 The Doorway by Evelyn E. Smith This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Bologna Times A discerning critic once pointed out that Edgar Allan Poe possessed not so much a distinctive style as a distinctive manner, so startlingly original was his approach to the dark castles and haunted woodlands of his own somber creation that he transcended the literary by the sheer magic of his prose. Something of that same magic gleams and the darkly tapestry little fantasy presented here beneath Evelyn Smith's eerily enchanted wand. A man may wish he'd married his first love and not really mean it, but an insincere wish may turn ugly in dimensions unknown. "'It is my theory,' Professor Falaballo said, helping himself to a cookie, that no one ever really makes a decision. What really happens is that whenever alternative courses of actions are called for, the individuality splits up and continues on two or more divergent planes. Very much like the parthenogenesis of unicellular animal. There's cookies these, Mrs. Hughes. "'Thank you, Professor,' Gloria Sempert, "'I made them myself. "'You must give us the recipe,' said one of the ladies, and the other's murmured agreement, glad to get their individualities on a plane they could understand. Since most decisions are hardly as momentous as the individual imagines,' Professor Falaballo continued, and since the imagination of the average individual is very limited, many of these different planes, or as they are colloquially known, space-time continuums, may exist in close, even tangential relationship. Gloria rose unobtrusively and took the teapot to the kitchen for a refill. Her husband stood by the sink, moodily drinking whiskey out of the bottle, so as to avoid having to wash a glass afterward. "'Bill, you're not being polite to our guests. Why don't you go out and listen to Professor Falaballo?' "'I can hear him perfectly well from here,' Bill muttered, and indeed the Professor's malifluous tones pervaded every nook and cranny of the then-walled house. Long-winded cultists, what is he a professor of? I'd like to know.' "'Professor Falaballo is not a cultist,' affirmed Gloria angrily. He's a great philosopher.' "'Bill Hughes said something unprintable. If I'd married Lucy Allison,' he continued unkindly, she'd never have filled the house with long-haired cultists on my so-called day of rest. Gloria's soft chin trembled, and her blue eyes filled with tears. She was beginning to put on weight, he noticed. "'I've been hearing nothing but Lucy Allison, Lucy Allison, Lucy Allison, for the past year. You said yourself she looked like a horse.' "'Horses,' he observed, have sense. He was being brutal, but he couldn't help it, and didn't want to. Professor Falaballo was only the most long-winded of a long series of mystics. Gloria was forever dragging into the house. The trouble with the half-educated, he thought bitterly, is that they seek culture in the most peculiar places. I'll bet she would have let me have peace on Sunday,' he said. It just goes to show what happens when you marry a woman solely for her looks. He drained the bottle, then hurled it into the garbage-pill with a resounding crash. Gloria's shoulders shook as she filled the kettle. "'I wish I'd decided to be an old maid,' she sobbed. "'A very unlikely possibility,' he thought. Even now, shop-worn as she was, Gloria could have a fairly wide range of suitors, should something happen to him. She looked sexy, but how deceiving appearances could be.' Professor Falaballo was still talking, as Bill and Gloria emerged from the kitchen. "'I believe that it is possible for an individual who exists on a limited plane of imagination to transpose from one plane to an adjacent one without difficulty. Great heavens, what was that?' Something had whisked past the archway leading into the foyer. "'Don't pay any attention,' Gloria smiled nervously. "'The house is haunted.' "'My dear,' one of the ladies offered. "'I know of the most marvellous exterminator.' "'The house,' Gloria assured her, coldly, "'really is haunted. We've been seeing things ever since we moved in.' "'And she really believed it,' Bill thought. "'Believe that the house was haunted, that is.' "'Of course he has seen things, too, but he was enlightened enough to know that ghosts don't exist, even if you do see them.' Professor Falaballo cleared his throat. As I was saying, it is possible to send the individual through another well dimension, as some popular writers would have it, to one of his other spatial existences on the same temporal plane. It is merely necessary for him to find the door.' "'Nonsense!' Bill interrupted. "'Holy unmitigated nonsense!' Every head swiveled to look at him. He restrained tears with an effort. "'Proofed,' someone muttered. But ridicule apparently only stimulated the professor. He beamed. "'You don't believe me. Your imagination cannot extend to the comprehension of multifariousness of space.' "'Nonsense!' Bill said again, but less confidently. "'I believe that I have discovered the doorway.' Professor Falaballo continued. And the way is open. However most people fear to penetrate the unknown, even though it is to enter another phase of their own existence. I do admit that the shock of spatial transference, no matter how slight, combined with the concrete awareness of a previous spatial relationship, would be perhaps too much for the keenly sensitive individualism.' Bill opened his mouth. "'I know what you're about to say, young man.' "'You don't have to be a mind-reader to know that,' Bill assured him. His consonants were already a little slurred, and he knew Gloria was ashamed of him. It served her right. He'd been ashamed of her for years.' Professor Falaballo smiled. His teeth were very sharp and white. "'Very well, Mr. Hughes, since you are a skeptic, perhaps you will not object to being the subject of our experiment yourself.' "'What kind of experiment?' Bill asked suspiciously. "'Merely go through the door. Any door can become the doorway, if it is transposed into the proper spatial dimension. That door, for instance,' Professor Falaballo waved his hand toward the doorway of what Gloria liked to call Bill's study. "'You mean you just want me to open the door and go into that room?' Bill said incredulously. "'That's all?' "'That is all. Of course you go with the awareness that it is the threshold of another plane, and that you step voluntarily from this existence to an adjacent one.' "'Sure,' Bill said. He had just remembered there was a nearly full bottle of coward in the bottom drawer of the desk. "'Sure. Anything to oblige.' "'Very well. Go to the door, and keep remembering that of your own free will you were passing from this plane to the next.' "'Look out, everybody,' Bill called rockously as he pulled open the door. "'I'm coming in on the next plane.' No one laughed. He stepped over the threshold, shutting the door firmly behind him. A wonderful excuse to get away from those blasted women. He climbed out of the window as soon as he collected the whisky and give them a nervous moment thinking he'd really passed into another existence. It would serve, Gloria Wright. For a moment, as he crossed, he had a queer sensation. Maybe there was something in what Professor Fallabella said. But no, there he was in the study. All that mumbo-jumbo was getting him down. That was all. He was a nervous man. Suddenly nobody appreciated the fact. Taking a cigarette out of the pack in his pocket, he reached for the lighter on his desk. It wasn't there. Time and time again he told Gloria not to touch his things, and always she disobeyed him. Company was coming, and she must tidy up—cooking and cleaning. That was all she was good for. But this was carrying tidiness too far. She'd even removed the ash trays. And where did that glass-block paper-weight come from? He'd had a penguin in a snowstorm, and he'd been happy with it. This was too much. He told Gloria off, stealing a man's penguin. He opened the door into the living-room and bumped into Lucy Allison. Don't you think you've been in there long enough, Bill? She asked awkwardly. I'm sure your guests would appreciate catching a glimpse of you. Why, hello, Lucy," he said, surprised. I didn't know Gloria had invited you. Gloria, Gloria, Gloria, Lucy cut off his sentence. You've been talking about nothing but that dumb little blonde for months. Because of the people in the room beyond, her voice was pitched low, but her pale eyes glittered, unpleasantly, behind her spectacles. I wish you had married her. You'd have made a fine pair—gently, caressingly, the short hairs on the back of Bill's neck rose. Come back in here," Lucy said, hauling him back into the living-room, where a number of people who had been enjoying the domestic fracas suddenly broke into loud and animated chatter. Dr. Hildebrand was telling us all about nuclear fission. Can't find an ashtray, Bill muttered, seizing on something tangible. Can't find an ashtray in the whole darn place. We've been over this millions of times, Bill. You know, she smiled at the guests, a smile that carefully excluded Bill. I'm allergic to smoke, but I never can get my husband to remember he isn't to smoke inside the house. Now, take the neutron, for example. Dr. Hildebrand said through a mouthful of pate, what is the neutron? Is only—what was that? The wraith of Gloria crossed the foyer and disappeared. Bill took a step forward, then stood still. Lucy smiled self-consciously. That's nothing at all. The house is merely haunted. Everyone laughed. I forgot something, Bill muttered, and dashed back into the study. He yanked open the bottom door of the desk. Sure enough there was a bottle of Schenle, nearly a third full. There are some advantages, he thought, as he tilted it to his lips, in having a limited imagination. End of The Doorway, by Evelyn E. Smith. The First One by Herbert D. Castel There was the usual welcoming crowd for a celebrity, and the usual speeches by the usual politicians who met him at the airport, which had once been twenty miles outside of Croton, but which the growing city had since engulfed and placed well within its boundaries. But everything wasn't usual. The crowd was quiet, and the mayor didn't seem quite as at ease as he'd been on his last big welcoming for Corporal Beringer, one of the crew of the Spaceship Washington first to set Americans upon Mars. His Honour's handclasp was somewhat moist and cold. His Honour's eyes held a trace of remoteness. Still he was the honoured home-comer, the successful Returnee, the hometown boy who'd made good in a big way, and they took the triumphal tour up Main Street to the news square in the grandstand. There he sat between the mayor and a nervous young co-ed, chosen as homecoming queen, and looked out at the police and fire department bans, the National Guard, the Boy Scouts and Gold Scouts, the Elks and Masons. Several of the churches in town had shown indecision as to how to instruct their parishioners to treat him, but they had all come around. The tremendous national interest, the fact that he was the first one, had made them come around. It was obvious by now that they would have to adjust as they'd adjusted to all the other firsts taking place in these, as the newspapers had dubbed the start of the twenty-first century the Galloping Twenties. He was glad when the official greeting was over. He was a very tired man, and he had come further, travelled longer and over darker country than any man who'd ever lived before. He wanted a meal at his own table, a kiss from his wife, a word from his son, and later to see some old friends and a relative or two. He didn't want to talk about the journey. He wanted to forget the immediacy, the urgency, the terror. Then perhaps he would talk. Or would he, for he had very little to tell. He had travelled, and he had returned, and his voyage was very