 Michael Vane's Star by August Darleth. Reading by Greg Marguerite. Michael Vane's Star by August Darleth. Old Thaddeus Michael Vane discovered a dark star and took it for his own. Thus he inherited a dark destiny. Or did he? Call them what you like, said Tex Harrigan, lost people, or strayed crackpots or warped geniuses. I know enough of them to fill an entire department of queer people. I've been a reporter long enough to have run into quite a few of them. For example, I said, recognizing Harrigan's mellowness. Take Thaddeus Michael Vane, said Harrigan. I never heard of him. I suppose not, said Harrigan, but I knew him. He was an eccentric old fellow who had a modest income, enough to keep up his hobbies, which were three. He played cards in chess at a tavern called Bixby's on North Clark Street. He was an amateur astronomer, and he had the fixed idea that there was life somewhere outside this planet and that it was possible to communicate with other beings. But unlike most others, he tried it constantly with the queer machinery he had rigged up. Well now, this old fellow had a trio of cronies with whom he played on occasion down at Bixby's. He had no one else to confide in. He kept them up with his progress among the stars and his communication with other life in the cosmos beyond our own. And they made a great joke out of it, from all I could gather. I suppose because he had no one else to talk to, Michael Vane took it without complaint. Well, as I said, I never heard of him until one morning the city editor—it was old Bill Henderson then—called me in and said, Harrigan, we just got a lead on a fellow named Thaddeus Michael Vane who claims to have discovered a new star. Amateur astronomer up North Clark, find him and get the story. So I set out to track him down. It was a great moment for Thaddeus Michael Vane. He sat down among his friends almost portentiously, adjusted his spectacles and peered over them in his usual manner, halfway between a quarrelous oldster and a reproachful schoolmaster. I've done it, he said quietly. I—and what? asked Alexander Testily. I've discovered a new star. Oh! said Leopold Flatley. A cinder in your eye? It lies just off Octorus, Michael Vane went on, and it would appear to be coming closer. Give it my love, said Richardson, with a wry smile. Have you named it yet, or don't the discoverers of new stars name them any more? Michael Vane's Star. That's a good name for it. Harder port of Octorus, with special displays on windy nights. Michael Vane only smiled. It's a dark star, he said presently. It doesn't have light. He spoke almost apologetically as if somehow he had disappointed his friends. I'm going to try and communicate with it. That's the ticket, said Alexander. Cut for deal, said Leopold. That was how the news about Michael Vane's Star was received by his cronies. Afterward, after Michael Vane had dutifully played several games of Euchar, Richardson conceived the idea of telephoning the globe to announce Michael Vane's discovery. The old fellow took himself seriously, Harrigan went on, and yet he was so damned moussy about it. I mean, you got the impression that he had been trying for so long that now he hardly believed in his star himself any longer. But there it was. He had a long detailed story of its discovery, which was an accident, as those things usually are. They happen all the time, and his story sounded convincing enough, just the same, you didn't feel that he really had anything. I took down notes, of course, that was routine. I got a picture of the old man, with never an idea we'd be using it. To tell the truth, I carried my notes around with me for a day or so before it occurred to me that it wouldn't do any harm to put a call into Yerke's Observatory up in Wisconsin. So I did, and they confirmed Michael Vane's star. The globe had the story, did it up in fine style. It was two weeks before we heard from Michael Vane again. That night, Michael Vane was more than usually diffident. He was not like a man bearing a message of considerable importance to himself. He slipped into Bixby's, got a glass of beer, and approached the table where his friends sat, almost with trepidation. It's a nice evening for May, he said quietly. Richardson grunted. Leopold said, by the way, Mag, whatever became of that star of yours, the one the papers wrote up. I think, said Michael Vane cautiously. I'm quite sure I have got in touch with them. Only his brow wrinkled and furrowed. I can't understand their language. Ah, said Richardson, with an edge to his voice. The thing for you to do is to tell them that's your star, and they'll have to speak English from now on so you can understand them. Why, next thing we know, you'll be getting yourself a rocket or a spaceship, and going over to that star to set yourself up as king or something. King Thaddeus I, said Alexander loftily. All you star dwellers may kiss the royal foot. That would be unsanitary, I think, said Michael Vane frowning. Poor Michael Vane. They made him the butt of their jests for over an hour before he took himself off to his quarters, where he sat himself down before his telescope and found his star once more, almost huge enough to blot out Octorus, but not quite since it was moving away from that amber star now. Michael Vane's star was certainly much closer to earth than it had been. He tried once again to contact it with his homemade radio, and once again he received a succession of strange rhythmic noises which he could not doubt were speech of some kind or other. A rasping, grating speech, to be sure, utterly unlike the speech of Michael Vane's own kind. It rose and fell, became impatient, urgent, despairing. Michael Vane sensed all this and strove mightily to understand. He sat there for perhaps two hours when he received the distant impression that someone was talking to him in his own language. But there was no longer any sound on the radio. He could not understand what had taken place, but in a few moments he received the clear conviction that the inhabitants of his star had managed to discover the basic elements of his language by the simple process of reading his mind, and