 beyond Pandora by Robert J. Martin. 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 James Christopher. Beyond Pandora by Robert J. Martin. The doctor's pen paused over the chart on his desk. This is your third set of teeth, I believe. His patient nodded. That's right, doctor. But they were pretty slow in coming in this time. The doctor looked up quizzically. Is that the only reason you think you might need a booster shot? Oh no, of course not. The man leaned forward and placed one hand, palm up on the desk. Last year, I had an accident. Stupid. Lost a thumb. He shrugged apologetically. It took almost six months to grow back. Thoughtfully, the doctor leaned back in his chair. Hmm. I see. As the man before him made an involuntary movement toward his pocket, the doctor smiled. Go on. Smoke if you want to. Picking up the chart, he murmured, six months. Much too long. Strange we didn't catch this at the time. He read silently for a few moments, then began to fell out of form clip to the folder. Well, I think you'll probably do for another booster about now. They'll have to be the usual test. Not that there's much doubt. We like to be certain. The middle-aged man seemed relieved. Then, on second thought, he hesitated uneasily. Why, is there any danger? Amusement flickered across the doctor's face, turned smoothly into a reassuring half-smile. Oh no. There's absolutely no danger involved. Not at all. We have tissue regeneration pretty well under control now. Still, I'm sure you understand that accurate records and data are very necessary to further research and progress. Reassured, the patient thought and became confidential. I see. Well, I suppose it's kind of silly. But I don't much like shots. It's not that they hurt. It's just I guess I'm old-fashioned. I still feel kind of creepy about the whole business. Slightly embarrassed, he paused and asked defensively. Is that unusual? The doctor smiled openly now. Not at all. Not at all. Things have moved pretty fast in the past few years. I suppose it takes people's emotional reactions a while to catch up with developments of that. Logically, we accept as a matter of fact. He pushed his chair back from the desk. Maybe it's not too hard to understand. Take fire, for example. Man lived in fear of fire for a good many hundred thousand years, and rightly so. Because he hadn't learned to control it. The principle's the same. First, you learn to protect yourself from a thing, then control it. And eventually, we learn to harness it for a useful purpose. He gestured towards a man's cigarette. Even so, man still instinctively fears fire, even while he uses it. In the case of tissue regeneration, where the change took place so rapidly, in just a generation or so, that instinctive fear is even more understandable. Although quite as unjustified, I assure you. The doctor stood up, indicating that the session was ending. While his patient scrambled to his feet, hastily putting out a cigarette, the physician came round the desk. He put his hand on the man's shoulder. Relax. Take it easy. Nothing to worry about. This is a wonderful age we live in. Barring a really major accident, there's no reason why you shouldn't live at least another seventy-five years. After all, that's a very remarkable viral complex we have doing your repair work. As they walked to the door, the man shook his head. Guess you're right, doc. It's certainly done a good job so far. And I guess you specialists know what you're doing, even if folks don't understand it. At the door, he paused and half turned to the doctor. Let's say, something I meant to ask you. This stuff, this vaccine. Where did it come from? Seems to me I heard somewhere that, way back before you fellas got it tamed, it was something else. Dangerous. There was another name for it. Do you know what I mean? The doctor's hand tightened on the doorknob. Yes, I know, he said grimly. But not many laymen remember. Just keep in mind what I told you. With any of these things, the pattern is protection, then control, then useful application. He turned to face his patient. Back in the days before we put it to work for us, rebuilding tissue, almost ending aging and disease. The active basis for our vaccine caused a whole group of diseases in itself. Returning the man searching gays, the doctor opened the door. We've come a long way since then, you see, he said quietly. In those days, they called it cancer. End of, Beyond Pandora by Robert J. Martin Recording by James Christopher, JXChristopher at yahoo.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 Alex Clark. Every strength is a weakness, and every weakness is a strength. And when the strong start smashing each other's strength, the weak may turn out to be, instead, the wise. The strangers land at just before dawn, incinerating a good lee of bottom land in the process. Their machines were already busily digging up the topsoil. The old one watched, squinting into the morning sun. He sighed, hitched up his saffron robes, and started walking down toward the strangers. Griffin turned, not trying to conceal his excitement. You're the linguist. See what you can get out of him. I might. Kong-su ventured sourly. If you'd go weed the air machine or something. This is going to be hard enough without a lot of kibitzers cramping my style, and scaring old prune face here half to death. I see your point, Griffin answered. He turned, and started back toward the diggings. Let me know it if you make any progress with a local language. He stopped whistling and strove to control the jauntiness of his gait. Must be the lower gravity and extra oxygen, he thought. I haven't bounced along like this for thirty years. Nice place to settle down if some promoter doesn't turn it into an old folk's home. He sighed and glanced over the diggings. The rammed earth walls were nearly obliterated by now. Nothing lost, he reflected. It's all on tape, and they're no different from a thousand others at any rate. Griffin opened a door in the transparent bubble from which Albania's was operating the diggers. Anything, he inquired. Nothing so far, Albania's reported. What's the score on this job? I missed the briefing. How'd you make it all the way out on three, by the way? Same stuff, pottery shards and the usual junk. See it once, you've seen it all. Well, Griffin began. It looks like the same thing here again. We've pretty well covered this system, and you know how it is. Rammed earth walls here and there, pottery shards, flint, bronze, and iron artifacts. That's it. We got to the Iron Age on every planet, and then bluey. Artifacts all made for humanoid hands, I suppose. I wonder if they were close enough to have crossbred with humans. I couldn't say, Griffin observed dryly. From the looks of old prune face I doubt if we'll ever find a human female with sufficiently detached attitude to find out. Who's prune face? He came ambling down out of the hills this morning and walked into camp. You mean you've actually found a live humanoid? There's got to be a first time for everything. Griffin opened the door and started climbing the hill toward kung su and prune face. Well, have you gotten beyond the me charlie stage yet? Griffin inquired at breakfast two days later. Kung su gave an inscrutable east Los Angeles smile. As a matter of fact, I'm a little farther along. Joe was amazingly cooperative. Joe? Spell it C-H-O-U if you want to be exotic. It still pronounced Joe, and that's his name. The language is monosyllabic and tonal. I happen to know a similar language. You mean this humanoid speaks Chinese? Griffin was never sure whether kung was ribbing him or not. Not Chinese. The vocabulary is different, but the syntax and phonemes are nearly identical. I'll speak it perfectly in a week. It's just a question of memorizing two or three thousand new words. Incidentally, Joe wants to know why you're digging up his bottom land. He was all set to flood it today. Don't tell me he plants rice, Griffin exclaimed. I don't imagine it's rice, but it needs flooding, whatever it is. Ask him how many humanoids there are on this planet. I'm way ahead of you, Griffin. He says there are only a few thousand left. The rest all destroyed in a war with the barbarians. Barbarians? They're extinct. How many races were there? I'll get to that if you'll stop interrupting. Kung rejoined testily. Joe says there are only two kinds of people. His own dark, straight-haired kind, and the barbarians. They have curly hair, white skin, and round eyes. You'd pass for a barbarian, according to Joe, if only you didn't have a face full of hair. He wants to know how things are going on the other planets. I suppose that's my cue to break into a cold sweat and feel a premonition of disaster. Griffin tried to smile and almost made it. Not necessarily, but it seems our Iron Age man is fairly well-informed in extra-planetary affairs. I guess I better start learning the language. Thanks to the spadework Kung Su had done in preparing hypno-recordings, Griffin had a working knowledge of the rational peoples' language eleven days later when he sat down to drink herb-infused hot water with Joe and the other old ones in a low-roof building around which clustered a village of two hundred humanoids. He fidgeted through interminable ritualistic cups of hot water. Eventually Joe hid his hands in the sleeves of his robe and turned with an air of polite inquiry. Now we get down to business, Griffin thought. Joe, you know by now why we're digging up your bottom land. We'll recompense you in one way or another. Meanwhile could you give me a little local history? Joe smiled like a well-nourished bud Hisatva. Approximately how far back would you like me to begin? At the beginning. How long is a year on your planet? Joe inquired. Your year is eight and a half days longer. Our day is three hundred heartbeats longer than yours. Joe nodded his thanks. More water? Griffin declined suppressing a shudder. Five million years ago we were limited to one planet. Joe began. The court astronomer had a vision of our planet in flames. I imagine you'd say our son was about to go nova. The empress was disturbed and ordered a convocation of seers. One fasted over long and saw an answer. As the dying seer predicted, the Son of Heaven came with fire-breathing dragons. The fairest of maidens and the strongest of our young men were taken to serve his warriors. We served them honestly and faithfully. A thousand years later their empire collapsed, leaving us scattered across the universe. Three thousand years later a new race of barbarians conquered our planets. We surrendered naturally and soon were serving our new masters. Five hundred years passed and they destroyed themselves. This has been the pattern of our existence from that day to this. You mean you've been slaves for five million years? Griffin was incredulous. Servitude has ever been a refuge for the scholar and the philosopher. But what point is there in such a life? Why do you continue living this way? What is the point in any way of life? Continued existence. Personal immortality is neither desirable nor possible. We settled for perpetuation of the race. But what about self-determination? You know enough astronomy to understand novae. Surely you realize it could happen again. What would you do without a technology to