 The Sargasso of Space by Edmund Hamilton. Reading by Greg Marguerite. The Sargasso of Space by Edmund Hamilton. Helpless. Doomed. Into the graveyard of Space floats the wrecked freighter palace. Captain Crane faced his crew calmly. We may as well face the facts, men, he said. The ship's fuel tanks are empty and we are drifting through space toward the dead area. The twenty odd officers and men gathered on the middle deck of the freighter palace made no answer, and Crane continued. We left Jupiter with full tanks, more than enough fuel to take us to Neptune. But the leaks in the starboard tanks lost us half our supply, and we had used the other half before discovering that. Since the ship's rocket tubes cannot operate without fuel, we are simply drifting. We would drift on to Neptune if the attraction of Uranus were not pulling us to the right. That attraction alters our course so that in three ship days we shall drift into the dead area. Rance Kent, first officer of the palace, asked a question. We raised Neptune with the radio, sir, and have them send out a fuel ship in time to reach us? It's impossible, Mr. Kent, Crane answered. Our main radio is dead without fuel to run its dynamotors, and our auxiliary set hasn't the power to reach Neptune. Why not abandon ship in the spacesuits, asked Liggett, the second officer, and trust to the chance of some ship picking us up? The captain shook his head. It would be quite useless, for we'd simply drift on through space with the ship into the dead area. The score of members of the crew bronzed space sailors out of every port in the solar system had listened mutely. Now one of them, a tall tube man, stepped forward a little. Just—what is the dead area, sir? He asked. I've heard of it, but as this is my first outer planet voyage I know nothing about it. I'll admit, I know little more, said Liggett, save that a good many disabled ships have drifted into it and have never come out. The dead area, Crane told them, is a region of space ninety thousand miles across, within Neptune's orbit, in which the ordinary gravitational attractions of the solar system are dead. This is because in that region the pulls of the sun and the outer planets exactly balance each other. Because of that, anything in the dead area will stay in there until time ends, unless it has power of its own. Many wrecked spaceships have drifted into it at one time or another, none ever emerging, and it's believed that there is a great mass of wrecks somewhere in the area drawn and held together by mutual attraction, and we're drifting in to join them, Kent said. Some prospect. Then there's really no chance for us, asked Liggett keenly. Captain Crane thought. As I see it very little, he admitted, if our auxiliary radio can reach some nearby ship before the palace enters the dead area, we'll have a chance. But it seems a remote one. He addressed himself to the men. I have laid the situation frankly before you because I consider you entitled to the truth. You must remember, however, that while there is life, there is hope. There will be no change in ship routine, and the customary watches will be kept. Half rations of food and water will be the rule from now on, though. That is all. As the men moved silently off, the captain looked after them with something of pride. They're taking it like men, he told Kent in Ligget. It's a pity there's no way out for them and us. If the palace does enter the dead area and join the wreck-pack, Liggett said, how long will we be able to live? Probably for some months on our present condensed air and food supplies, Crane answered. I would prefer myself a quicker end. So would I, said Kent. Well there's nothing left but to pray for some kind of ship to cross our path in the next day or two. Kent's prayers were not answered in the next ship-day, nor in the next. For though one of the palace's radio-operators was constantly at the instruments under Captain Crane's orders, the weak calls of the auxiliary set raised no response. Had they been on the Venus or Mars run, Kent told himself there would be some chance, but out here in the vast spaces between the outer planets, ships were fewer and farther between. The big cigar-shaped freighter drifted helplessly on in a broad curve toward the dreaded area, the green light-spec of Neptune swinging to their left. On the third ship-day Kent and Captain Crane stood in the pilot-house behind Liggett, who sat at the now useless rocket-tube controls. Their eyes were on the big glass screen of the gravograph. The black dot on it that represented their ship was crawling steadily toward the bright red circle that stood for the dead area. They watched silently until the dot had crawled over the circle's red line heading toward its center. Well, we're in at last, Kent commented. There seems to be no change in anything, either. Crane pointed to the instrument panel. Look at the gravitometers. Kent did. All dead. No gravitational pull from any direction. No. That one shows a slight attraction from ahead. The gravitational attraction of some sort does exist in the dead area after all, Liggett exclaimed. You don't understand, said Crane. That attraction from ahead is the pull of the wreck-pack at the dead area's center. And it's pulling the palace toward it, Kent exclaimed. Crane nodded. We'll probably reach the wreck-pack in two more ship-days. The next two ship-days seemed to Kent drawn out endlessly. A moody silence had grown up upon the officers and men of the ship. All seemed depressed by the strange forces of fate that had seized the ship and were carrying it smoothly and soundlessly into this region of irrevocable doom. The radio operator's vain calls had ceased. The palace drifted on into the dreaded area like some dumb ship laden with damned souls. It drifted on, Kent told himself, as many erect and disabled ship had done before it, the ordinary activities and life of the solar system forever behind it, and mystery and death ahead. It was toward the end of the second of those two ship-days that Liggett's voice came down from the pilot-house. Rack-pack in sight ahead. We've arrived anyway, Kent cried, as he and Crane hastened up into the pilot-house. The crew was running to the deck windows. Right ahead there, about fifteen degrees left, Liggett told Kent and Crane, pointing. Do you see it? Kent stared, nodded. The wreck-pack was a distant disc-like mass against the star-flecked heavens, a mass that glinted here and there in the feeble sunlight of space. It did not seem large, but as they drifted steadily closer in the next hours they saw that in reality the wreck-pack was tremendous, measuring at least fifty miles across. Its huge mass was a heterogeneous heap composed mostly of countless cigar-like spaceships in all stages of wreckage. One appeared smashed, almost out of all recognizable shape, while others were to all appearances unharmed. They floated together in this dense mass in space, crowded against one another by their mutual attraction. There seemed to be among them every type of ship known in the solar system, from small swift mailboats to big freighters. And as they drifted nearer the three in the pilot-house could see that around and between the ships of the wreck-pack floated much other matter—fragments of wreckage, meteors, small and large, and space debris of every sort. The palace was drifting, not straight toward the wreck-pack, but in a course that promised to take the ship past it. We're not heading into the wreck-pack, Liget exclaimed. Maybe we'll drift past it and on out the dead areas other side. Captain Crane smiled mirthlessly. You're forgetting your space-mechanics, Liget. We will drift along the wreck-pack's edge, and then we will curve in and go around it in a closing spiral until we reach its edge. Lord, who'd have thought there were so many wrecks here, Kent Marvel? There must be thousands of them. They've been collecting here ever since the first interplanetary rocket-ships went forth, Crane reminded him. Not only meteor-wrecked ships, but ships whose mechanisms went wrong or that ran out of fuel like ours, or that were captured and sacked and then set adrift by space pirates. The palace by then was drifting along the wreck-pack's rim at a half-mile distance, and Kent's eyes were running over the mass. Some of those ships look entirely undamaged. Why couldn't we find one that has fuel in its tanks transfer it to our own tanks and get away, he asked. Crane's eyes lit. Kent, that's a real chance. There must be some ships in that pack with fuel in them, and we can use the spacesuits to explore for them. Look! We're beginning to curve in around the pack now, Liget exclaimed. The palace, as though loath to pass the wreck-pack, was curving inward to follow its rim. In the next hours it continued to sail slowly around the great pack, approaching closer and closer to its edge. In those hours Kent and Crane and all in the ship watched with a fascinated interest that even knowledge of their own peril could not kill. They could see swift-line passenger ships of the Pluto and Neptune runs, shouldering against small space-yachts with the insignia of Mars or Venus on their bowels. Wrecked freighters from Saturn or Earth floated beside rotund grain-boats from Jupiter. The debris among the pack's wrecks was just as varied, holding fragments of metal, dark meteors of differing size, and many human bodies. Among these were some clad in the insulated spacesuits with their transparent glass-eyed helmets. Kent wondered what wreck they had abandoned hastily in those suits, only to be swept with it into the dead area to die in their suits. By the end of that ship-day the palace, having floated almost completely around the wreck-pack, finally struck the wrecks at its edge with a jarring shock, then bobbled for a while and lay still. From pilot-house and deck-windows the men looked eagerly forth. Their ship floated at the wreck-pack's edge, directly to its right floated a sleek shining Uranus-Jupiter passenger ship whose bowels had been smashed in by a meteor. On their left bobbed an unmarked freighter of the old type with projecting rocket-tubes apparently intact. Beyond them in the wreck-pack lay another Uranus-craft, a freighter, and beyond it stretched the countless other wrecks. Captain Crane summoned the crew together again on the middle deck. Men, we've reached the wreck-pack at the dead area's center and here we'll stay until the end of time unless we get out under our own power. Mr. Kent has suggested a possible way of doing so, which I consider highly feasible. He has suggested that in some of the ships in the wreck-pack may be found enough fuel to enable us to escape from the dead area once it is transferred to this ship. I am going to permit him to explore the wreck-pack with a party in spacesuits and I'm asking for volunteers for this service. The entire crew stepped quickly forward. Crane smiled. Twelve of you will be enough, he told them. The eight tube men and four of the cargo men will go therefore with Mr. Kent and Mr. Liggett as leaders. Mr. Kent, you may address the men if you wish. Get down to the lower airlock and into