were now prepared to talk with him. What manner of creatures inhabited earth? They wished to know. Michael Vane told them. He visualized one of his own kind and tried to put him into words. It was difficult, since he could not rid himself of the conviction that his interlocutors might be utterly alien. They had no conception of man, and doubted man's existence on any other star. There were plant people on Venus and people on Andromeda, six-legged and four-armed beings which were equal parts mineral and vegetable on Betelgeuse, but nothing resembling man. You are evidently alone of your kind in the cosmos, said his interstellar correspondent. And what about you? cried Michael Vane with unaccustomed heat. Silence was his only answer, but presently he conceived a mental image which was remarkable for its vividness, but the image was of nothing he had ever seen before, of thousands upon thousands of miniature beings, utterly alien to man. They resembled amphibious insects with thin, elongated heads, large eyes, and antennae set upon a scaled four-legged body with rudimentary beetle-like wings. Curiously they seemed ageless. He could detect no difference among them. They all appeared to be the same age. We are not, but we rejuvenate regularly, said the creature with whom he corresponded in this strange manner. Did they have names? Michael Vane wondered. I am guru, said the star's inhabitants. You are Michael Vane. And the civilization of their star? Instantly he saw in his mind's eye vast cities which rose from beneath a surface which appeared to bear no vegetation recognizable to any human eye, in a terrain which seemed to be desert of monolithic buildings which were windowless and had openings only of sufficient size to permit the free passage of its dwarfed dwellers. Within the buildings was evidence of a great and old civilization. You see, Michael Vane really believed all this. What an imagination the man had. Of course, the boys at Bixby's gave him a bad time. I don't know how he stood it, but he did, and he always came back. Richardson called the story in. He took a special delight in deviling Michael Vane, and I was sent out to see the old fellow again. You couldn't doubt his sincerity, and yet he didn't sound touched. But of course that part about the insect-like dwellers of the star comes straight out of Wells, doesn't it? I put in. Wells and scores of others agreed harrigan. Wells was probably the first writer to suggest insectivorous inhabitants on Mars. His were considerably larger, though. Go on. Well, I talked with Michael Vane for quite a while. He told me all about their civilization and about his friend Guru. You might have thought he was talking about a neighbor of his. I had only to step outside to meet. Later on I dropped around at Bixby's and had a talk with the boys there. Richardson let me in on a secret. He had decided to rig up a connection to Michael Vane's machine and do a little talking to the old fellow, making him believe Guru was coming through in English. He meant to give Michael Vane a harder time than ever, and once he had him believing everything he planned to say they would wait for him at Bixby's and let him make a fool of himself. It didn't work out quite that way, however. Michael Vane, can you hear me? Michael Vane started with astonishment. His mental impression of Guru became confused. The voice speaking English came clear as a bell, as if from no distance at all. Yes, he said hesitantly. Well, then listen to me. Listen to Guru. We have now had enough information from you to suit our ends. Within twenty-four hours, we, the inhabitants of Ali, will begin a war of extermination against Earth. But why, cried Michael Vane astounded? The image before his mind's eye cleared. The cold, precise features of Guru betrayed anger. There is interference. The thought image informed him. Leave the machine for a few moments while we use the disintegrators. Before he left the machine, Michael Vane had the impression of a greater machine, being attached to the means of communication which the inhabitants of his star were using to communicate with him. Michael Vane's story was that a few moments later there was a blinding flash just outside his window, continued arrogant. There was also a run of instantaneous fire from the window to his machine. When he had collected his wits sufficiently, he ran outside to look. There was nothing there but a kind of grayish dust in a little mound. As if, as he put it, somebody had cleaned out a vacuum bag. He went back in and examined the space from the window to the machine. There were two thin lines of dust there, hardly perceptible, just as if something had been attached to the machine and led outside. Now the obvious supposition is naturally that it was Richardson out there, and that the lines of dust from the window to the machine represented the wires he had attached to his microphone while Michael Vane was at Bixby's entertaining his other two cronies. But this is fact, not fiction, and the point of the episode is that Richardson disappeared from that night on. You investigated, of course, I asked. Aragon nodded. Quite a lot of us investigated. The police might have done better. There was a gang war on in Chicago just at that time and Richardson was nobody with any connections. His nearest relatives weren't anxious about anything but what they might inherit. To tell the truth, his cronies at Bixby's were the only people who worried about him. Michael Vane as much as the rest of them. Oh, they gave the old man a hard time, all right. They went through his house with a fine-toothed comb. They dug up his yard, his cellar, and generally put him through it, figuring he was a natural to hang a murder wrap on. But there was just nothing to be found, and they couldn't manufacture evidence when there was nothing to show that Michael Vane ever knew that Richardson planned to have a little fun with him. And no one had seen Richardson there. There was nothing but Michael Vane's word that he had heard what he said he heard. He and Meadon have volunteered that, but he did. After the police had finished with him they wrote