 Monkey on His Back, by Charles V. DeVette. Under the cloud of cast-off identities lay the shape of another man. Was it himself? He was walking endlessly down a long glass-walled corridor. Bright sunlight slanted in through one wall on the blue knapsack across his shoulders. Who he was, and what he was doing here, was clouded. The truth lurked in some corner of his consciousness, but it was not reached by surface awareness. The corridor opened at last into a large, high-domed room, much like a railway station or an air terminal. He walked straight ahead. At the sight of him a man leaned negligently against a stone pillar. To his right, but with envision, straightened and barked in order to him. Halt! He lengthened his stride, but gave no other sign. Two men hurried through a doorway of a small anti-room to his left, calling to him. He turned away and began to run. Lengths and the sound of charging feet came from behind him. He cut to the right, running toward the escalator, to the second floor. Another pair of men were hurrying down, two steps at a stride. With no break in pace he veered into an opening beside the escalator. At the first turn he saw that the aisle merely circled the stairway, coming out into the depot again, on the other side. It was a trap. He glanced quickly around him. At the rear of the space was a row of lockers for traveller use. He slipped a coin into a payslot, opened the zipper on his bag, and pulled out a flat briefcase. It took him only a few seconds to push the case into the compartment, lock it, and slide the key along the floor beneath the locker. There was nothing to do after that, except wait. The men pursuing him came hurtling around the turn and the aisle. He kicked his knapsack to one side, spreading his feet wide with an instinctive motion. Until that instant he had intended to fight. Now he swiftly reassessed the odds. There were five of them, he saw. He should be able to incapacitate two or three and break out. But the fact that they had been expecting him meant that others would very probably be waiting outside. His best course now was to sham ignorance. He relaxed. He offered no resistance as they reached him. They were not gentlemen. A tall ruffian, copper-brown face, damp with perspiration and body oil, grabbed him by the jacket and slammed him back against the lockers. As he shifted his weight to keep his footing, someone drove a fist into his face. He started to raise his hand, and a hard, flat object crashed against the side of his skull. The starch went out of his legs. Do you make anything out of it? The psychoanalyst Milton Bergstrom asked. John Zirwell shook his head. Did I talk while I was under? Oh, yes, you were supposed to. That way I followed pretty well what you were reenacting. How does it tie in with what I told you before? Bergstrom's neat-boned, fair-skinned face betrayed no emotion other than an introspective stillness of his normally alert gaze. I see no connection, he decided. His words once again precise and meticulous. We don't have enough to go on. Do you feel able to try another comb analysis this afternoon yet? I don't see why not, Zirwell opened the collar of his shirt. The day was hot, and the room had no air conditioning, still a rare luxury on St. Martin's. The office window was open, but it let in no freshness, only the mildly rank odor that pervaded all the planet's habitable areas. Good! Bergstrom rose. The serum is quite harmless, John. He maintained a professional diversionary chatter as he administered the drug. A scopolamine derivative that's been well tested. The floor beneath Zirwell's feet assumed abruptly the near-transfluent consistency of a damp sponge. It rose in a foot-high wave and rolled gently toward the far wall. Bergstrom continued talking, with practiced urbanity. When psychiatry was a less exact science, his voice went on, seeming to come from a great distance, a doctor had to spend weeks, sometimes months or years interviewing a patient. If he was skilled enough, he could sort the relevancies from the vast amount of chaff. We are able, now, with the help of the serum, to confine our discourses to matters cogent to the patient's trouble. The floor continued its transmutation, and Zirwell sank deep into viscous depths. Lie back, and relax, don't—the words tumbled down from above. They faded, were gone. Zirwell found himself standing on a vast plain. There was no sky above, and no horizon in the distance. He was in a place without space or dimension. There was nothing here except himself, and the gun that he held in his hand. A weapon beautiful, and its efficient simplicity. He should know all about the instrument, its purpose, and workings, but he could not bring his thoughts into rational focus. His forehead creased with his mental effort. Abruptly, the unreality about him shifted perspective. He was approaching, not walking, but merely shortening the space between them, the man who held the gun—the man who was himself. The other himself drifted nearer, also, as though drawn by a mutual attraction. The man with the gun raised his