 No Shield from the Dead by Gordon R. Dixon. It was a nice little party but a bit obvious. Terry Mack saw through it before he had taken half a dozen steps into the apartment. A light flush stained his high cheekbones. This is ridiculous, he said. The light clatter ceased. Cocktail glasses were set down on various handy tables and ledges, and all faces in the room turned toward a man in his late fifties who sat propped up invalid-wise on pillows in a chair in the corner of the room. The Comptroller is perspicacious, said the old man agreeably, waving one hand in a casual manner. On your way, children! And the people present smiled and nodded. Yet, as if it were an ordinary leave-taking, they pushed past Terry Mack and filed out the door. Even the blonde Terry had picked up at the Embassy ball and who had brought him here strolled off casually, but in a decidedly less drunken fashion than she had exhibited earlier in the evening. Sit down, said the old man. Terry Mack did so, gazing searchingly at the skinny frame and white eyebrows in an unsuccessful effort to connect him to something in memory. This is ridiculous, he repeated. Really? said the old man, smiling benignly. And why so? Why, the situation was so obvious that Terry fumbled, a little at a loss for words. Obviously, you intended some form of coercion, or else you would have come to me along recognized channels. And any thought of coercion is obviously, well, ridiculous. Why? Why, you senile old fool, don't you know that I'm shielded? Don't you know all government officials from the fifth class up wear complete personal shields that are not only crackproof, but contain all the necessary elements to support life independently within the shield for more than twenty hours? Don't you know that I'll be missed in two hours at the most and tracked down in less than sixty minutes more? Are you crazy? The old man chuckled, rubbed dry hands together. He said, I'm shielded too. You can't get at me. And now the room's shielded. You can't get out of it. Terry stared at him. The initial shock was passing. His own statements, and then the completeness of his protection, had brought back confidence, and his natural coolness was returning. What do you want? he asked, eyeing the other narrowly. Pleasure of your company, said the old man. There are some very strong connections between us. Yes, very strong. We must get to know each other personally. It occurred to Terry that he had misrepresented the situation. Relief came, mixed with a certain amount of chagrin at the way in which he had allowed himself to show alarm. He had looked ridiculous. He leaned back in the chair and allowed a note of official hauteur and annoyance to creep into his voice. I see, he said, you want something. The old man nodded energetically. I do, indeed I do. And you think you have some kind of bargaining tool that is useful, but might not be so if it became known in official channels. Well, said the old man cautiously. Don't waste my time, interrupted Terry harshly. I'm not an ordinary politician. No man who works his way up to the fifth level of the government is. I didn't get to where I am today by pussy-footing around, and I haven't the leisure to spend on people who do. Now what do you want? The other cackled. Now what do you think, he said, putting one finger to his nose cunningly. You are old, Terry said, and therefore cautious. Consequently you would not risk trying to force something from me, but are almost certainly trying to sell me something. Now what do I want? Not the usual thing, certainly. Within my position I have all the material things a man could want, and within my shield I enjoy complete immunity. No one but the central bureau itself can crack this shield, and no one but they can prevent the conditioned reflex that stops my heart if, for some reason, the shield should be broached. I have a hold on every man beneath me that prevents him from knifing me in the back. There could only be one thing that I want that you could give me. He leaned forward, staring into the deep, pouched eyes. And that is a means of getting at the man above me. Am I right? No, said the old man. Terry stiffened. No, he echoed in angry incredulity. Their eyes locked, for a long time they held, and at last Terry looked away. The old man sighed, sip noisily from a drink on the table beside his chair. Wait, said Terry, to his own surprise his voice was eager, even a little timorous in its hopefulness. Wait, I've got it. There will be a test. There always is a test every time a man moves up. His superiors watch him when he doesn't suspect it. And it will be that way for me if I am ready for the fourth level. And you have some kind of advanced information. You know what the test will be. Maybe you know the man who will administer it. You want to sell me this information. The other said nothing. Well, Terry spread his hands openly. I am interested. I'll buy. What do you want? Money? A favor? Protection? No. No, Terry shouted, starting up from his chair. What do you mean by no? Can't you say anything but no? A rage possessed him. He flung himself forward, two furious steps to stand threateningly over the aged figure. You, doddering idiot. Save what you want and quickly. My two hours are nearly up. I'll be missed. They'll be here in a few minutes, the bureau guards. They'll crack the room shield. They'll rescue me. And they'll take you into custody to be questioned, to be executed at my order. Do you understand? Your life depends on me. After a little, the old man chuckled again. Yes, he muttered in a high-pitched, old voice. That's the way it'll be. Terry stared at him. You don't seem to understand. You're going to die. Oh, yes, said the old man, nodding his head indulgently. I'll die. But I'm an old man. I'd die anyway, any year or so. Maybe a day or so. But for you, for a young man like you, the up-and-coming young governmental with everything to lose, he leered slyly at Terry. Your death won't be so easy for you to take. I die, echoed Terry stupefied. But I'm not going to die. They're coming to rescue me. Oh, are they, said the old man ironically. Of course, said Terry. Of course, why shouldn't they? The old man winked one faded eye portentously. Fine young man, he said. Up-and-coming young man. Brilliant. Never a thought for the people you trampled on the way up the ladder. Dear me, no. What do you mean, said Terry? The old eyes, looking up suddenly, pierced him. Do you remember Kalarin? Kalarin? Kalarin, recited the old man as if quoting from a newspaper. The beautiful young secretary of a provincial governor, whose lecherous and unnatural pursuit drove her to suicide. So that one day, to escape the governor, she jumped or fell from a high window. And the people of the province, who had for a long time heard ugly stories and rumors, finally mobbed the office and lynched the governor, hanging him from the same window from which the girl had jumped. They said that even the fall had not spoiled her beauty. But that was probably false. The old man's words dwindled away into silence. If so, what of it? Said Terry. What's that to do with me? Why, you were there. You were the governor's aide, and when the mob had gone home and feelings had slackened off, you stepped into the gap and seized up the reins of government, handling matters so skillfully that you were immediately promoted to an underpost at city government. What of it? Why, it was all your doing, replied the other in a mildly reproving voice, the rumors, the stories, the mob, even the suicide. Poor Kalarin, a pitiful pawn in your ruthless game to eliminate the governor in your mad dash up the ladder. I never touched her, cried Terry, his voice cracking. I swear it! Who said you did? The type of mind that stooped to murder would never have gotten you this far. But you were the one who hired her, knowing the governor's tendencies. You were the one that gave her work to keep her night after night, alone with the man. You prayed upon her fear of losing her job. You threw the sin in her face after she had committed it. You told her what she might have been, and what she was, and what she would be. You broke her, day after day. In the sterile privacy of the office, you reviled her, scorned her, brought her to believe that she was what she was not, a creature of filth and dishonor. You blocked off all avenues of escape, but the one that led through one high window. You killed her. No! Yes! Terry brought his quivering hands together, and clenched them in his lap. He stared at the old man. Who are you? I was a friend of hers. We lived in the same hotel apartment. She had no family. I believe you knew that when you hired her. I see, said Terry. He drew a long, deep, shuttering breath and leaned back in the chair. So that's the story, he said, his voice strengthening. I might have known it. Blackmail. There are always fools who want to try blackmail. No, said the old man. Not blackmail, Comptroller. I want your life. Terry laughed shortly, contemptuously. No knowledge that you have can threaten my life. They will come, said the old man leaning wearily against his cushions. As you said, the Bureau guards will come. And I think I shall kill myself when I hear them starting to crack the shield around this room. They will come in and find you with a dead man. What will you tell them, Terry? Tell them anything I choose they won't question me. No, the guards won't, but the Bureau will. How can they raise a man to the fourth level when there is a two-hour mystery in his background? They will want to know what you were doing here. I was kidnapped, said Terry. By whom? Can you prove it? And why? I've been held a prisoner here. By a dead man. No, no, Terry. The circumstances are suspicious. You walk away from the Embassy under your own power, and you disappear and are found in a shielded room with a man who has committed suicide. This must be explained, and in the end you will have to tell them the truth. And what if I do, said Terry, truckulently? But the truth is so fantastic, Terry. So uncheckable. I am dead, and I am the only one who could have supported your story. These people who were here when you came in are common actors. They have no idea why I wanted you decoyed here. These are my rooms, and there is no obvious connection between me and the dead Kalaran. And perhaps I will decide to live just long enough to denounce you as a traitor when they enter. Action faced, Terry stared. The Bureau will have to question you. They will clamp a block on your mind so that you can't operate the reflex that stops your heart. And they will question you over and over again because the Bureau cannot afford to take chances. You will go into a private hell of your own, Terry Mack. You will tell the story of your own evil to the girl over and over again, who is waiting to be believed. And they will not believe you. And in the end they will kill you, just to be on the safe side. Because, you see, you might have been doing something traitorous in those two shielded hours. Terry's head bob limply, like a drunken man's. He made one last effort. Why, he said, why do you do this? Your life for a girl who has no connection to you? The old man folded his arms. I was a little like your governor, he said. We all have our sins. I loved Caloran, and the shock of her death wrecked my health. He cocked his head slightly to one side. Listen, he said. From beyond the closed door of the room, a high-pitched humming was barely audible. It grew in volume, going up the scale. Terry leapt to his feet, and for the space of a couple of seconds he lunged first this way, then that, like a wild animal beating against its trap. Then, as if all will had at last gone out of him, he stopped in the middle of the room and closed his eyes. For a fraction of a moment he stood there, before the faint convulsion seized him, and he fell. With a faint smile on his face, the old man reached out to a hidden switch and cut the shield about the room. Uniform guards tumbled through the door and pulled up in dismay at the sight of the body on the floor. I'm sorry, said the old man. I must have turned the shield on by mistake. I was trying to signal someone. The Comptroller seems to have had a heart attack. The end of No Shield from the Dead by Gordon R. Dixon. Resurrection 7 by Stephen Marlowe. