opened it, started through, and stopped. A thought had crossed his mind. A thought so tremendously involved, so meaningful, so far reaching in its implications, that he was stirred to his depths. Caswell tried desperately to shake off the knowledge it brought. But the thought, permanently etched upon his memory, would not depart. Under the circumstances, he could do only one thing. He returned to the living-room, sat down on the couch, and slipped on the headband. The regenerator said, Yes? It's the damnedest thing, Caswell said. But do you know? I think I do remember my gothic eye. John Rath contacted the New York Rapid Transit Corporation by televideo, and was put into immediate contact with Mr. Bemis, a plump, tanned man with watchful eyes. Alcoholism? Mr. Bemis repeated after the problem was explained. Unobtrusively, he turned on his tape recorder. Among our employees. Pressing a button beneath his foot, Bemis alerted transit security, publicity, inter-company relations, and the psychoanalysis division. This done, he looked earnestly at Rath. Not a chance of it, my dear sir. Just between us, why did General Motors really want to know? Rath smiled bitterly. He should have anticipated this. NYRT and GM had had their differences in the past. Officially, there was cooperation between the two giant corporations. But for all practical purposes. The question is in terms of the public interest, Rath said. Oh, certainly, Mr. Bemis replied with a subtle smile. Glancing at his tattle-board, he noticed that several company executives had tapped in on his line. This might mean a promotion if handled properly. The public interest of GM? Mr. Bemis added with polite nastiness. The insinuation is, I suppose, that drunk and conductors are operating our jet buses and helis. Of course not. I was searching for a single alcoholic predilection, an individual latency. There's no possibility of it. We at Rapid Transit do not hire people with even the nearest tendency in that direction. And may I suggest, sir, that you clean your own house before making implications about others. And with that, Mr. Bemis broke the connection. No one was going to put anything over on him. Dead end, Rath said heavily. He turned and shouted, Smith, did you find any prints? Lieutenant Smith, his coat off and sleeves rolled up, bounded over. Nothing usable, sir. Rath's thin lips tightened. It had been close to seven hours since the customer had taken the Martian machine. There was no telling what harm had been done by now. The customer would be justified in bringing suit against the company. Not that the money mattered much. It was the bad publicity that was to be avoided at all costs. Beg pardon, sir. Haskins said. Rath ignored him. Rapid transit were not going to cooperate. Would the armed services make their records available for scantion by summata type and pigmentation? Sir, Haskins said again. What is it? I just remembered the customer's friend's name. It was Magnuson. Are you sure of that? Absolutely, Haskins said, with the first confidence he had shown in hours. I've taken the liberty of looking him up in the telephone book, sir. There's only one Manhattan listing under that name. Rath glowered at him from under shaggy eyebrows. Haskins, I hope you are not wrong about this. I sincerely hope that. I do too, sir. Haskins admitted feeling his knees begin to shake. Because if you are... Rath said, I will... Never mind, let's go. By police escort, they arrived at the address in 15 minutes. It was an ancient brownstone building, and Magnuson's name was on a second floor door. They knocked. He opened and a stocky, crop-headed, shirt-sleeved man in his thirties stood before them. He turned slightly pale at the sight of so many uniforms, but held his ground. What is this? he demanded. You, Magnuson? Lieutenant Smith barked. Yeah, what's the beef? If it's about my hifi playing too loud, I can tell you that that old hag downstairs. May we come in? Rath asked. It's important. Magnuson seemed about to refuse, so Rath pushed past him, followed by Smith, Fonsby, Haskins, and a small army of policemen. Magnuson turned to face them, bewildered, defiant, and more than a little awed. Mr. Magnuson. Rath said, in the pleasantest voice he could muster. I hope you'll forgive the intrusion. Let me assure you it is in the public interest as well as your own. Do you know a short, angry-looking, red-haired, red-eyed man? Yes. Magnuson said slowly and warily. Haskins let out a sigh of relief. Would you tell us his name and address? Ask Rath. I suppose you mean, hold it, what's he done? Nothing. Then what do you want him for? There's no time for explanations. Rath said, believe me, it's in his own best interest too. What's his name? Magnuson studied Rath's ugly, honest face, trying to make up his mind. Lieutenant Smith said, Come on, talk, Magnuson, if you know what's good for you. We want the name and we want it quick. It