weapon and pressed the trigger. With the action, the perspective shifted again. He was watching the face of the man. He shot, jerk, and twitch, expand and contract. The face was unharmed, yet it was no longer the same, no longer his own features. The stranger face smiled approvingly at him. Odd, Bergstrom said, he brought his hands up and joined the tips of his fingers against his chest. But it's another piece in the jigsaw. In time it will fit into place. He paused. It means no more to you than the first, I suppose. No, Zarwell answered. He was not a talking man, Bergstrom reflected. It was more than reticence, however. The man had a hard, granite core, only partially concealed by his present perplexity. He was a man who could handle himself well in an emergency. Bergstrom shrugged, dismissing his dread thoughts. I expected as much—a quite normal first phase of treatment. He straightened a paper on his desk. I think that will be enough for today. This in one sitting is about all we ever try. Otherwise some particular episode might cause undue mental stress and set up a block. He glanced down at his appointment pad. To-morrow, too, then, Zarwell grunted acknowledgement and pushed himself to his feet, apparently unaware that his shirt clung damply to his body. The sun was still high when Zarwell left the analyst's office. The white marble of the city's buildings shimmered in the afternoon heat. Squat and austere, as giant tree-trunks, pockmarked and gray-modeled with windows. Zarwell was careful not to rest his hand on the flesh-searing surface of the stone. The evening meal-hour was approaching when he reached the flats, on the way to his apartment. The streets of the old section were near deserted. The only sounds he heard as he passed were the occasional cry of a baby, chronically uncomfortable in the day's heat, and the lowing of imported cattle waiting in a nearby shed to be shipped to the country. All St. Martens has a distinctive smell, as of an arid, dried-out swamp, with a faint taint of fish. But in the flats the odor changes. Here is the smell of factories, warehouses, and trading-marts. The smell of stale cooking drifting from the homes of the laborers and lower-class techmen who live there. Zarwell passed a group of smaller children, playing a desultory game of lick-lick for pieces of candy and cigarettes. Slowly he climbed the stairs of a stone flat. He prepared a supper for himself, and ate it without either enjoyment or distaste. He lay down, fully clothed, on his bed. The visit to the analyst had done nothing to dispel his ennui. The next morning, when Zarwell awoke, he lay for a moment, unmoving. The feeling was there again, like a scene waiting only to be gazed at directly to be perceived. It was as though a great wisdom lay at the edge of understanding. If he rested quietly it would all come to him. Yet always, when his mind lost its sleep-induced lethargy, the moment of near-understanding slipped away. This morning, however, the sense of disorientation did not pass with full wakefulness. He achieved no understanding, but the strangeness did not leave as he sat up. He gazed about him. The room did not seem to be his own. The furnishings and the clothing he observed in a closet might have belonged to a stranger. He pulled himself from his blankets, his body moving with mechanical reaction, the slippers into which he put his feet were larger than he had expected them to be. He walked about the small apartment. The place was familiar, but only as it would have been if he had studied it from blueprints, not as though he lived there. The feeling was still with him when he returned to the psychoanalyst. The scene this time was more kaleidoscopic, less personal. A village was being ravaged. Men struggled and died in the streets. Zarwell moved among them, seldom taking part in the individual clashes, yet a moving force in the conflict. The background changed. He understood that he was on a different world. Here a city burned. Its resistance was nearing its end. Zarwell was riding a shaggy pony outside a high wall surrounding the stricken metropolis. He moved in and joined a party of short-bearded men, directing them as they battered at the wall with a huge log mounted on a many-wheeled truck. The log broke a breach in the concrete and the procedures charged through, carrying back the defenders who sought vainly to plug the gap. Soon there would be rioting in the streets again, plundering and killing. Zarwell was not the leader of the invaders, only a lesser figure in the rebellion, but he had played a leading part in the planning of the strategy that led to the city's fall. The job had been well done. Time passed without visible break and the panorama. Now Zarwell was fleeing, pursued by the same bearded men who had been his comrades before. Still he moved with the same firm purpose, vigilant, resourceful, and well-prepared for the eventuality that had befallen. He made his escape without difficulty. He alighted from a spaceship on still another world, another shift in time, and the atmosphere of conflict engulfed