your spacesuits at once then, Kent told them. Mr. Liggett, will you supervise that? As Liggett and the men trooped down to the airlock, Kent turned back towards his superior. There's a very real chance of you becoming lost in this huge wreck-pack, Kent, Crane told him. So be very careful to keep your bearings at all times. I know I can depend on you. I'll do my best, Kent was saying, when Liggett's excited face reappeared suddenly at the stair. There are men coming toward the palace along the wreck-pack's edge, he reported, a half a dozen men in spacesuits. You must be mistaken, Liggett exclaimed Crane. They must be some of the bodies in spacesuits we saw in the pack. No! The living men, Liggett cried, they're coming straight toward us. Come down and see. Crane and Kent followed Liggett quickly down to the airlock room, where the men who had started donning their spacesuits were now peering excitedly from the windows. Crane and Kent looked where Liggett pointed, along the wreck-pack's edge to the ship's right. Six floating shapes men in spacesuits were approaching along the pack's border. They floated smoothly through space, reaching the wrecked passenger ship beside the palace. They braced their feet against its side and propelled themselves on through the void like swimmers under water toward the palace. They must be survivors from some wreck that drifted in here as we did, Kent exclaimed. Maybe they've lived here for months. It's evident that they saw the palace drift into the pack and have come to investigate, Crane estimated. Open the airlock for the men, they'll want to come inside. Two of the men spun the wheels that slid aside the airlock's outer door. The moment the half-dozen men outside had reached the ship's side and had pulled themselves down inside the airlock. When all were in, the outer door was closed and air hissed in to fill the lock. The airlock's inner door then slid open and the newcomers stepped into the ship's interior, unscrewing their transparent helmets as they did so. For a few moments the visitors silently surveyed their new surroundings. Their leader was a swarly individual with sardonic black eyes who on noticing Crane's captain insignia came toward him with outstretched hand. His followers seemed to be cargo men or deckmen, looking hardly intelligent enough to cansize to be tube men. Welcome to our city, their leader exclaimed, as he shook Crane's hand. We saw your ship drift in, but hardly expected to find anyone living in it. I'll confess that we're surprised ourselves to find any life here, Crane told him. You're living on one of the wrecks? The other nodded. Yes, on the Martian Queen, a quarter mile along the pack's edge. It was a Saturn-Neptune passenger ship, and about a month ago we were at this cursed dead area's edge when half of our rocket-tubes exploded. Eighteen of us escaped the explosion, the ship's wall still being tight, and we drifted into the pack here and have been living here ever since. My name's Krell, he added, and I was a tube man on the ship. I and another of the tube men named Jandron were the highest in rank left. All the officers and other tube men having been killed, so we took charge and have been keeping order. What about your passengers, Liggett asked? All killed but one, Krell answered. When the tubes let go, they smashed up the whole lower two decks. Crane briefly explained to him the palace's predicament. Mr. Kent and Mr. Liggett were on the point of starting a search of the wreck-pack for fuel when you arrived, he said. With enough fuel we can get clear of the dead area. Krell's eyes lit up. That would mean a getaway for all of us. It surely ought to be possible. Do you know whether there are any ships in the pack with fuel in their tanks, Kent asked? Krell shook his head. We've searched through the wreck-pack a good bit, but never bothered about fuel, it being no good to us. But there ought to be some, at least. There's enough wrecks in this cursed place to make it possible to find almost anything. You'd better not start exploring, though, he added, without some of us along as guides, for I'm here to tell you that you can lose yourself in this wreck-pack without knowing it. If you wait until tomorrow I'll come over myself and go with you. I think that would be wise, Crane said to Kent. There's plenty of time. Time is the one thing there's plenty of in this damned place, Krell agreed. We'll be getting back to the Martian Queen now and give the good news to Jandron and the rest. Wouldn't mind if Liggett and I came along, would you? Kent asked. I'd like to see how your ship's fixed, that is, if it's all right with you, sir, he added to his superior. Crane nodded. It's all right if you don't stay long, he said. But to Kent's surprise, Krell seemed reluctant to endorse his proposal. I... Guess it'll be all right, he said slowly. There's... There's... Nothing much on the Martian Queen to see. Krell and his followers replaced their helmets and returned into the airlock. Liggett followed them, and as Kent struggled hastily into a spacesuit he found Captain Crane at his side. Kent, look sharp when you get over on that ship, Crane told him. I don't like the look of this Krell and his story about all the officers being killed in the explosion sounds fishy to me. To me too, Kent agreed. But Liggett and I will have the suit phones in our spacesuits and can call you from there in case of need. Crane nodded, and Kent, with the spacesuit on and transparent helmet screwed tight, stepped into the airlock with the rest. The airlock's inner door closed, the outer one opened, and as the air puffed out into space Kent and Krell and Liggett leapt out into the void, the others following. It was no novelty to Kent to float in a spacesuit in the empty void. He and the others now floated as smoothly as though under water toward a wrecked liner at the palace's right. They reached it, pulled themselves around it, and with feet braced against its side propelled themselves on through space along the border of the wreck-pack. They passed a half-dozen wrecks thus before coming to the Martian Queen. It was a silvery glistening ship whose stern and lower walls were bulging and strained but not cracked. Kent told himself that Krell had spoken truth about the exploding rocket tubes at least. They struck the Martian Queen's side and entered the upper airlock open for them. Once through the airlock they found themselves on the ship's upper deck, and when Kent and Liggett removed their helmets with the others they found a full dozen men confronting them—a brutal-faced group who exhibited some surprise at the sight of them. Foremost among them stood a tall, heavy individual who regarded Kent and Liggett with the cold, suspicious eyes of an animal. "'My comrade and fellow ruler here, Walt Jandron,' said Krell. "'To Jandron,' he explained rapidly, "'the whole crew of the palace is alive, and they say if they can find fuel in the wreck-pack their ship can get out of here.' "'Good,' grunted Jandron, "'the sooner they can do it, the better it will be for us.' Kent saw Liggett flush angrily, but he ignored Jandron and spoke to Krell. You said one of your passengers had escaped the explosion. To Kent's amazement a girl stepped from behind the group of men—a slim girl with pale face and steady dark eyes. "'I'm the passenger,' she told him. "'My name is Marta Mallon.' Kent and Liggett stared astounded. "'Good Lord,' Kent exclaimed, "'a girl like you on this ship?' Miss Mallon happened to be on the upper deck at the time of the explosion, and so escaped when the other passengers were killed, Krell explained smoothly. "'Isn't that so, Miss Mallon?' The girl's eyes had not left Kent's, but at Krell's words she nodded. "'Yes, that is so,' she said mechanically. Kent collected his whirling thoughts, "'But wouldn't you rather go back to the palace with us?' He asked. "'I'm sure you'd be more comfortable there.' "'She doesn't go,' grunted Jandron. Kent turned in quick wrath toward him, but Krell intervened. "'Jandron only means that Miss Mallon is much more comfortable on this passenger ship than she'd be in your freighter.' He shot a glance at the girl as he spoke, and Kent saw her wince. "'I'm afraid that's so,' she said, "'but I thank you for the offer, Mr. Kent.' Kent could have sworn that there was an appeal in her eyes, and he stood for a moment in decisive Jandron's stare upon him. After a moment's thought he turned to Krell. "'You were going to show me the damage the exploding tubes did,' he said, and Krell nodded quickly. "'Of course, you can see from the head of the stair back in the after-deck.' He led the way along a corridor, Jandron and the girl and two of the men coming with them. His thoughts were still chaotic as he walked between Krell and Liggett. What was this girl doing amid the men of the Martian Queen? What had her eyes tried to tell him?' Liggett nudged his side in the dim corridor, and Kent, looking down, saw dark splotches on its metal floor—blood stains, his suspicion strengthened. They might be from the bleeding of those wounded in the tube explosions, but were they? They reached the after-deck whose stair's head gave a view of the wrecked tube rooms beneath. The lower decks had been smashed by terrific forces. Kent's practiced eyes ran rapidly over the shattered rocket tubes. "'They've back-blasted from being fired too fast,' he said. "'Who was controlling the ship when this happened?' "'Gauling, our second officer,' answered Krell, he had found us rooted too close to the dead area's edge and was trying to get away from it in a hurry when he used the tubes too fast, and half of them back-blasted. If Gauling was at the controls in the pilot house, how did the explosion kill him?' asked Liggett skeptically. Krell turned quickly. The shock threw him against the pilot house wall and fractured his skull. He died in an hour, he said. Liggett was silent. "'Well, this ship will never move again,' Kent said. "'It's too bad that the explosion blew out your tanks, but we ought to find fuel somewhere in the wreck-pack for the palace. And now we best get back.' As they returned up the dim corridor, Kent managed to walk beside Marta Mallon, and without being seen he contrived to detach his suit-phone, the compact little radio-phone case inside his space-suit's neck, and slip it into the girl's grasp. He dared utter no word of explanation, but apparently she understood, for she had concealed the suit-phone by the time they reached the upper deck. Kent and Liggett prepared to don their space-helmets, and before entering the airlock Kent turned to Krell. "'We'll expect you at the palace first hour tomorrow, and we'll start searching the wreck-pack with a dozen of our men,' he said. He then extended his hand to the girl. Good-bye, Miss Mallon. I hope we can have a talk soon.' He had said the words with double meaning and saw understanding in her eyes. "'I hope we can, too,' she said. Kent's nod to Jandron went unanswered, and he and Liggett adjusted their helmets and entered the airlock. Once out of it they kicked rapidly away from the Martian Queen, floating along the wreck-pack's huge