 To be are not to be by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Got a problem? Just pick up the phone. It's solve them all and all the same way. To be are not to be by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. Everything was perfectly swell. There were no prisons, no slums, no insane asylums, no cripples, no poverty, no war. All diseases were conquered. So was old age. Death barring accidents was an adventure for volunteers. The population of the United States was stabilized at 40 million souls. One bright morning in the Chicago lying-in hospital, a man named Edward K. Whaling, Jr. waited for his wife to give birth. He was the only man waiting. Not many people were born in a day anymore. Whaling was 56, a mere stripling in a population whose average age was 129. X-rays had revealed that his wife was going to have triplets. The children would be his first. Young Whaling was hunched in his chair, his head in his hands. He was so rumpled, so still and colorless as to be virtually invisible. His camouflage was perfect, since the waiting-room had a disorderly and demoralized air, too. Chairs and ashtrays had been moved away from the walls. The floor was paved with spattered drop-cloths. The room was being redecorated. It was being redecorated as a memorial to a man who had volunteered to die. A sardonic old man, about 200 years old, sat on a stepladder painting a mural he did not like. Back in the days when people aged visibly, his age would have been guessed at 35 or so. Aging had touched him that much before the cure for aging was found. The mural he worked on depicted a very neat garden. Men and women in white, doctors and nurses turned the soil, planted seedlings, sprayed bugs, spread fertilizer. Men and women in purple uniforms pulled up weeds, cut down plants that were old and sickly, raked leaves, carried refuse to trash burners. Never, never, never, not even in medieval Holland or old Japan, had a garden been more formal, been better tended. Every plant had all the loam, light, water, air, and nourishment it could use. A hospital orderly came down the corridor, singing under his breath a popular song. If you don't like my kisses, honey, here's what I will do. I'll go see a girl in purple, kiss this sad world to Lou. If you don't want my lovin', why should I take up all this space? I'll get off this old planet, let some sweet baby have my place. The orderly looked in at the mural and the muralist. Look so real, he said. I can practically imagine I'm standing in the middle of it. What makes you think you're not in it? said the painter. He gave a satiric smile. It's called the happy garden of life, you know. That's good of Dr. Hitz, said the orderly. He was referring to one of the male figures in white, whose head was a portrait of Dr. Benjamin Hitz, the hospital's chief obstetrician. Hitz was a blindingly handsome man. Lots of faces still to fill in, said the orderly. He meant that the faces of many of the figures in the mural were still blank. All blanks were to be filled in with portraits of important people on either the hospital staff or from the Chicago office of the Federal Bureau of Health. Must be nice to be able to paint pictures that look like something, said the orderly. The painter's face curdled with scorn. You think I'm proud of this, Dobb? he said. You think this is my idea of what life really looks like? What's your idea of what life looks like, said the orderly. The painter gestured at a foul drop cloth. There's a good picture of it, he said. Frame that and you'll have a picture a damn sight more honest than this one. You're a gloomy old duck, aren't you? said the orderly. Is that a crime? said the painter. The orderly shrugged. If you don't like it here, Grandpa, he said, and he finished the thought with a trick telephone number that people who didn't want to live anymore were supposed to call. The zero in the telephone number he pronounced not. The number was 2-B-R-NOT-2-B. It was the telephone number of an institution whose fanciful sober case included Automat, Birdland, Cannery, Catbox, DeLouser, EasyGo, Goodbye Mother, Happy Hooligan, Kiss Me Quick, Lucky Pierre, Sheep Dip, Wearing Blender, Weep No More, and Why Worry. To be or not to be was the telephone number of the municipal gas chambers of the Federal Bureau of Termination. The painter thumbed his nose at the orderly. When I decided it's time to go, he said, it won't be at the sheep dip. A do-it-yourself array, said the orderly. Messy business, Grandpa, why don't you have a little consideration for the people who have to clean up after you? The painter expressed with an obscenity his lack of concern for the tribulations of his survivors. The world could do with a good deal more mess if you ask me, he said. The orderly laughed and moved on. Whaling, the waiting father mumbled something without raising his head. And then he fell silent again. A coarse, formidable woman strode into the waiting room on spike heels. Her shoes, stockings, trench coat, bag, and overseas cap were all purple. The purple, the painter called, the color of grapes on Judgment Day. The medallion on her purple musette bag was the seal of the service division of the Federal Bureau of Termination. An eagle perched on a turnstile. The woman had a lot of facial hair, an unmistakable mustache, in fact. A curious thing about gas chamber hostesses was that no matter how lovely and feminine they were when recruited, they all sprouted mustaches within five years or so. Is this where I'm supposed to come, she said to the painter. A lot would depend on what your business was, he said. You aren't about to have a baby, are you? They told me I was supposed to pose for some picture, she said. My name's Leora Duncan, she waited. And you, Dunk people, he said. What? she said. Skip it, he said. That sure is a beautiful picture, she said. Looks just like having a something. Or something, said the painter. He took a list of names from his smock pocket. Duncan, Duncan, Duncan, he said, scanning a list. Yes, here you are, you're entitled to be immortalized. See any faceless body here you'd like me to stick your head on? We've got a few choice ones left. She studied the mural bleakly. Gee, she said. They're all the same to me. I don't know anything about art. A body's a body, eh? He said. Already, as a matter of fine art, I'll recommend this body. He indicated a faceless figure of a woman who was carrying dried stalks to a trash burner. Well, said Leora Duncan. That's more the disposal people, isn't it? I mean, I'm in service. I don't do any disposing. The painter clapped his hands and mocked a light. You say you don't know anything about art, and then you prove in the next breath that you know more about it than I do. You say you don't know anything about art, and then you prove in the next breath that you know more about it than I do. You say you don't know anything about art, and then you prove in the next breath that you know more about it than I do. Of course, the shiv carrier is wrong for a hostess. A snipper, a pruner, that's more your line. He pointed to a figure in purple who was sawing a dead branch from an apple tree. How about her, he said. You like her at all? Gosh, she said, and she blushed and became humble. That puts me right next to Dr. Hitz. That upsets you, he said. It's just such an honor. Ah, you admire him, eh? he said. Who doesn't admire him, she said, worshiping the portrait of Dr. Hitz. It was a portrait of a tanned, white-haired, omnipotent Zeus, 240 years old. Who doesn't admire him, she said again. He was responsible for setting up the very first gas chamber in Chicago. Nothing would please me more, said the painter, than to put you next to him for all time. Lying off a limb, that strike she was appropriate? That is kind of like what I do, she said. She was demure about what she did. What she did was make people comfortable while she killed them. And while Liora Duncan was posing for her portrait into the waiting room bounded Dr. Hitz himself, he was seven feet tall, and he boomed with importance, accomplishments, and the joy of living. Well, Miss Duncan, Miss Duncan, he said. And he made a joke. What are you doing here? This isn't where the people leave. This is where they come in. We're going to be in the same picture together, she said, shyly. Good, said Dr. Hitz heartily. And say, isn't that some picture? I sure am honored to be in it with you, she said. Let me tell you, he said, I'm honored to be in it with you. Without women like you, this wonderful world we've got wouldn't be possible. He saluted her and moved towards a door that led to the delivery rooms. Guess what was just born, he said. I can't, she said. Triplets, he said. Triplets, she said. She was exclaiming over the legal implications of triplets. The law said that no newborn child could survive unless the parents of the child could find someone who would volunteer to die. Triplets, if they were all to live, went for three volunteers. Did the parents have three volunteers? said Leora Duncan. Last I heard, said Dr. Hitz, they had one and were trying to scrape another two up. I don't think they made it, she said. Nobody made three appointments with us. Nothing but singles going through today unless somebody called in after I left. What's the name? Wailing, said the waiting father, sitting up, red-eyed and frowsy. Edward K. Wailing Jr. is the name of the happy father to be. He raised his right hand, looked at a spot on the wall, gave a horsely wretched chuckle. Present, he said. Oh, Mr. Wailing, said Dr. Hitz. I didn't see you. The invisible man, said Wailing. They just phoned me that your triplets have been born, said Dr. Hitz. They're all fine and so is the mother. I'm on my way in to see them now. Hurray, said Wailing, emptily. You don't sound very happy, said Dr. Hitz. What man in my shoes wouldn't be happy, said Wailing. He gestured with his hands to symbolize carefree simplicity. All I have to do is pick out which one of the triplets is going to live, then deliver my material grandfather to the happy hooligan and come back here with a receipt. Dr. Hitz became rather severe with Wailing, towered over him. You don't believe in population, controlled, Mr. Wailing, he said. I think it's perfectly keen, said Wailing, thoughtly. Would you like to go back to the good old days when the population of the earth was twenty billion, about to become forty billion, then eighty billion, then one hundred and sixty billion? Do you know what a droplet is, Mr. Wailing, he said, said Dr. Hitz. Nope, said Wailing, sulkily. A droplet, Mr. Wailing, is one of the little knobs, one of the little pulpy grains of a blackberry, said Dr. Hitz. Without population control, human beings would now be packed on the surface of this old planet like droplets on a blackberry. Think of it. Wailing continued to stare at the same spot on the wall. In the year two thousand, said Dr. Hitz, before scientists stepped in and laid down the law, there wasn't even enough drinking water to go around and nothing to eat but seaweed. And still people insisted on their right to reproduce like jackrabbits, and their right, if possible, to live forever. I want those kids, said Wailing, quietly. I want all three of them. Of course you do, said Dr. Hitz. That's only human. I don't want my grandfather to die either, said Wailing. Nobody's really happy about taking a close relative to the cat-box, said Dr. Hitz, gently, sympathetically. I wish people wouldn't call it that, said Leora Duncan. What? said Dr. Hitz. I wish people wouldn't call it the cat-box and things like that, she said. It gives people