 The Corpse on the Grading by Hugh B. Cave It was ten o'clock on the morning of December 5th when M.S. and I left the study of Professor Daimler. You are perhaps acquainted with M.S. His name appears constantly in the pages of the illustrated news in conjunction with some very technical article on psychoanalysis or with some extensive study of the human brain and its functions. He is a psycho-fanatic, more or less, and has spent an entire lifetime of some seventy-odd years in pulling apart human skulls for the purpose of investigation. Lovely pursuit. For some twenty years I have mocked him in a friendly, half-hearted fashion. I'm a medical man, and my own profession is one that does not sympathize with radicals. As for Professor Daimler, the third member of our triangle, perhaps if I take a moment to outline the events of that evening the Professor's parting what follows will be less obscure. We had called on him, M.S. and I, at his urgent request. His rooms were in a narrow, unlighted street just off the square, and Daimler himself opened the door to us. A tall, loosely built chap he was, standing in the doorway like a motionless ape, arms half extended. I've summoned you, gentlemen, he said quietly, because you two, of all London, are the only persons who know the nature of my recent experiments. I should like to acquaint you with the results. He led the way to his study, then kicked the door shut with his foot, seizing my arm as he did so. Quietly he dragged me to the table that stood against the farther wall. In the same even, unemotional tone of a man completely sure of himself, he commanded me to inspect it. For a moment in the semi-gloom of the room I saw nothing. At length, however, the contents of the table revealed themselves and I distinguished a motley collection of test tubes, each filled with some fluid. The tubes were attached to each other by some ingenious arrangement of thistles, and at the end of the table where a chance blow could not brush it aside lay a tiny file of the resulting serum. From the appearance of the table Daimler had evidently drawn a certain amount of gas from each of the smaller tubes, distilling them through acid into the minute file at the end. Yet even now as I stared down at the fantastic paraphernalia before me I could sense no conclusive reason for its existence. I turned to the professor with a quiet stare of bewilderment. He smiled. The experiment is over, he said. As to its conclusion, you, Dale, as a medical man will be skeptical, and you, turning to MS, as a scientist, you will be amazed, I, being neither physician nor scientist, am merely filled with wonder. He stepped to a long square table-like structure in the center of the room. Standing over it he glanced quizzically at MS, then at me. For a period of two weeks he went on, I have kept on the table here the body of a man who has been dead more than a month, I have tried gentlemen with acid combinations of my own origination to bring that body back to life, and I have failed. But he added quickly, noting the smile it crept across my face, that failure was in itself worth more than the average scientist's greatest achievement. You know, Dale, that heat, if a man is not truly dead, will sometimes resurrect him. In a case of epilepsy, for instance, victims have been pronounced dead only to return to life, sometimes in the grave. I say, if a man be not truly dead, but what if that man is truly dead? Does the cure alter itself in any manner? The motor of your car dies, do you bury it? You do not. You locate the faulty part, correct it, and infuse new life, and so, gentlemen, after remedying the ruptured heart of this dead man by operation, I proceeded to bring him back to life. I used heat. Terrific heat will sometimes originate a spark of new life in something long dead. Gentlemen, on the fourth day of my tests, following a continued application of electric and acid heat, the patient, Daimler leaned over the table and took up a cigarette, lighting it, he dropped the match and resumed his monologue. The patient turned suddenly over and drew his arm weakly across his eyes. I rushed to his side. When I reached him, the body was once again stiff and lifeless, and it has remained so. The professor stared at us quietly, waiting for comment. I answered him as carelessly as I could, with a shrug of my shoulders. Professor, have you ever played with the dead body of a frog? I said softly. He shook his head silently. You would find it interesting sport, I told him. Take a common dry-cell battery with enough voltage to render a sharp shock, then apply your wires to various parts of the frog's anatomy. If you are lucky and strike the right set of muscles, you will have the pleasure of seeing a dead frog leap suddenly forward. Understand he will not regain life, you have merely released his dead muscles by shock and sent him bolting. The professor did not reply. I could feel his eyes on me, and had I turned I should probably have found MS glaring at me in honest hate. These men were students of mesmerism, of spiritualism, and my commonplace contradiction was not over welcome. Your cynical Dale, said MS coldly, because you do not understand. Understand I am a doctor, not a ghost. But MS had turned eagerly to the professor. Where is this body, this experiment, he demanded. Daimler shook his head. Evidently he had acknowledged failure and did not intend to drag his dead man before our eyes unless he could bring that man forth alive, upright, and ready to join our conversation. I have put it away, he said distantly. There is nothing more to be done now that our reverend doctor has insisted in making a matter-of-fact thing out of our experiment. You understand I had not intended to go in for wholesale resurrection, even if I had met with success. It was my belief that a dead body, like a dead piece of mechanism, can be brought to life again, provided we are intelligent enough to discover the secret, and by God it is still my belief. That was the situation then when MS and I paced slowly back along the narrow street that contained the professor's dwelling place. My companion was strangely silent. More than once I felt his eyes upon me in an uncomfortable stare, yet he said nothing. Nothing that is until I had opened the conversation with some casual remark about the lunacy of the man we had just left. You were wrong in mocking him, Dale, MS replied bitterly. Daimler is a man of science, he is no child experimenting with a toy. He is a grown man who has the courage to believe in his powers. One of these days he had intended to say that some day I should respect the professor's efforts. One of these days the interval of time was far shorter than anything so indefinite. The first event, with its exceeding series of horrors, came within the next three minutes. We had reached a more deserted section of the square, a black uninhabited street extending like a shadowed band of darkness between gaunt high walls. I had noticed for some time that the stone structure beside us seemed to be unbroken by door or window, that it appeared to be a single gigantic building, black and forbidding. I mentioned the fact to MS. The warehouse, he said simply. A lonely, God-versaiken place, we shall probably see the flicker of the watchman's light in one of the upper chinks. At his words I glanced up. True enough the higher part of the grim structure was punctured by narrow, barred openings. Safety vaults, probably. But the light, unless its tiny gleam was somewhere in the inner recesses of the warehouse, was dead. The great building was like an immense burial vault, a tomb, silent and lifeless. We had reached the most forbidding section of the narrow street where a single arc lamp overhead cast a halo of ghastly yellow light over the pavement. At the very rim of the circle of illumination where the shadows were deeper and more silent I could make out the black moldings of a heavy iron grating. The bars of metal were designed, I believe, to seal the side entrance of the great warehouse from nightmare otters. It was bolted in place and secured with a set of immense chains, immovable. This much I saw as my intent gaze swept the wall before me. This huge tomb of silence held for me a peculiar fascination, and as I paced along beside my gloomy companion I stared directly ahead of me into the darkness of the street. I wished to God my eyes had been closed or blinded. He was hanging on the grating, hanging there with white, twisted hands clutching the rigid bars of iron, straining to force them apart. His whole distorted body was forced against the barrier, like the form of a madman struggling to escape from his cage. His face, the image of it still haunts me whenever I see iron bars in the darkness of a passage, was the face of a man who has died from utter, stark horror. It was frozen in a silent shriek of agony, staring out at me with fiendish maliciousness, lips twisted apart, white teeth gleaming in the light, bloody eyes with a horrible glare of colorless pigment, and dead. I believe MS saw him at the very instant I recoiled. I felt a sudden grip on my arm, and then as an exclamation came harshly from my companion's lips I was pulled forward roughly. I found myself staring straight into the dead eyes of that fearful thing before me, found myself standing rigid, motionless before the corpse that hung within reach of my arm. And then, through that overwhelming sense of the horrible, came the quiet voice of my comrade, the voice of a man who looks upon death as nothing more than an opportunity for research. The fellow has been frightened to death, Dale, frightened most horribly. Note the expression of his mouth. The evidence struggled to force these bars apart and escape. Something has driven fear to his soul, killed him. I remember the words vaguely. When MS had finished speaking I did not reply. Not until he had stepped forward and bent over the distorted face of the thing before me did I attempt to speak. When I did, my thoughts were a jargon. What in God's name, I cried, could have brought such horror to a strong man. What! Loneliness, perhaps, suggested MS with a smile. The fellow was evidently the watchman. He is alone in a huge, deserted pit of darkness for hours at a time. His light is merely a ghostly ray of illumination, hardly enough to do more than increase the darkness. I have heard of such cases before. He shrugged his shoulders. Even as he spoke I sensed the evasion in his words. When I replied he hardly heard my answer for he had suddenly stepped forward where he could look directly into those fear-twisted eyes. Dale, he said at length, turning slowly to face me. You ask for an explanation of this horror? There is an explanation. It is written with an almost fearful clearness on this fellow's mind. Yet if I tell you you will return to your old skepticism, your damnable habit of disbelief. I looked at him quietly. I had heard MS claim at other times that he could read the thoughts of a dead man by the mental image that lay on that man's brain. I had laughed at him. Evidently in the present moment he recalled those laughs. Nevertheless he faced me seriously. I can see two things, Dale, he said deliberately. One of them is a dark, narrow room, a room piled with indistinct boxes and crates, and with an open door bearing the black number forty-one sixty-seven. And in that open doorway, coming forward with slow steps, alive with arms extended and a frightful face of passion, is a decayed human form, a corpse, Dale, a man who has been dead for many days and is now alive. MS turned slowly and pointed with upraised hand to the corpse on the grating. That is why, he said simply, this fellow died from horror. His words died into emptiness. After a moment I stared at him. Then in spite of our surroundings, in spite of the late hour, the loneliness of the street, the awful thing beside us, I laughed. He turned upon me with a snarl. For the first time in my life I saw MS convulsed with rage, his old, lined face had suddenly become savage with intensity. You laugh at me, Dale, he thundered. By God you make a mockery out of a science that I have spent more than my life in studying. You call yourself a medical man, and you are not fit to carry the name. I will wager