 BOLDEN'S PETS. His hands were shaking as he exhibited the gifts. If he were on earth he would be certain it was the flu. In the centaurus system, crankin'. But this was Vandamas, so Lee Bolden couldn't say what he had. Man hadn't been here long enough to investigate the diseases with any degree of thoroughness. There were always different hazards to overcome as new planets were settled. But whatever infection he had, Bolden was not greatly concerned as he counted out the gifts. He had felt the onset of illness perhaps an hour before. When he got back to the settlement he'd be taken care of. That was half a day's flight from here. The base was equipped with the best medical facilities that had been devised. He stacked up the gifts to make an impressive show. Five pairs of radar goggles, seven high-velocity carbines, seven boxes of ammunition. This was the native's own rule and was never to be disregarded. It had to be an odd number of gifts. The Vandamas native gazed impassively at the heap. He carried a rather strange bow and a quiver was strapped to his thigh. With one exception the arrows were brightly coloured, mostly red and yellow. And supposed this was for easy recovery in case the shot missed. But there was always one arrow that was stained dark blue. Bolden had observed this before. No native was ever without that one somber-looking arrow. The man of Vandamas stood there, and the thin robe that was no protection against the elements, rippled slightly in the chill current of air that flowed down the mountain side. I will go talk with the others," he said in English. Go talk, said Bolden, trying not to shiver. He replied in native speech, but a few words exhausted his knowledge, and he had to revert to his own language. Take the gifts with you. They are yours, no matter what you decide. The native nodded and reached for a pair of goggles. He tried them on, looking out over fog and mist-shouted slopes. These people of Vandamas needed radar less than any race Bolden knew of. Living by preference in mountains, they had developed a keenness of vision that enabled them to see through the perpetual fog and mist, far better than any earthmen. Paradoxically, it was the goggles they appreciated most. Extending their sight seemed more precious to them than powerful carbines. The native shoved the goggles up on his forehead, smiling with pleasure. Knowing that Bolden was shivering, he took his hands and examined them. Hands? Sick? He queried. A little, said Bolden, I'll be all right in the morning. The native gathered up the gifts. Go talk, he repeated, as he went away. Lee Bolden sat in the copter and waited. He didn't know how much influence this native had with his people. He had come to negotiate, but this might have been because he understood English somewhat better than the others. A council of the natives would make the decision about working for the earthmen's settlement. If they approved of the gifts, they probably would. There is nothing to do now but wait. And shiver. His hands were getting numb, and his feet weren't much better. Presently, the native came out of the fog carrying a rectangular wicker basket. Bolden was depressed when he saw it. One gift in return for goggles, carbines, ammunition. The rate of exchange was not favourable. Neither would the reply be. The man set the basket down and waited for Bolden to speak. The people have talked, asked Bolden. We have talked to come, said the native, holding out his fingers. In five or seven days we come. It was a surprise, a pleasant one. Did one wicker basket equal so many fine products of superlative technology? Apparently it did. The natives had different values. To them one pair of goggles was worth more than three carbines. A package of needles easily the equivalent of a box of ammunition. It's good you will come. I will leave it once to tell them at the settlement, said Bolden. There was something moving in the basket, but the weave was close, and he couldn't see through it. Stay! the man advised. A storm blows through the mountains. I'll fly around the storm, said Bolden. If he hadn't been sick he might have accepted the offer, but he had to get back to the settlement for treatment. On a strange planet you never could tell what might develop from a seemingly minor ailment. Besides he'd already been gone two days searching for this tribe in the interminable fog that hung over the mountains. Those waiting at the base would want him back as soon as he could get there. Fly far around, said the man. It is a big storm. He took up the basket and held it level with the cabin, opening the top. An animal squirmed out and disappeared inside. Bolden looked at scans at the eyes that glowed in the dim interior. He hadn't seen clearly what the creature was, and he didn't like the idea of having it loose in the cabin, particularly if he had to fly through a storm. The man should have left it in the basket. But the basket, plus the animal, would have been two gifts, and the natives never considered anything in even numbers. It will not hurt, said the man, a gentle pet. As far as he knew there were no pets and very few domesticated animals. One snapped on the cabin light. It was one of those mysterious creatures every tribe kept in cages near the outskirts of their camps. What they did with them no one knew, and the natives either found it impossible to explain or did not care to do so. It seemed unlikely that the creatures were used for food, and certainly they were not work animals. And in spite of what this man said, they were not pets either. No earthmen had ever seen a native touch them, nor had the creatures ever been seen wandering at large in the camp. And until now none had been permitted to pass into earth's possession. The scientists at the settlement would regard this acquisition with delight. Touch it, said the native. Bolden held out his trembling hand, and the animal came to him with alert and friendly yellow eyes. It was about the size of a rather small dog, but it didn't look much like one. It resembled more closely a tiny slender bear with a glossy and shaggy cinnamon coat. Bolden ran his hands through the clean-smelling fur, and the touch warmed his fingers. The animal squirmed and licked his fingers. "'It has got your taste,' said the native. "'Be all right now. It is yours.' He turned and walked into the mist. Bolden got in and started the motors while the animal climbed into the seat beside him. It was a friendly thing, and he couldn't understand why the natives always kept it caged. He headed straight up, looking for a way over the mountains to avoid the impending storm. Fogg made it difficult to tell where the peaks were, and he had to drop lower, following meandering valleys. He flew as swiftly as limited visibility would allow, but he hadn't gone far when the storm broke. He tried to go over the top of it, but this storm seemed to have no top. The region was incompletely mapped, and even radar wasn't much help in the tremendous electrical display that raged around the ship. His arms ached as he clung to the controls. His hands weren't actually cold, they were numb. His legs were leaden. The creature crept closer to him, and he had to nudge it away. Momentarily the distraction cleared his head. He couldn't put it off any longer. He had to land and wait out the storm. If he could find a place to land. Flexing his hands until he worked some feeling into them, he inched the ship lower. A canyon wall loomed at one side, and he had to veer away and keep on looking. Finally he found his refuge, a narrow valley where the force of the winds was not extreme, and he set the land anchor. Unless something drastic happened, it would hold. He made the seat into a bed, decided he was too tired to eat, and went directly to sleep. When he awakened the storm was still raging, and the little animal was snoozing by his side. He felt well enough to eat. The native hadn't explained what the animal should be fed, but had accepted everything Bolden offered. Apparently it was as omnivorous as man. Before lying down again he made the other seat into a bed, although it didn't seem to matter. The creature preferred being as close to him as it could get, and he didn't object. The warmth was comforting. Alternately dozing and waking he waited out the storm. It lasted a day and a half. Finally the sun was shining. This was two days since he had first fallen ill, four days after leaving the settlement. Bolden felt much improved. His hands were nearly normal, and his vision wasn't blurred. He looked at the little animal curled in his lap, gazing up at him, with solemn yellow eyes. If he gave it encouragement it would probably be crawling all over him. However he couldn't have it frisking around while he was flying. Come, pet, he said. There wasn't anything else to call it. You're going places. Picking it up, half-carrying and half-dragging it, he took it to the rear of the compartment, improvising a narrow cage back there. He was satisfied it would hold. He should have done this in the beginning. Of course he hadn't felt like it then, and he hadn't had the time. In any way the native would have resented such treatment of a gift. Probably it was best he had waited. His pet didn't like confinement. It whined softly for a