 Beyond the Door, by Philip K. Dick. Larry Thomas bought a cuckoo clock for his wife. Without knowing, the price he would have to pay. That night, at the dinner table, he brought it out, and set it down beside her plate. Doris stared at it, her hand to her mouth. My God! What is it? She looked up at him, bright-eyed. Well, open it! Doris tore the ribbon and paper from the square package, with her sharp nails, her bosom rising and falling. Larry stood watching her, as she lifted the lid. He lit a cigarette, and leaned against the wall. A cuckoo clock, Doris cried. A real old cuckoo clock, like my mother had, she turned the clock over and over, just like my mother had, when Pete was still alive. Her eyes sparkled with tears. It's made in Germany, Larry said, and for a moment he added, Carl got it from me wholesale. He knows some guy in the clock business, otherwise I wouldn't have—he stopped. Doris made a funny little sound. I mean, otherwise I wouldn't have been able to afford it, he scowled. What's the matter with you? You've got your clock, haven't you? Isn't that what you want? Doris sat holding on to the clock, her fingers pressed against the brown wood. Well, Larry said, what's the matter? He watched in amazement, as she leaped up and ran from the room, still clutching the clock. He shook his head. Never satisfied. They're all that way, never good enough. He sat down at the table and finished his meal. The cuckoo clock was not very large. It was handmade, however, and there were countless frets on it. Little indentations and ornaments scored in the soft wood. Doris sat on the bed, drying her eyes and winding the clock. She set the hands by her wristwatch. Presently, she carefully moved the hands to two minutes of ten. She carried the clock over to the dresser and propped it up. Then she sat waiting, her hands twisted together in her lap, waiting for the cuckoo to come out, for the hour to strike. As she sat, she thought about Larry and what he'd said, and what she had said, too, for that matter, not that she could be blamed for any of it. After all, she couldn't keep listening to him forever without defending herself. You had to blow your own trumpet in the world. She touched her handkerchief to her eyes suddenly. Why did he have to say that about getting it wholesale? Why did he have to spoil it all, if he felt that way he needn't have got it in the first place? She clenched her fists. It was so mean, so damn mean. But she was glad at a little clock sitting there ticking to itself, with its funny grilled edges in the door. Inside the door was the cuckoo waiting to come out. Was he listening, his head cocked on one side, listening to hear the clock strike so that he could know to come out? Did he sleep between hours? Well, she'd soon see him. She could ask him, and she would show the clock to Bob. He would love it. Bob loved old things, even old stamps and buttons. He liked to go with her to the stores. Of course, it was a little awkward, but Larry had been staying at the office so much, and that helped. If only Larry didn't call up sometimes, too. There was a whirr. The clock shuttered, and all at once the door opened. The cuckoo came out, sliding swiftly. He paused and looked around solemnly, scrutinizing her, the room, the furniture. It was the first time he'd seen her, she realized, smiling to herself in pleasure. She stood up, coming toward him shyly. Go on, she said, I'm waiting. The cuckoo opened his bill. The word and chirped quickly, rhythmically. Then after a moment of contemplation, he retired, and the door snapped shut. She was delighted. She clapped her hands and spun in a little circle. He was marvelous, perfect, and the way he looked around, studying her, sizing her up. He liked her. She was certain of it. And she, of course, loved him at once, completely. He was just what she'd hoped would come out of little door. Doors went to the clock. He bent over the little door, her lips close to the wood. Do you hear me? She whispered. I think you're the most wonderful cuckoo in the world. She paused, embarrassed. I hope you'll like it here. Then she went downstairs again, slowly, her head high. Larry and the cuckoo clock really never got along well from the start. Doris said it was because he didn't wind it right, and it didn't like being only half-wound all the time. Larry turned the job of winding over to her. The cuckoo came out every quarter hour and ran the spring down without remorse, and someone had to be ever after it, winding it up again. Doris did her best, but she forgot a good deal at the time. Then Larry would throw his newspaper down with an elaborate, weary motion and stand up. He would go into the dining room where the clock was mounted on the wall over the fireplace. He would take the clock down, and making sure that he had his thumb over the little door, he would wind it up. Why do you put your thumb over the door? Doris asked once. You're supposed to. She raised an eyebrow. You sure? I wonder if it isn't that you don't want him to come out while you're standing so close. Why not? Maybe you're afraid of him. Larry laughed. He put the clock back on the wall and gingerly removed his thumb. When Doris wasn't looking, he examined his thumb. There was still a trace of the nick cut out of the soft part of it. Who, or what, had pecked at him? One Saturday morning when Larry was down at the office working over some important special accounts, Bob Chambers came to the front porch and rang the bell. Doris was taking a quick shower. She dried herself and slipped into her robe. When she opened the door, Bob stepped inside, grinning. Hi! he said, looking around. It's all right, Larry's at the office. Fine! Bob gazed at her slim legs below the hem of her robe. How nice you look today! She laughed. Be careful! Maybe I shouldn't let you in after all. They looked at one another, half amused, half frightened. Presently Bob said, if you want, I'll know for God's sake. She caught hold of his sleeve. Just get out of the doorway so I can close it. Mrs. Peters across the street, you know. She closed the door. And I want to show you something, she said. You haven't seen it. He was interested. An antique? Or what? She took his arm, leading him toward the dining room. You'll love it, Bobby. She stopped wide-eyed. I hope you will. You must. You must love it. It means so much to me. He means so much. He? Bob frown? Who is he? Doris laughed. You're jealous. Come on! A moment later they stood before the clock, looking up at it. He'll come out in a few minutes. Wait until you see him. We know you two will get along just fine. What does Larry think of him? They don't like each other. Sometimes when Larry's here, he won't come out. Larry gets mad if he doesn't come out on time. He says, what? Doris looked down. He always says he's been robbed, even if he did get it wholesale. She brightened. But I know he won't come out, because he doesn't like Larry. When I'm here alone, he comes right out for me, every fifteen minutes, even though he really only has to come out on the hour. She glissed up at the clock. He comes out for me because he wants to. We talk. I tell him things. Of course, I'd like to have him upstairs in my room, but it wouldn't be right. There was the sound of footsteps in the front porch. They looked at each other horrified. Larry pushed the front door open, grunting. He set his briefcase down and took off his hat. Then he saw Bob for the first time. Chambers! I'll be damned! His eyes narrowed. What are you doing here? He came into the dining room. Doris drew her robe about her helplessly, backing away. I, Bob, began. That is, we broke off, glancing at Doris. Suddenly the clock began to whir. The cuckoo came rushing out, bursting into sound. Larry moved toward him. Shut that din off, he said. He raised his fist toward the clock. Cuckoo snapped into silence and retreated. The door closed. That's better. Larry studied Doris and Bob, standing mutely together. I came over to look at the clock, Bob said. Doris told me that it's a rare antique and that, uh, nuts. I bought it myself. Larry walked up to him. Get out of here. Turn to Doris. You too. And take that damn clock with you. He paused, rubbing his chin. No, leave the clock here. It's mine. I bought it and paid for it. In the weeks that followed after Doris left, Larry and the cuckoo clock got along even worse than before. For one thing, the cuckoo stayed inside most of the time, sometimes even at 12 o'clock when he should have been busiest. And if he did come out at all, he usually spoke only once or twice, never the correct number of times. And there was a sullen, uncooperative note in his voice, a jarring sound that made Larry uneasy and a little angry. But it kept the clock wound, because the house was very still and quiet, and it got on his nerves not to hear someone running around, talking and dropping things. And even the whirring of a clock sounded good to him. But he didn't like the cuckoo at all, and sometimes he spoke to him. Listen, he said late one night to the closed little door. I know you can hear me. I ought to give you back to the Germans. Back to the black forest. He paced back and forth. I wonder what they're doing now, the two of them. That young punk with his books and his antiques. The man shouldn't be interested in antiques. That's for women. He said his jaw. Isn't that right? Clock said nothing. Larry walked up to the front of it. Isn't that right? He demanded. Don't you have anything to say? He looked to the face of the clock. It was almost 11, just a few seconds before the hour. All right, I'll wait until 11. Then I want to hear what you have to say. You've been pretty quiet the last few weeks since she left. He grinned riley. Maybe you don't like it here since she's gone. He scowled. Well, I paid for you, and you're going to come out whether you like it or not. You hear me? 11 o'clock came. Far off at the end of town. The great tower clock boomed sleepily to itself. But the little door remained shut. Nothing moved. The minute hand passed on, and the cuckoo did not stir. It was someplace inside the clock, beyond the door, silent and remote. All right, that's the way you feel, Larry murmured, his lips twisting. But it isn't fair. It's your job to come out. We all have to do things we don't like. He went unhappily into the kitchen and opened the great gleaming refrigerator. As he poured himself a drink, he thought about the clock. There was no doubt about it. The cuckoo should come out, Doris or no Doris. Though he'd liked her from the very start, they'd got along well, the two of them. Probably he liked Bob too. Probably he'd seen enough of Bob to get to know him. They'd be quite happy together, Bob and Doris and the cuckoo. Larry finished his drink. He opened the drawer at the sink and took out the hammer. He carried it carefully into the dining room. The clock was ticking gently to itself on the wall. Look, he said, waving the hammer. You know what I have here? You know what I'm going to do with it? I'm going to start on you first, he smiled. Birds of a feather, that's what you are, the three of you. The room was silent. Are you coming out, or do I have to come in and get you? The clock worked a little. I hear you in there. You got a lot of talking to do. Enough for the last three weeks as I figure it. You owe me. The door opened. The cuckoo came out fast, straight at him. Larry was looking down, his brow wrinkled and thought. He glanced up and the cuckoo caught him squarely in the eye. Down he went, hammer and chair and everything, hitting the floor with a tremendous crash. For a moment, the cuckoo paused. Its small body poised rigidly. Then it went back inside its house. The door snapped, tight shut after it. The man lay on the floor, stretched out grotesquely. His head bent over to one side. Nothing moved or stirred. The room was completely silent, except of course, for the ticking of the clock. I see, Doris said, her face tight. Bob put his arm around her, steadying her. Doctor, Bob said, can I ask you something? Of course, the doctor said. Is it very easy to break your neck, falling from so low a chair? It wasn't very far to fall. I wonder if it might not have been an accident. Is there any chance it might have been suicide? The doctor rubbed his jaw. I never heard of anyone committing suicide that way. It was an accident, I'm positive. I don't mean suicide. Bob murmured under his breath, looking up the clock in the wall. I meant something else. But no one heard him. End of Beyond the Door by Philip K. Dick, recording by Jillian Weiss. Big Pill by Raymond Z. Galoon. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Greg Marguerite. Big Pill by Raymond Z. Galoon, child it was, of the now ancient H-bomb, new, untested. Would its terrible power sweep the stark Saturnian moon of Titan from space, or miraculously create a flourishing paradise colony? Under the glow of Saturn and his rings, five of the air domes of the new colony on Titan were still inflated. They were enormous bubbles of clear, flexible plastic. But the sixth air dome had flattened, and beneath its collapsed roof, propped now by metal rods, a dozen men in spacesuits had just lost all hope of rescuing the victims of the accident. Bert Kraskal, once of Oklahoma City, more recently a space freighter pilot, and now officially just a colonist, was among them. His small, hard body sagged as if by weariness. His lips curled, but his full anger and bitterness did not show. Nine dead. He remarked into the radio phone of his oxygen helmet. No survivors. And then, inaudibly, inside his mind, I'm a stinking fool. Why didn't we act against space colonists' supply incorporated before this could happen? His gaze swung back to the great rent that had opened in a seam in the air dome, under only normal earthly atmospheric pressure when it should have been able to withstand much more. Suddenly the warm dare had rushed out into the near vacuum of Titan, Saturn's largest moon. Those who had been working the night shift under the dome to set up prefabricated cottages had discarded their spacesuits for better freedom of movement. It was the regulation thing to do, always considered safe. But they had been caught by the sudden dropping of pressure around them to almost zero, and by the terrible cold of the Titanian night. For a grief-stricken second, Bert Kraskow looked down again at the body beside which he stood. You could hardly see that the face had been young. The eyes popped. The pupils were white like ice. The fluid within had frozen. The mouth hung open. In the absence of normal air pressure, the blood in the body had boiled for a moment before the cold had congealed it. A kid brother, Nick, eh, Bert? An air-conditioning mechanic named Lawler said almost in a whisper. About twenty years old, huh? Eighteen. Bert Kraskow answered into his helmet-phones as he spread the youth's coat over the distorted face. Old Stan Kraskow, metal-worker, was there, too. Bert's and Nick's dad. He was blubbering. There wasn't much that anybody could do for him. And for the other dad there were other horrified mourners. Some of them had been half-nuts from homesickness and the sight of harsh, voidal stars even before this tragedy had happened. It was Lawler who first cut loose, cursing. He was a big, apish man with a certain fiery eloquence. Damned lousy, stinking, obsolete equipment! He snarled. Breathe on it and it falls apart. Under all Bill Lauren's space column, his supply used to make good, honest stuff. I worked with it on Mars and the moons of Jupiter. Now look at what the firm is turning out under Trenton, Lauren. Oh, Bill's super-efficient son. He was so greedy for quick profits in the new Titan colonization project and so afraid of being scooped by new methods of making these fizzled-out worlds livable that he didn't even take time to have his products decently inspected. And that, after not being able to recognize progress. Hell, where is that dumb crawl and boob? There was a moment of silence. Then somebody muttered, Speak of the Devil. With eyes that had grown quite wolfish, Bert Kraskal saw Trenton Lauren arrive at last from the administration dome. He was plump, maybe thirty-five, and somehow dapper even in a spacesuit. That he was here on Titan at all and not in a pressurized settlement on Mars or at the main office of his firm in Chicago was a cocky gesture of privato. A leaf torn from the book of his more worthy sire. And perhaps more particularly in attempt to counteract the consequences of his bad business judgment personally. The fear of one who sees how his haste and breed can be called punishable criminal negligence was in his face. The things that had been human sprawled stiff before him, accusing him. But the worst was the presence of those grim, silent men who might add him forcibly to the death list. That moment held crystallized in it the conflict of an urge to invest profits with the payment in human lives that had been exacted this time. Near dead Titan was the present step in mankind's outward march of colonial dominion toward the stars. Titan itself was rich in the radioactive ores that had become the fuel, the moving force, not only of the rockets of Earth's expanding space comers, but of the wheels of industry and comfort at home. The richer in those elements were the rings of Saturn, nearby. Those stupendous whirling bands of dust, wreckage of a broken satellite in which, as in any other planet or moon, most of those heaviest, costliest metals had originally sunk to its center, far out of reach of mining operations. But in the rings all this incalculable wealth of uranium, radium, osmium, and so forth, not to mention millions of tons of useless gold was uniquely exposed as easily accessible dust. Oh yes, and the SCS, Space Colonist Supply, wanted its cut for providing equipment as received elsewhere in the past. Bert Kraskal knew that this must remain dapper Trent and Lauren's aim in spite of a vast and possibly ruinous investment in manufactured goods that could turn out to be obsolete and unmarketable, in addition to its poor quality. Bert studied Lauren from between narrowed eyelids, weighing his qualities further, judging, ever predicting. Trent and Lauren might hate himself some for the deaths that were his responsibility, yet Bert bet that he hated himself more for having to explain the failure of one of his air domes to those crude colonists. It hurt his ego. Lauren was full of fear. He was a stuffy, visionless conservative. He was wily, too. Bert saw his lips tightened as he marshaled his forces to smooth down the fury of the mendee for him. I am deeply sorry that these people had to die, he said in his high-pitched voice, but chance-taking is part of any new space venture, and all who use air-dome spacesuits or other SCS equipment are insured against its defective performance. $10,000 paid in case of death is still a lot of money. SCS has made fine products for over 40 years. No dangerous newfangled ideas can yet replace them. Considering the risk inherent in space colonization, occasional mishaps can hardly be avoided. You all know that. Business, life, everything is a gamble. Sure, about chance-taking, there was truth in his pompous words, but did one buy a life with a few thousand dollars or call money a just penalty for obvious and deadly neglect? Nuts of muscle gathered at the angles of Lawler's square jaw. Old Stan Kraskal stared at Lauren as if he didn't believe that anybody could talk so stupidly. Bert Kraskal's savage blood seethed, but when he was really sore, his tendency was to be coldly and quietly logical in his speech and actions. The plans to change things were made. He was in on them. And what was the use of getting into arguments that might give the enemy a hint or set off violence that might spoil everything? Easy, he whispered. Dad, Lawler, don't talk. Don't start anything. But Alice Leland Kraskal, Bert's wife, had arrived on the scene. She was little and dark and fiery. One of the few feminine colonists yet on Titan. In another air-dome where Bert and she had their cottage, she had been awakened by the shouts of those who had seen the accident take place. Donning a spacesuit, she had followed the crowd. Being at a little distance from her, Bert had no chance to shush her outspoken comments and to try might have done no good anyway. She had truth to tell and a woman's tongue to tell it. Yes, Mr. Lauren, she said pointedly, we're all gamblers granted, but you started to cheat even before you were afraid of losing. Maybe it's time we did something about it. Trenton Lauren looked more scared than before. But now as two space patrolmen in their silvery armor arrived from their quarters and stood beside him, he smiled a little. Madam, he drawled. Maybe I know what you mean. You want to defy the law. Someone around here has been hoping for word from Earth that an OK has been granted by the Safe Products Approval Board for, shall we say, a radically new product. Well, the optimists will wait a long time for such approval at the SPAB. The action of this invention is, to say the least, extremely dangerous. So if they're that foolish, those optimists might as well go ahead with their alternate course to bring their deadly and spectacular innovation dramatically into use without the stamp of safety. Bert's concern about his wife's outspoken challenge to Lauren was thus suddenly diverted. His jaw hardened further, a nagging suspicion that Trenton Lauren had found things out was confirmed. It meant, perhaps, that Lauren had already taken counter-action secretly. Bert Kraskal longed to beat up Lauren in spite of the presence of the two space policemen, but the need for immediate and better action denied him this extravagant luxury. He went to his wife's side and took her arm. Lauren, he said, I've got a brother to bury, so discussions are out for now. Guys, will you bring Nick's body to my cottage? Come on, Allie. Bert was trying very hard to slip away unobtrusively when Lauren grinned mockingly. Hold on, Kraskal, he snapped. You're tangled up in this matter somehow. I've learned that you've already broken a minor law by landing a ship quietly out in the deserts of Titan without declaring its presence, a ship that can be assumed reasonably to be freighted with lethal materials. As a dangerous individual, you can be put under an arrest of restraint. Legal technicalities can be disregarded in a raw colonization project where people are apt to show hysteria and where something like military law must be enforced for general protection. The say-so of an old and honorable firm like SCS that you are a menace can, I am sure, be accepted. Petrolmen, take him. The cops were puzzled. They offered no immediate objection as Bert, leading his wife, tried to pass them. But Lauren got in Bert's way to prevent him from slipping into the glowering crowd. Against a man in space armor, fists weren't very effective. Still, Bert had the satisfaction of giving Lauren a mighty shove that sent him sprawling. A terrible fury was behind it, the desperation of a last chance. Here was where he had come to become completely outlaw. Alice and he threaded their way through the crowd where the cops could use neither their blasters nor their paralyzers in spite of Lauren's frantic