him off as a harmless nut, but the question of what happened to Richardson wasn't solved from that day to this. People have been known to walk out of their lives, I said, and never come back. Sometimes they do. Richardson didn't. Besides, if he walked out of his life here, he did so without more than the clothing he had on. So much was missing from his effects, nothing more. And Michael Vane? Aragon smiled thinly. He carried on. You couldn't expect him to do anything less. After all, he had worked most of his life trying to communicate with the worlds outside and he had no intention of resigning his contact, no matter how much Richardson's disappearance upset him. For a while he believed that Guru had actually disintegrated Richardson. He offered that explanation, but by the time the dust had vanished and he was laughed out of face. So he went back to the machine and Guru and the little excursions to Bixby's. What's the latest word from that star of yours? Asked Leopold when Michael Vane came in. They want to rejuvenate me, said Michael Vane, with a certain shy pleasure. What's that? asked Alexander sourly. They say they can make me young again, like them up there. They never die. They just live so long and then they rejuvenate. They begin all over. It's some kind of process they have. And I suppose they're planning to come down and fetch you up there and give you the works. Is that it? asked Alexander. Well, no, answered Michael Vane. Guru says there is no need for that. It can be done through the machine. They can work it like the disintegrators. It puts you back to 30 or 20 or wherever you like. Well, I'd like to be 25 again myself, admitted Leopold. I'll tell you what, Mack, said Alexander. You go ahead and try it. Then come back and let us know how it works. If it does, we'll all sit in. Better make your will first, though, just in case. Oh, I did. This afternoon. Leopold joked back a snicker. Don't take this thing too seriously, Mack. After all, we're short one of us now. We'd hate to lose you, too. Michael Vane was touched. Oh, I wouldn't change. He hastened to assure his friends. I'd just be younger, that's all. They'll just work on me through the machine, and overnight I'll be rejuvenated. That's certainly a little trick that's got it all over monkey-glans, conceded Alexander grinning. Those little bugs on that star of yours have made scientific progress, I'd say, said Leopold. They're not bugs, said Michael Vane, with faint indignation. They're people, maybe not just like you and me, but they're people just the same. He went home that night filled with anticipation. He had done just what he had promised himself he would do, arranging everything for his rejuvenation. Guru had been astonished to learn that people on Earth simply died when there was no necessity of doing so. He had made the offer to rejuvenate Michael Vane himself. Michael Vane sat down to his machine and turned the complex knobs until he was unrappur with his dark star. He waited for a long time, it seemed, before he knew his contact had been closed. Guru came through. Are you ready, Michael Vane? He asked soundlessly. Yes, already, said Michael Vane, trembling with eagerness. Don't be alarmed now. It will take several hours, said Guru. I'm not alarmed, answered Michael Vane. And, indeed, he was not. He was filled with an exhilaration akin to mysticism, and he sat waiting for what he was certain must be the experience above all others in his prosaic existence. Michael Vane's disappearance coming so close on Richardson's gave us a beautiful story, said Harrigan. The only trouble was, it wasn't new when the globe got around to it. We had lost our informant in Richardson. It never occurred to Alexander or Leopold to telephone us or anyone about Michael Vane's unaccountable absence from Bixby's. Finally, Leopold went over to Michael Vane's house to find out whether the old fellow was sick. A young fellow opened up. Where's Michael Vane, Leopold asked. I'm Michael Vane, the young fellow answered. Faddeus Michael Vane, Leopold explained. That's my name, was the only answer he got. I mean, the faddeus Michael Vane who used to play cards with us over at Bixby's, said Leopold. He shook his head. Sorry, you must be looking for someone else. What are you doing here, Leopold asked then? Why, I inherited what my uncle left, said the young fellow. And sure enough, when Leopold talked to me and persuaded me to go around with him to Michael Vane's lawyer, we found that the old fellow had made a will and left everything to his nephew, a namesake. The stipulations were clear enough. Among them was the express wish that if anything happened to him, the elder faddeus Michael Vane, of no matter what nature, but particularly something allowing a reasonable doubt of his death, the nephew was still to be permitted to take immediate possession of the property in effects. Of course you called on the nephew, I said. Harrogate nodded. Sure, that was the indicated course in any event. It was routine for both the press and the police. There was nothing suspicious about his story. It was straightforward enough except for one or two little details. He never did give us any precise address. Just mentioned Detroit once. I called up a friend on one of the papers there and put him up to looking up faddeus Michael Vane. The only young man of that name he could find appeared to be the same man as the present inhabitants' uncle, though the description fit pretty well. There was a resemblance then? Oh, sure. One could have imagined that old faddeus Michael Vane had looked somewhat like his nephew when he himself was a young man. But don't let the old man's rigmarole about rejuvenation make too deep an impression on you. The first thing the young fellow did was to get rid of that machine of his uncles. Can you imagine his uncle having done something like that? I shook my head, but I could not help thinking what an ironic thing it would have been if there had been something to Michael Vane's story. And in the process to which he had been subjected from out of space he had not been rejuvenated so much as just sent back in time, in which