while. The noise stopped when the motors roared. Bolden headed straight up until he was high enough to establish communication over the peaks. He made a brief report about the native's agreement and his own illness. Then he started home. He flew at top speed for ten hours. He satisfied his hunger by nibbling concentrated rations from time to time. The animal whined occasionally, but Bolden had learned to identify the sounds it made. It was neither hungry nor thirsty. It merely wanted to be near him. And all he wanted was to reach the base. The raw, sprawling settlement looked good as he sat the copter down. Mechanics came running from the hangars. They opened the door, and he stepped out, and fell on his face. There was no feeling in his hands and none in his legs. He hadn't recovered. Dr. Kessler peered at him through the microscreen. It gave his face a narrow, insubstantial appearance. The microscreen was a hemispherical force field enclosing his head. It originated in a tubular circulate that snapped around his throat at the top of the decontagent suit. The field killed all micro-life that passed through it or came in contact with it. The decontagent suit was non-porous and impermeable, covering completely the rest of his body. The material was thinner over his hands and thicker at the soles. Bolden took in the details at a glance. "'Is it serious?' he asked, his voice cracking with the effort. "'Merely a precaution,' said the doctor, hollowly. The microscreen distorted sound as well as sight. "'Merely a precaution. We know what it is, but we're not sure of the best way to treat it.' Bolden grunted to himself. The microscreen and decontagent suit were strong precautions. The doctor wheeled a small machine from the wall and placed Bolden's hand in a narrow trough that held it steady. The eyepiece slid into the microscreen and, starting at the fingertips, Kessler examined the arm, travelling slowly upward. At last he stopped. "'Is this where feeling ends?' "'I think so. Touch it. Yeah, it's dead below there. "'Good, then we've got it pegged. It's the bubble-death.' Bolden showed concern and the doctor laughed. "'Don't worry. It's called that because of the way it looks through the X-ray microscope. It's true that it killed the scouting expedition that discovered the planet, but it won't get you.' They had antibiotics—neobiotics, too. Sure, but they had only a few standard kinds. Their knowledge was more limited, and they lacked the equipment we now have. The doctor made it sound comforting, but Bolden wasn't comforted. Not just yet. "'Sit up and take a look,' said Kessler, bending the eyepiece around so Bolden could use it. The dark filamented lines are nerves. See what surrounds them?' Bolden watched as the doctor adjusted the focus for him. Each filament was covered with countless tiny spheres that isolated and insulated the nerve from contact. That's why he couldn't feel anything. The spherical microbes did look like little bubbles. As yet they didn't seem to have attacked the nerves directly. While he watched, the doctor swiveled out another eyepiece for his own use, and turned a knob on the side of the machine. From the lens next to his arm an almost invisible needle slid out and entered his flesh. Bolden could see it come into the field of view. It didn't hurt. Slowly it approached the dark branching filament, never quite touching it. The needle was hollow, and as Kessler squeezed the knob it sucked in the spheres. The needle extended a snout, which crept along the nerve, vacuuming in microbes as it moved. When a section had been cleansed, the snout was retracted. Bolden could feel the needle then. When the doctor finished, he laid Bolden's hand back at his side, and wheeled the machine to the wall, extracting a small capsule which he dropped into a slot that led to the outside. He came back and sat down. "'Is that what you're going to do?' asked Bolden. Scrape them off. "'Hardly. There are too many nerves. If we had ten machines and enough people to operate them, we might check the advance in one arm. That's all.' The doctor leaned back in the chair. "'No. I was collecting a few more samples. We're trying to find out what the microbes react to.' "'More samples? Then you must have taken others.' "'Certainly. We put you out for a while to let you rest.' The chair came down on four legs. "'You've got a mild case. Either that, or you have a strong natural immunity. It's now been three days since you reported the first symptoms, and it isn't very advanced. It killed the entire scouting expedition in less time than that.' Bolden looked at the ceiling. Eventually they'd find a cure. But would he be alive that long? "'I suspect what you're thinking,' said the doctor. "'Don't overlook our special equipment. We already have specimens in the sonic accelerator. We've been able to speed up the life-processes of the microbes about ten times. Before the day is over we'll know which of our anti- and neobiotics they like the least. Tough little things so far. Unbelievably tough. But you can be sure we'll smack them.' His mind was active, but outwardly Bolden was quiescent, as the doctor continued his explanation. The disease attacked the superficial nervous system, beginning with the extremities. The bodies of the crew of the scouting expedition had been in an advanced state of decomposition when the medical rescue team reached them, and the microbes were no longer active. Nevertheless, it was a reasonable supposition that death had come shortly after the invading bacteria had reached the brain. Until then, though nerves were the route along which the microbes travelled, no irreparable damage had been done. This much was good news. Either he would recover completely, or he would die. He would not be crippled permanently. Another factor in his favour was the sonic accelerator. By finding the natural resonance of the one-celled creature, and gradually increasing the tempo of the sound field, the doctor could grow and test ten generations in the laboratory, while one generation was breeding in the body. Bolden was the first patient actually being observed with the disease, but the time element wasn't as bad as he had thought. "'That's where you are,' concluded Kessler. "'Now, among other things, we've got to find where you've been.' "'The ship has an automatic log,' said Bolden. "'It indicates every place I landed.' "'True, but our grid-coordinates are not exact. It will be a few years before we're able to look at a log, and locate within ten feet of where a ship has been.' The doctor spread out a large photo-map. There were several marks on it. He fastened a stereoscope viewer over Bolden's eyes and handed him a pencil. "'Can you use this?' "'I think so.' His fingers were stiff, and he couldn't feel, but he could mark with the pencil. Kessler moved the map nearer, and the terrain sprang up in detail. In some cases he could see it more clearly than when he had been there, because on the map there was no fog. Bolden made a few corrections, and the doctor took the map away and removed the viewer. "'We'll have to stay away from these places until we get a cure. Did you notice anything peculiar in any of the places you went?' It was all mountainous country. Which probably means that we're safe on the plane. Were there any animals? Nothing that came close. Birds, maybe?' More likely it was an insect. Well, we'll worry about the host, and how it is transmitted. Try not to be upset. You're as safe as you would be on earth. "'Yeah,' said Bolden, "'where's the pet?' The doctor laughed. You did very well on that one. The biologists have been curious about the animals since the day they saw one in a native camp. "'They can look at it as much as they want,' said Bolden. Nothing more on this one, though. It's a personal gift.' "'You're sure it's personal?' The native said it was.' The doctor sighed. "'I'll tell them. They won't like it, but we can't argue with the natives if we want their cooperation.' Bolden smiled. The animal was safe for at least six months. He could understand the biologists' curiosity, but there was enough to keep them curious for a long time on a new planet. And it was his. In a remarkably short time he had become attached to it. It was one of those rare things that man happened across occasionally, about once in every five planets. Useless, completely useless, the creature had won virtue. It liked man, and man liked it. It was a pet. "'Okay,' he said, but you didn't tell me where it is.' The doctor shrugged, but the gesture was lost in the shapeless decontagion suit. "'Do you think we're letting it run in the streets? It's in the next room, under observation.' The doctor was more concerned than he was letting on. The hospital was small, and animals were never kept in it. "'It's not the carrier. I was sick before it was given to me. You had something, we know that much, but was it this? When granting that you're right, it was in contact with you, and may now be infected.' "'I think life on this planet isn't bothered by the disease. The natives have been every place I went, and none of them seem to have it.' "'Didn't they?' said the doctor, going to the door. "'Maybe. It's too early to say.' He reeled a cord out of the wall, and plugged it into the decontagion suit. He