urging to get them. Once in the clear, Bert ran with his wife. There was no question of destination. They came to a metal shed. Inside it, beside the small space boat, they found Lawler, who had anticipated where Bert would go. The two men spoke to each other with their helmet radios shut off to avoid eavesdropping. They clasped hands so that the sound waves of their voices would have a channel over which to pass in the absence of a sufficiently dense atmosphere. All of a sudden, I'm a little worried, Bert, Lawler growled. The big pill. Maybe Lauren is half right about its being so dangerous. After all, it has never been tested on a large scale before, and there are 200 people here on Titan. Well, you know what's got to be done now. When you get to the Prometheus, tell Doc Cramer that I'm squeezing my thumbs. Lawler sounded almost plaintive at the end. Bert felt the tweak of that same worry too, but his course was set. He grinned in the darkness that surrounded them. Nuts, he said. Even Lauren admits that everything is a gamble, remember? And you can pile all of the people into the spaceship here in camp and blast off with them and hover at a safe distance from Titan till we're absolutely sure. I'd better hurry now, Lawler. Lauren's cops will be on my tail any second. Gotta go. With your wife along? Lawler demanded. Sure, Bert answered. Allie's a fine shot with a blaster. Often I wish she wasn't such a good shot with her tongue, but I guess that with Lauren she cleared the atmosphere, right, Allie? With a small hand on the shoulder of each man, Alice had been listening in. I think so, she answered grimly. Let's dash. 10 seconds later, Bert Kraskow and his wife went rocketing up into the weird and glorious Titanian night which was nearing its end. They thought of Doc Graemer, the little physicist waiting for them out in the desert in the spaceship Prometheus with its terrible and wonderful cargo. Bert thought too of his contact and contract with the new colonist supply company which was also called Prometheus. Yeah, Prometheus, the educator, the fire-bringing god of the ancient Greeks, the symbol of progress. At that moment Bert Kraskow felt very right. He'd been hired secretly to help carry the torch against this sniff and smug forces of conservative obstructionism with its awkward and now antiquated methods. Alice kept looking behind through the windows of the spaceboat's cabin. She spoke now with her helmet face window open for there was breathable air around them. I was thinking that Lauren might want us to run like this, Bert, so that we'd lead the cops to the hiding place of the Prometheus. So far there's no pursuit. Bert growled. I'm not worried that the patrol boys won't be along. What really scares me is that some of Lauren's men may have already found the Prometheus. We'll just have to wait and see. Beneath the spaceboat, the desert rolled. Vast Saturn and his multiple moons hung against the black and all but airless star curtain. Then all of a sudden before the eastward hurtling craft it was daylight as the tiny sun burst over the horizon. Its wan rays fell on pale stratified mists of air all but frozen in the cold night. Those mists cupped between the hills were the last of Titan's atmosphere. Once eons ago when monsters Saturn had been hot enough to supplement the far off sun's heat with radiation of its own, those hills had been for a few brief ages, verdant with primitive mossy growths. Bert followed the dry bed of an ancient river till he came to the rocky cleft where the Prometheus had been concealed. Just as they glimpsed the ship, Alice gave a sharp gasp as they saw another spaceboat dart unhurriedly away. Bert landed in the rocky gorge and on foot they approached the Prometheus cautiously. The blasters from the cabin of the spaceboat gripped in their gauntlet at hands. They found the ship's airlock securely bolted but someone had tried to cut through its tough heat-resistant shell with a blaster for the metal was still hot. A break, Bert breathed raggedly. We got here just in time to scare them off. Hey! That was when they found Doc Kramer. He lay behind a boulder, a pathetic little figure who seemed to be merely sleeping. There wasn't a mark on him that could be easily discovered. There was no time to figure out how he had died by poisoned needle, over strong paralyzer beam or whatever. His body within its space suit was just beginning to develop rigor mortis. Alice's eyes were wet, her small jaw set hard. Your brother's death was at least an unintentional accident caused by carelessly made equipment, Bert, she said. But Doc was murdered. Yeah, Bert grated thickly. Only murder is awful hard to prove as far from civilization as this. Come on, we can't do a thing about it right now. Double rage and grief drove him on toward what he must do with greater insistence than before. With a key from his hip pouch, he opened the airlock of the Prometheus. With great caution, they went inside but found no one in the ship. The mood of its interior was brooding and sullen. Every cubic foot of this space not taken up by its machinery and fuel was packed with black ingots of an alloy, a large proportion of which was fissionable metal, quiescent now and harmless, but under the right kind of primer capable of bursting into a specialized hell of energy. 5,000 tons of this stuff, earth weight. But even all this was the secondary part of the purpose for which the Prometheus had been fitted. Bert and Alice followed a narrow catwalk to a compartment along the keel of the ship which was fitted like a huge bomb bay. And the monster that rested there, gripped by mechanically operated jaws would certainly have fitted the definition of a bomb as well as anything that had ever been made by earth science. Child it was of the now ancient H-bomb. It was a tapered cylinder a hundred feet long and 30 feet thick. For one grim devilish moment, Bert Kraskal paused to pat its flank to feel the solid metallic slap of its tremendous shell case under his palm, to be aware of the intricacies of its hidden parts, the fork-like masses of fissionable metals that could dovetail and join instantly, the heavy wooder, the lead, the steel, the beryllium. Here was watch-like perfection and delicacy of mechanism, precision meant to function faultlessly but for a fragment of a second and then to perish in a mighty and furious fulfillment. Here was the thought of man crystallized, trying to tread a hairline past inconceivable disaster to the realization of a dream that was splendid. In that moment, this thing seemed to answer to all the fury of wrong and sorrow that burned in Bert Kraskal and the vision soared in his mind like a legend of green fields and light. For a few seconds he was sure until doubt crept up again from the bottom of his brain and until Alice put that uncertainty into words. Doc is gone, she said. Even with his expert help, using the big pill would be taking a chance. Bert, do you think we can do it alone? Will it be all right? Are you certain, Bert? Her large, dark eyes pleaded for reassurance. He sighed as the strain plucked at his nerves. In spite of what he knew of Doc Kramer's careful small-scale tests, maybe what he felt was just a normal suspicion of anything so new and so colossal. No, Ali, not absolutely certain, he replied. But how can anybody ever be sure of anything unless they try it? Doc died for an idea that holds tremendous hope for the good of all people who make their living in space. He was the principal inventor and much more than just the boss of a new company. We aren't going to let him down. What we're going to do is for Nick and for everybody who ever died violently on near-dead worlds. Lauren and what he stands for won't stop us. We can radio another warning and instruct everyone on Titan to blast off for a while. Alice seemed to draw confidence from her husband's words. She smiled a bit wainly. Okay, Bert, she said. This is also for the folks who have gone nuts or have just gotten terribly homesick from seeing too much black sky of space for too long. Let's go. They strapped themselves to the seats in the Prometheus's control room. Bert depressed the throttle, rocket jets flamed. The rebuilt freighter lifted heavily and gained momentum toward a speed of miles per second. In the rear vision screen, the cross-gulls saw two police space boats flashing the blue signal for them to land. Bert set the Prometheus in an orbit around Titan about a thousand miles above the bleak and dried-out surface of the Saturnian satellite. Thus the ship became a little moon of a moon. Alice was shouting into the mic of the large radio transmitter. Colonists at Camp Titan, enter your ship. Blast into space for safety. We are about to use the big pill. Colonists at Camp Titan, blast for safety. Police boats, give us room. Don't interfere. This was the start of a wild drama. When Alice switched from transmission to reception, the calls from the patrol craft were stern. Freighter Prometheus, this is the space patrol. Proceed to a landing or we blast. But these calls still seemed secondary compared to other words also coming from the receiver, like another overlapping radio program. It was Trent and Lauren's scared voice that spoke. Space colonists supply incorporated calling deep space units of patrol. Send more help to Titan. Maniac named Krasgau Amuk with Freighter Prometheus known to contain huge bomb. Destroy on site. Bombs supposed to be the invention of group headed by one Emil Kramer. Renegade scientists believed to have a grudge against SCS. Claims for invention wholly extravagant and unbiased. Harry, deep space units of patrol. More help or all of Titan will be flooded with heat and deadly radio activity. Harry, Harry, Harry. Just then the Prometheus rocked from the impact of a blaster beam. And though the Krasgau's could not see the effect of the weapon, they knew that there were glowing spots on their ship's tough hull. If the patrol boats could bear down with their beams on a particular area for a few seconds, a mighty episode could end violently before it had a chance to start. Alice's small hands were on the complicated aiming and firing mechanism of the heavy blaster mounted externally on the hull of the Prometheus. I'll keep the cops at a distance with a few near misses, she said. Maybe they aren't too anxious to take the chance of setting off the big pill anyway. Let me worry about them, Bert. Just do what you've got to do. They had shut off their radio. There was no need to listen to the somewhat historical repetitions of what had come through before. Every few moments there was a burst of humming sound as Alice fired. Bert put additional power into the rockets to surpass fixed orbital speed, but he held the ship to a tight curve around Titan. It was best to cover distances quickly as possible. In his speeding course, he passed almost over the camp, but his purpose was to bomb a point at antipodes from it halfway around this Saturnian moon. Under full acceleration, the Prometheus was soon nearing this destination. To allow for the big pill's forward motion imparted to it by the ship's velocity even after release, he pressed the lever that opened the bomb bay doors and then jabbed the single button that controlled both release and the firing of the gigantic missile's own propulsive jets. Without those jets, considering the centrifugal force of its vast velocity in a circular path around Titan, much overbalancing the feebler gravitational pull of the moon, it could not have started its fall at all. It needed jets to drive it down. Bert jabbed the button with his eyes closed since he had no precise target to hit. His