case he would have no memory of the machine nor of the use to which it had been put. It would have been as ironic for the inhabitants of Michael Vane's star, too. The doubtless have looked forward to keeping this contact with Earth open and failed to realize that Michael Vane's construction differed appreciably from theirs. He virtually junked it, said he had no idea what it could be used for and didn't know how to operate it. And the telescope? Oh, he kept that. He said he had some interest in astronomy and meant to develop that if time permitted. So much ran in the family, then. Yes. More than that, old Michael Vane had a trick of seeming shy and self-conscious. So did this nephew of his. Wherever he came from his origins must have been backward. I suspect that he was ashamed of them, and if I had to guess I'd put him in the Kentucky Hill Country or the Ozarks. Modern concepts seem to be pretty well too much for him, and his thinking would have been considerably more natural at the turn of the century. I had to see him several times. The police chived him a little, but not much. He was so obviously innocent of everything that there was nothing for them in him, and the search for the old man didn't last long. No one had seen him after that last night at Bixby's, and since everyone had already long since concluded that he was mentally a little off-center, it was easy to conclude that he had wandered away somewhere, probably an amnesiac. That he might have anticipated that is indicated in the hasty preparation of his will, which came out of the blue, said Barnaval, who drew it up for him. I felt sorry for him. For whom? The nephew. He seemed so lost, you know, like a man who wants to remember something but couldn't. I noticed that several times when I tried to talk to him, I had the feeling each time that there was something he wanted desperately to say. It hovered always on the rim of his awareness, but somehow there was no bridge to it, no clue to put it into words. He tried so hard for something he couldn't put his finger on. What became of him? Oh, he's still around. I think he found a job somewhere. As a matter of fact, I saw him just the other evening. He had apparently just come from work, and he was standing in front of Bixby's with his face pressed to the window looking in. I came up nearby and watched him. Leopold and Alexander were sitting inside, a couple of lonely old men looking out, and a lonely young man looking in. There was something in Micklevane's face, that same thing I had noticed so often before, a kind of expression that seemed to say there was something he ought to know, something he ought to remember, to do, to say, but there was no way in which he could reach back to it. Or forward, I said with a wry smile. As you like, said Harrigan, pour me another, will you? I did, and he took it. That poor devil, he muttered, he'd be happier if he could only go back where he came from. Wouldn't we all, I asked, but nobody ever goes home again. Perhaps Micklevane never had a home like that. You'd have thought so if you could have seen his face looking in at Leopold and Alexander. Oh, it may have been a trick of the streetlight there. It may have been my imagination, but it sticks to my memory, and I keep thinking how alike the two were, old Micklevane trying so desperately to find someone who could believe him, and his nephew now trying just as hard to find someone to accept him, or a place he could accept on the only terms he knows. End of Micklevane's Star by August Dirlith Stop over, Planet. 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 Barry Eads. Stop over, Planet. By Robert E. Gilbert At 2.34 a.m., patrolman Louis Weedbee left the ZipCab station. With arch support squeaking and nightstick swinging, Weedbee walked east to the call box at the corner of Sullivan and Cherokee. The traffic signal suspended above the intersection blinked a cautionary amber, not a car moved on the silent streets. Weedbee reached for the box. Then he swore softly and stepped off the curb. Pardon me, he said, for he believed that a patrolman should be courteous at all times, even when arresting a school zone speedster. This, however, was not a speedster. It seemed to be a huge man standing on top of a truck and cutting down the stoplight. What's going on here? Weedbee asked. Honey Chili Bakery was advertised on the side of the truck. Instinctively, Weedbee jammed his whistle in his mouth when he realized that the man on the truck wore something like a suit of long underwear made of improbable black fur sprinkled with tiny red spots. What are you doing to the stoplight? Weedbee demanded. The amber light quit blinking without the expected electrical display. Sinuous as beheaded snakes, the wires and cables supporting the traffic signal fell into the street. The unusual man pocketed his cutting tool, a long thin tube, and lowered the stoplight to the truck. He looked at Weedbee. The corner street lamp reacted upon his eyes like a flashlight thrown on a Tomcat in an alley. The eyes gleamed green. Weedbee's whistle art to the end of the chain and clanked against his metal buttons. A block away on Center Street, a heavy truck roared through the business section. The bell of a switch engine told near the freight depot, and a small dog barked suddenly at the obscured sky. I am promoting you to Captain. You will replace Hanks, who I am demoting, the figure on the truck announced. Chief Grindstaff, Weedbee wondered. The chief of police glared down to the patrolman. He hooked a bright metal globe to the stoplight, lifted it in one hand and jumped, landing lightly on the pavement. Put this in the mobile unit, he said. The truck, I evil. Huh? Sure, Chief, Weedbee said. He tucked his nightstick under his arm and prepared to accept a heavy load. Tense muscles almost felled him when the signal proved to weigh not more than one pound. Chief Grindstaff opened the doors in the rear of the truck, releasing a faint odor of stale bread. The truck was empty. Weedbee deposited the almost weightless burden. The chief looked him in the eye. I am promoting you to Captain, he repeated. You will