him. Weary but resigned he accepted it, and did what he had to do. Bergstrom was regarding him with speculative scrutiny. You've had quite a past, apparently, he observed. Zarwell smiled with mild embarrassment, at least in my dreams. Bergstrom's eyes widened in surprise. Oh, I beg your pardon, I must have forgotten to explain. This work is so routine to me that sometimes I forget it's all new to a patient. Actually what you experienced under the drug were not dreams. They were recollections of real episodes from your past. Zarwell's expression became wary. He watched Bergstrom closely. After a minute, however, he seemed satisfied, and he let himself settle back against the cushion of his chair. I remember nothing of what I saw, he observed. That's why you're here, you know, Bergstrom answered, to help you remember. But everything under the drug is so haphazard? That's true. The recall episodes are always purely random, with no chronological sequence. Our problem will be to reassemble them in proper order later, or some particular scene may trigger a complete memory return. It is my considered opinion, Bergstrom went on, that your lost memory will turn out to be no ordinary amnesia. I believe we will find that your mind has been tampered with. Nothing I've seen under the drug fits into the past, I do remember. That's what makes me so certain, Bergstrom said confidently. You don't remember what we have shown to be true. Conversely then, what you think you remember must be false. It must have been implanted there. But we can go into that later. For today I think we have done enough. This episode was quite prolonged. I won't have any time off again until next weekend, Zarwell reminded him. That's right, Bergstrom thought for a moment. We shouldn't let this hang too long. Could you come here after work tomorrow? I suppose I could. Fine, Bergstrom said with satisfaction. I'll admit I'm considerably more than casually interested in your case by this time. A work truck picked Zarwell up the next morning, and he rode with a tech crew to the edge of the reclamp area, beside the belt bringing Ocean Muck from the converter plant at the seashore his bulldozer was waiting. He took his place behind the drive-wheel and began working dirt down between windbreakers anchored in the rock. Along a makeshift road into the Badlands, trucks brought crushed lime and phosphorus to supplement the ocean sediment. The progress of life from the sea to the land was a mechanical process of this growing world. Only two hundred years ago, when Earth established a colony on St. Martin's, the land surface of the planet had been barren. Only its seas thrived with animal and vegetable life. The necessary machinery and technicians had been supplied by Earth, and the long struggle began to fit the world for human needs. When Zarwell arrived six months before, the vitalised area already extended three hundred miles along the coast, and sixty miles inland. And every day the progress continued. A large percentage of the energy and resources of the world were devoted to that essential expansion. The reclamp crews filled and sodded the sterile rock, planted binding grasses, grain and trees, and diverted rivers to keep it fertile. When there were no rivers to divert, they blasted out springs and lakes in the foothills to make their own. Biologists developed the necessary germ and insect life from what they found in the sea. Where that felled, they imported microorganisms from Earth. Three rubber-tracked crawlers picked their way down from the mountains until they joined the road passing the belt. They were loaded with ore that would be smelted into metal for depleted earth, or for other colonies short of minerals. It was St. Martin's only export thus far. Zarwell pulled his sun-helmet lower to better guard his hot dry features. The wind blew continuously on St. Martin's, but it furnished small relief from the heat. After its three thousand mile journey across scorched sterile rock, it sucked the moisture from a man's body, bringing a membrane shrinking dryness to the nostrils as it was breathed in. With it came also the cloying taste of limestone in a worker's mouth. Zarwell gazed idly about at the other laborers. Fully three-quarters of them were Barrabza-ridden. A cure for the skin fungus had not yet been found. The men's faces and hands were scabbed in red. The colony had grown to near self-sufficiency, would soon have a moderate prosperity, yet they still lacked adequate medical and research facilities. Not all the world's citizens were content. Bergstrom was waiting in his office when Zarwell arrived that evening. He was lying motionless on a hard cot with his eyes closed, yet with his every scent sharply quickened. Tentatively, he tightened small muscles in his arms and legs. Across his wrists and thighs he felt straps binding him to the cot. "'So that's our big bad man,' a coarse voice above him observed, caustically. "'He doesn't look so tough now, does he?' "'It might have been better to kill him right away,' a second less confident voice said. "'It's supposed