spread his legs and held his arms away from his sides. In an instant the suit glowed white-hot, only for an instant, and it was insulated inside. Even so it must be uncomfortable, and the process would be repeated outside. The doctor wasn't taking any chances. "'Try to sleep,' he said, "'Ring if there's a change in your condition, even if you think it's insignificant.'" "'All ring,' said Bolden. In a short time he fell asleep. It was easy to sleep.' The nurse entered as quietly as she could in the decontagion outfit. It awakened Bolden. It was evening. He had slept most of the day. "'Which one are you?' he asked. The pretty one?' "'All nurses are pretty, if you get well. Here, swallow this.' It was Peggy. He looked doubtfully at what she held out. "'All of it?' "'Certainly. You get it down, and I'll see that it comes back up. The string won't hurt you.' She passed a small instrument over his body, reading the dial she held in the other hand. The information he knew was being recorded elsewhere on a master-chart. Apparently the instrument measured neural currents, and hence indirectly the progress of the disease. Already they had evolved new diagnostic techniques. He wished they'd made the same advance in treatment. After expertly reeling out the instrument he had swallowed, the nurse read it, and deposited it in a receptacle in the wall. She brought a tray and told him to eat. He wanted to question her, but she was insistent about it. So he ate. Allowance had been made for his partial paralysis. The food was liquid. It was probably nutritious, but he didn't care for the taste. She took the tray away and came back and sat beside him. "'Now we can talk,' she said. "'What's going on?' he said bluntly. "'When do I start getting shot? Nothing's been done for me so far.' "'I don't know what the doctor's working out for you. I'm just the nurse.' "'Don't try to tell me that,' he said. "'You're a doctor yourself. In a pinch you could take Kessler's place.' "'And I get my share of pinches,' she said brightly. "'Okay, so I'm a doctor, but only on earth. Until I complete my off-planet internship here I'm not allowed to practice.' "'You know as much about Vandamas as anyone does.' "'That may be,' she said. "'Now don't be alarmed, but the truth ought to be obvious. None of our anti- or neobiotics, or combinations of them, have a positive effect. We're looking for something new.' "'It should have been obvious. He had been hoping against that, though.' He looked at the shapeless figure sitting beside him, and remembered Peggy, as she usually looked. He wondered if they were any longer concerned with him as an individual. They must be working mainly to keep the disease from spreading. "'What are my chances?' Better than you think, we're looking for an additive that will make the biotics effective.' He hadn't thought of that, though it was often used, particularly on newly settled planets. He had heard of a virus infection common to Centaurus that could be completely controlled by a shot of neobiotics plus aspirin, though separately neither was of any value. But the discovery of what substance should be added to what antibiotic was largely one of trial and error. That took time, and there wasn't much time. "'What else?' he said. "'That's about it. We're not trying to make you believe this isn't serious. But don't forget we're working ten times as fast as the disease can multiply. We expect to break any moment.' She got up. "'Want a sedative for the night?' "'I've got a sedative. Inside me. Looks like it will be permanent.' "'That's what I like about you. You're so cheerful,' she said, leaning over and clipping something around his throat. "'In case you're wondering, we're going to be busy tonight checking the microbe. We can put someone in with you, but we thought you'd rather have all of us working on it.' "'Sure,' he said. "'This is a body monitor. If you want anything, just call, and we'll be here within minutes.' "'Thanks,' he said. I won't panic to-night.' She plugged in the decontagion uniform, flashed it on, and then left the room. After she was gone, the body monitor no longer seemed reassuring. It was going to take something positive to pull him through. They were going to work through the night, but did they actually hope for success? What had Peggy said? None of the anti- or neobiotics had a positive reaction. Unknowingly she had let it slip. The reaction was negative. The bubble microbes actually grew faster in the medium that was supposed to stop them. It happened occasionally on strange planets. It was his bad luck that it was happening to him. He pushed the thoughts out of his mind and tried to sleep. He did for a time. When he awakened he thought, at first, it was his arms that had aroused him. They seemed to be on fire, deep inside. To a limited extent he still had control. He could move them, though there was no surface sensation. Interior nerves had not been greatly affected until now. But outside the infection had crept up. It was no longer just above the wrists. It had reached his elbows and passed beyond. A few inches below his shoulder he could feel nothing. The illness was accelerating. If they had ever thought of amputation, it was too late now. He resisted an impulse to cry out. A nurse would come and sit beside him, but he would be taking her from work that might save his life. The infection would reach his shoulders and move across his chest and back. It would travel up his throat, and he wouldn't be able to move his lips. It would paralyze his eyelids so that he couldn't blink. Maybe it would blind him, too. And then it would find ingress to his brain. The result would be a metabolic explosion. Swiftly each bodily function would stop altogether, or race wildly as the central nervous system was invaded, one regulatory centre after the other blanking out. His body would be a flame, or it would smolder and flicker out. Death might be spectacular, or it could come very quietly. That was one reason he didn't call the nurse. The other was the noise. It was a low sound, half purr, half a coaxing growl. It was the animal the native had given him, confined in the next room. Bolden was not sure why he did what he did next. Instinct or reason may have governed his actions. But instinct and reason are divisive concepts that cannot apply to the human mind, which is actually indivisible. He got out of bed. Unable to stand, he rolled to the floor. He couldn't crawl very well because his hands wouldn't support his weight, so he crept along on his knees and elbows. It didn't hurt. Nothing hurt except the fire in his bones. He reached the door and straightened up on his knees. He raised his hand to the handle, but couldn't grasp it. After several trials he abandoned the attempt and hooked his chin on the handle, pulling it down. The door opened and he was in the next room. The animal was whining louder now that he was near. Yellow eyes glowed at him from the corner. He crept to the cage. It was latched. The animal shivered eagerly, pressing against the side, striving to reach him. His hands were numb and he couldn't work the latch. The animal licked his fingers. It was easier after that. He couldn't feel what he was doing, but somehow he managed to unlatch it. The door swung open and the animal bounded out, knocking him to the floor. He didn't mind at all because now he was sure he was right. The natives had given him the animal for a purpose. Their own existence was meager, near the edge of extinction. They could not afford to keep something that wasn't useful. And this creature was useful. Tiny blue sparks crackled from the fur as it rubbed against him in the darkness. It was not whining. It rumbled and purred as it licked his hands and arms and rolled against his legs. After a while he was strong enough to crawl back to bed, leaning against the animal for support. He lifted himself up and fell across the bed in exhaustion. Blood didn't circulate well in his crippled body. The animal bounded up and tried to melt itself into his body. He couldn't push it away if he wanted. He didn't want to. He stirred and got himself into a more comfortable position. He wasn't going to die. In the morning Bolden was awake long before the doctor came in. Kessler's face was haggard and the smile was something he assumed solely for the patient's benefit. If he could have seen what the expression looked like after filtering through the micro-screen he would have abandoned it. I see you're holding your own, he said, with hollow cheerfulness. We're doing quite well ourselves. All bet, said Bolden. Maybe you've got to the point where one of the antibiotics doesn't actually stimulate the growth of the microbes? I was afraid you'd find it out, side the doctor. We can't keep everything from you. You could have given me a shot of plasma and said it was a powerful new drug. That idea went out of medical treatment a couple of hundred years ago, said the doctor. You'd feel worse when you failed to show improvement. Settling a planet isn't easy and the dangers aren't imaginary. You've got to be able to face facts as they come. He peered uncertainly at Bolden. The micro-screen distorted his vision, too. We're making progress, though it may not seem so to you. When a mixture of a calcium salt, plus two