build spaceships? Many stars have gone novae during our history. Usually the barbarians came in time. When they didn't, you mean you don't really care? All barbarians ask that sooner or later. Joe smiled. Sometimes toward the end they even accuse us of destroying them. We don't. Every technology bears the seeds of its own destruction. The stars are older than the machinery that explores them. You used technology to get from one system to another. We used it. But we were never part of it. When machines fail, their people die. We have no machines. What would you do if this sun were to novae? We can serve you. We are not unintelligent. Willing to work your way around the galaxy, eh? But what if we refuse to take you? The race would go on. Kung-su tells me there is no life on planets of this system. But there are other systems. You're whistling in the dark, Griffin Scott. How do you know if any of the rational people survive? How far back does your history go? Joe inquired. It's hard to say exactly, Griffin replied. Our earliest written records date back some 7,000 years. You are all of one race? No. You may have noticed Kung-su is slightly different from the rest of us. Yes, Griffin. I have noticed. When you return, ask Kung-su for the legend of creation. More hot water? Joe stirred, and Griffin guessed the interview was over. He drank another ritual cup, made his farewells, and walked thoughtfully back to camp. Kung, Griffin asked over coffee next afternoon. How well up are you on Chinese mythology? Oh, fair, I guess. It isn't my field, but I remember some of the stories my grandfather used to tell me. What is your legend of creation? Griffin persisted. It's pretty well garbled, but I remember something about the Son of Heaven bringing the early settlers from a land of two moons on the back of his fire-breathing dragon. The dragon got sick and died, so they couldn't ever get back to heaven again. There's a lot of stuff about devils, too. What about devils? I don't remember too well. They were supposed to do terrible things to you, and even to your unborn children if they ever caught you. They must have been pretty stupid, though. They couldn't turn corners. My grandfather's store had devil screens at all the doors, so you had to turn a corner to get in. The first time I saw the lead baffles at the pile chamber doors on the ship, it reminded me of home, sweet home. By the way, some young men from the village were around today. They want to work passage to the next planet. What do you think? Griffin was silent for a long time. Well, what do you say? We can use some hand labor for the delicate digging. You want to put them on? Might as well, Griffin answered. There's a streetcar every millennium, anyway. What do you mean by that? You wouldn't understand. You sold your birthright to the barbarians. The end. I Like Martian Music by Charles E. Fritch This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Greg Marguerite I Like Martian Music by Charles E. Fritch Long Tree Played His features relaxed into a gentle smile of happiness and his body turned a bright red orange. Long Tree sat before his hole in the ground and gazed thoughtfully among the sandy red hills that surrounded him. His skin at the moment was a medium yellow, a shade between pride and happiness at having his brief symphony almost completed, with just a faint tinge of red to denote that uncertain cautious approach to the last note which had eluded him thus far. He sat there unmoving for a while, and then he picked up his blow-string and fitted the mouthpiece between his thin lips. He blew into it softly, and at the same time gently strummed the three strings stretching the length of the instrument. The note was a firm, clear one which would have made any other musician proud. But Long Tree frowned, and at the disappointment his body flushed a dark green and began taking on a purple cast of anger. Hasteily he put down the blow-string and tried to think of something else. Slowly his normal color returned. Across the nearest hill came his friend, Channel Jumper, striding on the long, thin, ungainly legs that had given him his name. His skin radiated a blissful orange. Long Tree, Channel Jumper exclaimed enthusiastically, collapsing on the ground nearby and folding his legs around him. How's the symphony coming? Not so good, Long Tree admitted sadly, and his skin turned green at the memory. If I don't get that last note, I may be this color the rest of my life. Why don't you play what you've written so far? It's not very long, and it might cheer you up a bit. You're a good friend, Channel Jumper, Long Tree thought, and when Red Sand and I are married after the music festival, we'll have you over to our hole for dinner. As he thought this, he felt his body take on an orange cast, and he felt better. I can't seem to get that last note, he said, picking up the blow-string again and putting it into position. The final note must be conclusive, something complete in itself, and yet be able to sum up the entire meaning of the symphony preceding it. Channel Jumper hummed sympathetically. That's a big job for one note. It might be a sound no one has ever heard before. Long Tree shrugged. It may even sound alien, he admitted, but it's got to be the right note. Play, and we'll see, Channel Jumper urged. Long Tree played, and as he played, his features relaxed into a gentle smile of happiness and his body turned orange. Delicately, he strummed the three strings of the blow-string with his long-nailed fingers. Softly, he pursed his frail lips and blew expertly into the mouthpiece. From the instrument came sounds the like of which Channel Jumper had never before heard. The Martian sat and listened in evident rapture, his body radiating a golden glow of ecstasy. He sat and dreamed, and as the music played, his spine tingled with growing excitement. The music swelled, surrounding him, permeating him. Picking him up in a great hand and sweeping him into new and strange and beautiful worlds. Worlds of tall metal structures, of vast stretches of greenness, and of water, and of trees, and of small pale creatures that flew giant metal insects. He dreamed of these things which his planet Mars had not known for millions of years. After a while the music stopped, but for a moment neither of them said anything. At last Channel Jumper sighed. It's beautiful, he said. Yes, Long Tree admitted. But Channel Jumper seemed puzzled, but somehow it doesn't seem complete. Almost, but not quite, as though—as though—Long Tree sighed. One more note would do it? One more note, no more, no less. At the end of the crescendo could tie the symphony together and end it. But which one? I've tried them all, and none of them fit. His voice had risen higher in his excitement, and Channel Jumper warned. Careful, you're beginning to turn purple. I know Long Tree said mournfully, and the purple tint changed to a more acceptable green. But I've got to win first prize at the festival tomorrow. Red Sand promised to marry me if I did. You can't lose, Channel Jumper told him, and then remembered, if you can get that last note. If Long Tree echoed despairingly as though his friend had asked the impossible, I wish I had your confidence, Chan, your orange most of the time while I'm a spectrum. I haven't your artistic temperament, Channel Jumper told him. Besides, orange is such a homely color, I feel ashamed to have it all the time. As he said this, he turned green with shame, and Long Tree laughed at the paradox. Channel Jumper laughed, too, glad that he had diverted his friend's attention from the elusive and perhaps non-existent note. Did you know the Space Rocket is due pretty soon, he said? Perhaps even in time for the music festival. Space Rocket? Oh, I forgot, you were busy composing and didn't get to hear it, Channel Jumper said. Well, Big Wind, who has a telescope in his hole, told me a rocket is coming through space towards us, possibly from the third planet. Oh, Long Tree said, not particularly interested. I wonder if they'll look like us, Channel Jumper wondered. If they're intelligent, of course they will, Long Tree said, certainly not caring. Their culture will probably be alien, though, and their music he paused and turned a very deep yellow. Of course, they might even be able to furnish the note I need to complete my symphony. Channel Jumper shook his head. You've got to compose it all yourself, he reminded, or you don't qualify, and if you don't qualify you can't win, and if you don't win you can't marry Red Sand. But just one little note, Long Tree said. Channel Jumper shrugged helplessly and turned sympathetically green. I don't make the rules, he said. No. Well, Long Tree went on in sudden determination. I'll find that last note if I have to stay permanently purple. Channel Jumper shuddered jestingly at this, but remained pleasantly orange. And I'll leave you alone so you can get to work, he said, unfolding himself. Goodbye, Long Tree said, but Channel Jumper's long legs had already taken him over to the nearest sand dune and out of sight. Alone, Long Tree picked up the blowstring once more, placed it against his stomach, and gave out with a clear, beautiful experimental note, which was, again, not the one he desired. He still had not found it an hour later when the sound came. The sound was a low, unpleasant rumble, a sound lower than any Long Tree had ever heard, and he wondered what it was. Thinking of it, he remembered he had seen a large flash of fire in the sky a moment before the roar came. But since this last was clearly not likely at all, he dismissed the whole thing as imagination and tried again to coax some new note from the blowstring. A half hour later, Channel Jumper came bounding excitedly over a sand dune. There here, he cried, screeching to a halt and emitting yellow flashes of color. Who's here, Long Tree demanded, turning violet and annoyance at the interruption. The visitors from space, Channel Jumper explained, they landed near my hole. They're little creatures, only half as big as we are, but thicker and gray-colored. Gray-colored, Long Tree repeated incredulously trying to picture the improbability. But only on the outside, Channel Jumper went on, they have an outside shell that comes off, and inside they're sort of pink-orange. Aha! Long Tree said as though he'd suspected it all the time. Evidently they wear gray suits of some kind, probably for protection. They took them off anyway, Channel Jumper said, eager to impart his knowledge, and they were sort of pink-orange underneath. There are only two of them, and one has long hair. Strange, Long Tree mused, thinking of their own hairless bodies. Wonder what they want? Channel Jumper shrugged to indicate he didn't know. The short-haired one followed me, he said. Long Tree felt the chill blue of fear creep along his spine, but immediate anger at himself changed it conveniently to purple, and he was certain Channel Jumper hadn't noticed. When he had controlled himself, he said, Well, it doesn't matter. I've got to get on with my symphony, that last note. He's here, Channel Jumper announced. What? Channel Jumper pointed eagerly, and Long Tree's eyes followed the direction to where the aliens stood at the top of a nearby dune staring at them. Long Tree could feel his skin automatically