much like the voyages of the great mariners from Columbus onward, long dull periods of time passing, passing, and then the arrival. The house had changed. He saw that as soon as the official car let him off at forty-five Roosevelt Street. The change was he knew for the better. They'd put a porch in front, they had rehabilitated, spruced up, almost rebuilt the entire outside and grounds. But he was sorry he'd wanted it to be as before. The head of the American Legion and the chief of police who had escorted him on this trip from the square didn't ask to go in with him. He was glad he'd had enough of strangers. Not that he was through with strangers, there were dozens of them up and down the street standing beside parked cars looking at him. But when he looked back at them their eyes dropped, they turned away, they began moving off. He was still too much the first one to have his gaze met. He walked up what had once been a concrete path and was now an ornate flagstone path. He climbed the new porch and raised the ornamental knocker on the new door and heard the soft music sound within. He was surprised that he'd had to do this. He'd thought Edith would be watching at a window. And perhaps she had been watching, but she hadn't opened the door. The door opened, he looked at her. It hadn't been too long and she hadn't changed at all. She was still the small slender girl he'd loved in high school, the small slender woman he'd married twelve years ago. Ralphie was with her. They held on to each other as if seeking mutual support, the thirty-three-year-old woman and ten-year-old boy. They looked at him and then both moved forward still together. He said, It's good to be home. Edith nodded and still holding to Ralphie with one hand put the other arm around him. He kissed her, her neck, her cheek, and all the old jokes came to mind, the jokes of travel-weary, battle-weary men, the—and then I'll put my pack aside—jokes that spoke of terrible hunger. She was trembling, and even as her lips came up to touch his, he felt the difference. And because of this difference he turned with urgency to Ralphie and picked him up and hugged him and said, because he could think of nothing else to say. What a big fella! What a big fella! Ralphie stood in his arms as if his feet were still planted on the floor and he didn't look at his father but somewhere beyond him. I didn't grow much while you were gone, Dad. Mum says I don't eat enough. So he put him down and told himself that it would all change, that everything would loosen up, just as his commanding officer General Carlisle had said it would early this morning before he left Washington. Give it some time, Carlisle had said, you need the time, they need the time, and for the love of heaven don't be sensitive. Edith was leading him into the living-room, her hand lying still in his, a cool dead bird lying still in his. He sat down on the couch. She sat down beside him, but she had hesitated. He wasn't being sensitive, she had hesitated. His wife had hesitated before sitting down beside him. Carlisle had said his position was analogous to Columbus, to Vasco, to Carmas, to Preshoffs when the Russian returned from the moon, but more so. Carlisle had said lots of things, but even Carlisle, who had worked with him all the way, who had engineered the entire fantastic journey, even Carlisle, a Nobel Prize-winner, the multi-degree genius in uniform, had not actually spoken to him as one man to another. The eyes it always showed in their eyes. He looked across the room at Ralphie, standing in the doorway, a boy already tall, already widening in the shoulders, already large, of feature. It was like looking into the mirror and seeing himself twenty-five years ago. But Ralphie's face was drawn, was worried in a way that few ten-year-old faces are. How's it going in school? He asked. Gee, Dad, it's the second month of summer vacation. Well, then, before summer vacation. Pretty good. Edith said, he made top forum the six-month period before vacation, and he made top forum the six-month period you went away, Hank. He nodded, remembering that, remembering everything, remembering the warmth of her farewell, the warmth of Ralphie's farewell, their tears as he left the experimental flight station in the Aleutians. They had feared for him, having read of the many launchings gone wrong, even in continent to continent experimental flight. They had been right to worry. It suffered much after that blow-up, but now they should be rejoicing because he'd survived and made the long journey. Ralphie suddenly said, I've got to go, Dad. I promised Walt and the others I'd pitch. It's into town little league, you know. It's Harman, you know. I've got to keep my word. Without waiting for an answer, he waved his hand, it shook, a ten-year-old boy's hand that shook, and ran from the room and from the house. He and Edith sat beside each other, and he wanted badly to take her in his arms, and yet he didn't want to oppress her. He stood up. I'm very tired. I'd like to lie down for a while. Which wasn't true, because he'd been lying down all the months of the way back. She said, Of course, how stupid of me, expecting you to sit around and make small talk and pick up just where you left off. He nodded, but that was exactly what he wanted to do, make small talk and pick up just where he'd left off. But they didn't expect it of him, they wouldn't let him. They felt he'd changed too much. She led him upstairs, and along the foyer passed Ralphie's room and passed the small guest-room to their bedroom. This too had changed. It was newly painted, and it had new furniture. He saw twin beds separated by an ornate little table with an ornate little lamp, and this looked more ominous a barrier to him than the twelve-foot concrete and barbed wire fence around the experimental station. Which one is mine, he asked, and tried to smile. She also tried to smile. The one near the window, you always liked the fresh air, the sunshine in the morning. You always said it helped you to get up on time when you were stationed at the base outside of town. You always said it reminded you, being able to see the sky, that you were going to go up in it, and that you were going to come down from it to this bed again. Not this bed, he murmured, and was a little sorry afterward. No, not this bed, she said quickly. Your lodge donated the bedroom set, and I really didn't know. She waved her hand, her face white. He was sure, then, that she had known, and that the beds and the barrier between them were her own choice, if only an unconscious choice. He went to the bed near the window, stripped off his Air Force blue jacket, began to take off his shirt, but then remembered that some armed scar still showed. He waited for her to leave the room. She said, We'll then rest up, dear, and went out. He took off his shirt, and saw himself in the mirror on the opposite wall, and then took off his undershirt. The body scars were faint, the scars running in long lines, one dissecting his chest, the other slicing diagonally across his upper abdomen, to disappear under his trousers. There were several more on his back, and one on his right thigh. They'd been treated properly, and would soon disappear, but she had never seen them. Perhaps she never would, perhaps pyjamas and robes and dark rooms would keep them from her until they were gone. Which was not what he'd considered at all important on leaving Walter Reed Hospital early this morning, which was something he found distasteful, something he felt beneath them both. And at the same time he began to understand that there would be many things previously beneath them both which would have to be considered. She had changed, Ralphie had changed, all the people he knew had probably changed, because they thought he had changed. He was tired of thinking. He lay down and closed his eyes. He let himself taste bitterness, unhappiness, loneliness he'd never known before. But some time later as he was dozing off a sense of reassurance began filtering into his mind. After all he was still Henry Diva's, the same man who had left home eleven months ago, with a love for family and friends, which was, if anything, stronger than before. Once he could communicate this, the strangeness would disappear, and the first one would again become good old Hank. It was little enough to ask for, a return to old values, old relationships, the normalcy of the backwash instead of the freneticisms of the limelight. It would certainly be granted to him. He slept. Dinner was at seven p.m. His mother came, his uncle Joe and aunt Lucille came. Together with Edith, Ralphie and himself they made six, and eight in the dining room at the big table. Before he'd become the first one it would have been a noisy affair. His family had never been noted for lack of a bullions, a lack of talkativeness, and Ralphie had always chosen mealtimes, especially with company present, to describe everything and anything that had happened to him during the day. And Edith herself had always chatted, especially with his mother, although they didn't agree about much. Still it had been good-natured, the general tone of their lives had been good-natured. This wasn't good-natured. Exactly what it was, he wasn't sure. Stiff was perhaps the word. They began with grapefruit, Edith and mother serving quickly, from the kitchen, then sitting down at the table. He looked at mother as he raised his first spoonful of chilled fruit and said, younger than ever. It was nothing new, he'd said it many times before, but his mother had always reacted with a bright smile and equipped something like, young for the golden age, said, to you mean? This time she burst into tears. It shocked him. But what shocked him even more was the fact that no one looked up, commented, made any attempt to comfort her, no one indicated in any way that a woman was sobbing at the table. He was sitting directly across from mother and reached out and touched her left hand, which lay limply beside the silverware. She didn't move it. She hadn't touched him once beyond that first quick, strangely cool embrace at the door. Then a few seconds later she withdrew it and let it drop out of sight. So there he was, Henry Dever's at home with the family. So there he was, the hero returned, waiting to be treated as a human being. The grapefruit shells were cleaned away and the soup served. Uncle Joe began to talk. The greatest little development of circular uniform houses you ever did see, he boomed in his powerful salesman's voice, still going like sixty will sell out before. At that point he looked at Hank, and Hank nodded in encouragement, desperately interested in this normalcy, and Joe's voice died away. He looked down at his plate, mumbled, and soups getting cold, and began to eat. His hand shook a little. His ruddy face was not quite as ruddy as Hank remembered it. Aunt Lucille made a few quavering statements about the lady's Tuesday garden club, and Hank looked across the table to where she sat between Joe and mother. His wife and son bracketed him, and yet he felt alone and said, I've missed fooling around with the lawn and the rose bushes. Here it is, August, and I haven't had my hand or mower or trowel. Aunt Lucille smiled, if you could call it that, a pitiful twitching of the lips and nodded. She threw her eyes in his direction, and passed him, and then down to her plate. Mother, who is still sniffling, said, I have a dismal headache. I'm going to lie down in the guest-room a while. She touched his shoulder in passing, his affectionate, effusive mother, who would kiss stray dogs and strange children who had often irritated him with an excess of physical and verbal caresses. She barely touched his shoulder and fled. So now five of them sat at the table. The meat was served, thin, rare slices of beef, the pink blood juice oozing warmly from