 All Day September by Roger Coykendall, read by Bologna Times. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. All Day September. Some men just haven't got a good sense. They just can't seem to learn the most fundamental things. Like when there's no use trying when it's time to give up because it's hopeless. The meteor, a pebble a little larger than a match head, traveled through space and time since it came into being. The light from the star that died when the meteor was created fell on earth before the first lungfish ventured from the sea. In its last instant the meteor fell on the moon. It was impeded by Evans Tractor. It drilled a small neat hole through the casing of the steam turbine and volatized upon striking the blades. Portions of the turbine also volatized. Idling at 8000 rpm it became unstable. The shaft tried to tie itself into a knot and the blades, damaged and undamaged, were spit through the casing. The turbine again reached a stable state. That is, stopped, permanently stopped. It was two days to sunrise where Evans stood. It was just before sunset on a spring evening in September in Sydney. The shadow line between day and night could be seen from the moon to be drifting across Australia. Evans, who had no watch, thought of the time as a quarter after Australia. Evans was a prospector, and like all prospectors a sort of jackknife geologist, salinologist, rather. His tractor and equipment cost $250,000. $50,000 was paid for. The rest was promissory notes and grub-steak shares. When he was broke, which was usually, he used his tractor to haul uranium ore and metallic sodium from the mines at Potter's Dyke to Williamson Town, where the rockets landed. When he was flush, he would prospect for a couple of weeks. Once he followed a stampede to Yellow Crater, where he thought for a while that he had a fortune in Chromium. The Chromite petered out in a month and a half, and he was lucky to break even. Evans was about 300 miles east of Williamson Town, the site of the first landing on the moon. Evans was due back at Williamson Town at about sunset, that is, in about 16 days. When he saw the wrecked turbine, he knew that he wouldn't make it. By careful rationing, he could probably stretch his food out to more than a month. His drinking water, kept separate from the water in the reactor, might conceivably last just as long, but his oxygen was too carefully measured. There was a four-day reserve. By diligent conservation, he might make it last an extra day. Four days reserve, plus one is five, plus 16 days normal supply equals 21 days to live. In 17 days he might be missed, but in 17 days it would be dark again, and the search for him, if it ever began, could not begin for 13 more days. At the earliest it would be eight days too late. Well, man, tis a fine spot you're in now, he told himself. Let's find out how bad it is indeed, he answered. He reached for the light switch and tried to turn it on. The switch was already in the on position. Batteries must be dead, he told himself. What batteries? he asked. There are no batteries in here. The power comes from the generator. Why isn't the generator working, man? he asked. He thought this went out carefully. The generator was not turned by the main turbine, but by a small reciprocating engine. The steam, however, came from the same boiler, and the boiler, of course, had emptied itself through the hole in the turbine, and the condenser, of course, that condenser, he shouted. He fumbled for a while until he found a small flashlight. By the light of this he reinspected the steam system and found about three gallons of water frozen in the condenser. The condenser, like all condensers, was a device to convert steam into water so that it could be reused in the boiler. This one had a tank and coils of tubing in the center of a curved reflector that was positioned to radiate the heat of the steam into the cold darkness of space. When the meteor pierced the turbine, the water in the condenser began to boil. This boiling lowered the temperature, and the condenser demonstrated its efficiency by quickly freezing the water in the tank. Evans sealed the turbine from the rest of the steam system by closing the shutoff valves. If there was any water in the boiler, it would operate the engine that drove the generator. The water would condense in the condenser, and, with a little luck, melt the ice in there. Then, if the pump wasn't blocked by ice, it would return the water to the boiler. But there was no water in the boiler. Carefully he poured a cup of his drinking water into a pipe that led to the boiler and resealed the pipe. He pulled on a knob marked Nuclear Start Safety Bypass. The water that he had poured into the boiler quickly turned into steam, and the steam turned the generator briefly. Evans watched the lights flicker and go out, and he guessed what the trouble was. The waterman, he said, there was not enough to melt the ice in the condenser. He opened the pipe again and poured nearly a half gallon of water into the boiler. It was three days supply of water, if it had been carefully used. It was one day supply, if used wastefully. It was ostentatious luxury for a man with a month's supply of water and twenty-one days to live. The generator started again, and the lights came on. They flickered as the boiler pressure began to fail, the steam had melted some of the ice in the condenser, and the water pump began to function. Well, man, he breathed. There's a light to die by. The sun rose on Williamson Town at about the same time it rose on Evans. It was an incredibly brilliant disc in a black sky. The stars next to the sun shone as brightly as though there were no sun. They might have appeared to waver slightly if they were behind outflung corona flares. If they did, no one noticed. No one looked toward the sun without dark filters. When director McElroy came into his office, he found it lighted by the rising sun. The light was a hot, brilliant white that seemed to pierce the darkest shadows of the room. He moved to the round window, screening his eyes from the light, and adjusted the Polaroid shade to maximum density. The sun became an angry red-brown, and the room was dark again. McElroy decreased the density again until the room was comfortably lighted. The room felt stuffy, so he decided to leave the door to the inner office open. He felt a little guilty about this because he had ordered that all doors in the survey building should remain closed, except when someone was passing through them. This was to allow the air conditioning system to function properly and to prevent air loss in case of the highly improbable meteor damage. McElroy thought that, on the whole, he was disobeying his own orders no more flagrantly than anyone else in the survey. McElroy had no illusions about his ability to lead men, or rather, he did have one illusion. He thought that he was completely unfit as a leader. It was true that his strict disorders were disobeyed with cheerful contempt, but it was also true his mildest requests were complied with eagerly and smoothly. Everyone in the survey, except McElroy, realized this, and even he accepted this without thinking about it. He had fallen into the habit of suggesting mildly anything that he wanted done, and writing orders he didn't particularly cared to have obeyed. For example, because of an order of his stating that there would be no alcoholic beverages within the survey building, the entire survey was assured of a constant supply of homemade but passively good liquor. Even McElroy enjoyed the surreptitious drinking. Good morning, Mr. McElroy, said Mrs. Garth, his secretary. Good morning to Mrs. Garth was simply the first four hours after waking. Good morning indeed, answered McElroy. Morning to him had no meaning at all, but he thought in the strictest sense that it would be morning on the moon for another week. Has the power crew set up the solar furnace? He asked. The solar furnace was a rough parabola of mirrors used to focus the sun's heat and the lighting that it was desirable to heat. It was used mostly from sun up to sun down to supplement the nuclear power plant. They went out about an hour ago, she answered. I suppose that's what they were going to do. Very good. What's first on the schedule? A Mr. Phelps to see you, she said. How do you do, Mr. Phelps? Mr. McElroy created him. Good afternoon, Mr. Phelps, replied. I'm here representing the Merchants Bank Association. Fine, McElroy said. I suppose you're here to set up a bank. That's right. I just got in from Miraq last night, and I've been going over the assets of the Survey Credit Association all morning. I'll certainly be glad to get them off my hands, McElroy said. I hope they're in good order. There doesn't seem to be any profit, Mr. Phelps said. That's par for a non-profit organization, said McElroy. But we're amateurs, and we're turning this operation over to professionals. I'm sure it will be to everyone's satisfaction. I know this seems like a silly question. What day is this? Well, said McElroy. That's not so silly. I don't know either. Mrs. Garth, he called. What day is this? Why, September, I think, she answered. I mean, what day? I don't know. I'll call the observatory. There was a pause. They say, what day where? She asked. Greenwich, I guess. Our official time is supposed to be Greenwich meantime. There was another