the wrong impression. You're absolutely right, said Dr. Hitz. Forgive me. He corrected himself. Gave the municipal gas chambers their official title, a title no one ever used in conversation. I should have said Ethical Suicide Studios, he said. That sounds so much better, said Leora Duncan. This child of yours, whichever one you decide to keep, Mr. Wailing, said Dr. Hitz. He or she is going to live on a happy, roomy, clean, rich planet thanks to population control. In a garden like that mural there, he shook his head. Two centuries ago, when I was a young man, it was a hell that nobody thought could last another twenty years. Now, centuries of peace and plenty stretch before us as far as the imagination cares to travel. He smiled luminously. The smile faded as he saw that Wailing had just drawn a revolver. Wailing shot Dr. Hitz dead. There's room for one. A great big one, he said. And then he shot Leora Duncan. It's only death, he said to her, as she fell. There, room for two. And then he shot himself, making room for all three of his children. Nobody came running. Nobody seemingly heard the shots. The painter sat on the top of his step-letter, looking down reflectively on the sorry scene. The painter pondered the mournful puzzle of life demanding to be born and once born demanding to be fruitful, to multiply and to live as long as possible, to do all that on a very small planet that would have to last forever. All the answers that the painter could think of were grim. Even grimmer, surely, than a cat-box, a happy hooligan, an easy-go. He thought of war, he thought of plague, he thought of starvation. He knew that he would never paint again. He let his paintbrush fall to the drop-closs below and then he decided he had had about enough of life and a happy garden of life, too, and he came slowly down from the ladder. He took Wailing's pistol, really intending to shoot himself, but he didn't have the nerve. And then he saw the telephone booth in the corner of the room. He went to it, dialed the well-remembered number to be are not to be. Federal Bureau of Termination said the very warm voice of a hostess. How soon could I get an appointment, he asked, speaking very carefully. We could probably fit you in late this afternoon, sir, she said. It might even be earlier, if we get a cancellation. All right, said the painter, fit me in, if you please, and he gave her his name, spelling it out. Thank you, sir, said the hostess. Your city thanks you, your country thanks you, your planet thanks you, but the deepest thanks of all is from future generations. The End of To Be Are Not To Be by Kurt Vonnegut Jr. Read by Brian Hoos. April 2008 Circus. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Circus by Alan Edward Norse. Just suppose, said Morgan, that I did believe you. Just for argument, he glanced up at the man across the restaurant table. Where would we go from here? The man shifted uneasily in his seat. He was silent, staring down at his plate. Not a strange looking man, Morgan thought, rather ordinary in fact. A plain face, nose a little too long, fingers a little too dainty, a suit that doesn't seem quite to fit, but all in all a perfectly ordinary looking man. Maybe too ordinary, Morgan thought. Finally the man looked up. His eyes were dark, with a hunted look in their depths that chilled Morgan a little. Where do we go? I don't know. I've tried to think it out and I'd get nowhere. But you've got to believe me, Morgan. I'm lost. I mean it. If I can't get help, I don't know where it's going to end. I'll tell you where it's going to end, said Morgan. It's going to end in a hospital, a mental hospital. They'll lock you up and they'll lose the key somewhere. He poured himself another cup of coffee and sifted, scalding hot. And that, he added, will be that. The place was dark and almost empty. Overhead a rotary fan swished patiently. The man across from Morgan ran a hand through his dark hair. There must be some other way, he said, there has to be. All right, let's start from the beginning again, Morgan said. Maybe we can pin down something a little better. You say your name is Parks, right? The man nodded. Jefferson Haldeman Parks, if that helps any. Haldeman was my mother's maiden name. All right, and you got into town on Friday, right? Parks nodded. Fine. Now go through the whole story again. What happened first? The man thought for a minute. As I said, first there was a fall, about twenty feet. I didn't break any bones, but I was shaken up and limping. The fall was near the highway going to the George Washington Bridge. I got over to the highway and tried to flag down a ride. How did you feel? I mean, was there anything strange that you noticed? Strange? Park size widened? I was speechless. At first I hadn't noticed too much. I was concerned with the fall and whether I was hurt or not. I didn't really think about much else until I hobbled up to that highway and saw those cars coming. Then I could hardly believe my eyes. I thought I was crazy. But a car stopped and asked me if I was going into the city, and I knew I wasn't crazy. Morgan's mouth took on a grim line. You understood the language? Oh yes, I don't see how I could have, but I did. We talked all the way into New York. Nothing very important, but we understood each other. His speech had an odd sound, but... Morgan nodded. I know, I noticed. What did you do when you got to New York? Well, obviously I needed money. I had gold coin. There had been no way of knowing if it would be useful, but I'd taken it on chance. I tried to use it at a newsstand first, and the man wouldn't touch it. Asked me if I thought I was the U.S. Treasury or something. When he saw I was serious, he sent me to a moneylender. Uh, a hawk shop, I think he called it. So I found the place. Let me see the coins. Parks dropped two small gold discs on the table. They were perfectly smooth and perfectly round, tapered by wear to a thin, blunt edge. There was no design on them and no printing. Morgan looked up at the man sharply. What did you get for these? Parks shrugged. Too little, I suspect. Two dollars for the small one, five for the larger. You should have gone to a bank. I know that now. I didn't then. Naturally, I assumed that with everything else so similar, principles of business would also be similar. Morgan sighed and leaned back in his chair. Well, then what? Parks poured some more coffee. His face was very pale, Morgan thought, and his hands trembled as he raised the cup to his lips. Fried? Maybe. It's hard to tell. The man put down the cup and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. First I went to the mayor's office, he said. I kept trying to think what anyone at home would do in my place. That seemed a good bet. I asked a policeman where it was and then I went there. But you didn't get to see him. No. I saw a secretary. She said the mayor was in conference and that I would have to have an appointment. She let me speak to another man, one of the mayor's assistants. And you told him? No. I wanted to see the mayor himself. I thought that was the best thing to do. I waited for a couple of hours until another assistant came along and told me flatly that the mayor wouldn't see me unless I stated my business first. He drew in a deep breath. So I stated it. And then I was gently but firmly ushered back into the street again. They didn't believe you, said Morgan. Not for a minute. They laughed in my face. Morgan nodded. I'm beginning to get the pattern. So what did you do next? Next I tried the police. I got the same treatment there, only they weren't so gentle. They wouldn't listen either. They muttered something about cranks and their crazy notions. And when they asked me where I lived, they thought I was—what did they call it? A wise guy. Told me to get out and not come back with any more wild stories. I see, said Morgan. Jefferson Parks finished his last bite of pie and pushed the plate away. By then I didn't know quite what to do. I was prepared for almost anything excepting this. It was frightening. I tried to rationalize it and then I quit trying. It wasn't that I attracted attention or anything like that. Quite the contrary. Nobody even looked at me unless I said something to them. I began to look for things that were different, things that I could show them and say, See, this proves I'm telling the truth. Look at it. He looked up helplessly. And what did you find? Nothing. Oh, little things, insignificant little things. Your calendars, for instance. Naturally I couldn't understand your frame of reference. And the coinage. You stamp your coins? We don't. And cigarettes. We don't have any such thing as tobacco. The man gave a short laugh. And you're a house-dogs. We have little animals that look more like rabbits than poodles. But there was nothing any more significant than that. Absolutely nothing. Except yourself, Morgan said. Ah, yes. I thought that went over carefully. I looked for differences, obvious ones. I couldn't find any. You can see that just looking at me. So I searched for more subtle things. Skin texture, fingerprints, bone structure, body proportion. I still couldn't find anything. Then I went to a doctor. Morgan's eyebrows lifted. Good, he said. Park shrugged, tiredly. Not really. He examined me. He practically took me apart. I carefully refrained from saying anything about who I was or where I came from. Just said I wanted a complete physical examination and let him go to it. He was thorough. And when he finished, he patted me on the back and said, Parks, you've got nothing to worry about. You're as fine strapping a specimen of a healthy human being as I've ever seen. And that was that. Parks laughed bitterly. I guess I was supposed to be happy with the verdict and instead I was ready to knock him down. It was idiotic. It defied reason. It was infuriating. Morgan nodded sourly. Because you're not a human being, he said. That's right. I'm not a human being at all. How did you happen to pick this planet or this sun, Morgan asked curiously? There must have been a million others to choose from. Parks unbuttoned his collar and rubbed his stubble chin unhappily. I didn't make the choice. Neither did anyone else. Travel by warp is a little different from travel by the rocket you fiction writers make so much of. With a rocket vehicle you pick your destination, you make your calculations, and off you go. The warp is blind-flying, strictly blind. We send an unmanned scanner ahead. It probes around, more or less, hit or miss until it locates something somewhere that looks habitable. When it spots a likely-looking place, we keep a tight beam on it and send through a manned scalp. He grinned sourly. Like me. If it looks good to the scout, he signals back and they leave the warp anchored for a sort of permanent gateway until we can get a transport beam built. But we can't control the directional and dimensional scope of the warp. There are an infinity of ways it can go until we have a guide beam transmitting from the other side. Then we can just scan a segment of space with the warp and the scanner picks up the beam. He shook his head wearily. We're new at it, Morgan. We've only tried a few dozen runs. We're not too far ahead of you in technology. We've been using rocket vehicles just like yours for over a century. That's fine for a solar system, but it's not much good for the stars. When the warp principle was discovered, it looked like the answer, but something went wrong. The scanner picked up this planet and I was coming through and then something blew. Next thing I knew I was falling. I tried to make contact again. The scanner