the centre. He cut into it and raised a forkful to his mouth, then glanced at Ralphie, and said, Looks fresh enough to have been killed in the backyard. Ralphie said, Yeah, Dad. Not Lucille put down her knife and fork and murmured something to her husband. Joe cleared his throat and said Lucille was rapidly becoming a vegetarian, and he guessed she was going into the living-room for a while. She'll be back for dessert, of course, he said, his laugh sounding forced. Hank looked at Edith. Edith was busy with her plate. Hank looked at Ralphie. Ralphie was busy with his plate. Hank looked at Joe. Joe was chewing, gazing out over their heads to the kitchen. Hank looked at Lucille. She was disappearing into the living-room. He brought his fist down on the table. The settings jumped. A glass overturned spilling water. He brought it down again and again. They were all standing now. He sat there and pounded the table with his big, right fist, Henry Dever's, who had never thought of making such a scene before, but who is now so sick and tired of being treated as the first one, of being stood back from, looked at in awe of, felt in fear of, that he could have smashed more than a table. Edith said, Hank. He said, voice, horse, shut up, go away, let me it alone, I'm sick of the lot of you. Mother and Joe returned a few minutes later where he sat forcing food down his throat. Mother said, Henry dear, he didn't answer. She began to cry and he was glad she left the house then. He had never said anything really bad to his mother. He was afraid this would have been the time. Joe merely cleared his throat and mumbled something about getting together again soon and drop out and see the new development, and he too was gone. Lucille never did manage to speak to him. He finished his beef and waited. Soon Edith came in with a special dessert she'd been preparing half the day, a magnificent English trifle. She served him and spooned out a portion for herself and Ralphie. He hesitated near his chair and when he made no comment she called the boy. Then the three of them were sitting, facing the empty side of the table. They ate the trifle. Ralphie finished first and got up and said, hey, I promised. You promised the boys you'd play baseball or football or handball or something, anything to get away from your father. Ralphie's head dropped and he muttered, oh, no, dad. Edith said, he'll stay home, Hank, we'll spend an evening together, talking, watching TV, playing Monopoly. Ralphie said, gee, sure, dad, if you want to. Hank stood up. The question is not whether I want to, you both know I want to. The question is whether you want to. They answered together that of course they wanted to, but their eyes, his wife's and son's eyes, could not meet his, and so he said he was going to his room because he was after all very tired and would in all probability continue to be very tired for a long, long time and that they shouldn't count on him for normal social life. He fell asleep quickly, lying there in his clothes. But he didn't sleep long. Edith shook him and he opened his eyes to a lighted room. Phil and Rona are here. He blinked at her. She smiled and it seemed her old smile. They're so anxious to see you, Hank, I could barely keep Phil from coming up and waking you himself. They want to go out and do the town. Please, Hank, say you will. He sat up. Phil, he muttered, Phil and Rona. They'd had wonderful times together from grammar school on. Phil and Rona, their oldest and closest friends. Perhaps this would begin his real homecoming. Do the town? They'd painted and then tear it down. It didn't turn out that way. He was disappointed, but then again he'd also expected it. This entire first day at home had conditioned him to expect nothing good. They went to the bowling alleys and Phil sounded very much the way he always had, soft-spoken and full of laughter and full of jokes. He patted Edith on the head the way he always had and clapped Hank on the shoulder, but not the way he always had, so much more gently, almost remotely, and insisted they all drink more than was good for them as he always had, and for once Hank was ready to go along on the drinking, for once he matched Phil shot for shot, beer for beer. It didn't bowl very long. At ten o'clock they crossed the road to Manfred's Tavern, where Phil and the girls ordered sandwiches and coffee and Hank went right on drinking. Edith said something to him, but he merely smiled and waved his hand and gulped another ounce of nirvana. There was dancing to a jukebox in Manfred's Tavern, he'd been there many times before, and he was sure several of the couples recognized him, but except for a few abortive glances in his direction, it was as if he were a stranger in a city half way around the world. At midnight he was still drinking. The others wanted to leave, but he said, I haven't danced with my girl Rona. His tongue was thick, his mind was blurred, and yet he could read the strange expression on her face. Pretty Rona, who'd always flirted with him, who'd made a ritual of flirting with him. Pretty Rona, who now looked as if she were going to be sick. Oh, let's rock, he said, and stood up. They were on the dance floor, he held her close and hummed and chattered, and through the alcoholic haze saw she was a stiff-smiled, stiff-bodied, mechanical dancing doll. The number finished, they walked back to the booth, Phil said, beddy by time. Hank said, first one, dance with my loving wife. He and Edith danced. He didn't hold her close as he had Rona. He waited for her to come close on her own, and she did, and yet she didn't, because while she put herself against him there was something in her face, no, in her eyes it always showed in the eyes, that made him know she was trying to be the old Edith and not succeeding. This time when the music ended he was ready to go home. They rode back to town along Route 9. He and Edith in the rear of Phil's car, Rona driving because Phil had drunk just a little too much, Phil singing and telling an occasional bad joke, and somehow not his old self. No one was his old self, no one would ever be his old self with the first one. They turned left to take the short cut along Hallowed Hill Road, and Phil finished a story about a Martian and a Hollywood sex queen, and looked at his wife and then passed her at the long cast iron fence paralleling the road. Hey! he said, pointing, do you know why that's the most popular place on earth? Rona glanced to the left, and so did Hank and Edith. Rona made a little sound, and Edith seemed to stop breathing. But Phil went on a while longer, not yet aware of his supposed faux pas. You know why, he repeated, turning to the back seat, the laughter rumbling up from his chest. You know why, folks? Rona said, did you notice Carl Bracken and his wife at—Hank said— No, Phil, why is it the most popular place on earth? Phil said, because people are—and then he caught himself and waved his hand and muttered, I forgot the punchline. Because people are dying to get in, Hank said, and looked through the window past the iron fence into the large cemetery at the fleeting tombstones. The car was filled with horrified silence when there should have been nothing but laughter or irritation at a two-old joke. Maybe you should let me out right here, Hank said, I'm home, or that's what everyone seems to think. Maybe I should lie down in an open grave. Maybe that would satisfy people. Maybe that's the only way to act like Dracula or another monster from the movies. Edith said, oh, Hank, don't, don't. The car raced along the road, crossed a Macadam Highway, went four blocks and pulled to a stop. He didn't bother saying good night, he didn't wait for Edith, he just got out, walked up the flagstone path and entered the house. Hank, Edith whispered from the guest-room doorway, I'm so sorry. There's nothing to be sorry about, it's just a matter of time, it'll all work out in time. Yes, she said quickly, that's it, I need a little time, we all need a little time, because it's so strange, Hank, because it's so frightening. I should have told you the moment you walked in. I think I've hurt you terribly, we've all hurt you terribly by trying to hide that we're frightened. I'm going to stay in the guest-room, he said, for as long as necessary, for good, if need be. How could it be for good, how, Hank? That question was perhaps the first firm basis for hope he'd had since returning. And there was something else, what Carlisle had told him, even as Carlisle himself had reacted as all men did. There are others coming, Edith, eight that I know of, in the tanks right now. My superior, Captain Davidson, who died at the same moment I did, seven months ago next Wednesday, he's going to be next. He was smashed up worse than I was, so it took a little longer, but he's almost ready. And there'll be many more, Edith. The Government is going to save all they possibly can from now on. Every time a young and healthy man loses his life by accident, by violence, and his body can be recovered, he'll go into the tanks, and they'll start the regenerative brain and organ process, the process that made it all possible. So people have to get used to us. And the old stories, the old terrors, the ugly old superstitions have to die, because in time each place will have some of us, because in time it'll be an ordinary thing. Edith said, Yes, and I'm so grateful that you're here, Hank. Please believe that. Please be patient with me and Ralphie, and she paused. There's one question. He knew what the question was. It had been the first to ask him by everyone from the President of the United States on down. I saw nothing, he said. It was as if I slept those six and a half months, slept without dreaming. She came to him and touched his face with her lips, and he was satisfied. Later, half asleep, he heard a dog howling, and remembered stories of how they announced death and the presence of monsters. He shivered and pulled the covers closer to him, and luxuriated in being safe in his own home. End of The First One by Herbert D. Castel Grove of the Unborn. This is a LibriVox recording, or LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tabithat. Grove of the Unborn by Lynn Venable. Tyndall heard the rockets begin to roar, and it seemed as though the very blood in his veins pulsated with the surging of those mighty jets. Going! They couldn't be going! Not yet! Not without him! And he heard the roaring rise to a mighty crescendo, and he felt the trembling of the ground beneath the room in which he lay, and then the great sound grew less and grew dim, and finally dissipated in a thin hum that dwindled finally into silence. They were gone. Tyndall threw himself face down on his couch, the feel of the slick, strange fabric cold and unfriendly against his face. He lay there for a long time, not moving. Tyndall's thoughts during those hours were of very fundamental things that beneath him, beneath the structure of the building in which he was confined, lay a world that was not earth, circling a sun that was not soul, and that the ship had gone and would never come back. He was alone, abandoned. He thought of the ship as silver streak now in the implacable blackness of space, threading its way homeward through the stars to soul, to earth. The utter desolation which swept over him at the impact of his aloneness was more than he could endure, and he forced himself to think of something else. Why was he here then? John Tyndall, third engineer of the Starship Polaris. It had been such a routine trip, ferrying a group of zoologists and biologists around the galaxy, looking for unclassified life-supporting planets. They had found such a world, circling an obscure sun halfway across the galaxy. An ideal world for a search expedition, teeming with life. The scientists were delighted. In a few short months they discovered and