pause. They say it's September 4th, 1.30 am. Well, there you are, laughed McElroy. It isn't that time doesn't mean anything here. It just doesn't mean the same thing. Mr. Phelps joined the laughter. Ha! Banker's hours don't mean much at any rate, he said. The power crew was having trouble with the solar furnace. Three of the nine banks of mirrors would not respond to the electric controls, and one bank moves so jerkily that it could not be focused, and it threatened to tear several of the mirrors loose. What happened here? Spotted Cade, one of the electrical technicians, asked his foreman. Koalchuk, over the intercommunications radio. I've got about a hundred penholes in the cables out here. It's no wonder they don't work. Meteor shower. Koalchuk answered. And that's not half of it. Walker says he's got a half-dozen mirrors cracked or pitted, and Hoffman, on bank three, wants you to replace the servo motor. He says the bearing was hit. When did it happen? Cade wanted to know. Must have been last night, at least two or three days ago. All of them too small for Radar to pick up, and not enough for Seisman to get a rumble. Sounds pretty bad. Could have been worse, said Koalchuk. How's that? Wasn't anybody out in it? Hey, Chuck! Another technician, layman, broke in. You could maybe get hurt that way. I doubt it, Koalchuk answered. Most of these were penhead size, and they wouldn't go through a suit. It would take a pretty big one to damage a servo bearing. Cade commented. That could hurt. Koalchuk admitted. But there was only one of them. You mean only one hit our gear? Layman said. How many missed? Nobody answered. They could all see the moon under their feet. Small craters overlapped and touched each other. There was, except in the places that men had obscured them with footprints, not a square foot that didn't contain a crater at least ten inches across. There was not a square inch without its half-inch crater. Nearly all of these had been made millions of years ago, but here and there the rim of the crater covered part of a footprint. Clear evidence that it was a recent one. After the sun rose, Evans returned to the lava cave that he had been exploring when the meteor hit. Inside he lifted his filter visor and found that the light reflected from the small ray that appeared into the cave door lighted the cave adequately. He tapped loose some white crystals on the cave wall with his geologist hammer and put them into a collector's bag. A few mineral specimens would give us something to think about, man. These crystals, he said, look a little like zeolites. But that can't be. Zeolites need water to form and there's no water on the moon. He chipped a number of other crystals loose and put them in bags. One of them he found in a dark crevice had a hexagonal shape that puzzled him. One at a time, back in the tractor, he took the crystals out of the bags and analyzed them as well as he could without using a flame which would waste oxygen. The ones that look like zeolites were zeolites, all right, or something very much like it. One of the crystals that he thought was quartz turned out to be calcite and one of the ones that he was sure could be nothing but calcite was actually potassium nitrate. Well now, he said, it's probably the largest natural crystal of potassium nitrate that anyone has ever seen. Man, it's a full inch across. All of these needed water to form and their existence on the moon puzzled him for a while. Then he opened the bag that had contained the unusual hexagonal crystals and the puzzle resolved itself. There was nothing in the bag but a few drops of water. What he had taken to be a type of rock was ice frozen in a niche that had never been warmed by the sun. The sun rose to the meridian slowly. It was a week after sunrise. The stars shone coldly and wheeled in their slow course with the sun. Only Earth remained in the same spot in the black sky. The shadow line crept around until Earth was nearly dark and then the rim of light appeared on the opposite side. For a while Earth was a dark disc in a thin halo and then the light came to be a crescent and the line of dawn began to move around Earth. The continents drifted across the dark disc and into the crescent. The people on Earth saw the full moon set about the same time that the sun rose. Nickel Jones was the captain of a supply rocket. He made trips from and to the moon about once a month, carrying supplies in and metal and ores out. At this time he was visiting with his old friend, McElroy. I swear, Mac, said Jones, another season like this and I'm going back to mining. I thought you were doing pretty well, said McElroy, as he poured two drinks from a bottle of scotch that Jones had brought him. Oh, the money I like, but I will say that I'd have more if I didn't have to fight the Union and the Lunar Trade Commission. McElroy had heard all of this before. How's that? He asked politely. You may think it's myself running the ship. Jones started on his tirade, but it's not. The Union it is that says who I can hire. The Union it is that says how much I must pay and how large a crew I need. And then the commission. The word seemed to give Jones an unpleasant taste in his mouth, which he hurriedly rinsed with the sip of scotch. That commission, he continued, making the word sound like an obscenity, is it that tells me how much I can charge for freight? McElroy noticed that his friend's glass was empty and he quietly filled it again. And then, continued Jones, if I buy a cargo up here, the commission it is that says what I'll sell it for. If I had my way, I'd charge only fifty cents a pound for freight instead of the dollar forty that the commission insists on. That's from here to earth, of course. There's no profit I could make by cutting rates the other way. Why not? asked McElroy. He knew the answer, but he liked to listen to the slightly Welsh voice of Jones. Near cost it is, now at a dollar forty. But what sense is there in charging the same rate to go either way when it takes about a seventh of the fuel to get from here to earth as it does to get from there to here? What good would it do to charge fifty cents a pound? asked McElroy. The nickel man, the tons of nickel worth a dollar and a half on earth, and not worth mining here. The low-grade ores of uranium and vanadium, they need these things on earth, but they can't get them as long as it isn't worth the carrying them. And then, of course, there's the water we haven't got. We could afford to bring more water for more people and set up more distilling plants if we had the money from the nickel. Even though I say it who shouldn't, two eighty a quart is too much to pay for water. Both men felt silent for a while. Then Jones spoke again. Have you seen our friend Evans lately? The price of chromium has gone up, and I think he could ship some of his ore from Yellow Crater at a profit. He's out prospecting again. I don't expect to see him until signed down. I'll likely see him then. I won't be loaded for another week and a half. Can't you get in touch with him by radio? He isn't carrying one. Most of the prospectors don't. They claim that a radio that won't carry beyond the horizon isn't any good, and one that will bounce messages from Earth takes up too much room. Well, if I don't see him, you let him know about the chromium. Anything to help another Welshman? Is that the idea? Well, protection it is that a poor Welshman needs from all the English and Scots. Speaking of which... Oh, of course. McElroy grinned as he refilled the glasses. Slanty McElroy Bach. Health McElroy man. Slanty import Bach. Great health, man. The sun was half-way to the horizon, and Earth was a crescent in the sky when Evans had quarried all the ice that was available in the cave. They thought grown him as he worked that this couldn't be the only such cave in the area. There must be several more bubbles in the lava flow. Part of his reasoning proved correct. That is, he found that by chipping he could locate small bubbles up to an inch in diameter, each one with its droplet of water. The average was about one percent of the volume of each bubble filled with ice. A quarter of a mile from the tractor, Evans found a promising-looking mound of lava. It was rounded on top and could easily be the dome of a bubble. Suddenly Evans noticed that the gauge on the oxygen tank of his suit was reading dangerously near empty. He turned back to his tractor, moving as slowly as he felt safe in doing. Running would use up oxygen too fast. He was half-way there when the pressure warning light went on and the signal sounded inside his helmet. He turned on his ten-minute reserve supply and made it to the tractor with about five minutes left. The air-purifying apparatus in the suit was not as efficient as the one in the tractor. It wasted oxygen. By using the suit so much, Evans had already shortened his life by several days. He resolved not to leave the tractor again and reluctantly abandoned his plan to search for a large bubble. The sun stood at half its diameter above the horizon. The shadows of the mountains stretched out to touch the shadows of the other mountains. The dawning line of light covered half of Earth and Earth turned beneath it. Koalczyk itched under his suit and the sweat on his face prickled maddeningly because he couldn't reach it through his helmet. He pushed his forehead against the faceplate of