turning red with caution, blending with the sand, while the ever-trusting Channel Jumper remained bright orange. Good gosh, the alien exclaimed. Not only do they look like modified grasshoppers, they change color, too. What did he say? Long Tree demanded. How should I know, Channel Jumper said, it's in another language. And its voice, Long Tree exclaimed, almost disbelieving it. Low. Lower than even our drums rumble. And they talk in squeaks yet, the alien told himself aloud. Long Tree regarded the alien carefully. As Channel Jumper had said, the creature was short and had close cropped hair on its head. The legs were brief and pudgy, and Long Tree felt a shade of pity for the creature who could obviously not get around as well as they. It was undoubtedly intelligent, the space rocket testified to that, and the fact that the creature's skin color stayed a peaceful pink-orange helped assure Long Tree the alien's mission was friendly. The alien raised a short arm and stepped slowly forward. I come in peace, he said, in the language they could not understand. My wife and I are probably the only humans left alive. When we left Earth, most of the population had been wiped out by atomics. I think we were the only ones to get away. Long Tree felt his redness subside to orange as he wondered idly what the alien had said. Except for a natural curiosity he didn't really care, for he remembered suddenly the symphony he had to finish by tomorrow if he were to marry red sand. But there was the element of politeness to consider, so he nudged Channel Jumper. Don't just stand there, say something. Channel Jumper flustered and turned several colors in rapid succession. He stammered, or, uh, welcome to our planet, oh, visitor from space, and motioned the alien to sit down. That's not very creative, Long Tree accused. What's the difference, Channel Jumper pointed out, when he doesn't understand us anyway? You guys don't really look like grasshoppers, the man from Earth apologized coming forward. It's just the long legs that fooled me from up there. Boy, am I glad to find somebody intelligent on Mars. From the air, we couldn't see any cities or anything, and we were afraid the planet didn't have any life. I wish we could understand each other, though. Long Tree smiled pleasantly and wished the creature would go away, so he could search for the last note to his symphony. He picked up his blowstring, so the alien wouldn't sit on it. Play for him, Channel Jumper suggested, seating himself by segments. Just the last part, to see how he reacts. Music is universal, you know. Long Tree was going to do just that thing, for despite Channel Jumper's warning that he might compose every single note by himself, he felt an alien viewpoint might be helpful. He started playing. Channel Jumper sat dreaming, glowing radiantly, but the alien seemed somewhat perturbed by the music and fidgeted nervously. Could it be, Long Tree wondered, that the incredible beauty of his composition might not translate acceptably to alien ears? He dismissed the thought as unlikely. Or, that's a bit high, isn't it? The creature said, shaking his head. Lost in the sweeping melodies, neither Long Tree nor Channel Jumper paid any attention to the meaningless syllables. Long Tree played on, oblivious to all else, soaring toward the great screaming crescendo that would culminate with the missing note. Vaguely he became aware that the creature had gotten up and he turned a small part of his attention to the action. Long Tree smiled inwardly, pleased, and turned yellow with pride to think that even a man from another planet should so appreciate his symphony that he got up and danced a strange little dance and even sang to the music. The alien held on to his ears and leaped erratically, singing, No, no! Stop! It's too high! My head's bursting! Channel Jumper too seemed pleased by this show of appreciation, though neither of them understood the words, and Long Tree swept into the final notes of the rising crescendo with a gusto he had not previously displayed. He stopped where he had always stopped, and the final note came. It startled the Martians, then the realization swept over them in glad tides of color. The symphony was complete now, with that final alien sound Long Tree could win both the festival prize and red sand with it. The last note was a soft popping sound that had come from the creature from another planet. They looked to see him sagging to the ground, his head soft and pulpy. My symphonies complete! Long Tree exclaimed jubilantly, a brilliant yellow now. But Channel Jumper's yellow happiness was tinged with green. A pity, he said, the creature had to give its life in exchange for the note. I believe it really wanted to, Long Tree said, turning solemn. Did you see how it danced to the music as though in the throes of ecstasy and it didn't change color once? It must have died happy to know it gave itself to a good cause. You could probably get by with claiming to use the creature as an auxiliary instrument, used Channel Jumper, practical once more, and eliminate any claim that he might have assisted you. But what about the festival? This one looks as though he doesn't have another note in him. There's the other one, Long Tree reminded, the one with long hair. We can save that one until tomorrow. Of course, Channel Jumper agreed standing up. I'll go get it, and you can keep it safe here in your hole until tomorrow night. You're a good friend, Channel Jumper, Long Tree began, but the other was already bounding out of sight over a sand dune. Blissfully, he raised the blowstring into position and played the opening notes to his symphony. The alien lay unmoving with its head in a sticky puddle. But Long Tree took no notice. He didn't even consider that after the festival he would never be able to play his symphony again in all its glorious completeness. His spinal column tingled pleasantly and his skin turned the golden yellow of unbearable happiness. The music was beautiful. End of I Like Martian Music by Charles E. Fritch It's a Small Solar System by Alan Howard. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Greg Marguerite. It's a Small Solar System by Alan Howard. Soon the three representatives of Earth were walking shoulder to shoulder, the captain first to touch soil. Know him? Well, you might say I practically grew up with him. He was my hero in those days. I thought few wiser or greater men ever lived. In my eyes, he was greater than Babe Ruth Lindy or the President. Of course, time and my growing up caused me to bring him into a perspective that I felt to be more consonant with his true position in his field of endeavor. When he died, his friends mourned for fond remembrance of things past, but privately many of them felt that he had outlived his best days. Now with this glorious vindication I wonder how many of them are still alive to feel the twinge of conscience. Oh, we're delighted, of course, but it seems incredible even today to us elated oldsters, although we were always his staunchest admirers. In retrospect we can see now that no one believed more than we that he did it strictly for the dollar. It is likely there was always a small core of starry-eyed adolescents who found the whole improbable saga entirely believable, or at least half believed it might be partly true. The attitude of the rest of us ranged from a patronizing disparagement that we thought was expected of us through grudging admiration to out-and-out enthusiasm. Certainly if anybody had taken the trouble to consider it, and why should they have, the landing of the first manned ship on our satellite seemed to render him as obsolete as a hoard of other lesser and even greater lights. At any rate it was inevitable that the conquest of the moon would be merely a stepping-stone to more distant points. Oh no, I had nothing to do with the selection of the Red Planet. Coming in as head of Project P4 in its later stages as I did when Dr. Fredericks died. The selection had already been made. Yes, it's quite likely I may have been plugging for Mars below the conscious level. A combination of chance, expediency, and popular demand made Mars the next target, rather than Venus, which was in some ways the more logical goal. I would have given anything to have gone, but the metaphorical stout heart that one reporter once credited me with is not the same as an old man's actual fatty heart. And there were heartbreak years ahead before the Goddard was finally ready. During this time he slipped further into obscurity while big important things were happening all around us. You're right, that one really big creation of his is bigger than ever. It has passed into the language and meant employment for thousands of people. Too few of them have even heard of him. Of course he was still known and welcomed by a small circle of acquaintances, but to the world at large he was truly a forgotten man. It is worthy of note that one of the oldest of these acquaintances was present at blast-off time. He happened to be the grandfather of a certain competent young crewman. The old man was a proud figure during the brief ceremonies, and his eyes filled with tears as the mighty rocket climbed straight up on its fiery tail. He remained there gazing up at the sky long after it had vanished. He was heard to murmur, I am glad the kid could go, but it's just a lark to him. He never had a sense of wonder. How could he? Nobody reads any more. Afterward his senile emotions betraying him he broke down completely and had to be led from the field. It is rumored he did not live long after that. The Goddard drove on until Mars filled the Viz screen. It was planned to make at least a half a dozen breaking passes around the planet for observational purposes before the actual business of bringing the ship in for landfall began. As expected the atmosphere proved to be thin. The speculated Dead Sea area, oddly enough, turned out to be just that. To the surprise of some, it was soon evident that Mars possessed or had possessed a high civilization. The Canales of Schiapparelli were indeed broad waterways stretching from pole to pole, too regular to be anything but the work of intelligence. But most wonderful of all were the scattered but fairly numerous large walled cities that dotted the world. Everybody was excited, eager to land and start exercising their specialties. One of the largest of these cities was selected more or less at random. It was decided to set down just outside yet far enough from the walls to avoid any possibility of damage from the landing jets in the event the city was inhabited. Even if deserted the entire scientific personnel would have raised a howl that would have been heard back on earth if just a section of wall was scorched. When planetfall was completed the observers had time to scan the surroundings. It was seen that the city was very much alive. What keeps them up marveled Kupchansky, the Aeronautics and Rocketry Authority. The sky swarmed with ships of strange design. The walls were crowded with inhabitants too far away for detailed observation. Even as they looked an enormous gate opened and a procession of mounted figures emerged. In the event the place was deserted the captain would have had the honor of being the first to touch Martian soil. While atmospheric