anti-histamines, is added to a certain neobiotic, the result is that the microbe grows no faster than it should. Switching the ingredients here and there, maybe it ought to be a potassium salt, and the first thing you know will have it stopped cold. I doubt the effectiveness of those results, said Bolden. In fact, I think you're on the wrong track. Try investigating the effects of neural induction. What are you talking about, said the doctor, coming closer and glancing suspiciously at the lump beside Bolden. Do you feel dizzy? Is there anything else unusual that you notice? Don't shout at the patient, Bolden waggled his finger reprovingly. He was proud of the finger. He couldn't feel what he was doing, but he had control over it. You, Kessler, should face the fact that a doctor can learn from a patient what the patient learned from the natives. But Kessler didn't hear what he said. He was looking at the upraised hand. You're moving almost normally, he said. Your own immunity factor is controlling the disease. Sure, I've got an immunity factor, said Bolden. The same one the natives have. Only it's not inside my body. He rested his hand on the animal beneath the covers. It never wanted to leave him. It wouldn't have to. I can set your mind at rest on one thing, doctor. Natives are susceptible to the disease too. That's why they were able to recognise I had it. They gave me the cure and told me what it was, but I was unable to see it until it was nearly too late. Here it is. He turned back the covers and exposed the animal, sleeping peacefully on his legs, which raised its head and licked his fingers. He felt that. After an explanation the doctor tempered his disapproval. It was an unsanitary practice. But he had to admit that the patient was much improved. Kessler verified the state of Bolden's health by extensive use of the X-ray microscope. Reluctantly he wheeled the machine to the wall and covered it up. The infection is definitely receding, he said. There are previously infected areas in which I find it difficult to locate a single microbe. What I can't understand is how it's done. According to you, the animal doesn't break the skin with its tongue, and therefore nothing is released into the bloodstream. All that seems necessary is that the animal be near you. He shook his head behind the microscreen. I don't think much of the electrical analogy you used. I said the first thing I thought of. I don't know if that's the way it works, but it seems to me like a pretty fair guess. The microbes do cluster around nerves, said the doctor. We know that neural activity is partly electrical. If the level of that activity can be increased, the bacteria might be killed by ionic dissociation. He glanced speculatively at Bolden and the animal. Perhaps you do borrow nervous energy from the animal. We might also find it possible to control the disease with an electrical current. Don't try to find out on me, said Bolden. I've been an experimental specimen long enough. Take somebody who's healthy. I'll stick with the native's method. I wasn't thinking of experiments in your condition. You're still not out of danger. Nevertheless, he showed his real opinion when he left the room. He failed to plug in and flash the decontagion suit. Bolden smiled at the doctor's omission and ran his hand through the fur. He was going to get well. But his progress was somewhat slower than he'd anticipated, though it seemed to satisfy the doctor who went on with his experiments. The offending bacteria could be killed electrically, but the current was dangerously large and there was no practical way to apply the treatment to humans. The animal was the only effective method. Kessler discovered the microbe required an intermediate host. A tick or a mosquito seemed indicated. It would take a protracted search of the mountains to determine just what insect was the carrier. In any event, the elaborate sanitary precautions were unnecessary. Microscreens came down and decontagion suits were no longer worn. Bolden could not pass the disease on to anyone else. Neither could the animal. It seemed holy without parasites. It was clean and affectionate, warm to the touch. Bolden was fortunate that there was such a simple cure for the most dreaded disease on Vandamas. It was several days before he was ready to leave the small hospital at the edge of the settlement. At first he sat up in bed, and then he was allowed to walk across the room. As his activity increased, the animal became more and more content to lie on the bed and follow him with its eyes. It no longer frisked about as it had in the beginning. As Bolden told the nurse, it was becoming housebroken. The time came when the doctor failed to find a single microbe. Bolden's newly returned strength and the sensitivity of his skin, where before there had been numbness, confirmed the diagnosis. He was well. Peggy came to walk him home. It was pleasant to have her near. I see you're ready, she said, laughing at his eagerness. Except for one thing, he said. Come, pet. The animal raised its head from the bed where it slept. Pet, she said quizzically. You ought to give it a name. You've had it long enough to decide on something. Pet's a name, he said. What can I call it? Doc? Hero? She made a face. I can't say I care for either choice, although it did save your life. Yes, but that's an attribute it can't help. The important thing is that if you listed what you expect of a pet, you'd find it in this creature. Dossile, gentle, lively at times. All it wants is to be near you, to have you touch it. And it's very clean. All right, call it pet if you want, said Peggy. Come on, pet. It paid no attention to her. It came when Bolden called, getting slowly off the bed. It stayed as close as it could get to Bolden. He was still weak, so they didn't walk fast, and at first the animal was able to keep up. It was almost noon when they went out. The sun was brilliant, and Vandama seemed a wonderful place to be alive in. Yes, with death behind him it was a very wonderful place. Bolden chatted gaily with Peggy. She was fine company. And then Bolden saw the native who had given him the animal. Five to seven days, and he had arrived on time. The rest of the tribe must be elsewhere in the settlement. Bolden smiled in recognition while the man was still at some distance. For an answer the native shifted the bow in his hand, and glanced behind the couple in the direction of the hospital. The movement with the bow might have been menacing, but Bolden ignored that gesture. It was the sense that something was missing that caused him to look down. The animal was not at his side. He turned around. The creature was struggling in the dust. It got to its feet and wobbled toward him, staggering crazily as it tried to reach him. It spun around, saw him, and came on again. The tongue lulled out and it whined once. Then the native shot it through the heart, pinning it to the ground. The short tail thumped, and then it died. Bolden couldn't move. Peggy clutched his arm. The native walked over to the animal and looked down. He was silent for a moment. Die anyway soon, he said to Bolden. Burned out inside. He bent over. The bright yellow eyes had faded to nothingness in the sunlight. Gave you its health, said the man of Van Domus, respectfully, as he broke off the protruding arrow. It was a dark blue arrow. Now every settlement on the planet has Bolden's pets. They have been given a more scientific name, but nobody remembers what it is. The animals are kept in pens, exactly as is done by the natives, on one side of town, not too near any habitation. For a while there was talk that it was unscientific to use the animal. It was thought that an electrical treatment could be developed to replace it. Perhaps this was true, but settling a planet is a big task. As long as one method works there isn't time for research. And it works. The percentage of recovery is as high as in other common ailments. But in any case the animal can never become a pet, though it may be in the small but bright spark of consciousness that is all the little yellow-eyed creature wants. The quality that makes it so valuable is the final disqualification. Strength can be a weakness. Its nervous system is too powerful for a man in good health, upsetting the delicate balance of the human body in a variety of unusual ways. How the energy transfer takes place has never been determined exactly, but it does occur. It is only when he is stricken with the bubble death and needs additional energy to drive the invading microbes from the tissue around his nerves that the patient is allowed to have one of Bolden's pets. In the end it is the animal that dies. As the natives knew it is kindness to kill it quickly. It is highly regarded and respectfully spoken of. Children play as close as they can get, but are kept well away from the pens by a high sturdy fence. Adults walk by and nod kindly to it. Bolden never goes there, nor will he speak of it. His friends say he's unhappy about being the first earthman to discover the usefulness of the little animal. They are right. It is a distinction he doesn't care for. He still has the blue arrow. There are local craftsmen who commend it, but he has refused their services. He wants to keep it, as it is. End of Bolden's Pets by Floyd L. Wallace A Filbert is a nut. 