was gone. And you found things here the same as back home, said Morgan. The same. Your planet minor practically twins. Similar cities. Similar technology. Everything. The people are the same with precisely the same anatomy and physiology. The same sort of laws. The same institutions. Even compatible languages. Can't you see the importance of it? The planet is on the other side of the universe from mine with the first intelligence life we've yet encountered anywhere. But when I try to tell your people that I'm a native of another star system, they won't believe me. Why should they ask, Morgan? You look like a human being. You talk like one. You eat like one. You act like one. What you're asking them to believe is utterly incredible. But it's true. I won't argue with you. But as I asked before, even if I did believe you, what do you expect me to do about it? Why pick me? Of all people you've seen. There's a desperate light in Park's eyes. I was tired. Tired of being laughed at. Tired of having people looking at me as though I'd lost my wits when I tried to tell them the truth. You were here. You were alone. So I started talking. Stop eagerly. I've got to get back, Morgan, somehow. My life is there, my family. And think what it would mean to both our worlds. Contact with another human race. Combine our knowledges, our technologies, and we could explore the galaxy. He leaned forward, his thin face and tints. I need money and I need help. I know some of the mathematics of the warp principle. I know some of the design, some of the power and wiring principles. You have engineers and physicists, technologists. They could fill in what I don't know and build a guide beam. But they won't do it if they don't believe me. Your government won't listen to me. They won't appropriate any money. Of course they won't. They've got a war or two on their hands. They have public welfare and atomic bombs and rockets to the moon to sink their money into. Morgan stared at the man. But what can I do? You can write. That's what you can do. You can tell the world about me. You can tell exactly what has happened. I know how public interest can be aroused in my world. It must be the same in yours. Morgan didn't move. He just stared. How many people have you talked to? He asked. A dozen, a hundred, maybe a thousand. And how many believed you? None. You mean nobody would believe you? Not one soul until I talk to you. And then Morgan was laughing. Laughing bitterly. Tears rolling down his cheeks. That I'm the one man who couldn't help you if my life depended on it he gassed. You believe me? Morgan nodded sadly. I believe you. Yes. I think your warp brought you through to a parallel universe of your own planet not to another star, but I think you're telling the truth. Then you can help me. I'm afraid not. Why not? Because I'd be worse than no help at all. Jefferson Parks gripped the table. His knuckles white. Why? he cried hoarsely. If you believe me, why don't you help me? Morgan pointed to the magazine lying on the table. I write. Yes, he said sadly. Ever read stories like this before? Parks picked up the magazine glanced at the bright cover. I barely looked at it. You should look more closely. I have a story in this issue. The readers thought it was very interesting. Morgan grinned. Go ahead. The stranger from the stars leafed through the magazine, stopped at a page that carried Roger Morgan's name. His eyes got the first paragraph and he turned white. He set the magazine down with a trembling hand. I see, he said, and the life was gone out of his voice. He spread the pages viciously, read the lines again. The paragraph said, Just suppose, said Martin, that I did believe you. Just for argument, he glanced up at the man across the table. Where do we go from here? End of Circus by Alan Edward Norse. I still have the dollar bill. It's in my box at the bank, and I think that's where it will stay. I simply won't destroy it, but I can think of nobody to whom I'd be willing to show it. Certainly nobody at the college, my history department colleagues, merely to tell the story would brand me irredeemably as a crackpot, but crackpots are tolerated, even on college faculties. It's only when they begin producing physical evidence that they get themselves for the nightcap before going back to my apartment to turn in. There were five men there, sitting together. One was an army officer with the insignia and badges of a staff intelligence colonel. Next to him was a man of about my own age, with sandy hair and a bony Scottish-looking face, who sat staring silently into a high ball which he held in both hands. Across the aisle, an elderly man, who could have been a lawyer or a banker, was smoking a cigar over a glass of port, and beside him sat a plump and slightly tall colourless drink, probably gin and tonic. The fifth man, separated from him by a vacant chair, seemed to be dividing his attention between a book on his lap and the conversation in which he was taking no part. I sat down beside the sandy-haired man, as I did so and rang for the waiter, the colonel was saying, No, that wouldn't. I can think of a better one. Suppose you have Columbus get his ships from Henry VII of England and sail under the English instead of the Spanish flag. You know, he did try to get English backing out of his vein, but King Henry turned him down. That could be changed. I pricked up my ears. The period from 1492 to the Revolution is my special field of American history, and I knew at once the enormous difference that would have made. It was a moment later that I realised how oddly the colonel had expressed the idea, and by that time the plump man was speaking. Yes, that would work, he agreed. Those kings made decisions, most of the time on whether or not they had a hangover, or what some court favourite thought. I'll hand that to the planning staff when I get to New York. That's Henry VII, not Henry VIII, right? We'll fix it so that Columbus will catch him when he's in a good humour. That was too much. I turned to the man beside me. What goes on, I asked. Has somebody invented a time machine? He looked up from the drink, he was contemplating, and gave me a grin. Sounds like it, doesn't it? Why, no, our friend here is getting up a television program. Tell the gentleman about it. He urged the plump man across the aisle. The waiter arrived at that moment, the plump man, who seemed to need little urging, waited until I had ordered a drink, and then began telling me what a positively sensational idea it was. We're calling it Crossroads of Destiny, he said. It'll be a series, one half hour show a week. In each episode we'll take some historic event, and show how history could have been changed if something had happened differently. We'll dramatize the event up to that point, just as it really happened, and then a commentary voice comes on and announces that this is the Crossroads of Destiny. This is where history could have been completely changed. Then he gets a resume of what really did happen, and then he says, but, suppose so and so had done this and that, instead of such and such. Then we pick up the dramatization at that point, only we show it the way it might have happened. Like this thing about Columbus, we'll show how it could have happened, and then with Columbus waiting ashore, with his sword in one hand and a flag in the other, just like the painting. Only it'll be the English flag, and Columbus will shout, I take possession of this new land in the name of the Majesty, Henry VII of England. He brandished his drink to the visible consternation of the elderly man beside him, and then the sailors will all saying God save the king. Which wasn't written till about 81745, I couldn't help mentioning. Huh? The Plump Man looks startled. Are you sure? Then he decides that I was, and shrugged, well, they can all shout God save King Henry, or St. George for England or something. Then at the end we introduce the program guest, some history expert, a real name, and he tells how he thinks history would have been changed if it had happened that way. The conservatively dressed gentlemen's beside him wanted to know how long he expected to keep the show running. The crossroads will give out before long, he added. The sponsor will give out first, I said. History is just one damn crossroads after another. I mentioned in passing that I taught the subject. Why, since the beginning of the century, we've had enough of them to keep the show running for a year. We have about twenty already written, and ready to produce, the Plump Man said comfortably, and ideas for twice as many as half is working on now. The elderly man accepted that, and took another cautious sip of wine. What I wonder, though, is whether you can really say that history can be changed. Well, of course, the television man was taken aback. One always seems to be when a basic assumption is questioned. Of course, we only know what really did happen, but it stands to reason if something had happened differently, the results would have been different, doesn't it? But it seems to me that everything would work out the same in the long run. There'd be some differences at the time, but over the years wouldn't they all cancel out. No, no, Monsieur, the man with the book, who had been outside the conversation until now, taught him earnestly. Make no mistake, history can be changed. I looked at him curiously. The accent sounded French, but it wasn't quite right. He was some kind of a foreigner, though. I'd swear that he'd never bought the clothes he was wearing in this country. The way the suit fitted and the cut of it, and the shirt collar and the neck tie. The book he was reading was Langmuir's social history of the American people. Not one of my favorites, a bit too much on the doctrinaire side, but what a bookshop clerk would give a foreigner looking for something to explain America. What do you think, Professor? The plump man was asking me. It would work out the other way. The differences wouldn't cancel out. They'd accumulate. Say something happened a century ago to throw a presidential election the other way. You'd get different people at the head of the government, opposite lines of policy taken, and eventually we'd be getting into different wars with different enemies at different times, and different batches of young men killed before they could marry and have families. Different people being born that would mean different ideas, good or bad, being advanced, different books written, different inventions, and different social and economic problems as a consequence. Look, he's only giving himself a century, the Colonel added. Think of the changes of this thing we were discussing. Columbus sailing under the English flag had happened, or suppose Leif Erickson had been able to plan a permanent colony in America in the 11th century, or if the Saracens had won the battle of tours. Try to imagine the world today if any of those things had happened. One thing you can do, any areas you make in trying to imagine such a world will be on the side of over-conservatism. The sandy-haired man beside me, who had been using his high ball for a crystal ball, must have glimpsed at what he was looking for. He finished the drink, set the empty glass on the stand tray beside him, and reached back to push the button. I don't think he realized just how good an idea you have here, he told the plump man abruptly. If you did, you wouldn't ruin it with such timid and unimaginative treatment. I thought he'd been staying out of what was over his head. Instead, he'd been taking the plump man's idea apart, examining all the pieces, and