replace Hanks, who I am demoting. Thanks, Chief. We'd be exalted. You know Hanks didn't treat me fair that time, I. Yes, I know all about that, the chief interposed. Go bring the postage box and place it in the truck. The which? Oh, you mean the mailbox. Weedbee walked across the street to the square green box with the rounded metal top. Another of the globes had been attached to the mailbox, and the legs had been burned loose from the concrete sidewalk. Confidently, Weedbee lifted the light object, carried it to the truck, and deposited it inside. Bleachers there, said Chief Grindstaff. What you say, Chief? Stands there. No, stand there. Patrolmen Weedbee stood by the back of the truck. Chief Grindstaff placed a device like an atomizer under Weedbee's nose and released the spray. Miss Betsy Tapp awoke after not more than one hour of fitful sleep. The door to the garage apartment shook under the tattoo of a heavy fist. Miss Tapp's heart thotted somewhere inside her 38 inch bosom. She lay rigid in darkness, penetrated only by the glimmer of a distant streetlight. The knocking ceased. Boards creaked on the platform outside the door. A face appeared at the window. A face in complete shadow, except for two eyes that glowed with greenish light. Miss Tapp, unaware of the disarray of her nightgown, sat upright. The alarm clock on the floor by the bed clacked in the stillness. The tap in the kitchen cubicle dripped. Timbers, contracting in the cool of early morning, popped faintly. I need to marry you, the face said. I was wrong tonight. Forgive me. Fred, Miss Tapp cast in sudden joy. Open the portal, Fred said. Wrenching metal curlers from her permanently waved hair, Miss Tapp bounded to the door. She released the catch and threw herself at the figure on the landing. Fred purred. I want to marry you. I was wrong tonight. Forgive me. Oh, Fred, Miss Tapp sighed. I knew you'd come back. You just had too much to drink. I forgive you, Fred. Well, yes. Bring your rayon crepe with tall tucking. What, Fred? Bring your garb, your clothing. Hurry. Miss Tapp skillfully fought a blush. Oh, Fred, I'm sorry. I'll be dressed in a minute. Fred slowly stated. I want to marry you. I was wrong tonight. Forgive me. He walked into the apartment and rapidly gathered and rolled together the dress and undergarments scattered on and about the chair. He stuffed the spike-heeled shoes into pockets on his black fur suit and lifted Miss Tapp in his arms. We're eloping, Miss Tapp sighed, as Fred carried her down the outside stairs. A honey-chilly bakery truck, worth rear doors open, waited in the driveway. Fred tossed the roll of clothing and the slippers into the truck and swiftly sprayed Miss Tapp. An unearthly glow permeated the bedroom and cast the black shadows of heavy furniture against the faded paper walls. Within the glow two dots of green flickered. The Reverend Enos Shackleford dropped on creaking knees and bowed his grizzled head. A voice said, Well done, good and faithful servant. Arise and follow me. Lord, said Reverend Shackleford, I have served thee faithfully all the days of my life. Remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom. Remember also, yes, well done, good and faithful servant. Arise and follow me. Shackleford stood on tottering old legs. His night-shirt hung below his knees. Horrified shock blanched his lying face. Blasphemer, he cried. Faults, prophet! Get thee behind me, Satan! The glow danced and faded. A towering black shape pointed a bent rod. The rod hissed. The Reverend Shackleford staggered against a small table, dragging it with him to the floor. He lay still, with one gnarled old hand, on a large golden-edged book that had fallen from the table. You're fired! The man in the dream said over and over. Calvin C. Kerr rolled off the half-bed, struck the floor, and awoke. First time I've fallen out of bed in years, he groaned. His shaking hand fumbled with the switch and succeeded in turning on the lamp. Mrs. Calvin C. Kerr sprawled on her back in the other bed and snored. You and your fifteen thousand-dollar house, Kerr muttered. He combed his thinning hair with his fingers. You and your sterling silver. You and your chosen pattern. Your service for eight. How far do you think fifty-four dollars a week will go, with twelve-gauge shells, three and a quarter a box? Green eyes glittered beside the frilly dressing table. The man standing there said, I'm not igniting you. I'm giving you a bonus for your fine work. Enough currency to pay the loan on this house. You'll be making two hundred per week. This fall I'll take you hunting at my place in the country. Boss? Kerr mumbled. I mean, Mr. Darman? Put on your clothing, the boss said. I'll show you your new office. You may have a secretary also. I'm not firing you. I'm giving you a bonus. Kerr sat gasping on the floor. That's great, boss, he exclaimed. I thought I did an extra special job on the plastic's mill design. It'll mean a lot to the company. We, yes. Dress quickly. Kerr threw off his pajamas and started stuffing arms and legs into his clothes. Mrs. Kerr opened her eyes and squeaked like a dying rabbit. The bent rod in the boss's hand hissed, and Mrs. Kerr stopped squeaking. With tie flapping, shirt unbutton, shoes unlaced, Kerr followed the boss through the living room and down the flagstone walk to the street. The boss opened the doors on the honey chili bakery truck and said, In here. Mrs. Jane Huprick dropped her mop. Her varicose legs trotted across the wet lobby of the Jordan building, and her flabby fat arms reached for the tall man with bright eyes who stood near the elevators. It's me, Mom, the man cried. Matt, Mrs. Huprick cried. Matt, baby! I got a full pardon, Mom, Matt said, stroking her tangled white hair. Right from the ruling state official. You won't have to scrub floors any more. I'm going straight, Mom. I'm a good mechanic now. They learned me a lot in the enclosure. Come on, I gotta use truck outside. I bought cheap. Mrs. Huprick and son walked through the oddly twisted doors of the Jordan building and into the gray twilight that awaited Dawn. The honey chili bakery truck waited too. Gary Abston