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 Linda Dodge A Filbert is a Nut by Rick Raphael. That the gentleman in question was a nut was beyond question. He was an institutionalized psychotic. He was nutty enough to think that he could make an atom bomb out of modeling clay. Ms. Aberconby, the manual therapist, patted the old man on the shoulder. You're doing just fine, Mr. Lieberman. Show it to me when you have finished. The oldster in the stained convalescent suit gave her a quick shy smile and went back to his aimless smearing in the finger paints. Ms. Aberconby smoothed her smockdown over trim hips and surveyed the other patients working at the long tables in the hospital's arts and craft shop. Two muscular and bored attendants in spotless whites lounged beside the locked door and chatted idly about the Dodger's prospects for the pennant. Through the barred windows of the workshop, rolling green hills were seen. Their trees studded flanks making a pleasant setting for the mental institution. The craft's building was a good mile away from the main buildings of the hospital, and the hills blocked the view of the austere complex of buildings that housed the main wards. The therapist rolled down the lines of tables passing to give a word of advice here and a suggestion there. She stopped behind a frowning, intense patient, rapidly shaping blobs of clay into odd-sized strips and forms. As he finished each piece, he carefully placed it into a hollow shell hemisphere of clay. And what are we making today, Mr. Funston? Ms. Aberconby asked. The flying fingers continued to whip out the bits of shaped clay as the patient ignored the question. He hunched closer to his table as if to draw away from the woman. We mustn't be anti-social, Mr. Funston. Ms. Aberconby said lightly but firmly. You've been coming along famously, and you must remember to answer when someone talks to you. Now, what are you making? It looks very complicated. She stared professionally at the maze of clay parts. Fattiest Funston continued to mold the clay bits and put them in place. Without looking up from his bench, he muttered a reply. Adam Baum. A puzzled look crossed the therapist's face. Pardon me, Mr. Funston. I thought you said an Adam Baum. Did, Funston muttered. Safely behind the patient's back, Ms. Aberconby smiled ever so slightly. Why, that's very good, Mr. Funston. That shows real creative thought. I'm very pleased. She padded him on the shoulder and moved down the line of patience. A few minutes later, one of the attendants glanced at his watch stood up and stretched. All right, fellas. He called out. Time to go back. Put up your things. There was a rustle of paint boxes and papers being shuffled and chairs being moved back. A tall, blonde patient with a flowing mustache put one more dab of paint on his canvas and stood back to survey the meaningless smears. He sighed happily and laid down his palette. At the clay table, Funston feverishly fabricated the last odd-shaped bit of clay and slapped it into place. With a furtive glance around him, he clapped the other half of the clay sphere over the filled hemisphere and then stood up. The patients lined up at the door, waiting for the walk back across the green hills to the main hospital. The attendants made a quick count and then unlocked the door. The group shuffled out into the warm afternoon sunlight and the door closed behind them. Ms. Abercrombie gazed around the cluttered room and picked up her chart book of patient progress. Moving slowly down the line of benches, she made short precise notes on the day's work accomplished by each patient. At the clay table, she carefully lifted the top half of the clay ball and stared thoughtfully at the jumbled maze of clay strips laced through the lower hemisphere. She placed the lid back in place and jotted lengthily in her chart book. When she had completed her round, she slipped out of the smock, tucked the chart book under her arm, and left the crafts building for the day. The late afternoon sun felt warm and comfortable as she walked a mile to the main administration building where her car was parked. As she drove out of the hospital grounds, Badius Funston stood at the barred window of his locked ward and stared vacantly over the hills toward the craft shop. He stood there unmoving until a ward attendant came and took his arm an hour later to lead him off to the patient's mess hall. The sunset darkness fell over the stilled hospital grounds and the ward lights winked out at nine o'clock, leaving just a single light burning in each ward office, a quiet wind sighed over the still warm hills. At three o' one a.m., Badius Funston stirred in his sleep and awakened. He sat up in bed and looked around the dark ward. The quiet breathing and occasional snores of 30 other sleeping patients filled the room. Funston turned toward the window and stared out across the black hills that sheltered the deserted craft's building. He gave a quick cry, shut his eyes, and clapped his hands over his face. The brilliance of a hundred suns glared in the night and threw stark shadows on the walls of the suddenly illuminated ward. An instant later, the shattering war and blast of the explosion struck the hospital buildings. In a wave of force and the bursting crash of a thousand windows was lost in the fury of the explosion and the wild screams of the frightened and demented patients. It was over in an instant, and a stunned moment later, recessed ceiling lights began flashing on throughout the big institution. Beyond the again silent hills a great pillar of smoke, topped by a small mushroom-shaped cloud, rose above the gaping hole that had been the arts and crafts building. Thaddeus Funston took his hands from his face and lay back in his bed with a small, secret smile on his lips. Attendants and nurses scurried through the hospital, seeing how many had been injured in the explosion. None had. The hills had absorbed most of the shock, and apart from a welter of broken glass, the damage had been surprisingly slight. The roar and flash of the explosion had lighted and rocked the surrounding countryside. Soon, firemen in civil-defense disaster units from half a dozen neighboring communities had gathered at the still smoking hole that marked the site of the banished crafts building. Within 15 minutes, the disaster-trained crews had detected heavy radiation emanating from the crater, and there was a scurry of men and equipment back to a safe distance a few hundred yards away. At 5.30 a.m., a plane landed at a nearby airfield and a platoon of the Atomic Energy Commission experts, military intelligence men, four FBI agents, and an army full colonel disembarked. At 5.45 a.m., a cordon was thrown around both hospital and the blast crater. In Ward 4C, Thaddeus Winston slept peacefully and happily. It's impossible and unbelievable, Colonel Thomas Thurgood said for the 15th time. Later that morning, as he looked around, the group of experts gathered in the tent, erected on the hill, overlooking the crater. How can an atom bomb go off in a nut house? It was apparently a very small bomb, Colonel, one of the Haggard AEC men offered tinnably not over three kilotons. I don't care if it was the size of a peanut, Thurgood screamed. How did it get here? A military intelligence agent spoke up. If we knew, sir, we wouldn't be standing around here. We don't know, but the fact remains that it was an atomic explosion. Thurgood turned rearly to the small white-haired man at his side. Let us go over it once more, Dr. Crane. Are you sure you knew everything was in that building? Thurgood swept his hand in the general direction of the blast crater. Colonel, I've told you a dozen times. The hospital administration said with exasperation, this was our manual therapy room. We gave our patients artwork. It was a means of getting it out of their systems through the use of their hands, some of the frustrations and problems that led them to this hospital. They worked with oil and water paints and clay. If you can make an atomic bomb from vermilion pigments, then Madam Curie was a misguided scrub woman. All I know is that you say this was a craft's building. Okay, so it was Thurgood's side. I also know that an atomic explosion at 3.02 this morning blew it to hell and gone. And I've got to find out how it happened. Thurgood slumped into a field chair and gazed tiredly up at the little doctor. Where's that girl you said was in charge of this place? We've already called for Ms. Abercrombie and she's on her way here now, the doctor snapped. Outside the tent, a small army of military men and AEC technicians moved about the perimeter of the crater, scintillators in hand, examining every tiny scrap that might have been a part of the building at one time. A jeep raced down the road from the hospital and drew up in front of the tent. An armed MP helped Ms. Abercrombie from the vehicle. She walked to the edge of the hill and looked down with a stunned expression. He did make an atom bomb, she cried. Colonel Thurgood, who had snapped from his chair at her words, leaped forward to catch her as she collapsed in a faint. At four o'clock p.m. the argument was still raging in the long narrow staff room of