teeth were gritted. With the sudden loss of mass, the ship lurched. Bert had to struggle for a moment to adjust the angle of its flaming stern jets and bring it back on course. In another few seconds, he cut the stern jets out entirely and opened the four nozzles wide to check excess speed and reestablished the Prometheus stable orbit around Titan, one that could last forever without additional thrust. Well, the big pill is on its way, for better or worse, Alice remarked, half of our job is done. But time had to pass before that metal colossus could drive itself and fall the thousand miles to the bleak dried out hills below and the spaceship hurdled on to leave the point of coming impact far beyond the horizon. This, the Krasgals knew, was fortunate for them. The solid bulk of Titan would be the shield between them and holocaust. No human eyes could have looked directly on such a holocaust at a range of a mere thousand miles and not be burned from their sockets. Bert and Alice noticed that the space patrol craft were no longer pursuing them. Alice switched on the radio again but only jangled sounds came through. Now for the last half of our job, Allie. Bert said, first we attach shoulder pack jets to our spacesuits. This was accomplished a few seconds before the stupendous flash of the big pill's explosion blazed beyond the horizon. The dark curve of Titan's bulk was limbed against thin white fire that streamed outward toward the stars like Comet's hair. The spectacle looked like a much enlarged color photo of a segment of a solar eclipse. The glare on the other side of Titan was so intense and far-reaching that the night portions of huge Saturn and his other satellites and the shadowed part of the fabulous treasure-filled rings all hundreds of thousands of miles away registered an easily perceptible flicker. But in airless space, of course, no sound was transmitted. Alice's face went pale. Bert did not stop doing what must be done, adjusting the timing system in the black case beside his pilot seat and looking with a final intense glance along the cable which led back through the hull of the ship to a silvery pipe-like thing around which the thousands of tons of sinister black ingots were stacked. It was the primer cap of another kind of subatomic fury. About the white fire beyond the horizon hardly dimming at all after its first dazzling flash, neither Alice nor Bert said anything. Maybe their awe and concern were too great, but already long fingers of incandescent gases were jetting and flowing over the hill-tops as if to catch up with the speeding ship. Bert Kraskal knew pretty well what was going on where the big pill had struck the crust of Titan. First there had been that stupendous blast, then inconceivable blue-white incandescents like the heart of a star began gnawing more gradually into the walls of the gigantic crater that had been formed. A chain-reacting process was now spreading through the silicates and other components of Titan's crust. It was a blunt and terrible inferno. But to the scientist's view, chemical compounds were being broken apart. Atoms were being shattered and recast in new forms as floods of neutrons and other basic particles raced like bullets through their structure. On a small scale, here was something that was like the birth of the universe. Bert found his voice at last. The ship is firm in its orbit around Titan Alley, the primer is set for 30 minutes from now and we're approaching position above camp again. So here's where we bail out. The Kraskals closed their helmet-face windows and jumped from the airlock together. Flame propelled by their shoulder-packed jets. They darted downward toward the sad rolling hills that curved away under the weak light of the distant shrunken sun. It was hard to believe that eons ago before most of Titan's air and water had leaked away into space, those hills had been green with life. Even with an ugly red-lit vapor pouring and spreading over the arc of Titan's edge, they thought of such things. Their helmet radio phones were full of static from intense electromagnetic disturbances so that it was hard to converse. But presently, Alice shouted, Bert, it's funny that we don't see the ship from camp anywhere in space. They must have gotten our warning to blast off with everybody. The radio reception was clear as a bell. Then, wait, somebody's trying to call us now. Bert strained his ears to penetrate the scratchy noises thrown up by the atomic holocaust that he had set off and hear the words spoken blurredly by a familiar voice. Bert, Alice, this is Lawler. Rockets of ship won't function, so can't leave camp. Two small patrol boats cleared Titan with some women. Two small, few passengers, most stranded here. Bert, what? I think, Lauren. The rest of the words were drowned in a counteract of static. Bert gulped, his mouth tasted suddenly sour with near panic. Lauren, he grated, his voice like a file. Again, it would be a long chance that the ship broke down just by coincidence. He doctored those rockets and probably got clear in his own spaceboat. Leave it to him to make the use of the big pill look like a disaster. And it can be that now with people left in the danger zone losing their heads, acting foolishly. Bert felt much more than just bitter, furious chagrin. His fellow colonists might lose their lives. He was responsible. He had launched a gigantic experiment recklessly. All we can do is get back to camp as fast as possible. Alice shouted above the static. Come on, Bert, bear down on the jets. So they hurtled at even greater speed toward the surface of Titan below. Meanwhile, faintly luminous vapors continued to pour over the hills from the direction of the terrible glow that fringed the horizon. Minutes before they reached the ground, hot, dusty, murk thickened around them. It blew against them like a devil's wind. They began to use their jets to break speed. The camp was all but lost to view in the thickening haze. They landed heavily a mile outside it and went rolling for a few yards after the impact. Dazed, they staggered up. For a while, their impressions were blurred as if they struggled through some murky cobwebby nightmare. Once more on Titan, silent as death for unthinkable ages, there were howling wind sounds that found their way to Alice and Bert dimly through their oxygen helmets. Often, the hot blast bowled them over, but they arose and kept on toward camp. Bert took a Geiger counter, pencil-sized from his chest pocket. In it, flashes of light replaced the ancient clicking. It flickered madly. This meant that outside their shielding spacesuits was radioactive death. The gases of the wind that howled around them had been in part released from chemical compounds, but more had been transmuted from other elements of the rock and dust in the crust of Titan in that atomic vortex where the big pill had struck. Those gases were so new that they were tainted with the fires of their birth, saturated with radioactivity. It's nothing that we didn't expect, Allie. Bert grated into his helmet phone as if to reassure himself as well as his wife. We knew beforehand. His arm was around Alice, supporting her unsteady steps. Through blowing clouds of dust and gas that had surpassed Hurricane Force, they reached camp. Through the murk, they saw that the wind had flattened and scorched every air dome, but there was no one in sight. The people must be inside the ship, Alice shouted. Even if it can't fly, it can protect them. There it is, undamaged. Yeah, Bert agreed, but he knew that her cheerfulness was a little like grabbing at a straw. Then Alice had another thought. By now there isn't any more spaceship, Prometheus, she said. It has melted into a globe of incandescent metal, kept hot by a slow atomic breakdown in its substance, but it's sticking to the same tight orbit around Titan. They hadn't seen it happen because by then the Prometheus had passed beyond the horizon, but the globe would circle Titan and return. Alice kept trying to be cheerful. Bert felt a flicker of that same mood when he said, sure, Allie, but then his mind dropped the subject of the Prometheus for there was too much terrible uncertainty and human confusion to be dealt with. Bert led Alice to the small seldom used airlock near the stern of the campship. He had a logical hunch that Lawler would be waiting just inside to tell them what the situation was on board. The hunch proved true. The lock's inner door slid aside stiffly and there was Lawler, a finger to his lips. Quickly the crascals removed their radioactivity tainted spacesuits. Bert spoke softly. Well, Lawler, how do the gases that are spreading over Titan test out chemically? As we expected, Bert, plenty of nitrogen, some helium, plenty of hydrogen, a lot more oxygen, so that as all the hydrogen burns, combines with it to form water vapor, there still will be lots of oxygen left over, floating free. Of course, these gases are still so radioactive that half a lung full would kill. Only time will tell if Doc figured things straight. By the way, where is he? Dead, Bert answered, murdered. Lawler's lip curled, but he showed no surprise. Uh-huh, he grunted. We can't prove the sabotage of this ship's rockets either. When we tried to take off, they just fizzled out their insides. Then Lawler's eyes gleamed. But, he said, I foresaw a funny business, so I doctored the jets of Lauren's private spaceboat as a precaution. He's still here with a couple of his stooges. He just about had hysterics when the space cops couldn't find room for him. He's been yelling accusations and promises of court action ever since while trying to repair his spaceboat. How are the colonists taking what happened? Bert cut in. Lawler shrugged, not bad, not good. What you'd expect. Lots of those people are new to space. That was hard to take in itself. Add some messy deaths and now this, and with Lauren yelling, well, plenty of them don't like us. Did anybody get hurt yet? Bert demanded. Not yet. Want to see the bunch? Sure, Bert answered. He thrust Alice behind him as they approached the main lounge of the ship where most of the colonists were assembled. Trenton, Lauren's voice burst on his ears. There he is. Kraskal, I'll see that you spend your life in prison. The patrol ship is coming out from Mars right now to get you. You may even hang. Out there in camper, $10 million worth of equipment, property of my firm, which has been destroyed by your malicious action. And you've made a whole world useless for colonization for centuries to come. It's poisoned with radioactivity. Maybe we'll all die. Do you hear me, Kraskal? Die. Bert Kraskal moved quietly forward past faces that glowered at him. Then he struck. There was a vicious thud. Lauren went down, drooling blood. His eyes glazed. Bert did not lose emotion as he stepped forward and laid Lauren's two henchmen low with equal dispatch. Minutes passed before the trio was awake again. Before Lauren could spout more venom, Bert stopped him with a growl. Get out of my sight, he said. Say another word and you'll get more of what you just got. They went. Lawler following to watch out for possible mischief. None of us are hurt yet. Bert told those near him, though some things have gone wrong. Let's sit tight and see how matters turn out. As he looked around him, Bert felt that most of the colonists didn't really care to listen to him. Maybe you couldn't blame them. They'd all heard and seen too much. And in a sense, Bert felt little different than they did. There was fear in him and tension. He had released a colossus. Calculations and minor tests might call it a genie of benevolence, but this remained still