and other checks were being run he gave orders for the previously decided alternative. Captain, semanticist and anthropologist would make the first contact. With all checks agreeing that it was safe to open locks soon the three representatives of earth were walking shoulder to shoulder down the ramp. It was apparent that the two scientists purposely mist stride inches from the end so that it was the captain's foot that actually touched ground first. The cavalcade, though these beasties were certainly not horses, was now near enough to the ship for details to be seen. Surprise and wonderment filled the crew for while the multi-legged steeds were as alien as anyone might expect to find on an alien world the riders were very definitely humanoid. Briefly brightly and barbarically trapped as they were by earthly standards they seemed to be little distinguishable from homegrown homo-saps. The approaching company appeared to be armed mainly with swords and lances but also in evidence were some tubular affairs that could very well be some sort of projectile discharging device. The captain suddenly felt unaccountably warm. It was a heavy responsibility. He hoped these Martians wouldn't be the type of madmen who believed in the shoot first inquirer later theory. Even as he stood there outwardly calm but jittering internally the Martian riders pulled up ten feet from the earthmen. Their leader tall, dark-haired and subtly lighter in hue than his companions dismounted and approached the captain. Without stretched hand he took the captains in a firm grip. Let it be recorded here to the shame of earth where reading for pleasure is virtually a lost pastime that not one man on the Goddard realized the significance of what followed. How do you do? he said in perfect English with an unmistakable trace of southern accent. Welcome to Bassoon. My name is John Cota. End of It's a Small Solar System by Alan Howard Recorded for LibriVox by William Hazelstein Operation RSVP by Henry B. Piper Vladimir N. Duzivinski Foreign Minister Union of East European Soviet Republics to Wu Feng Tong Foreign Minister United People's Republics of East Asia 15 January 1984 Honored sir, pursued to our well-known policy of exchanging military and scientific information with the government of friendly powers, my government takes great pleasure in announcing the completely successful final test of our new nuclear rocket guided missile Marxist victory. The test launching was made from a position south of Lake Balkash. The target was located in the east Siberian Sea. In order to assist you in appreciating the range of the new guided missile Marxist victory, let me point out that the distance from launching site to target is somewhat over 50 percent greater than the distance from launching site to your capital, Nanjing. My government is still hopeful that your government will revise its president in transvagant position on the Khakun River dispute. I have the honor etc etc etc VN Duzivinski Wu Feng Tong to Vladimir N. Duzivinski 7 February 1984 Estimable sir, my government was most delighted to learn of the splendid triumph of your government in developing the new guided missile Marxist victory and at the same time deeply relieved. We had of course detected the release of nuclear energy incident to the test and in as much as it had obviously originated in the disintegration of a quantity of uranium 235. We had feared the 10 explosion had occurred at your government's secret uranium plant at Katanga. We have long known of the lack security measures in effect at this plant and have as a consequence been expecting some disaster there. I am therefore sure that your government will be equally gratified to learn of the perfection by my government of our own new guided missile Celestial destroyer, which embodies greatly improved form many of the features of your own government's guided missile Marxist victory. Naturally your own scientific warfare specialists have detected the release of energy incident to the explosion of our own improved thorium-aphenium interaction bomb. This bomb was exploded over the north polar ice cap about 200 miles south of the pole on about 35 degrees east longitude almost due north of your capital city of Moscow. The launching was made from a site in Tibet. Naturally my government cannot deviate from my present just and reasonable attitude in the Kankum River question. Trusting that your government will realize this I have the honor to be your obedient and respectful servant Wu Fong-Tung from New York Times. February 20th 1984. Afghan ruler fated at Nanking. Amir share Ali Aballa confers with UPREA press Singh Lee Yin. UESR foreign minister Dziubinsky to Maxine G Kaliankov ambassador at Nanking. 3rd March 1984. Kamnoled ambassador. It is desired that you make immediate secret and confidential repeat secret and confidential inquiry as to the whereabouts of Dr. Dimutri O. Voronov the noted Soviet rocket expert designer of the new guided missile Marxist victory who vanished a week ago from the Joseph Villeneasovich-Jugasvili reaction proportion laboratories at Molotov Gorod. It is feared in government circles that this noted scientist has been abducted by agents of the United People's Republics of East Asia possibly to extract from him under torture information of a secret tactical nature. As you know this is but the latest of a series of such disappearances beginning about five years ago when the Kakum River question first arose. Your utmost activity in this matter is required. Dziubinsky. Ambassador Kreliankov to foreign minister Dziubinsky. 9th March 1984. Kamnoled foreign minister. Since receipt of yours of 3384 I have been utilizing all the resources at my disposal in the matter of the noted scientist D. O. Voronov and availing myself of all sources of information e.g. spies, secret agents, disaffected elements of the local population and including two UPREA cabinet ministers on my payroll. I regret to report that the results of this investigation have been entirely negative. No one here appears to know anything of the whereabouts of Dr. Voronov. At the same time there is considerable concern in the UPREA government circles over the disappearances of certain prominent East Asian scientists e.g. Dr. Hong Fu, the nuclear physicist, Dr. Hinyang Wu, the great theoretical mathematician Dr. Meng Xing, the electronics expert. I am informed that UPREA government sources are attributing these disappearances to us. I can only say that I am sincerely sorry this is not the case. Kreliankov. Wu Feng Tong to Vladimir N. Dziubinsky. 21 April 1984. Estimable sir. In accordance with our established policy of free exchange with friendly powers of scientific information, permit me to inform your government that a new mutated disease virus has been developed in our biological laboratories, causing a highly contagious disease similar in symptoms to bubonic plague, but responding to none of the treatments for this latter disease. This new virus strain was accidentally produced in the course of some experiments with radio activity. In spite of the greatest care, it is feared that this virus has spread beyond the laboratory in which it was developed. We warned you most urgently of the danger that it may have spread to the UESR, enclosed our list of symptoms, etc. My government instructs me to advise your government that the attitude of your government through the Khakoum river question is utterly unacceptable, and will require a considerable revision before my government can even consider negotiation with your government on this subject. You are obedient and respectful servant Wu Feng Tong. From New York Times, May 12, 1984. Afghan Ruler Fated at Moscow. Amir C's Red Square Troop Review. Confirmed with Premier President Mosergan. Singh Ya. UPIA Ambassador at Moscow. To Wu Feng Tong. 26 June 1984. Venerable and honoured, sir. I regret humbly that I can learn nothing whatsoever about the fate of the learned scholars of science of whom you inquire. Namely Hong Fu, Hinyang Wu, Meng Xing, Yi Holi, Wang Fat, and Bao Huxin. This inability may be in part due to incompetence of my unworthy self. But none of my many sources of information, including Soviet Minister of Police, Morgoldov, who is on my payroll, can furnish any useful data whatsoever. I am informed, however, that the UEESR government is deeply concerned about similar disappearances of some of the foremost of their own scientists, including Voronov, Girinkov, Kangornov, Bakhorin, Himel Faber, and Polovinsky. All of whose dossiers are on fire without viewer of foreign intelligence. I am further informed that the government of the UEESR ascribes these disappearances to our own activities. Ah, venerable and honoured, sir. If these were only true, kindly consented to accept compliments of Xing Ya. Diubinsky to Wu Feng Tong, 6 October 1984. Honoured, sir. For sure unto our well-known policy of exchanging scientific information with the governments of friendly powers, my government takes the greatest pleasure in announcing a scientific discovery of inestimable value to the entire world. I refer to nothing less than a positive technique for liquidating rats as a species. This technique involves treatment of male rats with certain types of hard radiations, which not only renderism reproductively sterile, but leaves the rodents so treated in full possession of all other sexual functions and impulses. Furthermore, this condition of sterility is venerally contagious, so that one male rat so treated will sterilize all female rats, with which it comes in contact. And these in turn will sterilize all male rats coming in contact with them. Our mathematicians estimate that under even moderately favorable circumstances, the entire rat population of the world could be sterilized from one male rat in approximately 200 years. Rats so treated have already been liberated in the granaries at Odessa. In three months, rat trappings have fallen by 26.4% and grain losses to rats by 32.09%. We are shipping you six dozen sterilized male rats, which you can use for sterilization stock, and by so augmenting their numbers may duplicate our own success. Curiously enough, this effect of venerally contagious sterility was discovered quite accidentally. In connection with the use of hard radiations for human sterilization, criminals, mental defectives, etc., knowing the disastrous possible effects of an epidemic of contagious human sterility, all persons so sterilized were liquidated as soon as the contagious nature of their sterility had been discovered, with the exception of a dozen or so conflicts who had been released before this discovery was made. It is believed that at least some of them have made their way over the border and into the territory of the United People's Republics of East Asia. I must caution your government to be on the lookout of them, among a people still practicing ancestral worship, an epidemic of sterility would be a disaster indeed. My government must insist that your government take some definite step toward the solution of the Kapkum River question. The present position of the government of the United People's Republics of East Asia on this subject is utterly unacceptable to the government of the Union of East European Soviet Republics, and must be revised very