his helmet and rubbed off some of the sweat. It didn't help much and it left a blurred spot in his vision. That annoyed him. Is everyone clear of the outlet? He asked. All clear. He heard Kate report through the intercom. How come we have to blow the boilers now? Asked Lemon. Because I said so. Koalczyk shouted. Surprised at his outburst and ashamed of it. Boiler scale. He continued much calmer. We've got to clean out the boilers once a year and make sure the tubes and the reactor don't clog up. He squinted through his dark visor at the reactor building a gray concrete structure a quarter of a mile distant. It would be pretty bad if they clogged up some night. Pressures ten and a half pounds. Said Kate. Right. Let her go. Said Koalczyk. Kate threw a switch. In the reactor building a relay closed. A motor started turning and the worm gear on the motors opened a valve on the boiler. A stream of muddy water gushed into a closed vat. When the vat was about half full the water began to run nearly clear. An electric eye noted that fact and a light in front of Kate turned on. Kate threw the switch back the other way and the relay and the reactor building opened. The motor turned and the gears started to close the valve. But a fragment of boiler scale held the valve open. Valve stuck. Said Kate. Open it and close it again. Said Koalczyk. The sweat on his forehead started to run into his eyes. He banged his hand on his faceplate in an unconscious attempt to wipe it off. He cursed silently and wiped it off on the inside of his helmet again. This time two drops ran down the inside of his faceplate. Still don't work. Said Kate. Keep trying. Koalczyk ordered. Lehman, get a Geiger counter and come with me. We got to fix this thing. Lehman and Koalczyk, who were already suited up started to cross to the reactor building. Kate, who was in the pressurized control room without a suit on, kept working the switch back and forth. There was light that indicated that the valve was open. It was on and it stayed on no matter what Kate did. The vat pressure's too high. Kate said. Let me know when it reaches six pounds, Koalczyk requested, because it'll probably blow at seven. The vat was a light plastic container used only to decant sludge out of water. It neither needed nor had much strength. Six now, said Kate. Koalczyk and Lehman stopped halfway to the reactor. The vat bulged and ruptured. A stream of mud gushed out and boiled dry on the face of the moon. Koalczyk and Lehman rushed forward again. They could see the trickle of water from the discharge pipe. The motor turned the valve back and forth in response to Kate's signals. What's going on out there? Demanded Mikkelroy on the intercom. Scale stuck in the valve, Koalczyk answered. Are the reactors off? Yes, vat blue. Shut up. Let me work, Mac. Sorry, Mikkelroy said, realizing that this was no time for officials. Let me know when it's fixed. Geiger's off scale, Lehman said. We're probably OK in these suits for an hour. Koalczyk answered. Is there a manual shut off? Not that I know of, Lehman answered. What about it, Kate? I don't think so, Kate said. I'll get on the blower and rouse out an engineer. OK, but keep working that switch. I checked the line as far as it's safe, said Lehman. No valve. OK, Koalczyk said. Listen, Kate, are the injectors still on? Yeah, there's still enough heat in these reactors to do some damage. I caught them in about 15 minutes. I found the trouble, Lehman said. The worm gears loose on its shaft. It's slipping every time the valve closes. There's not enough power in it to crush the scale. Right, Koalczyk said. Kate, open the valve wide. Lehman, hand me that pipe wrench. Koalczyk hit the shaft with the back of the pipe wrench, and it broke at the motor bearing. Koalczyk and Lehman fitted the pipe wrench to the gear on the valve and turned it. Is the light off? Koalczyk asked. No, Kate answered. Water stopped. Give us some pressure. We'll see if it holds. 20 pounds. Kate answered after a couple of minutes. Take her up to... No, wait, it's still leaking. Koalczyk said. Hold it there. We'll open the valve again. OK, said Kate. An engineer here says there's no manual cutoff. Well, said Lehman. Koalczyk and Lehman opened the valve again. Water spurred it out and dwindled as they closed the valve. What did you do? asked Kate. The light went out and came on again. Check that circuit and see if it works. Koalczyk instructed. There was a pause. It's OK, Kate said. Koalczyk and Lehman opened and closed the valve again. Light is off now, Kate said. Good, said Koalczyk. Take the pressure up all the way and we'll see what happens. 800 pounds, Kate said after a short wait. Good enough, Koalczyk said. Tell that engineer to hold up a while. He can fix this thing as soon as he gets parts. Come on, Lehman, let's get out of here. Well, I'm glad that's over, said Kate. You guys have been worried for a while. Think we weren't worried, Lehman asked. And it's not over. What? Kate asked. Oh, you mean the valve servo you two bashed up. No, said Lehman. I mean the 2,000 gallons of water that we lost. 2,000? Kate asked. We only had 700 gallons reserved. How come we can operate now? We picked up 1,200 from the town sewage plant. What with using the solar furnace as a radiator, we can make do. Oh God, I suppose this means water rationing again. You're probably right, at least until the next rocket lands in a couple of weeks. Prospector Feard lost on Moon. IPP, Williamson Town, Moon, September 21st. Scientific Survey Director, McElroy, released a statement today that Howard Evans, a prospector, is missing and presumed lost. Evans, who was apparently exploring the Moon in search of minerals, was due two days ago, but it was presumed that he was merely temporarily delayed. Evans began his exploration on August 25th, and was known to be carrying several days' reserve of oxygen and supplies. Director McElroy has expressed a hope that Evans will be found before his oxygen runs out. Search parties have started from Williamson Town, but telescopic search from Palomar and the new satellite observatory are hindered by the fact that Evans is lost on the part of the Moon, which is now dark. Little hope is held for radio contact with the missing man as it is believed he was carrying only short-range intercommunications equipment. Nevertheless, receivers are—Captain Nicol Jones was also expressing a hope. Anyway, Mac, he was saying to McElroy, a Welshman knows when his lucks run out, and never a word did he say. Like is not your right, McElroy replied, but I know Evans. He'd never say a word without any forebodings. Well, happened I might have a bit of Welsh second sight about me, and it tells me that Evans will be found. McElroy chuckled for the first time in several days. So that's the reason you didn't take off when you were scheduled, he said. Well, yes, Jones answered. I thought that it might happen that a rocket would be needed in the search. The light from Earth lighted the Moon as the Moon had never lighted Earth. The great blue globe of Earth—the only thing larger than the stars—willed silently in the sky. As it turned, the shadow of sunset crept across the face that could be seen from the Moon. From full Earth, as you might say, it moved toward last quarter. The rising sun shone into Director McElroy's office. The hot light formed a circle on the wall opposite the window, and the light became more intense as the sun slowly pulled over the horizon. Mrs. Garth walked into the Director's office and saw the Director sleeping with his head cradled in his arms on the desk. She walked softly to the window and adjusted the shade to darken the office. She stood looking at McElroy for a moment, and when he moved slightly in his sleep, she walked softly out of the office. A few minutes later she was back with a cup of coffee. She placed it in front of the Director and shook his shoulder gently. Wake up, Mr. McElroy, she said. You told me to wake you at sunrise, and there it is, and here's Mr. Phelps. McElroy woke up slowly. He leaned back in his chair and stretched. His neck was stiff from sleeping in such an awkward position. Morning, Mr. Phelps, he said. Good morning, Phelps answered, dropping tiredly into a chair. Have some coffee, Mr. Phelps, said Mrs. Garth, handing him a cup. Any nose? Asked McElroy. About Evans? Phelps shook his head slowly. Palomar called in a few minutes back. Nothing to report, and the sun was rising there. Australia will be in position pretty soon. Several observatories there, then Cape Town. There are lots of observatories in Europe, but most of them are clouded over. Anyway, the satellite observatory will be in position by the time Europe is. McElroy was fully awake. He glanced at Phelps and wondered how long it had been since he had slept last. More than that, McElroy wondered why this banker, who had never met Evans, was losing so much sleep about finding him. It began to dawn on McElroy that nearly the whole population of Williamson Town was involved, one way or another, in the search. The director turned to ask Phelps about this fact, but the banker was slumped in his chair, fast asleep, with his coffee untouched. It was three hours later that McElroy woke Phelps. They found the tractor, McElroy said. Good, Phelps mumbled. And then, as comprehension came, that's fine. That's just fine. Is Evans? Can't tell yet. They spotted the