mass to their right, and only the star-flecked emptiness of infinity to their left. In a few minutes they reached the airlock of the palace. They found Captain Crane awaiting them anxiously. Briefly Kent reported everything. "'I'm certain there has been foul play aboard the Martian Queen,' he said. "'Krell, you saw for yourself. Jandron is pure brute, and their men seem capable of anything. I gave the suit-phone to the girl, however, and if she can call us with it we can get the truth from her. She dared not tell me anything there in the presence of Krell and Jandron. Crane nodded, his face grave. "'We'll see whether or not she calls,' he said. Kent took a suit-phone from one of their spacesuits and rapidly tuned it to match the one he had left with Marta Mallon. Almost at once they heard her voice from it, and Kent answered rapidly. "'I'm so glad I got you,' she exclaimed. "'Mr. Kent, I dared not tell you the truth about this ship when you were here, or Krell and the rest would have killed you at once.' I thought that was it. That's why I left the suit-phone for you, Kent said. Just what is the truth?' Krell and Jandron and these men of theirs are the ones who killed the officers and passengers of the Martian Queen. What they told you about the explosion was true enough, for the explosion did happen that way, and because of it the ship drifted into the dead area. But the only ones killed by it were some of the two men and three passengers. Then while the ship was drifting into the dead area, Krell told the men that the fewer aboard the longer they could live on the ship's food and air. Krell and Jandron led the men in a surprise attack and killed all the officers and passengers and threw their bodies out into space. I was the only passenger they spared because both Krell and Jandron want me.' There was a silence, and Kent felt a red anger rising in him. Would they dare harm you, he asked after a moment. No, for Krell and Jandron are too jealous of each other to permit the other to touch me, but it's been terrible living with them in this awful place. Ask her if she knows what their plans are in regard to us, Krell told Kent. Marta had apparently overheard the question. I don't know that, for they shut me in my cabin as soon as you left, she said. I've heard them talking and arguing excitedly, though. I know that if you do find fuel they'll try to kill you all and escape from here in your ship. Pleasant prospect Kent commented. Do you think they plan an attack on us now? No. I think that they'll wait until you've refueled your ship if you are able to do that, and then try treachery. Well, they'll find us ready, Miss Mallon. You have the suit phone. Keep it hidden in your cabin, and I'll call you first thing tomorrow. We're going to get you out of there, but we don't want to break with Krell until we're ready. Will you be all right until then? Of course I will, she answered. There's another thing, though. My name isn't Miss Mallon. It's Marta. Mine's Rance, said Kent, smiling. Good-bye until tomorrow, then, Marta. Good-bye, Rance. Kent rose from the instrument with a smile still in his eyes, but with his lips compressed. Damn it! There's the bravest and finest girl in the solar system, he exclaimed, over there with those brutes! We'll have her out. Never fear, Crane reassured him. The main thing is to determine our course toward Krell and Jandron. Kent thought, as I see it, Krell can help us immeasurably in our search through the wreck-pack for fuel, he said. I think it would be best to keep on good terms with him until we've found fuel and have it in our tanks. Then we can turn the tables on them before they can do anything. Crane nodded thoughtfully. I think you're right. Then you and Liggett and Krell can head our search party tomorrow. Crane established watches on a new schedule, and Kent and Liggett and the dozen men chosen for the exploring party of the next day ate a scanty meal and turned in for some sleep. When Kent awoke and glimpsed the masked wrecks through the window he was for the moment amazed but rapidly remembered. He and Liggett were finishing their morning ration when Crane pointed to a window. There comes Krell now, he said, indicating the single spacesuited figure approaching along the wreck-pack's edge. I'll call Marta before he gets here, said Kent hastily. The girl answered on the suit phone immediately and it occurred to Kent that she must have spent the night without sleeping. Krell left a few minutes ago, she said. Yes, he's coming now. You heard nothing of their plans? No, they've kept me shut in my cabin. However, I did hear Krell giving Jandron in the rest directions. I'm sure they're plotting something. We're prepared for them, Kent assured her. If all goes well, before you realize it you'll be sailing out of here with us in the palace. I hope so, she said. Rance, be careful with Krell in the wreck-pack. He's dangerous. I'll be watching him, he promised. Goodbye, Marta. Kent reached the lower deck just as Krell entered from the airlock, his swarthy face smiling as he removed his helmet. He carried a pointed steel bar. Liggett and the others were donning their suits. All ready to go, Kent, Krell asked. Kent nodded. Already, he said shortly, since hearing Marta's story, he found it hard to dissimilate with Krell. You'll want bars like mine, Krell continued, for they're damned handy when you get jammed between wreckage masses. Exploring this wreck-pack is no soft job, I can tell you, from experience. Liggett and the rest had their suits adjusted, and with bars in their grasp followed Krell into the airlock. Kent hung back for a last word with Crane, who, with his half dozen remaining men, was watching. Marta just told me that Krell and Jandron have been plotting something, he told the captain, so I'd keep a close watch outside. Don't worry, Kent, we'll let no one inside the palace until you and Liggett and the men get back. In a few minutes they were out of the ship with Krell and Kent and Liggett leading and the twelve members of the palace crew following closely. The three leaders climbed up on the Uranus Jupiter passenger ship that lay beside the palace, the others moving on and exploring the neighboring wrecks in parties of two and three. On the top of the passenger ship, when they gained it, Kent and his two companions could look far out over the wreck-pack. It was an extraordinary spectacle, this stupendous mass of dead ships floating motionless in the depths of space, with the burning stars above and below them. His companions and the other men clamoring over the neighboring wrecks seemed weird figures in their bulky suits and transparent helmets. Kent looked back at the palace and then along the wreck-pack's edge to where he could glimpse the silvery side of the Martian queen. But now Krell and Liggett were descending into the ship's interior through the great openings smashed in its bowels, and Kent followed. They found themselves in the liner's upper navigation rooms. Officers and men lay about, frozen to death, at the instant the meteor struck the vessel's air had rushed out and the cold of space had entered. Krell led the way on down into the ship's lower decks where they found the bodies of the crew and passengers lying in the same silent death. The salons held beautifully dressed women, distinguished looking men lying about as the meteor's shock had hurled them. One group lay around a card table, their game interrupted. A woman still held a small child, both seemingly asleep. Kent tried to shake off the oppression he felt as he and Krell and Liggett continued down to the tank rooms. They found their quest there useless, for the tanks had been strained by the meteor's shock and were empty. Liggett felt Liggett grasp his hand and heard him speak, the sound vibrations coming through their contacting suits. Nothing here, and we'll find it much the same through all these wrecks if I'm not wrong. Tanks always give at a shock. There must be some ships with fuel still in them among all these, Kent answered. They climbed back up to the ship's top and leapt off it toward a Jupiter freighter lying a little farther inside the pack. As they floated toward it, Kent saw their men moving on with them from ship to ship, progressing inward into the pack. Both Kent and Liggett kept Krell always ahead of them, knowing that a blow from his bar shattering their glass-site helmets meant instant death. But Krell seemed quite intent on the search for fuel. The big Jupiter freighter seemed intact from above, but when they penetrated into it they found its hull underside blown away, apparently by an explosion of its tanks. They moved on to the next ship, a private space yacht, small in size but luxurious in fittings. It had been abandoned in space. Its rocket tubes burst and tanks strained. They went on, working deeper into the wreck pack. Kent almost forgot the paramount importance of their search in the fascination of it. They explored almost every known type of ship, freighters, liners, cold storage boats, and grain boats. Once Kent's hopes ran high at sight of a fuel ship, but it proved to be embalased. Its cargo tanks empty, its own tanks and tubes apparently blown simultaneously. Kent's muscles ached from the arduous work of climbing over and exploring the wrecks. He and Liggett had become accustomed to the sight of frozen motionless bodies. As they worked deeper into the pack they noticed that the ships were of increasingly older types, and at last Krell signaled a halt. We're almost a mile in, he told them, gripping their hands. We'd better work back out, taking a different section of the pack as we do. Kent nodded. It may change our luck, he said. It did. For when they had gone not more than half a mile back they glimpsed one of their men waving excitedly from the top of a Pluto liner. They hastened it once towards him, the other men gathering also, and when Kent grasped the man's hands he heard his excited voice. Fuel tanks here are more than half full, sir. They descended quickly into the liner, finding that though its whole stern had been sheared away by a meteor its tanks had remained miraculously unstrained. Enough fuel to take the palace to Neptune, Kent exclaimed. How will you get it over to your ship? Krell asked. Kent pointed to the great reels of flexible metal tubing hanging near the tanks. We'll pump it over. The palace has tubing like this ships for taking on fuel in space, and by joining its tubing to this we'll have a tube line between the two ships. It's hardly more than a quarter mile. Let's get back and let them know about it, they get urged, and they climbed back out of the liner. They worked their way out of the wreck-pack with much greater speed than that which they had entered, needing only an occasional brace against a ship's side to send them floating over the wrecks. They came to the wreck-pack's edge at a little distance from the palace and hastened towards it. They found the outer door of the palace's airlock open and entered, Krell remaining with them. As the outer door closed and air hissed into the lock Kent and the rest removed their helmets. The inner