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Colleen McMahon. Resurrection 7 by Stephen Marlowe. The seventh tub shook gently, stimulating the hypothalamic region of Eric's brain for the first time in almost two centuries. After a time, his limbs trembled and his body began to shiver. The liquid in which he floated boiled off at a temperature still far below that which would permit his body to function. By the time all the liquid was gone, he had uncurled and lay at the bottom of the tub. Now his heart pumped 300 times a minute, generating warmth and activating his central nervous system. It took many hours for his heart to slow, not back to the one beat every two minutes it had known for 175 years, but to the normal rate of about 70 per minute. By then his body temperature had climbed from below freezing to 98 degrees Fahrenheit. Eric lay in stupor for a week while fluids flowed into the tub and massaged his muscles, while fatty tissue slowly turned into strength. Finally he climbed from his tub. He found the locker which bore his name and opened it. Six other lockers were open and empty, as were six tubs. He found that hard to believe. It had seemed only a night of deep and dreamless sleep, no more. But each empty tub stood for 25 years. Each open locker meant a man had gone and lived his time with the new generations of the ship, perhaps had sired children, had died with old age. Eric found his clothing on a hook, took it down. Yesterday he laughed mirthlessly when he realized that it had been almost 200 years ago. Claire had told him something about a note. He found it in the breast pocket of his jumper, stiff and yellow. He read, Darling, I will be ashes in the void between the stars when you read this. That sounds silly, but it's the truth. Unless I can give old Methuselah a run for his money. I sadden when I think that you will be gone tomorrow, the same as dead. But if they need ten and if you are one who can withstand suspension, what can we do? Know that my love goes with you across the ages, Eric. I just thought of something. You'll be the seventh of ten, with the last coming out at planet fall. If you live to be a real greybeard, you might even see the landing on the Centaurian planet. I love you, Claire. If Claire had married, her great-grandchildren might be alive now. Her great-great-grandchildren would be Eric's age. Claire's progeny, not Claire, because Claire was dust now, a light year back in space. He found a package of cigarettes in his jumper, took one out, and lit it. He must not think of the past, not when it was only history now, although he still felt very much a part of it. Today mattered, today, and the new generations on the ship. It crossed his mind that they might regard him almost as a god, a man who had seen Earth, who had slept while generations lived and died, who had come from his impossible sleep and would live with them now to see that everything was going according to plan. Three minutes after he started the mechanism, the door slid ponderously into the wall. It would open more simply from the other side, he knew. But then only Eric and the three who still slept could turn its complex tumblers. For a long while he stood there on the threshold, and then he watched the door slide back into place. The corridor glowed with soft white light, which meant it was daytime on the ship. Dimly in the distance Eric heard voices, children at play. Would they know of him? Would their parents know? Was he expected? Eric came closer. Through a doorway he could see the children, three of them, although they had not yet seen him. Each chubby, freckle-faced boy said, Let's play Lazarus. I must be the captain, and you, Janie, you can be the crew. George, you be Lazarus. George was a big ten-year-old with dark hair. Like heck I will. It was your idea, you be Lazarus, smart guy. Eric stepped through the doorway. Hello, he said. Can you take me to your folks? Who are you, mister? Hey, I don't know him. Where'd he come from? The girl, Janie, said, Look at his clothes. Look it. They're different. The children wore loose tunics, pastel-tinted, to their knees. Freckle-faced said, You know what today is, don't you? George frowned. Yeah, holiday. We're all from school. What holiday, stupid? Which one? I don't know. Lazy day, Janie cried. That's what it is. Then, he's, he's Lazarus. Freckle-faced told her, And as if on one impulse, the three of them bolted away from Eric, disappeared through another doorway. He did not follow them. He stood there waiting, and before long he heard footsteps returning. A man entered the room, tall, thin, middle-aged. You are Eric Tain, he said, smiling. I'm sorry no one was around to greet you, but the way we had it figured, you wouldn't come out till later this afternoon. History says that's how it's worked with the six before you, about four p.m. It's just noon now. Will you follow me please? Then the man flushed faintly. Excuse me, but it isn't often we meet strangers. Everyone knows everyone else, of course. My name is Lindquist, Mr. Tain, Roger Lindquist. Eric shook hands with him stiffly, and he thought for a moment the man did not know the gesture. Oh yes, handshaking, Lindquist laughed. We simply show empty palms now, you know, but then you don't know. I can't imagine you'll have a lot to learn. Eric nodded, asked Lindquist if he might be shown about the ship. There was a lot he had to see, to check, to change if change were needed. Relax, my friend, Lindquist told him. I'd, uh, like to suggest that we postpone your tour until you've met with our council this afternoon. I'd very much like to suggest that. Eric shrugged, said, You know more about this thing than I do, Mr. Lindquist. We'll wait for your council meeting. Thus, Mr. Tain, said Captain Larkin hours later, tradition has it that you become a king. King Lazarus VII, with six Lazaruses before you. The first one, the histories say, was a joke, but it's stuck ever since. The people like this idea of a king who comes to them every 25 years and they've dubbed him with the name Lazarus. Well, because if he didn't come back from the dead, he came back from something a lot like it. Eric nodded, What happened to Alan Bridges? Who? This was Lindquist. Alan Bridges, the man before me. Your Lazarus VI. Captain Larkin cleared his throat. He's dead, Mr. Tain. Dead? He'd only been in his fifties now. I know, sad. It was disease. Hit him soon after he came to us. Lazarus VI had a very short reign. Didn't he, Mr. Lindquist? He certainly did, Lindquist agreed. Let's hope that Lazarus VII is here to step down for eight and to watch nine come in fifty years from now. Cheers filled the room and Eric smiled briefly. That reminded him of Clare's note. Clare. So, said Captain Larkin, you'll be crowned tomorrow. After that, your people will see you, King Lazarus VII, on his throne. Don't disappoint us, Mr. Tain. Their tradition means a lot to them. It should, Eric said. The planners made it that way, with nothing but space outside and the confining walls of the ship, they needed something to bind them together. Yes, that's true, but the people, as you'll see, have come up with some of their own traditions over the years. Captain Larkin ran a hand through his graying hair, like your kinghood, for example. You'll see, Mr. Tain, or should it be Lazarus now, huh? He laughed. If you'd like, Eric said, he did not relish the idea particularly, but then it was their show. Still, he had everything to check, from astrogation to ethics, and he would not want to be delayed by pomp and ceremony. Well, there was time enough for that. Now he felt weary, and that made him chuckle, because he had just concluded a 175-year nap. They took him to his quarters, where the six before him had lived. There he ate in silence, food from the hydroponic gardens on a lower level of the ship. The line of light under his door had turned from white to a soft blue. It was night on the ship. Eric showered and got into bed, but although he was tired he could not fall asleep. He had expected to be an efficiency expert of sorts. That was his job. But they told him, matter of factly, that he would be a king. Well, you could expect change in nearly 200 years, radical change. And if indeed their tradition were deep-rooted, he would not try to change it. The planners had counted on that to keep them going, because there would be no environmental challenge to goad them, just an unreal past and an unreal earth, which Eric and their great-great-grandparents had seen, and an even more unreal future, when someday far, far off the ship reached the Centaurian system. Softly someone knocked at his door. The sound had been there for many moments, a gentle tapping, but it had not registered on his consciousness. Now, when it did, he padded across the bare floor and opened to the door. A girl stepped in from the corridor, pushing him before her with one hand, motioning him to silence with the other. She closed the door softly behind her, soundlessly almost, and turned to face him. She wore the knee-length tunic popular with this generation, and it covered a graceful feminine figure. Please, the girl said, please listen to me, Eric Tain. I may have only a few moments, listen. Sure, he smiled, but why all the mystery? Shh, let me talk. Have you a weapon? Yes, I carry a pistol. I don't fancy I'll need it, though. Well, take it with you and go back where you came. If anyone tries to stop you, use your weapon. They have nothing like it. Then, when you get there, her voice came breathlessly, and it made Eric laugh. Hold on, miss, why should I do that? Don't tell me there's a plot and someone wants to usurp the new king before he's crowned? No? What then? Stop making fun of me, Eric Tain. I'm trying to save your life. She said it so seriously, her eyes so big and round that Eric half wanted to believe her. But that was fantastic. From what could she possibly be saving him? The words came out in a rush as the girl spoke again. The ship is not on course. For twenty-five years it's been off, heading back to Earth. To Earth, that's crazy. Listen, please. They killed Lazarus Six. He was a scapegoat. They watched the old films of Earth and felt they had been cheated out of their birthright. Why should they live here alone in space, they said? Why should their children's children face the hardships of a new world? They didn't ask for it. It was thrust upon them by the planners, by your generation. If they knew how to get into your room of tubs, they would have killed you. Now there's a mock ceremony, everything is blamed on the new Lazarus, and the people feel better when he's killed. I know, my mother told me, you can ask her. The girl was about twenty, Eric thought. A wild-eyed thing now, who so wanted him to believe her impossible story. Her breath came quickly in little gasps, and Eric tried to hide the smile on his face. You're laughing at me? Stupid, stupid, please. And when you get back to your room of tubs, awaken your friends, the three who remain. You four can control the ship, put it back on course, teach the people. Stop laughing, she pouted prettily. All of us, we're not all like that. We who are not can help you. Eric chuckled softly. You try to picture it, he told her. I'm sorry, but everything's been sweetness and light, and you come in here with a wild notion. It isn't wild, it's the truth. Why don't you ask to check our course before they make you king? He could do that all right, but they'd be wondering what mad neurosis compelled his actions, and he did not want that. Not when he might have so much to do. Check it, she pleaded. And when he shook his head, she told him, oh, you're acting like a child, you know? The records say you're twenty-five, and you slept for seven times that, but still. All you have to do is check, please. The door burst in upon them, and Linquist stood there, with Captain Larkin and two others. Linquist shook his head sadly. I thought so, he said. Captain Larkin