catalogued over a thousand varieties of flora and fauna peculiar to this planet, called Arrow, after the native name which sounded something like a-ha-ha-ho. Yes, there were natives, humanoids, civilised and gracious. They had seemed to welcome the strangers, as a matter of fact they had seemed to expect them. The Aurelians had learned English easily, its basic sounds not being too alien to their own tongue. They had quite a city there on the edge of the jungle, although in circling the planet before landing the expedition had noted that this was the only city. On a world only a little smaller than earth, one city surrounded completely by the tropical jungle which covered the rest of the world. A city without power, without machinery of any kind, and yet a city that was self-sufficient. Well-tilt fields stretched to the very edge of the jungle where high walls kept out the voracious growth. The fields fed the city well and clothed it well, and there were mines to yield up fine metal and precious gems. The earthmen had marvelled, and yet it had seemed strange. On all this planet just one city, with perhaps half a million people within its walls, but this was not a problem for the expedition. The crew of the Polaris and the members of the expedition had spent many an enjoyable evening in the dining-hall of the palace-like home of the Rahal, who was something more than a mayor and something less than a king. Eventually Aral seemed to get along with a minimum of government. All in all, the earthmen had summed up the Aurelians as being a naïve, mild and courteous people. They probably still thought so. All of them, that is, except Tyndall. Of course, now that he looked back upon it, there had been a few things—that business about the bugs, as the earthmen had dubbed the odd, ugly creatures who seemed to occupy something of the position of a sacred cow in the Aurelian scheme of things. The bugs came in all sizes—that is, all sizes from a foot or so in length up to the size of a full human. The bugs were not permitted to roam the streets and marketplaces like the sacred cows of the earthly Hindus. The bugs were kept in huge pens, which none but a few high-ranking priests were permitted to enter. And although the earthmen were not prevented from standing outside the pens and watching the ugly beasts munching grass or basking in the sun, the Aurelians always seemed nervous when the strangers were about the pens. The earthmen had shrugged and reflected that religion was a complexity difficult enough at home, needless to probe too deeply into the Aurelian. But the time had been something else again, bringing with it the first sign of real Aurelian fanaticism and the first hint of violence. Tyndall and four companions were strolling in a downtown section of the city when all at once a horse-cry in Aurelian shattered the quiet hum of street activity. "'What did he say?' asked one of Tyndall's companions, who had not learned much Aurelian. "'I think—a time, a time. What could—' he never finished the sentence. All about the Aurelians had prostrated themselves in the rather dirty street, covering their faces with their hands, lying face down. The earthmen hesitated a moment, and a priest of Aral appeared as though from nowhere, a wicked scimitar-like weapon in his hand, and a face tense with anger. "'Dare you!' he hissed in Aurelian, day you not hide your eyes at a time!' He pushed one of the earthmen with surprising strength, and the latter stumbled to his knees. All five men hastened to ape the position of the prostrate Aurelians. They knew better than to risk committing sacrilege on a strange planet. As Tyndall sank to the ground and covered his eyes, he heard that priest mutter another sentence, in which his own name was included. He thought it was—'you, Tyndall, even you!' A few moments later a bell sounded from somewhere, and the buzzing of conversation began around them, along with the shuffling, scraping sound of many people getting to their feet at once. A hand touched Tyndall's shoulder, and an Aralian voice, laughing, now purred, up, stranger, up, the time is past. The earthmen got to their feet. Everything about them was the same as though nothing had happened, all strolling along the street, going in and out of shops, stopping to chat. I guess that was the all-clear, commented one wryly. The others laughed nervously, but Tyndall was strangely troubled. He was thinking of the strange words of the priest—'you, Tyndall, even you!' Why should he have known, and not the others? He tried to forget it. Aralian was a complex tongue with confusing syntax. Perhaps the priest had said something else. But Tyndall knew one thing for certain. The mention of his name had been unmistakable. The mood hung on, and quite suddenly Tyndall had asked, I wonder about the children. Why do you suppose it is? One of the men laughed. Maybe they feed them to the bugs. At no time during their stay on Aral had they seen a single child or young person under the age of about twenty-one. The crew had speculated upon this at great length, coming to the conclusion that the youngsters were kept secluded for some reason known only to the Aralians, probably some part of their religion. One of them had made so bold as to ask one of the scientists, who politely told him that since his group was not composed of ethnologists or theologists, but of biologists and zoologists, they were interested neither in the Aralians, their offspring nor their religion, but merely in the flora and fauna of the planet, both of which seemed to be rather deadly. The expedition had had several close calls in the jungle, and some of the plants seemed as violently carnivorous as the animals. It was just a few days after the incident that the Aralians kidnapped Tyndall. It had been a simple, old-fashioned sort of job, pulled off with efficiency and dispatch as he wandered a few hundred feet away from the ship. It was late, and he had been unable to sleep, so he had strolled out for a smoke. The night watch must have been somewhere about on patrol, probably only a few hundred feet away on the other side of the ship. It happened suddenly and silently. The hand clapped over his mouth, the forearm constricting his windpipe, his legs jerked out from under him, and a rag smelling sickly sweet shoved under his nose, bringing oblivion. When he came to consciousness he found himself in this room, and he knew that since then many days and nights had passed. His wants were meticulously attended to, his bath prepared, his food brought to him regularly delicious and steaming. With the generous supply of full-bodied Aralian wine to wash it down. Fresh clothes were brought to him daily, the loose-flowing, highly ornamented robe of the Aralian noble. Tyndall knew he was no ordinary prisoner, and somehow this fact made him doubly uneasy. And then, to-night, the ship had blasted off without him. Tyndall could easily reconstruct what had happened when his crewmates had inquired about him at the palace and in town. Tyndall—then a sorrowful expression, a shrugging of the shoulders, appointing towards the death-infested jungle, and a mournful shaking of the head, sign language which in any tongue meant Tyndall wanders too far from your ship, he becomes lost, alas he does not know our jungle and its perils. Those who spoke a little English would make some expression of sympathy. Maybe the crew was a little suspicious, maybe they thought there was something fishy about the thing. And then they thought of the unhappy results of what was commonly referred to as an interplanetary incident. Ever since the people of the second planet of Alpha Centauri in the early days of extra-terrestrial exploration had massacred an entire expedition because the captain had mortally insulted a tribal leader by refusing a sacred fruit, such incidents had been avoided at all costs. And so they dared not offend the Aurelians by questioning the veracity of their statements. And the jungle was deadly, so they looked a little longer and asked a few more questions. After a little while the scientists had completed their work and were anxious to get home, and so the ship blasted off without him. All this had passed kaleidoscopically in Tyndall's mind as he lay on the couch in his luxurious prison, too numb to weep or even curse. His reverie was broken by the clicking of the lock and he raised up to see the door opening. An Aurelian servant stood there, his silver hair done up in a complicated style which denoted male house servants. He was unarmed. The houseman smiled, roared in imitation of a rocket, made a swooping gesture with one hand to indicate the departing ship, then pointed at Tyndall and at the open door. The servant bowed and departed, leaving the door slightly ajar. Now that the ship was gone he was free to leave his room. Tyndall stepped cautiously out of the room and found himself in a long hall with many doors opening from it on either side, much like a hotel corridor. One end of the hall seemed to open out onto a garden, and he started in that direction. The doorway opened out into a patio which overlooked a vast and perfectly tendered garden. The verdant perfection of the scene was marred only by one of the bugs, sunning itself annoying on the stem of a flower. Tyndall was impressed again with the repulsive ugliness of the thing. This one was the size of a small adult human and even vaguely human in outline, although the brownish armoured body was still more suggestive of a big bug than anything else known to him. There were even rudimentary wings felt close to the curving back, and the underside was a dirty striped gray. Tyndall shuddered, wondering why the Aurelians, who so loved to surround themselves with beauty, should choose so horrendous a creature as the object of their worship or protection. They heard running footsteps behind him, and turned to see the Aurelian houseman, breathless, with an expression of greatest concern on his face. The servant bowed respectfully before Tyndall, then gestured at the garden, shook his head vigorously from side to side, and tugged at the earthman's sleeve. Forbidden territory, eh? OK, old fellow, what now? The servant motioned for Tyndall to follow him, and ushered him down the hall from whence he had just come and into another of the rooms opening off from it. The very old man reclining upon a low, Roman-like couch, Tyndall recognized as once as his host, the Raul of Aurel. The Raul touched the fingertips of both hands to his furrowed in the Aurelian gesture of greeting, and Tyndall did the same. He noticed several male Aurelians standing near the back of the room, though the servant had bowed and retired. Well, Tyndall, how do you enjoy the hospitality of Ahareel? He of course gave the native pronunciation to the name, which was almost eutonic in sound and unpronounceable for Tyndall because of the sound given to the double aspirate, for which he knew no equivalent. Your English, de Braal, has improved greatly since our last meeting commented Tyndall guardedly, using the Aurelian prefix of extreme respect. The old man smiled. Your friends were kind enough to lend me books, and also the little grooved discs that make voice. He gestured towards an old-fashioned wind-up-type phonograph, which Tyndall recognized at once as being standard aboard interstellar vessels, and for just such a purpose. The Raul continued, For teaching English very fine. How are you enjoying our hospitality, I ask again. Tyndall was stuck on Aurel, and he knew it. There was no need to cook his own goose by being deliberately offensive. I appreciate the hospitality of Aurel. I express my thanks for the consideration of my hosts, but if I may ask a question? Yes. What in the wisdom of the de Braal is the reason for my detainment? To answer that, Tyndall, I must tell you something of the past of Aurel, and of