considering what was wrong with it and how it could be improved. The plump man looked startled, and then angry. Tim made it unimaginative if it were the last things he'd expected his idea to be called. Then he became uneasy. Maybe this fellow was a typical representative of his lord or master, the facelift of abstraction, called the public. What do you mean, he asked? Misplaced emphasis. You shouldn't emphasize the event that could have changed history. You're going to end this show you were talking about with a shot of Columbus waiting up to the beach with an English flag, aren't you? Well, that's the logical ending. That's the logical beginning, the sandy-haired man contradicted. And after that, your guest historian comes on. How much time will he be allowed? Well, maybe three or four minutes. We can't cut the dramatization too short. And I'll have to explain a couple of times, and in words of one syllable, that what we have seen didn't really happen. Because if he doesn't, the next morning the three-year-old kids in the country will be rushing wild-eyed into school to slip the teacher the real inside about the discovery of America. By the time he gets that done, he'll be able to mumble a couple of generalities about vast and incalculable effects, and then it'll be time to tell the public about widgets that really save cigarettes, all filter and absolutely free from tobacco. The waiter arrived at this point, and the sandy-haired man ordered another rye highball. I decided to have another bourbon on the rocks, and the TV went into a reverie which lasted until the drinks arrived. Then he came awake again. I see what you mean, he said. Most of the audience would wonder what difference it would have made when Columbus would have gotten his ships, as long as he got them and America got discovered. I can see it would have made a hell of a big difference, but how could it be handled any other way? How could you figure out just what the difference would have been? Well, you need a man who'd know the historical background, and you need a man with a powerful creative imagination, don't try to get them both in one. A collaboration would really be better. Then you work from the known situation in Europe and in America in 1492, and decide on the immediate effects. And from that, you have to carry it along, step by step, down to the present. It'd be a lot of hard and very exacting work, but the result would be worth it. He took a sip from his glass and added, remember, you don't have to prove that the world today would be the way you set it up. All you have to do is make sure that nobody else will be able to prove that it wouldn't. As a play, with fictional characters in a plot, time, the present, under the change conditions, the plot, the reason the coward conquers his fear and becomes the hero, the obstacle to the boy marrying the girl, the reason the innocent man is being persecuted, we'll have to grow out of this imaginary world you've constructed, and be impossible in our world. As long as you stick to that, you'll be alright. Sure, I get that. The Plump Man was excited again. He was about half sold in the idea. But how will we get the audience to accept it? We're asking them to start with an assumption they know isn't true. Maybe it is. In another time dimension, the Colonel suggested. You can't prove it isn't. For that matter, you can't prove there aren't other time dimensions. Ha! That's it! The sandy-haired man exclaimed. World of alternate probability. That takes care of that. He drank about a third of his highball and sat gazing into the rest of it in an almost yoga trance. The Plump Man looked at the Colonel in bafflement. Maybe this alternate probability time dimension stuff means something to you, he said. Damned if it does to me. Well, as far as we know, we live in a four-dimensional universe that Colonel started. The older LeManne across from him grown. Fourth dimension? Good God! Are we going to talk about that? It isn't anything to be scared of. You carry an instrument for measuring in the fourth dimension all the time. A watch. You mean it's just time? But that isn't... We know of three dimensions of space, the Colonel told him, just trying to indicate them. We can use them for coordinates to locate things. But we also locate things in time. I wouldn't like to ride on a train or plane if we didn't. Well, let's call the time we know, the time your watch registers, time A. Now, suppose the entire infinite extent of time A is only an instant in another dimension of time, which we'll call time B. The next instant of time B is also the entire extent of time A. And the next and the next. As in time A, different things are happening at different instants. In one of these instants of time B, one of the things that's happening is that King Henry VII of England is furnishing ships to Christopher Columbus. The man with the odd clothes was getting excited again. This, are you say, this alternate probability it is a series generally accepted in this country? Got it, the Sandy Handman said, before anybody could answer. He said his drink on the chandrey and took a big jackknife out of his pocket holding it unopened in his hand. How's this sound? He asked, and hit the edge of the tray with the back of the knife. Bong. Crossroads of destiny, he intoned and hit the edge of the tray again. Bong. This is the year 1959, but not the 1959 of our world. For we are in a world of alternate probability and in another dimension of time, a world parallel to and coexistent with but separate from our own, in which history has been completely altered by a single momentous event. He shifted back to his normal voice. Not bad, only 25 seconds. The Plotman said looking up from his wristwatch, and a trained announcer could maybe shave 5 seconds off that. Yes, something like that. At the end we'll have another 30 seconds and we can do it without the guest. But this alternate probability in another dimension, the stranger was insisting, is this a concept original with you? He asked the colonel. Oh no, that idea has been around for a long time. I never heard of it before now, the elderly man said, as though that completely demolished it. Then it is generally except by Zid scientists. Um, no, the sandy-hand man relieved the colonel. There's absolutely no evidence to support it, and scientists don't accept unsupported assumptions unless they need to explain something, and they don't need this assumption for anything. Well, it would come in handy to make some of these reports a freak phenomena, like mysterious appearances and disappearances, or flying object things, or reportive falls of non-medoric matter, theoretically respectable. Reports like that usually get the ignore and forget treatment. Now, then you believe that this other world of the alternate probability, they exist? No, I don't disbelieve it either. I have no reason to, one way or another. He studied his drink for a moment, and lowered the level in the glass slightly. I've said that once in a while, things get reported to look as though such other worlds and another time dimension may exist. There have been whole books published by people who collect stories like that. I must say that academic science isn't very hospitable to them. You mean zing sometimes, how you say leak in from one of these other worlds? That has been known to happen? Things have been said to have happened that might, if true, be case of things leaking through from another time world, the sandy-and-hattered man corrected, or leaking away to another time world. He mentioned a few of the most famous cases of unexplained mysteries. The English diplomat and pressure who vanished in plain sight of a number of people. The ship found completely deserted by her crew. The life boots all in place, stories like that. And then there's this rash of alleged sightings of unidentified flying objects. I'd sooner believe that they came from another dimension than from another planet. But as far as I know, nobody has seriously advanced the other time dimension theory to explain them. I think the idea is familiar enough though that we can use it as an explanation or suit explanation for the program, the television man said. The fact is we aren't married to this crossroads title yet. We could just as easily call it fifth dimension. That would lead the public to expect something out of the normal before the show started. That got the conversation back on to the show and we talked for some time about it, each of us suggesting possibilities. The stranger even suggested one, that the Civil War had started during the Jackson administration. Fortunately nobody else noticed that. Finally a porter came through and inquired if any of us were getting off at Harrisburg saying that they would be getting on in five minutes. The stranger finished his drink hastily and got up, saying that he would have to get his luggage. He told us how much he had enjoyed the conversation and then followed the porter toward the rear of the train. After he had gone out, the TV man chuckled. Was that one an oddball he exclaimed? Where the hell do you suppose he got that suit? It was a tailored suit the Colonel said. A very good one and I can't think of any country in the world in which they cut suits just like that. And did you catch his accent? Phony the television man pronounced. The French accent of a Greek waiter in a fake French restaurant in the Bronx. Not quite. The pronunciation was alright for French accent, but the cadence, the way the word sounds were strung together was German. The elderly man looked to the Colonel keenly. I see your intelligence, he mentioned. Think he might be somebody up your alley, Colonel? The Colonel shook his head. I doubt it. There are agents of unfriendly powers in this country, a lot of them, I'm sorry to have to say, but they don't speak accented English and they don't dress eccentrically. You know there's an enemy agent in a crowd pick out the most normally American type in sight and you usually won't have to look further. A train ground to a stop. A young couple with hand luggage came in and sat at one end of the car, waiting until other accommodations can be found for them. After a while it started again. I dallyed up with my drink and then got up and excused myself, saying that I wanted to turn in early. In the next car behind I met the porter who had come in just before the stop. He looked worried and after a moment's hesitation he spoke to me. Pardon sir, the man in the club car who got up at Harrisburg, did you know him? Never saw him before, why? He tipped me with the dollar bill when he got off. Later I looked closely at it. I do not like it. He showed it to me and I didn't blame him. It was marked one dollar and United States of America but outside that there wasn't a thing right about it. One side was gray alright but the other side was green. The picture wasn't the right one and there were a lot of other things about it. Some of them absolutely ludicrous. It wasn't counterfeit. It wasn't even an imitation of the United States bill and then it hit me like a bullet in the chest. Not a bill of our United States. No wonder he had been so interested in whether I signed his acceptance of the theory of other time dimensions and other worlds of alternate probability. On an impulse I got out two ones and gave them to the porter. Perfectly good, United States bank gold certificates. You better let me keep this, I said, trying to make it sound the way he'd think a federal agent would say it. He took the bill as smiling and I folded his bill and put it into my vest pocket. Thank you sir, he said. I