tractor from the satellite observatory. Captain Jones took off a few minutes ago, and he'll report back as soon as he lands. Hadn't you better get some sleep? Evans was carrying a block of ice into the tractor. When he saw the rocket coming in for a landing, he dropped the block and stood waiting. When the dust settled from around the tail of the rocket, he started to run forward. The airlock opened, and Evans recognized the vacuum-suited figure of Nickel Jones. Evans' man said Jones' voice in the intercom. Alive you are! A Welshman takes a lot of killing, Evans answered. Later, in Evans' tractor, he was telling his story. And I don't know how long I sat there after I found the water. He looked at the Goldbergian device he had made out of wire and tubing. Finally I built this thing. These caves were made of lava. They must have been formed by steam some time, because there's a floor of ice in all of them. The idea didn't come all at once. It took a long time for me to remember that water is made out of oxygen and hydrogen. When I remembered that, of course, I remembered that it can be separated with electricity. So I built this thing. It runs on an electric current through water, lets the oxygen loose in the room, and pipes the hydrogen outside. It doesn't work automatically, of course, so I run it about an hour a day. My oxygen-level gauge shows how long. You're a genius, man, Jones exclaimed. No, Evans answered, a Welshman, nothing more. Well then, said Jones, are you ready to start back? Back? Well, it was to rescue you that I came. I don't need rescuing, man, Evans said. Jones stared at him blankly. You might let me have some food, Evans continued. I'm getting short of that. I'd have someone send out a mechanic with parts to fix my tractor. Then maybe you'll let me use your radio to file my claim. Claim? Sure, man. I have thousands of tons of water here. It's the richest mine on the moon. End of All Day September by Roger Coykendall. Beyond the Door by Philip K. Dick This is a LibriVox recording. LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Greg Marguerite. Beyond the Door by Philip K. Dick Larry Thomas bought a cuckoo clock for his wife without knowing the price he would have to pay. That night at the dinner table he brought it out and set it down beside her plate. Doris stared at it, her hand to her mouth. My God! What is it? She looked up at him bright-eyed. Well, open it! Doris tore the ribbon and paper from the square package with her sharp nails, her bosom rising and falling. Larry stood watching her as she lifted the lid. He lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall. A cuckoo clock Doris cried, a real old cuckoo clock just like my mother had. She turned the clock over and over, just like my mother had when Pete was still alive. Her eyes sparkled with tears. It's made in Germany, Larry said. After a moment he added, Carl got it for me wholesale. He knows some guy in the clock business. Otherwise I would have—he stopped. Doris made a funny little sound. I mean, otherwise I wouldn't have been able to afford it. He scowled. What's the matter with you? You've got your clock, haven't you? Isn't that what you want? Doris sat holding on to the clock. Her fingers pressed against the brown wood. Well, Larry said, what's the matter? He watched in amazement as she leaped up and ran from the room, still clutching the clock. He shook his head. Never satisfied. They're all that way. Never get enough. He sat down at the table and finished his meal. The cuckoo clock was not very large. It was handmade, however, and there were countless frets on it. Little indentations and ornaments scored into the soft wood. Doris sat on the bed, drying her eyes and winding the clock. She set the hands by her wristwatch. Presently she carefully moved the hands to two minutes of ten. She carried the clock over to the dresser and propped it up. Then she sat waiting, her hands twisting together in her lap, waiting for the cuckoo to come out for the hour to strike. As she sat she thought about Larry and what he had said and what she had said, too, for that matter. Not that she could be blamed for any of it. After all, she couldn't keep listening to him forever without defending herself. You had to blow your own trumpet in the world. She touched her handkerchief to her eyes suddenly. Why did he have to say that about getting it wholesale? Why did he have to spoil it all? If he felt that way he'd needn't have gotten in the first place. She clenched her fists. He was so mean. So damn mean. But she was glad of the little clock sitting there ticking to itself with its funny grilled edges and the door. Inside the door was the cuckoo, waiting to come out. Was he listening? His head cocked on one side, listening to hear the clock strike so that he would know to come out. Did he sleep between hours? Well, she would soon see him. She could ask him. And she would show the clock to Bob. He would love it. Bob loved old things, even old stamps and buttons. He liked to go with her to the stores. Of course it was a little awkward, but Larry had been staying at the office so much and that helped. If only Larry didn't call up sometimes too. There was a whir. The clock shuttered and all at once the door opened. The cuckoo came out, sliding swiftly. He paused and looked around solemnly, scrutinizing her. The room. The furniture. It was the first time he had seen her she realized smiling to herself in pleasure. She stood up, coming toward him shyly. Go on, she said. I'm waiting. The cuckoo opened his bill. He whirred and chirped quickly, rhythmically. Then after a moment of contemplation, he retired and the door snapped shut. She was delighted. She clapped her hands and spun in a little circle. He was marvelous. Perfect. And the way he had looked around, studying her, sizing her up, he liked her. She was certain of it. And she, of course, loved him at once, completely. He was just what she had hoped would come out of the little door. Doris went to the clock. She bent over the little door, her lips close to the wood. Do you hear me? She whispered. I think you're the most wonderful cuckoo in the world. She paused, embarrassed. I hope you'll like it here. Then she went downstairs again, slowly, her head high. Larry and the cuckoo clock really never got along well from the start. Doris said it was because he didn't wind it right, and it didn't like being only half-wound all the time. Larry turned the job of winding over to her. The cuckoo came out every quarter-hour and ran the spring down without remorse, and someone had to be ever after it, winding it up again. Doris did her best, but she forgot a good deal of the time. Then Larry would throw his newspaper down with an elaborate, weary motion and stand up. He would go into the dining room where the clock was mounted on the wall over the fireplace. He would take the clock down and making sure that he had his thumb over the little door. He would wind it up. Why do you put your thumb over the door, Doris asked once? You're supposed to. She raised an eyebrow. Are you sure? I wonder if it isn't that you don't want him to come out while you're standing so close. Why not? Maybe you're afraid of him. Larry laughed. He put the clock back on the wall and gingerly removed his thumb. When Doris wasn't looking, he examined his thumb. There was still a trace of the nick cut out of the soft part of it. Who or what had pecked at him? One Saturday morning, when Larry was down at the office working over some important special accounts, Bob Chambers came to the front porch and rang the bell. Doris was taking a quick shower. She dried herself and slipped into her robe. When she opened the door, Bob stepped inside, grinning. Hi, he said, looking around. It's all right. Larry's at the office? Fine. Bob gazed at her slim legs below the hem of the robe. How nice you look today. She laughed. Be careful. Maybe I shouldn't let you in after all. They looked at one another half amused, half frightened. Presently, Bob said, if you want, I'll— No, for God's sake. She caught hold of his sleeve. Just get out of the doorway so I can close it. Mrs. Peters across the street, you know— She closed the door. And I want to show you something, she said. You haven't seen it. He was interested. An antique or what? She took his arm, leading him toward the dining room. You'll love it, Bobby. She stopped. Why died? I hope you will. You must. You must love it. It means so much to me. He means so much. He? Bob frowned. Who is he? Doris laughed. You're jealous. Come on. A moment later they stood before the clock, looking up at it. He'll come out in a few minutes. Wait until you see him. I know you two will get along just fine. What does Larry think of him? They don't like each other. Sometimes when Larry's here, he won't come out. Larry gets mad if he doesn't come out on time. He says— Says what? Doris looked down. He always says that he's been robbed, even if he did get it wholesale. She brightened, but I know he won't come out because he doesn't like Larry. When I'm here alone, he comes right out for me every fifteen minutes, even though he really only has to come out on the hour. She gazed up at the clock. He comes out for me because he wants to. We talk. I tell him things, of course. I'd like to have him upstairs in my room, but it wouldn't be right. There was the sound of footsteps on the front