door slid open as they were doing this, and from the inside almost a score of men leapt upon them. Kent stunned for a moment saw Jandron among their attackers, bellowing orders to them, and even as he struck out furiously he comprehended Jandron and the men of the Martian Queen had somehow captured the palace from Crane and had been awaiting their return. The struggle was almost instantly over, for outnumbered and hampered as they were by their heavy spacesuits Kent and Liget and their followers had no chance. Their hands still in the suits were bound quickly behind them at Jandron's orders. Kent heard an exclamation and saw Marta starting toward him from behind Jandron's men, but a sweep of Jandron's arm brushed her rudely back. Kent strained madly at his bonds. Krell's face had a triumphant look. Did it all work as I told you it would, Jandron? he asked. It worked, Jandron answered impassively, when they saw fifteen of us coming from the wreck-pack in spacesuits they opened right up to us. Kent understood and cursed Krell's cunning. And seeing the fifteen figures approaching from the wreck-pack had naturally thought they were Kent's party and had let them enter to overwhelm his half-dozen men. We put Crane and his men over in the Martian Queen, Jandron continued, and took all their helmets so they can't escape. The girl we brought over here. Did you find a wreck with fuel? Krell nodded. A Pluto liner a quarter-mile back, and we can pump the fuel over here by connecting tube lines. What the devil! Jandron had made a signal at which three of his men had leapt forward on Krell, securing his hands like those of the others. Have you gone crazy, Jandron? cried Krell, his face red with anger and surprise. No, Jandron replied impassively, but the men are as tired as I am of your bossing ways and have chosen me as their sole leader. You dirty double-crosser Krell raged! Are you men going to let him get away with this? The men paid no attention, and Jandron motioned to the airlock. Get them over to the Martian Queen, too, he ordered, and make sure there's no space helmet left there. Then get back at once, for we've got to get the fuel into this ship and make a getaway. The helmets of Kent and Krell and the other helpless prisoners were put upon them, and with hands still bound they were herded into the airlock by eight of Jandron's men, attired in space suits also. The prisoners were then joined one to another by a strand of metal cable. Kent glancing back into the ship as the airlock's inner door closed saw Jandron giving rapid orders to his followers, and noticed Marta held back from the airlock by one of them. Krell's eyes glittered venomously through his helmet. The outer door opened, and their guards jerked them forth into space by the connecting cable. They were towed helplessly along the wreck-packs rim toward the Martian Queen. Once inside the airlock, Jandron's men removed the prisoner's space helmets and then used the duplicate control inside the airlock itself to open the inner door. Through this opening they thrust the captives, those inside the ship not daring to enter the airlock. Jandron's men then closed the inner door, reopened the outer one, and started back toward the palace with the helmets of Kent and his companions. Kent and the others soon found Crane and his half-dozen men who rapidly undid their bonds. Crane's men still wore their spacesuits but like Kent's companions were without space helmets. Kent, I was afraid they'd get you and your men too, Crane exclaimed. It's all my fault for when I saw Jandron and his men coming from the wreck-pack. I never doubted but that it was you. It's no one's fault, Kent told him. It's just something that we couldn't foresee. Crane's eyes fell on Crell. But what's he doing here, he exclaimed. Kent briefly explained Jandron's treachery towards Crell and Crane's brows drew ominously together. So, Jandron put you here with us, Crell. I am a commissioned captain of a spaceship, and as such can legally try you and sentence you to death here without further formalities. Crell did not answer but Kent intervened. There's hardly time for that now, sir, he said. I'm as anxious to settle with Crell as any one but right now our main enemy is Jandron and Crell hates Jandron worse than we do if I'm not mistaken. You're not, said Crell grimly. All I want right now is to get within reach of Jandron. There's small chance of any of us doing that, Crane told him. There's not a single space helmet on the Martian Queen. You've surged, Ligget asked. Every cubic inch of the ship, Crane told him. No, Jandron's men made sure there were no helmets left here and without helmets this ship is an inescapable prison. Damn it! There must be some way out, Kent exclaimed. Why, Jandron and his men must be starting to pump the fuel into the palace by now. They'll be sailing off as soon as they do it. Kent's face was sad. I'm afraid this is the end, Kent. Without helmets the space between the Martian Queen and the palace is a greater barrier to us than a mild, thick wall of steel. In this ship we'll stay until the air and food give out and death releases us. Damn it! I'm not thinking of myself, Kent cried. I'm thinking of Marta. The palace will sail out of here with her in Jandron's power. The girl, Ligget exclaimed, if she could bring us over space helmets from the palace we could get out of here. Kent was thoughtful. If we could talk to her. She must still have that suit phone I gave her. Where's another? Crane quickly detached the compact suit phone from inside the neck of his own spacesuit and Kent rapidly tuned it to the one he had given Marta Mullen. His heart leapt as her voice came instantly from it. Rance! Rance, Kent! Marta! This is Rance, he cried. He heard a sob of relief. I've been calling you for minutes. I was hoping that you'd remember to listen. Jandron and ten of the others have gone to that wreck in which you found the fuel, she added swiftly. They unrealized a tube line behind them as they went, and I can hear them pumping in the fuel now. Are the others guarding you? Kent asked quickly. They're down in the lower deck at the tanks and airlocks. They won't allow me on that deck. I'm up here in the middle deck, absolutely alone. Jandron told me that we'd start out of here as soon as the fuel was in, she added, and he and the men were laughing about Crell. Marta, could you in any way get space helmets and get out to bring them over here to us, Kent asked eagerly? There's a lot of spacesuits and helmets here, she answered, but I couldn't get out with them. Rance, I couldn't get to the airlocks with Jandron's seven or eight men down there guarding them. Kent felt despair. Then, as an idea suddenly flamed in him, he almost shouted into the instrument, Marta, unless you can get over here with helmets for us, we're all lost. I want you to put on a spacesuit and helmet at once. There was a short silence, and then her voice came, a little muffled. I've got the suit and helmet on, Rance. I'm wearing the suit phone inside it. Good. Now, can you get up to the pilot house? There's no one guarding it or the upper deck. Hurry up there, then, at once. Crane and the rest were staring at Kent. Kent, what are you going to have her do, Crane exclaimed? It'll do no good for her to start the palace. Those guards will be up there in a minute. I'm not going to have her start the palace, said Kent grimly. Marta, you're in the pilot house? Do you see the heavy little steel door in the wall beside the instrument panel? I'm at it, but it's locked with a combination lock, she said. The combination is six, 34, 77, 81, Kent told her swiftly. Open it as quickly as you can. Good God, Kent, cried Crane. You're going to have her get out of there the only way she can. Kent finished fiercely. You have the door open, Marta? Yes, there are six or seven control wheels inside. Those wheels control the palace's exhaust valves, Kent told her. Each wheel opens the valves of one of the ship's decks or compartments and allows its air to escape into space. They're used for testing leaks in the different deck and compartment divisions. Marta, you must turn all those wheels as far as you can to the right. But all the ship's air will rush out. The guards below have no suits on and they'll be... She was exclaiming, Kent interrupted. It's the only chance for you, for all of us. Turn them. There was a moment of silence and Kent was going to repeat the order when her voice came lower in tone, a little strange. I understand, Rance. I'm going to turn them. There was silence again and Kent and the men grouped around him were tense. All were envisioning the same thing, the air rushing out of the palace's valves and the unsuspecting guards in its lower deck smitten suddenly by instantaneous death. Then Marta's voice almost a sob. I turned them, Rance. The air puffed out all around me. Your spacesuit is working all right? Perfectly, she said. Then go down and tie together as many space helmets as you can manage. Get out of the airlock and try to get over to the Martian queen with them. Do you think you can do that, Marta? I'm going to try, she said steadily. But I'll have to pass those men in the lower deck I just killed. Don't be anxious if I don't talk for a little. Yet her voice came again almost immediately. Rance, the pumping has stopped. They must have pumped all the fuel into the palace. Then Jandron and the rest will be coming back to the palace at once. Kent cried, Harry, Marta! The suit phone was silent, and Kent and the rest, their faces closely pressed against the deck windows peered intently along the wreck-pack's edge. The palace was hidden from their view by the wrecks between and there was no sign as yet of the girl. Kent felt his heart beating rapidly. Crane and Ligget pressed beside him, the men around them. Krell's face was a mask as he, too, gazed. Kent was rapidly becoming convinced that some mischance had overtaken the girl when an exclamation came from Ligget. He pointed excitedly. She was in sight, unrecognizable in spacesuit and helmet floating along the wreck-pack's edge towards them. A mass of the glass-eyed space helmets died together was in her grasp. She climbed bravely over the stern of a projecting wreck and shot on towards the Martian Queen. The airlock's door was open for her, and when she was inside it the outer door closed and air hissed into the lock. In a moment she was in among them, still clinging to the helmets. Kent grasped her swaying figure and removed her helmet. Marta, you're all right, he cried. She nodded a little weakly. I'm all right, it was just that I had to go over those guards that were all frozen. Terrible. Get these helmets on, Crane was crying. There's a dozen of them and twelve of us can stop Jandron's men if we get back in time. Kent and Ligget and the nearer of their men were swiftly donning the helmets. Krell grasped one and Crane sought to snatch it. Let that go. We'll not have you with us when we haven't enough helmets for our own men. You'll have me or kill me here, Krell cried. His eyes hate mad. I've got my own account to settle with Jandron. Let him have it, Ligget