considerably. I have the honor, etc., etc., Vladimir N. Zubinski. Coded radiogram Zubinski to Korean coast, 25 October 1984. Assertain immediately cause of release of nuclear energy vicinity of Nova Zembla this a.m. Zubinski. Coded radiogram Wu Feng Tong to Xin Yang, 25 October 1984. Assertain immediately cause of release of nuclear energy vicinity of Nova Zembla this a.m. Wu. Letter from the Amir of Afghanistan to U-E-E-S-R Premier President Mosul Gren and U-P-R-E-A President Sung Lee-Yin, 26 October 1984. Sher Ali Abdullah, Amir of Afghanistan, Master of Kabul, Lord of Herat and Kandahar, Keeper of Kiber Pass, Defender of the True Faith, Servant of the Most High and Swordhand of the Prophet, PhD Princeton, SCB Massachusetts Institute of Technology MA Oxford to the Excellencies A.A. Mosul Gren, Premier President of the Union of Eastern European Soviet Republics and Sung Lee-Yin, President of the United People's Republics of East Asia. Greetings in the name of Allah. For the past five years I have watched with growing concern the increasing tensions between your Excellencies respective governments, allegedly arising out of the so-called Khakum River question. It is my conviction that this Khakum River dispute is the utterly fraudulent device by which both governments hope to create a pretext for the invasion of India, each ostensibly to rescue the unhappy country from the repress of the other. Your Excellencies must surely realize that this is a contingency which the government of the Kingdom of Afghanistan cannot and will not permit. It would mean nothing short of the national extinction of the Kingdom of Afghanistan and the enslavement of the Afghan people. Your Excellencies will recall that I discuss this matter most urgently on the occasions of my visits to your respective capitals of Moscow and Nagging. Your respective attitudes on those occasions has firmly convinced me that neither of your Excellencies is by nature capable of adopting a rational or civilized attitude toward this question. It appears that neither of your Excellencies has any intention of abandoning your present war of mutual threats and blackmail until forced to do so by some overt act on the part of one or the other of your Excellencies governments, which would result in physical war of Pan, Asiatic scope and magnitude. I am further convinced that this deplorable situation arises out of the megalomaniac ambitions of the federal governments of the UESR and the UPREA respectively and that the different peoples of what you unblushingly call your autonomous republics have no ambitions except on rapidly diminishing order of probability to live out their natural span of years in peace. Therefore, in the name of Allah, the merciful, the compassionate, we, share Ali Abdullah, Amir of Afghanistan, etc., do decree and command that the political entities known as the Union of East European Soviet Republics and the United Peoples Republics of East Asia respectively are herewith abolished and dissolved into their constituent autonomous republics, each one of which shall hereafter enjoy complete sovereignty within its own borders as is right and proper. Now, in case either of you gentlemen feel inclined to laugh this off, let me remind you of the series of mysterious disappearances of some of the most noted scientists of both the UESR and the UPREA and let me advise your Excellencies that these scientists are now residents and subjects of the Kingdom of Afghanistan and are here engaged in research and development for my government. These gentlemen were not abducted as you gentlemen seem to believe, they came here of their own free will and has nothing better to remain here while they are treated with dignity and honor, given material rewards, riches, palaces, harems, retinues of servants etc., and are also free from the intellectual and ideological restraints which make life so intolerable in your respective countries to any man above the order of intelligence of a cretin. In return for these benefactions, these eminent scientists have developed for my government certain weapons, for example, one, a nuclear rocket guided missile officially designated as the Sword of Islam, vastly superior to your Excellencies respective guided missiles, Marxist victory and celestial destroyer. It should be. It was the product of the joint efforts of Dr. Voronov and Dr. Baal Hushin, whom your Excellencies know. Two, a new type of radar radio electronic defense screen, which can not only detect the approach of a guided missile at any velocity whatsoever, but will automatically capture and redirect the same. In case either of your Excellencies doubt this statement, you are invited to aim a rocket at some target in Afghanistan and see what happens. Three, both the UPREA matured virus in the UESR contagious stability with positive vaccines against the former and means of instrumental detection of the latter. Four, a technique for initiating and controlling the Beth carbon hydrogen cycle. We are now using this as a source of heat for industrial and even domestic purposes. And we also have a carbon hydrogen cycle bomb. Such a bomb delivered by one of our Sword of Islam mark fours was activated yesterday over the northern tip of Nova Zembla at an altitude of four miles. I am in closing photographic reproductions of views of this test televised to Kabul by an accompanying Sword of Islam mark five observation rocket. I am informed that expeditions have been sent by both the UESR and the UPREA to investigate. They should find some very interesting conditions. For one thing, they won't need their climbing equipment to get over the Nova Zembla glacier. The Nova Zembla glacier isn't there anymore. Five, a lithium bomb. This has not been tested yet. A lithium bomb is nothing for a country the size of Afghanistan to let off inside its own borders. We intend making a test with it within the next 10 days. However, if your Excellencies will designate a target which must be at the center of an uninhabited area at least 500 miles square, the test can be made in perfect safety. If not, I cannot answer the results. That would be in the hands of Allah who has ordered all things. No doubt Allah has ordained the destruction of either Moscow or Nanking. Whichever city Allah has elected to erase, I will make it my personal responsibility to see to it that the other isn't slighted either. However, if your Excellencies decide to accede to my modest and reasonable demands, not later than one week from today, this launching will be cancelled as unnecessary. Of course, this would leave unsettled a bet I have made with Dr. Hong Fu, a star sapphire against his favorite Persian concubine, that the explosion of a lithium bomb will not initiate a chain reaction in the Earth crust and so disintegrate this planet. This, of course, is a minor consideration unworthy of your notice. Of course, I am aware that both of your Excellencies have, in the past, formanted mutual jealousies and suspicions among the several autonomous republics under your respective jurisdictions as an instrument of policy. If these people were at the time to receive full independence, the present inevitability of a pan-asiatic war on a grand scale would be replaced only with the inevitability of a pan-asiatic war by detail, obviously. Some single supranational sovereignty is needed to maintain peace, and such a sovereignty would be established under some leadership not either to associated with either the former UEESR or the former UPREA. I humbly offer myself as president of such a supranational organization, counting as a matter of course upon the whole hearted support and cooperation of both your Excellencies. It might be well if both your Excellencies were to come here to Kabul to confer with me on this subject at your very earliest convenience. The peace of Allah be upon your Excellencies. From New York Times, October 30th, 1984, Mosergan, Suniliyyan, fated at Kabul, confer with Amir, discuss peace plans, surprise developments seen, end of Operation RSVP by Henry Beam Piper. Recorded by William Hazeltime. Pandemic. This is a LiberVox recording. All LiberVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LiberVox.org. Recording by Bologna Times. Pandemic by J. F. Bone. Generally, human beings don't do totally useless things consistently and widely, so maybe there is something to it. We call it Thurston's disease for two perfectly good reasons, Dr. Walter Cramer said. He discovered it, and he was the first to die of it. The doctor fumbled fruitlessly through the pockets of his lab coat. Now where the devil did I put those matches? Are these what you're looking for? The trim blonde and the grey seersucker uniform asked. She picked a small box of wooden safety matches from the littered lab table beside her and handed them to him. Ah, Cramer said. Thanks. Things have a habit of getting lost around here. I can believe that, she said, as she eyed the frenzied disorder around her. Her boss wasn't much better than his laboratory, she decided, as she watched him strike a match against the side of the box and apply the flame to the charred bowl of his pipe. His long dark face became half obscured behind a cloud of bluish smoke as he puffed furiously. He looked like a lean, untidy devil recently escaped from hell with his thick brows, green eyes, and blank black hair highlighted intermittently by the leaping flame of the match. He certainly didn't look like a pathologist. She wondered if she was going to like working with him, and shook her head imperceptibly. Possibly, but not probably. It might be difficult being cooped up here with him day after day. Well, she could always quit if things got too tough. At least there was that consolation. He draped his lean body across a lab stool and leaned his elbows on its back. There was a faint smile on his face as he eyed her quizzically. You're new, he said, not just to this lab, but to the institute. She nodded. I am, but how did you know? Thurston's disease. Everyone in the institute knows that name for the plague, but few outsiders do. He smiled sardonically. Virus Pneumonic Plague. That's a better term for public use. After all, what good does it do to advertise a doctor's stupidity? She eyed him curiously. Day mortuous, she asked. He nodded. That's about it. We may condemn our own, but we don't like laymen doing it. And besides, Thurston had good intentions. He never dreamed this would happen. The road to hell, so I hear, is paved with good intentions. Undoubtedly, Cramer said, dryly. Incidentally, did you apply for this job or were you assigned? I applied. Someone should have warned you I dislike cliches, he said. He paused a moment and eyed her curiously. Just why did you apply? he asked. Why are you imprisoning yourself in a sealed laboratory, which you won't leave as long as you work here? You know, of course, what the conditions are. Unless you resign or are carried out feet first, you will remain here. Have you considered what such an imprisonment means? I considered it, and it doesn't make any difference. I have no ties outside, and I thought I could help. I've had training. I was a nurse before I was married. Divorced. Widowed. Cramer nodded. There were plenty of widows and widowers outside. Too many. But it wasn't much worse than in the institute