pedaled his bicycle against the flow of cars carrying day shift workers through the half light. He whirled into Walnut Street, twisted a fresh copy of the Morning Herald into a fiendishly clever knot, and hurled it in the general direction of a front porch that flashed past on his right. Never slowing, Gary threw the next paper entirely across the street. He chuckled as it cleared a picket fence. Bang, bang, he blurted. His red shirt, with a picture of a mounted cowboy on the back, ballooned in the early morning breeze. Whoa, Gary roared. He stopped, held the bicycle upright with one foot on the pavement. A tall, lanky, slightly bull-leg man with squinting, luminous green eyes stood on the sidewalk. Gary looked at the man. The newspapers flooded to the parkway. The bicycle clattered in the street. Howdy, partner, the tall man said. The rustlers are heading for the plateau. We'll take the short gash and head him off at the canyon. Ramrod Jones? Gary chirped. Here's the truck I haul a quiz kid the IQ horse in. Let's get after the rustlers, Jones said. Gee, I've seen all your pictures, Ramrod, Gary said. Silver City Raiders? Rustlers of Silver City? Silver City Rustlers? The great cowboy lifted the newsboy into the honey chili truck. Pink and rose clouds drifted through a brightening sky as the honey chili bakery truck careened along a narrow road, badly in need of rock and grating. From the road, the truck rattled into a rutted track through dewy woods and skidded swaying to a stop at the side of a long, low, grassy hill. The tall creature dressed in black, red-spotted fur stepped from the cab. An opening appeared in the hillside. Four machines, dull metal eggs balancing on single tractor treads, rolled silently through the opening. Jointed steel arms started from recesses in the eggs. One machine opened the truck doors. The creature walked up a ramp inside the hill and entered a shimmering metallic compartment. Greetings, EO, I have returned. EO, who wore a suit of white fur, hummed. None too soon, Zah, we miscalculated darn. What success? An excellent group, Zah said. He stretched and reclined on a transparent slab. The servants are unloading the vehicle. I captured a young male, a mature male, an aged male, some sort of official or guardian male, a mature female, and an aged female. Let's view them, EO said. You can rest after we're away. The tall creatures entered a second compartment furnished with a large table upon which the silent machines deposited inanimate bodies. Extraordinary, said EO, staring at Miss Betsy's tap. These things have reached a peak of mammalian development. Her correct garments are in this bundle, Zah explained. The servants are bringing the properties now. I secured a signaling device and a box used in an extremely primitive system of communication. Also, I brought the quaint muscle-powered vehicle ridden by the young male. The photograph should be sufficient for other details. Any difficulty? EO asked as the machines dumped patrolmen we'd be on the table. The language was the greatest obstacle, Zah said. The same word has many different meanings, or many different words have the same meaning, rather crude. Did you use bait or force? Bait, Zah said. It's much simpler. This is a completely selfish, ecocentric breed. Most of them have one thing in mind which they want solely for themselves. Their sending power is weak, but that one selfish desire is powerful enough to be received. I merely dangled it before their minds, and they were hooked. He tapped the foot of Calvin C. Kerr. I killed this one's female companion. She awoke and screamed. The males and females pair off and live together for years. Strange custom. Breeding seems to be only one reason for the mutual bondage. Zah pointed to Mrs. Jane Hubrick. The old female may be an exception to the selfishness. I couldn't decide whether she most wanted to be relieved of cleaning floors by primitive methods, or wanted her male offspring to be released from some structure where he had been secured for reasons I couldn't determine. The machines deposited the Reverend Enos Shackelford and then lined up in a precise row. This thing is dead, EO buzzed. Zah shook his head. That was the only genuine exception. He confused me till I forgot his proper clothing. But some can be devised from the other samples. He seems to have been a witch doctor. His mind was cluttered with myths and superstitions from an ancient text. I don't understand him, EO, and I wish I had time to study the phenomena. He was different from the others. He believed in something and considered himself lowly and humble. The minds of the others were in constant confusion. They believed, actually, in nothing. Somehow he saw me, EO. I was forced to kill him. No harm done, EO decided. He faced the machines and said, Destroy the vehicle. Draw in the camouflage net. Prepare for takeoff. The machines rolled from the compartment, and the two creatures followed. Seal it, EO said. I'll plasticize them when we're in space. Fine work, Zah. I can see the plaque now. Mounted by EO, collected by Zah. Typical street corner on planet Earth, Star Sol. The directors will surely give the group a prominent place in the Galactic Museum of Natural History. Yes, Zah agreed, glancing back at the reverend, Enes Shackleford. This planet was a fortunate stopover. The end. End of Stopover Planet. Trees are where you find them. 