cried. There's no time now to argue. Kent reached towards the girl. Marta, give one of the men your helmet, he ordered, but she shook her head. I'm going with you. Before Kent could dispute she had the helmet on again, and Crane was pushing them into the airlock. The nine or ten left inside without helmets hastily thrust steel bars into the men's hands before the inner doors closed. The outer one opened and they leapt forth into space floating smoothly along the wreck-packs' border with bars in their grasp, thirteen strong. Kent found the slowness with which they floated forward torturing. He glimpsed Crane and Ligget ahead, Marta beside him, Krell floating behind him to the left. They reached the projecting freighters, climbed over and around them, braced against them and shot on. They sighted the palace ahead now. Suddenly they discerned another group of eleven figures in spacesuits approaching it from the wreck-packs' interior, rolling up the tube line that led from the palace as they did so. Jandron's party. Jandron and his men had seen them and were suddenly making greater efforts to reach the palace. Kent and his companions, propelling themselves frenziedly on from another wreck, reached the ship's side at the same time as Jandron's men. The two groups mixed and mingled, twisted and turned in a mad space combat. Kent had been grasped by one of Jandron's men and raised his bar to crack the other's glass-site helmet. His opponent caught the bar and they struggled, twisting and turning over and over, far up in space amid a half-score similar struggles. Kent wrenched his bar free at last from the other's grasp and brought it down on his helmet. The glass-site cracked and he caught a glimpse of the man's hate-distorted face frozen instantly in death. Kent released him and propelled himself toward a struggling trio nearby. As he floated toward them he saw Jandron beyond them making wild gestures of command and saw Krell approaching Jandron with upraised bar. Kent on reaching the three combatants found them to be two of Jandron's men overcoming crane. He shattered one's helmet as he reached them but saw the other's bar go up for a blow. Kent twisted frantically, uselessly to escape it, but before the blow could descend a bar shattered his opponent's helmet from behind. As the man froze in instant death Kent saw that it was Marta who had struck him from behind. He jerked her to his side. The struggles in space around them seemed to be ending. Six of Jandron's party had been slain and three of Kent's companions. Jandron's four other followers were giving up the combat floating off into the wreck-pack in clumsy, hasty flight. Someone grasped Kent's arm and he turned to find it was Ligget. They're beaten, Ligget's voice came to him. They're all killed, but those four. What about Jandron himself, Kent cried? Ligget pointed to two space-suited bodies twisting together in space with bars still in their lifeless grasp. Kent saw through their shattered helmets the stiffened faces of Jandron and Krell, their helmets having apparently been broken by each other's simultaneous blows. Crane had gripped Kent's arm also. Kent, it's over, he was exclaiming. Ligget and I will close the palace exhaust valves and release new air in it. You take over helmets for the rest of our men in the Martian Queen. In several minutes Kent was back with the men from the Martian Queen. The palace was ready with Ligget in its pilot house, the men taking their stations and Crane and Marta awaiting Kent. We've enough fuel to take us out of the dead area and to Neptune without trouble, Crane declared. But what about those four of Jandron's men that got away? The best we can do is leave them here, Kent told him. Best for them, too, for at Neptune they'd be executed while they can live indefinitely in the wreck-pack. I've seen so many men killed on the Martian Queen and here, pleaded Marta. Please don't take them to Neptune. All right, we'll leave them, Crane agreed, though the scoundrels ought to meet justice. He hastened up to the pilot house after Ligget. The moment came the familiar blast of the rocket tubes and the palace shot out cleanly from the wreck-pack's edge. A scattered cheer came from the crew. With gathering speed the ship arrowed out, its rocket tubes blasting now in steady succession. Kent with his arm across Marta's shoulders watched the wreck-pack grow smaller behind. It lay as when he first had seen it a strange, great mass floating forever motionless among the brilliant stars. He felt the girl beside him shiver and swung her quickly around. Let's not look back or remember now, Marta, he said. Let's look ahead. She nestled closer inside his arm. Yes, Rance, let's look ahead. End of The Sargasso of Space by Edmund Hamilton Something will turn up. By David Mason. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Rating by Bologna Times. Something will turn up. By David Mason. You missed a rap? Stanley Rapp blinked, considering the matter. He always sought over everything very carefully. Of course some questions were easier to answer than others. This one, for instance. He had very few doubts about his name. A Stanley Rapp said, Yes, yes. He stared at the bearded young man. Living in the village, even on the better side of it, one saw beards every day, all shapes and sizes of beard. This one was not a psychoanalyst beard or a folk singer beard, not even an actor beard. This was the scraggly variety, almost certainly a poet beard. Mr. Rapp, while holding no particular prejudice against poets, had not sent for one. He was sure of that. Then he noticed the tool case in the bearded young man's hand, lettered large Lightning Service TV Hi-Fi. Oh, Stanley said, nodding. You're the man to fix the TV set. You know it, Dad, the young man said, coming in. He shut the door behind him and stared around the apartment. What a wild pad! Where the idiot box, hey? The pleasantly furnished, neat little apartment was not what Mr. Rapp had ever thought of as a wild pad. But the village had odd standards, Mr. Rapp knew. J'ai con un sangle, he had said, on moving into the apartment ten years ago. Not allowed, of course, because he had only taken one year of French, and would have never trusted his accent. But j'ai son un sangle, anyway. The television set, Mr. Rapp said, translating. Oh, yes. He went to the closet door and opened it. Moving inside, he brought out an imposingly large TV set mounted on a wheeled table. The bearded repairman whistled. In the closet, the repairman said admiringly, crazy. You go in there to watch it, or you let it talk to itself. Oh, well, I don't exactly watch it at all, Mr. Rapp said a little sadly. I mean, I can't. That's why I called you. Lightning's here. Have no fear, the bearded one said, approaching the set with a professional error. Like in the closet, hey. He bent over the set, appraisingly. I thought you were a square, pops. But I can see your—hey, this is, like, too much. Man, I don't want to pry. But why is this box upside down? I wish I knew, Mr. Rapp said. He sat down and leaned back, sighing, this was going to be difficult. He knew. He had already had to explain it to the last three repairmen, and he was getting tired of explaining. Although he thought, somehow, that this young man might understand it a little more quickly than the others had. I've had a couple of other repairmen look it over. Mr. Rapp told the bearded one, they—well, they gave up. Delatance, commented the beard. Oh, no, Mr. Rapp said. One of them was from the company that made it, but they couldn't do anything. Let's try it, the repairman said, plugging the cord into a wall socket. He returned to the set and switched it on, without changing its upside-down position. The big screen let almost at once. A pained face appeared, with a large silhouetted hammer striking the image's forehead in a rhythmic beat. "'E immediate relief from headache,' a bland boy said, as the pictured face broke into a broad smile. The repairman shuddered and turned down the sound, staring at the image with widened eyes as he did so. "'Dad, I don't want to bug you,' the repairman said, his eyes still on the screen. Only, look, the set is upside-down, right,' said Mr. Rapp. "'Only the picture,' the repairman paused, trying to find the right phrase, I mean, the picture's flipped. Like it's wrong side up, too. Only right side up now.' "'Exactly,' said Mr. Rapp. "'You see, that's the trouble. I put the set upside-down because of that.' "'Cool,' the repairman said, watching the picture. I mean, so why worry? You got a picture, right? You want me to turn the picture around? I can do that with a little fiddling around inside the set. Uh-oh, Dad, something's happening.' The repairman bit closer, staring at the picture. It was now showing a busty young woman singer. Her mouth opened, but silent, since the sound was turned down. She was slowly rotating, as Rapp and the bearded repairman watched, turning until her face, still mouthing silent song, hung upside-down on the screen. "'It always does that,' Rapp said. "'No matter which way I put the set, the picture's always upside-down.' "'No, man,' the repairman said pleadingly. "'Look, I took a course. I mean, the best school you dig? It don't work that way. It just can't.' "'It does, though,' Rapp pointed out. And that's what the other repairpeople said, too. They took it out and brought it back, and it still did it.' Not when they had it in their shops, but the minute it came back here, the picture went upside-down again. "'Wow,' the repairman said, backing slowly away from the set, but watching it with the tense gaze of a man who expected trouble. After a minute he moved toward it again, and took hold of the cabinet sides, lifting. "'I don't want to put you down, Pops,' he said, grinding. "'Only, I got to see this. Over she goes.' He set it down again, right side up. The picture, still the singer's face, remained in a relatively upright position for another moment, and then slowly rolled over, upside-down again. "'You see,' Mr. Rapp said, shrugging. "'I guess I'll have to buy another set, except I'd hate to have it happen again. And this one did cost quite a lot. "'You couldn't trade it in, either,' the repairman agreed. "'Not to me, anyway.' Suddenly he snapped his fingers. "'Hey, now, sideways?' "'You mean on its side?' "'Just for kicks.' The repairman gripped the set again. "'On the side.' He set the cabinet down, on one side, and stepped back to regard the picture again. Slowly the picture turned once more, and once again, relative to the usual directions of up and down, the picture was stubbornly completely inverted. "'It's on to that, too,' the repairman said, gloomily. He sat down on the floor, and assumed a kind of yoga posture, peering between his legs. "'You could try it this way, Pops.' "'I'm pretty stiff,' Mr. Rapp told him, shaking his head. "'Yeah,' the repairman said, re-inverting himself. For a long while he sat, pulling his beard thoughtfully, a look of deep thought on his face. The reverse singer faded out, to give place to an earnestly grinning announcer who pointed emphatically to a large upside-down sign bearing