 2BR02B. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Alex Clark. 2BR02B. By Kurt Vonnegut Jr. Everything was perfectly swell. There were no prisons, no slums, no insane asylums, no cripples, no poverty, no wars. 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 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 hand. He was so rumbled, 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 was working on depicted a very neat garden. Men and women in white, doctors and nurses turned the soil. With 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, toodle-oo. 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. Looks 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 till the 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 with portraits of important people on either the hospital staff or from the Chicago office of the Federal Bureau of Termination. Must be nice to be able to make 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 the trick telephone number of the people who didn't want to live anymore were supposed to call. The zero and 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 cuts included automat, birdland, cannery, cat-box, de-lauser, easy-go. Goodbye, mother. Happy hooligan. Kiss me quick. Lucky pier, sheep-dip, warring blender. Weep no more, and why worry? 2-B-R-NOT-2-B 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. Wailing, 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 moustache 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 Diora 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 heaven or something. Or something, said the painter. He took a list of names from his smock pocket. Duncan, Duncan, Duncan, he said, scanning list. Yes, here you are. You're entitled to be immortalized. See any faceless bodies 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, all righty. As a master of fine art, I recommend this body here. He indicated a faceless figure of a woman who was carrying dried stalks to a trash burner. Well, said the Diora 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. Of course, the chief 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. Good gravy, no. She said, it's just such an honor. Ah, you admire him then, eh? He said. Who doesn't admire him? She said, worshiping the portrait of Hitz. It was the 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, sawing off a limb. That strikes you as 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 Leor Duncan was posing for her portrait into the waiting room, bounded doctor 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, he said. 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 doctor 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 toward the 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, called for three volunteers. Do the parents have three volunteers? Last I heard, said doctor Hitz, they had one. They were trying to scrape up another two. I don't think they made it, she said. Nobody made three appointments with us. Nothing but singles going through today unless someone called in after I left. What's the name? Whaling, said the waiting father, sitting up, red-eyed and frowsy. Edward K. Whaling, Jr., is the name of the happy father to be. He raised his right hand, looked at a spot on the wall, gave a horse the wretched chuckle. Present, he said. Oh, Mr. Whaling, said doctor Hitz, I didn't see you. The invisible man, said Whaling. They just phoned me that your triplets had been born, said doctor Hitz. They're all fine, and so is the mother. I'm on my way in to see them now. Hooray, said Whaling, emptily. You don't sound very happy, said doctor Hitz. What man in my shoes wouldn't be happy, said Whaling. He gestured with his hands to symbolize care-free simplicity. All I have to do is pick out which one of the triplets is going to live, then deliver my maternal grandfather to the happy hooligan and come back here with a receipt. Doctor Hitz became rather severe with Whaling, towered over him. You don't believe in population control, Mr. Whaling, he said. I think it's perfectly keen, said Whaling, totally. Would you like to go back to the good old days when the population of the earth was 20 billion, about to become 40 billion, then 80 billion, then 160 billion? Do you know what a droplet is, Mr. Whaling? Said Hitz. No, said Whaling, sulkily. A droplet, Mr. Whaling, is one of the little knobs, one of the little pulpy grains of a blackberry, said doctor 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. Whaling continued to stare at the same spot on the wall. In the year 2000, said doctor 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 jack rabbits. And they're right, if possible, to live forever. I want those kids, said Whaling quietly. I want all three of them. Of course you do, said doctor Hitz. That's only human. I don't want my grandfather to die either, said Whaling. Nobody's really happy about taking a close relative to the cat box, said doctor Hitz, gently, sympathetically. I wish people wouldn't call it that, said Lehor Duncan. What, said doctor Hitz. I wish people wouldn't call it the cat box and things like that. It gives people the wrong impression. You're absolutely right, said doctor 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 Lehor Duncan. This child of yours, whichever one you decide to keep, Mr. Whaling, said doctor 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 20 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 Whaling had just drawn a revolver. Whaling shot doctor Hitz dead. There's room for one, a great big one, he said. And then he shot Lehor 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 top of his depletor, 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 claws below. And then he decided he had had about enough of life in the 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. 2B-R, not 2B. Federal Bureau of Termination said the very warm voice of a hostess. How soon can I get an appointment? He asked, speaking very carefully. We could 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. End of 2B-R, 0, 2B. Recorded by Alex Clark. After a few words, 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 Corey Snow. After a Few Words by Gordon Randall Garrett. After a Few Words. This is a science fiction story. History is a science. The other part is, as all Americans know, the most fictional field we have today. He settled himself comfortably in his seat and carefully put the helmet on, pulling it down firmly until it was properly seated. For a moment he could see nothing. Then his hand moved up and, with a flick of the wrist, lifted the visor. Ahead of him, in serried array, with lances erect and pennons flying, was the forward part of the column. Where ahead, he knew, were the Knights Templars, who had taken the advance. Behind the Templars rode the mailed Knights of Brittany and Anjou. These were followed by King Guy of Jerusalem and the host of Poitou. He himself, Sir Robert de Bois, was riding with the Norman and English troops just behind the men of Poitou. Sir Robert turned slightly in his saddle. To his right he could see the brilliant red and gold banner of the lion-hearted Richard