to be impossible to hold him.' "'Don't be stupid. We just do what we're told. We'll hold him.' "'What do you think they'll do with him?' "'Execute him, I suppose,' the harsh voice said, matter-of-factly. They're probably just curious to see what he looks like first. They'll be disappointed.' Zarwell opened his eyes a slit to observe his surroundings. It was a mistake. "'He's out of it,' the first speaker said, and Zarwell allowed his eyes to open fully. The voice, he saw, belonged to the big man who had bruised him against the locker at the spaceport. Irrelevantly, he wondered how he knew now that it had been a spaceport. His captor's broad face jeered down at Zarwell. "'Have a good sleep,' he asked with mock solicitude. Zarwell did not dang to acknowledge that he had heard. The big man turned. "'You can tell the chief he's awake,' he said. Zarwell followed his gaze to where a younger man, with a blonde lock of hair on his forehead, stood behind him. The youth nodded and went out, while the other pulled a chair up to the side of Zarwell's cot. While their attention was away from him, Zarwell had unobtrusively loosened his bonds as much as possible with arm leverage. As the big man drew his chair nearer, he made the hand farthest from him tight and compact and worked it free of the leather loop. He waited. "'The big man belched.' "'You're supposed to be great stuff in a situation like this,' he said, his smoked hand-face splitting in a grin that revealed large square teeth. "'How about giving me a sample?' "'You're a yellow-livered bastard,' Zarwell told him. The grin faded from the oily face as the man stood up. He leaned over the cot, and Zarwell's left hand shot up and locked about his throat, joined almost immediately by the right. The man's mouth opened, and he tried to yell as he threw himself frantically backward. He clawed at the hands about his neck. When that fell to break the grip, he suddenly reversed his weight and drove his fist at Zarwell's head. Zarwell pulled the struggling body down against his chest and held it there until all agitated movement ceased. He sat up then, letting the body slide to the floor. The straps about his thighs came loose with little effort. The analyst dabbed at his upper lip with a handkerchief. "'The episodes are beginning to tie together,' he said, with an attempt at nonchalance. The next couple should do it.' Zarwell did not answer. His memory seemed on the point of complete return, and he sat quietly, hopefully. However, nothing more came, and he returned his attention to his more immediate problem. Opening a button on his shirt, he pulled back a strip of plastic cloth just below his ribcage and took out a small flat pistol. He held it in the palm of his hand. He knew now why he always carried it. Bergstrom had his bad moment. "'You're not going to,' he began at the side of his gun. He tried again. "'You must be joking!' "'I have very little sense of humor.' Zarwell corrected him. "'You'd be foolish!' Bergstrom obviously realized how close he was to death. Yet surprisingly, after the first start, he showed little fear. Zarwell had thought the man a bit soft, too adjusted to a life of ease and some prestige, to meet danger calmly. Curiosity restrained his trigger finger. "'Why would I be foolish?' he asked. "'Your manager oath of inviolable confidence?' Bergstrom shook his head. "'I know it's been broken before, but you need me. You're not through, you know. If you killed me, you'd still have to trust some other analyst. Is that the best you can do?' "'No,' Bergstrom was angry now, but use that logical mind you're supposed to have. Scenes before this have shown what kind of man you are. Just because this last happened here, on St. Martin's, makes little difference. If I was going to turn you into the police, I'd have done it before this.' Zarwell debated with himself the truth of what the other had said. "'Why didn't you turn me in?' he asked. "'Because you're no mad dog killer.' Not that the crisis seemed to be passed. Bergstrom spoke more calmly. Even allowed himself to relax. "'You're still pretty much in the fog about yourself. I read more in those common analysis than you did. I even know who you are.' Zarwell's eyebrows raised. "'Who am I?' he asked, very interested now. Without attention he put his pistol away and had trouser pocket. Bergstrom brushed the question aside with one hand. Your name makes little difference. You've used many. But you are an idealist. Your killings were necessary to bring justice to the places you visited. By now you're almost a legend among the human worlds. I'd like to talk more with you on that later." While Zarwell considered, Bergstrom pressed his advantage. "'One more scene might do it,' he said. Should we try again? If you trust me, that is.' Zarwell made his decision quickly. "'Go ahead,' he answered. All Zarwell's attention seemed on the cigar he lit as he rode down the escalator. But he surveyed the terminal carefully over the rim of his hand. Despite no suspicious loungers. Behind the escalator he groped along the floor beneath the