have no wish to keep it. Some part of my mind below the level of consciousness must have taken over and guided me back to the moment. I didn't realize where I was going till I put down the light and recognized my own luggage. Then I sat down as dizzy as though the two drinks I had had had been a dozen. For a moment I was tempted to rush back to the club car and show the thing to the colonel and the sandy-haired man. On second thought I decided against that. The next thing I banished from my mind was the adjective incredible. I had to credit it. I had the proof in my vest pocket. The coincidence arising from our topic of conversation didn't bother me too much either. It was a topic which had drawn him into it. And as the sandy-haired man appointed out we know nothing one way or another about these other worlds. We certainly don't know what barriers separate them from our own or how often those barriers may fail. I might have thought more about it if I had been in physical science. I wasn't. I was in American history. So what I thought about was what sort of a country that other United States must be and what its history must have been. The man's costume was basically the same as ours. Same general style but many little differences of fashion. I had the impression that it was a costume of a less formal and conservative society than ours and a more casual way of life. It could be the sort of costume into which ours would evolve in another 30 or so years. That was another odd thing. I noticed him looking curiously at both the waiter and the porter as though something about them surprised him. The only thing they had in common was their race, the same as every other passenger car attendant. But he wasn't used to seeing Chinese working in railway cars. And there had been that remark about the Civil War and the Jackson administration. I wondered what Jackson had been talking about. Not Andrew Jackson, the Tennessee Militia General who got us into war with Spain in 1810, I hoped. And the Civil War, that about made completely. I wondered if it had been a class war or a sectional conflict. We'd had plenty of the latter during our first century. But all of them had been settled peacefully and constitutionally. Well, some of the things he'd read in Lingmuer's social history would be surprises for him too. And then I took the bill out for another examination. It had been mixed with his spendable money. It was about the size of hours, and I wondered how he had acquired enough of our money to pay his train fare. Maybe he'd had a diamond and sold it. Or maybe he'd had a gun and held somebody up. If he had, I didn't know how I blamed him under the circumstances. I had an idea that he had some realisation of what had happened to him. The book and the fake accent to cover any mistakes he might make. Well, I wished him luck. And then I unfolded the dollar bill and looked at it again. In the first department of treasury itself, not the United States bank, or one of the state banks, I'd have to think over the implications of that carefully. In the second place, it was a silver certificate. Why, in this other United States, silver must be an acceptable monetary medal. Maybe equally so with gold, though I could hardly believe that. Then I looked at the picture on the gray, obverse side, and had to strain my eyes on the fine print under it to identify it. It was Washington all right, but a much older Washington than any of the pictures that I knew just where the crossroads of destiny for his world and mine had been. As every school child among us knows, General George Washington was shot dead at the Battle of Germantown in 1777 by an English or rather Scottish officer, Patrick Ferguson, the same Patrick Ferguson who embedded the breech-loading rifle that smashed Napoleon's armies. Washington today is one of our lesser national heroes because he was our first military commander-in-chief. But in other world, he must have survived to victory and become our first president, as was the case with the man who took his place when he was killed. I folded the bill and put it away carefully among my identification cards where it wouldn't a second time get mixed with the money I spent. And as I did, I wanted what sort of a president George Washington had made and what part in the history of that other United States have been played by the man whose picture appears on our dollar bills. General and President Benedict Arnold. End of Crossroads of Destiny H. Beam Piper Recorded by Alexi Tallander Davis, California www.alexitallander.com 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 Eleanor Matheson Egocentric Orbit by John Corey Near the end of his 50th orbit as Greenland slipped by noiselessly below, he made the routine measurements that tested the operation of his space capsule and checked the automatic instruments which would transmit their stored data back to Earth on his next pass over control. Everything normal. All mechanical devices were operating perfectly. This information didn't surprise him. In fact he really didn't even think about it. The previous orbits and the long simulated flights on Earth during training had made such checks routine and perfect results expected. The capsules were developed by exhaustive testing both on the ground and as empty satellites before entrusting them to carry animals and then the first human. He returned to contemplation of the panorama passing below and above although as he noted idly above and below had lost some of their usual meaning. Since his capsule like all heavenly bodies was stable in position with respect to the entire universe and thanks to Sir Isaac Newton and his laws never changed, the Earth and the stars alternated over his head during each orbit. Up now meant whatever was in the direction of his head. He remembered that even during his initial orbit when the Earth first appeared overhead he accepted the fact as normal. He wondered if the other two had accepted it as easily. For there had been two men hurled into orbit before he ventured into space. Two others who had also passed the rigorous three year training period and were selected on the basis of overall performance to proceed him. He had known them both well and wondered again what had happened on their flights. Of course they had both returned, depending upon what your definition of return was. The capsules in which they had ventured beyond Earth had returned them living, but this was to be expected for even the considerable hazards of descent through the atmosphere and the terrible heating which occurred were successfully surmounted by the capsule. Naturally it had not been expected that the satellites would have to be brought down by command from the ground. But this too was part of the careful planning. Radio control of the retro rockets had moved the satellite out of orbit by reducing its velocity. Of course, ground control was to be used only if the astronauts failed to ignite the retro rockets himself. He remembered everyone's surprise and relief when the first capsule was recovered and its occupant found to be alive. They had assumed that in spite of all precautions he was dead because he had not fired the rockets on his 50th orbit and it was necessary to bring him down on the 65th. Recovery alive only partially solved the mystery. For the rescuers and all others were met by a haughty, stony silence from the occupant. Batteries of test confirmed an early diagnosis, complete and other withdrawal, absolute refusal to communicate. Therapy was unsuccessful. The second attempt was similar in most respects, except that command return was made on the 31st orbit after the astronauts' failure to deorbit at the end of the 30th. His incoherent babble of moons, stars and worlds was no more helpful than the first. Test after test confirmed that no obvious organic damage had been incurred by exposure outside of Earth's protective atmosphere. Biopsy of even selected brain tissues seemed to show that microscopic cellular changes due to prolonged weightlessness or primary cosmic ray bombardment, which had been suggested by some authorities, were unimportant. Somewhat reluctantly, it was decided to repeat the experiment a third time. The launching was uneventful. He was sent into space with the precision he expected. The experience was exhilarating and although he had anticipated each event in advance, he could not possibly have foreseen the overpowering feeling that came over him. Weightlessness he had experienced for brief periods during training, but nothing could match the heady impression of continuous freedom from gravity. Earth's passing overhead was also to be expected from the simple laws of celestial mechanics, but his feeling as he watched it now was inexpressible. It occurred to him that perhaps this was indeed why he was here, because he could appreciate such experiences best. He had been told the stars would be bright, unblinking, and an infinitude and extent, but could mere descriptions or photographs convey the true seeing? On his 21st orbit, he completed his overseeing the entire surface of the planet in daylight. He had seen more of the Earth than anyone able to tell about it, but only he had the true feeling of it. The continents were clearly visible, as were the oceans in both polar ice caps. The shapes were familiar, but only in a remote way. A vague indistinctness born of distance served to modify the outlines and he alone was seeing an understanding. On the dark side of the planet, large cities were marked by indistinct light areas which paled to insignificance compared to the stars and his son. He speculated about the others who had only briefly experienced these sights. Undoubtedly, they weren't as capable of fully grasping or appreciating any of these things as he was. It was quite clear that no one else but he could encompass the towering feeling of power and importance generated by being alone in the universe. At the end of the 25th orbit, he disabled the radio control of the retro rockets and sat back with satisfaction to await the next circuit of his Earth around him. End of egocentric orbit by John Corey. A matter of magnitude. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org A matter of magnitude by Al Sevchik. When you're commanding a spaceship over a mile long and armed to the teeth, you don't exactly expect to be told to get the hell out. The ship for reasons that had to do with the politics of appropriations was named Senator Joseph L. Holloway. But the press and the public called her Big Joe. Her captain, six-star Admiral Heseltan, thought of her as great Big Joe and never fully got over being awestruck at the size of his command. She's a mighty big ship, Rogers, he said proudly to the navigator, ignoring the latter's rather vacant stare and fixed smile. More than a mile long and wider than a mile long. He waved his hands expansively. She's never touched down on Earth, you know. Never will. Too big for that. They built her on the moon. The cost? Well, swiveling his chair around, Heseltan slowly surveyed the ship's control room with a small, satisfied smile. The two pilots sitting far forward, almost hidden by their banks of instruments. The radar operators idly watching at their enormous control consoles and, just behind, the radio shack. It's closed door, undoubtedly hiding a game of cards. For weeks now, as Big Joe moved across the galaxy's uncharted fringe, the radio bands had been completely dead. Except, of course, for the usual star-static hissing and burbling in the background. Turning back again to his navigator, Heseltan smiled modestly and noted that Big Joe was arguably the largest, most powerful, most feared, and most effective spaceship in the known universe. As always, Roger's not at agreement. The fact that he'd heard it a hundred times didn't make it any less true. Big Joe, armed with every weapon known to Terran technology, was literally the battleship to end all battleships. Ending battleships, and battles, was in fact her job, and she did it well. For the first time, the galaxy was at peace. With a relaxed sigh, Heseltan leaned back to gaze at the stars and contemplate the vastness of the universe. Compared to which, even Big Joe was an insignificant dot. Well, said Roger's, time for another course check. I'll jump back, barely avoiding the worried lieutenant to explode it upon them from the radio shack. A signal, sir, damn close on the VHF band, their transmission is completely overriding the background noise. He waved excitedly to someone in the radio shack, and an overhead speaker came to life, emitting a distinct clacking, grunting sound. It's audio of some sort, sir, but there's a lot more to the signal than that. In one motion Heseltan's chair snapped forward, his right fist hit the red emergency alert button on his desk, and his left snapped on the ship's intercom. He dimmed momentarily as powerful emergency drive units snapped into action, and the ship echoed with the sound of two thousand men running to battle stations. Bridge to radar, report. Radar to bridge, all clear. Heseltan stared incredulously at the intercom. What? Radar to bridge, repeating. All clear. Admiral, we've got two men on every scope. There's nothing anywhere. A new voice cut in on the speaker. Radar to bridge, frowning, Heseltan answered. Bridge, come in radio track, we're listening. Sir, the crisp voice of the radio track's section commander had an excited tinge. Sir, Doppler calculations show that the source of those signals is slowing down somewhere to our right. It's acting like a spaceship, sir, that's coming to a halt. The Admiral locked eyes with Rogers for a second, then shrugged. Slow the ship and circle right. Radio track, can you keep me posted on the objects position? No can do, sir. Doppler effect can't be used on a slow-moving source. It's still off to our right, but that's the best I can say. Sir, another voice chimed in. This is fire control. We've got our directional antennas on the thing. It's either directly right or directly left of the ship, matching speed with us exactly. Either to our right or left? That's the best we can do, sir, without radar help. Admiral, sir, the lieutenant who had first reported the signal came running back. Judging from the frequency and strength, we think it's probably less than a hundred miles away. Less than a hundred? Of course we can't be positive, sir. Hesselton whirled back to the intercom. Radar. That thing is practically on our necks. What the hell's the matter with that equipment? The radar commander's voice showed distinct signs of strain. Can't help it, Admiral. The equipment is working perfectly. We've tried the complete range of frequencies. Twenty-five different sets are in operation. We're going blind looking. There is absolutely nothing. Nothing at all. For a moment the bridge was silent, except for the clacking, grunting from the overhead speaker, which, if anything, sounded louder than before. It's TV, sir. The radio lieutenant came running in again. We've unscramble the image. Here. The communication screen on Hesselton's desk glowed for a moment, then flashed into life. The figure was clearly alien, though startlingly humanoid, at least from the waist up, which was all that showed in the screen. A large mouth and slightly bulging eyes gave it a somewhat jovial, frog-like demeanor. Seated at a desk similar to Hesselton's, wearing a gaudy uniform profusely strewn with a variety of insignia. It was obviously Hesselton's counterpart, the commander of an alien vessel. Hmm, looks like we've contacted a new race. Let's return the call, lieutenant. A tiny red-like glow beneath a miniature camera on Hesselton's desk and almost at once the alien's face registered obvious satisfaction. It waved a six-fingered hand in an unorthodox, but friendly greeting. Hesselton waved back. The alien then pointed to his mouth, made several clacking, grunting sounds, and moved a hand on his desk. The scene switched to another alien sitting in front of what looked like a blackboard with a piece of chalk in his hand. The meaning was clear. Lieutenant, have this transmission switch to the linguistic section. Maybe those guys can work out some sort of language. The screen blanked out. Hesselton leaned back, tense, obviously worried. Hesitantly he reached out and touched a button on the intercom. Astronomy! Professor, there's a ship right next door somewhere that should stand out like King Kong in a kindergarten. I know, Admiral. I've been listening to the intercom. Our optical equipment isn't designed for close range work, but we've been doing the best we can. Tried everything from infrared through ultraviolet. If there is a ship out there, I'm afraid it's invisible. Beads of sweat sprinkled Hesselton's forehead. This is bad, Rogers. Mighty bad. Nervously he walked across to the right of the bridge and stood. Hands clasped behind his back, staring blankly out at blackness and the scattered stars. I know there's a ship out there and I know that a ship simply can't be invisible. Not to radar and optics. What makes you sure there's only one, sir? Hesselton cracked his fist together. My God, Rogers, you're right. There might be the intercom clacked again. This is fire control again, sir. I think we've got something on the radiation detectors. Good work. What did you find? Slight radioactivity, typical of interstellar drive mechanisms, somewhere off to our right. Can't tell exactly where, though. How far away is it? I don't know, sir. Hesselton's hands dropped to his sides. Thanks, he said, for the help. His desk TV flashed into life with a picture of the smiling alien commander. This is the linguistic section, Admiral. The aliens understand a fairly common galactic symbology. I believe we can translate simple messages for you now. Ask him where the hell he is, Hesselton snapped without thinking, then instantly regretted it as the alien's face showed unmistakable surprise. The alien's smile grew into an almost unbelievable grin. He turned sideways to speak to someone out of sight of the camera and suddenly burst into a series of roaring cackles. He's laughing, sir, the translator commented unnecessarily. The joke was strictly with the aliens. Hesselton's face whitened in quick realization. Rogers, they didn't know that we can't see them. Look, sir, the navigator pointed to the TV screen in a brilliantly clear image of Big Joe, shimmered against the galaxy, lit by millions of stars. Every missile-port, even the military numerals along her nose, were clearly visible. And they're rubbing it in, Rogers, showing us what we look like to them. Hesselton's face was chalk. They could blast Big Joe apart, piece by piece, the most powerful ship in the galaxy. Maybe, said Rogers, the second most powerful. Without answering, Hesselton turned and looked out again at empty space and millions of steady, unwinking stars. His mind formed the image of a huge, ethereal spaceship. Missile-ports open, weapons aimed directly at Big Joe. The speaker interrupted his nightmare. This is Fire Control Admiral. With your permission, I'll scatter a few sea-bombs. Hesselton, leap for the microphone. Are you out of your mind? We haven't the slightest idea of the forces that guy has. We might be in the center of a whole blooming fleet. Ever think of that? The aliens' face still smirking up here again on the screen. He says, said the interpreter, that he finds the presence of our armed ship very annoying. Hesselton knew what he had to do. Tell him, he said, swallowing hard, that we apologize. This part of the galaxy is strange to us. He says he is contemplating blasting us out of the sky. Hesselton said nothing, but he longed to reach out and throttle the grinning alien face. However, the interpreter continued, he will let us go safely if we leave immediately. He says to send an unarmed diplomatic vessel next time, and maybe his people will talk to us. Thank him for his kindness. Hesselton's jaws clenched so tightly they ached. He says, said the interpreter, to get the hell out. The grinning face snapped off the screen, but the cackling laughter continued to reverberate in the control room until the radio shack finally turned off the receiver. Reverse course, the Admiral ordered quietly. Maximum drive. A thousand missile launchers designed to disintegrate solar systems were deactivated. Hundreds of gyros swung the mile long ship end for end and stabilized her on a reverse course. Drive units big enough to power several major cities whined into formation, and I grabbed generators with the strength to shift small planets, counterbalance the external acceleration, and the ship moved away with the speed approaching that of light. Well, muttered Hesselton, that's the very first time Big Joe has ever had to retreat. As if it were his own personal failure, he walked slowly across the control room and down the corridor towards his cabin. Admiral lost in thought, Hesselton barely heard the call. Admiral look, pausing at the door to his cabin, Hesselton turned to face the ship's chief astronomer running up, waving two large photographs. Look, sir, the professor gasped for breath. We thought this was a spot on the negative, but one of the men got curious and enlarged it about a hundred times. He held up one of the photos. It showed a small, fuzzy, but unmistakable spaceship. No wonder we couldn't spot it with our instruments. Hesselton snatched it out of his hand. I see what you mean. This ship must have been thousands of miles the professor shook his head. No, sir, as a matter of fact it was quite close by, but we figure that the total length of the alien ship was roughly an inch and a half end of a matter of magnitude by Al Savchik. Quiet, please, by Kevin Scott. 