the hospital administration building. Colonel Thurgood, looking more like a patient every minute, sat on the edge of his chair at the head of a long table and pounded with his fist on the wooden surface, making Ms. Abercrombie's chartbook bounce with every beat. It's ridiculous, Thurgood word. We'll be the laughing stocks of the world if this ever gets out. An atomic bomb made out of clay. You all are nuts. You are in the right place, but count me out. At his left, Ms. Abercrombie cringed deeper into her chair at the broadside. Down both sides of the long table, psychiatrists, physicists, strategists, and radiologists sat in various stages of nerve-shattered weariness. Ms. Abercrombie, one of the physicists, spoke up gently. You say that after the patients had departed the building, you looked again at Funston's work. The therapist nodded unhappily. And you say that to the best of your knowledge, the physicist continued. There was nothing inside that ball but other pieces of clay. I'm positive that's all there was in it, Ms. Abercrombie cried. There was a renewed buzz of conversation at the table, and the senior AEC man present got their heads together with a senior intelligence man. They conferred briefly and then the intelligence officer spoke. That seems to settle it, Colonel. We've got to give this Funston another chance to repeat his bomb, but this time under our supervision. Thurgood leaped to his feet, his face purpling. Are you crazy? He screamed. You want to get us all thrown into this Gilbert factory? Do you know what the newspapers would do to us if they ever got wind of the fact that for one tiny fraction of a second, any one of us here entertained the notion that a paranoidal idiot with the IQ of an ape could make an atomic bomb out of kids' modeling clay? They crucify us. That's what they do. At 8.30 that night, Thaddeus Funston swathed in an army officer's great coat that concealed his straitjacket binding him and with an officer's cap jammed far down over his face was hustled out of a small side door of the hospital and into a waiting staff car. A few minutes later, the car pulled into the flying field at the nearby community and drove directly to the military transport plane that stood at the end of the runway with propellers turning. Two military policemen and a brace of staff psychiatrists sworn the secrecy under the National Atomic Secret Act, bundled Thaddeus aboard the plane. They plopped him into a seat directly in front of Miss Abercrombie and with a roar the plane raced down the runway and into the night skies. The plane landed the next morning at the AEC's Atomic Testing Grounds in the Nevada desert and two hours later in a small hot wooden shack miles up the barren desert wastelands, a cluster of scientists and military men huddled around a small wooden table. There was nothing on the table but a bowl of water and a great lump of modeling clay. While the psychiatrists were taking the straitjacket off Thaddeus in the staff car outside, Colonel Thurgood spoke to the weary Miss Abercrombie. Now you're positive this is just about the same amount and same kind of clay he used before. I brought it along from the same batch we had in the storeroom at the hospital, she replied, and it's the same amount. Thurgood signaled to the doctors and they entered the shack with Thaddeus Funston between them. The Colonel nudged Miss Abercrombie. She smiled at Funston. Now isn't this nice, Mr. Funston? She said, these nice men have brought us way out here just to see if you can make another atom bomb just like the one you made for me yesterday. A flicker of interest lightened Thaddeus' face. He looked around the shack and then he spotted the clay on the table. Without hesitation he walked to the table and sat down. His fingers began working the damp clay, making first the hollow half-round shell while the nation's top atomic scientists watched in fascination. His busy fingers flew through the clay, shaping odd flat bits and clay parts that were dropped almost aimlessly into the open hemisphere in front of him. Miss Abercrombie stood at his shoulder as Thaddeus hunched over the table just as he had done the previous day. From time to time she glanced at her watch. The maze of clay strips grew and as Funston finished shaping the other half hemisphere of clay, she broke the tenth silence. Time to go back now, Mr. Funston. You can work some more tomorrow. She looked at the men and nodded her head. The two psychiatrists went to Thaddeus' side as he put the upper lid of clay carefully in place. Funston stood up and the doctors escorted him from the shack. There was a moment of hushed silence and then pandemonium burst. The experts converged on the clay ball, instruments blossoming from nowhere and cameras clicking. For two hours they studied and gently probed the mass of child's clay and photographed it from every angle. Then they left it for the concrete observatory bunker several miles downrange where Thaddeus and the psychiatrist waited inside a ring of stony-faced military policemen. I told you this whole thing was asinine, Thurgood snarled as the scientific teams tripped into the bunker. Thaddeus Funston stared out over the heads of the MPs through the open door, looking uprange over the heat shimmering desert. He gave a sudden cry, shut his eyes and clapped his hands over his face. A brilliance a hundred times brighter than the glaring Nevada sun lit the dim interior of the bunker and the pneumatically operated door slammed shut just before the wave of the blast hit the structure. Six hours and a jet plane tripped later. Thaddeus, once again in his straitjacket, sat between his armed escorts in a small room in the Pentagon. Through the window he could see the hurried bustle of traffic over the Potomac and beyond the domed roof of the Capitol. In the conference room next door the joint chiefs of staff were closeted with a gray-faced and bone-weary Colonel Thurgood and his baker's dozen of AEC brains. Scraps of the hot, scornful talk drifted across the half-open transom into the room where Thaddeus Funston sat in a neatly tied bundle. In the conference room a red-faced four-star general cast a chilling glance at the rumpled figure of Colonel Thurgood. I've listened to some silly stories in my life, Colonel. The general said coldly, but this takes the cake. You come here with an insane asylum inmate in a straitjacket and you have the colossal gall to sit there and tell me that this poor soul has made not one, but two atomic devices out of modeling clay and then has detonated them. The general paused. Why don't you tell me, Colonel, that he can also make spaceships out of sponge rubber, the general added, bitingly. In the next room Thaddeus Funston stared out over the sweeping panorama of the Washington landscape. He stared hard. In the distance a white cloud began billowing up from the base of the Washington Monument and with an ear-shattering, glass-blintering roar the great shaft rose majestically from its base and vanished into space on a tale of flame. End of A Filbert is a Nut by Rick Raphael. The Hated by Frederick Poll. 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. The Hated by Frederick Poll. After space there was always one more river to cross, the far side of hatred and murder. The bar didn't have a name, no name of any kind, not even an indication that it had ever had one. All it said on the outside was café, eat, cocktails. Which doesn't make a lot of sense, but it was a bar. It had a big TV set going yattata yattata in three glorious colors and a jukebox that tried to drown out the TV with that lousy music they play. Anyway, it wasn't a kid hang out. I kind of like it, but I wasn't supposed to be there at all. It's in the contract. I was supposed to stay in New York and the New England States. Café, eat, cocktails was right across the river. I think the name of the place was Hoboken, but I'm not sure. It all had a kind of dreamy feeling to it. I was, well, I couldn't even remember going there. I remembered one minute I was in downtown New York looking across the river. I did that a lot. And then I was there. I don't remember crossing the river at all. I was drunk, you know. You know how it is. Double bourbons and keep them coming. And after a while the bartender stops bringing me the ginger ale because gradually I forget to mix them. I got pretty loaded long before I left New York. I realized that. I guess I had to get pretty loaded to risk the pension and all. Used to be I didn't drink much, but now I don't know. When I have one drink I get to thinking about Sam and Wally and Chatterhead and Givley and the Captain. If I don't drink I think about them too, and then I take a drink. And that leads to another drink and it all comes out to the same thing. Well, I guess I said it already. I drink a pretty good amount, but you can't blame me. There was a girl. I always get a girl someplace. Usually they aren't much and this one wasn't either. I mean she was probably somebody's mother. She was around 35 and not so bad, though she had a long scar under her ear down along her throat to the little round spot where her larynx was. It wasn't ugly. She smelled nice, while I could still smell, you know, and she didn't talk too much. I liked