of England, ghouls in pale three lions passant gaudant ore. Behind the standard-bearer, his great war-horse moving with a steady, measured pace, his cornet of gold on his steel helm gleaming in the glaring desert sun, the lions of England on his firm-held shield, was the king himself. Further behind, the Knights Hospitallers protected the rear, guarding the column of the hosts of Christendom from harassment by the Bedouins. By our Lady, came a voice from his left, three days out from Echer, on the accursed Saracens steel eludas. Sir Robert de Bois twisted again in his saddle to look at the Knight riding alongside him. Sir Gaetan de L'Arcfumbe sat tall and straight in his saddle, his visor up, his blue eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun. Sir Robert's lips formed a smile. They are not far off, Sir Gaetan. They have been following us, as we march parallel to the sea-coast, so they have been marching with us in those hills to the east. "'Like the jackals they are,' said Sir Gaetan, they assail us from the rear, and they set up traps in our path ahead. Our spies tell us that the Turks lie ahead of us in countless numbers. And yet they fear to face us in open battle. Is it fear, or are they merely gathering their forces?' "'Both,' said Sir Gaetan flatly, they fear us, else they would not deli to a mass so fearsome a force. If, as our informers tell us, there are uncounted Turks to the fore, and if, as we are aware, our readers being dogged by the Bedouin and the black horsemen of Egypt, it would seem that Saladin has at hand more than enough to overcome us, were they all truly Christian knights. "'Give them time. We must wait for their attack, Sir Knight. It were foolhardy to attempt to seek them in their own hills, and yet they must stop us. They will attack before we reach Jerusalem. Fear not. We of Gaskoene fear no heathen musselman,' Sir Gaetan growled, with his hellish heat that is driving me mad. He pointed toward the eastern hills, the sun is yet low and already the heat is unbearable. Sir Robert heard his own laugh echo hollowly within his helmet. "'Perhaps it were better to be mad when the assault comes. Madmen fight better than men of cooler blood.' He knew that the others were baking inside their heavy armor. Although he himself was not too uncomfortable." Sir Gaetan looked at him with a smile that held both irony and respect. "'In truth, Sir Knight, it is apparent that you fear neither men nor heat, nor is your own blood too cool. True, I ride with your nomin's and your English and your King Richard of the lion's heart. But I am a Gaskon, and have sworn no fealty to him. But to side with the Duke of Burgundy against King Richard?' He gave a short, barking laugh. "'I fear no man,' he went on, but if I had to fear one, it would be Richard of England.' Sir Robert's voice came like a sword, steely, flat, cold, and sharp. My Lord the King spoke in haste. He has reason to be bitter against Philip of France as do we all. Philip has deserted the field. He has returned to France in haste, leaving the rest of us to fight the Saracen for the Holy Land, leaving only the contingent of his vassal the Duke of Burgundy to remain with us. "'And Richard of England has never been on the best of terms with Philip Augustus,' said Sir Gaetan, no, and with good cause. But he allowed his anger against Philip to colour his judgment when he spoke harshly against the Duke of Burgundy. The Duke is no coward, and Richard Plantagenet well knows it. As I said, he spoke in haste. "'And you intervened,' said Sir Gaetan. "'It was my duty.' Sir Robert's voice was stubborn. Could we have permitted a quarrel to develop between the two finest knights and war-leaders in Christendom at this crucial point? The desertion of Philip of France has cost us dearly. Could we permit the desertion of Burgundy, too?' "'You did what must be done in honour,' the Gaskon conceded, which will have not gained the love of Richard by doing so.' Sir Robert felt his jaw set firmly. My king knows I am loyal. Sir Gaetan said nothing more. But there was a look in his eyes that showed that he felt that Richard of England might even doubt the loyalty of Sir Robert de Bois. Sir Robert rode on in silence, feeling the movement of the horse beneath him. There was a sudden sound to the rear. Like the wash of the tide from the sea came the sound of Saracen war cries and the clash of steel and steel mingled with the sounds of horses in agony and anger. Sir Robert turned his horse to look. The Negro troops of Saladin's Egyptian contingent were thundering down upon the rear. They clashed with the hospitalers, slamming in like a rain of heavy stones, too close in for the use of bows. There was only the sword against armour, like the sound of a thousand hammers against a thousand anvils. Stand fast! Stand fast! Hold them off! It was the voice of King Richard, sounding like a clarion over the den of battle. Sir Robert felt his horse move as though it were urging him on toward the battle, but his hand held to the reins, keeping the great charger in check. The king had said stand fast, and this was no time to disobey the orders of Richard. The Saracen troops were coming in from the rear, and the hospitalers were taking the brunt of the charge. They fought like madmen, but they were slowly being forced back. The master of the hospitalers rode to the rear, to the king's standard, which hardly moved in the steel-dizard air now that the column had stopped moving. The voice of the Duke of Burgundy came to Sir Robert's ears. Stand fast! The king bid you all to stand fast! said the Duke, his voice fading as he rode up on the column toward the Knights of Poitou in the Knights Templars. The master of the hospitalers was speaking in a low, urgent voice to the king. My Lord, we are pressed on by the enemy and in danger of eternal infamy. We are losing our horses, one after the other. Good master, said Richard, it is you who must sustain their attack. No one can be everywhere at once. The master of the hospitalers nodded curtly and charged back into the fray. The king turned to Sir Baldwin de Carrero, who said a horse near by and pointed toward the eastern hills. They will come from there, hitting us in the flank. We cannot afford to amass a rearward charge. To do so would be to fall directly into the hands of the Saracen. A voice very close to Sir Robert said, Richard is right. If we go to the head of the hospitalers, we will expose the column to a flank attack. It was Sir Guyton. My Lord the King, Sir Robert heard his voice say, is right in all but one thing. If we allow the Egyptians to take us from the rear, there will be no need for Saladin and his Turks to come down on our flank. And the hospitalers cannot hold for long at this rate. A charge at full gallop would break the Egyptian line and give the hospitalers breathing time. Are you with me? Against the orders of the king? The king cannot see everything. There are times when a man must use his own judgment. You said you were afraid of no man. Are you with me? After a moment's hesitation, Sir Guyton couched his lance. I am with you, Sir Knight. Live or die, I follow. Strike and strike hard. Forward then, Sir Robert heard himself shouting forward for St. George and for England. St. George and England, the Gaskin echoed. The two great war horses began to move ponderously toward the battle lines, gaining momentum as they went. Moving in unison, the two knights, the horses now at a fast trot, lowered their lances, picking their Saracen targets with care. Larger and larger loomed the Egyptian cavalrymen as the horses changed pace to a thundering gallop. The Egyptians tried to dodge as they saw too late the approach of the Christian knights. Sir Robert felt the shock against himself and his horses. The steel tip of the long ash lance struck the Saracen horsemen in the chest. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Sir Guyton too had scored. The Saracen, impaled on Sir Robert's lance, shot from the saddle as he died. His lighter armour had hardly impeded the incoming spear point, and now his body dragged it down as he dropped toward the desert sand. Another Muslim cavalrymen was charging in now, swinging his curved sabre, taking advantage of Sir Robert's sagging lance. There was nothing else to do but drop the lance and draw his heavy broadsword. His hand grasped it, and it came singing from its scabbard. The Egyptians' curved sword clanged against Sir Robert's helm, setting his head ringing. When return the knight's broadsword came about in a sweeping arc, and the Egyptians' horse rode on with the rider's headless body. Behind him Sir Robert heard further cries of Saint George and England. The hospitalers taking heart at the charge were going in. Behind them came the Count of Champagne, the Earl of Leicester, and the Bishop of Beauvais, who carried a great war-hammer in order that he might not break church law by shedding blood. Sir Robert's own sword rose and fell, cutting and hacking at the enemy. He himself felt a dreamlike detachment as though he were watching the battle rather than participating in it. But he could see that the Muslims were falling back before the Christian onslaught, and then quite suddenly there seemed to be no foam and to swing at. Breathing heavily Sir Robert sheathed his broadsword. Beside him Sir Guyton did the same, saying, He's would be a few minutes before they can regroup so night. We may have routed them completely. Aye, but King Richard will not approve of my breaking ranks and disobeying orders. I may win the battle, and lose my head in the end. This is no time to worry about the future," said the Gaskon. Rest for a moment and relax, that you may be as strong as later. Here, have an old King's. He had a pack of cigarettes in his gauntlet at hand, which he proffered to Sir Robert. There were three cigarettes protruding from it, one slightly farther than the others. Sir Robert's hand reached out and took that one. Thanks. When the going gets rough I really enjoy an old King's. He put one end of the cigarette in his mouth and lit the other from the lighter in Sir Guyton's hand. Yes, sir," said Sir Guyton, after lighting his own cigarette. Old King's are the greatest. They give a man a real, deep-down smoking pleasure. There's no doubt about it. Old King's are a man's cigarette. Sir Robert could feel the soothing smoke in his lungs as he inhaled deeply. That's great. When I want a cigarette, I don't want just any cigarette. Nor I," agreed the Gaskon. Old King's are the only real cigarettes when you're doing a real man's work. That's for sure. Sir Robert watched a smoke ring expand in the air. There was a sudden clash of arms off to their left. Sir Robert dropped his cigarette to the ground. The trouble is that doing a real he-man's work doesn't always allow you to enjoy the fine, rich tobaccos of Old King's right down to the very end. Nor, but you can always light another later," said the Gaskon Knight. King Richard, on seeing his army moving suddenly toward the harassed rear, had realized the danger and had charged through the hospitalers to get into the thick of the fray. Now the Turks were charging down from the hills hitting, not the flank as he had expected, but the rear. Saladin had expected him to hold fast. Sir Robert and Sir Guyton spurred their chargers toward the flapping banner of England. The fierce warrior king of England, his mighty sword in hand, was cutting down Turks as though they were grain stocks, but still the Saracen horde pressed on. More and more of the terrible Turks came boiling down out of the hills, their glittering scimitars swinging. Sir Robert lost all track of time. There was nothing to do but keep his own great broadsword moving, swinging like some gigantic metronome as he hacked down the Muslim foes. And then suddenly he found himself surrounded by the Saracens. He was isolated and alone, cut off from the rest of the Christian forces. He glanced quickly around as he slashed another Saracen from page to breastbone. Where was Sir Guyton? Where were the others? Where was the red and gold banner of England? He caught a glimpse of the fluttering banner far to the rear and started to fall back. And then he saw another knight nearby, a huge man, who swung his sparkling blade with power and force, on his steel helm gleamed a golden coronet, Richard. And the great king in spite of his prowess was outnumbered heavily, and would within seconds be cut down by the Saracen horde. Without hesitation Sir Robert plunged his horse toward the surrounded monarch, his great blade cutting a path before him. He saw Richard go down, falling from the saddle of his charger, but by that time his own sword was cutting into the screaming Saracens, and they had no time to attempt any further mischief to the king. They had their hands full with Sir Robert's Devuan. He did not know how long he fought there, holding his charger motionless over the inert body of the fallen king, hewing down the screaming enemy, but presently he heard the familiar cry of, For Saint George and for England! Behind him. Norman and English troops were charging in, bringing with them the banner of England. And then Richard was on his feet, cleaving the air about him with his own broadsword. Its bright edge, besmeared with Saracen blood, was biting viciously into the foe. The Turks began to fall back. Within seconds the Christian knights were boiling around the embattled pair, forcing the Turks into retreat, and for the second time Sir Robert found himself with no one to fight. The voice was saying, You have done well this day, Sir Knight. Richard Plantagenet will not forget. Sir Robert turned in his saddle to face the smiling king. My Lord King, be assured that I would never forget my loyalty to my sovereign and liege, Lord. My sword and my life are yours whenever you call. King Richard's gauntlet at hand grasped his own. If it please God I shall never ask your life. And old Emma waits you when we return to England so night. And then the king mounted his horse, and was running full gallop after the retreating Saracens. Robert took off his helmet. He blinked for a second, to adjust his eyes to the relative dimness of the studio. After the brightness of the desert that the tell of a carrion helmet had projected into his eyes, the studio seemed strangely cave-like. How'd you like it, Bob?" asked one of the two producers of the show. Robert Bowen nodded briskly and patted the tell of a carrion helmet. It was OK, he said. Good show. A little talky at the beginning, and it needs a better fade-out. But the action scenes were fine. The sponsor ought to like it. For a while, at least. What you mean for a while? Robert Bowen sighed. If this thing goes on the air the way it is, he'll lose sales. Why? Commercial not good enough? Too good? Man, I've smoked old kings, and believe me, the real thing never tasted as good as that cigarette did in the commercial. End of After a Few Words, by Gordon Randall Garrett. Recording by Corey Snow, Olympia, Washington, H-T-T-P, colon, slash, slash, W-W-W, dot, cyclometh, dot com. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, go to LibriVox.org. Recorded by Bryden Jones, The Beast of Space, A Tale of the Prospectors of the Starways, of dangers, by F.E. Hardart. He staggered back from the lapping pool, the gas, the weight of the girl's body, the dog. Here at the dark cave, along which Nat Starrett had been creeping, broadened into what his powerful searchlight revealed to be a low, wide, smoothly circular room. At his feet lapped black, thick-looking waves of an underground lake, a pool of viscous substance that gave off a penetrating, poignant odor of acid, Swedish and intoxicating unlike any acid he knew. The smell rolled up in a sickening, sultry cloud that penetrated his helmet, made him cough and choke. Near its center, projected from the sticky stuff, what appeared to be the nose of a spaceship. He looked down, near his feet, at the edge of the pool where thick, slowly moving tongues of the liquid appeared to reach up towards him, as if intent on pulling him into the depths. As each hungry wave fell back, it left a slimy, snake-like trail behind. Now came a wave of strange music, music such as he had never heard before. Faintly, it had begun some time back, so faintly he was barely aware of it. Now it swelled into a smooth, impelling wail, lulling him into drowsiness. He did not wonder why he could hear it through the soundproof space helmet he wore. He ceased to wonder about anything. There was only the strange sweetness of acid and the throbbing music. Abruptly, the spell was broken by something shrilling in his brain, sending little chills racing up and down his spine. Digger, a small, oddly canine-like creature with telepathic powers, a space dweller which men found when they first came to the asteroids. The relationship between space hounds and men was much the same between man and dog in the old Earthbound days. Appropriate name for the beast? Digger. With those large, incredibly hard claws designed for rooting in the metal makeup of the asteroids for vital elements, the space hound could easily have shredded the man's spacesuit and helmet, could, at any time, tear huge chunks out of men's fine ships. The half-conscious man jerked his thin form erect, his mouth, which had gaped loosely, closed with a snap, into firm lines. She isn't in this hellhole, Digger. You wouldn't expect her to be where we could find her easily. Scooping the small beast up under his good arm, he quickly climbed the steep, slimy slope of the cave. The other arm in his suit hung empty. That empty arm in the spacesuit told the story of an Earthman become voluntary exile, choosing the desolation of space to the companionship of other humans who would deluge him with unwanted sympathy. The space hound was friendly in its own fashion. Fortunately, such complex things as sympathy were apparently outside its abilities. The two could interchange impressions of danger, comfort, pleasure, discomfort, fear, and appreciation of each other's company, but little more. Whether or not the creature could understand his thought, he could not tell. As he went on, he reviewed mentally the events leading up to his landing here, the sudden appearance on his teleview screen of the face and slim shoulders of a girl, her attractiveness, plainly distinguishable through her helmet for a moment he forgot he disliked women. The call for help cut short, but not before he had learned that apparently she was being held prisoner on asteroid Moira. He knew he'd have to do what he could, even if it meant unwanted company for an indefinite length of time. The spell was gone soon after her face vanished. He remembered former experiences with attractive looking girls. Damn traditions. A change in his course and a landing on asteroid Moira. Here he'd found a honeycomb of caves, all leading from one large main tunnel. The cavern walls had been a translucent quartz-like substance, ranging in color from yellowish-brown to violet-gray. It looked vaguely familiar, yet he could not place it. There was not time to examine it more carefully. The room in which he'd found the evil hungry lake had been the first one to his right. Now he crossed the opening in the opposite wall. The mouth of this cave was much larger, wider than the other. He stood in the opening slowly, swung the beam of his torch around the smooth walls, still holding Digger, who, by now, was indicating that he'd like to be set down. Nat released him, unthinkingly, his mind fully taken up with what the light revealed. Spaceships. The room was packed with them, all sizes, old and new. A veritable Sargasso. At first, he thought they might be craft belonging to nameless inhabitants of this world, but as he approached them, he recognized terrestrial identifications. The first was a scout ship of American spaceways. Nat recognized the name, Ceres, remembered a telecast account of its disappearance in space. There was a neat little reward for information as to its whereabouts. Nat's lips curled in derision. It wouldn't equal the expense of his journey out here. There was a deep groove in the smooth material of the floor where the ship had been dragged through the doorway into the room. What machines could have done this work without leaving their own traces? He went to the other ships. All were small, mostly single, or two-passenger craft. The last entry in the logs of many was to the effect that they were about to land on the asteroid Moira to rescue a girl held captive there. One had crashed. All ships were in perfect order, but all were deserted. Two doors were gone from the interior of one of the vessels. They might have been removed for any of a hundred reasons, but why here? Nat's glance swept the room, came to rest on the figure of a heavy-duty robot of familiar design, semi-human in form that looked like some misshapen, bent, headless giant. He inspected it. Mayor's Robot, Inc. Earth designed for mining operations on Mars. Well, digger. I can see now how these ships were brought in here. That robot can move any one of these with ease, but that doesn't explain where the humans have gone. It might be space pirates using this asteroid for a base, or it might be some alien form of life. We're still free. Shall we beat it or stay and try to check this out? He did not know how much of this got over to the spacehound, but the impressions he received in answer were those of approving the remaining where they were. I suppose the best system is to explore the rest of the caves in order. Let's go. Followed by digger, he walked quietly toward the next