you, man, that your laughter is not backed by courage. I fell away from him. Had I stood within reach I am sure he would have struck me, struck me, and I have been nearer to MS for the past ten years than any man in London. And as I retreated from his temper he reached forward to seize my arm. I could not help but feel impressed at his grim intentness. Look here, Dale, he said bitterly. I will wager you a hundred pounds that you will not spend the remainder of this night in the warehouse above you. Wager a hundred pounds against your own courage that you will not back your laughter by going through what this fellow has gone through. That you will not prowl through the corridors of this great structure until you have found room 4167 and remain in that room until dawn. There was no choice. I glanced at the dead man, at the face of fear and the clutching twisted hands, and a cold dread filled me. But to refuse my friend's wager would have been to brand myself an empty coward. I had mocked him. Now whatever the cost I must stand ready to pay for that mockery. Room 4167 I replied quietly in a voice which I made every effort to control lest you should discover the tremor in it. Very well, I will do it. It was nearly midnight when I found myself alone climbing a musty winding ramp between the first and second floors of the deserted building. Not a sound except the sharp intake of my breath and the dismal creak of the wooden stairs echoed through that tomb of death. There was no light, not even the usual dim glow that is left to illuminate an unused corridor. Moreover I had brought no means of light with me, nothing but a half empty box of safety matches which by some unholy premonition I had forced myself to save for some future moment. The stairs were black and difficult, and I mounted them slowly, groping with both hands along the rough wall. I had left MS some few moments before, and his usual decisive manner he had helped me to climb the iron grating and lower myself to the sealed alleyway on the farther side. Then leaving him without a word, for I was bitter against the triumphant tone of his parting words, I proceeded into the darkness, fumbling forward until I had discovered the open door in the lower part of the warehouse. And then the ramp winding crazily upward, upward, upward, seemingly without end. I was seeking blindly for that particular room which was to be my destination. Room 4167, with its high number, could hardly be on the lower floors, and so I had stumbled upward. It was at the entrance of the second floor corridor that I struck the first of my desultory supply of matches, and by its light discovered a placard nailed to the wall. The thing was yellow with age and hardly legible. In the drab light of the match I had difficulty in reading it, but as far as I can remember the notice went something like this. Warehouse Rules 1. No light shall be permitted in any room or corridor as a prevention against fire. 2. No person shall be admitted to rooms or corridors unless accompanied by an employee. 3. A watchman shall be on the premises from 7 p.m. until 6 a.m. He shall make the round of the corridors every hour during that interval, at a quarter past the hour. 4. Rooms are located by their numbers, the first figure in the room number indicating its floor location. I could read no further. The match in my fingers burned to a black thread and dropped. Then, with the burnt stump still in my hand, I groped through the darkness to the bottom of the second ramp. Room 4167 then was on the fourth floor, the topmost floor of the structure. I must confess that the knowledge did not bring any renewed burst of courage. The top floor. Three black stair pits would lie between me and the safety of escape. There would be no escape. No human being in the throes of fear could hope to discover that tortured outlet, could hope to grope his way through Stygian gloom down a triple ramp of black stairs, and even though he succeeded in reaching the lower corridors, there was still a blind alleyway sealed at the outer end by a high grating of iron bars. Escape! The mockery of it caused me to stop suddenly in my ascent and stand rigid, my whole body trembling violently. But outside, in the gloom of the street, MS was waiting, waiting with that fiendish glare of triumph that would brand me a man without courage. I could not return to face him, not though all the horrors of hell inhabited this gruesome place of mystery. And horrors must surely inhabit it, else how could one account for that fearful thing on the grating below? But I had been through horror before. I had seen a man supposedly dead on the operating table jerk suddenly to his feet and scream. I had seen a young girl not long before awake in the midst of an operation, with the knife already in her frail body. Surely, after those definite horrors, no unknown danger would send me cringing back to the man who was waiting so bitterly for me to return. Those were the thoughts pregnant in my mind as I groped slowly, cautiously along the corridor of the upper floor, searching each closed door for the indistinct number 4167. The place was like the center of a huge labyrinth, a spider web of black repelling passages leading into some central chamber of utter silence and blackness. I went forward with dragging steps, fighting back the dread that gripped me as I went farther and farther from the outlet of escape. And then, after losing myself completely in the gloom, I threw aside all thoughts of return and pushed on with a careless surface bravado and laughed aloud. So at length I reached that room of horror, secreted high in the deeper recesses of the deserted warehouse. The number, God grant I never see it again, was scrawled in black chalk on the door, 4167. I pushed the half-open barrier wide and entered. It was a small room, even as M.S. had forewarned me, or as the dead mind of that thing on the grate had forewarned M.S. The glow of my outthrust match revealed a great stack of dusty boxes and crates piled against the farther wall, revealed to the black corridor beyond the entrance and a small upright table before me. It was the table and the stool beside it that drew my attention and brought a muffled exclamation from my lips. The thing had been thrust out of its usual place, pushed aside as if some frenzied shape had lunged against it. I could make out its former position by the marks on the dusty floor at my feet. Now it was nearer to the center of the room and had been wrenched sidewise from its holdings. A shudder took hold of me as I looked at it. A living person sitting on the stool before me, staring at the door, would have wrenched the table in just this manner in his frenzy to escape from the room. The light of the match died, plunging me into a pit of gloom. I struck another and stepped closer to the table. And there on the floor I found two more things that brought fear to my soul. One of them was a heavy flash lamp, a watchman's lamp, where it had evidently been dropped, been dropped in flight. But what awful terror must have gripped the fellow to make him forsake his only means of escape through those black passages? And the second thing, a worn copy of a leather-bound book flung open on the boards below the stool. The flash lamp, thank God, had not been shattered. I switched it on, directing its white circle light over the room. This time, in the vivid glare, the room became even more unreal. Black walls, clumsy, distorted shadows on the wall, thrown by those huge piles of wooden boxes, shadows that were like crouching men, groping toward me, and beyond where the single door opened into a passage of Stygian darkness that yawning entrance was thrown into hideous detail. Had any upright figure been standing there, the light would have made an unholy phosphorescent specter out of it. I summoned enough courage to cross the room and pull the door shut. There was no way of locking it. Had I been able to fasten it I should surely have done so, but the room was evidently an unused chamber filled with empty refuse. This was the reason, probably, why the watchman had made use of it as a retreat during the intervals between his rounds. But I had no desire to ponder over the sordidness of my surroundings. I returned to my stool in silence, and, stooping, picked up the fallen book from the floor. Carefully I placed the lamp on the table where its light would shine on the open page. Then, turning the cover, I began to glance through the thing which the man before me had evidently been studying, and before I had read two lines the explanation of the whole horrible thing struck me. I stared dumbly down at the little book and laughed, laughed harshly so that the sound of my mad cackle echoed in a thousand ghastly reverberations through the dead corridors of the building. It was a book of horror, of fantasy, a collection of weird, terrifying supernatural tales with grotesque illustrations in funereal black and white. And the very line I had turned to, the line which had probably struck terror to that unlucky devil's soul, explained MS's decayed human form standing in the doorway with arms extended and a frightful face of passion. The description, the same description, lay before me, almost in my friend's words. Little wonder that the fellow on the grating below after reading this orgy of horror had suddenly gone mad with fright. Little wonder that the picture engraved on his dead mind was a picture of a corpse standing in the doorway of Room 4167. I glanced at that doorway and laughed. No doubt of it it was that awful description in MS's untempered language that had made me dread my surroundings, not the loneliness and silence of the corridors about me. Now as I stared at the room, the closed door, the shadows on the wall, I could not repress a grin. But the grin was not long in duration. A six-hour siege awaited me before I could hear the sound of human voice again, six hours of silence and gloom. I did not relish it. Thank God the fellow before me had had foresight enough to leave his book of fantasy for my amusement. I turned to the beginning of the story. A lovely beginning it was, outlining in some detail how a certain Jack Fulton, English adventurer, had suddenly found himself imprisoned by a mysterious black gang of monks or something of the sort, in a forgotten cell at the monastery of El Toro. The cell, according to the pages before me, was located in the empty haunted pits below the stone floors of the structure. Lovely setting, and the brave Fulton had been secured firmly to a huge metal ring set in the farther wall opposite the entrance. I read the description twice. At the end of it I could not help but lift my head to stare at my own surroundings, except for the location of the cell I might have been in the same setting, the same darkness, same silence, same loneliness, peculiar similarity. And then, Fulton like quietly, without attempt to struggle. In the dark the stillness of the vaults became unbearable, terrifying, not a suggestion of sound except the scraping of unseen rats. I dropped the book with a start. On the opposite end of the room in which I sat came a half inaudible scuffling noise, the sound of hidden rodents scrambling through the great pile of boxes. Imagination? I'm not sure. At the moment I would have sworn that the sound was a definite one, that I had heard it distinctly. Now as I recount this tale of horror I am not sure. But I am sure of this. There was no smile on my lips as I picked up the book again with trembling fingers and continued. The sound died into silence, for in eternity the prisoner lay rigid staring at the open door of his cell. The opening was black, deserted, like the mouth of a deep tunnel leading to hell, and then suddenly from the gloom beyond that opening came an almost noiseless padded footfall. This time there was no doubt of it. The book fell from my fingers, dropped to the floor with a clatter. Yet even through the sound of its falling I heard that fearful sound, the shuffle of a living foot. I sat motionless, staring with bloodless face at the door of room 4167. And as I stared the sound came again and again, the slow tread of dragging footsteps approaching along the black corridor without. I got to my feet like an