was the wrong approach. Magnuson lighted a cigarette, blue-smoking Smith's direction, and inquired, You got a warrant, buddy? You bet I have, Smith said, striding forward. I'll warrant you, wise guy. Stop it, Rath ordered. Lieutenant Smith, thank you for your assistance. I won't need you any longer. Smith left, sulkily, taking his platoon with him. Rath said, I apologise for Smith's over-eagerness. You had better hear the problem. Briefly but fully, he told the story of the customer on the Martian therapeutic machine. When he was finished, Magnuson looked more suspicious than ever. You say he wants to kill me? Definitely. That's a lie. I don't know what your game is, mister, but you'll never make me believe that. Elwood's my best friend. We've been best friends since we were kids. We've been in service together. Elwood would cut off his arm for me, and I'd do the same for him. Yes, yes, Rath said impatiently. In a sane frame of mind he would. But your friend Elwood, is that his first name or last? First, Magnuson said tauntingly. Your friend Elwood is psychotic. You don't know him, that guy loves me like a brother. Look, what's Elwood really done? Defaulted on some payments or something? I can help out. You thick-headed imbecile! Rath shouted, I'm trying to save your life and the life and sanity of your friend. But how do I know? Magnuson pleaded, you guys come busting in here. You can trust me, Rath said. Magnuson studied Rath's face and nodded soundly. His name's Elwood Caswell. He lives just down the block at number 341. The man who came to the door was short, with red hair and red rimmed eyes. His right hand was thrust into his coat pocket. He seemed very calm. Are you Elwood Caswell? Rath asked. The Elwood Caswell who bought a regenerator earlier this afternoon at the Home Therapy Appliances Store. Yes, said Caswell, won't you come in? Inside Caswell's small living room they saw the regenerator, the chrome standing near the couch. It was unplugged. Have you used it? Rath asked anxiously. Yes. Volansby stepped forward. Mr. Caswell, I don't know how to explain this, but we made a terrible mistake. The regenerator you took was a Martian model for giving therapy to Martians. I know, said Caswell. You do? Of course, it became pretty obvious after a while. It was a dangerous situation. Rath said, especially for a man with your, ah, troubles. He studied Caswell covertly. The man seemed fine. The appearances were frequently deceiving, especially with psychotics. Caswell had been homicidal. There was no reason why he should not still be. And Rath began to wish he had not dismissed Smith and his policemen so summarily. Sometimes an armed squad was a comforting thing to have around. Caswell walked across the room to the therapeutic machine. One hand was still in his jacket pocket. The other he laid affectionately upon the regenerator. The poor thing tried its best. He said, of course, it couldn't cure, it wasn't there. He laughed, but it came very near succeeding. Rath studied Caswell's face and said in a trained casual tone, Glad there was no harm, sir. The company will, of course, reimburse you for your lost time and for your mental anguish. Naturally, Caswell said. And we will substitute you to proper terror and regenerator at once. That won't be necessary. It won't? No, Caswell's voice was decisive. The machine's attempt at therapy forced me into a complete self-appraisal. There was a moment of absolute insight during which I was able to evaluate and discard my homicidal intentions towards Paul Magnussen. Rath nodded dubiously. Not in the slightest. Get that machine out of here. I'll have a few things to say to you at the store. The manager in the clock lifted the regenerator and left. Rath took a deep breath. There was always a danger of a setback. No danger with me, Caswell said, airily but with deep conviction. Thank you for your consideration, sir, and good night. Rath shrugged and walked to the door. Wait! Caswell called. Rath turned. Caswell had taken his hand out of his pocket. In it was a revolver. Rath felt sweat trickle down his arms. He calculated the distance between himself and Caswell. But it was too far. Here, Caswell said, extending the revolver but first. I won't need this any longer. Rath managed to keep his face expressionless as he accepted the revolver and stuck it into a shapeless pocket. Good night, Caswell said. He closed the door behind Rath and bolted it. At last he was alone. Caswell walked into the kitchen. He opened a bottle of beer, took a deep swallow, and sat down at the kitchen table. He stared fixedly at a point just above and to the left of the clock. He had to form his plans now. There was no time to lose. Magnuson, that inhuman monster who cut down the Caswell Goracai. Magnuson, the man who even now was secretly planning to infect New York with the apparent theme desire. Oh, Magnuson, I wish you a long, long life filled with the torture I can inflict on you. And to start with... Caswell smiled to himself as he planned exactly how he would dwork Magnuson in a vlendish manner. End of Bad Medicine by Robert Sheckley. Read by Megan Argo. Blessed are the meek. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording is by Mark Smith of Simpsonville, South Carolina. Blessed are the meek. By G. C. Edmundson. The strangers landed just before dawn, inciterating a good lee of bottom land in the process. Their machines were already busily digging up the topsoil. The old one watched, squinting into the morning sun. He sighed, hitched up his saffron robes and started walking down towards the strangers. Griffin turned, not trying to conceal his excitement. You're the linguist. See what you can get out of him. I might, kung-su ventured sourly. If you'd go'd weed the air machine or something. This is going to be hard enough without a lot of kibitzers crabbing my style and scaring old prune face here, half to death. I see your point, Griffin answered. He turned and started back towards the diggings. Let me know if you make any progress with the local language. He stopped whistling and strove to control the jauntiness of his gait. Must be the lower gravity and extra oxygen, he thought. I haven't bounced along like this for thirty years. Nice place to settle down if some promoter doesn't turn it into an old folk's home. He sighed and glanced over the diggings. The rammed earth walls were nearly obliterated by now. Nothing lost, he reflected. It's all on tape, and they're no different from a thousand others at any rate. Griffin opened a door in the transparent bubble from which Albanyes was operating the diggers. Anything, he inquired. Nothing so far, Albanyes reported. What's the score on this job? I missed the briefing. How'd you make out on three, by the way? Same old stuff, pottery shards, and the usual junk. See it once, and you've seen it all. Well, Griffin began. It looks like the same thing here again. We've pretty well covered this system, and you know how it is. Rammed earth walls here and there, pottery shards, flint, bronze and iron artifacts, and that's it. They got to the Iron Age on every planet, and then, bluey! Artifacts all made for humanoid hands, I suppose. I wonder if they were close enough to have crossed bread with humans. I couldn't say. Griffin observed dryly. From the looks of old Prune Face, I doubt if we'll ever find a human female with sufficiently detached attitude to find out. Who's Prune Face? He came ambling down out of the hills this morning and walked into camp. You mean you actually found a live humanoid? There's got to be a first time for everything. Griffin opened the door and started climbing the hill towards Kung Su and Prune Face. Well, have you gotten beyond the Me Charlie stage yet? Griffin inquired at breakfast two days later. Kung Su gave an inscrutable East Los Angeles smile. As a matter of fact, I'm a little farther along. Joe is amazingly cooperative. Joe? Spell it Joe, if you want to be exotic. It still pronounced Joe, and that's his name. The language is monosyllabic and tonal. I happen to know a similar language. You mean this humanoid speaks Chinese? Griffin was never sure whether Kung was ribbing him or not. Not Chinese. The vocabulary is different, but the syntax and phonemes are nearly identical. I'll speak it perfectly in a week. It's just a question of memorizing two or three thousand new words. Incidentally, Joe wants to know why you're digging up his bottom land. He was all set to flood it today. Don't tell me he plants rice, Griffin exclaimed. I don't imagine it's rice, but it needs flooding, whatever it is. Ask him how many humanoids there are on this planet. We have had a view, Griffin. He says there are only a few thousand left. The rest were all destroyed in a war with the barbarians. Barbarians? They're extinct. How many races were there? I'll get to that if you'll stop interrupting. Kung rejoined Testily. Joe says there are only two kinds of people. His own dark, street-haired kind, and the barbarians. They have curly hair, white skin, and round eyes. You'd pass for a barbarian, according to Joe. Only you don't have a face full of hair. He wants to know how things are going on the other planets. I suppose that's my cue to break into a cold sweat and feel a premonition of disaster. Griffin tried to smile, and almost made it. Not necessarily, but it seems our Iron Age man is fairly well informed in extra-planetary affairs. I guess I'd better start learning the language. Thanks to the spade work Kung Su had done in preparing hypno-recordings, Griffin had a working knowledge of the rational people's language eleven days later when he sat down to drink herb-infused hot water with Joe and the other old ones in the low-roofed wooden building around which clustered a village of two hundred humanoids. He fidgeted through interminable