lockers until he found his key. The briefcase was under his arm a minute later. In the basement lav he put a coin in the paste lot of a private compartment and went in. As he zipped open the briefcase he surveyed his features in the mirror. A small muscle at the corner of one eye twitched spasmodically. One cheek wore a frozen quarter smile. Thirty-six hours under the paralysis was longer than advisable. The muscles should be rested at least every twenty hours. Fortunately, his natural features would serve as an adequate disguise now. He adjusted the ring setting on the pistol-shaped instrument that he took from his case and carefully raided several small areas of his face. Loosening muscles that had been tight too long, he sighed briefly when he finished, massaging his cheeks and forehead with considerable pleasure. Another glance in the mirror satisfied him with the changes that had been made. He turned to his briefcase again and exchanged the gun for a small syringe which he pushed into a trouser pocket and a single-edged razor blade. Loosening his fibercloth jacket he slashed it into strips with the razor blade and flushed it down the disposal bowl. With the sleeves of his blouse rolled up he had the appearance of a typical workman as he strolled from the compartment. Back at the locker he replaced the briefcase and, with a wad of gum, glued the key to the bottom of the locker frame. One step more. Taking the syringe from his pocket he plunged the needle into his forearm and tossed the instrument down a waist chute. He took three more steps and paused, uncertainly. When he looked about him it was with the expression of a man waking from a vivid dream. Quite ingenious, graves murmured admiringly, you had your mind already preconditioned for this shot, but why would you deliberately give yourself amnesia? What better disguise than to believe the part you're playing? A good man must have done that job on your mind, Bergstrom commented. I'd have hesitated to try it myself. It must have taken a lot of trust on your part. Trust and money, Zarwell said, dryly. Your memory is back, then. Zarwell nodded. I'm glad to hear that, Bergstrom assured him. Now that you're well again I'd like to introduce you to a man named Vernon Johnson. This world, Zarwell stopped him with an upraised hand. Good God, man, can't you see the reason for all this? I'm tired. I'm trying to quit. Quit? Bergstrom did not quite follow him. It started on my home colony, Zarwell explained listlessly. A gang of hoods had taken over the government. I helped organize a movement to get them out. There was some bloodshed, but it went quite well. Several months later an unofficial envoy from another world asked several of us to give them a hand on the same kind of job. The political conditions there were rotten. We went with him. Again we were successful. It seems I have a kind of genius for that sort of thing. He stretched out his legs and regarded them thoughtfully. I learned, then, the truth of Russell's saying. When the oppressed, when their freedom, they are as oppressive as their former masters. When they went bad, I opposed them. This time I failed. But I escaped again. I have quite a talent for that, also. I'm not a professional do-gooder, Zarwell's tone appealed to Bergstrom for understanding. I have only a normal man's indignation at injustice, and now I've done my share. Yet wherever I go the word eventually gets out, and I'm right back in a fight again. It's like the proverbial monkey on my back. I can't get rid of it. He rose. That disguise and memory planting were supposed to get me out of it. I should have known it wouldn't work. But this time I'm not going to be drawn back in. You and your Vernon Johnson can do your own revolting. I'm through. Bergstrom did not argue as he left. Restlessness drove Zarwell from his flat the next day. A legal holiday on St. Martin's. At a railed-off lot he stopped and loitered in the shadow of an adjacent building, watching workmen drilling in excavation for a new structure. When a man strolled to his side and stood watching the workmen, he was not surprised. He waited for the other to speak. I'd like to talk to you, if you can spare a few minutes, the stranger said. Zarwell turned and studied the man without answering. He was medium tall, with a body of an athlete, though perhaps ten years beyond the age of sports. He had a manner of contained energy. Your Johnson, he asked. The man nodded. Zarwell tried to feel the anger he wanted to feel, but somehow it would not come. We have nothing to talk about, was the best he could manage. Then will you just listen? After I'll leave, if you tell me to. Against his will he found himself liking the man, and wanting at least to be courteous. He inclined his head toward a curb waste-box with a flat top. Should we sit? Johnson smiled agreeably, and they walked over to the box and sat down. When this colony was first founded, Johnson began without preamble, the administrative body was a governor, and a council of twelve. Their successors were to be elected by any alley. At first they