cave on the left, slipped through the doorway and, standing with his back against the wall, swung the light of his torch in a wide-swift arc about the room. Halfway around, he stopped abruptly. A slim, petite figure appeared clearly in the searchlight's glare. The girl he had seen on the televisor stood in the middle of the room, facing a telecaster, her back toward him. She did not seem aware of him as he moved forward. What could be wrong? Surely that light would arouse her. The figure did not turn as he approached. So near was he now that he could seize her easily. Still she made no move. Nat stepped to one side, flashed his torch in her face. Her beautifully lashed eyes stared straight ahead, unblinkingly. The expression on her lovely, composed face did not change. A robot. He laughed bitterly, but then he was not the only one. She was an earth product. Nat opened her helmet and found the trademark of Spurgeon's robots hung like a necklace about her throat. But whoever had lured him here easily could have removed her from one of the vessels in the front cave. It did not seem like the work of pirates, more likely unknown intelligent beings. He turned to examine the televisor. It too was an earth product. The mechanism was of old design. Evidently, it had been taken from the first of the ships to land here. Outside of the telecaster and the solitary robot, there was nothing to be seen in this cave. A sound behind him. He whirled. He wrought poise for the swift stabbing action. Nothing. Except. Small bowling ball things rolling in through a narrow door. Ridiculous things of the same yellowish quartz material as composed the cave walls. At regular intervals, a dull bluish light poured forth from rounded holes in their smooth sides. And issuing forth from within these comet globes was the same weird, compelling music he had heard before. They rolled up to him, brushed against his toes. A shrilling in his brain told him that Digger was aware of them. Back Digger, he thought as he drew away from the globes. They poured their penetrating blue light over him, inspectingly, while the music from within rose and fell in regular cadences, sweetly impelling and dulling to the senses as strong oriental incense. But Digger was not soothed. The spacehound lunged at one of the globes. Instead of slashing its sides, he found himself sailing through the air toward it. Nat received impressions of irritation, combined with astonishment. Within the globes, the music rose to a furious whine, while one of the things shot forth long tentacles from the holes in its side. Being swift, they shot forth, wrapped themselves around the body of the spacehound, constricting. Digger writhed vainly, his claws powerless to tear at the whip-like tentacles. Nat severed the tentacles at their base with the heat beam. He turned, strode toward the door, watching the spheres apprehensively out of the corner of his eye, ready to jump aside should they roll toward him suddenly. But they followed at respectful distances, singing softly. Before he reached the door, he found himself walking in rhythm to the music, his head swaying. It came slowly, insidiously, before he was aware, his body no longer obeyed his will. Muscles refused to move other than in coordination with the music. His arm relaxed, the heat rod sliding from his grasp. But Digger, the spacehound sent out a barrage of vibrations that fairly rocked his brain out of his skull. Multaneously, the beast attacked the nearest globes, tearing fiercely at them. Rapidly, the others rolled away, but too late torn and motionless, the music within them stilled. Nat reached down, retrieved the heat rod. I think we'd better look for a squeaker. Next time they might get you, Digger. They returned to the room of the spaceships, seeking one of the small, portable radio amplifiers used for searching out radium. It was known as a squeaker, because of the constant din it made while in use. The noise would cease only when the radium was within a hundred feet of the mechanism. He found one after searching a few of the smaller ships. With the portable radio strapped to his back, power switched on, he started again down the main tunnel. The globes set up their seductive rhythms as before, but he could not hear them above the discord of his squeaker. Nothing to lure him has before, they sought to force him in the direction they desired him to go by darting at him suddenly, lashing him with their tentacles, but it was a simple thing to elude him. Still remained the question, why could they want to lure him into that stinking pool of acid? He flashed a beam of heat at the nearest of the annoying globes. Under the released energy, it glowed, yet did not melt. But the tentacles sheared off and the blue light faded. The flow of music changed to shrill winds as of pain as its rolling ceased. The others drew back. He turned down another tunnel. They stopped at the caves beyond the one where he had found the robot girl. It was sealed by a locked door, one of the airlocked doors from the space vessel, firmly cemented into the natural opening of the cave. Nat bent forward, listening. His helmeted head pressed against the door. No sound. He was suddenly aware of the dead silence that pressed in on him from all the sides, now that the globes no longer sang and his squeaker had been turned off. The powerful energy of his heat beam sputtered as it melted the lock into incandescent droplets which sizzled as they trickled down the cold metal of the door. The greasy quartz-like material at the side of the door glowed in the heat from his rod, but no visible effect upon it could be seen. What was that material? He knew. Yes, he knew, but he could not place a mental finger on it. He thrust the shoulder of his good arm against the heavy door, swung it inwards, stepped inside. The light of his torch pierced the silence, picked out a human skeleton in one quarter. He hurried toward it. No, it was not entirely a skeleton as yet. The flesh and bone had been eaten away from the lower part of the body to half way up the hips, as though from some strong acid. The rest of the large, sturdy frame lay sunken under the remains of a spacesuit which was tied clumsily around the middle to retain all the air possible in the upper half of it. Evidently, some acid had eaten away the lower half of the man's body after he had suffocated. The face was that of a Norwegian. By one outstretched hand, a small notebook lay open with the leather back upward. The corners of several pages were turned undercarelessly. Nat swung the torch around the room. It was Bear, the notebook, quickly he picked it up. The page on which the writing began was dated on May 10, 2040, about two months ago. Helmar Swenson, my daughter, Helena, aged 19, and I were lured into the maw of this hellish monster by a robot calling for help in our television screen. This thing, known to man as asteroid Moira, is, in actuality, one of the gigantic mineral creatures which inhabited a planet before it exploded, forming the asteroids. Somehow, it survived the catastrophe and, forming a hard crustaceous shell about itself, has continued to live here in space as an asteroid. It is apparently highly intelligent and