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 Barry Eads. Trees are where you find them. By Arthur Decker Savage. You might say the trouble started at the ivy, which is a moving picture house in cave junction being built like a big quonset. It's the only show in these parts, and most of us old timers up here in the timber country of southwest Oregon have got into the habit of going to see a picture on Saturday nights before we head for a tavern. But I don't think old Doc Joris, who was there with Lou and Rusty and me, had been to more than two or three shows in his life. Doc is kind of sensitive about his appearance on account of his small eyes and big nose and ears, and since gold mining gave way to logging and lumbermills with outsiders drifting into the country, Doc has taken to stain on his homestead a way back up along Deer Creek, near the boundary of the Siskayu National Forest. It's gotten so he'll come to cave junction only after dark, and even then he wears dark glasses so strangers won't notice him too much. I couldn't see anything funny about the picture when Doc started laughing, but I figure it's a man's own business when he wants to laugh, so I didn't say anything. The show was one of these scientific things, and when Doc began to cackle, it was showing some men getting out of a rocket ship on Mars and running over to look at some trees. Rusty, whose top choker setter in our logging outfit, was trying to see Doc's point. He can snare logs with a hunk of steel cable faster than anyone I know, but he's never had much schooling. He turned to Doc. I don't get it, Doc, he said. What's the deal? Doc kept chuckling. It's them trees, he said. There's no trees like that on Mars. Oh, said Rusty. I suppose it was just chance that Burt Holden was sitting behind us and heard the talk. Burt is one of the newcomers. He'd come down from Grant's pass and started a big lumber mill in logging outfit and was trying to freeze out the little operators. He growled something about keeping quiet. That got Rusty and Lou kind of mad, and Lou turned around and looked at Burt. Lou is even bigger than Burt, and things might have got interesting, but I wanted to see the rest of the picture. I nudged him and asked him if he had a chew. They won't let you smoke in the show, but it's okay to chew, and most of us were in the habit anyway, because there's too much danger of forest fire when you smoke on the job. Doc laughed every time the screen showed trees, and I could hear Burt humping around in his seat like he was irritated. At the end of the show, we drifted over to the alt-havern and took a table against the North Wall, behind the pool tables and across from the bar. Doc had put his dark glasses back on, and he sat facing the wall. Not that many people apart from the insiders knew Doc. He hadn't been very active since the young medical doctor had come to Cave Junction in 1948, although he never turned down anyone who came for help. And as far as I knew, he'd never lost a patient unless he was already dead when Doc got there. We were kidding Lou because he was still wearing his tin hat and cocked boots from work. You figuring on starting early in the morning, I asked him? Rusty and Doc laughed. It was a good joke because we rode out to the job in my jeep, and so we'd naturally get there at the same time. Then Rusty sat up straighter and looked over at the bar. Hey, he said. Pop's talking to Burt Holden. Pop Johnson owns our outfit. He's one of the small operators that guys like Burt are trying to squeeze out. Hope you don't try to rip Pop into no deals, said Lou. Doc tipped up his bottle of beer. In Oregon, they don't sell anything but beer in the taverns. Times change, he said. Back in 1900, all they wanted was gold. Now they're trying to take all the trees. It's the big operators like Burt, I said. Little guys like Pop can't cut them as fast as they grow. The companies don't have to reseed either except on national forest land. That Burt Holden was up to my place a couple weeks ago, said Doc. Darn near caught me skinning out a deer. He better not yapp to the game warden, said Rusty. Them laws is for sports and outsiders, not us guys who need the meat. He wanted to buy all my timbers, said Doc. Offered me ten dollars a thousand board feet, on the stump. Don't sell, I advised him. If Burt offers that much, almost anyone else will pay twelve. Doc looked at me. I'd never sell my trees, not at any price. I got a hundred and sixty acres of virgin stand, and that's the way it's gonna stay. I cut up the windfalls and snags for firewood, and that's all. Here comes Pop, said Lou. Pop sat down with us and had a beer. He looked worried. We didn't ask him any questions because we figure a man will talk if he wants to, and if he doesn't, it's his own business. He finally unlimbered. Burt Holden wants to buy the mill, he said, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Buy your mill, said Lou? Hell, his mill is five times as big, and he's even got a burner to take care of slashings, so he don't have to shut down in the fire season. He just wants the land, said Pop, because it's near the highway. He wants to tear down my setup and build a pulp mill. A pulp mill? If we could have seen Doc's eyes through the glasses, I imagine they'd have been popped open a full half inch. Why, then they'll be cutting down everything but the brush. Pop nodded. Yeah, size of a log don't matter when you make paper, just so it's wood. It seemed as though Doc was talking to himself. They'll strip the land down bare, he mumbled, and the hills will wash away, and the chemicals they use in the mill will kill the fish in the creeks and the Illinois River. That's why they won't let anyone start a pulp mill near Grant's Pass, said Pop. Most of the town's money comes from sports who come up to the Rouge River to fish. Rusty said his jaw. In the winter we need them fish, he said. He was right, too. The woods close down in the winter, on account of the snow, and if a man can't hunt and fish, he's liable to get kind of hungry. That rock and chair money doesn't stretch very far. I ain't gonna sell, said Pop. But that won't stop Bert Holden, and any place he builds the mill around here will drain into the Illinois. Doc pushed back his chair and stood up to his full height of five foot four. I'm gonna talk to Bert Holden, he said. Rusty stood up to his six foot three. I'll bring him over here, Doc, he said. We're handy to the queue rack here, and Lou and Simmons can keep them guys he's with off my back. I stood up and shoved Rusty back down. I'm no taller than he is, but I outweigh him about twenty pounds. I started working in the woods when we still fell trees with axes and misery whips. Crosscut saws to the outsiders. I'll go get him, I said. You're still mad about the show, and you wouldn't be able to get him this far without musing him up. There won't