were, then things changed. We haven't had an election now in the last twenty-three years. St. Martin's is beginning to prosper, yet the only ones receiving the benefits are the rulers. The citizens work twelve hours a day. They are poorly housed, poorly fed, poorly clothed. Today Zerwell found himself not listening as Johnson's voice went on. The story was always the same. But why did they always try to drag him into their troubles? Why hadn't he chosen some other world on which to hide? The last question prompted a new thought. Just why had he chosen St. Martin's? Was it only a coincidence, or had he, subconsciously at least, picked this particular world? He had always considered himself the unwilling subject of glib persuaders. But mightn't some inner compulsion of his own have put the monkey on his back? And we need your help, Johnson had finished his speech. Zerwell gazed up at the bright sky. He pulled in a long breath and let it out in a sigh. What are your plans so far? He asked warily. End of Monkey on His Back, by Charles V. Divet. The Moon is Green, by Fritz Leiber. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Rating by Bologna Times. The Moon is Green, by Fritz Leiber. Anybody who wanted to escape death could, by paying a very simple price, denial of life. Effie, what the devil are you up to? Her husband's voice, chopping through her mood of terrified rapture, made her heart jump like a startled cat. Yet by some miracle of feminine self-control, her body did not show a tremor. Dear God, she thought, he mustn't see it. It's so beautiful, and he always kills beauty. I'm just looking at the moon, she said listlessly. It's green, mustn't, mustn't see it, and now, with luck, he wouldn't. For the face, as if it also heard, and sensed the menace and the voice, was moving back from the window's glow into the outside dark, but slowly, reluctantly, and still fawn-like, pleading, cajoling, tempting, and incredibly beautiful. Close the shutters at once, you little fool, and come away from the window. Green as a beer bottle, she went on dreamily. Green as emeralds, green as leaves with sunshine striking through them, and green grass to lie on. She couldn't help saying those last words. They were her token to the face, even though it couldn't hear her. Effie! She knew what that last tone meant. Wearily she swung shut the ponderous lead in her shutters, and drove home the heavy bolts. That hurt her fingers. It always did, but he mustn't know that. You know that those shutters are not to be touched, not for five more years at least. I only wanted to look at the moon, she said, turning around, and then it was all gone. The face, the night, the moon, the magic. And she was back in the grubby, stale little hole, facing an angry, stale little man. It was then that the eternal thud of the air-conditioning fans, and the crackle of the electrostatic precipitators that sieved out the dust, reached her consciousness again like the bite of a dentist's drill. Only wanted to look at the moon! He mimicked her in falsetto. Only wanted to die like a little fool, and make me that much more ashamed of you. Then his voice went gruff and professional. Here, count yourself. She silently took the Geiger counter he held at arm's length, waited until it settled down to a steady ticking slower than a clock, due only to cosmic rays and indicating nothing dangerous, and then began to comb her body with the instrument. First her head and shoulders, then out along her arms and back along their underside. There was something oddly voluptuous about her movements, although her features were gray and sagging. The ticking did not change its tempo until she came to her waist. Then it suddenly spurred, cooking faster and faster. Her husband gave an excited grunt, took a quick step forward, froze. She goggled for a moment in fear, then grinned foolishly, dug in the pocket of her grimy apron, and guiltily pulled out a wristwatch. He grabbed it as it dangled from her fingers, saw that it had a radium dial, cursed, heaved it up as if to smash it on the floor, but instead put it carefully on the table. You imbecile, you incredible imbecile! He softly chanted to himself, through clenched teeth, with eyes half closed. She shrugged faintly, put the Geiger counter on the table, and stood there, slumped. She waited until the chanting had soothed his anger, before speaking again. He said quietly, I do suppose you still realize the sort of world you're living in. She nodded slowly, staring at nothingness. Oh, she realized all right, realized only too well. It was the world that hadn't realized. The world that had gone on stockpiling hydrogen bombs. The world that had put those bombs in cobalt shells. Though it had promised it wouldn't, because the cobalt made them much more terrible and cost no more. The world that had started throwing those bombs, always telling itself that it hadn't thrown enough of them yet to make the air really dangerous with the deadly radioactive dust that came from the cobalt. Thrown them and kept on throwing until the danger point, when air and