unproven. Outside the wind howled, making the ship quiver. The glow from the big pill continued to paint the now murky sky. Bert and his wife waited grimly and silently in the lounge with the others. Hours passed without much change. Once, briefly, it was red-lit night. Then this changed for a while to daylight that was blurred, but far stronger than that to which a Saturnian moon was accustomed. A little later, Lawler came back to the lounge. Trenton and his bombs got their spaceboat patched up, he announced. I watched him do it. They went out protected by spacesuits, of course. They did a botched job, but I guess it'll hold. Now they're taking off. Through the leaded glass of the window-ports, the colonists watched the craft vanish into the steam-filled void. A minute later, disaster struck the colonists. The explosion was not heavy against the roar of the storm, but a jagged hull a yard across was ripped in the ship's hull. Into the hull rushed a hot radioactive wind. Automatic safety doors failed to close properly. Maybe they had been sabotaged too by Lauren. Many of the colonists were wearing spacesuits. They were the lucky ones, only having to slam their face windows shut to be protected sufficiently from radiation. The others had to scramble to armor themselves. Burt and Alice Kraskal and Lawler had been outside. The outer surfaces of their suits had been contaminated, so they had to remove them inside the ship to avoid tainting their surroundings. And in the press of events, they hadn't thought to put on other spacesuits. In the lounge and elsewhere, fastened against the walls where such armor for emergency use. Burt tried to help his wife get into one, but she ordered sharply, I can do this, take care of yourself, Burt. He didn't do that, nor did Lawler. They ran down a passage toward the rent in the ship intent on stopping the gases that were flooding the craft's interior. Seconds were important. The radioactive wind much cooled during the long journey from its point of origin but poisoned by invisible emanations struck their unprotected bodies. Yet they kept on. They dared not breathe or speak. Still, they worked together with an efficiency of terrible need, stepping over the forms of men who had already fallen. Burt found a flat sheet of metal to use as a patch. He fitted it over the rent and while Lawler piled boxes of supplies against it to hold it in place, sealed the edges with a thick tarry substance. When the job was done, they staggered back to the lounge. Blotches of color danced before their vision. Many corpuscles in their blood had already been destroyed by radiation. They sank to the deck. Burt had a jangled impression of Alice now in a spacesuit holding his head. He saw her lips mouthing in dearments. Game little, Alice. His mind wandered off. He was going to die. Maybe everyone on the ship was going to die. Lauren's last move had been meant to provide a real disaster with many deaths. Prove the big pill of failure. Make sure that it would be banned for good by the Safe Products Approval Board. Put the stamp of crime on Doc Kramer, the gentle little scientist who had been murdered. And on him, Burt Kraskow. And where was the rat, Lauren? On his way to the colonized moons of Jupiter or even Mars yelling and accusing by radio all along the line. As consciousness faded further, Burt stopped thinking unpleasant things. His mind drifted into Doc Kramer's dream of the changes which would make the near-dead worlds of space really habitable and home-like fit for human colonists. It was a beautiful, lost vision. He was out cold then for several Earth days and only dimly aware for many days afterward. He knew that he was in the ship's sick bay and that Lawler and other men were there too. He heard their voices and his own without remembering what was said. Alice often came to see him. Often he heard roaring, woodery sounds as of vast rains. Gradually he came out of the dream-like period learning of what had happened until the time when he walked from the sick bay unsteadily but on the mend. Alice at his elbow spoke. It was his Doc Kramer plan, Burt, solving the hardest problem. He knew what this meant. Transmutation or any atomic process must involve the generation of much radioactivity that can destroy life. In the big pill, the problem was to make all the atoms break and rearrange their components into new elements as cleanly and sharply as possible so that residual atomic instability, radioactivity that is, would not linger for years but would disappear quickly. Titan's new atmosphere is clean and breathable now, Burt. Alice went on. And likewise the radioactive poisons that made you and Lawler and the others very ill disappeared quickly from your bodies. However, two colonists were beyond saving. Lawler was with the Kraskows. They went out of the ship without the cumbersome protection of space suits. A space patrolman hovered like a worried hawk watching Burt but the latter did not seem to mind. Far above replacing the hard stars and blackness of space common to the firmaments of all dead and near-dead worlds were great fleecy clouds and blue sky. The atmosphere because of Titan's low gravity was highly expanded and hence thin but rich in oxygen. The breeze smelled cool and fresh. Overhead was a second sun, seemingly much larger in diameter than the distant central orb of the solar system. It crept with visible motion across the sky. It was the molten globe of what had been the Prometheus and its cargo locked in its sub-lunar orbit around Titan but it was calculated to provide sufficient warmth and light to a small world such as this for 10 years without renewal. Colonists were clearing away the wreckage of the now useless air-doms and putting their cottages in order but they still looked around in awe at the miracles that ended their space nostalgia making them feel truly at home here. Down in the valley there was even a great lake of rainwater from condensed steam. One of the end products of the process that had gone on in the rocks of the great crater on the other side of Titan. That process had died to a sleepy smoking now but all over this moon of Saturn there were many lakes. Big Lawler chuckled gleefully the sound rumbling deep in his chest. There was a rejuvenation of burnt-out spheres on a really progressive basis. He ground, not obsolete, jury-rigged junk. Expensive, sure, but we can pay for it. Out there are Saturn's metal-rich rings. Burt was thinking that same trick could be used on any world with enough gravity to hold down a respectable atmosphere. Half-dead Mars, Jupiter's four biggest moons, some of the other satellites of Saturn, Mercury. The one thing that burns me is that my brother Nick and Doc Kramer and those two colonists had to die, Burt graded. Poor Doc, he was rich from the atomic engines he invented and I knew long ago that by his will all his stock is to be put in trust for the welfare of spacemen and colonists. Should we feel glad or humble? Lawler's grin had become a snarl. Damn Trenton Lauren, he said. Alice didn't exactly smile. I should have told you this before, she offered seriously, but death always upsets me. By radio report from a scouting patrol boat an hour ago, Lauren and his Stooges were found, smashed, and burned in the crash of their craft a hundred miles from camp. Their half-repaired spaceboat killed them. Burt and Lawler exchanged glances, their anger faded. What's new from the Safe Products Approval Board, Allie? Lawler asked at last. You seem to find things out fast. Nothing new, she answered. The latest messages are much the same as those from a while ago. Guarded enthusiasm and the statement that an okay for the Kramer methods must be withheld pending complete and prompt investigation. Can't blame them, caution is important. Maybe if you played your cards right, you could become the new president of the Prometheus outfit, Burt. Lawler kitted. But the possibility was certainly there. Burt was proud of what he'd done. Prometheus owed him plenty. Still, looking across camp, past cottages and shops to the red mud of the once dry frigid hills and down to the blue lake in the valley, reflecting sky and clouds, he knew that his heart was here in this crescendoing colonial scene. Somewhere a circle saw screamed. From the metals shop came the clanging of a mechanical hammer. These were sounds of a great future here. Nuts, pal, Burt chuckled to Lawler. I'll leave the official pencil pushing to the lab experts. The building and progress are here. You and Ali and I will all be back on Titan very soon. These three began to be aware that a crowd of still befuddled but happy colonists were gathering around them. Another space patrolman approached and said very officially, Mr. and Mrs. Kraskal and Mr. Lawler, our large ship leaves for Earth in five hours. Be ready to blast off. As you are aware, certain still valid charges were lodged against you by Trent and Lauren. You used dangerous equipment, not yet legally approved. As you are also aware, you must go to answer these charges. Sorry, but we of the patrol know the score. In the face of your success, I'm sure that this is mere red tape. Burt scowled until he saw the cops lie grin. Worried, Alice asked him, smiling. She was pretty, she had courage, she had everything. Worried, Burt echoed. In general, he approved the SPAB. How can we lose on this last gamble with all the cards stacked in our favor? We even win a needed short vacation on Earth. What are you two gonna bring back for me? An old man grime from the forges demanded grinning. It was old Stan Kraskal, who had buried his younger son in the camp cemetery. Hi, Dad, Burt greeted happily. What'll we bring him, Allie? Wild birds pop, Alice answered, her eyes twinkling. You always liked wild birds. No world is complete without them. Burt noticed that the gardens of the camp planted weeks ago under air domes that were now being cleared away were now showing a faint green, the beginning of a new and verdant titan. End of Big Pill by Raymond Z. Galoon. Cold Light by Captain SP Meek. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nick Number. Cold Light by Captain SP Meek. Confounded, Carnes, I'm on my vacation. I know it, Doctor, and I hate to disturb you, but I felt that I simply had to. I have one of the weirdest cases on my hands that I've ever been mixed up in, and I think that you'll forgive me for calling you when I tell you about it. Doctor Burt groaned into the telephone transmitter. I took a vacation last summer or tried to, and you hauled me away from the best fishing I've found in years to help you on a case. This year, I traveled all the way from Washington to San Francisco to get away from you, and the very day that I get here, you are after me. I won't have anything to do with it. Where are you anyway? I am at Fallon, Nevada, Doctor. I am sorry that you won't help me out because the case promises to be unusually interesting. Let me at least tell you about it. Doctor Burt groaned louder than ever into the telephone transmitter. All right, go ahead and tell me about it if it will relieve your mind, but I have given you my final answer. I'm not a bit interested in it. That is quite all right, Doctor. I don't expect you to touch it. I hope, however, that you will be able to give me an idea of where to start. Did you ever see a man's body broken in pieces? Do you mean badly smashed up? No, indeed. I mean just what I said, broken in pieces. Legs snapped off as though the entire flesh had become brittle. No, I didn't, and neither did anyone else. I have seen it, Doctor. Huey, what have you been drinking? Operative Carnes of the United States Secret Service chuckled softly to himself. The voice of the famous scientist of the Bureau of Standards plainly showed an interest which was quite at variance with his words. I was quite sober, Doctor, and so was Hughes, and we both saw it. Who is Hughes? He's an airmail pilot, one of the crack-flyers of the Transcontinental Airmail Corporation. Let me tell you the whole thing in order. All right, I have a few minutes to spare, but I'll warn you again that I don't intend to touch the case. Suit yourself, Doctor. I have no authority to requisition your services. As you know, the TAC has been handling a great deal of the Transcontinental Airmail with a pretty clean record on accidents. The day before yesterday, a special plane left Washington to carry two packages from there to San Francisco. One of them was a shipment of jewels valued at a quarter of a million, consigned to a San Francisco firm, and the other was a sealed packet from the War Department. No one was supposed to know the contents of that packet except the chief of staff who delivered it to the plane personally, but rumors got out, as usual, and it was popularly supposed to contain certain essential features of the Army's war plans. This much is certain. The plane carried not only the regular TAC pilot and courier, but also an Army courier, and it was guarded during the trip by an Army plane armed with small bombs and a machine gun. I rode in it. My orders were simply to guard the ship until it landed at Mills Field, and then to guard the courier from there to the Presidio of San Francisco until his packet was delivered personally into the hands of the commanding general of the 9th Corps area. The trip was quiet and monotonous until after we left Salt Lake City at dawn this morning. Nothing happened until we were about 100 miles east of Reno. We had taken elevation to cross the Stillwater Mountains and were skimming low over them, my plane trailing the TAC plane by about half a mile. I was not paying any particular attention to the other ship when I suddenly felt our plane leap ahead. It was a fast Douglas and the pilot gave it the gun and made it move, I can tell you. I yelled into the speaking tube and asked what was the reason. My pilot yelled back that the plane ahead was in trouble. As soon as it was called to my attention, I could see myself that it wasn't acting normally. It was losing elevation and was pursuing a very erratic course. Before we could reach it, it lost flying speed and fell into a spinning nosedive and headed for the ground. I watched, expecting every minute to see the crew make parachute jumps, but they didn't and the plane hit the ground with a terrific crash. It caught fire, of course. No doctor, that is one of the funny things about the accident, it didn't. It hit the ground in an open place free from brush and literally burst into pieces, but it didn't flame up. We headed directly for the scene of the crash and we encountered another funny thing. We almost froze to death. What do you mean? Exactly what I say, of course it's pretty cold at that altitude all the time, but this cold was like nothing I had ever encountered. It seemed to freeze the blood in our veins and it congealed frost on the windshields and made the motor miss for a moment. It was only momentary and it only existed directly over the wrecked plane. We went past it and swung around in a circle and came back over the wreck, but we didn't feel the cold again. The next thing we tried to do was to find a landing place. That country is pretty rugged and rough and there wasn't a flat place for miles that was large enough to land a ship on. Hughes and I talked it over and there didn't seem to be much of anything that we could do except to go on until we found a landing place. I had had no experience in parachute jumping and I couldn't pilot the plane if Hughes jumped. We swooped down over the wreck as close as we dared and that was when we saw the condition of the bodies. The whole plane was cracked up pretty badly but the weird part of it was the fact that the bodies of the crew had broken into pieces as though they had been made of glass. Arms and legs were detached from the torsos and lying at a distance. There was no sign of blood on the ground. We saw all this with our naked eyes from close at hand and verified it by observations through binoculars from a greater height. When we had made our observations and marked the location of the wreck as closely as we could, we headed east until we found a landing place near Fallon. Hughes dropped me here and went on to Reno or to San Francisco if necessary to report the accident and get more planes to aid in the search. I was wholly at sea but it seemed to be in your line and as I knew you were at the St. Francis I called you up. What are your plans? I made none until I talked with you. The country where the wreck occurred is unbelievably wild and we can't get near it with any transportation other than burrows. The only thing that I can see to do is to gather together what transportation I can and head for the wreck on foot to rescue the packets and to bring out the bodies. Can you suggest anything better? When do you expect to start? As soon as I can get my pack trained together possibly in three or four hours. Carnes, are you sure that those bodies were broken into bits and arm or a leg might easily be torn off in a complete crash? They were smashed into bits as nearly as I could tell, doctor. Hughes is an old flyer and he has seen plenty of crashes but he never saw anything like this. It beats anything that I ever saw. If your observations were accurate there could be only one cause and that one is a patent impossibility. I haven't a bit of equipment here but I expect that I can get most of the stuff I want from the University of California across the bay at Berkeley. I can get a plane at Chrissy Field. I'll tell you what to do, Carnes. Get your burrow trained together and start as soon as you can but leave me half a dozen burrows and a guide at Fallon. I'll get up there as soon as I can and I'll try to overtake you before you get to the wreck. If I don't, don't disturb anything anymore than you can help until my arrival. Do you understand? I thought that you were on your vacation, doctor. Oh, shut up. Like most of my vacations so this one won't have to be postponed. I'll move as swiftly as I can and I ought to be at Fallon tonight if I'm lucky and don't run into any obstacles. Burrows are fairly slow but I'll make the best time possible. I rather expected you would, doctor. I can't get my pack trained together until evening so I'll wait for you right here. I'm mighty glad that you're going to get in on it. Silently, Carnes and Dr. Bird surveyed the wreck of the TAC plane. The observations of the Secret Service Operative had been correct. The bodies of the unfortunate crew had been broken into fragments. Their limbs had not been twisted off as a freak of the fall but had been cleanly broken off as though the bodies had suddenly become brittle and had shattered on their impact with the ground. Not only the bodies but the ship itself had been broken up. Even the clothing of the men was in pieces or had long splits in the fabric whose edges were as clean as though they'd been cut with a knife. Dr. Bird picked up an arm which had belonged to the pilot and examined it. The brittleness, if it had ever existed, was gone and the arm was limp. No rigor mortis, commented the doctor. How long ago was the wreck? About 72 hours ago. Hmm, what about those packets that were on the plane? Carnes stepped forward and gingerly inspected first the body of the Army Courier and then that of the Courier of the TAC. Both gone, doctor, he reported, straightening up. Dr. Bird's face fell into grim lines. There is more to this case than appears on the surface, Carnes, he said. This was no ordinary wreck. Bring up that third burrow. I want to examine these fragments a little. Bill, he went on to one of the two guides who had accompanied them from Fallon. You and Walter scout around the ground and see what you can find out. I especially wish to know whether anyone has visited the scene of the wreck. The guides consulted a moment and started out. Carnes drove up the burrow the doctor had indicated and Dr. Bird unpacked it. He opened a mahogany case and took from it a high-powered microscope. Setting the instrument up on a convenient rock, he subjected portions of the wreck, including several fragments of flesh, to a careful scrutiny. When he had completed his observations, he fell into a brown study from which he was aroused by Carnes. What did you find out about the cause of the wreck, doctor? I don't know what to think. The immediate cause was that everything was frozen. The plane ran into a belt of cold which froze up the motor and which probably killed the crew instantly. It was undoubtedly the aftermath of that cold which you felt when you swooped down over the wreck. It seems impossible that it could have suddenly got cold enough to freeze everything up like that. It does and yet I am confident that that is what happened. It was no ordinary cold, Carnes. It was cold of the type that infests interstellar space, cold beyond any conception you have of cold, cold near the range of the absolute zero of temperature, nearly 450 degrees below zero on the Fahrenheit scale. At such temperatures, things which are ordinarily quite flexible and elastic, such as rubber or flesh, become as brittle as glass and would break in the manner which these bodies have broken. An examination of the tissues of the flesh shows that it has been submitted to some temperature that is very low in the scale, probably below that of liquid air. Such a temperature would produce instant death in the other phenomena which we can observe. What could cause such a low temperature, doctor? I don't know yet, although I hope to find out before we are finished. Cold is a funny thing, Carnes. Ordinarily it is considered as simply the absence of heat and yet I have always held it to be a definitive negative quantity. All through nature we observe that every force has its opposite or negative force to oppose it. We have positive and negative electrical charges, positive and negative, or north and south, magnetic poles. We have gravity and its opposite apogee and I believe cold is really negative heat. I never heard of anything like that, doctor. I always thought that things were cold because heat was taken from them, not because cold was added. It sounds preposterous. Such is the common idea and yet I cannot accept it for it does not explain all the recorded phenomena. You are familiar with a searchlight, are you not? In a general way, yes. A searchlight is merely a source of light and of course of heat, which is placed at the focus of a parabolic reflector so that all of the rays emanating from the source travel in parallel lines. A searchlight, of course, gives off heat. If we place a lens of the same size as a searchlight aperture in the path of the beam and concentrate all the light and heat at one spot, the focal point of the lens, the temperature at that point is the same as the temperature of the source of the light, less what has been lost by radiation. You understand that, do you not? Certainly. Suppose that we place at the center of the aperture of the searchlight a small opaque disc which is permeable neither to heat nor light in such a manner as to interrupt the central portion of the beam. As a result, the beam will go out in the form of a hollow rod or pipe of heat and light with a dark, cold core. This core will have the temperature of the surrounding air plus a small amount