the name of a product. "'Watching it this way could get to be a fad,' the repairman said, at last, almost inaudibly. He felt silent again, and Mr. Rapp, sadly, began to realize that even this bearded and confident young man had apparently been stopped, like the others. The way I look at it, like, there's a place where science hangs up,' the bearded one spoke, finally, like, I don't want to put down my old guru at the Second Avenue School of Electronics,' he said solemnly, but you've got to admit that there are things not dreamed of in your philosophy, Horatio, you dig? "'My name isn't Horatio,' Mr. Rapp objected. I was quoting,' the repairman told him. I mean, this is a thing like, outside material means, supernatural, sort of. Did you cross up any witches lately, Pops?' "'Oh, dear,' Mr. Rapp said sadly, he shook his head. "'No, I haven't, er, uh, offended any witches. Not that I know of.' He regarded the inverted picture for a moment. Then as the repairman's words began to sink in, Mr. Rapp looked at him, apprehensively. "'Witches?' Mr. Rapp asked. "'But, I mean, that's all superstition, isn't it? And anyway, well, television sets?' "'They used to drive cows. But who keeps cows?' The bearded one said ominously, "'Why not television sets? Like, I happen to be personally acquainted with several witches, and like that. The village is full of them. However,' he rose, and stalked toward the set, his eyes glittering in a peculiar way. "'You're a lucky one, Daddy-o. Back in my square days I did some reading up on the hookups between poetry and magic. Now I'm a poet. Therefore, and to it, I am also a magician. On this hang-up I'm going to try magic. Electronics won't work, that's for sure. But Mr. Rapp was not quite sure why he disapproved, but he did. On the other hand, the repairman appeared to be very definitely sure of what he was doing as he peered into the back of the television set. "'Have you ever tried this method before? Never ran into any hexed TV sets before,' the repairman said, straightening up. "'Don't worry, though. I got the touch. Like with poetry. Same thing, in fact. All magic spells rhyme, you see. Well I used to rhyme back before I really started swinging. Anybody can rhyme. And the rest is just instinct. He had been scribbling something in the notepad as he spoke. Now he bent down to take another look at the back of the set and nodded with an air of assurance. "'The tube layout,' the repairman told Mr. Rapp, exhibiting his notebook, that and arm's law and a couple of Hindu bits I picked up listening to the U.N. on the radio, makes a first-class spell. Mr. Rapp backed away nervously. "'Look, if it's all the same to you, don't flip,' the repairman consulted his notebook and moved his down in front of the screen. The picture showed a smiling newscaster pointing to a map which indicated something ominous. "'Cool, man,' the repairman said. "'Here we go,' he lifted his hands in an ecclesiastical gesture, and his voice became a deep boom. "'Six S. N. Seven, six A. C. Five, six and seven millivolts are running down the line. E equals R times A. That's the way it goes. Go round the other way. Tupas Sandra Bose!' Afterward Mr. Rapp was never quite sure exactly what happened. He had an impression of a flash of light and an odd, indefinite sound, rather like the dropping of a cosmic garbage can lid. But possibly neither the light nor the sound actually happened. At any rate there were no complaints from the neighbors later on. However, this lighted screen was certainly doing something. "'Crazy,' the repairman said, in odd tones. Mr. Rapp, his view partly blocked by the repairman, could not see exactly what was happening on the screen. However, he caught a brief glimpse of the newscaster's face. It was right side up, but no longer smiling. Instead the pictured face were a look of the profound alarm, and the newsman was apparently leaning far forward, his face almost out of focus, because of its nearness to the lens. Just for a moment Mr. Rapp could have sworn he saw a chair floating up past the agonized expression on the screen. Then the screen went gray, and a panel of lettering appeared, shaking slightly. Your picture has been temporarily interrupted. Normal service will be restored as soon as possible. Please stand by." "'I was going to give you a bill,' the repairman said, or maybe we'd better just charge it up to customer relations. The letters remained steady on the screen, and Mr. Rapp studied them. They were right side up. "'You fixed it,' Mr. Rapp said, a little uncertainly. I mean, it's working. I ought to pay.' "'I goofed,' the repairman said. He picked up his tools and moved toward the door. Like, I won't mention it to anybody if you won't. But I goofed all right. Didn't you see the picture?' "'But whatever you did, it worked,' Mr. Rapp said. The picture's right side up.' "'I know,' the repairman said, only somewhere there's a studio that's upside down. I just goofed, pops. That's all.' He closed the door behind him, leaving Mr. Rapp still staring at the immobile, right-side-up message on the glowing screen. End of Something Will Turn Up," by David Mason. Stopover by William Gurkin. What will the world be like the day after tomorrow for the lonely ones who will have talents that others will have fear, half envy? William Gurkin describes a strange world in which young and old will have to find new values and pursue new dreams as they search for the answer. When he opened the door to the shed that day and saw the axe suspended in mid-air, he understood what was wrong. He had been living with us for a week before I found out he was a lifter. Even the discovery was an accident. I had started for the store, but then remembered a chore I wanted him to do. I heard the sounds of wood-chopping coming from the shed, so I went behind the house to the small wooden structure. I must have gasped or something, because he turned around to look at me, dropping the axe he had poised over a block of wood as he turned. Only he hadn't been holding the axe. It had been hanging in mid-air without support. The first time I saw him was when he knocked on my door. I don't think I'll ever forget how he looked, tall and thin, old clothes and older shoes, an unruly mop of blonde hair. It was only when I looked at his face that I realized that he was more than a mere boy of eighteen or nineteen. The tired lines around his mouth, the sad and mature look in his eyes, the stoop already evident in his young shoulders. He had been forced to mature too early, and seemed to have knowledge a boy his age had no right to be burdened with. I was wondering if I might get a bite to eat, sir, he said. I grinned. No matter how he looked, he was no different from anyone else his age, where food was concerned. Sure, come on in and rest a spell, I told him. Marty, can you fix a plate or something? We got a guest. Marty, my wife, glanced through the kitchen doorway. After a cursory look at the boy, she smiled at him, and went back to work. Sit down, son, you look pretty done in. Come forward a day? He nodded. Guess it shows, huh? He said, brushing the road dust from his trousers. Uh-huh, where are you from? Not round here, I know. Far back as I can remember, Oregon has been home. It wasn't hard to guess why he was almost a thousand miles from home. During the war, over ten million American families had been separated, their way of life destroyed by the hell of atomic bombings. Ever since its end, people have been seeking their loved ones, many only to find them dead or dying. Sometimes the search is stretched across continents or oceans. In that respect, the boy sitting opposite me was no different from hundreds of others I've seen in the past ten years. The only difference was in his face. Looking for your family, I said, making it a statement. Yes, sir, he smiled, as though the sentence had a double meaning. After he had eaten, he went down to the town's store to look through its records. They all do. They turned the pages of the big stopover book, hoping a relative or a friend had passed through the same town. Then they signed the book, put down the date, and where they're headed, and set out once more. Because all towns have stopover books nowadays, and a good thing, too. They helped me find Marty back in sixty-three when the truce was finally signed. In fact, I found her right here in this town. We got married, settled down, and haven't been more than a hundred miles away since. Martha called me into the kitchen almost as soon as he was gone. He's a nice boy. That he is, I agreed. You know I've been thinking. We could use a young fellow around here to help with the work. If he'll stay. There was something in his eyes, a sort of longing for someone very close to him. That kind usually takes off after a nice rest. I know. Guess I'll drop by the store, see if I can talk him into staying. By the time I reached the store, school was out, and a group of kids were gathered around him listening to his description of the Rocky Mountains, which he had crossed during the summer. The kids weren't the only ones listening. Even the adults were standing around in the store, remembering the places they had once seen themselves, and getting such bits of news as he dropped about the other towns he had passed through. The searchers are next to the town radio stations, the only source of information we have now. So it's no wonder they're so warmly greeted wherever they stop. Soon as he'd finished telling about the Rockies, I said, we'd appreciate it if he would stay for supper. He said he would, and later, while he and Tommy, my eight-year-old son, and I were walking home, I asked him if he'd stay with us for a while. For a moment he looked wistful, as if wishing he could stay here, and forget whoever he was trying to find. Then he smiled, and said, thanks, he would stay for a week or so. He was real helpful, too, cutting stove and fireplace wood for the coming winter, running errands, hunting for game animals, and teaching at the school. Almost all searchers teach when they can be persuaded to stay in town for a spell. Since there are no more colleges to produce teachers, anyone who knows something useful takes a turn at teaching. For the war, I was a mathematics major in college, so twice a week I teach all kinds of math at school, from numbers through calculus. Mostly, searchers teach about what the places they had passed through are like. Then when I opened the door to the shed that day, and saw the act suspended in mid-air, I suddenly realized why he had that sad, tired look about him all the time. He picked up the axe from where it had fallen, and stood it against the wall. Reaching for his jacket, he said, I guess I'd better be moving along, Mr. Trenton. I'm really sorry if I've caused you any trouble. He started past me for the door. Hold on, son, I grabbed his arm. Why the rush? I don't want to cause you any trouble. Now that you know what I am, he gritted the words out bitterly, the word will get around. I wouldn't want the others in town to be angry with you because of me. You and Mrs. Trenton have been swell to me. Thanks for everything. He tried