ground would become fatal to all human life, was approached. Then for about a month the two great enemy groups had hesitated, and then each, unknown to the other, had decided it could risk one last gigantic and decisive attack, without exceeding the danger point. It had been planned to strip off the cobalt cases, but someone forgot, and then there wasn't time. Thus the military scientists of each group were confident that the lands of the other had got the most dust. The two attacks came within an hour of each other. After that the fury. The fury of doomed men, who think only of taking with them as many as possible of the enemy, and in this case they hoped all. The fury of suicides, who know they have botched up life for good. The fury of cocksure men, who realize they have been outsmarted by fate, the enemy, and themselves, and know that they will never be able to improvise a defense when arraigned before the high court of history, and whose unadmitted hope is that there will be no high court of history left to arraign them. More cobalt bombs were dropped during the fury than in all the preceding years of the war. After the fury, the terror. Men and women, with death sifting into their bones through their nostrils and skin, fighting for bare survival under a dust-hazed sky that played fantastic tricks with the light of sun and moon, like the dust from Krakatoa that drifted around the world for years. Cities, countryside, and air were alike poisoned, alive with deadly radiation. The only realistic chance for continued existence was to retire, for the five or ten years the radiation would remain deadly, to some well-sealed and radiation-shielded place that must also be copiously supplied with food, water, power, and a means of air-conditioning. Such places were prepared by the far-saying, seized by the stronger, defended by them in turn against the desperate hordes of the dying, until there were no more of those. After that, only the waiting, the enduring, a mole's existence without beauty or tenderness, but with fear and guilt as constant companions, never to see the sun, to walk among the trees, or even know if there were still trees. Oh yes, she realized what the world was like. You understand, too, I suppose, that we were allowed to reclaim this ground-level apartment only because the committee believed us to be responsible people, and because I've been making a damn good showing lately? Yes, Hank. I thought you were eager for privacy. You want to go back to the basement tenements? God, no. Anything rather than that fetid huddling, that shameless, communal sprawl, and yet was this so much better? The nearness to the surface was meaningless. It only tantalized. And the privacy magnified Hank. She shook her head dutifully and said, no, Hank. Then why aren't you careful? I've told you a million times, Effie. That glass is no protection against the dust outside that window. The lead shutter must never be touched. If you make one single slip like that, and it gets around, the committee will send us back to the lower levels without blinking an eye. And they'll think twice before trusting me with any important jobs. I'm sorry, Hank. Sorry? What's the good of being sorry? The only thing that counts is never to make a slip. Why the devil do you do such things, Effie? What drives you to it? She swallowed. It's just that it's so dreadful being cooped up like this, she said hesitatingly. Shut away from the sky and the sun. I'm just hungry for a little beauty. And do you suppose I'm not? He demanded. Don't you suppose I want to get outside too and be carefree and have a good time? But I'm not so damn selfish about it. I want my children to enjoy the sun and my children's children. Don't you see that that's the all-important thing and that we have to behave like mature adults and make sacrifices for it? Yes, Hank. He surveyed her slumped figure, her lined and listless face. You're a fine one to talk about hunger for beauty, he told her. Then his voice grew softer, more deliberate. You haven't forgotten, have you, Effie, that until last month the committee was so concerned about your sterility that they were about to enter my name on the list of those waiting to be allotted a free woman very high on the list, too. She could nod even at that one. But not while looking at him. She turned away. She knew very well that the committee was justified in worrying about the birth rate. When the community finally moved back to the surface again, each additional healthy young person would be an asset not only in the struggle for bare survival, but in the resumed war against communism, which some of the committee members still counted on. It was natural that they should view a sterile woman with this favor, and not only because of the waste of her husband's germplasm, but because sterility might indicate that she had suffered more than the average from radiation. In that case, if she did bear children later on, they would be more apt to carry a defective heredity, producing an undoomed number of monsters and freaks in future generations, and so