automaton swaying heavily. Every drop of courage ebbed from my soul as I stood there, one hand clutching the table, waiting. And then with an effort I moved forward. My hand was outstretched to grasp the wooden handle of the door. And I did not have the courage. Like a cow to beast I crept back to my place and slumped down on the stool. My eyes still transfixed in a mute stare of terror. I waited. For more than half an hour I waited, motionless. Not a sound stirred in the passage beyond that closed barrier. Not a suggestion of any living presence came to me. Then leaning back against the wall with a harsh laugh, I wiped away the cold moisture that had trickled over my forehead into my eyes. It was another five minutes before I picked up the book again. Was me a fool for continuing it? A fool? I tell you, even a story of horror is more comfort than a room of grotesque shadows and silence. Even a printed page is better than grim reality. And so I read on. The story was one of suspense, madness. For the next two pages I read a cunning description of the prisoner's mental reaction. Strangely enough it conformed precisely with my own. Fulton's head had fallen to his chest, the script read. For an endless while he did not stir, did not dare to lift his eyes. And then, after more than an hour of silent agony and suspense, the boy's head came up mechanically. Came up and suddenly jerked rigid. A horrible scream burst from his dry lips as he stared, stared like a dead man at the black entrance to his cell. There standing without motion in the opening stood a shrouded figure of death. Empty eyes glaring with awful hate bored into his own. His large arms, bony and rotten, extended toward him. Decayed flesh. I read no more. Even as I lunged to my feet with that mad book still gripped in my hand I heard the door of my room grind open. I screamed, screamed in utter horror at the thing I saw there. Dead? Good God I did not know. It was a corpse, a dead human body standing before me like some propped up thing from the grave. A face half eaten away, terrible in its leering grin. Dead mouth with only a suggestion of lips curled back over broken teeth. Hair, writhing, distorted like a mass of moving bloody coils. And its arms, ghastly white, bloodless, were extended toward me with open, clutching hands. It was alive, alive. Even while I stood there crouching against the wall at step forward toward me, I saw a heavy shudder pass over it and the sound of its scraping feet burned its way into my soul. And then with its second step the fearful thing stumbled to its knees. The white gleaming arms thrown into streaks of living fire by the light of my lamp flung violently upwards, twisting toward the ceiling. I saw the grin change to an expression of agony, of torment, and then the thing crashed upon me, dead. With a great cry of fear I stumbled to the door. I groped out of that room of horror, stumbled along the corridor. No light. I left it behind on the table to throw a circle of white glare over the decayed living dead intruder who had driven me mad. My return down those winding ramps to the lower floor was a nightmare of fear. I remember that I stumbled, that I plunged through the darkness like a man gone mad. I had no thought of caution, no thought of anything except escape. And then the lower door and the alley of gloom. I reached the grating, flung myself upon it and pressed my face against the bars in a futile effort to escape, the same as the fear-tortured man who had come before me. I felt strong hands lifting me up, a dash of cool air and then the refreshing patter of falling rain. It was the afternoon of the following day, December 6, when MS sat across the table from me in my own study. I had made a rather hesitant attempt to tell him without dramatics and without dwelling on my own lack of courage of the events of the previous night. You deserved it, Dale, he said quietly. You are a medical man, nothing more, and yet you mock the beliefs of a scientist as great as Daimler. I wonder, do you still mock the professor's beliefs? That he can bring a dead man to life? I smiled a bit doubtfully. I will tell you something, Dale, said MS deliberately. He was leaning across the table, staring at me. The professor made only one mistake in his great experiment. He did not wait long enough for the effect of his strange acids to work. He acknowledged failure too soon and got rid of the body. He paused. When the professor stored his patient away, Dale, he said quietly, he stored it in room 4170 at the Great Warehouse. If you are acquainted with the place, you will know that room 4170 is directly across the corridor from 4167. End of The Corpse on the Grading, Recording by Nick Number. Dead Giveaway by Randall Garrett. 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 Jeff Ward. Dead Giveaway by Randall Garrett. Logic's a wonderful thing. A wonderful analysis. One can determine the necessary reason for the existence of a dead city of a very high order on an utterly useless planet. Obviously, a shipping transfer point, necessarily. Mendes, said the young man in the blue and green tartan jacket. Why yes, sure I've heard of it, why? The clerk behind the desk looked again at the information screen. That's the destination we have on file for scholar Duckworth, Mr. Turnbull. That was six months ago. He looked up from the screen, waiting to see if Turnbull had any more questions. Turnbull tapped his teeth with a thumbnail for a couple of seconds, then shrugged slightly. Any address given for him? Yes, sir, the hotel Byron, Landing City, Mendes. Turnbull nodded. How much is the ferret of Mendes? The clerk thumbed a button, which wiped the information from the screen clean, then replaced it with another list, which flowed upward for a few seconds, then stopped. Seven hundred and eighty-five fifty, sir, said the clerk. Shall I make you out of ticket? Turnbull hesitated. What's the route? The clerk touched another control, and again the information on the screen changed. You'll take the regular shuttle from here to Luna, then take either the Stellar Queen or the Irina to Cirrus Six. From there you will have to pick up a ship to the Central Worlds, either Van der Linde or Ben Abram, and take a ship from there to Mendes. Not complicated, really. The whole trip won't take you more than three weeks, including stopovers. I see, said Turnbull. I haven't made up my mind yet. I'll let you know. Very well, sir. The Stellar Queen leaves on Wednesdays and the Irina on Saturdays. We'll need three days' notice. Turnbull thanked the clerk and headed toward the big doors that led out of Long Island Terminal, threading his way through the little clumps of people that milled around inside the big waiting room. He hadn't learned a hell of a lot, he thought. He'd known that Duckworth had gone to Mendes, and he already had the Hotel Byron address. There was, however, some negative information there. The last address they had was on Mendes, and yet Scholar Duckworth couldn't be found on Mendes. Obviously, he had not filed a change of address there. Just as obviously, he had managed to leave the planet without a trace. There was always the possibility that he'd been killed, of course. On a thinly populated world like Mendes, murder could still be committed with little chance of being caught. Even here on Earth, a murderer with the right combination of skill and luck could remain unsuspected. But who would want to kill Scholar Duckworth, and why? Turnbull pushed the thought out of his mind. It was possible that Duckworth was dead, but it was highly unlikely. It was vastly more probable that the old scholar had skipped off for reasons of his own, and that something had happened to prevent him from contacting Turnbull. After all, almost the same thing had happened in reverse a year ago. Outside the terminal building, Turnbull walked over to a hack stand and pressed the signal button on top of the control column. An empty cab slid out of the traffic pattern and pulled up beside the barrier which separated the vehicular traffic from the pedestrian walkway. The gate in the barrier slid open at the same time the cab door did, and Turnbull stepped inside and sat down. He dialed his own number, dropped in the indicated number of coins, and then relaxed as the cab pulled out and sped down the freeway toward Manhattan. He'd been back on Earth now for three days, and the problem of Scholar James Duckworth was still bothering him. He hadn't known anything about it until he derived at his apartment after a year's absence. The apartment door sighed a little as Dave Turnbull broke the electronic seal with the double key. Half the key had been in his possession for a year, jealously guarded against loss during all the time he had been on Le Bon. The other half had been kept by the manager of the Excelsior Apartments. As the door opened, Turnbull noticed the faint, musty odor that told of long unused and poorly circulated air. The conditioners had been turned down to low power for a year now. He went inside and allowed the door to close silently behind him. The apartment was just the same. The broad expanse of pale blue rug, the matching furniture, including the long comfortable couch and the fat overstuffed chair, all just as he'd left them. He ran a finger experimentally over the top of the table nearer the door. There was a faint patina of dust covering the glossy surface, but it was very faint indeed. He grinned to himself in spite of the excitement of the explorations on Le Bon. It was great to be home again. He went into the small kitchen, slid open the wall panel that concealed the apartment's power controls, and flipped the switch from maintenance to normal. The lights came on, and there was a faint sigh from the air conditioners as it began to move the air at a more normal rate through the rooms. Then he walked over to the liquor cabinet, opened it, and surveyed the contents. There, in all their glory, sat the half dozen bottles of English sherry that he'd been dreaming about for 12 solid months. He took one out and broke the seal almost reverently. Not that there had been nothing to drink for the men on Le Bon. The university had not been so blue-nosed as all that, but the choice had been limited to bourbon and scotch. Turnbull, who was not a whiskey drinker by choice, had long for the mellow smoothness of Bristol cream sherry instead of the smokiness of scotch or the heavy-bodied strength of the bourbon. He was just pouring his first glass when the announcer chimed. Frowning, Turnbull walked over to the view screen that was connected to the little eye in the door. It showed the face of, what was his name? Samson? Sanders? That was it. Sanders. Turnbull was standing superintended. Turnbull punched the opener and said, Come in. I'll be right with you, Mr. Sanders. Sanders was a round, pleasant-faced, soft-voice man, a good ten years older than Turnbull himself. He was standing just inside the door as Turnbull entered the living room. There was a small briefcase in his hand. He extended the other hand as Turnbull approached. Come home, Mr. Turnbull, he said warmly. We've missed you here at the Excelsior. Turnbull took the hand and smiled as he shook it. Glad to be back, Mr. Sanders. The place looks good after a year of roughing it. The superintendent lifted the briefcase. I brought up the mail that accumulated while you were gone. There's not much, since we sent cards to each return address, notifying them that you were not available, and that your mail was being held until your return. He opened the briefcase and took out seven standard pneumatic mailing tubes and handed them to Turnbull. Turnbull glanced at them. Three of them were from various friends of his, scattered over earth. One was from standard recording company. The remaining three carried the return address of James M. Duckworth, PH, SCH, UCLA, Great Los Angeles, California. Thanks, Mr. Sanders, said Turnbull. He was wondering why the man had brought them up so properly after his own arrival. Surely having waited a year, they would have waited until they were called for. Sanders blinked apologetically. Dr. Turnbull, I wonder if any of those contained money. Chicks, cash, anything like that? I don't know. Why? Turnbull asked