has acquired an appetite for human flesh. The singing spheres act as its sensory organs, separated from the body and given locomotion. It uses these to lure victims into its stomach in the first cave. I escaped its lure at first because of the squeaker I carried with me. We set up these two doors as a protection from these beasts while we stayed here to examine it. The monster got me when I fell and the squeaker was broken. My daughter rescued me after the acid of the pool had begun eating away my flesh. My Helena is locked in the room opposite this one. She has food and water to last until July 8. Oxygen seeps in there somehow. The beast wants to keep her alive until it can get her out of the room to devour her. Here, the writing became more crowned than difficult to read. I have put the key in my mouth to prevent the spheres from opening the door should they force their way into this room. Someone must come to save my Helena. I can't breathe. The writing ended in a long scrawl angling off the page. The pencil lay some distance from the body. July 8. But that had been almost a week ago. He unscrewed the man's helmet, tried to pry the jaws open. They would not move. The airless void surrounding the tiny planetoid had frozen the body. Until now it was as solid as the quartz cave walls. There was but one thing to do. The other door must be melted down. He leaped halfway across the room toward the door in the opposite wall. Could it be possible that he was in time? Anxiously, he flung a bolt of energy from his heat rod toward the lock. Having a flashlight under the other stump of an arm, the molten metal flowed to the door like a rivulet of lava. The door hanging off balance screeched open. Air swooshed past him in a sudden escape from the room. He squeezed himself through, peered carefully about to see a slim spacesuit start to crumple forward in a corner. The girl was alive. He started toward her. The slim figure pulled itself erect again. He saw a drawn emaciated face behind the helmet. Then, with a fury that unnerved him, she whipped out a heat rod, shot a searing bolt in his direction. He felt the fierce heat of it as it whizzed past his shoulder. In his brain, Digger's thoughts of an attack came to him. He flung an arm around the spacehound, dragged it back as he withdrew toward the door. The girl continued to fire bolt after bolt straight ahead, her eyes wide and staring. They made the door waited outside while the firing within continued. When at last it was still within, he peered around the corner of the room. She lay in a crumpled heap in the corner. Quietly, he re-entered, picked her up awkwardly. Through the thin, resistant folds of the spacesuit, he could feel the warmth of her, but could not tell whether the heart still beat or not. They would have to take her to one of the ships. The limp form was held tightly under his good arm as Nat hurried down the main tunnel. Digger apparently realized that the seriousness of the situation, for he received impressions of must hurry from the beast and another creature, looking much like him, surrounded by small creatures of the same type, trapped in a crevice. Aren't you a bit premature, old fellow? He chided. Halfway there, the globes met them again. The things were not singing. From their many eyes poured a fierce, angry blue light. They rolled with a determination that frightened him. Yet he strode on until they were barely a foot away. Jump Digger. The sphere stopped short, reversed their directions toward the little group at a furious rate. Flinging out long, whip-like tentacles, one wrapped itself around Nat's ankle, drew him down. He shifted the limp form over to his shoulder, slipped out his heat rod. Quickly, the tentacle was severed, but now others took their place. He continued firing at them, making each bolt tell, but their numbers were too great. Digger sprang into action, rending the globes with those claws that were capable of tearing the hulls of spaceships. But tentacles lashed around him from the rear, snake about him so that he was helpless. The girl was slipping off Nat's shoulder. He could not raise the stump of an arm to balance her. It was stiff and useless. He stopped firing long enough to make the shift, even as the spheres attacked again. The bolts had put out the lights in fully half of the marauders, but the others came on unafraid. Nat straddled Digger's writhing body, held the spacehound motionless between his legs. In short range, he seared off the imprisoning tentacles, knowing that it would take far more than a heat bolt to damage the well-knight impregnable creature. He swooped the dog up under his good arm and fled from the madly pursuing spheres, thinking nameless deities that the gravity here permitted such herculean feats. The spheres rolled faster. He soon found that he could jump, so long as he was above them, always well. But by the time the weak gravity permitted him to land, they were waiting for him. He tried zigzagging. Good! It worked. He alluded them up to the mouth of the cave, then jumped for the door of his ship's outer airlock. Nat placed the girl in his bunk, removed the cumbersome spacesuit. Her eyes blinked faintly, then sprang open, but they did not see him. They were staring straight ahead. Her mouth opened and shut weakly as though she were speaking, but no sound issued from it. He brought her water, but when he returned, she had fallen asleep. He returned to the kitchen to prepare some food. You're still running around in that pillowcase, he remarked to Digger, as he extracted the spacehound from it. Attend me now. We know why and how these people disappeared. It would take the space patrol ship at least a month to arrive here. I don't intend to perch on the back of the devil as long as that. And if we leave, old thing, it'll just lure other chivalrous fools to very unpleasant ends. And we've got to get this kid back to civilization. She needs a doctor's care, preferably a doctor with two arms. Digger's vibrations were one of general approval. We could poison it, he went on. Only I'm not a chemist. Even if I knew the compounds contained in that reeking stomach, I wouldn't know what would destroy them. Might blow it up, but we haven't enough explosive. No, we'll have to get down into the things inside again. In fact, he paused suddenly, mouth open. Congratulate me, Digger. I have it. The smell of burning vegetables cut short his soliloquy. He fed the starved, half-blind girl, then led her sleeping, exhaustedly as he squirmed into his suit. No sooner had he entered the mouth of the cave than a half-dozen of the singing sensory organs rolled quickly, yet not angrily toward him. The beast was apparently optimistic, for the globe sang in their most soothing seductive tones. They tried to herd him into the first cave on the right, but he had remembered the squeaker. They could not distract him. He left over them toward the mouth of the cave on the left. That was where the spaceships lay, pointing in all directions like a carelessly dropped handful of rice. All the ships were in running order. Good. Had there been one vessel he could not move, then all was lost. The fuel in several ran low, but after a few moments of punching