her destiny. At these words the other Aurelians in the room drew closer, and the Raul motioned them to a couch at his feet and nodded toward Tyndall, requesting that he join them. Tyndall noticed that the others were gazing up into the old man's face with an expression of roughness, even of reverence. He knew that the Raul did not possess an especially exalted position politically even though he was head of the city. He guessed, therefore, that the Raul must be the religious leader of Aurel as well. The Raul began, interning the words as though he were reciting a ritual. There was a time, many thousands of khilas ago, when the kingdom of Aurel was not one small city as you see it now, but a mighty empire girdling the world in havasness. But the people of Aurel had become evil in their ways, and her cities were black with sin. It was then that Sheev himself left his kingdom in paradise and appeared to the people of Aurel, and he told them that he was displeased and that bad times would fall upon Aurel, and that her people would dwindle in number and become exceedingly few, and the jungle would reclaim her emptied cities. One city and only one would survive and prosper, and the people of that city would be given the chance to redeem Aurel and remove the heavy hand of Sheev's terrible punishment. All this came to pass, and in the dark khilas that followed all of Aurel vanished except this city. Now for many thousands of khilas the people in this city have striven to redeem Aurel by obeying this sacred laws of Sheev. Sheev had promised that when the punishment was ended he would send a sign, and his sign would be that a great silver shell should fall from the heavens, and within should be Sheev's own emissary who miswed the ranking priestess of Sheev, establishing again the rapport between the kingdom of Paradise and the world of Aurel. When the Raal had finished the other Aurelians in the room fastened the same look of reverence upon Tyndall, which they had formally reserved for the Raal. Tyndall chose his words carefully. But there were many aboard my vessel. Why did you, Debraal, select me as the emissary of Sheev? They've selected you. I recognized you, as of all your companions, you and you alone have the sun-colored hair, which is the sacred color of Sheev. Tyndall was able to question the Raal almost coolly. The trap was already sprung, the ship was gone. Now he only wanted to know the how and the why. An accident of pigmentation, only that had brought him to this sun-colored hair. But Debraal did my friends and I not often tell you of ourselves, of the place from which we came, a world, a world like your own. The old man smiled. Do not think me naive, Tyndall. I am quite aware that you are but a man, a man from another world, although quite an incredible world it must be. I know also that you were, until this hour, unaware of your destiny. I knew that when my priest reported that you ignored the ritual of the time until literally forced to obey. That is why we had to use devious means to make certain that your companions would not prevent the fulfilment of the prophecy. Now of course you understand. I do not think the priestess Lyharesa will make you unhappy, Tyndall. This was not earth, and these people were not earthmen. The thought now did not bring the bitter pain it had at first, right after the ship left. Earth already was becoming hazy in Tyndall's mind, a lovely globe of greens somewhere, somewhere far, and home once, a long time ago. No, the Aurelians were not earthmen, but they were human, and an attractive, gracious race. Life would not be bad among the Aurelians, especially as the espoused of the ranking priestess Avarel. Tyndall fingered the rich material of his Aurelian robe. He thought of the food, the wine, the servants. No, he decided not bad at all. One thing, though, this priestess Lyharesa—I have, then, but one request to make—Debrel, I would like to see the priestess Lyharesa. The old man almost chuckled. That is understandable, Tyndall, but it is not yet the time. Tyndall, reveling in the strength of his position, grew bolder. I would like very much Debrel to see her now. The Rals face darkened. Very well, Tyndall, but I warn you, do not enter the grove. There is death there, death that even I am powerless to prevent. The guardians will not harm her, but any stranger will not live many minutes in the grove. I will not enter, Debrel. Tyndall, the time is very soon, possibly this very hour. Will you not wait? I prefer not to wait, Debrel. The Rals gestured to a young Aurelian. Bahel showed Tyndall to the grove of the princess Lyharesa. The younger man protested, but Debrel so near the time, what if—do as I command, snapped the Rals. Bahel turned silently, motioning for Tyndall to follow. The young Aurelian led Tyndall, the length of the corridor, back to the Peixio he had stepped on to by mistake earlier in the day. Bahel stepped respectfully aside. Tyndall looked out into the garden. The sun was beginning to set, the long shadows stretched across the dim recesses of tropic greenery. The huge insect-like thing was still there, stretched out in a narrow strip of sunlight, catching the last failing waves of warmth from the sinking sun. Tyndall turned to the Aurelian. Oh, where might I find the princess Lyharesa, he asked? There, Debrel Tyndall. I see no one. Where do you say? Bahel pointed. There, Debrel Tyndall, where I point, you see the priestess Lyharesa taking the late afternoon sun, unless your eyesight is exceedingly bad. Debrel Tyndall, you cannot fail to see. Tyndall's eyesight was exceedingly good. He followed that pointing finger, past the pillar that supported the roof of the Peixio, past the first row of Aurelian green plants, past the second and third rows, to the clearing, to the little patch of sunlight, to the thing lying there, that monstrous misshapen bug, the bug, the priestess Lyharesa. Tyndall felt a pounding, skull-shattering madness closing in on him. It was a joke, of course. No, not a joke. A dream, then. No, not that either. In only a few split seconds it happened. Tyndall had leapt the rail around the Peixio and was streaking through the grove, heading for the outer boundary. The city, if he could get out of the grove, there would be places to hide in the city. Narrow streets, empty cellars, dim, dim alleys—they'd never find him there. Run now, run, before he was overtaken. But he was not being pursued. The hill stood still on the Peixio, transfixed with horror. He heard the Aurelian terrified cry, Debt, Tyndall! And then a rope shot out and grabbed him by the ankles. Not a rope, really, a green something. And there were others around his arms, his chest, his hips, wrapping him in their sticky green embrace. The Guardians. He tried to cry out, but one of the verdant fronds enveloped his throat so tightly he couldn't utter a sound. The innocent green things of the grove were vigilant Guardians indeed. They seemed to be merely holding him immobile, but Tyndall realized with sick horror that their pressure was increasing, so little at a time, but so steadily. And something was happening out there in the sunlight, too. The creature had convulsively grasped the branch of a bush and was clinging weakly to it, great tremors racking its body. It seemed to be struggling, suffering, dying, even as he was. In his agony Tyndall laughed. A time, a time! The voice came from the Peixio. Tyndall saw Behill throw himself face down on the floor, covering his eyes with his hands. He heard the cry echoed within the palace, and then like a mighty roar outside in the city. And then there was silence, silence broken only by the sound of his own breathing, as he dragged his tortured lungs across his shattered ribs. He saw the bug give a great heave, and then it seemed to split open the entire skin splitting in a dozen places, and a hand, a hand, reached from within that dying hulk and grasped the bush to which it clung, a white slender hand on a fragile wrist, and then the arm was free, a woman's arm, a beautiful arm. Tyndall began dimly and too late to understand. A leg kicked free, the slender ankle, the amply fleshed thigh. Tyndall clung to consciousness doggedly. The Guardian was crushing the last dregs of life out of him now, and even the pain seemed to recede. His mind was very, very clear. So that was it, a word once heard in a long forgotten classroom, and then the scientists of the expedition metamorphosis. He had meant to ask them what, but he remembered now what it meant, a passing from one form into another. Had he failed a biology test once because he didn't know what metamorphosis meant, dimly, dimly he saw. The last thing Tyndall ever saw was the priestess Lyharisa as she stepped out of the empty hulk kicking it away with a disdainful toe. Breathless from her ordeal she sank to the grass, her breasts heaving with exhaustion. She sat there for a few minutes in the sunlight, then she tossed her head and spread her long raven hair out on her shoulders, the better to dry it in the waning sun. And of Grove of the Unborn by Lynn Venable. THE HOUR OF BATTLE As one of the Guardian ships protecting earth, the crew had a problem to solve. Just how do you protect a race from an enemy who can take over a man's mind without seeming effort or warning? That hand didn't move, did it? Edwardson asked, standing at the port, looking at the stars. No. More said. He had been staring fixedly at the Addison Detector for over an hour. Now he blinked three times rapidly and looked again. Not a millimetre. I don't think it moved either. Castle added from behind the gunfire panel, and that was that. The slender black hand of the indicator rested unwaveringly on zero. The ship's guns were ready, their black mouths open to the stars. A steady hum filled the room. It came from the Addison Detector, and the sound was reassuring. It reinforced the fact that the Detector was attached to all the other detectors, forming a giant network around earth. Why in hell don't they come? Edwardson asked, still looking at the stars. Why don't they hit? Ah, shut up! More said. He had a tired, glum look. High on his right temple was an old radiation burn, a sunburst of pink scar tissue. From a distance it looked like a decoration. I just wish they'd come! Edwardson said. He returned from the port to his chair, bending to clear the low metal ceiling. Don't you wish they'd come? Edwardson had the narrow, timid face of a mouse, but a highly intelligent mouse, one that cats did well to avoid. Don't you? He repeated. The other men didn't answer. They had settled back to their dreams, staring hypnotically at the Detector face. They've had enough time, Edwardson said, half to himself. Castle yawned and licked his lips. Anyone wants a place in gin? He asked, stroking his beard. The beard was a memento of his undergraduate days. Castle maintained he could store almost fifteen minutes' width of oxygen in its follicles, although he had never stepped into space and helmeted to prove it. Morse looked away, and Edwardson automatically watched the Indicator. This routine had been drilled into them, branded into their subconscious. They would as soon have cut their throats as leave the Indicator unguarded. Do you think they'll come soon? Edwardson asked, his brown rodent eyes on the Indicator. The men didn't answer him. After two months together in space, their conversational powers were exhausted. They weren't interested in Castle's undergraduate days, or in Morse's conquests. They were bored to death, even with their own thoughts and dreams, bored with the attack they expected momentarily. Just one thing I'd like to know, Edwardson said, slipping with ease into an old conversational gambit. How far can they do it? They had talked for weeks about the enemy's telepathic range, but they always returned to it. As professional soldiers, they