where, despite precautions, Thurston's disease took its toll of life. Did they tell you this place is called the suicide section? He asked. She nodded. Weren't you frightened? Of dying? Hardly. Too many people are doing it nowadays. He grimaced, looking more satanic than ever. You have a point, he admitted. But it isn't a good one. Young people should be afraid of dying. You're not. I'm not young. I'm thirty-five. And besides, this is my business. I've been looking at death for eleven years. I'm immune. I haven't your experience, she admitted. But I have your attitude. What's your name? Cramer said. Barton. Mary Barton. Well, Mary, I can't turn you down. I need you. But I could wish you had taken some other job. I'll survive. He looked at her with faint admiration in his greenish eyes. Perhaps you will, he said. All right, as to your duties, you will be my assistant. Which means you'll be a dishwasher, laboratory technician, secretary, junior pathologist, and coffee maker. I'll help you with all the jobs except the last one. I make lousy coffee. Cramer grinned. His teeth a white flash across the darkness of his face. You'll be on call twenty-four hours a day, underpaid, overworked, and in constant danger until we lick Thurston's virus. You'll be expected to handle the jobs of three people, unless I can get more help. And I doubt that I can. People stay away from here in droves. There's no future on it. Mary smiled, riley, literally or figuratively, she asked. He chuckled. You have a nice sense of graveyard humor, he said. It'll help, but don't get careless. Assistance are hard to find, she shook her head. I won't. While I'm not afraid of dying, I don't want to do it. And I have no illusions about the danger. I was briefed quite thoroughly. They wanted you to work upstairs. She nodded. I suppose they need help, too. Thurston's disease has riddled the medical profession. Just don't forget that this place can be a death trap. One mistake, and you've had it. Naturally, we take every precaution. But with a virus, no protection is absolute. If you're careless and make errors in procedure, sooner or later, one of those submicroscopic protein molecules will get into your system. You're still alive. So I am, Gramer said, but I don't take chances. My predecessor, my secretary, my lab technician, my junior pathologist, and my dishwasher all died of Thurston's disease. He eyed her grimly. Still want the job? He asked. I lost a husband and a three-year-old son, Mary said, with equal grimness. That's why I'm here. I want to destroy the thing that killed my family. I want to do something. I want to be useful. He nodded. I think you can be. He said quietly. Mind if I smoke? She asked. I need some defense against that pipe of yours. No, go ahead. Out here, it's all right, but not in the security section. Mary took a package of cigarettes from her pocket, lit one, and blew a cloud of gray smoke to mingle with a blue haze from Gramer's pipe. Comfortable? Gramer asked. She nodded. He looked at his wristwatch. We have half an hour before the roll tube cultures are ready for examination. That should be enough to tell you about the modern pastor and his mutant virus. Since your duties will primarily involve Thurston's disease, you'd better know something about it. He settled himself more comfortably across the lab bench, and went on talking in a dry, schoolmaster-ish voice. Alan Thurston was an immunologist at Midwestern University Medical School. Like most men in the teaching trade, he also had a research project. If it worked out, he'd be one of the great names in medicine, like Jenner, Pasteur, and Salk. The result was that he pushed it and wasn't too careful. He wanted to be famous. Well, he's well known now, Mary said. At least within the profession. Quite, Kramer said, dryly. He was working with gamma radiations on microorganisms, trying to produce a mutated strain of microcaucas, pyogenes, that would have enhanced antigenic properties. Wait a minute, doctor. It's been four years since I was active in nursing. Translation, please. Kramer chuckled. He was trying to make a vaccine out of a common infectious organism. You may know it better as Staphylococcus. As you know, it's a pus former that made hospital life more dangerous than it should be because it develops a resistance to antibiotics. What Thurston wanted to do was to produce a strain that would stimulate resistance in the patient without causing disease. Something that would help patients protect themselves rather than rely upon doubtfully effective antibiotics. That wasn't a bad idea. There was nothing wrong with it. The only trouble was that he wound up with something else entirely. He was like the man who wanted to make a plastic suitable for children's toys and ended up with a new explosive. You see, what Thurston didn't realize was that his cultures were contaminated. He'd secured them from the university clinic and had, so he thought, isolated them. But somehow he'd brought a virus along, probably one of the orphan group, or possibly a phage. Orphan? Yes. One that was not a normal inhabitant of human tissues. At any rate, there was a virus, and he mutated it rather than the bacteria. Actually, it was simple enough, relatively speaking, since a virus is infinitely simpler in structure than a bacterium. And hence, much easier to modify with ionizing radiation. So, he didn't produce an antigen. He produced a disease instead. Naturally, he contracted it. And during the period between his infection and death, he managed to infect the entire hospital. Before anyone realized what they were dealing with, the disease jumped from the hospital to the college, and from the college to the city, and from the city to… Yes, I know that part of it. It's all over the world now, killing people by the millions. Well, Kramer said, at least it solved the population explosion. He blew a cloud of blue smoke in Mary's direction, and it did make Thurston famous. His name won't be quickly forgotten. She coughed. I doubt if it ever will be, she said, but it won't be remembered the way he intended. He looked at her suspiciously. That cough. No, it's not Thurston's disease. It's that pipe. It's rancid. It helps me think, Kramer said. You could try cigarettes or candy, she suggested. I'd rather smoke a pipe. There's cancer of the lip and tongue, she said helpfully. Don't quote Oxner. I don't agree with him. And besides, you smoke cigarettes, which are infinitely worse. Only four or five a day, I don't saturate my system with nicotine. In another generation, Kramer observed, you'd have run through the streets of the city, brandishing an axe, smashing salons, you're a lineal descendant of Cary Nation. He puffed quietly until his head was surrounded by a nimbus of smoke. Stop trying to reform me, he added. You haven't been here long enough. Not even God could do that, according to the reports I've heard, she said. He laughed. I suppose my reputation gets around. It does. You're an opinionated slave driver, a bully, an intellectual tyrant, and the best pathologist in the center. The last part of that sentence makes up for unflattering honesty of the first, Kramer said. At any rate, once we realized the situation, we went to work to correct it. Institutes like this were established everywhere the disease appeared for the sole purpose of examining, treating, and experimenting with the hope of finding a cure. This section exists for the evaluation of treatment. We checked the human cases and the primates and the experimental laboratories. It is our duty to find out if anything the boys upstairs try shows any promise. We were a pretty big section once, but Thurston's virus has whittled us down. Right now there's just you and me, but there's still enough work to keep us busy. The experiments are still going on, and there are still human cases, even though the virus has killed off most of these susceptibles. We've evaluated over a thousand different drugs and treatments in this institute alone, and none of them have worked. No, but that doesn't mean the work's been useless. The research has saved others thousands of man hours chasing false leads. In this business, negative results are almost as important as positive ones. We may never discover the solution, but our work will keep others from making the same mistakes. I never thought of that that way. People seldom do. But if you realize that this is international, that every worker on Thurston's disease has a niche to fill, the picture will be clearer. We're doing our part inside the plan. Others are too, and there are thousands of labs involved. Somewhere, someone will find the answer. It probably won't be us, but we'll help get the problem solved as quickly as possible. That's the important thing. It's the biggest challenge the race has ever faced, and the most important. It's a question of survival. Kramer's voice was sober. We have to solve this. If Thurston's disease isn't checked, the human race will become extinct. As a result, for the first time in history, all mankind is working together. All? You mean the communists are too? Of course. What's an ideology if there are no people to follow it? Kramer knocked the ashes out of his pipe and looked at the laboratory clock and shrugged. Ten minutes more, he said, and these tubes will be ready. Keep an eye on that clock and let me know. Meantime, you can straighten up this lab and find out where things are. I'll be in the office, checking the progress reports. He turned abruptly away, leaving her standing in the middle of the cluttered laboratory. Now, what am I supposed to do here? Mary wondered aloud. Clean up, he says. Find out where things are, he says. Get acquainted with the place, he says. I could spend a month doing that. She looked at the littered bench, the wall cabinets with sliding doors half open, the jars of reagents sitting on the sink, the drain board on top of the refrigerator, and on the floor. The disorder was appalling. How he ever manages to work in here is beyond me. I suppose that I'd better start somewhere. Perhaps I can get these bottles in some sort of order first. She sighed and moved toward the wall cabinets. Oh, well, she mused. I asked for this. Didn't you hear that buzzer? Kramer asked. Was that for me? Mary said, looking up from a pile of bottles and glassware she was sorting. Partly. It means that they've sent us another postmortem from upstairs. What is it? I don't know. Man or monkey? It makes no difference. Whatever it is, it's Thurston's disease. Come along. You might as well see what goes on in our ultra-modern necropsy suit. I'd like to. She put down the bottle she was holding and followed him to a green door at the rear of the laboratory. Inside, Kramer said, you will find a small anti-room, a shower, and a dressing room. Strip, shower, and put on a clean set of lab coveralls and slippers, which we'll find in the dressing room. You'll find surgical masks in the wall cabinet besides the lockers. Go through the door beyond the dressing room and wait for me there. I'll give you ten minutes. We can do this both ways, Kramer said, as he joined her in the narrow hall beyond the dressing room. We'll reverse the process going out. You certainly carry security to a maximum, she said through the mask that covered the lower part of