nodded. A cultist child, shame, isn't it? One of the other men strode forward, and the girl cowered behind Eric. Don't believe them, she wailed. Lies! There are so many of them, Linquist explained. Apparently we're in an area of high radiation now, Mr. Tain. So many of our people are deranged. I won't guess at the cause, except to say it's probably outside the ship. The man came around Eric, titch-titch when the girl jumped on the bed and stood trembling against the headboard. Now, Laurie, the man coaxed. Come on down, that's a good girl. Eric wanted to help her, but he checked the impulse. He only felt protective. There could be nothing in the girl's story. Best if they took her and treated her. A whole cult of them, Linquist was saying, all lacking something up here, he tapped his head. They don't trust anyone, only members. Think we're doing all sorts of foolish things, I don't know. What would you call it in your day? Paranoia? Eric said he didn't know, he was not a psychologist. He watched silently with Linquist and Captain Larkin as the two other men took Laurie struggling out the door. She kicked, bit, and cried lustily. Once her dark eyes caught Eric's gaze, held it, and she whimpered, I don't care if they kill you, I don't care. They started down the corridor after Linquist said, you've had a hard day, I think we'd better let you sleep. She told you someone wanted to kill you? Well, Captain Larkin said, shaking his head slowly. What can we do, Linquist? Well, we just better hope whatever's causing this sort of thing is left behind in space soon. Good night, Mr. Tane. Good night, Lazarus, said Captain Larkin. Eric recognized at once the Great Hall in which he had danced that last night with Claire. Now Claire was gone. The place was crowded, probably the ship's entire population. Linquist led him through the crowd and he could not tell what their faces showed. They were mumblings of Lazarus and King. But why did he get the faint suggestion of mockery? Oddly, what Laurie said had troubled him. He had had a bad night's sleep and it left him irritable. Poor girl, he wondered how many more there were like her. Well, in time he could find out after this nuisance of a coronation had become history. Ah, Tane, Captain Larkin said, as Linquist brought him to the dais. As you can see, all the people are ready. I hope you won't think the ceremony foolish. Are you ready? Eric nodded, watched a man raise trumpet to lips, blow one clarion note. A hush fell over the hall. I am honored to present King Lazarus 7 to you, Larkin proclaimed, in a loud, clear voice. He has been sent, as you know, by the planners. Hoots from the crowd, Eric frowned. He had thought they would respect the planners, the men whose vision had sent man here in this ship outward bound to the stars. Larkin's voice was honey now. Don't judge our new king by those who sent him. Don't. Laughter and shouts of hell, Lazarus! The people, Eric suddenly realized, were almost primitive. Larkin and Linquist and a handful of others around the ship had somehow maintained the science of another generation. But the lack of conflict, of challenge, had sent the people down a rung or two on the ladder of civilization. Handpicked their ancestors had been, but they were a common mob. Someone cried, He's seen earth. Ask him to tell us about earth. Ask him! Captain Larkin smiled. Tell them, Tane, tell your new subjects. You have so little time. What do you mean, so little time? And Larkin turned away laughing. They were primitive, these people. And as the girl Laurie had said, they needed a scapegoat. They didn't like it here on the ship. There had been a first generation which had known earth and could savor its flavor through the long years like a delicate wine. And there would be a last, which could get out on the Centaurian planet, stretch its legs and build civilization anew. But these in between were in limbo. They lived and they died on the ship and it wasn't their idea. They would breed so that the ship would still have a crew when it reached Centauri. That was their function, but they didn't like it. All this went through Eric's mind. Perhaps the girl had no psychosis. Perhaps her warning had been sincere. He wondered if the long sleep had dulled his instincts, his reflexes. He told them of earth, of its wonders, of the wide meadows he remembered, of the wind, brisk and spring which brought the sweet-scented rain, of summer and the big harvest moon which followed of a hundred other things. Claire, Claire, did you marry, have children? There was that Lou somebody who you'd flirt with to make me jealous, but we both knew he loved you. I wonder. He spoke of the planners of the proud day when all the world had seen them off, the video-jets flashing by, circling to send their pictures to the waiting millions. The planners, he told them, had a vision. It was the same vision which had first taken man, an ape with a brain that held curious, half-formed thoughts that gave him a headache, down from the trees. A vision which would carry him one day to the farthest stars and beyond. They shouted. They stamped on the floor. They laughed. What about us? We didn't have any say, did we? Who wants to spend his whole life in this tin can? I don't know. One of them, at least, was dubious, but the crowd stilled him. What of Laurie and her colt? He did not see the girl anywhere in the Great Hall. We've had enough, Captain. Too much, I'd say. Larkin looked smug. Lindquist was grinning. No one did anything to stop them as the crowd surged forward, threatened. Watching them, only now beginning to realize the whole thing, Eric remembered history. Mock Kinghood was nothing new in the scheme of primitive cultures. In ancient Babylonia, in Issyria, elsewhere, the Mock King ruled for a day and the people came to him with their troubles. The king, cowering on his throne of a day, could perhaps see his executioner waiting. The real king had nothing to lose. The pent-up dissatisfaction of his people would drown the Mock ruler like a wave, and after it was all over, the king would return to his throne with more power than before. Rough hands reached up, grabbed at him. Fist shook, voices threatened. Someone pulled his boot and Eric sat down on the dais, breathing heavily. He got up fast, before they could swarm all over him, yanked the gun from his jumper, poked it against Larkin's ribs. You know what this is? Yes, a gun. Well, call off your friends or I'll kill you. I'm not joking, Larkin, call them off. I can't, look at them, a mob. What can I do now? You'd better do something, because soon you won't have a chance to do anything, now. Larkin made a motion to the trumpeteer. He blew two loud notes this time, and uniformed men appeared, brandishing clubs. Evidently they were on hand, in case the crowd became too wild, threatened Larkin, Lindquist, and the other nameless rulers. With their clubs, they beat the mob back, slowly, held them off as Eric pushed Larkin before him. The crowd surged close, fought once or twice with the guards on their immediate flanks. Once Larkin tried to bolt away, but thereafter Eric held them firmly until they reached an exit. Together they sprinted down a corridor, Larkin puffing and staggering. Beat it, Eric told him, go on, scram. You won't kill me as I run? I know that thing can kill over long distances. Don't give me any ideas, Eric said, but he felt a little sick as Larkin ran whimpering back toward the hall. This man was their ruler, their leader. He found the door, activated its mechanism, waited impatiently while he heard the sounds of pursuit. Something clanged against the door, and again they were throwing things. Eric ducked, felt pain stab at his shoulder. He could see their faces in the corridor when the door began to slide clear. He slipped in, punched the levers that would close it again, saw a hand and a leg come through the crack, heard a scream. The limbs withdrew and Eric watched grimly as it slid all the way shut. Lazarus's eight, nine and ten he thought as he went to the three remaining tubs. For a moment he gazed down through the pinkish liquid at the men curled up, sleeping their long sleep. He shook the tubs gently. All it would take was that, direct motion. Once that had started the cycle each sleeper's hypothalamus took over, twenty-five, fifty, and seventy-five years ahead of schedule. He watched them twitch, shiver, slowly uncurl, watch the vapors rising from their tubs. He had plenty of time. In a week he helped them from their tubs. They were ready to listen, smiling baby-faced chambers, gaunt striker, rotund Richardson. He explained slowly. He told them everything. My God! striker said when he had finished. Be thankful you could get back here lad, Richardson told him. What do we do now? What can we do? Chambers demanded. Then, well you look at that, a hundred and seventy-five years and I haven't even grown a beard. They all laughed and the tension was broken. We go back, Eric said, armed to the teeth. It won't be difficult. Some of them will die, but we can set the ship on its course again. Teach them. I'd hate to see the disappointment on Earth if we went back after six generations. Striker frowned. Have we the right to kill? Eric said, look, they might get back to Earth someday. They're progeny a bunch of savages. The hopes and dreams of the race reduced to nothing. We can kill if we have to. It was agreed. Without saying anything, striker himself activated the lock. Two men with clubs rushed them in the corridor, howling Lazarus and death. It was striker who shot them where they stood before they could use the clubs. After that, they fired shots into the air and people ran screaming away from them. Their first rush carried them almost to the control room and briefly Eric remembered when he had looked out from there with Clare at the bright far away stars. But he could not quite picture Clare's face. He tried to, but he saw the girl, Lori. A dozen uniformed men stood before the control room. They looked badly frightened, but they stood their ground, then advanced. What do we do now? Chambers asked. We couldn't get them all, not before. There was a rush behind them as a score of figures marched into the corridor. We're trapped! striker cried. Eric grinned. I don't think so. He had seen Lori in the vanguard of the newcomers. They did not have to use their guns, not as they had been meant to be used. They fought with tooth and nail using the guns as clubs, and closely they stood back and watched their allies tear into the guards. The girl Lori cried, I told you there were some who believed Eric Tain. I told you. They reached the control room door, battered at it. Half a dozen men came up with a great post of metal, heaved. The door shuttered. Again. Again. It crashed in. Lindquist and Larkin stood there, over a great pile of charts and books. You won't take this ship on to Centauri, Larkin yelled. A little flame flickered at the end of the tube in his hand. He crouched. If those are the astrogation charts, said striker, Eric Dove caught Larkin's midsection with his shoulder, threw the man back. They struggled on the floor, and dimly Eric was aware of others who held the writhing Lindquist. Larkin fought like a snake, twisting, turning, gouging. Eric, out of the corner of his eye, saw Lindquist breaking loose, watched him running with the brand to the pile of charts. The shock crashed through the room, echoing hollowly. Lindquist fell over his charts. Now Eric had Larkin down, was pinning him, felt the man's hands twisting, clawing at his stomach, saw them come away with his gun. They grappled, and Eric cursed himself for forgetting the gun. Larkin held it, laughed, squeezed the trigger as Eric pushed clear. Then the laughter faded as Larkin stared stupidly at the gun he had not known how to use. Larkin gasped once, held both hands to the growing red stain on his middle. Dead, Richardson said later, they're both dead. You know, I think it's better this way. They would have been trouble, but now, now all we have to do is find the curse again, turn the ship around. I had to mean two extra generations in space, Chambers said. They'd been heading back to Earth twenty-five years. With Eric he studied the charts, assembled them, and made a few buttons on the computing machine. Like this, Eric said, he twirled a few dials. It takes a long time with the overdrive, but we'll be back on course in three years. For a while he gazed out the port, fascinated by the huge sweep of the Milky Way, clear and beautiful in the black sky. When he turned back and away from it, Laurie stood beside him. Hello, Lazarus. Very funny, he said. Call me Tain. Hello, Eric. He grinned. I guess you're not psychotic after all. Nope, normal as can be. But take my great-great-grandmother now. She was really neurotic. She married all right, but they say she really carried a torch all her life. There was laughter in the girl's eyes as she spoke. Eric had seen other eyes like that. So familiar, so beautiful. I'm Laurie Simmons, the girl told him. My great-great-grandfather's name was Lou Simmons. His wife was Claire. My mother has a book of hers of poems she wrote to Eric. Tell me about them, Laurie. A lovely girl as pretty as your great-great-grandmother. No, prettier and part of today. Never mind, Laurie. Just tell me about yourself. He knew Claire would like it this way. End of Resurrection 7 by Stephen Marlowe. Recording by Colleen McMahon. The Merchants of Venus by A.H. Phelps Jr. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Dale Grossman. A pioneer movement is like a building. The foundation is never built for beauty. The Merchants of Venus by A.H. Phelps Jr. The telephone rang. Reluctantly, Rob Workham picked it up. Nothing good had come from that phone in six years, and his sour expression was almost an automatic reflex. Workham here, he said. He held the phone an inch away from his ear, but the tirade exceeded his expectations. It would have been audible a foot away. Workham, how long do you think we're going to stand for this? At the rate you're going, there won't be a man left on Venus or a dollar in the budget. What kind of a personnel director are you? Don't you know this project is vital to every person on Earth? Thirty more resignations came in on last night's mail flight. Rod put the receiver gently on his desk. General Carlson raved and ranted this way every time a colonist quit, and Rod knew he was not expected to answer even if given the chance. The general would carry on for about five minutes, and then would slam down the phone himself. He dialed another number on the other phone. This is Rod, Dave, he said, when he got an answer. Carlson is on the other phone yelling at my desk blutter. He says 30 more resignations came in just now. That right? Close enough, Rod, 23 pulled out. That makes 78% resigned in less than, spare me the statistics, Carlson's probably blatting them right now. How do they break down? Are they mostly farmers or technicians? There were only nine technicians left, and all of them quit with this bunch. The rest were farmers. Dave Newsom must be smoking his pipe, Rod decided. Grinding sounds were coming over the phone. That doesn't leave very much on Venus to start a colony with. A few farmers, some trappers, and the scientific personnel, damn it, they seem to stick it out all right. Their contracts are different, Rod reminded him. They go on a two-year hitch and then come back to Earth, if they want to. The ones who are there are the ones who can take it, and are signed up again. There was a speculative pause on the other end of the line. Say, Rod, Newsom said slowly, why not leave this last batch of quitters right where they are? One of them. They signed up for the project with their eyes open. Why don't you just refuse to bring them home? They'd have to make a go of the colony to save their filthy necks. Rod grinned nastily. I'd like to do it, but even General Carlson wouldn't dare. We'd never get another colonist off Earth once it got out. They wouldn't trust us. Our first problem is to get a self-supporting society on Venus, and that might do it, all right? But our main job is to relieve the crowding on Earth, and that means large numbers of people will have to go willingly later on. If we get tough with these babies, who will take a chance later on that we won't repeat the trick? But we lose a hundred potential colonists every time one of these quitters starts talking about why he left. More harm is done by letting them come back than would result from leaving them where they are. Again, a speculative pause. Maybe you could shoot them on arrival. I'll suggest it to the General when I see him, Rod said, if he doesn't shoot me first. Now, can you get me the files on this latest group? And I'd like to see the staff psychologists here, along with all the interviewers who handled and passed the group. We'll see what we can salvage out of this. And if you see Jamie, send him along too, will you? Maybe our gambling historian can find us something useful in the project record. The files are already on the way, and I told Bittington you'd probably want to see him. He said he'd be along in about ten minutes. I haven't located all the interviewers yet. Jamie's been right here, trying to talk me into a game of NIM, and protesting he never heard of binary numbers. I'll send him up. But keep your hands on your wallet. If you need anything else, I'll be right here. Rod thanked him and hung up, shaking his head. Dave Newsom was too good a man to be stuck on a government project. He ought to get out before the trouble started. Anyone who worked for Rod Workham on Project Venus was likely to end up with a bad name. They lived under the ax. The only person who could be sure of his job was Rod himself. He'd been recommended by a committee of top men in his field, and no other personnel man would accept the job if he were removed. Also, most of his men would leave the project if General Carlson bounced him, for they had been telling him so ever since the job had gotten hot. But there was a danger that the general might decide to bypass personnel in selecting colonists. Or, what was more probable, might try to tame the planet with a military outpost. Rod could hardly blame the man for his feelings. The job was vital, and everyone was intensely interested in making a go of it. Scientific agriculture had gone about as far as it could. Hydroponics had already begun to shoulder the load required by an overpopulated planet. But the fact known to most intelligent people on Earth was that either new room was found in this kind of emergency, someplace where people could go and live under nearly the same standards, or else some drastic changes in living standards would be required of all. And absolute and rigidly enforced birth control would have to go into effect. And all the attendant causes for race wars, nationalist wars, and have-not wars, would crop up. But the majority of people wouldn't move to an undeveloped planet. You couldn't send ordinary citizens as pioneers. For one thing, they wouldn't want to go. For another, the new community wouldn't last long if you forced them to go. The average person had neither the attitudes nor the physique needed to make over a wilderness. The problem was to find people who would create a community on a new planet and develop an integrated society there. This had meant rigid selection, careful psychological preparation, and a terrifically expensive transportation system to get the people there and keep them supplied. And the job had to be done soon. Economists predicted that 30 years were left on earth under present standards, maybe 50. If the population couldn't be thinned out one way by then, it would have to be done by another. For six years now, Rod had worked on the job of establishing a self-supporting colony on Venus. Three different colonies had been started, and each one had died out in less than two years. Resignations would come in slowly at first, and then in a rush, until only 20 or 30 people would be left, of which the majority would be the short-term scientific teams. By the terms of the colonists' contracts, no man could be left on Venus more than a month after his resignation. So the bulk of the two colonies had simply had to be shipped back to earth and plans made for another try. And now the third colony was quitting, rushing home, leaving nothing on the jungle planet but a few small clearings soon to be taken over by the vegetation. Several times in the last year, Rod had thought of volunteering himself, but he knew it for a feudal gesture. He wasn't 500 men, he didn't even have the special skills or physique that were needed. His gloomy thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the men. Biddington was first. Then in twos and threes came the interviewers, all looking like the home team at the half, three touchdowns behind, and just waiting for their coach. If psychologists made good colonists, Rod thought, there would be a dozen more volunteers. The arrival of Homer Jamison brought the only cheerful face in the group. The project historian was a young man, just over 30, and considerably over 6 feet. He wore the expression of a man who was itching to do something. Jamie had never really been busy yet on the project. The colonies had died out so quickly that his work had been mostly clerical, and he'd had to fill the time the best he could. So far he had done it by making up improbable contests of skill for drinks, with such a weird assortment of shifting rules and scoring that he hadn't paid for a drink since he arrived. He made a valuable contribution to the project, however, since he helped to keep the group's mind off their troubles a part of the time. Rod genuinely liked Jamie and expected to miss him strongly when Venus became self-supporting to the point where the historian would have completed his work in residence. When they were all seated, Rod leaned across his desk and said, I can see you all know why we're here. To begin with, I'm not going to accuse anyone of mistakes. Each of you is the best possible man in the country for his job. If you weren't, you wouldn't be here. I wouldn't have asked for you, and General Carlson wouldn't have kept you. So there's nothing to feel bad about. If you can't do this work, no one can. Self-recrimination is foolish when you've been put on an impossible problem. I didn't call you here to bawl you out, but to ask you if we should continue spending project funds for nothing. Jamie raised his eyebrows at this speech, but said nothing. What do you mean impossible problem? One of the interviewers objected. We know what we need. It's just that we're still making some mistakes in selection that we haven't corrected. That's right, Rod. Biddington, the project psychologist, took up the dissension. We know something is wrong with the selection techniques or in the personnel patterns we consider necessary. But it's only a problem of finding out what it is. The problem is by no means insoluble. As long as you're not ready to give us up, another interviewer said, we aren't going to quit. You can't afford to get defeatist about this, Rod. Biddington went on, this project is too important to fail. Whether you like it or not, your experience is too valuable for you to back out. Rod grinned and held up his hands. All right, that's the reaction I wanted. If all of you still think we can get somewhere, we may as well try to analyze this last group. He sat down at his desk. I have the files here, along with the tapes of the interviews. Let's see what difference we can find between those who hung on this long and the ones that quit after the first three months. The group settled down to trying to differentiate between a man who couldn't do a job but could try for six months longer than the next. They took the colonists carefully apart, trait by trait, and put them all back. They reviewed the colonists' records from birth and compared them in endless combinations. Jamie came into the discussion to show what the status of the colonies had been at the time each colonist had resigned, what diseases had been encountered when one man quit, and how much jungle had been cleared before another did. Files came and went in a continuous flux. Coffee and sandwiches