in surprise. Sanders looked even more apologetic. Well, there was an attempted robbery here about six months ago. Someone broke into your mailbox downstairs. There was nothing in it, of course. We've been putting everything into the vault as it came in. But the police thought it might be someone who knew you were getting money by mail. None of the other boxes were opened, you see, and he let his voice trail off as Turnbull began opening the tubes. None of them contained anything but correspondence. There was no sign of anything valuable. Maybe they picked my box at random, Turnbull said. They may have been frightened off after opening the one box. That's very likely, said Sanders. The police said it seemed to be a rather amateurish job, although whoever did it certainly succeeded in neutralizing the alarms. Satisfied, the building superintendent exchanged a few more pleasantries with Turnbull and departed. Turnbull headed back toward the kitchen, picked up his glass of sherry, and sat down in the breakfast nook to read the letters. The one from standard recording had come just a few days after he'd left, thanking him for notifying them that he wanted to suspend his membership for a year. The three letters from Cairo, London, and Luna City were simply chatty little social notes, nothing more. The three from Scholar Duckworth were from a different breed of cat. The first was postmarked, 21 August 2187, three months after Turnbull had left for Leban. He was neatly addressed to Dave F. Turnbull, PhD. Dear Dave, it read, I know I haven't been as consistent in keeping up with my old pupils as I ought to have been. For this I can only beat my breast violently and mutter mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. I can't even plead that I was so immersed in my own work that I hadn't the time to write because I'm busier now than I've been for years. And I've had to make time for this letter. Of course, in another way, this is strictly a business letter and it does pertain to my work, so the time isn't as hard to find as it might be. But don't think I haven't been watching your work. I've read every one of your articles in the various journals and I have copies of all four of your books nestled securely in my library. Columbia should be, and apparently is, proud to have a man of your ability on its staff. At the rate you've been going, it won't be long before you get an invitation from the Advanced Study Board to study for your scholar's degree. As a matter of fact, I'd like to make you an offer right now to do some original research with me. I may not be a top flight genius like Metternich or Dahl but my reputation does carry some weight with the board. That, Turnbull thought, was a bit of needless modesty. Duckworth wasn't a showman that Metternich was or the prolific writer that Dahl was but he had more intelligence and downright wisdom than either. So, if you could manage to get a few months leave from Columbia, I'd be honored to have your assistance. More modesty, thought Turnbull. The honor would be just the other way around. The problem, in case you're wondering, has to do with the Centaurus mystery. I think I've uncovered a new approach that will literally kick the supports right out from under every theory that's been evolved for the existence of that city. Sound interesting? I'm mailing this early so it should reach you in the late afternoon mail. If you'll be home at between 1900 and 2000, I'll call you and give you the details. If you've got a pressing appointment, leave details with the operator. All the best, Jim Duckworth. Turnbull slid the letter back into its tube and picked up the second letter, dated August 22, 2187, one day later. Dear Dave, I called last night and the operator said your phone has been temporarily disconnected. I presume these letters will be forwarded so please let me know where you are. I'm usually home between 1800 and 2300, so call me collect within the next three or four days. All the best, Jim. The third letter was dated 10 November, 2187. Turnbull wondered why it had been sent. Obviously, the manager of the Excelsior had sent Duckworth a notice that Dr. Turnbull was off-planet and cannot be reached. He must have received the notice on the afternoon of August 22. That would account for his having sent a second letter before he got the notice. Then why the third letter? Dear Dave, I know you won't be reading this letter for six months or so, but at least it will tell you where I am. I guess I wasn't keeping as close tabs on your work as I thought. Otherwise, I would have known about the expedition to Le Bon. You ought to be able to make enough credit on that trip to bring you to the attention of the board. And don't feel too bad about missing my first letters or the call. I was off on a wild goose chase that just didn't pan out, so you really didn't miss a devil of a lot. As a matter of fact, it was rather disappointing to me, so I've decided to take a long needed sabbatical leaf and combine it with a little research on the half-intelligent natives of Mendez. I'll see you in a year or so as ever, Jim Duckworth. Well, that was that, Turnbull thought. It galled him a little to think that he'd been offered a chance to do research with scholar Duckworth and hadn't been able to take it, but if the research hadn't panned out, he frowned and turned back to the first letter, a theory that would literally kick the supports right out from under every theory that's been evolved for the existence of that city, he'd said. God, it was unlike Duckworth to be so positive about anything until he could support his own theory without much fear of having it pulled to pieces. Turnbull poured himself a second glass of sherry, took a sip and rolled it carefully over his tongue. The Centaurus mystery. That's what the explorers had called it back in 2041, nearly a century and a half before, when they'd found the great city on one of the planets of the Alpha Centaurus system. Man's first interstellar trip had taken nearly five years at sublight velocities and being right off the bat, they'd found something that made interstellar travel worthwhile, even though they'd found no planet in the Alpha Centaurus system that was really habitable for man. They'd seen it from space, a huge dome city gleaming like a great gem from the center of the huge desert that covered most of the planet. The planet itself was Mars-like, flat and arid over most of its surface, with a thin atmosphere high in CO2 and very short on oxygen. The city showed up very well through the cloudless air. From the very beginning, it had been obvious that whoever or whatever had built the city had not evolved on the planet where it had been built. Nothing more complex than the lichens had ever evolved there as thousands of drillings into the crust of the planet had shown. Certainly nothing of near humanoid construction could ever have come into being on that planet without leaving some trace of themselves or the genetic forebears except for that single huge city. How long the city had been there was anyone's guess, a thousand years, a million? There was no way of telling. It had been sealed tightly so none of the sand that blew across the planet's surface could get in. It had been set on a high plateau of rock far enough above the desert level to keep it from being buried and the transport dome was made of an aluminum oxide glass that was hard enough to resist the slight erosion of its surface that might have been caused by the gentle, thin winds dashing microscopic particles of sand against its smooth surface. Inside the dry air had preserved nearly every artifact leaving them as they had been when the city was deserted by its inhabitants at an unknown time in the past. That's right, deserted. There were no signs of any remains of living things. And they'd all simply packed up and left leaving everything behind. Dating by the radiocarbon method was useless. Some of the carbon compounds in the various artifacts showed a faint trace of radiocarbon. Others showed none. But since the method depends on the knowledge of the amount of nitrogen in the atmosphere of the planet of origin, the rate of bombardment of that atmosphere by high velocity particles and several other factors, the information on the radioactivity of the specimens meant nothing. There was also the likelihood that the carbon in the various polymer resins came from oil or coal. And fossil carbon is useless for radio dating. Nor did any of the more modern methods show any greater success. It had taken man centuries of careful comparison and cross-checking to read the evolutionary history written in the depths of its own planet's crust. To try to date the city was impossible. It was like trying to guess the time by looking at a faceless clock with no hands. There the city stood 100 miles across 10,000 square miles of complex enigma. It had given man his first step into the ever-winding field of cultural xenology. Dave Turnbull finished his sherry, got up from the breakfast nook and walked into the living room where his reference books were shelved. A copy of Klein's Mindstonopolis's City of Centaurus hadn't been opened in years, but he took it down and flipped it open within three pages of the section he was looking for. It is obvious, therefore, that every one of the indicators points in the same direction. The city was not, could not have been, self-supporting. There is no source of organic material on the planet great enough to support such a city. Therefore, foodstuffs must have been imported. On the other hand, it is necessary to postulate some reason for establishing a city on an otherwise barren planet and populating it with an estimated 600,000 individuals. There can be only one answer. The race that built the city did so for the same reason that human beings built such megalopolises as New York, Los Angeles, Tokyo and London because it was a focal point for important trade routes. Only such trade routes could support such a city. Only such trade routes give reason for the city's very existence. And when those trade routes changed or were supplanted by others in the course of time, the reason for the city's existence vanished. Turnbull closed the book and shoved it back into place. Certainly the theory made sense and had for a century. Had Duckworth come across information that would seem to smash that theory? The planet itself seemed to be perfectly constructed for a gigantic landing field for interstellar ships. It was almost flat. And if the transshipping between the interstellar vessels had been done by air, there would be no need to build a hard surface for the field. And there were other indications. Every fact that had come to light in the ensuing century had been in support of the Greek-German Xenologist theory. Had Duckworth come up with something new? If so, why had he decided to discard it and forget his new theory? If not, why had he formulated the new theory and on what grounds? Turnbull lit a cigarette and looked sourly at the smoke that drifted up from its tip. What the devil was eating him? He'd spent too much time away from Earth. That was the trouble. He'd been too deeply immersed in his study of Leban for the past year. Now all he had to do was get a little hint of something connected with cultural xenology and his mind went off on dizzy tizzies. Forget it. Duckworth had thought he was onto something, found out that he wasn't and discarded the whole idea. And if someone like scholar James Duckworth had decided it wasn't worth fooling with, then why was a common PhD like Turnbull worrying about it? Especially when he had no idea what had started Duckworth off in the first place. And his thought came back around to that again. If Duckworth had thought enough of the idea to get excited over it, what had set him off? Turnbull felt he'd like to know what had made Duckworth think, even for a short time, that there was some other explanation for the city. Ah, hell, he'd asked Duckworth someday. There was plenty of time. He went over to the phone, dialed a number and sat down comfortably in his fat blue overstuffed chair. It buzzed for half a minute. Then the tell-tale lit up, but the screen remained dark. Dave, said a feminine voice, are you back? Where