that. Only, well, did you ever meet somebody with a nervous cough? Like when you say something funny, a little funny, not a big yuck, they don't laugh and they don't stop with just smiling, but they sort of cough. She did that. I began to itch. I couldn't help it. I asked her to stop it. She spilled her drink and looked at me almost as though she was scared. And I had tried to say it quietly too. Sorry, she said a little angry, a little scared. Sorry, but you don't have to forget it. Sure, but you asked me to sit down here with you remember? If you're going to forget it. I nodded at the bartender and held up two fingers. You need another drink, I said. The thing is, I said, Givley used to do that. What? That cough. She looked puzzled. You mean like this? God damn it, stop it! Even the bartender looked over at me that time. Now she was really mad, but I didn't want her to go away. I said, Givley was a fellow who went to Mars with me, Pat Givley. Oh, she sat down again and leaned across the table low. Mars. The bartender brought our drinks and looked at me suspiciously. I said, Say, Mac, would you mind turning down the air conditioning? My name isn't Mac. No. Have a heart. It's too cold in here. Sorry. He didn't sound sorry. I was cold. I mean, that kind of weather, it's always cold in those places, you know, around New York in August. It hits 80, 85, 90. All the places have air conditioning, and what they really want is for you to wear a shirt and tie. But I like to walk a lot. You would too, you know. And you can't walk around much in long pants and a suit coat and all that stuff. Not around there, not in August. And so then when I went into a bar, I'd have one of these built-in freezers for the used car salesmen with their dates or maybe their wives, all dressed up. For what? But I froze. Mars, the girl breathed. Mars. I began to itch again. Want to dance? They don't have a license, she said. Byron, I didn't know you'd been to Mars. Please tell me about it. It was all right, I said. That was a lie. She was interested. She forgot to smile. It made her look nicer. She said, I knew a man, my brother-in-law. He was my husband's brother. I mean my ex-husband. I get the idea. He worked for General Atomic in Rockford, Illinois. You know where that is? Sure, I couldn't go there, but I knew where Illinois was. He worked on the first Mars ship, oh, fifteen years ago, wasn't it? He always wanted to go himself, but he couldn't pass the tests. She stopped and looked at me. I knew what she was thinking, but I didn't always look this way, you know. Not that there's anything wrong with me now. I mean, but I couldn't pass the tests any more. Nobody can. That's why we're all one-trippers. I said, the only reason I'm shaking like this is because I'm cold. It wasn't true, of course. It was that cough of Givley's. I didn't like to think about Givley or Sam or Chowderhead or Wally or the Captain. I didn't like to think about any of them. It made me shake. You see, we couldn't kill each other. They wouldn't let us do that. Before we took off, they did something to our minds to make sure. What they did, it doesn't last forever. It lasts for two years, and then it wears off. That's long enough, you see, because that gets you two Mars and back, and it's plenty long enough in another way, because it's like a straight jacket. You know how to make a baby cry? Hold his hands. It's the most basic thing there is. What they did to us so we couldn't kill each other. It was like being tied up, like having our hands held so we couldn't get free. Well, but two years was long enough. Too long. The bartender came over and said, Pau, I'm sorry. See, I turned the air conditioning down. You all right? You look so... I said, sure, I'm all right. He sounded worried. I hadn't even heard him come back. The girl was looking worried, too. I guess because I was shaking so hard, and I was spilling my drink. I put some money on the table without even counting it. It's all right, I said. We were just going. We were? She looked confused. But she came along with me. They always do once they find out you've been to Mars. In the next place, she said, between trips to the powder room, it must take a lot of courage to sign up for something like that. Were you scientifically inclined in school? Don't you have to know an awful lot to be a space flyer? Did you ever see any of those little monkey characters they say lives on Mars? I read an article about how they lived in little cities of pup tents or something like that. Only they didn't make them. They grew them. Funny. Ever see those? That trip must have been a real drag, I bet. What was it, nine months? You could have a baby. Excuse me. Say, tell me. All that time. How do you, well, manage things? I mean, didn't you ever have to go to the, you know, or anything? We managed, I said. She giggled, and that reminded her, so she went to the powder room again. I thought about getting up and leaving while she was gone, but what was the use of that? I'd only pick up somebody else. It was nearly midnight. A couple of minutes wouldn't hurt, and I reached in my pocket for the little box of pills they give us. It isn't refillable, but we get a new prescription in the mail every month along with the pension check. The label on the box said, caution. Use only is directed by physician, not to be taken by person suffering heart condition, digestive upset, or circulatory disease, not to be used in conjunction with alcoholic beverages. I took three of them. I don't like to start them before midnight, but anyway, I stopped shaking. I closed my eyes, and then I was on the ship again. The noise in the bar became the noise of the rockets and the air washers and the sludge sleucers. I began to sweat, although this place was air conditioned, too. I could hear Wally whistling to himself the way he did. The sound muffled by his oxygen mask and drowned in the rocket noise, but still perfectly audible. The tune was sophisticated lady. Sometimes it was easy to love, and sometimes chasing shadows, but mostly sophisticated lady. He was from Juilliard. Somebody sneezed, and it sounded just like Chatterhead sneezing. You know how everybody sneezes according to his own individual style. Chatterhead had a lady-like little sneeze. It went, real quick, all through the mouth. No nose involved. The captain went, gosh. Wally was achoo, achoo, achoo. And Givley was achoo. Sam didn't sneeze much, but he sort of coughed and sprayed, and that was worse. Sometimes I used to think about killing Sam by tying him down and having Wally and the captain sneeze him to death. But that was a kind of joke, naturally, when I was feeling good, or pretty good. Usually I thought about a knife for Sam. For Chatterhead, it was a gun right in the belly, one shot. For Wally it was a tommy gun, just stitching him up and down, you know, back and forth. The captain I would put in a cage with hungry lions, and Givley I'd strangle with my bare hands. That was probably because of the cough, I guess. She was back. Please tell me about it, she begged. I'm so curious. I opened my eyes. You want me to tell you about it? Oh, please. About what it's like to fly to Mars on a rocket? Yes. All right, I said. It's wonderful what three little white pills will do. I wasn't even shaking. There's six men, see, in a space the size of a Buick, and that's all the room there is. Two of us in the bunks all the time, four of us on watch. Maybe you want to stay in the sack an extra ten minutes because it's the only place on the ship where you can stretch out, you know, the only place where you can rest without somebody's elbow in your side. But you can't, because by then it's the next man's turn. And maybe you don't have elbows in your side while it's your turn off watch, but in the starboard bunk there's the air regenerator master valve. I bet I could still show you bruises right around my kidneys. And in the port bunk there's the emergency escape hatch handle. That gets you in the temple if you turn your head too fast. And you can't really sleep. I mean, not soundly because of the noise, that is, when the rockets are going. When they aren't going then you're in freefall and that's bad too because you dream about falling. But when they're going, I don't know. I think it's worse. It's pretty loud. And even if it weren't for the noise, if you sleep too soundly you might roll over on your oxygen line. Then you dream about drowning. Ever do that? You're strangling and choking and you can't get any air. It isn't dangerous, I guess. Anyway, it always woke me up in time, though I heard about a fellow in a flight six years ago. Well, so you've always got this oxygen mask on all the time except if you take it off for a second to talk to somebody. You don't do that very often because what is there to say? Oh, maybe the first couple of weeks. Sure, everybody's friends then. You don't even need the mask for that matter, or not very much. Everybody's still pretty clean. The place smells, oh, let's see, about like the locker room in a gym, you know? You can stand it. That's if nobody's got space sickness, of course. We were lucky in that way. But that's about how it's going to get anyway, you know, outside the masks. It's soup. It isn't that you smell it so much. You kind of taste