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 Jerome Lawson. March, 2008. Quiet, please, by Kevin Scott. Groverbs knew what he wanted. Peace and quiet. He was willing to scream his head off for it. The big man eased the piano off his back and stood looking at Groverbs. You weren't going to like it here. He mopped his face. Boy, will I ever be glad to get off this cock-eyed planet. Groverbs pushed his spectacles, sniffed and said, Quiet. The big man said, Ain't no native here over three feet tall. And they got some crazy kind of communication. They don't talk. Groverbs said, Quiet. Precisely why I am here. Said Groverbs, sniffing again. Loathed conversation. Oh, well. He left. Alone, Groverbs surveyed his realm. The house was the shell of what had formerly been a little people apartment building. Ceilings, floors, and walls had been removed to form one large room. The tiny doors and windows had been sealed, and a single window and door had been cut into the shell for Groverbs' use. Crude, but serviceable. Groverbs walked to the window and looked down the slope. Little people buildings dotted the landscape, and the people themselves scurried silently about. Yes, thought Groverbs, it would do nicely. He had brought an adequate food tablet supply. He would finish, without the distraction of voices, his beautiful concerto. He would return to Earth famous and happy. Armed with paper and pencils, he went to the piano, and decided to enlarge upon the theme in the second movement. His mind knew exactly how the passage should run, and he swiftly covered the paper with sharp, angular notes. Then he triumphantly lifted his hands and began to play what he had written. He jerked back from the keyboard, his hair on end, his teeth on edge, his ears screaming with the massive sounds he had produced. He looked at his hands, peered at the score, adjusted his spectacles, and tried again. He thought, recoiling in horror from the racket, a food tablet and a netball remedy the situation. When he awoke, Groverbs walked to the window, refreshed. A violet glow had replaced the harsh yellow light of the day. At the foot of the slope, the little people dashed to and fro, but no voice broke the peaceful quiet of the evening. With a sigh of satisfaction, Groverbs went to the piano. Gently, he struck the keys. Blatant, jumbled noise filled the room. Breathing hard, Groverbs rose and gingerly lifted the spinet's lid. No, nothing missed there. Good felts, free hammers, solid sounding board, must be out of tune. Groverbs closed the lid, sat down, and struck a single note. A clear tone sang out. He moved chromatically up and down the scale, definitely not out of tune. He shifted the score, glanced uneasily at the keys and began to play. Groverbs immediately pierced his eardrums. He clapped his hands over his ears and leaped wildly from the piano bench. The trip. He decided frantically, it must have affected my hearing. He flung himself from the house and down the slope. The little people scattered, staring. He charged into the administration building and clutched the lapels of a uniformed official. A doctor, he gasped. No, this minute. He left the house and removed Groverbs' hands with this taste. It's a little late in the day, he drolled, but maybe the dock up on the top floor. Groverbs flew up the stairs and into the doctor's office. The doctor's face lit up. A patient, he exclaimed. Capital, what seems to be the trouble? Food poisoning? Shouldn't eat the food here, garbage. Appendix, heart attack? Stop talking, you idiot, it's my ears. Obviously disappointed, the doctor nevertheless poked in Peter to Groverbs ears. No, he said finally. A trifle big, yes, but nothing wrong with him. You sure? Absolutely. A pity. I'm getting a bit rusty. With a groan, Groverbs staggered out of the building, back through town and up the slope to his house, seating himself firmly on the bench he began to play. The noise was abominable. Suddenly his door burst open and a crowd of little people rushed in. They pulled him off the bench and slapped angrily at his hands. Then with cutters, they attacked the piano. Yeah, stop that. Groverbs screeched, what do you think you're doing? The little people pushed and dragged him out of the house, down the slope, through the town, and into the launching bowl at the space strip. The launching agent took one look at the interpreter on the double. The interpreter ran up and whipped something from his pocket. It looked like a miniature piano skeleton. He tripped a hammer. There was a faint tinkle. Instantly one of the little people produced a single miniature hammer and tapped it rapidly against his skull. The interpreter tripped another hammer. A second little one responded. Suddenly one of the little people ran over and tripped all the interpreter's hammers simultaneously. He went and went. Oh, well, it's their planet. He hustled Groverbs out to a freight ship that was warming up for takeoff. Is everyone insane? Groverbs croaked. Not a man to know what this is all about. The interpreter shoved Groverbs into the ship. They say you talk too much. He yelled as he slammed the door. End of Quiet, Please by Kevin Scott. Recording by Jerome Lawson. March 2008. Summit. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Summit by Mac Reynolds. Almost anything, if it goes on long enough, can be reduced to first a routine and then to a tradition. At that point it is obviously necessary. Two king-size bands blared martial music. The Internationale and the Star-Spangled Banner. Each seemingly trying to drown the other in a Gautre Dameron of acoustics. Two lines of troops surfacingly differing in uniforms and in weapons, but basically so very much the same, so evenly matched came to attention. A thousand hands slapped a thousand submachine gun stocks. Marshal Vladimir Ignatov strode stiff need down the long march. The stride of a man for years used to calvary boots. He was flanked by frozen visaged subordinates but none so cold of face as he himself. At the entrance to the conference hall he stopped, turned and waited. At the end of the corridor of troops a car stopped and several figures emerged. Most of them in civilian dress. Several bearing briefcases. They, in their turn, ran the gauntlet. At their fore walked James Warren Don Levy, sprightly, his eyes darting here and there, politician-like. A half-smile on his face as though afraid he might forget the greed of voter he knew or was supposed to know. His hand was out before that of Vladimir Ignatov's. Your Excellency, he said, Ignatov shook hands stiffly. Dropped that of the others as soon as protocol would permit. The Field Marshal indicated the door of the conference room. That is little reason to waste time, Mr. President. Exactly Don Levy snapped. The door closed behind them one uniformed and bemetaled. The other, Natalie, attired in its business suit, turned to each other. Nice to see you again, Vovo. How's Olga and the baby? The soldier grinned back in response. Two babies now. You don't keep up on the real news, Jim. How's Martha? They shook hands. Not so good, Jim said, scowling. I'm worried. It's that new cancer. As soon as we conquer one type, two more rear up. How are you people doing on cancer research? Vovo was stripping off his tunic. He hung it over the back of one of the chairs, began to unbutton his high, tight military collar. I'm really not up on it, Jim, but I think that's one field where you can trust anything we know to be in the regular scientific journals our people exchange with yours. I'll make some inquiries when I get back home, though. You never know. This new strain, I guess you'd call it, might be one that we're up on and you're not. Yes, Jim, thanks a lot. He crossed to the small portable bar. How about a drink? Whiskey, vodka, rum, and there's ice. Vovo slumped into one of the heavy chairs that were arranged around the table. He grimaced. No vodka. I don't feel patriotic today. How about one of those long cold drinks with the cola stuff? Cuba Libra, Jim said. Coming up. Look, would you rather speak Russian? No, Vovo said. My English is getting rusty. I need the practice. Jim brought the glasses over and put them on the table. He began stripping off his own coat and loosening his tie. God, I'm tired, he said. This sort of thing wears me down. Vovo sipped his drink. Now, there's as good a thing to discuss as any in the way of killing time. The truth now, Jim, do you really believe in a God that's happened to this human race of ours? Do you really believe in defined guidance? He twisted his mouth sarcastically. The other relaxed. I don't know, he said. I suppose so. I was raised in a family that believed in God just as I suppose you were raised in one that didn't. He lifted his shoulders slightly in a shrug. Neither of us seems to be particularly brilliant in establishing a position of our own. Vovo snorted. Never thought of it that way, he admitted. We're usually contentious of anyone still holding to the old beliefs. There aren't many left. More than you people admit, I understand. Vovo shook his heavy head. No, not really. Mostly crackpots. Have you ever noticed how it is the nonconformists in any society that are usually crackpots? The people on your side that admit belonging to our organizations are usually on the wild-eyed and uncombed-hair side. I admit it. On the other hand, the people in our citizenry who subscribe to your system, your religion, that sort of thing are crackpots too. It applies to religion as well as politics. An atheist in your country is a nonconformist. In mine, a Christian is both crackpots. Jim laughed and took a sip of his drink. Vovo yawned and said, How long are we going to be in here? I don't know, Jim said. Up to us, I suppose. Yes. How about another drink? I'll make it. How much of that cola stuff do you put in? Jim told him. And while the other was on his feet, mixing the drinks, said, You figure on sticking to the same line this year? Have to, Vovo said over his shoulder. A whale of a depression as it is. Even with half the economy running full blast producing defense materials. Vovo chuckled. Defense materials. I wonder if ever in the history of a human race, anyone ever admitted to producing offense materials. Well, you call it the same thing. All your military equipment is for defense. And of course, according to your press, all of ours is for offense. Of course, Vovo said. He brought the glasses back and handed one to the other. He slumped back into his chair again, loosened two buttons of his trousers. Jim, Vovo said, Why don't you divert more of your economy to public works? Better roads, reforestation, dams, that sort of thing? Jim said wearily. You're a better economist than that. Didn't your boy Marx, or was it Engels, write a small book on the subject? We're already over producing, turning up more products than we can sell. I wasn't talking about your government building new steel mills. But dams, roads, that sort of thing. You could plow billions into such items and get some real use out of them. We both know that our weapons will never be used. They can't be. Jim ticked them off on his fingers. We're already producing more farm products than we know what to do with. If we build more dams, it'll open up new farmlands and increase the glut. If we build more and better roads, it'll improve transportation, which will mean fewer men will be able to move greater tonnage and throw transportation employees into the unemployed. If we go all out on reforestation, it'll eventually bring down the price of lumber and the lumber people are howling already. Now, he shook his hand, there's just one really foolproof way of disposing of surpluses and using up labor power. And that's war, hot or cold. Bobo shrugged. I suppose so. It amounts to building pyramids, of course. Jim twisted his mouth sourly. And since we're asking questions about each other's way of life, when is your state going to begin to wither away? How was that? Bobo asked. According to your sainted founder, once you people came to power the state was going to wither away. Class rule would be over and Utopia would be on hand. That was a long time ago and your state is stronger than ours. Bobo snorted. How can we wither away the state as long as we're threatened by capitalist aggression? Jim said. Ha! Bobo went on. You know better than that, Jim. The only way my organization can keep in power is by continually beating the drums, keeping our people stirred up to greater and greater sacrifices by using you as a threat. Didn't the old Romans have some sort of maxim to the effect that when you're threatened with unease at home stir up trouble abroad? You're being even more than usual, Jim said. But that's one of the pleasures of these get-togethers. Neither of us resorts to hypocrisy. But you can't keep up these tensions forever. You mean we can't keep up these tensions forever, Jim. And when they end? Well, personally I can't see my organization going out without a bloodbath. He grimaced and since I'd probably be one of the first to be bathed I'd like to postpone the time. It's like having a tiger by the tail, Jim. We can't let