porch. They looked at each other, horrified. Larry pushed the front door open, grunting. He set his briefcase down and took off his hat. Then he saw Bob for the first time. Chambers, I'll be damned. His eyes narrowed. What are you doing here? He came into the dining room. Doris drew her robe about her helplessly backing away. I—Bob began—that is, we—he broke off, glancing at Doris. Suddenly the clock began to whir. The cuckoo came rushing out, bursting into sound. Larry moved towards him. Shut that din off, he said. He raised his fist toward the clock. The cuckoo snapped into silence and retreated. The door closed. That's better. Larry studied Doris and Bob standing mutely together. I came over to look at the clock, Bob said. Doris told me that it's a rare antique and that— Nuts. I bought it myself. Larry walked up to him. Get out of here. He turned to Doris. I'm here, too, and take that damn clock with you. He paused, rubbing his chin. No. Leave the clock here, it's mine. I bought it and paid for it. In the weeks that followed after Doris left, Larry and the cuckoo clock got along even worse than before. For one thing, the cuckoo stayed inside most of the time. Sometimes even at twelve o'clock when he should have been busiest. And if he did come out at all, he usually spoke only once or twice, never the correct number of times. It's a sullen, uncooperative note in his voice, a jarring sound that made Larry uneasy and a little angry. But he kept the clock wound, because the house was very still and quiet, and it got on his nerves not to hear someone running around talking and dropping things. And even the whirring of a clock sounded good to him. But he didn't like the cuckoo at all, and sometimes he spoke to him. Listen, he said late one night to the closed little door, I know you can hear me. I ought to give you back to the Germans, back to the black forest." He paced back and forth. I wonder what they're doing now, the two of them, that young punk with his books and his antiques. A man shouldn't be interested in antiques. That's for women. He said his jaw. Isn't that right? The clock said nothing. Larry walked up in front of it. Isn't that right, he demanded? Don't you have anything to say? He looked at the face of the clock. It was almost eleven, just a few seconds before the hour. All right, I'll wait until eleven. Then I want to hear what you have to say. You've been pretty quiet these last few weeks since she left. He grinned wryly. Maybe you don't like it here since she's gone. He scowled. Well, I paid for you and you're coming out whether you like it or not, you hear me? Eleven o'clock came. Far off, at the end of town, the great tower-clock boomed sleepily to itself. But the little door remained shut. Nothing moved. The minute hand passed on and the cuckoo did not stir. He was someplace inside the clock, beyond the door, silent and remote. All right, if that's the way you feel, Larry murmured, his lips twisting. But it isn't fair. It's your job to come out. We all have to do things we don't like. He went unhappily into the kitchen and opened the great gleaming refrigerator. As he poured himself a drink, he thought about the clock. There was no doubt about it. The cuckoo should come out. Doris saw no Doris. He had always liked her from the very start. They had got along well, the two of them. Probably he liked Bob too. Probably he had seen enough of Bob to get to know him. They would be quite happy together, Bob and Doris and the cuckoo. Larry finished his drink. He opened the drawer at the sink and took out the hammer. He carried it carefully into the dining room. The clock was ticking gently to itself on the wall. Look, he said, waving the hammer. You know what I have here? You know what I'm going to do with it? I'm going to start on you first. He smiled. Birds of a feather. That's what you are. The three of you. The room was silent. Are you coming out or do I have to come in and get you? The clock whirred a little. I hear you in there. You've got a lot of talking to do. Enough for the last three weeks as I figure it. You owe me. The door opened. The cuckoo came out fast. Straight at him. Larry was looking down. His brow wrinkled and thought. He glanced up and the cuckoo caught him squarely in the eye. Down he went. Hammer and chair and everything hitting the floor with a tremendous crash. For a moment the cuckoo paused. Its small body poised rigidly. Then it went back inside the house. The door snapped. Tight shut after it. The man lay on the floor, stretched out grotesquely. His head bent over to one side. Nothing moved or stirred. The room was completely silent. Except, of course, for the ticking of the clock. I see, Doris said, her face tight. Bob put his arm around her, steadying her. Doctor, Bob said, can I ask you something? Of course, the doctor said. Is it very easy to break your neck falling from so low a chair? It wasn't very far to fall. I wonder if it might not have been an accident. Is there any chance it might have been... Suicide? The doctor rubbed his jaw. I never heard of anyone committing suicide that way. It was an accident. I'm positive. I don't mean suicide, Bob murmured under his breath, looking up at the clock on the wall. I meant something else, but no one heard him. End of Beyond the Door by Phillip K. Dick. By M. White. Blessed are the meek by G. C. Edmondson. Every strength is a weakness, and every weakness is a strength. And when the strong start smashing each other's strength, the weak may turn out to be, instead, the wise. The strangers landed just before dawn, incinerating a goodly 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 toward the strangers. Griffin turned, not trying to conceal his excitement. You're the linguist. See what you can get out of him. I might, King Su ventured sourly. If you'd go weed the air machine or something, this is going to be hard enough without a lot of cabitzers cramping my style and scaring old poonface here half to death. I see your point, Griffin answered. He turned and started back toward the diggings. Let me know if you make any progress with the local language. He stopped whistling in strove to control the jauntiness of his gate. 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 folks 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 Albania's was operating the diggers. Anything, he inquired. Nothing so far, Albania's reported. What's the score on this job? I missed the briefing. How do 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 cross-bred with humans. I couldn't say, Griffin observed dryly. From the looks of old prune face, 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've 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 Kongsu in prune face. Well, have you gotten beyond the me Charlie stage yet? Griffin inquired at breakfast two days later. Kongsu gave an inscrutable East Los Angeles smile. As a matter of fact, I'm a little further along, Joe is amazingly cooperative. Joe? Spell it C-H-O-U 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 Kong 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 plans 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. I'm way ahead of you, 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 Kong rejoined Testly. Joe says there are only two kinds of people. His own dark straight-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. Yeah, I guess I'd better start learning the language. Thanks to the spade work Kongsu 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 urban-fused hot water with Joe and other old ones in the low-roofed wooden building around which clustered a village of 200 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 300 heartbeats longer than yours. Joe nodded his thanks. More water. Griffin declined, suppressing a shudder. 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 lands. We surrendered naturally and soon were 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 Novae. Surely you realize it could happen again. What would you do without a technology to build spaceships? Many stars have gone Novae during our history. Usually the barbarians come in time. When they didn't, you mean you don't really care? All barbarians ask that sooner or later, Joe smiled. Sometimes toward 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 Novae? 