her face. You haven't seen anything yet, he said as he opened a door in the hall. Note the positive air pressure, he said. Theoretically, nothing can get in here except what we bring with us. And we try not to bring anything. He stood aside to show her the glassed and cubicle overhanging a bare room dominated by a polished steel post-mortem table that glittered in the harsh fluorescent lighting. Above the table, a number of jointed rods and clamps hung from the ceiling. A low-metal door and a series of racks containing instruments and glassware were set into the opposite wall, together with the gaping circular orifice of an open autoclave. We work by remote control, just like they do at the AEC. See those handlers? He pointed to the control council, set into a small stainless steel table standing beside the sheet of glass at the far end of the cubicle. They're connected to those gadgets up there. He indicated the jointed arms hanging over the autopsy table in the room beyond. I could perform a major operation from here and never touch the patient. Using these, I can do anything I could in person with a difference that there's a quarter inch of glass between me and my work. I have controls that let me use magnifiers and even do micro-dissection if necessary. Where's the kid ever? Mary asked. Across the room, behind that door, he said, waving it at the low, sliding metal partition behind the table. It's been prepped, decontaminated, and ready to go. What happens when you're through? Watch. Dr. Cramer pressed a button on the counter. Dr. Cramer pressed a button on the console in front of him. A section of flooring slid aside, and the table tipped. The cadaver slides off that table and through that hole. Down below is a highly efficient crematorium. Mary shivered. Neat and effective, she said shakily. After that, the whole room is sprayed with germicide and sterilized with live steam. The instruments go into the autoclave, and 30 minutes later we're ready for another postmortem. We used the handlers to put specimens into those jars, he said, pointing to a row of capped glass jars of assorted sizes on a wall rack behind the table. After they're capped, the jars go on to that carrier beside the table. From here they pass through a decontamination chamber and into the remote control laboratory across the hall, where we can run biochemical and histilogical techniques, finish slides and mounted specimens, then go through another decontamination process to the outside lab. Theoretically, this place is proof against anything. It seems to be, Mary said, obviously impressed, I've never seen anything so elegant. Neither did I until Thurston's disease became a problem, Kramer shrugged and sat down behind the controls. Watch now, he said, as he pressed the button. Let's see what's on deck. Man or monkey? Want to make a bet? I'll give you two to one, it's a monkey. She shook her head. The low door slid aside, and a steel carriage emerged into the necropsy room, bearing the nude body of a man. The corpse cleaned paledly under the harsh, shadowless glare of the fluorescence in the ceiling as Kramer, using the handlers, rolled it onto the post-mortem table and clamped it in place on its back. He pushed another button and the carriage moved back into the wall and the steel door slid shut. That'll be decontaminated, he said, and sent back upstairs for another body. I'd have lost, he remarked idly. Lately the posts have been running three to one in favor of monkeys. He moved a handler and picked up a heavy scalpel from the instrument rack. There's a certain advantage to this, he said, as he moved the handler delicately. These gadgets give a tremendous mechanical advantage. I can cut right through small bones and cartilage without using a saw. How nice, Mary said. I expect you enjoy yourself. I couldn't ask for better equipment, he replied noncommittally. With deaf motion of the handler he drew the scalpel down across the chest and along the costal margins in the classic inverted Y incision. We'll take a look at the thorax first, he said, as he used the handlers to pry open the rib cage and expose the thoracic viscera. Ah, thought so. See that? He pointed with a small handler that carried a probe. Look at those lungs. He swung a viewer into place so Mary could see better. Look at those abscesses and necrosis. It's Thurston's disease, all right, with secondary bacterial invasion. The grayish, solidified masses of tissue looked nothing like the normal pink appearance of healthy lungs. Studded with yellowish, spherical abscesses, they lay swollen and engorged within the gaping cavity of the chest. You know the pathogenesis of Thurston's disease? Kramer asked. Mary shook her head. Her face yellowish-white in the glare of the fluorescence. It begins with a bronchial cough, Kramer said. The virus attacks the bronchioles first, destroys them, and passes into the deeper tissues of the lungs. As with most virus disease, there is a transitory leukopenia, a drop in the total number of white blood cells, and a rise in temperature of about two or three degrees. As the virus attacks the alveolar structures, the temperature rises and the white blood cell count becomes elevated. The lungs become inflamed and painful. There is a considerable quantity of lymphoid exudate and plural effusion. Secondary invaders and pus-forming bacteria follow the viral destruction of the lung tissue and form abscesses. Breathing becomes progressively more difficult as more lung tissue is destroyed. Hepatization and necrosis inactivate more lung tissue as the bacteria get in their dirty work, and finally, the patient suffocates. But what if the bacteria are controlled by antibiotics? Then the virus does the job. Then the virus does the job. It produces atolyctasis followed by progressive necrosis of lung tissue with gradual liquefaction of the parent chima. It's slower, but just as fatal. This fellow was lucky. He apparently stayed out of here until he was almost dead. Probably he's had the disease for about a week. If he'd come in the early, we could have kept him alive for maybe a month. The end, however, would have been the same. It's a terrible thing, Mary said faintly. You'll get used to it. We get one or two every day. He shrugged. There's nothing here that's interesting, he said, as he released the clamps and tilted the table. For what seemed to Mary an interminable time the cadaver clung to the polished steel. Then abruptly it slid off the shining surface and disappeared through the square hole in the floor. We'll clean up now. Kramer said, as he placed the instruments in the autoclave, closed the door and locked it and pressed three buttons on the console. From jets embedded in the walls a fine spray filled the room with fog. Germicide, Kramer said. Later there'll be steam. That's all for now. Do you want to go? Mary nodded. If you feel a little rocky there's a bottle of scotch in my desk. I'll split a drink with you when we get out of here. Thanks, Mary said. I think I could use one. Barton? Where is the McNeil stain? Kramer's voice came from the lab. I left it on the sink and it's gone. It's right with the other bloodstains and reagents. Second drawer from the right in the big cabinet. There's a label on the drawer. Mary called from the office. If you can wait until I finish filing these papers I'll come and help you. I wish you would. Kramer's voice was faintly exasperated. Ever since you've organized my lab I can't find anything. You just have a disorderly mind, Mary said, as she slipped the last paper into its proper folder and closed the file. I'll be with you in a minute. I don't dare lose you, Kramer said, as Mary came into the lab. You've made yourself indispensable. It'd take me six months to undo what you've done in one. Not that I mind, he amended. But I was used to things the way they were. He looked around the ordinary laboratory with a mixture of pride and annoyance. Things are so neat. They're almost painful. You look more like a pathologist should, Mary said, as she definitely removed the tray of blood slides from in front of him and began to run the stains. It's my job to keep you free to think. It was a brilliant idea, is that yours? No, the director's. He told me what my duties were when I came here, and I think he's right. You should be using your brain rather than fooling around with blood stains and sectioning tissues. But I like doing things like that, Kramer protested. It's relaxing. What right have you to relax, Mary said? Outside people are dying by the thousands, and you want to relax. Have you looked at the latest mortality reports? No. You should. The WHO estimates that nearly two billion people have died since Thurston's disease first appeared in epidemic proportions. That's two out of three, and more are dying every day. Yet you want to relax. I know, Kramer said, but what can we do about it? We're working, but we're getting no results. You might use that brain of yours, Mary said bitterly. You're supposed to be a scientist. You have facts. Can't you put them together? I don't know, he shrugged. I've been working on this problem longer than you think. I come down here at night. I know, I clean up after you. I haven't gotten anywhere. Sure, we can isolate the virus. It grows nicely on monkeys' lung cells, but that doesn't help. The thing has no apparent antigenicity. It parasitizes, but it doesn't trigger any immune reaction. We can kill it, but the strength of the germicide is too great for living tissue to tolerate. Some people seem to be immune. Sure they do, but why? Don't ask me. I'm not the scientist. Play like one, Kramer growled. Here are the facts. The disease attacks people of all races and ages. So far everyone who has attacked dies. Adult Europeans and Americans appear to be somewhat more resistant than others on a population basis. Somewhere around 60% of them are still alive, but it's wiped out better than 80% of some groups. Children get it worse. Right now I doubt if one percent of the children born during the past 10 years are still alive. It's awful, Mary said. It's worse than that. It's extinction. Without kids, the race will die out. Kramer rubbed his forehead. Have you any ideas? Children have less resistance, Kramer replied, and adult gets exposed to a number of diseases to which he builds an immunity. Possibly one of these has a cross immunity against Thurston's virus. Then why don't you work on that line? Mary asked. Just what do you think I've been doing? That idea was put out months ago, and everyone has been taking a crack at it. There are 24 laboratories working full-time on that facet, and God knows how many more working part-time like we are. I've screened a dozen common diseases, including the six varieties of the common cold virus. All, incidentally, were negative. Well, are you going to keep on with it? I have to, Kramer rubbed his eyes. It won't let me sleep. I'm sure we're on the right track. Something an adult gives him resistance or immunity, he shrugged. Tell you what, you run those bloods out, and I'll go take another look at the data. He reached into his lab coat and produced a pipe. I'll give it another try. Sometimes I wish you'd read without puffing on that thing, Mary said. Your delicate nose will be the death of me yet, Kramer said. It's my lungs