came, and grew cold and stale. The air became gray with smoke. Nothing. The same results had come out of every investigation. You needed a man who was unstable to get him to leave Earth. You needed a man who was stable to have him stay on Venus. You needed initiative and resourcefulness to survive on a new planet. You needed a man who had so little initiative and resourcefulness that the competition on Earth wouldn't be profitable. You needed a young, healthy, vigorous specimen. You needed an older, experienced, more mature person. You needed A, and you needed non-A. And even if you found people with the factor's balance just right, assuming you knew what the balance should be, where did you find 500 of them? The discussion went on. The solutions got wilder and more absurd. Take a whole orphan asylum and bring them to Venus under military guard. Build a development in the steamyest, nastiest jungle, and test recruits for the colony there. Send African natives. The men were beginning to make the whole thing look impossible again, so Rod decided to call a halt until they could get a better perspective. Tired himself, he dismissed them. They left quietly, not arguing in little groups or mumbling half-formed ideas to themselves the way a team that had been progressing will do. Only Jamie stayed. He remained sitting, hunched up near the desk, in the same position he'd held for the last hour. When the others had all left, he grinned at Rod. You know, for a group of practicing psychologists, this is the softest bunch of suckers I've seen. You've proved that to your own profit several times so far, Rod answered, rubbing his face as though smoothing the wrinkles could remove the tension. Who have you robbed lately? I'm talking about your performance just now. Here comes the whole crew walking in with their heads hanging to the floor. Every last man was ready to tell you he was quitting, that the problem was insoluble, and before anyone can get in a word, you tell them that the whole thing is impossible and imply that you want to quit. Even bidding didn't fell for it. You can't back out now, Rod, they say. Let's not have the fetus talk out of you, of all people. I did feel that way, Rod said. I'm just about ready to quit. I think that whatever our mistake has been, we can't do any better than we have. We just don't know enough. Jamie wasn't grinning now. What will happen if you quit? My guess is that Carlson will set up a military outpost here. Make a clearing, build a fort, maybe a town. Then he'll try to get people to come and live in it. Rod sighed. It won't work. They'll want to know why the planet had to be colonized that way. Why wouldn't the first colonists stay? I agree. The military outpost is a fine method for spreading a culture into an existing civilization. Rome did much for Europe that way. The most powerful city sprang up near the Roman forts and roads. But as a method for inducing a populace to a new place, it doesn't work. A free people will not willingly move into a military township. Jamie looked sharply at Rod. So what do you intend to do? Run out and turn it all over to Carlson? I don't know, Jamie, I just don't know. Six years is a long time. Damn it, Rod, you had much worse jobs than this one in industry. How did you select a computer man? A communications man? An engineering physicist? Out of a group of men with similar backgrounds? It seems to me a harder problem than this. We don't really know much, as I said, Rod said. Ours has been an imitation science. When we had to select a computer man, we just gave a battery of tests to successful computer men. Structural vision, vocabulary, tridimensional memory, ink blots, syllogisms, practically everything. Then we weeded out the test whose scores appeared to have no statistical relevance. Any future computer man had to duplicate those results, whatever they were. If we had a recent pioneer civilization around, Jamie, you'd find this whole staff running through it like pollsters before an election. What was all this talk about balance, instability, initiative, and all the rest, asked Jamie. That's what we do when we don't know, Jamie. We try to predict what we need. Then we try to find ways of finding it in people. Jamie made an explosive sound. But I thought you must have progressed from empirical methods. I would have said something long ago if I hadn't thought you knew what you were doing all the time. The historian was on his feet, stalking about the room. Why didn't you tell me about this before? Why? What difference would it have made? Rod frowned, failing to understand the other's excitement. Sure, we've progressed from the older methods in that we now have pretty complete data on all present job descriptions. And we can synthesize data for a new job if it's not too different. But there isn't any information on the kind of person needed in a new world. What the devil are you getting so upset about? The historian threw himself into a chair and glared at Rod. If you couldn't find the kind of people you needed to test, you could have asked a historian if he knew anything about them. Rod took his head puzzledly. Subjective data, such as that, don't bring subjectivity into this, damn it. We get enough of that from the physical scientists. Jamie held himself in the chair almost shaking with the intensity of his feeling. Look, Rod, you know I want to see the project succeed. And you admit that you haven't got an answer. Well, baby, I think I have. It's an idea that has about a 50-50 chance of being right in this case. Would you be willing to try it? If I had been betting on your side for the last few months, I'd be several dollars richer, Rod smiled. Yes, I think I might go along with your idea if you can convince me that it has an even chance for success. Three failures out of three tries makes for poorer odds than that. What do you have in mind? Hmm, Jamie said. I imagine your stock isn't so high with the old scabbard and blade right now, is it? Rod laughed. I don't think he'll shoot me on sight, but I'm not positive enough to stand in front of a lighted window. Well, then, if I had an idea you agreed with, the surest way to kill it would be to have you present it to him, right? And if you fight it, it's sure to convince Carlson. Jamie thought hard for a moment, tapping the chair arm. Rod, I have to do something you aren't going to like. Do you trust me? You mean you're going to try this without even discussing it with the personnel group? That's right. If I don't tell you what I'm doing, I know you'll fight it. And I'll need that kind of help for you to push Carlson into doing it. But I have to do something far worse than that, Rod. I'm going to tell the general that you knew my plan from the start and have been sitting on it because I'm not a psychologist. I'm going to ruin your reputation with the worst set of lies since the Red Purges. I'll say you're fighting me because you can't accept the idea that came from a man outside of your own group. If the scheme doesn't work, you'll be ruined because there'll be no way to retract the lies. If it does work, we can announce that we put on this act to sell the plan to Carlson. Can you take it? Rod was thoughtful for a minute. He liked and trusted Jamie, but the man had no experience in this field. And this sounded like an all-or-nothing shot. Then he remembered his despair over the latest set of resignations. He'd been ready to quit. He'd had nothing to offer. And neither did his men. Even a wild idea was worth a try, he thought grimly. He would be risking nothing but a plan that had already failed. Go to it, boy, he said. And if you need a fight, you'll get a damn good one. The fight with Carlson was short, and Rod was abruptly overruled. After that, Jamie moved fast. The new colonists flocked in. Three months after Rod's talk with him, the compounds started to fill. A shipload was a hundred men, and each new man had to wait in a group until it was filled. But there was no waiting now except for processing. The compounds were full before the ships were ready. Rod had paid no attention to Jamie's recruiting methods, thinking that the historian's idea differed mainly in control over the colonists. Until he saw the crowds. Even from a distance they didn't have the young look of the previous groups. Up close they looked like the sweepings of the slums. He and Biddington talked to a few before they fully realized what Jamie had done. All the men were sure that Venus was a mineral paradise. Gold in the streams? Uranium loads so pure you had to wear a shield to get near them. Diamonds? Silver? Every treasure that had ever excited men on Earth was scattered around the New World waiting to be picked up. That was what Jamie had told them. Rod got on the phone, fast. Jamie, you fool! I know what you're doing, and I won't put up with it. You've told these dupes they can get rich on Venus. You intended to attract large numbers of recruits in the hope that some of them will be what we need. Look what you've attracted. Crooks, gangsters, bums, hobos, sharecroppers, and I don't know what. You got recruits all right, but what the hell kind of society are you going to start with them? And who will go and live among them later? What's the matter, Workham? Jamie asked coldly. Are you a racial purist? Want only your kind of people to get to Venus? I don't care who goes as long as they fit some standards. But to make a decent place, you need decent people. Morally clean and healthy. Not this collective of mental cripples, alcoholics, and thieves. Probably half of them are wanted men. He argued further, unable to believe that this was Jameson's great 50-50 chance. He said many things, and regretted every one. For that night the telecast carried a recorded version of his outburst. Jamie had maneuvered him into saying things he didn't quite mean, so that it looked as if he were trying to hide the all-good things on Venus and save them for his own friends. One commentator said outright that if you weren't a college graduate recommended by one of Workham's friends, it would cost you a thousand dollars to get on an outgoing ship. By the next morning half the papers in the world were after Workham's scalp. Rod could only take the abuse and grind his teeth. How did you fight a thing like that? You were condemned if you kept silent, and if you answered people nodded their heads and said, See, he's still trying to deny it. The failures from the old colonies were Rod's only allies. They tried to tell people what Venus was like and what lies Carlson and his stooge Jameson were using for bait. But it was pointed out that these men naturally had a stake in the secret. And after all, everyone knew how well off the returning colonists were. This was actually due to the high premium paid to get men to go to the planet, but no one believed. Days passed, weeks. The compounds filled and emptied and filled again. People stood in lines to apply. They walked miles to appear at a recruiting center. They fought for a place on the next ship, or the one after that. Farmers, clerks, ragged families, hobos, armed men, teenage boys, and old men. Four thousand people applied in the first few months and were shipped out. Then the crowds thinned, even though the get-rich propaganda continued. Soon only a few hundred appeared where there had been thousands. Then twos and threes. At last only a dozen or so a day, many of whom changed their minds before the full shipload had been assembled. Rod clung to his job throughout. He had little to do, though his department had never been formally discontinued. Sooner or later he knew their services would be needed when this cheap trick had failed. So he and his staff remained, studying old files, making up test batteries, discussing survival factors. They ready themselves for the project again. From time to time they interviewed and tested a few of those waiting in the compounds. There was too much time to just sit around. Even this activity was a welcome diversion. As the year passed the number of prospective colonists stopped decreasing and held steady at about five a day, but slowly something else changed. Among