levers and pulling chokes, the underrock had thundered in the big room. Being cared not to injure the motor compartments of the other ships using only the most minute explosion quantities. He jockeyed each ship around until all their noses pointed in one direction. The exhaust pointed out through the wide doorway. It was well that the beast had formed curved corners in the room, otherwise the scheme would not have worked. The exhaust, which did not point toward the door directly, were toward the curved walls, which would deflect the forceful gases expelled doorward. When he emerged from the ship, the spheres attacked. He seared off their tentacles throughout what seemed to be eternities. His body was becoming a mass of bruises from the lash of their tentacles. He burned his way through the swarm on to ship after ship. As he stepped from the last vessel, there was a rumbling beneath his feet. Did the monster understand his intent? Was it stirring in its shell? Most of the globes had disappeared, now a nauseating sweet odor penetrated the screen in his headpiece, which permitted him to smell without allowing the oxygen to escape. He hurried around to the rear of the ship, an apprehensive sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach. A thick jelly-like wave of liquid was rolling over the floor, the reeking, deadly juices from the beast's stomach. With the liquid touched him, it would eat through the heavy fabric, exploding the air pressure from around his body. How was he to escape from the cave? The answer came to him suddenly. Quickly he darted back toward the nearest vessel. Two of the screaming spheres blocked his way. He sent bolt after searing bolt into them, more of a charge than he had given any of the others. The lights in the globes went out, their voices ceased, and they burst into the slowly mounting incandescence. Yet, they were not consumed by their fire, only glowed an intense white light like that of a lighthouse. Lighthouse! The word flashed through his mind, clearly, strongly. They glowed like the zirconia lights of a lighthouse. Why hadn't he recognized the greasy quartz-like material before? It was zirconia, a compound of zirconium, of course. A silicate-based creature could easily have formed a shell of it about it so. Zirconia, one of the compounds he had intended prospecting for on the moons of Saturn, worth over $100 per pound. Because of its resistance to heat, it was used to line the tubes of rockets. Terra's supply had long been used up. Here was a fortune all around him, but that fortune was about to be destroyed. He along with it, if he did not hurry. If he could only reach the timing mechanism to yank from it, the wires connecting it to the other ships. It was at the other end of the line. He started in that direction, but a surge of fatal thick acid rolled before him, reaching for him with a hungry, questing tongue. When it was almost touching his toes, he leaped. As he floated toward the floor, he placed a chair beneath him so that his feet landed on the seat. The legs of the chair sank slowly into the liquid. Again, he leaped. His moment, retarded by the fluid which now reached halfway up the chair legs, sucked and clung there. The sweetly evil smelling stuff was rising rapidly, but the next leap carried him into the main cave. Abandoning the chair, he leaped once more out through the cave's mouth, pursued by the waving tentacles of the sensory spheres. He had lost precious minutes eluding that deadly acid. It would take at least five minutes to get his ship away from the asteroid. He must hurry before all those rocket motors were thrown into action, or it would be too late. Leap and leap again. It seemed ages, but he reached the ship, bolted the door shut. Thumps against the door as pursuing globes ran up against it. A thought came to him. Swiftly he opened the door, permitted a few of them to enter, then slammed it shut. With the heat gun, he sheared off their tentacles. He could sell the zirconia and the entities. Then he turned to the controls and the ship zoomed up and out. Nat had barely raised his ship from the asteroid Moira when he saw the small planetoid Lurch suddenly, bounding off its orbit at almost a right angle. The sudden combined driving force of all the rockets within the cave had sent it hurtling away like a rocket itself. The asteroid housing the monster was heading into the flora group of asteroids. There, the fifty-seven odd solid bodies of that group would grind, crack, and rend that dangerous beast into harmless dead fragments. A good job, said a weak but softly friendly voice behind him. She whirled. The girl stood in the doorway of the pilot room, supporting herself against the doorframe. Digger rubbed thoughtfully against her legs. We'll just follow that asteroid miss, he said, and see if we can't pick up some odd fragment of zirconia when it smashed against in the grindstone there. Then we'll light out for Terra. She smiled. Earth, to him, seemed like a very good place to go as soon as possible. End of The Beast of Space, A Tale of the Prospectors of the Starways of Dangers, by F. E. Hardart, recorded by Brydon Jones. The Bell Tone. 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. The Bell Tone. By Edmund H. Leffage. It is no use. It's too late. The Earth. I must dig alone. To whom it may concern. In order to clear up any misunderstanding or false impressions regarding the amazing case of my beloved friend and co-worker, Professor Howard E. Edwards, I submit herewith extracts from the Professor's Notebook, which I found on the desk. Evans Barkley, B. S., Fellow, I. R. E., January 25. Last night in my dreams, I was the monstrous ant and had been digging myself a burrow in the soft fresh earth. The dream was intensely real and when I awoke I felt as tired as if I had actually been digging. My arms ached and I was astonished upon examining my hands to find them raw. Being hastily I rushed to the backyard and there sure enough near the fence was a large hole about two feet deep and three feet long. Hurriedly I filled it in and returned to the house. I must rest for a few days as I feel that the intense excitement caused by my investigations is preying too heavily upon my mind. At this time I feel that I should make a brief summary of my findings in respect to the ants, so that Barkley may go over these notes upon his return from his vacation. First, the ant colony is the source of a powerful bell-like tone which is radiated continuously on two wavelengths, .0018 meter and .00176 meter. This tone acts as a radio beacon and directs the ants to the colony no matter where they may be located. The .0018 meter wave is used by the ants for their clacking conversations by means of which they communicate with each other and the colony, receiving orders from the directing intelligence, reporting the location of food and requesting help when needed. The wave .00176 meter is used for sending thought images or pictures which may be sent with the clacking code or independently. I cannot conceive a more efficient or highly specialized communications system. I must learn their secret, their methods. January 30. This morning, while sitting at the receiver in a semi-dose with