on earth have you been? I haven't, said Turnbull. How come no vision? I was in the Hammond, silly. And what do you mean I haven't? You haven't what? You asked me where on earth I'd been, and I said I haven't. Oh, lucky man, gallivanting around the Starways while us poor humans have to stay home. Yeah, great fun. Now look, Dave, get some clothes on and turn on your pickup. I don't like talking to gray screens. Half a sec, there was a minute's pause, then the screen came on, showing the girl's face. Now, what do you have on your purported mind? Simple, I've been off earth for a year, staring at bearded faces and listening to baritone voices. If it isn't too short notice, I'd like to take you to dinner and a show and whatever else suggests itself afterward. Done, she said. What time? 200, at your place? I'll be waiting. Dave Turnbull cut the circuit grinning. The Duckworth problem had almost faded from his mind, but it flared back up again when he glanced at the male tubes on his desk. Damn, he said. He turned back to the phone, jammed a finger into the dial and spun it angrily. After a moment, the screen came to life with the features of a beautifully smiling, but obviously efficient blonde girl. Interstellar communications, may I serve you, sir? How long will it take to get a message to Mendes and what will it cost? One moment, sir. Her right hand moved off screen and her eyes shifted to look at a screen that Turnbull couldn't see. Mendes, she said shortly. The message will reach there in five hours and 36 minutes total transmission time. Allow an hour's delay for getting the message on the tapes for beaming. The cost is 175 per symbol. Spaces and punctuation marks are considered symbols. A, and, and, and V are symbols. Turnbull thought a moment. It was high, damned high. But then a man with a bonafide PhD was not exactly a poor man if he worked at his specialty or not. I'll call you back as soon as I've composed the message, he said. Very well, sir. He cut the circuit, grabbed a pencil, and started scribbling. When he'd finished reducing the thing to its bare minimum, he started to dial the number again. Then he scowled and dialed another number. This time, a mild-faced young man in his middle 20s appeared. University of California in Los Angeles, personnel office, may I serve you? This is Dr. Dave Turnbull in New York. I understand that scholar Duckworth is on leave. I'd like his present address. The young man looked politely firm. I'm sorry, doctor, we cannot give out that information. Oh, yeah, look here. I know where he is. Just give me the, he stopped. Nevermind, let me talk to Thornwald. Thornwald was easier to deal with since he knew both Duckworth and Turnbull. Turnbull showed him Duckworth's letter on the screen. I know he's in Mendez. I just don't want to have to look all over the planet for him. I know, Dave, I'm sure it's all right. The address is Landing City Hotel Byron Mendez. Thanks, Thorn, I'll do you a favor someday. Sure, see you. Turnbull cut off, dialed interstellar communications, sent his message, and relaxed. He was ready to make a night of it. He was going to make his first night back on earth a night to remember. He did. The next morning, he was feeling almost flighty. He buzzed and flitted around his apartment as though he'd hit a high point on a manic cycle, happily burbling utter nonsense in the form of a perfectly ridiculous, popular song. My dear, the mirror's touch of you has opened up my eyes. And if I get too much of you, you really paralyze. Donna, Donna, Bella, Donna, clad in crimson bright. Though I'm near you, I don't wanna see the falling shades of night. Even when the phone chimed in its urgent message, it didn't disturb his frothy mood. But three minutes later, he had dropped down to earth with a heavy clunk. His message to Mendez had not been delivered. There was not now and never had been a scholar James Duckworth registered at the Hotel Byron in Landing City. Neither was his name on the incoming passenger lists at the spaceport at Landing City. He forced himself to forget about it. He had a date with Dee again that night, and he was not going to let something silly like this bother him. But bother him it did. Unlike the night before, the date was an utter fiasco, a complete flop. Dee scents his mood, misinterpreted it, complained of a headache and went home early. Turnbull slept badly that night. Next morning, he had an appointment with one of the executives of UCLI, University of Columbia in Long Island. And on the way back, he stopped at the spaceport to see what he could find out. But all he got was purely negative information. On his way back to Manhattan, he sat in the auto cab and fumed. When he reached home, he stalked around the apartment for an hour, smoking half a dozen cigarettes, chain fashion, and polishing off three glasses of Bristol cream without even tasting it. Dave Turnbull, like any really top flight investigator, had developed intuitive thinking to a fine art. Ever since the Lancaster method had shown the natural laws applying to intuitive reasoning, no scientist worthy of the name failed to apply it consistently in making his investigations. Only when exact measurement became both possible and necessary was there any need to apply logic to a given problem. A logician adds two and two and gets four. An intuitionist multiplies them and gets the same answer. But a logician faced with three twos gets six. An intuitionist gets eight. Intuition will get higher orders of answers from a given set of facts than logic will. Turnbull applied intuition to the facts he knew and came up with an answer. Then he phoned the New York Public Library, had his phone connected with the stacks, and spent an hour checking for data that would either prove or disprove his theory. He found plenty of the former and none of the latter. Then he called his superiors at Columbia. He had to write up his report on the Le Bon explorations. Would it be possible for him to take a six month leave of absence for the purpose? It would. The following Saturday, Dr. Dave F. Turnbull was on the interstellar liner, a rhino bound for Sirius. If ever there was a gold mine in the sky, it was Centaurus City. To the cultural zenologist who worked on its mysterious riches, it seemed to present an almost inexhaustible supply of new data. The former inhabitants had left everything behind as though it were no longer of any value, whatever. No other trace of them had as yet been found anywhere in the known galaxy, but they had left enough material in Centaurus City to satisfy the curiosity of mankind for years to come, and enough mystery and complexity to wet that curiosity to an even sharper degree. It's difficult for the average person to grasp just how much information can be packed into a city covering 10,000 square miles with a population density equal to that of Manhattan. How long would it take the hypothetical man from Mars to investigate New York or London if he had only the city to work with? If he found them just as they stand except that the inhabitants had vanished? The technological level of the aliens could not be said to be either above or below that of man. It could only be said to be different. It was as if the two cultures complemented each other. The areas of knowledge which the aliens had explored seemed to be those which mankind had not yet touched. While at the same time, there appeared to be many levels of common human knowledge which the aliens had never approached. From the combination of the two, whole new fields of human thought and endeavor had been opened. No trace of the alien spaceships had been uncovered, but the anti-gravitational devices in their aircraft, plus the basic principles of man's own near light velocity drive had given man the ultra light drive. Their knowledge of social organization and function far exceeded that of man and the hints taken from the deciphered writings of the aliens had radically changed man's notion of government. Now humanity could build a galactic civilization, a unity that was neither a pure democracy nor an absolute dictatorship, but resulted in optimal governmental control combined with optimum individual freedom. It was E. Pluribus Unum Plus. Their technological writings were few insofar as physics and chemistry were concerned. What there turned out to be elementary texts rather than advanced studies, which was fortunate because it had been through these that the cultural zenologists had been able to decipher the language of the aliens, a language that was no more alien to the modern mind than say ancient Egyptian or Cretan. But without any advanced texts, deciphering the workings of the thousands of devices that the aliens had left behind was a tedious job. The elementary textbooks seemed to deal with the same sort of science that human beings were used to, but at some point beyond, the aliens had taken a slightly different course and at first only the very simplest of the mechanisms could be analyzed. But the investigators learned from the simpler mechanisms and found themselves able to take the next step forward to more complex ones. However, it still remained a fact that the majority of devices were as incomprehensible to the investigators as would the function of a transistor had been to James Clark Maxwell. In the areas of the social sciences, data was deciphered at a fairly rapid rate. The aliens seemed to have concentrated all their efforts on that. Psionics, on the other hand, seemed never to have occurred to them, much less to have been investigated. And yet there were devices in Centaurus City that bore queer generic resemblances to common terrestrial psionic machines. But there was no hint of such things in the alien literature. And the physical sciences were deciphered only slowly by a process of cut and try and cut and try again. The investigations would take time. There were only a relatively small handful of men working on the problems that the city posed. Not because there weren't plenty of men who would have sacrificed their time and efforts to further the work, but because the planet, being hostile to man, simply would not support very many investigators. It was not economically feasible to pour more men and material into the project after the point of diminishing returns had been reached. Theoretically, it would have been possible to reseal the city's dome and pump in an atmosphere that human beings could live with. But aside from every other consideration, it was likely that such an atmosphere would ruin many of the artifacts within the city. Besides, the work in the city was heady stuff. Investigation of the city took a particular type of high level mind. And that kind of mind did not occur in vast numbers. It was not, Turnbull thought, his particular dish of tea. The physical sciences were not his realm and the work of translating the alien writings could be done on Earth from stack copies if he cared to do that kind of work. Sirius VI was a busy planet, a planet that was as Earth-like as a planet could be without being Earth itself. It had a single moon smaller than the Earth and somewhat nearer to the planet itself. The Orion landed there and Dave Turnbull took a shuttle ship to Sirius VI, dropping down to Spaceport near Noy Berlin, the capital. It took less than an hour to find that Scholar Duckworth had gone no farther on his journey to Mendes than Sirius VI. He hadn't cashed in his ticket. If he had, they'd have known about it on Earth. But he certainly hadn't taken a ship toward the central stars either. Turnbull got himself a hotel room and began checking through the Noy Berlin city directory. There it was, big as life and 15 times as significant, Rawlings Scientific Corporation. Turnbull decided he might as well tackle them right off the bat. There was nothing to be gained by pussy-footing around. He used the phone and after brow-beating several of the employees and pulling his position on a couple of executives, he managed to get an appointment with the assistant director, Lawrence Drawford, the director, Scholar Jason Rawlings, was not on Sirius VI at the time. The appointment was scheduled for 0900 the following morning and Turnbull showed up promptly. He entered through the big main door and walked to