ritualistic cups of hot water. Eventually Joe hid his hands in the sleeves of his robe and turned with an air of polite inquiry. Now we get down to business, Griffin thought. Joe, you know by now why we're digging up your bottom land. We'll recompense you in one way or another. Meanwhile, could you give me a little local history? Joe smiled like a well-nourished bodhisattva. Approximately how far back would you like me to begin? At the beginning. How long is a year on your planet? Joe inquired. Your year is eight and a half days longer. Our day is three hundred heartbeats longer than yours. Joe nodded his thanks. More water! Griffin declined, suppressing a shutter. Five million years ago we were limited to one planet. Joe began. The court astronomer had a vision of our planet in flames. I imagine you'd say our son was about to nova. The empress was disturbed and ordered a convocation of seers. One fasted over long and saw an answer. As the dying seer predicted, the Son of Heaven came with fire-breathing dragons. The fairest of maidens and the strongest of our young men were taken to serve his warriors. We served them honestly and faithfully. A thousand years later their empire collapsed, leaving us scattered across the universe. Three thousand years later a new race of barbarians conquered our planets. We surrendered naturally and soon we're serving our new masters. Five hundred years passed and they destroyed themselves. This has been the pattern of our existence from that day to this. You mean you've been slaves for five million years? Griffin was incredulous. Servitude has ever been a refuge for the scholar and the philosopher. But what point is there in such a life? Why do you continue living this way? What is the point in any way of life? Continued existence. Personal immortality is neither desirable nor possible. We settled for perpetuation of the race. But what about self-determination? You know enough astronomy to understand Nove. Certainly you realize it could happen again. What would you do without a technology to build spaceships? Many stars have gone nova during our history. Usually the barbarians came in time when they didn't. You mean you don't really care? All barbarians asked that sooner or later. Joe smiled. Sometimes towards the end they even accuse us of destroying them. We don't. Every technology bears the seeds of its own destruction. The stars are older than the machinery that explores them. You use technology to get from one system to another. We used it. But we were never part of it. When machines fail, their people die. We have no machines. What would you do if this sun were to nova? We can serve you. We are not unintelligent. Willing to work your way around the galaxy, eh? But what if we refuse to take you? The race would go on. Kungsu tells me there is no life on planets of this system. But there are other systems. You're whistling in the dark. Griffin scoffed. How do you know if any of the rational people survive? How far back does your history go? Joe inquired. It's hard to say, exactly, Griffin replied. Our earliest written records date back some seven thousand years. You are all of one race? No, you may have noticed Kungsu is slightly different from the rest of us. Yes, Griffin, I have noticed. When you return, ask Kungsu for the legend of creation. More hot water! Joe stirred, and Griffin guessed the interview was over. He drank another ritual cup, made his farewells, and walked thoughtfully back to camp. Kung! Griffin asked over coffee next afternoon. How well up are you on Chinese mythology? Oh, there I guess. It isn't my field, but I remember some of the stories my grandfather used to tell me. What is your legend of creation? Griffin persisted. It's pretty well garbled, but I remember something about the Son of Heaven bringing the early settlers from a land of two moons on the back of his fire-breathing dragon. The dragon got sick and died, so they couldn't ever get back to heaven again. There's a lot of stuff about devils, too. What about devils? I don't remember too well, but they were supposed to do terrible things to you, and even to your unborn children if they ever caught you. They must have been pretty stupid, though. They couldn't turn corners. My grandfather's store had devil screens at all the doors, so you had to turn a corner to get in. The first time I saw the lead baffles at the pile-chamber doors on this ship, it reminded me of Home Sweet Home. By the way, some young men from the village were around today. They want to work passage to the next planet. What do you think? Griffin was silent for a long time. Well, what do you say? We can use some hand-labour for the delicate digging. Want to put them on? Might as well, Griffin answered. There's a streetcar every millennium, anyway. What do you mean by that? You wouldn't understand. You sold your birthright to the barbarians. The end. Blessed are the meek.