to pull his arm loose, but I held fast. Let's go inside and have a cup of coffee, I suggested. I don't know about the other towns you've been through, but here we don't hate a person because he might happen to have powers, we don't. Yesterday I was down at the store and heard one of the men sounding off about us. He said, he didn't sound like he cared much for us. Must have been John Atherson. He never could understand ESP, and he blames the war on it. We just let him talk, can't change a person like that. We went up the back steps and threw the door into the kitchen. Go on, show Marty," I said, taking off my jacket. He looked at me to make sure I met it. Then he raised the coffee pot from the stove and watched it move across the room under its own power to the table where I was sitting. Leaving the pot in midair, he made the cupboard open and still standing in the middle of the room floated three cups and saucers to the table. Then he got the cream, sugar, and three spoons, put them on the table, and poured the coffee. Marty watched the coffee pot move back to the stove, her mouth open and amazement. I heard of it, but I don't think I'd have believed it if I hadn't seen it. I nodded, and she smiled at him. Now that I know," she said, I'm even glad you chose to stay here for a while. He grinned. Thanks. He sat down with us at the table and stirred some sugar into his coffee. It must be hard on you. Marty said quietly, in a knowing way, are you really looking for your family or for others with ESP? My father was killed during the bombings. After that mom and I were alone. She only had a little talent. Dad and I were the ones who were really adept. Anyway, we stayed on the small farm we owned until last spring. Then mom married again, and I was free to leave. I think her new husband was sorry to see me go, because it meant a lot of manual work for him that I had been doing an easier way. I decided to see if I couldn't find others like myself, so I left and started across the country. Do you have any other powers? Or can you just control things? Marty asked. He grinned. If you mean, am I an all-around Superman? No. Dad wasn't either. I do have a scattering of other PSI talents, though, but nothing as well-developed as my telekinesis. I'm still working on them. Tommy came in from school just then. Could you teach him how to use his mind that way, or do you have to be born with it? I said. He smiled again. No, you don't have to be born with it. Everyone could do it if they started training themselves young enough to use their minds to the fullest extent. All through history certain people have had strange powers. The trouble was they were thought to be freaks instead of the better-developed humans they actually were. Even now we're only on the threshold of learning the full power of the mind. He turned to Tommy. Would you like to learn how to do things, Tommy? Sure. Like what? He glanced at Marty and me. Like making the world a better place to live. Two weeks later, at a meeting of the town council, I wasn't too worried about getting the proposal accepted. We might have some trouble with Atherson, but I figured between the two of us we could handle him. When the new business came up, I stood up and led Tommy to the front of the hall. There were a few whispers as we went, as children under fifteen aren't allowed in the hall during a council meeting. Tommy has something to say to you which I think will interest everyone here. Go on, son. Seconds afterwards we all heard a clear, hello, but not with our ears. The word came from inside our heads. Someone said, the kid's a telepath! And the silence was broken. Everybody was talking at the same time. I suppose you think it's an honor to have one of them damn things for your son. Atherson yelled, I'm glad you're the one who got stuck, and not me. Tommy was not born a telepath, John, I told him. He has been deliberately trained to make use of the latent power in his brain. And I don't think I'm stuck either. We all know we've been slowly slipping into retrogression ever since 63. None of us like it, but there isn't anything we can do to hold it yet. We don't want our children or their children to keep slipping backwards. If we don't stop it in our lifetime, we may not be able to stop it at all. As I see it, the best chance we have to at least achieve a status quo is to accept the aid of those among us with PSI talents are willing to give. After all, it's their world too. With their help, we may be able to build a better civilization, one without the socio-political diseases that led to the war. The young man who has been staying at my house for the past three weeks taught Tommy to do what he just did. He says he thinks he can do it with any child under ten years old, and is even willing to try it with some teenagers. Of course, Tommy's training has just begun. He will keep on learning for years. Here's my idea. If some of the children get a grounding in how to develop their dormant brain power by the time they're twenty, they'll be able to mold a new society, one geared to the present culture, instead of the past traditions. How about it? I waited. For a minute there was silence. Finally, one of the older men stood up. Is he sure he can do it? All we know is it worked with Tommy, I replied. I don't like it. It's unnatural, Atherson said. No one asked you to like it, someone said. Another called, Do you think three world wars in fifty years is natural? Let's take a vote. A vote was taken, and it was decided to add an extra class for those children whose parents wanted them to attend. After a month the council would expect a report on what progress or lack of it had been made. A few weeks later, when my math class was over, I hung around to watch the new class. It was divided into small groups, each training on a different PSI talent. One group was lifting pencils and gently returning them to desks by telekinesis. Ather was sitting quietly, once in a while breaking into shouts of laughter, probably telepathy. There were other groups, but I didn't know enough about the talents to identify their work. During the time he was teaching, he met a girl. They spent quite a bit of time together, and she joined the special class. By the time the report to the council came due, it wasn't hard to tell they were in love. Just about everyone in town turned out for that meeting. The boys and girls who were taking the class were seated at the front of the hall. The report was first on the agenda, so the kids could go home to bed. When we started, he said, I asked those children who weren't interested or who were unsuited to the work to leave. Then we ran through a general training exercise, and after a week I split the class up into groups. Each group was to concentrate on one talent, but general sessions for the entire class give everyone practice in all talents. I think we've made fairly good progress. Some of the older teenagers have shown an interest in the talents, he glanced at his girl, and although progress has not been as rapid as with the younger children, they are sufficiently developed to help instruct. Now your children are going to demonstrate what they have learned. For the next half hour we watched Tommy and fourteen other boys and girls work. Tommy and the others who had concentrated on telepathy read silently to us from books and talked to each other, projecting their thoughts so we could also listen on. The telekinesis group all worked together to build a small table. All the necessary materials were stacked at the front of the room. The kids sat in a half circle, their brows furrowed in concentration as lumber, nails, and hammers moved under the guidance of their minds. When they had finished, the table was complete even to the sanding and a coat of varnish. Finally, the one with precognition, a girl about six years old with long blonde hair, gave the weather forecast for the next two weeks. The copies of her prediction were passed out to us so we could check her accuracy. Once the kids were gone, he stood up again. I hope you are all convinced as to what can be accomplished through the use of PSI. The talents can and should be used for the betterment of society, not for carnival side shows. Of course, there are more than those just demonstrated. Unfortunately, I couldn't find them present in this group and was hoping for either a healer or a sensitive, but no one had the necessary ability. If you want the class continued, the decision is yours. Thanks for having open minds and for giving me a chance. He picked up his jacket and walked out. Atherson didn't bother to come to the meeting, so the vote to continue the class was unanimous. He stayed on, teaching part time, helping out with the work at my place and seeing his girl. Then, one afternoon, two weeks after the council meeting, she came to see me. You've got to stop him, Mr. Tranton, she said. He's going to leave. He told me he was going right after he finished the class today. He's probably down at the store right now, buying things to take with him. You've got to make him stay. Why? I asked quietly, watching the tears well up in her eyes. She hadn't lost her composure yet, but she felt so strongly about him. She was on the verge of breaking down. Because I love him, and he loves me, she retorted. That's why, won't you talk to him? At least get him to take me with him, please? You said you love him. Would you rather he stayed here, and was never fully happy, or left to continue searching, maybe to return some day, ready to settle down? If you really love him, there's no question. Couldn't he take me with him? I shook my head. I don't think you should even ask him to take you. You'd be a burden that would slow him down. He'd worry about you, have to get your food and find shelter for you. He might let you go with him, but don't ask him to. He's too young to be tied down. Now, go on, and wish him good luck, and kiss him goodbye. He's coming up the road now. She glanced out the open window, jumped up, and ran out into the sunlight to wait at the side of the road. I picked up the book I had been reading, but the window was too close to the road for me to concentrate on the pages. She didn't say anything until he was standing before her. I'll be waiting, she said. Take good care of yourself. He nodded. I have to go, he told her, partly because it was Dad's last wish, partly because I need others of my own kind. Alone we can't help the world much. Together there's a good chance for results. I left a letter for the council saying you were going to take over the class because you have the ability to carry on. Watch Kathy and help her all you can. She's got it. Her weather forecast proved that much. You've got to drum that into her. Never let her forget it. Maybe I'll be back. I hope so. But first I have to find others. I need them, and they might need me. We're still not completely self-sufficient. Give the kids my love and keep them at it. Just don't forget they are kids. Give them a chance to grow up as normally as possible. That's a chance I didn't have. He kissed her tenderly, then started off down the road. When he reached the crest of the hill, he turned and waved. Marty joined me at the doorway, and we waved, too. Outlined against the bright blue afternoon sky, he stood immobile for a moment. To many he would have been just another young man with a tired out face. But to me the symbol of a better life for Tommy and his children, a life unmarred by the threat of instant death, as punishment for something he had little control over. He's gone now, but the work will go on, and the athersons of the world will come to realize he is giving us another chance, a chance we don't really deserve. Somehow he reminds me of another man, a man who said, Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of God. End of Stopover. Toy Shop. 