the reception desk. Yes, said the girl at the desk. How do you do, Turnbull said. My name is Turnbull. I think I'm expected. Just a moment. She checked with the information panel on her desk, then said, go right on up, Dr. Turnbull. Take number four lift shoot to the 18th floor and turn left. Dr. Drawford's office is at the end of the hall. Turnbull followed directions. Drawford was a heavy-set, floored-faced man with an easy smile and a rather too hearty voice. Come in, Dr. Turnbull. It's a pleasure to meet you. What can I do for you? He waved Turnbull to a chair and sat down behind his desk. Turnbull said carefully, I'd just like to get a little information, Dr. Drawford. Drawford selected a cigar from the humidor on his desk and offered one to Turnbull. Cigar? No. Well, if I can be of any help to you, I'll certainly do the best I can. But there was a puzzled look on his face as he lit his cigar. First, said Turnbull, am I correct in saying that Rawling Scientific is in charge of the research program at Centaurus City? Drawford exhaled a cloud of blue-gray smoke. Not precisely. We work as a liaison between the Advanced Study Board and the Centaurus Group, and we supply the equipment that's needed for the work there. We build instruments to order, that sort of thing. Scholar Rawlings is a member of the board, of course, which admits of a somewhat closer liaison than might otherwise be possible. But I'd hardly say that we're in charge of the research. That's handled entirely by the group leaders at the city itself. Turnbull lit a cigarette. What happened to Scholar Duckworth, he said suddenly? Drawford blinked. I beg your pardon? Again, Turnbull's intuitive reasoning leaped far ahead of logic. He knew that Drawford was honestly innocent of any knowledge of the whereabouts of Scholar James Duckworth. I was under the impression, Turnbull said easily, that Scholar Duckworth was engaged in some sort of work with Scholar Rawlings. Drawford smiled and spread his hands. Well, now, that may be, Dr. Turnbull. If so, they're engaged in something that's above my level. Oh, Drawford pursed his lips for a moment, frowning. Then he said, I must admit that I'm not a good intuitive thinker, Dr. Turnbull. I have not the capacity for it, I suppose. That's why I'm an engineer instead of a basic research man. That's why I'll never get a Scholar's degree. Again, he paused before continuing. For that reason, Scholar Rawlings leaves the logic to me and doesn't burden me with his own business. Nominally, he is the head of the corporation. Actually, we operate in different areas, areas which naturally overlap in some places, but which are not congruent by any means. In other words, said Turnbull, if Duckworth and Rawlings were working together, you wouldn't be told about it. Not unless Scholar Rawlings thought it was necessary to tell me. Drawford said, he put his cigar carefully in the ashtrop. Of course, if I asked him, I'm sure he'd give me the information, but it's hardly any of my business. Turnbull nodded and switched his tack. Scholar Rawlings is off-planet, I believe. That's right, I'm not at liberty to disclose his whereabouts, however, Drawford said. I realized that, but I'd like to get a message to him if possible. Drawford picked up his cigar again and puffed at it a moment before saying anything. Then, Dr. Turnbull, please don't think I'm being stuffy, but may I ask the purpose of this inquiry? A fair question, said Turnbull, smiling. I really shouldn't have come barging in here like this without explaining myself first. He had his lie already formulated in his mind. I'm engaged in writing up a report on the cultural significance of the artifacts on the planet Le Bon. You may have heard something of it. I've heard the name, Drawford admitted. That's in the Sagittarius sector somewhere, as I recall. That's right. Well, as you know, the theory for the existence of Centaurus City assumes that it was, at one time, the focal point of a complex of trade routes through the galaxy, established by a race that has passed from the galactic scene. Drawford was nodding slowly, waiting to hear what Turnbull had to say. I trust you'll keep this to yourself, Doctor, Turnbull said, extinguishing his cigarette. But I am of the opinion that the artifacts on Le Bon bear distinct resemblance to those of the city. It was a bald out and out lie, but he knew Drawford would have no way of knowing that it was. I think that Le Bon was actually one of the colonies of that race, one of their food-growing planets. If so, there's certainly a necessity for correlation between the data uncovered on Le Bon and those which have been found in the city. Drawford's face betrayed his excitement. Why, why, that's amazing. I can see why you would want to get in touch with scholar Rowling, certainly. Do you really think there's something in this idea? I do, said Turnbull firmly. Will it be possible for me to send a message to him? Certainly, Drawford said quickly. I'll see that he gets it as soon as possible. What did you wish to say? Turnbull reached into his belt pouch, pulled out a pad and stylus and began to write. I have reason to believe that I have solved the connection between the two sources of data concerned in the Centaurus city problem. I would also like to discuss the Duckworth theory with you. When he had finished, he signed his name at the bottom and handed it to Drawford. Drawford looked at it frowned and looked up at Turnbull questioningly. He'll know what I mean, Turnbull said. Scholar Duckworth had an idea that Le Bon was a data source on the problem even before we did our digging there. Frankly, that's why I thought Duckworth might be working with scholar Rawlings. Drawford's face cleared. Very well. I'll put this on the company transmitters immediately, Dr. Turnbull, and don't worry. I won't say anything about this to anyone until Scholar Rawlings or you yourself give me the go ahead. I'd certainly appreciate that, Turnbull said, rising from his seat. I'll leave you to your work now, Dr. Drawford. I can be reached at the Mayfair Hotel. The two men shook hands and Turnbull left quickly. Turnbull felt intuitively that he knew where Rawlings was on the Centaurus planet, the planet of the city. But where was Duckworth? Reason said that he too was at the city. But under what circumstances? Was he a prisoner? Had he been killed outright? Surely not. That didn't jive with his leaving earth the way he had. If someone had wanted him killed, they'd have done it on earth. They wouldn't have left a trail on Sir Six. That anyone who was interested could have followed. On the other hand, how could they account for Duckworth's disappearance? Since the trail was so broad. If the police. No, he was wrong. The trouble with intuitive thinking is that it tends to leave out whole sections of what? To a logical thinker, are pieces of absolutely necessary data. Duckworth actually had no connections with Rawlings. No logical connection. The only thing the police would have to work with was the fact that scholar Duckworth had started a trip to Mendez and never made it farther than Sirus Six. There he had vanished. Why? How could they prove anything? On the other hand, Turnbull was safe. The letters from Duckworth, plus his visit to Drawford, plus his acknowledged destination of Sirus Six would be enough to connect up both cases if Turnbull vanished. Rawlings should know he couldn't afford to do anything to Turnbull. Dave Turnbull felt perfectly safe. He was in his hotel room at the Mayfair when the announcer chimed five hours later. He glanced up from his book to look at the screen. It showed a young man in an ordinary business jumper looking rather boardily at the screen. What is it? Turnbull asked. Message for Dr. Turnbull from Rawlings Scientific Corporation said the young man in a voice that sounded even more bored than his face looked. Turnbull sighed and got up to open the door. When it's sectioned, he had only a fraction of a second to see what the message was. It was a stun gun in the hand of the young man. It went off and Turnbull's mind spiraled into blankness before he could react. Out of a confused blur of color, a face sprang suddenly into focus. Swam away again and came back. The lips of the face moved. How do you feel, son? Turnbull looked at the face. It was that of a fairly old man who still retained the vitality of youth. It was line but still firm. It took him a moment to recognize the face. Then he recalled stereos he'd seen. It was scholar Jason Rawlings. Turnbull tried to lift himself up and found he couldn't. The scholar smiled. Sorry, we had to strap you down, he said. But I'm not nearly as strong as you are. I didn't have any desire to be jumped before I got a chance to talk to you. Turnbull relaxed. There was no immediate danger here. Know where you are, Rawlings asked. Centaur City, Turnbull said calmly. It's a three-day trip, so obviously you couldn't have made it in the five hours after I sent you the message. You had me kidnapped and brought here. The old man frowned slightly. I suppose technically it was kidnapping, but we had to get you out of circulation before you said anything that might give the whole show away. Turnbull smiled slightly. Aren't you afraid that the police will trace this to you? Oh, I'm sure they would eventually, said Rawlings. But you'll be able to make any explanation long before that time. I see, Turnbull said flatly. Mind operation. Is that what you did to scholar Duckworth? The expression on scholar Rawlings' face was so utterly different from what Turnbull had expected that he found himself suddenly correcting his thinking in a kaleidoscope readjustment of his mind. What did you think you were on to, Dr. Turnbull? The old man asked slowly. Turnbull started to answer, but at that moment the door opened. The round, pleasant-faced gentleman who came in needed no introduction to Turnbull. Scholar Duckworth said, Hello, Dave. Sorry I wasn't here when you woke up, but I got, he stopped. What's the matter? I'm just cursing myself for being a fool, Turnbull said sheepishly. I was using your disappearance as a datum and a problem that didn't require it. Scholar Rawlings laughed abruptly. Then you thought. Duckworth chuckled and raised a hand to interrupt Rawlings. Just a moment, Jason. Let him logic it out to us. First take these straps off, said Turnbull. I'm stiff enough as it is after being out cold for three days. Rawlings touched a button on the wall and the restraining straps vanished. Turnbull sat up creakily, rubbing his arms. Well, said Duckworth. Turnbull looked up at the elder man. It was those first two letters of yours that started me off. I was afraid of that, Duckworth said, Riley. I tried to get them back before I left earth, but failing that, I sent you a letter to try to throw you off the track. Did you think it would? Turnbull asked. I wasn't sure, Duckworth admitted. I decided that if you had what it takes to see through it, you deserve to know the truth. I think I know it already. I dare say you do, Duckworth admitted, but tell us first why you jumped to the wrong conclusion. Turnbull nodded. As I said, your letters got me worrying. I knew you must be onto something or you wouldn't have been so positive. So I started checking on all the data about the city, especially that which had come in previous to the time you sent the letters. I found that several new artifacts had been discovered in sector nine of the city, in the part they call the bank buildings. That struck a chord in my memory, so I looked back over the previous records. That sector was supposed to have been cleaned out nearly 90 years ago. The error I made was in thinking that you had been forcibly abducted somehow, that you had been forced to write that third letter. It certainly looked like it, since I couldn't see any reason for you to hide anything from me. I didn't think you'd be in on anything as underhanded as this looked, so I assumed that you were acting against your will. Scholar Rowling smiled. But you thought I was capable of underhanded tactics? That's not very flattering, young man. Turnbull Grant, I thought you were capable of kidnapping a man. Was I wrong? Rowling's laughed hardly. Touche, go on. Since artifacts had been found