which is radiated into it from the surrounding pipe. If we now pass this beam of light through a lens in order to concentrate the beam, both the pipe of heat and the cold core will focus. If we place a temperature-measuring device near the focus of the dark core, we will find that the temperature is lower than the surrounding air. This means that we have focused or concentrated cold. That sounds impossible, but I can offer no other criticism. Nevertheless, it is experimentally true. It is one of the facts which lead me to consider cold as negative heat. However, this is true of cold as it is of the other negative forces. They exist and manifest themselves only in the presence of the positive forces. No one has yet concentrated cold except in the presence of heat as I have outlined. How this cold belt which the TAC plane encountered came to be there is another question. The thing which we have to determine is whether it was caused by natural or artificial forces. Both of the packets which the plane carried are gone, doctor, observed Karnes. Yes, and that seems to add weight to the possibility that the cause was artificial, but it is far from conclusive. The packets might not have been on the men when the plane fell, or someone may have passed later and taken them for safekeeping. The doctor's remarks were interrupted by the guides. Someone has been here since the wreck, doctor, said Bill. Walter and I found tracks where two men came up here and prowled around for some time and then left by the way they came. They went off toward the northwest and we followed their trail for about 40 rods and then lost it. We weren't able to pick it up again. Thanks, Bill, replied the doctor. Well, Karnes, that seems to add more weight to the theory that the spot of cold was made and didn't just happen. If a prospecting party had just happened along, they would either have left the wreck alone or would have made some attempt to enter the bodies. That cold belt must have been produced artificially by men who planned to rob this plane after bringing it down and who were near at hand to get their plunder. Is there any chance of following that trail? I doubt it, Doc. Walter and I scouted around quite a little, but we couldn't pick it up again. Is there any power line passing within 20 miles of here? None that Walter and I know of, Doc. Funny, such a device as must have been used would need power and lots of it for operation. Well, I'll try my luck. Karnes helped me unpack and set up the rest of my apparatus. With the aid of the operative, Dr. Byrd unpacked two of the burrows and extracted from cases where they were carefully packed and padded, some elaborate electrical and optical apparatus. The first was a short telescope of large diameter, which he mounted on a base in such a manner that it could be elevated or depressed and rotated in any direction. At the focal point of the telescope was fastened a small knot of wire from which one lead ran to the main piece of apparatus, which he sat on a flat rock. The other lead from the wire knot ran into a sealed container surrounded by a water bath under which a spirit lamp burned. From the container another lead led to the main apparatus. This main piece consisted of a series of wire coils mounted on a frame and attached to the two leads. The doctor took from a padded case a tiny magnet suspended on a piece of wire of exceedingly small diameter, which he fastened in place inside the coils. Cemented to the magnet was a tiny mirror. What is that apparatus? Asked Karnes as the doctor finished his setup and surveyed it with satisfaction. Merely a thermocouple attached to a Darson-Vall galvanometer replied the doctor. This large squat telescope catches and concentrates on the thermocouple and the galvanometer registers the temperature. You're out of my depth. What is a thermocouple? A juncture of two wires made of dissimilar metals, in this case of platinum and of platinum iridium alloy. There is another similar junction in this case, which is kept at a constant temperature by the water bath. When the temperatures of the two junctions are the same, the system is in equilibrium. When they are at different temperatures an electrical potential is set up, which causes a current to flow from one to the other through the galvanometer. The galvanometer consists of a magnet set up inside coils through which the current I spoke of flows. This current causes the magnet to rotate and by watching the mirror the rotation can be detected and measured. This device is one of the most sensitive ever made and is used to measure the radiation from distant stars. The current is smallest point 0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000001001 ampere have been detected and measured. This particular instrument is not that sensitive to begin with and has its sensitivity further reduced by having a high resistance in one of the leads. What are you going to use it for? I'm going to try to locate somewhere in these hills a patch of local cold. It may not work, but I have hopes. If you will manipulate the telescope so as to search the hills around here, I will watch the galvanometer." For several minutes Karn swung the telescope around. Twice Dr. Bird stopped him and decreased the sensitiveness of his instrument by introducing more resistance in the lines in order to keep the magnet from twisting clear around, due to the fluctuations in the heats received on account of the varying conditions of reflection. As Karn swung the telescope again the magnet swung around sharply, nearly to a right angle to its former position. Stop! cried the doctor. Read your azimuth. Karn's read the compass bearing on the protractor attached to the frame which supported the telescope. Dr. Bird took a pair of binoculars and looked long and earnestly in the indicated direction. With a sigh he laid down the glasses. I can't see a thing, Karnzie, he said. We'll have to move over to the next crest and make a new setup. Plant a rod on the hill so that we can get an azimuth bearing and get the airline distance with a rangefinder. On the hilltop which Dr. Bird had pointed out the apparatus was again set up. For several minutes Karn's swept the hills before an exclamation from the doctor told him to pause. He read the new azimuth and the doctor laid off the two readings on a sheet of paper with a protractor and made a few calculations. I don't know, he said reflectively when he had finished his computations. This darned instrument is still so sensitive that you may have merely focused on a deep shadow or a cold spring or something of that sort, but the magnet kicked clear around and it may mean that we have located what we are looking for. It should be about two miles away and almost due west of here. There is no spring that I know of, Doc, and I think I know of every water hole in this country, remarked Bill. There could hardly be a spring at this elevation anyway, replied the doctor. Maybe it is what we are seeking. We'll start out in that direction anyway. Bill, you had better take the lead, for you know the country. Get out a little so that we won't be too bunched if anything happens. For three quarters of an hour the little group of men made their way through the wilderness in the direction indicated by the doctor. Presently Bill, who was in the lead, held up his hand with a warning gesture. The other three closed up as rapidly as cautious progress would allow. What is it, Bill? Asked the doctor in an undertone. Slip up ahead and look over that crest. The doctor obeyed instructions. As he glanced over he gave vent to a low whistle of surprise and motioned for Carnes to join him. The operative crawled up and glanced over the crest. In a hollow before them was a crude one-storied house and erected on an open space before it was a massive piece of apparatus. It consisted of a number of huge metallic cylinders from which lines ran to a silvery concave mirror mounted on an elaborate frame which would allow it to be rotated so as to point in any direction. What is it, whispered Carnes? Some kind of a projector, muttered the doctor. I never saw one quite like it, but it is meant to project something. I can't make out the curve of that mirror. It isn't a parabola and it isn't an ellipse. It must be a high degree sub-catenary or else built on a transcendental function. He raised himself to get a clearer view, and as he did so a puff of smoke came from the house to be followed in a moment by a sharp crack as a bullet flattened itself a few inches from his head. The doctor tumbled back over the crest out of sight of the house. Bill and Walter hurried forward, their rifles held ready for action. Get out on the flanks, men, directed the doctor. The man we want is in a house in that hollow. He's armed and he means business. Bill and Walter crawled under the shelter of the rocks to a short distance away, and then, rifles ready, advanced to the attack. A report came from the hollow and a bullet whined over Bill's head. Most instantly a crack came from Walter's rifle and Splinter's flew from the building in the hollow a few inches from a loophole through which projected the barrel of a rifle. The rifle barrel swung rapidly in a circle and barked in Walter's direction, but as it did so, Bill's gun spoke and again Splinter's flew from the building. Good work, he ejaculated Dr. Bird as he watched the slow advance of the two guides. If we just had rifles we could join in the party, but it's a little far for effective pistol work. Let's go ahead and we may get close enough to do a little shooting. Pistols in hand, Karnes and the doctor crawled over the crest and joined the advance. Again and again the rifle spoke from the hollow and was answered by the vicious barks of the rifles in the hands of the guides, Karnes and the doctor resting their pistols on rocks and sending an occasional bullet toward the loophole. The conditions of light in the moving target were not conducive to good marksmanship on the part of the besieged man and none of the attackers were hit. Finally Walter succeeded in sending a bullet through the loophole. The rifle barrel suddenly disappeared. With a shout the four men rose from their cover and advanced toward the building at a run. As they did so an ominous whirring sound came from the apparatus in front of the house and a sudden chill filled the air. Back, shouted Dr. Bird, back below the hill if you value your lives! He turned and raced at full speed toward the sheltering crest of the hill, the others following him closely. The whirring sound continued and the concave reflector turned with a grating sound on its gears. As the path of its rays struck the ground the rocks became white with frost and one rock split with a sharp report, one fragment rolling down the slope carrying others in its trail. With panic-stricken faces the four men raced toward the sheltering crest but remorselessly the reflector swung around in their direction. The intense cold numbed the racing men, cutting off their breath and impeding their efforts for speed. Stop! cried the doctor suddenly. Fire at that reflector! It's our only chance! He set the example by turning and emptying his pistol futilely at the turning mirror. Bill, Walter and Carnes followed his example. Nearer and nearer to them came the deadly ray. Bill was the nearest to its path and he suddenly stiffened and fell forward. His useless gun still grasped in his hands. As his body struck the ground it rolled down hill for a few feet, the deadly ray following it. His head struck a rock and Carnes gave a cry of horror as it broke into fragments. Walter threw his rifle to his shoulder and fired