I'm worried about, Mary said. They'll probably look like two pieces of well-tanned leather if I associate with you for another year. Stop complaining. You've gotten me to wear clean lab coats. Be satisfied with a limited victory, Kramer said absently, his eyes staring unseeing at a row of reagent bottles on the bench. Abruptly he nodded. Fantastic! he muttered. But it's worth a check. He left the room, slamming the door behind him in his hurry. That man, Mary Murward, he drove a saint out of his mind. If it wasn't so fond of him, I'd quit. If anyone told me I'd fallen in love with a pathologist, I'd have said they were crazy. I wish. Whatever the wish was, it wasn't uttered. Mary gasped and coughed rackingly. Carefully she moved back from the bench, opened a drawer, and found a thermometer. She put it in her mouth. Then she drew a drop of blood from her forefinger and filled a red and white cell pipette, and made a smear of the remainder. She was interrupted by another spasm of coughing, but she waited until the paroxym passed and went methodically back to her self-appointed task. She had done this many times before. It was a routine procedure to check on anything that might be Thurston's disease. A cold, a sore throat, a slight difficulty in breathing all demanded the diagnostic check. It was as much a habit as breathing. This was probably the result of that cold she'd gotten last week, but there was nothing like being sure. Now let's see. Temperature, 99.5 degrees. Red cell count, 4.5 million. White cell count, oh, 2500. Leucopenia. The differentials showed a virtual absence of polymorphs, lymphocytes, and monocytes. The whole slide didn't have 200. Eosinophils and basophils way up, 20 and 15% respectively, a relative rise rather than an absolute one. Leucopenia, no doubt about it. She shrugged. There wasn't much question. She had Thurston's disease. It was the beginning stages, the harsh cough, the slight temperature, the Leucopenia. Pretty soon her white cell count would begin to rise, but it would rise too late. In fact, it was already too late. It's funny, she thought. I'm going to die, but it doesn't frighten me. In fact, the only thing that bothers me is that poor Walter is going to have a terrible time finding things. But I can't put this place the way it was. I couldn't hope to. She shook her head, slid gingerly off the lab stool, and went to the hall door. She'd better check in at the clinic, she thought. There was bed space in the hospital now, plenty of it. That hadn't been true a few months ago, but the only ones who were dying now were the newborn and an occasional adult like herself. The epidemic had died out not because of lack of virulence, but because of lack of victims. The city outside, one of the first affected, now had less than 40% of its people left alive. It was a hollow shell of its former self. People walked its streets and went through the motions of life, but they were not really alive. The vital criteria were as necessary for a race as for an individual. Growth, reproduction, irritability, metabolism. Mary smiled wryly. Whoever authored that hackneyed mnemonic that life was a grim proposition never knew how right he was, particularly when one of the criteria was missing. The race couldn't reproduce. That was the true horror of Thurston's disease. Not how it killed, but who had killed. No children played in the parks and playgrounds. The schools were empty. No babies were pushed in carriages or taken on tours through supermarkets and shopping carts. No advertisements of motherhood or children, or children's things were in the newspapers or magazines. They were forbidden subjects, too dangerously emotional to touch. Laughter and shrill young voices had vanished from the earth to be replaced by the drab grayness of silence and waiting. Death had laid cold hands upon the hearts of mankind, and the survivors were frozen to numbness. It was odd, she thought, how wrong the prophets were. When Thurston's disease broke into the news, there were frightened predictions of the end of civilization. But they had not materialized. There were no mass insurrections, no rioting, no organized violence. Individual excesses, yes, but nothing of a group nature. What little panic there was at the beginning disappeared once people realized that there was no place to go. And a grim passivity had settled upon the survivors. Civilization did not break down. It endured. The mechanics remained intact. People had to do something, even if it was only routine, counterfeit of normal life, the stiff upper lip in the face of disaster. It would have been far more odd, Mary decided, if mankind had given way to panic. Humanity had survived other plagues nearly as terrible as this, and racial memory is long. The same grim patience of the past was here in the present. Man would somehow survive, and civilization go on. It was inconceivable that mankind would become extinct. The whole vast resources and pooled intelligence of surviving humanity were focused upon Thurston's disease. And the disease would yield. Humanity waited with childlike confidence for the miracle that would save it. And the miracle would happen. Mary knew it with a calm certainty, as she stood it in the cross-corridor at the end of the hall, looking down the 30 yards of tile that separated her from the elevator that would carry her up to the clinic and oblivion. It might be too late for her, but not for the race. Nature had tried unaided to destroy man before, and had failed, and her unholy alliance with man's genius would also fail. She wondered as she walked down the corridor if the others who had sickened and died felt as she did. She speculated with grim amusement whether Walter Kramer would be as impersonal as he was with the others when he performed the post-mortem on her body. She shivered at the thought of that bare, sterile room and the shining table. Death was not a pretty thing, but she could meet it with resignation, if not with courage. She had already seen too much for it to have any meaning. She did not falter as she placed a finger on the elevator button. Poor Walter, she sighed. Sometimes it was harder to be among the living. It was good that she didn't let him know how she felt. She had sensed a change in him recently. His friendly impersonality had become merely friendly. It could, with a little encouragement, have developed into something else. But it wouldn't now. She sighed again. His hardness had been a tower of strength, and his bitter gallows humor had furnished a rye relief to grim reality. It had been nice to work with him. She wondered if he would miss her. Her lips curled in a faint smile. He would, if only for the trouble, he would have in making chaos out of the order she had created. Why couldn't that elevator hurry? Mary, where are you going? Gremor's voice was in her ears, and his hand was on her shoulder. Don't touch me. Why not? His voice was curiously different, younger, excited. I have Thurston's disease. She sighed. He didn't let go. Are you sure? The presumptive tests were positive. Initial stages. She nodded. I had the first coughing attack a few minutes ago. He pulled her away from the elevator door that suddenly slid open. You were going to that death trap upstairs, he said. Where else can I go? With me, he said, I think I can help you. How? Have you found a cure for the virus? I think so. At least it's a better possibility than the things they're using up there. His voice was urgent. And to think I might never have seen it if you hadn't put me on the track. Are you sure you're right? Not absolutely, but the facts fit. The theory's good. Then I'm going to the clinic. I can't risk infecting you. I'm a carrier now. I can kill you, and you're too important to die. You don't know how wrong you are, Cramer said. Let go of me. No, you're coming back. She twisted in his grasp. Let me go! She sobbed. I'm broken to a fit of coughing worse than before. What I was trying to say, Dr. Cramer said into the silence that followed, is that you have Thurston's disease. You've been a carrier for at least two weeks. If I am going to get it, you're going away. I can't help. And if I'm not, I'm not. Do you come willingly, or shall I knock you unconscious and drag you back? Cramer asked. She looked at his face. It was grimmer than she had ever seen it before. Numbly she let him lead her back to the laboratory. But Walter, I can't. That's sixty in the past ten hours, she protested. Take it, he said grimly. Then take another, and inhale deeply. But they make me dizzy. Better dizzy than dead. And by the way, how's your chest? Better. There's no pain now. But the cough is worse. It should be. Why? You've never smoked enough to get its cigarette cough, he said. She shook her head, dizzily. You're so right, she said. And that's what nearly killed you, you finished triumphantly. Are you sure? I'm certain. Naturally I can't prove it, yet. But that's just a matter of time. Your response just about clenches it. Take a look at the records. Who gets this disease? Youngsters with nearly one hundred percent morbidity and one hundred percent mortality. Adults less than fifty percent morbidity and again one hundred percent mortality. What makes the other fifty percent immune? Your crack about leather lungs started me thinking. So I fed the data cards into the computer and keyed them for smoking versus incidents. And I found that not one heavy smoker had died of Thurston's disease. Light smokers and non-smokers, plenty of them, but not one single nicotine addict. And there were over 10,000 randomized cards in that spot check. And there's the exact reverse of that classic experiment the lung cancer boys used to sell their case. Among certain religious groups which prohibit smoking, there was nearly 100% mortality of all ages. And so I thought, since the disease was just starting in you, perhaps I could stop it. If I loaded you with tobacco smoke. And it works. You're not certain yet, Mary said. I might not have the disease. You had the symptoms. And there's virus in your sputum. Yes, but nothing. I passed the word and the boys in the other labs figured that there's merit in it. We're going to call it Barton's therapy in your honor. It's going to cause a minor social revolution. A lot of laws are going to have to be rewritten. I can see where it's going to be illegal for children not to smoke. Funny, isn't it? I've contacted the maternity ward. They have three babies still alive upstairs. We get all the newborn in this town, or didn't you know? Funny, isn't it? How we still try to reproduce. They're rigging a smoke chamber for the kids. The head nurse is screaming like a wounded tiger, but she'll feel better with live babies to care for. The only bad thing I can see is that it may cut down on her chain smoking. She's been worried a lot about infant mortality. And speaking of nurseries, that reminds me. I wanted to ask you something. Yes? Will you marry me? I've wanted to ask you before, but I didn't dare. Now I think you owe me something, your life. And I'd like to take care of it from now on. Of course I will, Mary said, and I have reasons too. If I marry you, you can't possibly do that silly thing you plan. What thing? Naming the treatment Barton's. It'll have to be Kramer's. End of Pandemic by J.F. Bone