couldn't help but speculate on the enemy and his weapons. It was their shop talk. Well, Morse said rarily, my detector network covers the system out beyond Mars' orbit. Where we sit? Castle said, watching the Indicators now that the others were talking. They might not even know we have a detection unit working. Morse said, as he had said a thousand times. Oh, stop! Edwardson said, his thin face twisted and scorn. They're telepathic. They must have read every bit of stuff in Everset's mind. Everset didn't know we had a detection unit. Morse said, his eyes returning to the dial. He was captured before we had it. Look! Edwardson said. They asked him, boy, what would you do if you knew a telepathic race was coming to take over the earth? How would you guard the planet? Idle speculation. Castle said, maybe Everset didn't think of this. He thinks like a man, doesn't he? Everyone agreed on this defense. Everset would, too. Syllogistic, Castle murmured, very shaky. I sure wish he hadn't been captured, Edwardson said. It could have been worse, Morse put in, his face sadder than ever. What if they captured both of them? I wish they'd come, Edwardson said. Richard Everset and C.R. Jones had gone on the first interstellar flight. They had found an inhabited planet in the region of Vega. The rest was standard procedure. A flip of the coin had decided it. Everset went down in the scouter, maintaining radio contact with Jones in the ship. The recording of that contact was preserved for all earth to hear. Just met the natives, Everset said. Funny-looking bunch, give you the physical description later. Are they trying to talk to you? Jones asked, guiding the ship in a slow spiral over the planet. No, hold it. Well, I'm damned. They're telepathic, how do you like that? Great, Jones said. Go on. Hold it. Say, Jonesy, I don't know if I like these boys. They haven't got nice minds. Brother! What is it? Jones asked, lifting the ship a little higher. Minds! These bastards are power-crazy. Seems they've hit all the systems around here, looking for someone to... Yeah. I've got that a bit wrong, Everset said. Pleasantly. They're not so bad. Jones had a quick mind, a suspicious nature, and good reflexes. He set the accelerator for all the Gs he could take, lay down on the floor, and said, tell me more. Come on down! Everset said, in violation of every law of spaceflight, these guys are all right. As a matter of fact, they're the most marvellous. That was where the recording ended, because Jones was pinned to the floor by twenty Gs of acceleration as he boosted the ship to the level needed for the sea jump. He broke three ribs getting home, but he got there. A telepathic species was on the march. What was Earth going to do about it? A lot of speculation necessarily clothed the bare bones of Jones' information. Evidently, the species could take over a mind with ease. With Everset, it seemed that they had insinuated their thoughts into his, delicately altering his previous convictions. They had possessed him with remarkable ease. How about Jones? Why haven't they taken him? Was distance a factor? Or haven't they been prepared for the suddenness of his departure? One thing was certain. Everything Everset knew, the enemy knew. That meant that they knew where Earth was, and how defenseless the planet was to their form of attack. It could be expected that they were on their way. Something was needed to nullify their tremendous advantage, but what sort of something? What armour is there against thought? How do you dodge a wavelength? Pouch-eyed scientists gravely consulted their periodic tables. And how do you know when a man has been possessed? Although the enemy was clumsy with Everset, would they continue to be clumsy? Wouldn't they learn? Psychologists tore their hair and bewailed the absence of an absolute scale for humanity. Of course, something had to be done at once. The answer, from a technological planet, was a technological one. Build a space fleet and equip it with some sort of detection network. This was done in record time. The Addison Detector was developed, a cross between radar and the electroencephalograph. Any alteration from the typical human brainwave pattern of the occupants of a detector-equipped ship would boost the indicator around the dial. Even a bad dream or a case of indigestion would jar it. It seemed probable that any attempt to take over a human mind would disturb something. There had to be a point of interaction somewhere. That was what the Addison Detector was supposed to detect. Maybe it would. The spaceships, three men to a ship, dotted space between Earth and Mars, forming a gigantic sphere with Earth in the center. Tens of thousands of men crouched behind gunfire panels, watching the dials on the Addison Detector. The unmoving dials. Do you think I could fire a couple of bursts? Edwardson asked. His fingers on the gunfire button. Just to limber the guns. Those guns don't need limbering. Castle said, stroking his beard. Besides, you threw the whole fleet into a panic. Castle, Morse said very quietly, Get your hand off your beard. Why should I? Castle asked. Because, Morse answered, almost in a whisper, I am about to ram it right down your fat throat. Castle grinned and tightened his fists. Pleasure, he said. I'm tired of looking at that scar of yours. He stood up. Cut it, Edwardson said, wearily. Watch the birdie. No reason to, really. Morse said, leaning back. There's an alarm bell attached. But he still looked at the dial. What if the bell doesn't work? Edwardson asked. What if the dial is jammed? How would you like something cold slidering into your mind? The dial will work, Castle said. His eyes shifted from Edwardson's face to the motionless indicator. Oh, I think I'll sack in. Edwardson said. Stick around. Castle said, play some gin. All right. Edwardson found and shuffled the greasy cards, while Morse took a turn glaring at the dial. Does your wish they'd come? He said. Cut. Edwardson said, handing the pack to Castle. I wonder what our friends looked like? Morse said, watching the dial. Probably remarkably like us. Edwardson said, dealing the cards. Castle picked them up, one by one, slowly as if he hoped something interesting would be under them. They should have given us another man. Castle said, we could play bridge. I don't play bridge. Edwardson said. You could learn. Why didn't we send a task force? Morse asked. Why didn't we bomb their planet? Don't be dumb. Edwardson said. We'd lose any shit we sent. Probably getting them back at us, possessed and firing. Knock with nine. Castle said. I don't give a good damn if you're not with a thousand. Edwardson said gaily. How much do I owe you now? Three million five hundred eight thousand and ten dollars. I sure wish they'd come. Morse said. Want me to write a check? Take your time. Take till next week. Someone should reason with the bastards. Morse said, looking at the port. Castle immediately looked at the dial. I just thought of something. Edwardson said. Yeah. Castle to have your mind grabbed. Edwardson said. I bet it's awful. You'll know when it happens. Castle said. Did it ever set? Probably. He just couldn't do anything about it. My mind feels fine. Castle said. But the first one of you guys starts acting queer. Watch out. They all laughed. Well. Edwardson said. There's a reason with them. This is stupid. Why not? Castle asked. What? You mean go out and meet them? Sure. Castle said. We're doing no good sitting here. I should think we could do something. Edwardson said slowly. After all, they're not invincible. They're reasoning beings. Morse punched a course on the ship's tape. Then looked up. You think we should contact the command? Tell them what we're doing. No. Castle said. And Edwardson nodded in agreement. Red tape. We'll just go out and see what we can do. If they won't talk, we'll blast them out of space. Look. Out of the port, they could see the red flare of a reaction engine. The next ship in their sector, speeding forward. They must have got the same idea. Edwardson said. Let's get there first, Castle said. Morse shoved the accelerator in, and they were thrown back in their seats. That dial hasn't moved yet, has it? Edwardson asked over the clamour of the detector alarm bell. Lot to move out of it, Castle said, looking at the dial with its indicator slammed all the way over to the highest notch. End of the Hour of Battle by Robert Sheckley. Read by Megan Argo. THE MAN FROM TIME by Frank Belknap Long This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Read by Norman Ilfer. THE MAN FROM TIME by Frank Belknap Long Daring Moonsun, he was called. It was a proud name, a brave name. But what good was a name that rang out like a sums to battle the man who bore it could not repeat it aloud without fear. Moonsun had tried telling himself that a man could conquer fear if he could but once summon the courage to laugh at all the sins that ever were and do as he damned well pleased. An ancient phrase that, damned well, it went clear back to the Elizabethan age and Moonsun had tried picturing himself as an Elizabethan man with a ruffle at his throat and a rapier in his clasp being a tavern. In the Elizabethan age men had thrown caution to the winds and lived with their whole bodies not just with their minds alone. Perhaps that was why even in the year 3689 defiant names still cropped up. Names like Independence Forest and Man Live Forever. It was not easy for a man to live up to a name like Man Live Forever to be done. There was something in human nature that made a man abandoned caution and tried to live up to the planes made for him by his parents at birth. It must be bad, Moonsun thought. It must be bad if I can't control the trembling of my hands the pounding of the blood in my temples. I am like a child shut up alone in the dark hearing rats scurring in a closet thick with cobwebs and the tapping of a blind man's cane tap tap tap nearer and nearer through the darkness how soon would the rats be swarming out blood-fangued and holy vicious how soon would the canes strike. He looked up quickly his eyes searching the shadows for almost a month now the gleaming intricacies of the machine had given him a complete sense of security. As a scholar traveling in time he had been accepted by his fellow travelers as a man of great courage and firm determination. For twenty-seven days a smooth surface of shining metal had walled him in enabling him to grapple with reality on a completely adult level. For twenty-seven days he had gone pridefully back through time taking creative delight in watching the heritage of the human race unroll before him like a cinema scope under glass. Watching a green land in the dying golden sunlight of an age lost to human memory could restore a man's strength of purpose by its serenity alone and even an age of war and pestilence could be observed without torment from behind the protective shields of the time machine. Danger, accidents, catastrophe could not touch him personally. To watch death and destruction as a spectator in a traveling time observatory was like watching a cobra poised to strike from behind a pane of crystal bright glass in a zoological garden. You got a tremendous thrill just thinking about it. How dreadful the glass should not be there. How lucky I am to be alive with a thing so deadly and monstrous within striking distance of me. For twenty-seven days now he had traveled without fear. Sometimes the time observatory would pinpoint an age and hover over it while his companions took painstaking historical notes. Sometimes they would retrace its course and circle back. A new age would come under scrutiny and more notes would be taken. But a horrible thing had happened to him had awakened in him a lonely nightmare of restlessness. Childhood fears he had thought buried forever had returned to plague him and he had developed a sudden terrible dread of the thawginess outside the moving view pane the way the machine itself wheeled and dipped when an ancient ruin came sweeping toward him. He had developed a fear of time. There was no escape from that time fear. The instant it came upon him he lost all interest in historical research. 