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. Kung-Su 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 7000 years. You are all of one race? No, you may have noticed Kung-Su is slightly different from the rest of us. Yes, Griffin, I have noticed. When you return, ask Kung-Su 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, fair, 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 labor for the delicate digging. Want to put them on? Might as well, Griffin answered. There's a streetcar every millennium anyways. What do you mean by that? You wouldn't understand. You sold your birthright to the barbarians. End of Blessed are the Meek by G. C. Edmondson. Recording by M. White. I knew she would not see her son and her husband ever again on earth. Sally Enders had never really thought of herself as a wallflower. A girl could be shy, couldn't she, and still be pretty enough to attract and hold men. Only this morning she had drawn an admiring look from the milkman and a wolf cry from Jimmy on the corner with his newspapers and shiny new bike. What if the milkman was crowding sixty and wore thick-lensed glasses? What if Jimmy was only seventeen? A male was a male and a glance was a glance. Why, if I just print a little more, Sally told herself, I'll be irresistible. Hair ribbons and perfume. A mirror tilted at just the right angle. An invitation to a party on the dresser. What more did a girl need? Dinner, Sally, came echoing up from the kitchen. Do you want to be late, child? Sally had no intention of being late. Tonight she'd see him across a crowded room and her heart would skip a beat. He'd look at her and smile and come straight toward her with his shoulders squared. There was always one night in a girl's life that stands above all other nights. One night when the moon shone bright and clear and the clock on the wall went tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. One night when each tick said, You're beautiful, really beautiful. Giving her hair a final pat, Sally smiled at herself in the mirror. In the bathroom the water was still running and her fumed bath soap still spread its aromatic sweet odor through the room. Sally went into the bathroom and turned off the tap before going downstairs to the kitchen. My girl looks radiant tonight. Uncle Ben said, smiling at her over his corned beef and cabbage. Sally blushed and lowered her eyes. Ben, you're making her nervous, Sally's mother said, laughing. Sally looked up and met her uncle's stare, her eyes defiant. I'm not bad looking whatever you may think, she said. Oh, now, Sally, Uncle Ben protested. No sense in getting on a high horse. Tonight you may find a man who just won't be able to resist you. Maybe I will and maybe I won't, Sally said. You'd be surprised if I did, wouldn't you? It was Uncle Ben's turn to lower his eyes. I'll tell the world you've inherited your mother's looks, Sally, he said. But a man has to pride himself on something. My defects of character are pretty bad, but no one has ever accused me of dishonesty. Sally folded her napkin and rose stiffly from the table. Good night, Uncle, she said. When Sally arrived at the party, every foot of floor space was taken up by dancing couples and the reception room was so crowded that, as each new guest was announced, a little ripple of displeasure went through the men in midnight blue and the women in nile green and lavender. For a moment Sally did not move, just stood staring at the dancing couples, half hidden by one of the potted palms that framed the sides of the long room. Moonlight silvered her hair and touched her white throat and arms with a caress so gentle that simply by closing her eyes she could fancy herself already in his arms. Moonlight from tall windows flooding down, turning the dancing guests into pirouetting ghosts in diaphanous blue and green, scarlet and gold. Close your eyes, Sally, close them tight. Now open them. That's it, slowly, slowly. He came out of nothingness into the light and was right beside her suddenly. He was tall but not too tall. His face was tanned mahogany-brown and his eyes were clear and very bright and he stood there looking at her steadily until her mouth opened and a little gasp flew out. He took her into his arms without a word and they started to dance. They were still dancing when he asked her to be his wife. You'll marry me, of course, he said. We haven't too much time. The years go by so swiftly, like great white birds at sea. They were very close when he asked her but he made no attempt to kiss her. They went right on dancing and while he waited for her answer he talked about the moon. When the lights go out and the music stops the moon will remain, he said. It raises tides on the earth. It inflames the minds and hearts of men. There are cyclic rhythms which would set a stone to dreaming and desiring on a night such as this. He stopped dancing abruptly and looked at her with calm assurance. You will marry me, won't you? He asked. Allowing for a reasonable margin of error I seriously doubt if I could be happy with any of these other women. I was attracted to you the instant I saw you. A girl who has never been asked before who has drawn only one lone wolf cry from a newsboy could hardly be expected to resist such an offer. Don't resist, Sally. He's strong and tall and extremely good-looking. He knows what he wants and makes up his mind quickly. Surely a man so resolute must make enough money to support a wife. Yes, Sally breathed, and close to him, oh, yes. She paused a moment then said, You may kiss me now if you wish, my darling. He straightened and frowned a little and looked away quickly. That can wait, he said. They were married a week later and went on to live on an elm-shaded street just five blocks from where Sally was born. The cottage was small, white, and attractively decorated inside and out, but Sally changed the curtains as all women must and bought some new furniture on the installment plan. The neighbors were friendly folk, who knew her husband as Mr. James Rand, an energetic young insurance broker who would certainly carve a wider swath for himself in his chosen profession now that he had so charming a wife. Ten months later the first baby came. Lying beneath cool white sheets in the hospital, Sally looked at the other women and felt so deliriously happy she wanted to cry. It was a beautiful baby, and it cuddled close to her heart. Its smallness, a miracle in itself. The other husbands came in and sat beside their wives, holding on tight to their happiness. There were flowers and smiles, whispers that explored bright new worlds of tenderness and rejoicing. Out in the corridor, the husbands congratulated one another and came in smelling of cigar smoke. Have a cigar, that's right. Eight pounds at birth. That's unusual, isn't it? Brightest kid you ever saw, knew his old man right off. He was beside her suddenly, standing straight and still in the shadows. Oh, darling, she whispered, why did you wait? It's been three whole days. Three days he asked, leaning forward to stare down at his son. Really? Didn't seem that long. Where were you? You didn't even phone. Sometimes it's difficult to phone, he said slowly as if measuring his words. You have given me a son. That pleases me very much. A coldness touched her heart, and a despair took hold of her. It pleases you. Is that all you can say? Why do you stand there looking at me as if I were a patient? A patient? His expression grew quizzical. Just what do you mean, Sally? You said you were pleased if a patient is ill, her doctor hopes that she will get well. He is pleased when she does. If a woman has a baby, a doctor will say, I'm so pleased. The baby is doing fine. You don't have to worry about him. I've put him on the scales, and he's a bouncing, healthy boy. Medicine is a sane wise profession, Sally's husband said. When I look at my son, that is exactly what I would say to the mother of my son. He is healthy and strong. You have pleased me, Sally. He bent as he spoke, and picked Sally's son up. He held the infant in the crook of his arm, smiling down at it. A healthy male child, he said. His hair will come in thick and black. Soon he will speak. We'll know that I am his father. He ran his palm over the baby's smooth head, opened its mouth gently with his forefinger, and looked inside. Sally rose on one elbow, her tormented eyes searching his face. He's your child, your son, she sobbed. A woman has a child, and her husband comes and puts his arms around her. He holds her close. If they love each other, they are so happy, so very happy they break down and cry. I am too pleased to do anything so fantastic, Sally, he said. When a child is born, no tears should be shed by its parents. I have examined the child, and I am pleased with it. Does not that content you? No, it doesn't, Sally almost shrieked. Why do you stare at your own son as if you'd never seen a baby before? He isn't a mechanical toy. He's our own darling, adorable little baby, our child. How can you be so inhumanly calm? He frowned and put the baby down. There is a time for love-making and a time for parenthood, he said. Parenthood is a serious responsibility. That is where medicine comes in—surgery. If a child is not perfect, there are emergency measures which can be taken to correct the defect. Sally's mouth went suddenly dry. Perfect! What do you mean, Jim? Is there something wrong with Tommy? I don't think so, her husband said. His grasp is firm and strong. He has good hearing, and his eyesight appears to be all that could be desired. Did you notice how his eyes followed me every moment? I wasn't looking at his eyes. Sally whispered her voice tight with alarm. Why are you trying to frighten me, Jim? If Tommy wasn't a normal healthy baby, do you imagine for one instant they would have placed him in my arms? That is a very sound observation, Sally's husband said. Truth is truth, but to alarm you at a time like this would be unnecessarily cruel. Where does that put you? I simply spoke my mind as the child's father. I had to speak as I did because of my natural concern for the health of our child. Do you want me to stay and talk to you, Sally? Sally shook her head. No, Jim. I won't let you torture me any more. Sally drew the baby into her arms again and held it tightly. I'll scream if you stay, she warned. I'll become hysterical unless you leave. Very well, her husband said. I'll come back tomorrow. He bent as