in a part of the city from which they had previously been removed, I thought that Jim here had found a, well, a cover-up. It looked as though some of the alien machines were being moved around in order to conceal the fact that someone was keeping something hidden, like, for instance, a new weapon or a device that would give a man more power than he should rightfully have, such as, Duckworth asked, such as invisibility or a cheap method of transmutation or even a new and faster space drive. I wasn't sure, but it certainly looked like it might be something of that sort. Rowling's nodded thoughtfully. A very good intuition, considering the fact that you had a bit of erroneous data. Exactly. I thought that Rowling's scientific corporation or else you personally were concealing something from the rest of us and from the advisory board. I thought that scholar Duckworth had found out about it and that he'd been kidnapped to hush him up. It certainly looked that way. I must admit it did at that, Duckworth said, but tell me, how does it look now? Turnbull frowned. The pictures all switched around now. You came here for a purpose to check up on your own data. Tell me, is everything here on the level? Duckworth paused before he answered. Everything human, he said slowly. That's what I thought, said Turnbull. If the human factor's eliminated, at least partially from the data, the intuition comes through quite clearly. We're being fed information. Duckworth nodded silently. Rowling said, that's it. Someone or something is adding new material to the city. It's like some sort of cosmic bird feeding station that has to be refilled every so often. Turnbull looked down at his big hands. It never was a trade route focus, he said. It isn't even a city, in our sense of the term, no more than a birdhouse as a nest. He looked up. That city was built for only one purpose, to give human beings certain data. And it's evidently data that we need in a hurry for our own good. How so? Rowling's asked. A look of faint surprise on his face. Same analogy, why does anyone feed birds? Two reasons, either to study and watch them or to be kind to them. You feed birds in the winter because they might die if they didn't get enough food. Maybe we're being studied and watched then, said Duckworth probingly. Possibly, but we won't know for a long time, if ever. Duckworth grinned. Right, I've seen this city. I've looked it over carefully in the past few months. Whatever entities that built it are so far ahead of us that we can't even imagine what it will take to find out anything about them. We are as incapable of understanding them as a bird is incapable of understanding us. Who knows about this? Turnbull asked suddenly. The entire advanced study board at least, said Rowlings. We don't know how many others, but so far we know everyone who has been able to recognize what is really going on at the city has also been able to realize that it is something the human race in mass is not yet ready to accept. What about the technicians who are actually working there? Ask Turnbull. Rowling smiled. The artifacts are very carefully replaced. The technicians, again as far as we know, have accepted the evidence of their eyes. Turnbull looked a little dissatisfied. Look, there are plenty of people in the galaxy who would literally hate the idea that there is anything in the universe superior to man. Can you imagine the storm of reaction that would hit if this got out? Whole groups would refuse to have anything to do with anything connected with the city. The government would collapse since the whole theory of our present government comes from city data. And the whole work of teaching intuitive reasoning would be dropped like a hot potato by just those very people who need to learn to use it. And it seems to me that some precautions, he stopped, then grinned rather sheepishly. Oh, he said, I see. Rowling's grin back. There's never any need to distort the truth. Anyone who is psychologically incapable of allowing the existence of beings more powerful than man is also psychologically incapable of piecing together the clues which would indicate the existence of such beings. Scholar Duckworth said, it takes a great deal of humanity, a real feeling of honest humility to admit that one is actually inferior to someone or something else. Most people don't have it. They rebel because they can't admit their inferiority like the examples of the North American, American Indian tribes, Turnbull said. They hadn't reached the state of civilization that the Aztecs or Incas had. They were incapable of allowing themselves to be beaten and enslaved. They refused to allow themselves to learn. They fought the white man to the last ditch and look where they ended up. Precisely, said Duckworth. While the Mexicans and Peruvians today are a functioning part of civilization because they could and did learn. I just assumed the human race didn't go the way of the Ameri-Indians, Turnbull said. I have a hunch it won't, Scholar Rowling said. The builders of the city, whoever they are, are edging us very carefully into the next level of civilization, whatever it may be. At that level, perhaps we'll be able to accept their teaching more directly. Duckworth chuckled. Before we can become gentlemen, we have to realize that we are not gentlemen. Turnbull recognized the illusion. There is an old truism to the effect that a barbarian can never learn what a gentleman is because a barbarian cannot recognize that he isn't a gentleman. As soon as he recognizes that fact, he ceases to be a barbarian. He is not automatically a gentleman, but at least he has become capable of learning how to be one. The city itself, said Rowlings, acts as a pretty efficient screening device for separating the humble from the merely servile. The servile man represents his position so much that he will fight anything which tries to force recognition of his position on him. The servile slave is convinced that he is equal to or superior to his masters and that he is being held down by brute force. So he opposes them with brute force and is eventually destroyed. Turnbull blinked. A screening device, then like a burst of sunlight, the full intuition came over him. Duckworth's round face was positively beaming. You're the first one ever to do it, he said. In order to become a member of the advanced study board, a scholar must solve that much of the city secret by himself. I'm a much older man than you and I just solved it in the past few months. You will be the first PhD to be admitted to the board while you're working on your scholar's degree. Congratulations. Turnbull looked down at his big hands. Please look on his face. Then he looked up at scholar Duckworth. Got a cigarette, Jim? Thanks. You know, we've still got plenty of work ahead of us trying to find out just what it is that the city builders want us to learn. Duckworth smiled as he held a flame to the tip of Turnbull's cigarette. Who knows, he said quietly. Hell, maybe they want us to learn about them. End of Dead Giveaway by Randall Garrett. Recording by Jeff Ward of Greenville, Tennessee. The Jovian Jest by Lilith Lorraine. 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 Nick Number. The Jovian Jest by Lilith Lorraine. Consternation reigned in El Snore Village when the nameless thing was discovered in Farmer Burns' Cornpatch. When the rumor began to gain credence that it was some sort of meteor from interstellar space, reporters, scientists, and college professors flocked to the scene, desirous of prying off particles for analysis. But they soon discovered that the thing was no ordinary meteor, for it glowed at night with a peculiar luminescence. They also observed that it was practically weightless since it had embedded itself in the soft sand scarcely more than a few inches. By the time the first group of newspaper men and scientists had reached the farm, another phenomenon was plainly observable. The thing was growing. Farmer Burns, with an eye to profit, had already built a picket fence around his starry visitor and was charging in mission. He also flatly refused to permit the chipping off of specimens or even the touching of the object. His attitude was severely criticized, but he stubbornly clung to the theory that possession is nine points in law. It was Professor Ralston of Princewell who, on the third day after the fall of the meteor, remarked upon its growth. His colleagues crowded around him as he pointed out this peculiarity and soon they discovered another factor, pulsation. Larger than a small balloon and gradually almost imperceptibly expanding with its viscid transparency shot through with opalescent lights, the thing lay there in the deepening twilight and palpably shivered. As darkness descended, a sort of hellish radiance began to ooze from it. I say hellish because there is no other word to describe that spectral, sulfurous emanation. As the hangers on around the pickets shudderingly shrank away from the weird light that was streaming out to them and tinting their faces with a ghastly greenish pallor, Farmer Burns's small boy, moved by some imp of perversity, did a characteristically childish thing. He picked up a good-sized stone and flung it straight at the nameless mass. Instead of veering off and falling to the ground as from an impact with metal, the stone sank right through the surface of the thing as into a pool of protoplasmic slime. When it reached the central core of the object, a more abundant life suddenly leaped and pulsed from center to circumference. Visible waves of sentient color circled around the solid stone. Stabbing swords of light leaped forth from them, piercing the stone, crumbling it, absorbing it. When it was gone, only a red spot like a bloodshot eye throbbed eerily where it had been. Before the now thoroughly mystified crowd had time to remark upon this inexplicable disintegration, a more horrible manifestation occurred. The thing, as though thoroughly awakened and vitalized by its unusual fare, was putting forth a tentacle. Right from the top of the shivering globe it pushed, sluggishly weaving and prescient of doom, wavering it hung for a moment, turning, twisting, groping. Finally, it shot straight outward, swift as a rattler's strike. Before the closely packed crowd could give room for escape it had circled the neck of the nearest bystander, Bill Jones, a cattleman, and jerked him, writhing and screaming into the reddish core. Stupified with soul-chilling terror, with their mass consciousness practically annihilated before a deed with which their minds could make no association, the crowd could only gasp in sobbing unison and await the outcome. The absorption of the stone had taught them what to expect and for a moment it seemed that their worst anticipations were to be realized. The sluggish currents circled through the thing, swirling the victim's body to the center. The giant tentacle drew back into the globe and became itself a current. The concentric circles merged, tightened, became one gleaming cord that encircled the helpless prey. From the inner circumference of this cord shot forth not the swords of light that had powdered the stone to atoms, but myriads of radiant tentacles had gripped and cupped the body in a thousand places. Suddenly the tentacles withdrew themselves, all saved the ones that grasped the head. These seemed to tighten their pressure, to swell and pulse with a grayish substance that was flowing from the cups into the cord and from the cord into the body of the mass. Yes, it was a grayish something, a smoke-like essence that was being drawn from the cranial cavity. Bill Jones was no longer screaming and gibbering, but was stiff with the rigidity of stone. Notwithstanding there was no visible mark upon his body, his flesh seemed unharmed. Swiftly came the awful climax, the waving tentacles withdrew themselves, the body of Bill Jones lost its rigidity, a heaving motion from the center of the thing propelled its cargo to the surface, and Bill Jones stepped out. Yes, he stepped out and stood for a moment, staring straight ahead, staring at nothing, glassily. Every person in the shivering, paralyzed group knew instinctively that something unthinkable had happened to him. Something had transpired, something