go. Happily I don't feel in the same spot, Jim said. He got up and went to the picture window that took up one entire wall. It faced out over a mountain vista. He looked soberly into the sky. Vova joined him, glass in hand. Position isn't exactly the same as ours. But there'll be some awfully great changes if that military-based economy of yours suddenly had peace thrust upon it. You'd have a depression such as you've never dreamed of. Let's face reality, Jim. Neither of us can afford peace. Well, we've both known that for a long time. They both considered somberly planet Earth blazing away. A small sun there in the sky. Jim said I sometimes think that the race would have been better off when man was colonizing Venus and Mars if it had been a joint enterprise rather than you people doing one and we doing the other if it had all been in the hands of that organization. The United Nations had the most powerful vova supplied. Then when Bomb Day hit perhaps these new worlds could have gone on to well, better things. Perhaps, vova shrugged. I've often wondered how Bomb Day started. Who struck the spark? Happily there were enough colonists on both planets to start the race all over again, Jim said. What difference does it make? Who struck the spark? Then I suppose vova began to button his collar readjust his clothes. Well, shall we emerge and let the quaking multitudes know that once again we've made a shaky agreement one that will last until the next summit meeting. End of Summit by Mack Reynolds. You can see it, you can watch it, but mustn't touch. And what could possibly be more frustrating when you need, most violently, to get your hands on it for just one second. The man finally entered the office of General George Garvers at the time of his death when he was born. He was a young man and he was a young man and he was a young man and he was a young man and he was a young man and he was joining the office of General George Garvers. As the door closed behind him he saw the General who sprang from his chair to greet him. Max, you've finally came. Go over her as soon as I could. The wager half my time was taken up by the security checkpoints. They're certainly isolated in here. All of that, agreed the General. Have a seat, won't you? He asked, indicating a Chair. His friends sank into it gratefully. Now what's this vital problem You weren't too specific." No, said Garvers. I wasn't. This is a security matter, after a fashion. It's vitally important that we get technical help on this thing, and since you and I are friends, I was asked to call you in. Well? I'm afraid I'll have to make a story of it. Quite all right by me, but don't mind if I interject a question now and then. Mind if I smoke? Go right ahead, said Garvers, fumbling out a lighter. Just don't spill ashes on the rug. This all began on the 3rd of May. I was working here on some top security stuff. I had suddenly got the feeling of being watched. I know it seems silly, but with all the checkpoints that a potential spy would have to go through to get here. But that's just how I felt. Several times I glanced around the office, but of course it was empty. Then I began to think that it was my nerves. You always were a bit of a hypochondriac, observed his friend. Be that as it may, continued Garvers. It was the only explanation I had at the time. Either someone was watching me, which seemed impossible, or I was beginning to crack under the strain. Well, I put my papers away and tried to take a short break. I was reaching into my drawer where I keep magazines when, so helped me, a man stepped out of the wall into my office. What? That seems as if you just said a guy stepped out of the wall. That's just what I did say. It sounds crazy, but let me finish, will ya? I'm not kidding, and I'll show you proof later if necessary. Anyway, this bird stepped straight out of the wall as if it had been a waterfall or something, but the wall itself was undamaged. The only proof I had that he had actually done it was the fact that he was in my office, but that was proof enough. To put it mildly, I was thunderstruck. After jumping to my feet, I could only stand there like an idiot. I was so shaken that I couldn't speak a word, but he spoke first. General Garvers? He asked, just as if he had run into me at a cocktail party or on the street. I told him he was correct, and asked him who he was and what he wanted, and how he got into my office. He identified himself as a Henry Bush, and explained that he was acting in behalf of a good friend of his, the late Dr. Hyman Duvall. Do you ever heard of Duvall, Max? His friend twisted his face and thought. I can't say that I have, offhand, but the name seems to ring a bell somewhere. Well, anyway, he said that Duvall had perfected an invention of great national importance shortly before his death, and asked Bush to deliver it to the government if anything should happen to him. Then Duvall died suddenly of a heart attack. And what was this invention? Isn't it obvious? A machine that would enable a man to walk through walls, and Bush has no idea how the thing works, other than the general explanation that Duvall gave him. And Bush was poles apart from Duvall. They were friends from college, but not because of professional interests. It seems they were both double-crossed by the same girl. Duvall was a brilliant but obscure nuclear and radiation physicist. He was one of those once-in-a-lifetime fellows like Tesla. He was so shy that he didn't bring himself to anybody's attention, save for a few papers he published in the smaller physical society's magazines. It was only because he had inherited a considerable amount of money that he could do any research whatsoever. Hmm, I seem to remember a paper about wave propagation in one of the quarterlies. Quite unorthodox, as I recall, Sid Max. Could be. But anyway, about Bush. Bush majored in psychology at college, but took special courses after he graduated and took a master's in English. He's written two novels and three collections of poems and various pen names. At the time of Duvall's death he was working on the libretto of an opera. He has no technical training, unless you want to count a year of high school general science, so it wasn't too much help in explaining how Duvall's instrument works. And just to make matters more juicy, Duvall kept no notes. He had total recall and a childlike fear of putting anything into writing that had not been experimentally verified. And this machine. How's it supposed to work? Garver's got up and began to pace. According to Bush, Duvall devised the instrument after stumbling into an entirely new branch of physics. This divisive Duvall's is a special case of a new theory of matter and energy. Matter is made up of sub-nuclear particles, electrons, protons, and the like. However, Duvall said that these particles are in turn made up of much smaller particles grouped together in aggregate clouds. The size ratio of these particles to protons is something like the ratio of an individual proton to a large star. They seem to be composed of tiny clots of energy from a fantastically complex energy system in which electromagnetism was but a small part. Each energy segment is represented by a different facet of each particle, and the arrangement of the individual particles to each other determines what super particle they'll form, such as an electron. Duvall called these sub-particles lemms. Bush says that he was told that a field of a special nature could be generated so as to make the individual lemms of the particle of matter rotate in a special way that would introduce a polarization field, as Duvall called it. This field seems to be connected somehow with gravity, but Bush doesn't know how. The upshot is that matter in the initial presence of the field is affected so that it's able to pass through ordinary matter. Hold on, Interrupted Max, if a device can do that, then the user would immediately fall toward the center of the earth. Just you hold on, you didn't let me finish. A single plane of atoms at the base of the treated object is the point of contact. It remains partially unaffected because it is the closest to the Gravitostatic Field Center, which I guess is the Earth's center of attraction. This plane of semi-treated atoms can be forced through an object if it's moved horizontally, but its untreated aspect prevents the subject wearing the device from falling through the floor. Bush demonstrated this device to me, turning it on and strolling through various objects in the room. Think of it, no soldier could be killed or held prisoner and, no hang on, objected Max, let's not run away with ourselves. He may have perfected a device that would enable a soldier to avoid capture, but there would certainly be other ways to kill him than by bullets. Let's see now. Suppose that the enemy shot a flamethrower at him. The materials might pass through him, but he would be cooked anyway, or poisoned gas. Hmm, as far as gas goes, I suppose a gas mask would be necessary. Bush doesn't know about the breathing mechanism, except that he had to take breaths. But as far as fire or radiation goes, the man's protected. If the radiation is either harmful by nature or by amount, the field merely reflects it. It's something called the lemak stress of the field that causes the phenomenon. That's why we need your help. Max scratched his head thoughtfully. I don't understand. Garver's looked pained. When Bush had finished his demonstration, he carelessly tossed the device on my desk. The thing skidded and hit my paperweight so that the switch was thrown on again. So now the device and my desk are both untouchable. Go over to the desk and try to touch it, said Garver's trolley. His friend got up and ambled over to the desk. There he saw a small black box resting near a paperweight. Its toggle switch was at the on position and it was lying on its side. He tried to pick the box up, but his hand slid effortlessly through it as if it were so much air. Well, Max said. He passed his hand through the desk again. Well, well, are you sure Bush told you everything? Bush. He honestly wants to help and we have taken him through the mill. Pentathol, Scoprolamine and the like, hypnotism and the polygraph. We've dug that man deeper than we've ever dug anybody before. And have you conducted any experiments of your own? Certainly, that's what's so frustrating. We tried to x-ray the thing and we didn't get a thing. We bombarded it with every radiation we could think of, from radio to gamma and it just reflected them. We can detect no radiation coming out of it. Magnetic fields don't affect it nor do heat and cold. Nuclear particles are ignored by it. It just sits there, thumbing its nose at us and we can't even wait for it to run down. According to Bush, the power requirements of the thing are funny and once the field is established it takes no additional energy to maintain it. And the collapsing power remains indefinitely until it's time to turn the machine off. But it's unreachable by any means we have. It's pure frustration. There's no way we can analyze it until we can handle it. And there's no way we can handle it until we can turn it off. And there's no way we can turn it off until we've analyzed it. If it were alive, I think that it was laughing at us. Do you have any ideas? Ask Garverse, hopefully. Nothing that would help a solution at present, said Max. But do you remember the legend of King Tantalus? Slightly. What about it? Well, if he were here, said Max thoughtfully, he'd sympathize. End of The Untouchable by Stephen A. Callis Jr. Recording by Jerome Lawson, March 2008.