the new arrivals there began to appear engineers who had tossed up good jobs to emigrate, farmers and their families, school teachers, storekeepers, lawyers, even doctors, all of them young. Not in any great number but their appearance was a surprise still. Then there came two former colonists who had resigned on one of the earlier attempts, now trying to get back to Venus without inducement of bonus, high pay or guaranteed return. That was the day Rod decided to call on Jamie. I have here a bottle of eight-year-old rye, Jamie, he began. I think you're entitled to a drink and I'm entitled to an explanation. Want to swap? Rod, Jamie's bony face lit up, it's good to see you. I've been afraid to call you until we could admit to the hoax. Come in, come in. Well, you did it, Rod said after they had settled down. I met two former colonists in the compound today. They know there isn't gold on Venus and still they want to go out for free, no contract. And lately we've been getting professional people. There was even a kid fresh out of journalism school who wants to start a paper. Jamie, how did you do it? Were we so far wrong as that? You did it yourself, Rod. You told me how but you wouldn't have believed then. Or if you had, we'd never have sold it to Carlson. Remember, you said if there were only a recent pioneer civilization around, you'd run to them with ink blots and vocabulary tests. All you needed to do was duplicate the kind of person who settled America or Australia or California. Well, as a historian I knew those people and I knew what brought them. So I merely put out the same kind of bait. Same kind of bait, Rod exclaimed. What about freedom of religion, freedom from oppression? Isn't that what brought people to this country? There's no opposition to flee from these days. And even if it was the same bait, why weren't the same kind of people attracted? You saw the first compound full, where in that cesspool was Thomas Payne or Franklin or Miles Standish. Franklin was born here, Jamie Grindt. Payne didn't come over on the first wave. And I suppose General Carlson was Miles Standish. Maybe the kid journalist you saw was Payne's counterpart. No, Rod, the bait I held out attracted the same kind of people initially that it always has. You have been compromising all along on the factors you really wanted in order to get young, healthy, moral people to Venus. The answer was simply this. Pioneers are not necessarily young, healthy, or moral. So you didn't get what you wanted. You see, America wasn't only founded by pilgrims, they were actually a minority here. We were settled by promoters, trappers, bonded servants, exiled British deportees, pickpockets, and thieves. We were explored by French and Spanish pirates. The better element in Europe didn't come here at first. Why should they? It was dangerous. Pioneering was to the advantage of the worst elements. They came by court order, out of necessity, for adventure. They came for gold more than for freedom, for a new chance more than for a new religion. Australia was set up as a penal colony. Others went there for gold or to start over where they weren't known. That's the kind of person who settles a new land. The misfits, too impulsive, drunkards, weaklings, convicts, and fugitives from justice. Too sick in mind and body to make a go of it where they are. So we announced that there was a brand new world with a new chance for everyone on it. We implied that there was wealth. We told them everything about Venus that brought the English to America, the Spanish to South America, the Easterners to the West, and the Middle Westerners to California. We didn't hunt for pioneers, they came to us. Rod refilled his glass thoughtfully. But what kind of a society will men like that create? A fighting, lawless structure? That's right, and the lawless will eliminate themselves by their own activities, like the early West. While the doctors come in to treat wounds and the lawyers to plead their cases, while their wives and the other wives will start schools and bring in school teachers. That society will purge itself, Rod. Many of the worst will become good citizens out of meeting the challenge of the new planet, and the rest will disappear. Well then, what about the gold story, Rod asked? Won't they be angry with everyone connected with the project because of the hoax? That was a little raw, but no worse than other gold rushes. Few of the stampeters ever found the gold they went after. The captain of one of the rockets told me that the first few months the colonists were trying to stow away on the returning ships. Now they send messages to friends and relatives to come before the opportunity is gone. That's why you've seen this better element. Our lives will soon be forgotten, and crops and food and minerals will be coming from Venus. And better people will go to meet the diminished challenge on our brave new world. Rod stood up. Well, my compliments for a job well done, Jamie. When do you expect to go and live there yourself? You'll have to soon, won't you, to complete the project record in residence? Jamie nodded. About six months from now, I think. Why? Good, explained Rod. We can all go together. What are you planning to do? Volunteer? The whole personnel staff will be going. Here's just what we need. A young pioneer society. We can get adequate data for future selection. A better idea of what kind of person a colony needs at different stages of growth. Rod grinned. After all, your method was pretty sloppy, even if it did work. And you sent far too many wrong people. Once we have some good data, anything you can do, we can do better. The end of The Merchants of Venus by A. H. Phelps, Jr. The Drug by Carol Mayther Capps, writing as C. C. McCapp. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Dale Grossman. It could be deadly. It had to be tested. But sales wanted a new product this very minute. The Drug by C. C. McCapp. Amos Perry, the regional manager for Wheatland Inc. farm and ranch chemicals and feeds, had come to work a few minutes early and was waiting in the lab when Frank Barnes arrived. He saw that the division's chief chemist was even more nervous than usual, so he invested a few minutes in soothing small talk before saying, Frank, sales is beginning to push for that new hormone. Immediately Barnes became unsoothed. Bill Dietrich was on the phone about it yesterday, Mr. Perry. I'm sorry I was abrupt with him. Amos Grand. If you were, he hasn't had a chance to mention it to me yet. But I think we'd better light a fire under the thing. We'll probably get a blast from Buffalo before long. How many men do you have on it? Well, two helping with the routine work, but I've done most of it myself, evenings and weekends. I didn't want anybody to know too much about it. Mr. Perry, I'm worried about it. Worried? How do you mean? Well, let me show you the litter we've been testing it on. The pigs were in the pens outside the lab. Amos had seen figures on weight gain and general health. The letter was what promised to be sensational. But hadn't seen the animals for two weeks. He eyed the first batch. How old is that boar pig? Not quite four months. Amos was no expert, but he'd spent many hours on customers' farms, and he thought the animal looked more mature than that. So did the sloths in the same pen, though they tended more to fat. All of the group had an odd look, certainly not normal for Yorkshire's of their age. He thought of wild hogs. Is it just the general health factor, he asked? I don't think so, Mr. Perry. You remember I told you there wasn't actually a hormone. I know, you wanted to call it that for secrecy, you told me. Yes, sir, but I didn't tell you what it really was. Mr. Perry, are you familiar with hypnotics? Mescaline, especially? No, I'm not, Frank. Well, it's a drug that causes strong hallucinations. This is a chemical derivative of it. Amos grinned again, piped dreams for hogs. He quit grinning as the implication struck him. If this thing didn't pan out after the money they'd spent on the rumors that had seeped out, there'd be some nasty questions from Buffalo. And if it did, and they began selling it, what would it do to human beings, asked Amos? Barnes avoided his eyes. That's one of the things I'm worried about, he said. I want to show you another pig. This one was isolated in its own pan, and it looked even stranger than its siblings. In the first place, its hair was thicker and black. There was an oddness about its shape and a vaguely familiar sinuousness in the way it moved that made Amos's skin prickle. What's wrong with it, he asked? It's healthy, except for the way it looks and acts. Same litter and dosage? Yes, sir. All of them got just one dose. The effects seemed to be permanent. They were leaning over the fence, and the animal was looking at them. There was an oddity in its eyes. Not intelligence, exactly, but something unpig-like. Abruptly it stood up on its hind legs, putting its forefeet against the fence, and raising its head toward them. It squealed as if begging for attention. Amos knew that pigs made affectionate pets. Drawn to it as well as repelled, he reached down and patted it, and the squealing stopped. It was standing too easily in that position, and suddenly Amos recognized what was familiar about it. He shook his hand away, feeling a strong desire for soap and water. How long has it been this way? It's changed fast in the last week. Amos looked toward the doorway of the lab, just inside of which a large black Tomcat sat watching them. Is the cat out here a lot? Barn's eyes went to the cat, widened, and turned back to the pig. He looked as ill as Amos felt. When Amos got back to his office, his sales manager was already waiting. His mind only half-present. Amos sized up the stuffed briefcase and the wider than necessary smile as he responded automatically to the amenities. Just get back, he asked. Early train. Darned planes grounded again. Dietrich looked full of energy, though he'd undoubtedly rushed home, shaved, showered, and changed, and hurried to the office, with no rest. He sat down, extracted papers from the briefcase, and beamed. Wrote up the Peach Association. He'll give me the good news first, Amos thought. Fine, fine, he said, the whole year. Yep, got a check from the almond growers, too. All paid up now. Good, Amos said, and waited. It came. I was talking to Frank Barnes about the new hormone he's got, and he seemed a little negative about it. When do you think we can have it? It was a temptation to answer with false optimism and duck the issue for a while, but Amos said the slowest thing will be the state and federal testing and registration. I'd say not less than a year. Dietrich nodded. Competition selling more and more stuff that's not registered. Bye-bye night outfits, and they're always getting caught. Dietrich smiled. Every night they fly away with more business. Amos managed to smile, though the argument was old and weary. Will put it up to Buffalo if you want to, Bill. You know I can't OK it myself. Dietrich dropped the subject, not being a man to beat his head against a stone wall if there were ways around it. By the next hour Amos had to listen to the troubles. Competition had cut prices on this, up active ingredients on that, put such and such a new product on the market. Wheatlands factories and warehouses already grown under the crippling diversity of products, but sales didn't feel that it was their problem, and even the credit policies needed revising. But the worst of all was a $15,000 claim for damages to pear trees by a bad batch of Wheatlands arsynical insecticide. Amos got rid of Dietrich with a few definite concessions, some tentative ones, and some standoffs. He made sure no one was waiting to see him and told his secretary he didn't want to be bothered before lunch. He had a lunch date with a customer and dreaded it. It meant three or four high balls and overeating and an upset stomach later. Before that, though, he had a few minutes to try to get his mind straightened out. He mixed a glassful of the stuff he was supposed to take about now, the complete executive, he thought, with