hitherto possible only in the abysmal spaces of the other side of things. Finally he turned and faced the nameless object, raising his arms stiffly, automatically, as in a military salute. Then he turned and walked jirically, mindlessly, round and round the globe, like a wooden soldier marching. Meanwhile the thing lay quiescent, gorged. Professor Ralston was the first to find his voice. In fact, Professor Ralston was always finding his voice in the most unexpected places, but this time it had caught a chill. It was trembling. Gentlemen, he began, looking down academically upon the motley crowd as though doubting the aptitude of his salutation. Fellow citizens, he corrected. The phenomenon we have just witnessed is, to the lay mind, inexplicable. To me and to my honorable colleagues, added as an afterthought, it is quite clear. Quite clear indeed. We have before us a specimen, a perfect specimen, I might say, of a, of a... He stammered in the presence of the unnameable. His hesitancy caused the rapt attention of the throng that was waiting breathlessly for an explanation to flicker back to the inexplicable. In the fraction of a second that their gaze had been diverted from the thing to the professor, the object had shot forth another tentacle, gripping him round the neck and choking off his sentence with a horrid rasp that sounded like a death rattle. Needless to say, the revolting process that had turned Bill Jones from a human being into a mindless automaton was repeated with Professor Ralston. It happened as before, too rapidly for intervention, too suddenly for the minds of the onlookers to shake off the paralysis of an unprecedented nightmare. But when the victim was thrown to the surface, when he stepped out, drained of the grayish, smoke-like essence, a tentacle still gripped his neck and another rested directly on top of his head. This latter tentacle, instead of absorbing from him, visibly poured into him what resembled a thread-like stream of violet light. Facing the cowering audience with eyes staring glassily, still in the grip of the unknowable, Professor Ralston did an unbelievable thing. He resumed his lecture at the exact point of interruption, but he spoke with the tonelessness of a machine, a machine that pulsed to the will of a dictator, inhuman and inexorable. What you see before you, the voice continued, the voice that no longer echoed the thoughts of the Professor, is what you would call an amoeba, a giant amoeba. It is I, this amoeba, who am addressing you, children of an alien universe. It is I who, through this captured instrument of expression, whose queer language you can understand, am explaining my presence on your planet. I pour my thoughts into this specialized brain box which I have previously drained of its meager thought content. Here the honorable colleagues nudged each other gleefully. I have so drained it for the purpose of analysis and that the flow of my own ideas may pass from my mind to yours unimpeded by any distortion that might otherwise be caused by their conflict with the thoughts of this individual. First I absorbed the brain content of this being whom you call Bill Jones, but I found his mental instrument unavailable. It was technically untrained in the use of your words that would best convey my meaning. He possesses more of what you would call innate intelligence, but he has not perfected the mechanical brain through whose operation this innate intelligence can be transmitted to others and applied for practical advantage. Now this creature that I am using is, as you might say, full of sound without meaning. His brain is a lumber room in which he has hoarded a conglomeration of clever and appropriate word forms with which to disguise the paucity of his ideas, with which to express nothing. Yet the very abundance of the material in his storeroom furnishes a discriminating mind with excellent tools for the transportation of its ideas into other minds. Know then that I am not here by accident. I am a space wanderer, an explorer from a super universe whose evolution has proceeded without variation along the line of your amoeba. Your evolution, as I perceive from an analysis of the brain content of your professor, began its unfoldment in somewhat the same manner as our own, but in your smaller system, less perfectly adjusted than our own to the cosmic mechanism, a series of cataclysms occurred. In fact, your planetary system was itself the result of a catastrophe, or of what might have been a catastrophe, had the two great sons collided whose near approach caused the wrenching off of your planets. From this colossal accident, rare indeed in the annals of the stars, an endless chain of accidents was born, a chain of which this specimen, this professor, and the species that he represents is one of the weakest links. Your infinite variety of species is directly due to the variety of adaptations necessitated by this train of accidents. In the super universe from which I come, such derangements of the celestial machinery simply do not happen. For this reason, our evolution is unfolded harmoniously along one line of development, whereas yours has branched out into diversified and grotesque expressions of the life principle. Your so-called highest manifestation of this principle, namely your own species, is characterized by a great number of specialized organs. Through this very specialization of functions, however, you have forfeited your individual immortality, and it has come about that only your life stream is immortal. The primal cell is inherently immortal, but death follows in the wake of specialization. We, the beings of this amoeba universe are individually immortal. We have no highly specialized organs to break down under the stress of environment. When we want an organ, we create it. When it has served its purpose, we withdraw it into ourselves. We reach out our tentacles and draw to ourselves whatsoever we desire. Should a tentacle be destroyed, we can put forth another. Our universe is beautiful beyond the dreams of your most inspired poets. Whereas your landscapes, though lovely or stationary, unchangeable except through herculean efforts, ours are protean, eternally changing. With our own substance, we build our minarets of light, piercing the aura of infinity. At the bidding of our wills, we create, preserve, destroy, only to build again more gloriously. We draw our sustenance from the primates as do your plants, and we constantly replace the electronic base of these primates with our own emanations in much the same manner as your nitrogenous plants revitalize your soil. While we create and withdraw organs at will, we have nothing to correspond to your five senses. We derive knowledge through one sense only, or shall I say, a supersense. We see and hear and touch and taste and smell and feel and know, not through any one organ, but through our whole structure. The homogeneous force of our omnisubstance subjects a plural world to the processing of a powerful unity. We can dissolve our bodies at will, retaining only the permanent atom of our being, the seed of life dropped on the soil of our planet by infinite intelligence. We can propel this indestructible seed on light rays through the depths of space. We can visit the farthest universe with the velocity of light since light is our conveyance. In reaching your little world, I have consumed a million years, for my world is a million light years distant, yet to my race a million years is as one of your days. On arrival at any given destination, we can build our bodies from the elements of the foreign planet. We attain our knowledge of conditions on any given planet by absorbing the thought content of the brains of a few representative members of its dominant race. Every well-balanced mind contains the experience of the race, the essence of the wisdom that the race soul has gained during its residence in matter. We make this knowledge a part of our own thought content, and thus the universe lies like an open book before us. At the end of a given experiment in thought absorption, we return the borrowed mind stuff to the brain of its possessor. We reward our subject for his momentary discomforture by pouring into his body our splendid vitality. This lengthens his life expectancy immeasurably by literally burning from his system the germs of actual or incipient ills that contaminate the bloodstream. This, I believe, will conclude my explanation, an explanation to which you as a race in whom intelligence is beginning to dawn are entitled, but you have a long road to travel yet. Your thought channels are pitifully blocked and crisscrossed with nonsensical and inhibitory complexes that stand in the way of true progress, but you will work this out, for the divine spark that pulses through us of the larger universe pulses also through you. That spark, once lighted, can never be extinguished, can never be swallowed up again in the primeval slime. There is nothing more that I can learn from you, nothing that I can teach you at this stage of your evolution. I have but one message to give you, one thought to leave with you, for John. You are on the path, the stars are over you, their light is flashing into your souls the slogan of the federated suns beyond the frontiers of your little warring worlds, for John. The voice died out like the chiming of a great bell receding into immeasurable distance. The supercilious tones of the professor had yielded to the sweetness and the light of the greater mind whose instrument he had momentarily become. It was charged at the last with a golden resonance that seemed to echo down vast spaceless corridors beyond the furthest outposts of time. As the voice faded out into a sacramental silence, the strangely assorted throng moved by a common impulse lowered their heads as though in prayer. The great globe pulsed and shimmered throughout its sentient depths like a sea of liquid jewels. Then the tentacle that grasped the professor drew him back toward the scintillating nucleus. Simultaneously, another arm reached out and grasped Bill Jones, who, during the strange lecture, had ceased his wooden soldier marching and had stood stiffly at attention. The bodies of both men within the nucleus were encircled once more by the single current. From it again put forth the tentacles, cupping their heads, but the smoke-like essence flowed back to them this time, and with it flowed a tiny thread-like stream of violet light. Then came the heaving motion when the shimmering currents caught the two men and tossed them forth unharmed but visibly dowered with the radiance of more abundant life. Their faces were positively glowing and their eyes were illuminated by a light that was surely not of earth. Then, before the very eyes of the marveling people, the great globe began to dwindle. The jeweled lights intensified, concentrated, merged, until at last remained only a single spot no larger than a pinhead, but whose radiance was notwithstanding, searing, excruciating. Then the spot leaped up, up into the heavens, whirling, dipping, and circling as in a gesture of farewell, and finally soaring into invisibility with a blinding speed of light. The whole wildly improbable occurrence might have been dismissed as a queer case of mass delusion, for such cases are not unknown to history, had it not been followed by convincing aftermath. The culmination of a series of startling coincidences, both ridiculous and tragic, at last brought men face to face with an incontestable fact, namely that Bill Jones had emerged from his fiery baptism, endowed with the thought-expressing facilities of Professor Ralston, while the Professor was forced to struggle along with the meager educational appliances of Bill Jones. In this ironic manner, the space wanderer had left unquestionable proof of his visit by rendering a tribute to innate intelligence and playing a Jovian jest upon an educated fool, a neat transposition. A Columbus from a vaster, kindlier universe had paused for a moment to learn the story of our pygmy system. He had brought us a message from the outermost citadels of life and had flashed out again on his eonic voyage from everlasting onto everlasting. End of The Jovian Jest by Lilith Lorraine, recording by Nick Number.