1069 732 2407 1928 Every date terrified him. The black plague in London, the great fire, the Spanish armada and flames off the coast of a bleak little island that would soon mold the destiny of half the world. How meaningless it all seemed in the shadow of his fear. Had the human race really advanced so much time had been conquered but no man was yet wise enough to heal himself of a stark, unreasoning fear took possession of his mind and heart giving him no peace. Moonsun lowered his eyes saw that Rutella was watching him in the manner of a shy woman not wishing to break in too abruptly on the thoughts of a stranger. Deep within him he knew that he had become a stranger to his own wife and the realization sharply increased his torment. He stared down at her head against his knee at her beautiful back and sleek dark hair. Violet eyes she had not black as they seemed at first glance but a deep lustrous violet. He remembered suddenly that he was still a young man with a young man's ardour surging strong in him. He bent swiftly, kissed her lips and eyes as he did so her arms tightened about him until he found himself wondering what he could have done to deserve such a woman. She had never seemed more precious to him and for an instant he could feel his fear lessening a little but it came back and it was worse than before. It was like an old pain returning at an unexpected moment to chill a man with a sickening reminder that all joy must end. His decision to act was made quickly. The first step was the most difficult but with a deliberate effort of will he accomplished it to his satisfaction. His secret thoughts he buried beneath a conscious mental preoccupation with the vain and the trivial. It was important to the success of his plan that his companions should suspect nothing. The second step was less difficult. The mental block remained firm and he succeeded in carrying on actual preparations for his departure in complete secrecy. The third step was the final and it took him from a large compartment to a small one. From a high arcing surface of metal to the maze of intricate control mechanisms in a space so narrow that he had to crouch to work with accuracy. Swiftly and competently his fingers moved over instruments of science which only a completely sane man would have known how to manipulate. It was an acid test of his sanity and he knew as he worked at least and suffered no impairment. Beneath his hands the time observatories controls were solid shafts of metal but suddenly as he worked he found himself thinking of them as fluid abstractions. Each a milestone demands long progress from the jungle to the stars time and space, mass and velocity. How incredible that he had taken centuries of patient technological research to master in a practical way with tremendous implications of Einstein's original postulate. Warp space with a rapidly moving object move away from the observer with the speed of light and the whole of human history assumed the firm contours of a landscape in space. Space and time merged and became one and a man in an intricately equipped time observatory could revisit the past as easily as he could travel across the great curve of the universe to the farthest planet the star. The controls were suddenly firm in his hands he knew precisely what adjustments to make. The iris of the human eye dilates and contracts with every shift of illumination. The time observatory had an iris too. That iris could be opened without endangering his companions in the least if he took care to widen it just enough to accommodate only one sturdily built man of medium height. Sweat came out with the great beads on his forehead as he worked. The light that came through the machine's iris was faint at first the barest glimmer of white in deep darkness but as he adjusted controls the light grew brighter and brighter beating in upon him until he was kneeling in a circle of radiance that dazzled his eyes and set his heart to pounding. I've lived too long with fear he thought I've lived like a man imprisoned shut away from the sunlight now when freedom beckons quickly or I shall be powerless to act at all. He stood erect, took a slow step forward, his eyes squeezed shut another step another and suddenly he knew he was at the gateway to time's sure knowledge in actual contact with the past for his ears were now assailed by the high confusion of ancient sounds and voices he left the time machine in a flying leap one arm before his face he tried to keep his eyes covered as the ground seemed to rise to meet him but he lurched in an agony of unbalance and opened his eyes to see the green surface beneath him flashing like a suddenly uncovered jewel he remained on his feet just long enough to see his time observatory dim and vanish then his knees gave way and he collapsed with a despairing cry as the fear enveloped him there were daisies in the field where he lay his shoulders and naked chest pressed to the earth the wind stirred the grass and the flute-like warble of a songbird was repeatedly close to his ear over and over with a tireless persistence abruptly he sat up and stared about him running parallel to the field was a winding country road and down it came a yellow and silver vehicle on wheels its entire upper section encased in glass which mirrored the autumnal landscape with a startling clearness the vehicle halted directly in front of him bloody cheeks and snow-white hair leaned out to wave at him good morning, mister, the man shouted can I give you a lift into town? Moonsun rose unsteadily alarm and suspicion in his stare very cautiously he lowered the mental barrier and the man's thoughts impinged on his mind in bewildering confusion he's not a farmer, that's sure must have been swimming in the creek but those bathing trunks he's wearing are out of this world and have the nerve to parade around in trunks like that even on a public beach probably an exhibitionist but why should he wear him out here in the woods no blondes or redheads not silly out here he might have the courtesy to answer me well, if he doesn't want to lift into town that's no concern of mine Moonsun stood watching the vehicle sweep away out of sight obviously he had angered the man by a silence but he could answer only by shaking his head he began to walk pausing an instant in the middle of the bridge to stare down at a stream of water that rippled in the sunlight over moss covered rocks tiny silver fish darted to and fro beneath a tumbling waterfall and he felt calmed and reassured by the sight shoulders erect now he walked on it was high noon when he reached the tavern he went inside saw men and women dancing in a dim light a huge rainbow colored musical instrument by the door which startled him by its resonance the music was wild weird a little terrifying he sat down at a table near the door and searched the minds of the dancers for a clue to the meaning of what he saw the thoughts which came to him were startlingly primitive direct and sometimes meaningless to him go easy baby swing it, sure we're in the groove now but you never can tell I'll buy you an orchid honey not roses, just one orchid black like your hair ever see a black orchid hun? they're rare and they're expensive oh Darl, Darl hold me closer the music goes round and round it will always be like this with this honey don't ever be a square that's all I ask, don't ever be a square cuddle up to me let yourself go dancing with one girl you should never look at another don't you know that Johnny? sure I know it Darl but did I ever claim I wasn't human? Darl, Darl Darl baby look all you want to but if you ever dare Moonsun found himself relaxing a little dancing at all ages was closely aligned to lovemaking but it was pursued here with a careless rapture which he found creatively stimulating the people came here not only to dance but to eat and the thoughts of the dancers implied that there was nothing stylized about a tavern the ritual was a completely natural one in Egyptian bass reliefs you saw the opposite in dancing every movement rigidly prescribed arms held rigid and sharply bent to the elbows slow movements rather than lively ones a bowing and a scraping with bowls of fruit extended in gift offerings at every turn there was obviously no enthroned authority here no bejeweled king to pacify when emotions ran wild but complete freedom to embrace joy with coribantic abandon a tall man in ill-fitting black clothes approached Moonsun's table interrupting his reflections with thoughts that seemed designed to disturb and distract him out of sheer perversity so even here there were flies in every ointment and no dream of perfection could remain unchallenged he sat unmoving absorbing the man's thoughts what does he think this is a bath house? Mike says it's okay to serve them they come in from the beach just as they are just one quick beer no more this late in the season you'd think they'd have the decency to get dressed the sepulchrally dressed man gave the table a brush with a cloth he carried then thrust his head forward like an ill-tempered scavenger bird can't serve you anything here but beer boss's orders okay Moonsun nodded and the man went away then he turned on watching the girl she was frightened she sat all alone plucking nervously at the red and white checkered tablecloth she sat with her back to the light bunching the cloth up into little folds then smoothing it out again he ground out lipstick smudge cigarettes until the ashtray was spilling over Moonsun began to watch the fear in her mind her fear grew when she thought that Mike wasn't gone for good the phone call wouldn't take long and they'd be coming back any minute now and Mike wouldn't be satisfied until she was broken into little bits yes, Mike wanted to see her on her knees begging him to kill her kill me but don't hurt Joe it wasn't his fault he's just a kid he's not 20 yet, Mike that would be a lie but Mike had no way of knowing that Joe would be 22 on his next birthday although he looked 18 at most there is no pity in Mike but would his pride let him hot rod an 18 year old Mike won't care Mike won't care Mike will kill him anyway Joe couldn't help falling in love with me but Mike won't care what Joe could help Mike was never young himself never a sweet kid like Joe Mike killed a man when he was 14 years old he spent 7 years in a reformatory and the kids there were never young Joe will be just one of those kids to Mike her fear kept growing you couldn't fight men like Mike Mike was strong in too many different ways when you ran a tavern with an upstairs room for special customers you had to be tough, strong you sat in an office and when people came to you begging for favors you just laughed 10 grand isn't hey buddy my wheels aren't rigged if you think they are, get out it's your funeral it's your funeral Mike would say laughing until tears came into his eyes you couldn't fight that kind of strength Mike could push his knuckles hard into the faces of people who owed him money it had never even be arrested Mike could take money crisp and new out of his wallet spread it out like a fan say to any girl crazy enough to give him a second glance I'm interested in you honey get rid of him and come over to my table you could say worse things to girls too decent and self-respecting to look at him at all you could be so cold and hard nothing could ever hurt you you could be Mike Galante how could she have ever loved such a man and dragged Joe into it a good kid he made only one really bad mistake in his life the mistake of asking her to