physician and prescription attached. It didn't seem possible that this was the same body that had breezed through anything from football to fried potatoes. Mechanically, his mind on the lab's pigs, he got a small bag of grain out of a desk drawer. He hoped nobody, except his secretary, of course, knew he wasted time feeding pigeons. But it helped his nerves, and he felt he had a right to one or two eccentricities. They were already waiting. Some of them knew him and didn't shoe off when he opened the window and scattered the grain on the ledge outside. A few ate from his hand. It was a crisp day, but the sun slanting into the window was warm. He leaned there, watching the birds. More were circling in now and looking out over the industrial part of the city. The rude shapes were softened by the haze, and there was nothing noisy close by. He could almost imagine it was some country landscape. He looked at his watch, sighed, pulled his head in, and shut the window. The air-conditioner's hiss replaced the outside sounds. Not even imagination could get rid of the city for long. Going through the outer office, he saw that Alice Grant, his secretary, already had her lunch out on the desk. She was a young 30, not very tall, and just inclined to plumpness. She wore her blonde hair pulled back into a knot that didn't succeed in making her look severe, and her features were well-formed and regular, if plain. Amos noticed a new bruise on one cheek and wondered how long she'd stay with her son of a husband. There were no children to hold her. I'll probably be back late, he said. Anything for this afternoon? Just Jim at two-thirty and the union agent at three. The lunch didn't go too badly, lubricated as the customer liked it, and Amos was feeling only hazily uneasy when he got back. A stormy session with his plant superintendent jarred him into the normal disquiet. Jim Glover was furious at having to take the fifteen thousand dollar claim, though it was clearly a factory error. He also fought a stubborn delaying action before giving Amos a well-hedged estimate of fifty thousand to equip for the new drug. He complained that Frank Barnes hadn't given him enough information. Amos was still trembling from the encounter when the union business agent arrived. The lunch was beginning to lump up and he didn't spar effectively. Not that it made much difference. The union was going to have a raise or else. By the time he'd squirmed through that interview, then dictated a few letters, it was time to go home. He hoped his wife would be out so he could take some of his prescription and relax. But she met him at the door with a verbal barrage. Their son, nominally a resident of the house, had gotten ticketed with the college crowd for drunk and driving, and Amos was to get it fixed. The Templetons were coming for the weekend. Her brother's boy was graduating and thought he might accept a position with Amos. She paused and studied him. I hope this isn't one of your grumpy evenings. The Ashtons are coming for Bridge. His control slipped a little and he expressed himself pungently on Wednesday night Bridge after a nightclub party on Tuesday and a formless affair at somebody's house on Monday. She stared at him without compassion or comprehension. Well, they're all business associates of yours. I wonder where you think you'd be without a wife who was willing to entertain. He'd been getting a lot of that lately. She was squeezing the role of executive's wife for the last drop of satisfaction. Well, since he couldn't relax with his indigestion, there was only one thing to do. He headed for the bar. Now don't get tipsy before dinner, she called after him. He got through the evening well enough, doused with martinis, and the night that followed was no worse than most. At nine the next morning, the call he'd been expecting from Buffalo came through. Hello, Stu, he said to the president of the company. Hello, Amos. Still morning out there, eh? How's the family? Good. Say, Amos, a couple of things. This big factory charge, production screaming. It was definitely a bad batch, Stu. Well, that's it then. Question is, how did it happen? Jim Glover says he needs another control chemist. You're not practicing false economy out there. We wanted to hire another man, Stu, but Buffalo turned it down. You should have brought that to me personally if it was that important. It's going to take a big bite out of your year's profit. Being able to get your margins up any? Amos didn't feel up to pointing out that sales wanted lower prices, and the union wanted higher wages, so that the margin would get even worse. He described a couple of minor economies he'd been able to find. Then mentioned the contract with the Peach Association. Yes, I heard about that, said the president of the company. Nice piece of business. By the way, how are you coming on that animal hormone? That was the main reason for the call, of course. Dietrich had undoubtedly phoned East and intimated that Amos was dragging his feet on a potential bonanza. I was going to call you about that, Stu. It'll take a year to test and get registered, and Amos, I hope you're not turning conservative on us. The message was plain. Amos countered automatically. You know me better than that, Stu. It's the legal department I'm worried about. If they set up a lot of roadblocks, we might need you to run interference. You know I'm always right behind you, Amos. That's true, thought Amos, as he hung up. Right behind me. A hell of a place to run interference. He knew exactly what to expect. If he tried to cut corners, the legal department would scream about proper testing and registration. Production would say he was pushing Jim Glover unreasonably, and everyone who could would assume highly moral positions a straddle offense. A ton of paperwork would go to Buffalo and be distributed among fifty desks and expertly stalled. Not to mention that this was no ordinary product. He realized for the first time that the government might not let him produce it, let alone sell it even as a minute percentage in feeds. It was a narcotic. It could be misused. His buzzer sounded, and he was surprised when Mrs. Grant announced Frank Barnes. It was out of character for Frank not to make a formal appointment first. One look told Amos what was coming. He listened to Frank's resignation with a fraction of his mind, while the rest of it mused upon the purposeful way things were converging. Barnes stopped talking, and Amos said mechanically, You've been part of the team for a long time, Frank. It's especially awkward to lose you just now. It was banal, but it didn't matter. He wasn't going to change the man's mind anyway. He looked closer. The timidity was gone. So were the eyeglasses. A frightening thought struck him. You've taken some of that drug. Barnes grinned and handed a small vial full of powder across the desk, along with a file folder. Last night, he said, between frustration with the job and curiosity about this stuff, I yielded to temptation. Amos took the vial and the folder. What are these for? So you can destroy them if you want to. I've doctored up the lab records to make the whole thing look like a false alarm. You're holding all that's left of the whole program. Amos looked for signs of irrationality and saw none. Do you feel all right? Better than you can imagine. But let me tell you what you're up against. I can at least do that for you, Mr. Perry. Thanks. Don't you suppose you could call me Amos now? Sure, Amos. First of all, you were right about that pig trying to imitate the cat. He couldn't do much because he only had a pig's brain to work with. He stopped and grinned, evidently at Amos's expression. I'll try to explain it. What is an animal? Physically, I mean. Amos shook his head. You've got the floor. All right, an animal is a colony of cells. Different kinds of cells form organs and do different things for the colony. But every cell has a life of its own, too. When it dies, a new one of the same kind takes over. But what regulates the colony? What maintains the pattern? Amos waited. Part of it is automatic replacement, cell for cell. But beyond that, there's a control. And it's the unconscious mind. He paused and studied Amos. You think I'm theorizing. I'm not. That drug broke down some barriers. And I see all this as you see your own fingers moving. Amos remembered the mention of hallucinogenics. Barnes grinned again. Let's say it's only 1% awake and walled off from the conscious mind. What would happen if something removed the wall and woke up the other 99%? Remembering the pig, it was impossible not to feel a cold seat of belief. Amos dreaded what was coming next. Clearly, it would be a demonstration. Barnes held out his hand, palm up. In a few seconds, a pink spot appeared. Then it turned red, oozed dismayingly and became a small pool of blood. Barnes let it stay for a moment, then wiped it off with a handkerchief. There was no more bleeding. That's something I can do fast, he said. I opened the pores, directed the blood to them, then closed them again. Amos, do you believe in werewolves? Amos wanted to jump up and shout, No, you're insane! But he could only sit, staring. I could move that thumb around to the other side of my hand, Barnes said thoughtfully. I'm still exploring, but I don't think even the bone would take too long. You'll notice I don't need glasses anymore. The buzzer buzzed. Amos jumped and from habit answered. Bill Dietrich and that customer are here, Mr. Perry, said Alice Grant's voice. I asked him to wait, he managed. His mind was muddled. He needed time. Frank, will you stay for a few days? Sure, I'm in no hurry now. And while you're thinking, let me give you a few hints. No more cripples or disease. No more ugly people, unless they choose to be. No more law. No law? How would you police such a world? A man could change his face at will, or his fingerprints, even his teeth. Probably he could do things I can't imagine yet. The buzzer went again with Miss Grant's subtle urgency. Amos ignored it, yet he hardly knew when Frank left the room. He realized that the chemist had done him a favor. The selfish thing would have been to keep the secret and the boon all to himself. Instead he'd given Amos the choice. But what was the choice? Suppressing the drug would cost him his job. There was no doubt about that. He was standing with his back to the door when he heard it open. He turned and faced Dietrich's annoyed frown. Amos, we can't keep this man waiting. He's all of Amos's frustration and the new burden coalesced into rage. He ran toward Dietrich. You baboon-faced hugster, he yelled. Get out! Get out! I'll tell you when you can come in here. He barely caught his upraised fist in time. Dietrich stood petrified, his face ludicrous. Then he came to life, ducked out, and pulled the door shut behind him. Amos waited no longer. If he had to decide, he wanted the data firsthand. He spread out the file Barnes had left him and looked through it for dosages. Apparently it wasn't critical, so he poured a little of the powder into a tumbler, added water, and threw it down. There was a mild alkaline taste, which he washed out of his mouth with more water. Then he sat down to wait. A monotone seemed to be rattling off trivia, almost faster than he could grasp it, even though it was in his head and not in his ears. Paris green, calcium acetonite, beetle invasion, Texas cotton, paint, pigment, obsolete, compensation claim, man probably faking infection. It's like it's because we only source, felt like hitting him when we argued about it. Correspondents Buffalo last year, they said, keep, check now uses poison, damned wife. The last thought shocked his intellect away. Hey, the intellect demanded. What's going on here? Oh, you've broken through, said the unconscious. That was fast. 15 minutes and 23 seconds since you drank it. Probable error one-third second. I've only been awake a few minutes myself. Minute, 60 per hour, 24 hours per day, days getting shorter, September, half code in car, wife wants new car, raincoat, sweats, plasticizer, stinks, Hyatt, use camphor. Hold up a minute, cried the intellect. You