the bell- tone ringing in my ears, I fell into that state known as day-dreaming. Little Nippy, my beloved fox-terrier and constant companion, rushed into the laboratory and ran up to me. For a moment my mind went blank. My hands shot out. I grasped the dog around the throat and began to throttle him. I had risen for my chair and the dog was nearly dead when I slipped and fell, pulling the phone plug out of the receiver. Suddenly my mind cleared and words cannot express the remorse I felt at my inhuman actions. Nippy would have nothing to do with me and crawled dejectedly from the room, a terrified look in his eyes. I have no explanation for my actions. February 3. The transmitter is ready for operation. I have constructed a pair of metal disc electrodes which clamped tightly to my head and press upon my temples. This device will pick up the thought impulses from my brain, lead them directly into the radio frequency amplifier where they will be amplified, and then radiated in a tight-directed beam. My two aunts were in their little enclosure under the microscope when I threw the switch to the send position. I pictured myself as I looked as a man and sent the thought, I am a man. Hastily, I threw the switch to the receive position. I looked through the microscope. The aunts were lying on their sides. Somehow I felt that the power was too great and had stunned them. Keeping my eye to the microscope, I again threw the switch to send and cut the power in half. Get up, friends. Get up, I thought, as I pictured them rising. Sure enough, the aunts slowly regained their feet. They looked about in apparent bewilderment. Back again, in receive position, I was conscious of the thought image. The man. He is the man. The man holds us here. He is killing us. We must kill the man. They gnashed their fierce-looking mandibles. I snapped back to send and thought, no, you must not kill the man. The man will not harm you. He is your friend. He will help you. As I watched, the aunts seemed to become less excited. From the larger of the two I received the thought, we are dying. The man is killing us with his strong vibrations. We must kill the man. Then a very powerful thought impression burst upon my brain. It seemed to come from the colony, three feet away. Warning to the man. Stop your thought transmissions at once. Your vibrations are killing us. We want nothing from you. We have everything we need. You will learn nothing from us. You will stop at once. I threw the switch to send. Viewed through the microscope, the two aunts were lying on their backs, dead to all appearances. What if I don't stop? I sent the thought question. I want to learn the secret of your communication. In return I will teach you many things. I can't stop now. I changed to receive, and the answer came back. If you do not stop, we will kill you. I turned off the apparatus. But the powerful bell tone continued to pound incessantly into my brain. I laughed. They'd kill me, would they? Those tiny insects, what could they do? Well let them try, but I'd get what I was after. I would not quit now, with success so near. What if my transmissions did kill a few of them? Of what importance were the lives of a few aunts as compared to the advancement of the science of communication? February 9. I found myself digging again in the backyard yesterday, as before I had been daydreaming, when an overwhelming desire to go outside and feel the cool moist earth between my fingers and on my face took possession of me. I rushed out into the backyard and began digging feverishly, madly, until finally I fell exhausted. Then my mind cleared, and I felled in the hole. About half the aunts have died, due no doubt to the strength of my radiations. No matter how low I cut the power, they still cannot live but a short time under the force of my transmissions. They have stopped sending thought impressions entirely, and are using only their clacking code signals, which they seem to realize I cannot understand. I feel that they are undertaking some sort of campaign against me. For hours they congregate, closely packed, their antennae stiffly pointed straight up. Their thought currents seem to be flowing into and merging with the bell tone, which grows stronger and more penetrating day by day. In my backyard there are four large ant hills, and at each hill, curiously, there is no activity except the same mass concentration of the aunts. Have they, too, been affected by my radiations and joint forces with the original colony against myself? The bell tone continues to grow stronger. February 11. Mrs. Winslow, the middle-aged widow, who comes to clean my house and laboratory twice a week was here this morning. She is short, dumpy, and inclined to be stout. As she went about her work I noticed particularly the fat, firm flesh of her neck, just below the jaw. I felt an uncontrollable desire to sink my teeth deep into that flesh and enjoy the taste of the warm fresh blood. I had actually risen from my chair to accomplish my desire when the telephone rang, and my mind cleared. February 14. I have decided to stop my experiments with the ants. As they refuse to send any more thought impressions there is nothing further I can learn from them. Somehow I feel that they are gaining a hold upon my mind, and that every time I listen in on the receiver that hold becomes stronger. I firmly believe that I would have attacked poor Mrs. Winslow had not the ringing of the phone so opportunely interrupted me. I have sent word for her to stay away as I cannot trust myself. I keep a box of fresh earth on the table in my laboratory. I often run my hands through it and taste it. It is remarkable how much this soothes my nerves. February 16. It is too late. For two days I have kept my apparatus shut off. I have not so much as looked at the ants, but still that confounded bell tone rings in my ears with all the insistence of African tom-toms, hour by hour the tone becomes more penetrating. I cannot sleep and can eat but little. February 17. As a last resort I destroyed my ant colony. I even went so far as to pour boiling water on the four ant hills in my backyard. Still the bell tone persists. I can stand it no longer. Perhaps if I were to dig again in the yard in the soothing earth I could forget. News Clipping from Philadelphia Banner. Radio Communications Engineer Dead. Howard E. Edwards, Suicide. Philadelphia, February 18. The body of Howard E. Edwards, B.S., Ph.D., Member I.R.E., eminent authority on radio communications aged 56, was found this morning in the backyard of his residence, 1427 Reigns Avenue. The body was almost completely buried in a long narrow hole in the ground. At first foul play was suspected, but later it appeared that Edwards had dug himself into the ground and died of suffocation, as his nostrils and mouth were filled with dirt. Dr. P. A. Hoffner, who examined the body, found no wounds, stated that Edwards had been dead for about two days, and pronounced the death as a clear case of suicide. The strange means employed probably due to an unbalanced mental condition. Elaborate radio apparatus upon which Edwards had been working had been smashed to bits. The Bell Tone by Edmund H. Lefwich. Recording by Alex Clark.