be no trouble, said Doc. I just want to make him an offer. I went over and told Bert that Doc wanted to talk to him. The three guys with him followed us back to the table. Bert figured he knew what it was all about, and he just stood over, Doc, and looked down on him. If it's about your timber, you're us, he said. I'll take it, but I can't pay you more than nine dollars now. Lumber's coming down, and I'm taking a chance even at that. He rocked back and forth on his heels, and looked at Pop as though daring him to say different. I still don't want to sell, Mr. Holden, said Doc. But I've got better than three million feet on my place, and I'll give it to you if you won't put a pulp mill anywhere in the Illinois Valley. We were all floored at that, but Bert recovered first. He gave a nasty laugh. Not interested, Yoris. If you want to sell, look me up. Wait, said Doc. A pulp mill will take every tree in the Valley. In a few years, it'll make money too, said Bert flatly. Money ain't everything by a long shot. It won't buy trees and creeks and rain. It'll buy trees to make lumber. Bert was getting mad. I don't want any opposition from you, Yoris. I've had enough trouble from people who try to hold back progress. If you don't like the way we run things here, you can… Hell, you can go back to Mars. It seemed to me that it was just about time to start in. I could have taken Bert easiest, but I knew Rusty would probably swing on him first and get in my way, so I planned to work on the two guys on Bert's right, leaving the one on his left for Lou. I didn't want Pop to get tangled up in it. I don't generally wait too long after I make up my mind, but then I noticed Rusty reaching out slowly for a cue stick, and I thought maybe I'd better take Bert first, while Rusty got set. I never did see a guy so one way about having something in his hands. But Doc didn't drop out. There ain't nothing but a few scrub trees on Mars, he said to Bert, looking him square in the eye, and no creeks and no rain. Bert curled his lips sarcastically. The hell you say? Is that why you didn't like it there? You could see he was just trying to egg Doc into saying he'd come from Mars, so he could give him the horse laugh. The guys he was with were getting set for a fracas, but they were waiting for Bert to lead off. Doc didn't get caught. But there's gold, he said, like he hadn't heard Bert at all. Tons of it, laying all over the ground. I guess Bert decided to ride along. Okay, Yoris, he said. Tell you what I'll do. For only one ton of Martian gold, I'll agree to drop all plans for a pulp mill, here or anywhere else. In fact, I'll get out of business altogether. Doc moved in like a log falling out of the loading tongs. That's a deal, he said. You ready to go? Bert started to look disgusted, then he smiled. Sure. Mars must be quite a place if you came from there. Okay, said Doc. You just stand up against the wall, Mr. Holden. Bert's smile faded. He figured Doc was trying to maneuver him into a likely position for us. But Doc cleared that up quick. You boys get up and stand aside, he ordered. Get back away, and give Mr. Holden plenty of room. We didn't like it, but we cleared out from around the table. A bunch from the bar and pool tables, sensing something was up, came drifting over to watch. I could feel tension building up. Now, said Doc, pointing. You just stand right over there, Mr. Holden, and fold your arms. Bert didn't like the audience, and I guess he figured his plans were backfiring when Doc didn't bluff. You hill-happy old coot, he snarled. You'd better go home and sleep it off. I grabbed hold of Lou's arm and shook my head at Rusty. I wasn't going to interfere with Doc now. You're not scared, are you, Mr. Holden? Said Doc quietly. Just you stand against the wall and take it easy. It won't hurt a bit. Bert Holden was plenty tough for an outsider, and a hard-headed businessman to boot. But he'd never run into a customer like Doc before. You could see him trying to make up his mind on how to handle this thing. He glanced around quicker the crowd, and I could tell he decided to play it out to where Doc would have to draw in his horns. He actually grinned, for the effect it would have on everybody watching. All right, Joris, he said. He backed up against the wall and folded his arms. But hadn't you better stand up here with me? I ain't going, said Doc. I don't like Mars. But you won't have no trouble getting your gold. There's nuggets the size of your fist laying all over the dry riverbeds. I hate to be nosy, said Bert, playing to the crowd, but how are you going to get me there? With his head, of course, blurted Rusty before I could stop him, just like he cures you when you're sick. Doc had pulled Rusty through two or three bad kid sicknesses, and a lot of the rest of us, too. Yep, said Doc. A man don't need one of them rocket things to get between here and Mars. Fact is, I never seen one. Bert looked at the ceiling like he was a martyr, then back at Doc. Well, Joris, he said in a tone that meant he was just about through hearing him. I'm waiting. Can you send me there, or can't you? The start of a nasty smile was beginning to show at the corners of his mouth. Sure, said Doc. He slumped down in his chair and cupped his hands lightly around his dark glasses. I noticed his fingers trembling a little against his forehead. The lights dimmed, flickered, and went out, and we waited for the bartender to put in a new fuse. The power around here doesn't go haywire except in the winter when trees fall across the lines. A small fight started over in a corner. When the lights came back on, Doc and Pop started for the door, and Lou and Rusty and I followed. Bert's buddies were looking kind of puzzled, and a few old timers were moving over to watch the fight. The rest were heading back to the bar. Rusty piled into the jeep with Doc and me. When you're going to bring him back, Doc, he asked when we started moving. Don't know, said Doc. He took off his glasses to watch me shift gears. He's been after me for a long time to teach him how to drive. It only works on a man once. The end. End of Trees Are Where You Find Them