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 Xander Phillips. Toy Shop by Henry Maxwell Dempsey. The gadget was strictly, beyond any question, a toy. Not a real, workable device. For the way, it could work under a man's mental skin. Because there were few adults in the crowd, and Colonel Biff Houghton stood over six feet tall, he could see every detail of the demonstration. The children, and most of the parents, gaped in wide-eyed wonder. Bill Houghton was too sophisticated to be odd. He stayed on because he wanted to find out what the trick was that made the gadget work. It's all explained right here in your instruction book, the demonstrator said, holding up a garishly printed booklet open to a four-color diagram. You all know how magnets pick up things, and I bet you even know that the Earth itself is one great big magnet. That's why compasses always point north. Well, the Atomic Wonder Space Wave Tapper hangs onto those space waves. Invisibly, all around us, and even going right through us, are the magnetic waves of the Earth. The Atomic Wonder rides these waves just the way a ship rides on the waves of the ocean. Now, watch. Every eye was on him as he put the gaudy model rocket ship on the table and stepped back. It was made of stamped metal, and seemed as incapable of flying as a can of ham, which it very much resembled. Neither wings, propellers, nor jets broke through the painted surface. It rested on three rubber wheels, and coming out through the bottom was a double strand of thin insulated wire. This white wire ran across the top of the black table and terminated in a control box in the demonstrator's hand. An indicator light, a switch, and a knob appeared to be the only controls. I turned on the power switch, sending a surge of current to the wave receptors, he said. The switch clicked, and the light blinked on and off with a steady pulse. Then the man began to slowly turn the knob. A careful touch on the wave generator is necessary, as we are dealing with the powers of the whole world here. We concerted, ah, swept through the crowd, as the space wave tapper shifted a bit, then rose slowly into the air. The demonstrator stepped back, and the toy rose higher and higher, bobbing gently on the invisible waves of magnetic force that supported it. Ever so slowly the power was reduced, and it settled back to the table. Only 1795 the young man said, putting a large price sign on the table, for the complete set at the Atomic Wonder, the space tapper control box, battery, and instruction book. At the appearance of the price card, the crowd broke up noisily, and the children rushed away toward the operating model trains. The demonstrator's words were lost in their noisy passage, and after a moment he sank into a gloomy silence. He put the control box down, yawned, and sat on the edge of the table. Colonel Houghton was the only one left after the crowd had moved on. Could you tell me how this thing works? The Colonel asked, coming forward. The demonstrator brightened up and picked up one of the toys. Well, if you'll look here, sir, he opened the hinge to top. You'll see the space wave coils at each end of the ship. With a pencil, he pointed out the odd-shaped plastic forms about an inch in diameter that had been wound, apparently at random, with a few turns of copper wire. Except for these coils, the interior of the model was empty. The coils were wired together, and other wires ran out through the hole in the bottom of the control box. Bill Houghton turned a very quizzical eye on the gadget, and upon the demonstrator, who completely ignored this sign of disbelief. Inside the control box is the battery, the young man said, snapping it open and pointing to an ordinary flashlight battery. The current goes through the power switch and the power light to the wave generator. What you mean to say, Biff broke in, is that the juice from this 15-cent battery goes through this cheap rheostat to those meaningless coils in the model, and absolutely nothing happens. Now, tell me what really flies this thing. If I'm going to drop 18 bucks for six bits worth of ten, I want to know what I'm getting. The demonstrator flushed. I'm sorry, sir, he stammered. I wasn't trying to hide anything. Like any magic trick, this one can't really be demonstrated until it has been purchased. He leaned forward and whispered confidentially. I'll tell you what I'll do, though. This thing is way overpriced, and hasn't been moving at all. The manager said I could let him go for $3 if I could find any takers. If you want to buy it for that price. Sold him a boy, the colonel said, slamming three bills down on the table. I'll give that much for it, no matter how it works. The boys in the shop will get a kick out of it. He tapped the winged rocket on his chest. Now, really, what holds it up? The demonstrator looked around carefully and then pointed. Strings, he said, or rather a black thread. It runs from the top of the model, threw a tiny loop in the ceiling, and then back down to my hand, tied to this ring on my finger. When I back up, the model rises. It's simple as that. All good illusions are simple, the colonel grunted, tracing the black thread with his eye, as long as there's plenty of flim flam to distract the viewer. If you don't have a black table, a black cloth will do, the young man said, and the arch of a doorway is a good sight. Just see that the room in back is dark. Wrap it up, my boy. I wasn't born yesterday. I'm an old hand at this kind of thing. Bill Houghton sprang it at the next Thursday night poker party. The gang were all misle-men, and they cheered and jeered as he hammed up the introduction. Let me copy the diagram, Biff. I could use some of those magnetic waves in the new bird. Those flashlight batteries are cheaper than locks. This is the thing of the future. Only Ted Caner caught wise as the flight began. He was an amateur magician and spotted the gimmick at once. He kept silent with professional courtesy, and smiled ironically as the rest of the bunch grew silent one by one. The Colonel was a good showman, and he had set the scene well. He almost had them believing in the space-wave tapper before he was through. When the model had landed and he had switched it off, he couldn't stop them from crowding around the table. A thread one of the engineers shouted, almost with relief, and they all laughed along with him. Too bad, the head project physicist said. I was hoping that little space-wave tapping could help us out. Let me try a flight with it. Teddy Caner first, Bill announced. He spotted it while you were all watching the flashing lights, only he didn't say anything. Caner slipped the ring with the black thread over his finger and started to step back. You have to turn the switch on first, Biff said. I know, Caner smiled, but that's part of illusion, the spiel in the misdirection. I'm going to try this cold first so I can get it moving up and down smoothly. Then go through it with the whole works. He moved his hand back smoothly in a professional manner that drew no attention to it. The model lifted from the table, then crashed back down. The thread broke, Caner said. You jerked it instead of pulling it smoothly, Biff said, and nodded the broken thread. Here, let me show you how to do it. The thread broke again when Biff tried it, which got a good laugh that made his collar a little warm. Someone mentioned the poker game. This was the only time that poker was mentioned or even remembered that night, because very soon after this they found that the thread would lift the model only when the switch was on, and two and a half volts flowing through the joke coils. With the current turned off, the model was too heavy to lift. The thread broke every time. I still think it's a screwy idea, the young man said, one week getting fallen arches demonstrating these toy ships for every brat within 1,000 miles, then selling the things for three bucks when they must have cost at least $100 a piece to make. But you did sell the 10 of them to the people who would be interested, the older man asked. I think so. I caught a few Air Force officers and a Colonel in Missiles one day. Then there was one official I remembered from the Bureau of Standards. Luckily, he didn't recognize me. Then those two professors you spotted from the university. Then the problem is out of our hands and into theirs. All we have to do now is sit back and wait for the results. What results? These people weren't interested when we were hammering on their doors with the proof. We've patented the coils, and we can prove to anyone that there's a reduction in weight around them when they're operating, but a small reduction, and we don't know what's causing it. No one could be interested in a thing like that, a fractional weight decrease in a clumsy model, certainly not enough to lift the weight of the generator. No one wrapped up in massive fuel consumption. Tons of lift and such is going to have any time to worry about a crackpot who thinks he found a minor slip in Newton's Laws. You think they will now, the young man asked, cracking his knuckles impatiently? I know they will. The tensile strength of that thread is correctly adjusted to the weight of the model. The thread will break if you try to lift the model with it, yet you can lift the model after a small increment of its weight has been removed by the coils. This is going to bug these men. Nobody's going to ask them to solve the problem or concern themselves with it, but it will nag at them because they know this effect can't possibly exist. They'll see it once that the magnet wave theory is nonsense. Or perhaps true. We don't know. But they will all be thinking about it and worrying about it. Someone's going to experiment in his basement, just as a hobby, of course, to find the cause of the error. And he or someone else is going to find out what makes those coils work. Or maybe a way to improve them. And we have the patents. Correct. They will be doing the research that will take them out of the massive lift propulsion business and into the field of pure spaceflight. And in doing so, they will be making us rich. Whenever the time comes to manufacture, the young man said cynically, we'll all be rich, son. The older man said, patting him on the shoulder. Believe me, you're not going to recognize this old world 10 years from now. End of Toy Shop by Henry Maxwell Dempsey. Recording by Xander Philips.