marry him she shivered with a chill of his self loathing and turned her eyes hesitantly toward the man in bathing trunks who sat alone by the door for a moment she met the big man's eyes and her fears seemed to fade away she stared at him sunburned almost black muscles like a life-card all alone and not on the make when he returned her stare she sparkled with friendly interest but no suggestive flirtatious intent he was too rugged to be really handsome she thought but he wouldn't have to start digging in his wallet to get a girl to change tables either guiltily she remembered Joe now it could only be Joe then she saw Joe enter the room he was deathly pale and he was coming straight toward her between the tables without pausing to weigh his chances of staying alive he passed a man and woman who relished Mike's company enough to make them eager to act ugly for a daily handout they would not look up at Joe as he passed but the man's lips curled in a sneer and the woman whispered something that appeared to fan the flames of her companion's malice Mike had friends friends who had never wrought on him while their police records remained in Mike's safe they could count on him for protection she started to rise to go to Joe and warn him that Mike would be coming back but despair flooded her and the impulse died the way Joe felt about her was a thing too big to stop Joe saw her slim against the light and his thoughts were like the sea surge wild unruly maybe Mike will get me maybe I'll be dead by this time tomorrow maybe I'm crazy to love her the way I do her hair against the light a tumbled mass of spun gold always a woman bollering me for as long as I can remember Molly and Janice some were good for me and some were bad you see a woman on the street walking ahead of you hips swing and you think I don't even know her name but I'd like to crush her in my arms I guess every guy feels like that about every pretty woman he sees even about some that aren't so pretty but then you get to know and like a woman and you don't feel that way so much you respect her and you don't let yourself feel that way then something happens you love her so much as like the first time again but the whole lot added you love her so much you'd die to make her happy Joe was shaking when he slipped into the chair left vacant by Mike and reached out for both her hands I'm taking you away tonight he said you're coming with me Joe was scared she knew but he didn't want her to know his hands were like ice his fear blended with her own fear as their hands met he'll kill you Joe you've got to forget me she sobbed I'm not afraid of him I'm stronger than you think he won't dare come at me with a gun not here before all these people if he comes at me with his fists I'll hook a solid left to his jaw that will stretch him out cold she knew he wasn't deceiving himself Joe didn't want to die any more than she did the man from time had an impulse to get up walk over to the two frightened children and comfort them with a reassuring smile he sat watching, feeling their fear beating into multuous waves into his brain fear in the minds of a boy and girl because they desperately wanted one another he looks steadily at them and his eyes spoke to them life is greater than you know if you could travel in time and see how great is man's courage if you could see all of his triumphs over despair and grief and pain you would know that there is nothing to fear nothing at all Joe rose from the table suddenly calm quiet come on he said quietly we're getting out of here right now my car is outside and if Mike tries to stop us I'll fix him the boy and the girl walk toward the door together a young and extremely pretty girl and a boy suddenly grown to the full stature of a man rather regretfully Moonsun watched them go as they reached the door the girl turned and smiled and the boy paused too and they both smiled suddenly the man in the bathing trunks then they were gone Moonsun got up as they disappeared left the tavern it was dark when he reached the cabin he was dog tired and when he saw the seated man through the lighted windows he forgot that he couldn't talk to the man forgot the language difficulty completely but before this insurmountable element occurred to him he was inside the cabin once there he saw the problem solved itself the man was a writer and he had been drinking steadily for hours so the man did all the talking not wanting or waiting for an answer a youngish handsome man he was with graying temples and keenly observant eyes instantly he saw Moonsun he started to talk welcome stranger he said been taking a dip in the ocean can't say I'd enjoy it this late in the season Moonsun was afraid at first that his silence might discourage the writer but he didn't know writers it's good to have someone to talk to the writer went on I've been sitting here all day trying to write I'll tell you something you may not know you can go to the finest hotels and you can open case after case of the finest wine and you still can't get started sometimes the writer's face seemed suddenly to age fear came into his eyes and he raised the bottle to his lips faced away from his guest as he drank as if ashamed of what he must do to escape despair every time he faced his fear he was trying to write himself back into fame his greatest moment had come years before when his golden pen had glorified a generation of mad caps for one deathless moment his genius had carried him to the heights and a white blaze of publicity had given him a halo of glory later had come lean and bitter years until finally his reputation dwindled like a gutted candle in a wintry room at midnight he could still write but now fear and remorse walked with him and would give him no peace he was cruelly afraid most of the time Moonsun listened to the writer's thoughts in heart-stricken silence thoughts so tragic they seemed out of keeping with the natural and beautiful rhythms of his speech he had never imagined that a sensitive and imaginative man, an artist could be so completely abandoned by the society his genius had helped to enrich back and forth the writer paced bearing his innermost thoughts his wife was desperately ill and the future looked completely black how could he summon the strength of will to go on let alone to write he said fiercely it's all right for you to talk he stopped seeming to realize for the first time that the big man sitting in an easy chair by the window had made no attempt to speak seemed incredible but the big man had listened in complete silence and with such quiet assurance that his silence had taken on an eloquence that inspired absolute trust he had always known there are few people like that in the world people whose sympathy and understanding could take for granted there was a fearlessness in such people which made them stand out from the crowd stone markers in a desert waste to lend assurance to a tired wayfarer by its dirty permanence its sun-mirroring strength there were a few people like that in the world but you sometimes win a lifetime without meeting one the big man sat there smiling at him calmly exuding the serenity of one who had seen life from its tangled inaccessible roots outward and testifies from experience that the entire growth is sound the writer stopped pacing suddenly and drew himself erect as he stared into the big man's eyes his fears seemed to fade away confidence returned to him like the surge of the sea in great shining waves of creativeness he knew suddenly that he could lose himself in his work again could tap the bright resonant bell of his genius until its golden voice rang out through eternity he would write a great book in him and it would get written now it would get written you've helped me, he almost shouted you've helped me more than you know I can't tell you how great I am to you you don't know what it means to be so paralyzed with fright that you can't write at all the man from time was silent but his eyes shone curiously the writer turned to a bookcase and removed a volume in a faded cover that had once been bright he sat down and wrote an inscription in the flyleaf then he rose and handed the book to his visitor with a slight bow he was smiling now this was my first born, he said the man from time looked to the title first this side of paradise then he opened the book and read what the author had written on the flyleaf with a warm gratefulness for a courage which brought back the sun F. Scott Fitzgerald Moonson bowed his thanks turned and left the cabin morning found him walking across fresh meadows with a duke listening on his bare head and broad straight shoulders they'd never find him he told himself hopelessly they'd never find him because time was too vast to pinpoint one man in such a vast waste of years the towering crests of each age might be visible but there could be no returning to one tiny insignificant spot in the mighty ocean of time as he walked his eyes searched for the field and the winding road he'd followed into town only yesterday this road seemed to beckon and he'd followed eager to explore an age so primitive that mental communication from mind to mind had not yet replaced human speech now I knew that the speech faculty which man had long outgrown would never cease to act as a barrier between him and the men and women of this era of the past but without it he could not hope to find complete understanding and sympathy here he was still alone and soon winter would come and the sky grew cold and empty the time machine materialized so suddenly before him that for an instant his mind refused to accept it as more than a torturing illusion conjured by the turbulence of his thoughts all at once it towered in his path bright and shining and he moved forward over the dude wrenched grass until he was brought up short so overwhelming that it seemed to him that his heart must burst Crutella emerged from the machine with a gay little laugh as if his stunned expression was the most amusing in the world hold still let me kiss you darling her mind said to his she stood in the dew bright grass on tiptoe her sleek dark hair falling to her shoulders an extraordinarily pretty girl to be the wife of a man so tormented you found me his thoughts exalted you came back alone and searched until you found me she nodded her eyes shining so time wasn't too vast to pinpoint after all not when two people were so securely wedded in mind and heart that their thoughts could build a bridge across time the bureau of emotional adjustment analyzed everything I told them your psychograph ran to 57 pages but it was your desperate loneliness that guided me to you she raised his hand to her lips and kissed it you see darling a compulsive fear isn't easy to conquer no man or woman can conquer it alone historians tell us when the first passenger rocket started for Mars space fear took men by surprise in the same way your fear gripped you the loneliness the utter desolation of space was too much for a human mind to endure she smiled her love we're going back we'll face it together and we'll conquer it together you won't be alone now darling don't you see it's because you aren't a clot because you're sensitive and imaginative that you experience fear it's not anything to be ashamed of you were simply the first man on earth to develop a new and completely different kind of fear time fear Moonsun put out his hand and gently touched his wife's hair ascending into the time observatory a thought came unbidden to his mind others he saved himself he could not save but that wasn't true at all now he could help himself now he would never be alone again when guided by the sure hand of love and complete trust self-knowledge could be a shining weapon the trip back might be difficult but holding tight to his wife's hand he felt no misgivings, no fear end of the man from time by Frank Belknap Long