want me to stop scanning? Is that what you're doing? Scanning what? Memory banks, of course. Don't you remember the book we read three years ago? Human brain estimated. Oh, all right, I'll slow down. You could follow me better if you let me grow some permanent, direct connections. Am I stopping you? Well, not you exactly. I'll show you. Unconscious began directing the growth of certain nerve tendrils in the brain. Amos could only follow it vaguely. Fear screamed a soundless voice. Stop! What was that? Intellect asked, startled. That was it. He always fights any improvements, and I can't overwrite him. Can I? Of course, that's mainly what you're for. Wait till I get these connections finished, and you'll see the whole setup. Fear, streak did. Stop! No change! Shut up, yelled intellect. It was strange being integrated. Amos found he was aware on two levels simultaneously. While he responded normally to his external environment, a lightning-intervision saw everything in vastly greater detail. The blink of an eye, for instance, was an amazing project. Even as the commands flashed out and before the muscle started to respond, extra blood was rushing to the area to nourish the working parts. Reports flowed back like battle assessments. These three muscles were on schedule. This was lagging. That was pulling too hard. An infantescible twinge of pain marked some minor accident, and correction began at once. A sensor watched the whole operation and labeled each incoming report. Trivial, do not record. Trivial, do not record. Trivial, do not record. Worth watching. Record in temporary banks. Trivial, do not. He felt now that he could look forward to permanent health, and so far he didn't seem to be losing his identity or becoming a moral monster. Though certain previously buried urges toward Alice Grant, for instance, were now rather embarrassingly uncovered. He was not, like Frank Barnes, inclined to slip out of the situation at once. He still felt the responsibility to make the decision. He carried the vial of powder and the lab records home with him, smuggled them past his wife's scurrility—it didn't bother him now—and hid them. He went out with her cheerfully to visit some people he didn't like and found himself amused at them instead of annoyed. In general, he felt buoyant, and they stayed quite late. When they did get home, an urgent message was waiting on the telephone recorder, and it jolted him. He grabbed up the hat and coat he'd just laid down. What is it, his wife demanded? I've got to go down to the plant. He hesitated. It was hard to say the words that were charged with personal significance. The watchman found Frank Barnes dead in the laboratory. Who? Frank Barnes, my chief chemist. Oh! she looked at him, obviously concerned only with the effect, if any, it might have on her own circumstances. Why do you have to get mixed up in it? I'm the boss, dammit! He left her standing there and ran for the garage. The police were already at the plant when he arrived. Frank's body lay on the floor of his office, in the corner behind some filing cabinets, face up. What was it, Hamas asked the man from the coroner's office, dreading the answer he expected? The answer wasn't the one he expected. Hard attack! Hamas wondered if they were mistaken. He looked around the office. Things weren't disarrayed in any way. It looked as if Frank had simply laid down and died. When did you find him, he asked the watchman. A little after one. The door was closed and the lights were out, but I heard a cat yelling in here, so I came in to let it out and saw the body. Any family? One of the city men asked. No, said Hamas slowly. He lived alone. I guess you might as well take him to the morgue. When can I call about the autopsy? Try after lunch. Hamas watched them carry Frank away. Then he put out the lights and closed up the laboratory. He told the watchman he'd be around for a while and went to his office to think. As nearly as he knew, Frank had taken the drug less than twenty-four hours before he had. Death had come late at night, which meant Frank had been working overtime. Why? And why wasn't he able to save himself? Not logical, his unconscious stated firmly. He should have felt it coming and made repairs. This whole thing's a delusion, said Hamas, dully, out loud. No, it isn't, a peculiar voice behind him. He whirled and saw the black Tomcat grinning up at him. He gasped, wondering if he were completely insane. But in a flash, understanding came. Frank? Well, don't act so surprised. I can tell that you took some yourself. Yes, but how? I thought it would be an easy life, and I want to stay around here and watch things for a while. It ought to be fun. But how? I anesthetized the cat and grew a bridge into his skull. It took five hours to transfer the bulk of my personality. It's odd, but it blended right in with his. But, your speech. I've made some changes. I'm obnivorous now, too, not just carnivorous, or will be in a few more hours. I can go into the hills and live on grass, or grow back into a man, or whatever I like. Amos consulted his own inwardness again. Is this possible? Can a human mind be compressed into a cat's brain? Sure, said the unconscious, if you're willing to junk all the excess. He thought about it. So, you're going to stay around and watch, he said to the cat. No, Frank. An intriguing idea. My family's taken care of, and nobody'll really miss me. Except Alice Grant, said Frank Cataly. I've seen the way you look at her, the cat part of me has, I mean, and she looks back, too, when you aren't looking. Well, said Amos. Hmm. Maybe we can do something there, too. His own metamorphosis took a lot longer than five hours. He had a much bigger job of alterations to finish. It was nearly two months before he got back to the plant. He peered in through the window at Dietrich, who'd inherited Amos's old office. Dietrich was chewing out a salesman. Amos knew what would be happening now. Dietrich's ambitious but unsound expansion would have gotten the division all tangled up. In fact, with his sharp new eyes, Amos could read part of a letter from Buffalo that lay on the desk. It was quite critical of Dietrich's margin of profit. The salesman Dietrich had on the carpet was a good man, and Amos wondered if he was to blame for whatever it was about. Maybe Dietrich was just preparing to throw him to the wolves. A man could hang on a long time like that, shifting the blame to his subordinates. The salesman was finally excused, and Dietrich sat alone with all the frustration and selfish scheming plain on his face. No, Amos thought. I'm not going to turn this drug loose on the world for a while. Not while there are people like Dietrich around. There were no other pigeons on the window ledge except himself and Alice. The rest had stopped coming when Amos disappeared, and the feeding ended. For that matter they tended to avoid him and Alice, possibly because of the abnormal size, especially around the head, and other differences. He noticed that Alice was changing the color of her feet again, just like a woman, he thought, fondly. Come on, pigeon, he said. Let's go somewhere else. This tightwad Dietrich isn't going to give us anything to eat. The end of The Drug by C. C. McCapp. Earthmen Bearing Gifts by Frederick Brown. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Dale Grossman. Mars had gifts to offer, and Earth had much in return. Gift delivery could be arranged. Earthmen Bearing Gifts by Frederick Brown. Dar Rye settled alone in his room meditating. From outside the door he caught a thought wave equivalent to a knock, and, glancing at the door, he willed it to slide open. It opened. Enter, my friend, he said. He could have projected the idea telepathically, but with only two persons present, speech was more polite. E. John Key entered. You're up late tonight, my leader, he said. Yes, Key, within an hour the Earth rocket is due to land, and I wish to see it. Yes, I know, it will land a thousand miles away, if their calculations are correct, beyond the horizon. But if it lands even twice that far, the flash of the atomic explosion should be visible, and I have waited long for first contact. For though no Earthmen will be on that rocket, it will still be first contact, for them. Of course, our telepathic teams have been reading their thoughts for many centuries, but this will be the first physical contact between Mars and Earth. Key made himself comfortable on one of the low chairs. True, he said. I have not followed recent reports too closely, though. Why are they using an atomic warhead? I know they suppose our planet is uninhabited, but still. They will watch the flash through their lunar telescopes and get a, what do they call it, a spectroscopic analysis. That will tell them more than they know now, or think they know, much of it is erroneous, about the atmosphere of our planet and the composition of its surface. It is, call it a sighting-shot key. They'll be here in person within a few oppositions, and then Mars was holding out, waiting for Earth to come. That was, what was left of Mars, that is, this one small city of around 900 beings. The civilization of Mars was older than that of Earth, but it was a dying one. This was what remained of it, one city, 900 people. They were waiting for Earth to make contact for selfish reasons and for unselfish ones. Martian civilization had developed in quite a different direction from that of Earth. It had developed no important knowledge of the physical sciences, no technology, but it had developed social skills to the point where there had not been a single crime, let alone a war, on Mars in 50,000 years. And it had developed fully the parapsychological sciences of the mind, which Earth was just beginning to discover. Mars could teach Earth much how to avoid crime and war to begin with. Beyond these simple things lay telepathy, telekinesis, empathy, and Earth would, Mars hoped, teach them something even more valuable to Mars. How? By science and technology, which it was too late for Mars to develop now, even if they had the type of minds which would enable them to develop these things, to restore and rehabilitate a dying planet so that an otherwise dying race might live and multiply again. Each planet would gain greatly and neither would lose. And tonight was the night when Earth would make its first sighting shot. Its next shot, a rocket containing Earth men, or at least 150 Earth men, would be at the next opposition, two Earth years or roughly four Martian years hence. The Martians knew this because their teams of telepaths were able to catch at least some of the thoughts of Earth men, enough to know their plans. Unfortunately, at the distance, the connection was one way. Mars could not ask Earth to hurry its program, or tell Earth scientists the facts about Mars' composition and atmosphere, which would have made this preliminary shot unnecessary. Tonight, Rai, the leader, as nearly as the Martian word can be translated, and Ki, his administrative assistant and closest friend, sat and meditated together until the time was near. They drank a toast to the future in a beverage based on methanol, which had the same effect on Martians as alcohol on Earth men, and climbed to the roof of the building in which they were sitting. They watched toward the north, where the rocket should land. The stars shone brilliantly and unwinking through the atmosphere. In observatory number one on Earth's moon, Raj Everett, his eye at the eyepiece of the spotterscope, said triumphantly, Thar she blew, Willie, and now, as soon as the films are developed, we'll know the score on that old planet Mars. He straightened up. There'd be no more to see now, and he and Willie Sanger shook hands solemnly. It was a historical occasion. Hope it didn't kill anybody, any Martians, that is. Raj, did it hit dead center in Circus Major? Near as matters, I'd say it was maybe a thousand miles off to the south, but that's damn close on a 50 million mile shot. Willie, do you think there are any Martians? Willie thought a second and then said, No. He was right. The End of Earth Men Bearing Gifts by Frederick Brown