he spoke and kissed her on the forehead. His lips were ice cold. For eight years, Sally sat across the table from her husband at breakfast, her eyes fixed upon a nothingness on the green-blue wall at his back. Calm he remained even while eating. The eggs she placed before him, he cracked methodically with a knife and consumed behind a tilted newspaper, taking now an assured sip of coffee, now a measured glance at the clock. The presence of his young son bothered him not at all. Tommy could be quiet or noisy in trouble at school or with an A for good conduct tucked with his report card in his soiled leather zipper jacket. It was always, eat slowly, my son. Never gulp your food. Be sure to take plenty of exercise today. Stay in the sun as much as possible. Often Sally wanted to shriek. Be a father to him, a real father. Get down on the floor and play with him. Shoot marbles with him. Spin one of his tops. Remember the toy locomotive you gave him for Christmas after I got hysterical and screamed at you? Remember the beautiful little train? Get it out of the closet and wreck it accidentally. He'll warm up to you then. He'll be broken-hearted, but he'll feel close to you, then you'll know what it means to have a son. Often Sally wanted to fly at him, beat with her fists on his chest, but she never did. You can't warm a stone by slapping it, Sally. You'd only bruise yourself. A stone is neither cruel nor tender. You've married a man of stone, Sally. He hasn't missed a day at the office in eight years. She'd never visited the office, but he was always there to answer when she phoned. I'm very busy, Sally. What did you say? You've bought a new hat? I'm sure it will look well on you. Sally, what did you say? Tommy got into a fight with a new boy in the neighbourhood? You must take better care of him, Sally. There are patterns in every marriage. When once the mould has set, a few strange behaviour patterns must be accepted as a matter of course. I'll drop in at the office tomorrow, darling. Sally had promised right after the breakfast pattern had become firmly established. The desire to see where her husband worked had been from the start a strong, bright flame in her. But he asked her to wait a while before visiting his office. A strong will can dampen the brightest flame, and when months passed and he kept saying no, Sally found herself agreeing with her husband's suggestion that the visit be put off indefinitely. Snuff a candle and it stays snuffed. A marriage pattern once established requires a very special kind of rekindling. Sally's husband refused to supply the needed spark. Whenever Sally had an impulse to turn her steps in the direction of the office, a voice deep in her mind seemed to whisper, no sense in it, Sally. Stay away. He's been mean and spiteful about it all these years. Don't give in to him now by going. Besides, Tommy took up so much of her time. A growing boy was always a problem, and Tommy seemed to have a special gift for getting into things because he was so active. And he went through his clothes, wore out his shoes almost faster than she could replace them. Right now Tommy was playing in the yard. Sally's eyes came to a focus upon him, crouching by a hole in the fence, which kindly old Mrs. Wallingford had erected as a protection against the prying inquisitiveness of an eight-year-old determined to make life miserable for her. A thrice-widowed neighbor of seventy without a spiteful hair in her head could put up with a boy who rollicked and yelled perhaps, but peephole spying was another matter. Sally muttered, enough of that, and started for the kitchen door, just as she reached it the telephone rang. Sally went quickly to the phone and lifted the receiver. The instant she pressed it to her ear, she recognized her husband's voice, or thought she did. Sally, come to the office. Came the voice speaking in a hoarse whisper, Harry, or it will be too late. Harry, Sally! She turned with a startled gasp, looking out through the kitchen window at the autumn leaves blowing crisp and dry across the lawn. As she looked the scattered leaves whirled into a flurry around Tommy, then lifted and went spinning over the fence and out of sight. The dread in her heart gave way to a sudden bleak despair. As she turned from the phone something within her withered became as dead as the drifting leaves with their dark autumnal modelings. She did not even pause to call Tommy in from the front yard. The stairs then down again, gathering her coat, hat, gloves, and purse, making sure she had enough change to pay for the taxi. The ride to the office was a nightmare. Tall buildings swept past facades of granite as gray as the leaden skies of mid-winter, beehives of commerce where men and women brushed shoulders without touching hands. Autumnal leaves blowing and the gray buildings sweeping past, despite Tommy, despite everything, there was no shining vision to warm Sally from within. A cottage must be lived in to become a home and Sally had never really had a home. One night stand. It wasn't an expression she'd have used by choice, but it came unbidden into her mind. If you live for nine years with a man who can't relax and be human, who can't be warm and loving, you'll begin to eventually feel you might as well live alone. Each day had been like a lonely sentinel outpost in a desert waste for Sally. She thought about Tommy. Tommy wasn't in the least like his father when he came racing home from school hair-tossled books dangling from a strap. Tommy would raid the pantry with unthinking zest, invite other boys in to look at westerns on TV and trade black eyes for marbles with a healthy pugnacity. Up to a point, Tommy was normal, was healthy. But she had seen mirrored in Tommy's pale blue eyes the same abnormal calmness that was always in his father's and the look of derisive withdrawal which made him seem always to be staring down at her from a height and it filled her with terror to see that Tommy's mood could change as abruptly and terrifyingly cold. Tommy, her son, Tommy, no longer boisterous and eager but sitting in a corner with his legs drawn up a faraway look in his eyes. Tommy seemed to look right through her into space. Tommy and Jim exchanging silent understanding glances. Tommy roaming through the cottage staring at his toys with frowning disapproval. Tommy drawing back when she tried to touch him. Tommy, Tommy, come back to me! How often she had cried out in her heart when that coldness came between them. Tommy drawing strange figures on the floor with a piece of colored chalk then erasing them quickly before she could see them, refusing to let her enter his secret child's world. Tommy picking up the cat and stroking its fur mechanically while he stared out through the kitchen window at rusty blackbirds on the wing. This is the address you gave me, lady. 67 Vine Street, the cab driver was saying. Sally shivered, remembering her husband's voice on the phone, remembering where she was. Come to the office, Sally. Harry, Harry, or it will be too late. Too late for what? Too late to recapture a happiness she had never possessed? This is it, lady, the cab driver insisted. Do you want me to wait? No, Sally said, fumbling for her change purse. She descended from the taxi, paid the driver and hurried across the pavement to the big office building with its mirroring frontage of plate glass and black onyx tiles. The firm's name was on the directory board in the lobby, white on black in beautifully embossed lettering, white for hope and black for despair. Morning. The elevator opened and closed, and Sally was whisked up eight stories behind a man in a checkered suit. A floor Sally whispered in sudden alarm. The elevator jolted to an abrupt halt and the operator swung about to glare at her. You should have told me when you got on, miss," he complained. Sorry, Sally muttered, stumbling out into the corridor. How horrible it must be to go to business every day, she thought wildly. To sit in an office, to thumb through papers, to bark orders, to be a machine. Sally stood very still for an instant, startled, feeling her sanity threatened by the very absurdity of the thought. People who worked in offices could turn for escape to a cottage in the sun-set's glow when they were set up. In the sun-set's glow when they were set free by the moving hands of a clock. There could be a fierce joy at the thought of deliverance at the prospect of going home at five o'clock. But for Sally was the brightness, the deliverance withheld. The corridor was wide and deserted and the black tiles with their gold borders seemed to converge upon her, hemming her into a cool magnificence as structurally somber as the architectural embellishments of a costly mausoleum. She found the office with her surface mind, working at cross-purposes with the confusion and swiftly mounting dread which made her footsteps falter, her mouth go dry. Steady Sally, here's the office, here's the door, turn the knob and get it over with. Sally opened the door and stepped into a small deserted reception room. Beyond the reception desk was a gate and beyond the gate a large central office branched off into several smaller offices. Sally paused only an instant. It seemed quite natural to her that a business office should be deserted so late in the afternoon. She crossed the reception room to the gate, passed through it, utter desperation giving