again and again at the rotating disc. The cold had become intense and he could not control the actions of his muscles and his rifle wavered about. He threw himself flat on the ground and with an almost superhuman effort steadied himself for a moment and fired. His aim was true and with a terrific crash the reflector split into a thousand fragments. Dr. Byrd staggered to his feet. It's out of order for a moment, he cried, to the house while we can. As swiftly as his numbed feet would allow him he stumbled toward the house. The muzzle of the rifle again projected from the loophole and with its crack the doctor staggered for a moment and then fell. Walter's rifle spoke again and the rifle disappeared through the loophole with a spasmodic jerk. Carnes stumbled over the doctor. Are you hit badly? He gasped through chattering teeth. I'm not hit at all, muttered the doctor. I stumbled and fell just as he fired. Look out, he's going to shoot again. The rifle barrel came slowly into view through the loophole. Walter fired but his bullet went wild. Carnes threw himself behind a rock for protection. The rifle swung in Walter's direction and paused. As it did so from the house came a strangled cry and a sound as of a blow. The rifle barrel disappeared and the sounds of a struggle came from the building. Come on! cried Carnes as he rose to his feet and made his stumbling way forward. The others following at the best speed which their numbed limbs would allow. As they reached the door they were aware of a struggle which was going on inside. With an oath the doctor threw his massive frame against the door. It creaked but the solid oak of which it was composed was proof against the attack and he drew back for another onslaught. From the house came a pistol shot followed by a despairing cry and a guttural shout. Reinforced by Carnes the doctor threw his weight against the door again. With a rending crash it gave and they fell sprawling into the cabin. The doctor was the first one on his feet. Who are you? asked a voice from one corner. The doctor whirled like a flash and covered the speaker with his pistol. Put them up, he said tersely. I'm unarmed, the voice replied. Who are you? We're from the United States Secret Service, replied Carnes who had gained his feet. The game is up for you and you'd better realize it. Secret service, thank God, cried the voice. Get Koskov, he has the plans. He has gone out through the tunnel. Where is it? demanded Carnes. The entrance is that iron plate on the floor. Carnes and the doctor jumped at the plate and tried to lift it without result. There was no handle or projection on which they could take hold. Not that way, cried the voice. That cover is fastened on the inside. Go outside the building. He'll come out about two hundred yards north. Shoot him as he appears or he'll get away. The three men nearly tumbled over each other to get through the doorway into the bitter cold outside. As they emerged from the cabin, the gaze of the guide swept the surrounding hills. There he goes, he cried. Get him, said Carnes sharply. Walter ran forward a few feet and dropped prone on the ground, cuddling the stock of his rifle to his cheek. Two hundred yards ahead, a figure was scurrying over the rocks away from the cabin. Walter drew in his breath and his hand suddenly grew steady as his keen gray eyes peered through the sights. Carnes and the doctor held their breath in sympathy. Suddenly the rifle spoke and the fleeing man threw up his arms and fell forward on his face. Got him, said Walter leconically. Go bring the body in, Carnes, exclaimed the doctor. I'll take care of the chap inside. Did you get him? Asked the voice eagerly as the doctor stepped inside. He's dead all right, replied the doctor grimly. Who the devil are you and what are you doing here? There is a light switch on the left of the door as you come in, was the reply. Doctor Byrd found the switch and snapped on a light. He turned toward the corner from whence the voice had come and recoiled in horror. Proped in the corner was the body of a middle-aged man, dobbed and splashed with blood which ran from a wound in the side of his head. Good Lord! he ejaculated. Let me help you. There's not much use, replied the man rather faintly. I am about done in. This face wound doesn't amount to much, but I am shot through the body and am bleeding internally. If you try to move me, it may easily kill me. Leave me alone until your partners come. The doctor drew a flask of brandy from his pocket and advanced toward the corner. Take a few drops of this, he advised. With an effort the man lifted the flask to his lips and gulped down a little of the fiery spirit. The sound of tramping feet came from the outside and then a thud as though a body had been dropped. Carnes and Walter entered the cabin. He's dead as a mackerel, said Carnes in answer to the doctor's look. Walter got him through the neck and broke his spinal cord. He never knew what hit him. The plans? came in a gasping voice from the man in the corner. We got them too, replied Carnes. He had both packets inside his coat. They have been opened, but I guess they are all here. Who the devil are you? Since Koskoff is dead and I am dying there is no reason why I shouldn't tell you, was the answer. Leave that brandy handy to keep up my strength. I have only a short time and I can't repeat. As to who I am or what I was it doesn't really matter. Koskoff knew me as John Smith and it will pass as well as any other name. Let my past stay buried. I am or was a scientist of some ability, but fortune frowned on me and I was driven out of the world. Money would rehabilitate me. Money will do anything nowadays, so I set out to get it. In the course of my experimental work I had discovered that cold was negative heat and reacted to the laws which governed heat. I knew that, cried Dr. Byrd, but I could never prove it. Who are you? demanded John Smith. Dr. Byrd of the Bureau of Standards. Oh, Byrd, I've heard of you. You can understand me when I say that as heat positive heat is a concomitant of ordinary light. I have found that cold, negative heat, is a concomitant of cold light. Is my apparatus in good shape outside? The reflector is smashed. I'm sorry you would have enjoyed studying it. I presume that you saw that it was a catenary curve? I rather thought so. It was and it was also adjustable. I could vary the focal point from a few feet to several miles. With that apparatus I could throw a beam of negative heat with a focal point which I could adjust at will. Close to the apparatus I could obtain a temperature almost down to absolute zero, but at the longer ranges it wasn't so cold due to leakage into the atmosphere. Even at two miles I could produce a local temperature of 300 degrees below zero. What was the source of your cold? Liquid helium. Those cylinders contain, or rather did contain, for I expect that Kaskoff has emptied them, helium in a liquid state. Where is your compressor? I didn't have to use one. I developed a cold light under whose rays helium would liquefy and remain in a state of equilibrium until exposed to light rays. Those cylinders had merely enough pressure to force the liquid out to where the sun could hit it and then it turned to a gas, dropping the temperature at the first focal point of the reflector to absolute zero. When I had this much done, Kaskoff and I packed the whole apparatus here and were ready for work. We were on the path of the transcontinental airmail and I bided my time until an especially valuable shipment was to be made. My plans, which worked perfectly, were to freeze the plane in midair and then rob the wreck. I heard of the jewel shipment the TAC was to carry and I planned to get it. When the plane came over, Kaskoff and I brought it down. The unsuspected presence of another plane upset us a little and I started to bring it down, but we had been all over this country and knew there was no place that a plane could land. I let it go on in safety. Thank you, replied Karns with a grimace. We robbed the wreck and we found two packets, one the jewels I was after and the other a sealed packet which proved to contain certain war department plans. That was when I learned who Kaskoff was. I had hired him in San Francisco as a good mechanic who had no principles. He was to get one fourth of the loot. When we found these plans he told me who he was. He was really a Russian secret agent and he wanted to deliver the plans to Russia. I may be a thief and a murderer but I am not yet ready to betray my country and I told him so. He offered me almost any price for the plans but I wouldn't listen. We had a serious quarrel and he overpowered me and bound me. We had a radio set here and he called San Francisco and sent some code message. I think he was waiting here for someone to come. Had we followed our original plans we would have been miles from here before you arrived. He had me bound and helpless as he thought but I worked my bonds a little loose. I didn't let him know it for I knew that the plane I had let get away would guide a party here and I thought I might be able to help out. When you came and attacked the house I worked at my bonds until they were loose enough to throw off. I saw Koskov start my cold apparatus to working and then he quit because he ran out of Helium. When he started shooting again I worked out of my bonds and tackled him. He was a better man than I gave him credit for or else he suspected me for about the time I grabbed him he whirled and struck me over the head with his gun barrel and tore my face open. The blow stunned me and when I came too I was thrown into this corner. I meant to have another try at it but I guess you rushed him too fast. He turned and ran for the tunnel but as he did so he shot me through the body. I guess I didn't look dead enough to suit him. You gentlemen broke open the door and came in. That's all. Not by a long shot it isn't exclaimed Dr. Bird. Where is that cold light apparatus of yours? In the tunnel. How do you get into it? If you will open that cupboard on the wall you'll find an open knife switch on the wall. Close it. Dr. Bird found the switch and closed it. As he did so the cabin rocked on its foundations and both Carnes and Walter were thrown to the ground. The thought of a detonation deep in the earth came to their ears. What was that? cried the doctor. That, replied Smith with a wan smile, was the detonation of two hundred pounds of TNT. When you dig down into the underground cave where we used the cold light apparatus you will find it in fragments. It was my only child and I'll take it with me. As he finished his head slumped forward on his chest. With an exclamation of dismay Dr. Bird sprang forward and tried to lift the prostrate form. In an agony of desire the doctor tightened his grip on the dying man's shoulder but Smith collapsed into a heap. Dr. Bird bent forward and tore open his shirt and listened to his chest. Presently he straightened up. He is gone, he said sadly, and I guess the results of his genius have died with him. Smith didn't strike me as a man who left over much to chance. Carnes is your case completed? Very satisfactorily doctor, I have both of the lost packets. All right then, come back to the wreck and help me pack my burrows. I can make my way back to Fallon without a guide. Where are you going doctor? That Carnes old deer is none of your blankety blanked business. Permit me to remind you that I am on my vacation. I haven't decided yet just where I am going but I can tell you one thing, it's going to be someplace where you can't call me on the telephone. End of Cold Light, Recording by Nick Number