it in the back of your mouth and your eyes sting. That's after the first two or three months. Later on, it gets worse. And with the mask on, of course, the oxygen mixture is coming in under pressure. That's funny if you're not used to it. Your lungs have to work a little bit harder to get rid of it, especially when you're asleep. So after a while, the muscles get sore. And then they get soarer. And then, well, before we take off the psych people give us a long doodah that keeps us from killing each other. But they can't stop us from thinking about it. And afterward, after we're back on earth, this is what you won't read about in the articles, they keep us apart. You know how they work it? We get a pension naturally. I mean, there's got to be a pension. Otherwise, there isn't enough money in the world to make anybody go. But in the contract, it says to get the pension, we have to stay in our own area. The whole country's marked off. Six sections. Each has at least one big city in it. I was lucky. I got a lot of them. They try to keep it so every man's hometown is in his own section. But, well, like with us, Chowderhead and the captain both happened to come from Santa Monica. I think it was Chowderhead that got California, Nevada, all that Southwest area. It was the luck of the draw. God knows what the captain got. Maybe New Jersey, I said, and took another white pill. We went on to another place and she said suddenly, I figured something out, the way you keep looking around. What did you figure out? Well, part of it was what you said about the other fellow getting New Jersey. This is New Jersey. You don't belong in this section, right? Right, I said after a minute. So why are you here? I know why. You're here because you're looking for somebody. That's right. She said triumphantly, you want to find that other fellow from your crew. You want to fight him. I couldn't help shaking white pills or no white pills, but I had to correct her. No, I want to kill him. How do you know he's here? He's got a lot of states to roam around in, too, doesn't he? Six, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland, all the way down to Washington. Then how do you know? He'll be here. I didn't have to tell her how I knew. But I knew. I wasn't the only one who spent his time at the border of his assigned area, looking across the river or staring across a state line, knowing that somebody was on the other side. I knew. You fight a war and you don't have to guess that the enemy might have his troops a thousand miles away from the battle line. You know where his troops will be. You know he wants to fight, too. I spilled my drink. I looked at her. You. You didn't. She looked frightened. What's the matter? Did you just sneeze? Sneeze? Me? Did I? I said something quick and nasty. I don't know what. No, it hadn't been her. I knew it. It was Chatterhead's sneeze. Chatterhead, Marvin T. Robuck, his name was, five feet eight inches tall, dark-complexed with a cast in one eye, spoke with a Midwest kind of accent, even though he came from California. Shrick for shriek, horror for horror, like that. It drove me crazy after a while. Maybe that gives you an idea what he talked about mostly. A skunk, a thoroughgoing, deep-rooted, mother-murdering skunk. I kicked over my chair and roared. Robuck, where are you, damn you? The bar was all at once silent. Only the jukebox kept going. I know you're here, I screamed. Come out and get it, you louse. I told you I'd get you for calling me a liar the day Wally sneaked a smoke. Silence. Everybody looking at me. Then the door of the men's room opened. He came out. He looked lousy. Eyes all red-rimmed and his hair falling out. The poor crumb couldn't have been over twenty-nine. He shrieked, you. He called me a million names. He said, you thieving rat, I'll teach you to cheat me out of my candy ration. He had a knife. I didn't care. I didn't have anything, and that was stupid, but it didn't matter. I got a bottle of beer from the next table and smashed it against the back of the chair. It made a good weapon, you know. I'd take that against a knife any time. I ran toward him and he came all staggering and lurching toward me, looking crazy and desperate, mumbling and raving. I could hardly hear him because I was talking too. Nobody tried to stop us. Somebody went out the door and I figured it was to call the cops, but that was all right. Once I took care of Chatterhead I didn't care what the cops did. I went for the face. He cut me first. I felt the knife slide up along my left arm, but, you know, it didn't even hurt, only kind of stung a little. I didn't care about that. I got him in the face and the bottle came away and it was all like gray and white jelly and then blood began to spring out. He screamed, oh, that scream. I never heard anything like that scream. It was what I had been waiting all my life for. I kicked him as he staggered back and he fell, and I was on top of him with the bottle, and I was careful to stay away from the heart or the throat because that was too quick. But I worked over the face and I felt his knife get me a couple of times more and, and I woke up, you know, and there was Dr. Sandley over me with a hypodermic needle that he'd just taken out of my arm and four male nurses in fatigues holding me down, and I was drenched with sweat. For a minute I didn't know where I was. It was a horrible, queasy, falling sensation, as though the bar in the fight in the world were all dissolving into smoke around me. Then I knew where I was. It was almost worse. I stopped yelling and just lay there looking up at them. Dr. Sandley said, trying to keep his face friendly and noncommittal, you're doing much better, Byron Boy, much better. I didn't say anything. He said, you worked through the whole thing in two hours and eight minutes. Remember the first time you were sixteen hours killing him. Captain Van Wick it was that time. Remember? Who was it this time? Chatterhead. I looked at the male nurses. Doubtfully they let go of my arms and legs. Chatterhead, said Dr. Sandley. Oh, Robuck, that boy. He said mournfully his expression saddened. He's not coming along nearly as well as you. Nearly. He can't run through a cycle in less than five hours. And that's peculiar. It's usually you, he—well, I better not say that, shall I? No sense in setting up a counter impression when your pores are all open, so to speak. He smiled at me, but was a little worried in back of the smile. I sat up. Anybody got a cigarette? Give him a cigarette, Johnson. The doctor ordered the male nurse standing alongside my right foot. Johnson did. I fired up. You were coming along splendidly, Dr. Sandley said. He was one of these psych guys that thinks if you say it so, it makes it so. You know that kind? We'll have you down under an hour before the end of the week. That's marvelous progress. Then we can work on the conscious level. You're doing extremely well, whether you know it or not. Why in six months, say in eight months, because I like to be conservative—he twinkled at me—we'll have you out of here. You'll be the first of your crew to be discharged, you know that? That's nice, I said. The others aren't doing so well. No, not at all well, most of them. Particularly Dr. Givley. The run-throughs leave him in terrible shape. I don't mind admitting I'm worried about him. That's nice, I said. And this time I meant it. He looked at me thoughtfully, but all he did was say to the male nurses, He's all right now. Help him off the table. It was hard standing up. I had to hold on to the rail around the table for a minute. I said my set little speech. Dr. Sandley, I want to tell you again how grateful I am for this. I was reconciled to living the rest of my life confined to one part of the country, the way the other crews always did. But this is much better. I appreciate it. I'm sure the others do too. Of course, boy, of course. He took out a fountain pen and made a note on my chart. I couldn't see what it was, but he looked gratified. It's no more than you have coming to you, Byron, he said. I'm grateful that I could be the one to make it come to pass. He glanced conspiratorily at the male nurses. You know how important this is to me. It's the triumph of a whole new approach to psychic rehabilitation. I mean to say our heroes of space travel are entitled to freedom when they come back home to Earth, aren't they? Definitely, I said, scrubbing some of the sweat off my face onto my sleeve. So we've got to end this system of designated areas. We can't avoid the tensions that accompany space travel, no, but if we can help you to eliminate harmful tensions with a few run-throughs, why, it's not too high a price to pay, is it? Not a bit. I mean to say, he said, warming up, you can look forward to the time when you'll be able to mingle with your old friends from the rocket, free and easy without any need for restraint. That's a lot to look forward to, isn't it? It is, I said. I look forward to it very much, I said. And I know exactly what I'm going to do the first time I meet one. I mean, without any restraints, as you say, I said. And it was true, I did. Only it wouldn't be a broken beer bottle that I would do it with. I had much more elaborate ideas than that. End of The Hated by Frederick Poe.