her courage. Something within her whispered that she had only to walk across the central office, open the first door she came to and find her husband. The first door combined privacy with easy accessibility. The instant she opened the door she knew that she had been right to trust her instincts. This was his office. He was sitting at a desk by the window, a patch of sunset sky visible over his right shoulder, his elbows rested on the desk and his hands were tightly locked as if he had just stopped ringing them. He was looking straight at her, his eyes wide and staring. Jim, Sally breathed, Jim, what's wrong? He did not answer. He did not move or attempt to greet her in any way. There was no color at all in his face. His lips were parted, his white teeth gleamed and he was more stiffly controlled than usual. The control so intense that for once Sally felt more alarmed than bitterness. There was a rising terror in her now and a slowly dawning horror. The sunlight streamed in, gleaming redly on his hair, his shoulders. He seemed to be the center of a flaming red ball. He sent for you, Sally. Why doesn't he get up and speak to you if only to pour salt in the wounds you've borne for eight long years? Poor Sally, you wanted a strong protective old fashioned husband. What have you got instead? Sally went up to the desk and looked steadily into eyes so calm and blank seemed like the eyes of a child lost in some dreamy wonderland barred forever to adult understanding. For an instant her terror ebbed and she felt almost reassured. Then she made the mistake of bending more closely above him, brushing his right elbow with her sleeve. That single light woman's touch unsettled him. He started to fall sideways and very fast. Top of a dead weight and it crashes with a swiftness no opposing force can counterbalance. It did Sally no good to clutch frantically as he fell to tug and jerk at the slackening folds of his suit. The heaviness of his descending bulk dragged him down and away from her, the awful inertia of lifeless flesh. He thudded to the floor and rolled over on his back, seeming to shrink as Sally widened her eyes upon him. He lay in a grotesque sprawl at her feet, his jaws hanging open on the gaping black orifice of his mouth. Sally might have screamed and gone right on screaming if she had been a different kind of woman. Seeing her husband lying dead, her impulse might have been to throw herself down beside him, give way to her grief in a wild fit of sobbing. But where there was no grief there could be no sobbing. One thing only she did before she left. She loosened the collar of the unmoving form on the floor and looked for the small brown mole she did not really expect to find. The mole she knew to be on her husband's shoulder high up on the left side. She had noticed things that had made her doubt her sanity. She needed to see the little black mole to reassure her. She had noticed the difference in the hairline, the strange slant of the eyebrows, the crinkly texture of the skin where it should have been smooth. Something was wrong, horribly, weirdly wrong. Even the hands of the sprawled form seemed larger and hairier than the hands of her husband. Nevertheless it was important to be sure. The absence of the mole clenched it. She grouched beside the body carefully readjusting the collar. Then she got up and walked out of the office. Some homecomings are joyful, others cruel. Sitting in the taxi clenching and unclenching her hands Sally had no plan that could be called a plan. No hope that was more than a dim flickering in a vast wasteland, bleak and unexplored. But it was strange how one light burning brightly in a cottage window could make even a wasteland seem small. Could shrink and diminish it until a flash of darkness that anyone with courage might cross. The light was in Tommy's room, and there was a whispering behind the door. Sally could hear the whispering as she tiptoed upstairs and could see the light streaming out into the hall. She paused for an instant at the head of the stairs, listening. There were two voices in the room and they were talking back and forth. Sally tiptoed down the hall, stood with wildly beating heart just outside the door. Two voices said, We are very close, your mother and I. She knows now that I sent her to the office to find my stand-in. Oh, it's an amusing term, Tommy, and Earth term we'd hardly use on Mars, but it's a term your mother would understand. A pause. Then the voice went on. You see, my son, it has taken me eight years to repair the ship, and in eight years a man can wither up and die by inches if he does not have a growing son to go adventuring with him in the end. Adventuring, father? You have read a good many earth books, my son, written especially for boys. Treasure Island, Robinson Crusoe, twenty thousand leagues under the sea, what paltry books they are. But in them there is a little of the fire, a little of the glow of our world. No, father, I started them, but I threw them away for I did not like them. As you and I must throw away all earth things, my son, I tried to be kind to your mother to be a good husband as husbands go on earth. But how could I feel proud and strong and reckless by her side? How could I share her paltry joys and sorrows, chirp with delight as a sparrow might chirp hopping about in the grass? Can an eagle pretend to be a sparrow? Can the thunder muffle its voice when two white-crested clouds collide in the shining depths of the night sky? You tried, father, you did your best. Yes, my son, I did try. But if I had attempted to feign emotions, I did not feel your mother would have seen through the pretense. She would then have turned from me completely. Without her I could not have had you, my son. And now, father, what will we do? Now the ship has been repaired and is waiting for us. Every day for eight years I went to the hill and worked on the ship. It was badly wrecked, my son, but now patience has been rewarded and every damaged astro-navigation instrument has been replaced. You went to the office, father? You never went at all? No, my son. My stand-in worked at the office in my place. I instilled in your mother's mind an intense dislike and fear of the office to keep her from ever coming face to face with the stand-in. She might have noticed the difference. But I had to have a stand-in as a safeguard. Your mother might have gone to the office despite the mental block. She's gone now, father. Why did you send for her? I would call a scene, my son, that I could not endure. I had the stand-in summon her on the office telephone. Then I withdrew all vitality from it. She will find it quite lifeless. But it does not matter now. When she returns, we will be gone. Was constructing the stand-in difficult, father? Not for me, my son. On Mars we have many androids each constructed to perform a specific task. Some are ingenious beyond belief or would seem so to earthmen. There was a pause. Then the weaker of the two voices said, I will miss my mother. She tried to make me happy. She tried very hard. You must be brave and strong, son. We are eagles, you and I. Your mother is a sparrow, gentle and done-colored. I shall always remember her with tenderness. You want to go with me, don't you? Yes, father, oh yes. Then come, my son, we must hurry. Your mother will be returning any minute now. Suddenly she stood motionless, listening to the voices like a spectator sitting before a television screen. A spectator can see as well as hear and Sally could visualize her son's pale, eager face so clearly there was no need for her to move forward into the room. She could not move. And nothing on earth could have wrenched a tortured cry from her. Grief and shock may paralyze the mind and will, but Sally's will was not paralyzed. It was as if the threat of her life only one light left burning. Tommy was that light. He would never change. He would go from her forever. But he would always be her son. The door of Tommy's room opened, and Tommy and his father came out into the hall. Sally stepped back into the shadows and watched them walk quickly down the hall to the stairs, their voices low, hushed. She heard them descend the stairs, their footsteps dwindle, die away into silence. You'll see a light, Sally, a great glow lighting up the sky. The ship must be very beautiful. For eight years he labored over it, restoring it with all the shining gifts of skill and feeling at his command. He was calm toward you, but not toward the ship, Sally. The ship which will take him back to Mars. How is it on Mars, she wondered? My son Tommy will become a strong, proud adventurer daring the farthest planet of the farthest star. You can't stop a boy from adventuring. Surprise him in his books and you'll see tropical seas in his eyes, a pearly nautilus, Hong Kong and Valpariso resplendent in the dawn. There is no strength quite like the strength of a mother, Sally. Endure it. Be brave. Sally was at the window when it came. A dazzling burst of radiance starting from the horizon's rim and spreading across the entire sky. It lit up the cottage and flickered over the lawn, turning rooftops to molten gold and gilding the long line of rolling hills which hemmed in the town. Brighter it grew and brighter. Gilding for a moment even Sally's bowed head and her image mirrored on the pain. Then abruptly it was gone. End of The Calm Man by Frank Belknap Long