contaminating the race. Of course she understood it. She could hardly remember the time when she didn't. Years ago, centuries, there wasn't much difference in a place where time was endless. His lecture finished, her husband smiled, and grew almost cheerful. Now that you're going to have a child, that's all in the background again. Do you know, Effie, that when I first came in I had some very good news for you? I'm to be a member of the junior committee, and the announcement will be made at the banquet tonight. He cut short her mumbled congratulations. So brighten yourself up and put on your best dress. I want the other juniors to see what a handsome wife the new member has got. He paused. Well, get a move on. She spoke with difficulty, still not looking at him. I'm terribly sorry, Hank, but you'll have to go alone. I'm not well. He straightened up with an indignant jerk. There you go again, first that infantile, inexcusable business of the shutters, and now this. No feeling for my reputation at all. Don't be ridiculous, Effie. You're coming. Terribly sorry, she repeated, blindly. But I really can't. I'd just be sick. I wouldn't make you proud of me at all. Of course you won't, he retorted sharply. As it is, I have to spend half my energy running around making excuses for you, why you're so odd, why you always seem to be ailing, why you're always stupid and snobbish and say the wrong thing. But tonight's really important, Effie. It will cause a lot of bad comment if the new member's wife isn't present. You know how just a hint of sickness starts the old radiation disease rumor going, you've got to come, Effie. She shook her head helplessly. Oh, for heaven's sake, come on, he shouted, advancing on her. This is just a silly mood. As soon as you get going, you'll snap out of it. There's nothing really wrong with you at all. He put his hand on her shoulder to turn her around, and at his touch her face suddenly grew so desperate and gray that for a moment he was alarmed in spite of himself. Really? he asked, almost with a note of concern. She nodded miserably. He stepped back and strode about irresolutely. Well, of course, if that's the way it is. He checked himself, and a sad smile crossed his face. So you don't care enough about your old husband's success to make one supreme effort in spite of feeling bad? Again the helpless head shake. I just can't go out to-night under any circumstances, and her gaze stole toward the lead shutters. He was about to say something when he got the direction of her gaze. His eyebrows jumped. For seconds he stared at her incredulously, as if some completely new and almost unbelievable possibility had popped into his mind. The look of incredulity slowly faded, to be replaced by a harder, more calculating expression. But when he spoke again the voice was shockingly bright and kind. Well, it can't be helped, naturally, and I certainly wouldn't want you to go if you weren't able to enjoy it, so you hop right into bed and get a good rest. I'll run over to the men's dorm to freshen up. No, really, I don't want you to have to make any effort at all. Incidentally Jim Barnes isn't going to be able to come to the banquet either. Touch of the old flu, he tells me, of all things. He watched her closely, as he mentioned the other man's name. But she didn't react noticeably. In fact she hardly seemed to be hearing his chatter. I got a bit sharp with you, I'm afraid, Effie. He continued contritely. I'm sorry about that. I was excited about my new job, and I guess that was why things upset me, made me feel let down when I found you weren't feeling as good as I was, selfish of me. Now, you get into bed right away, and get well. Don't worry about me a bit. I know you'd come if you possibly could, and I know you'll be thinking about me. Well, I must be off now. He started toward her, as if to embrace her, then seemed to think better of it. He turned back at the doorway and said, emphasizing the words, You'll be completely alone for the next four hours. He waited for her nod, then bounced out. She stood still until his footsteps died away. Then she straightened up, walked over to where he'd put down the wristwatch, picked it up, and smashed it hard on the floor. The crystal shattered, the case flew apart, and something went zing. She stood there, breathing heavily. Slowly her sagged features lifted, formed themselves into the beginning of a smile. She stole another look at the shutters. The smile became more definite. She felt her hair wet her fingers and ran them along her hairline and back over her ears. After wiping her hands on her apron, she took it off. She straightened her dress, lifted her head with a little flourish, and stepped smartly toward the window. Then her face went miserable again, and her steps slowed. No, it couldn't be, and it won't be, she told herself. It had been just an illusion, a silly romantic dream that she had somehow projected out of her beauty-starved mind and given a moment's false reality. There couldn't be anything alive outside. There hadn't been for two whole years, and if there conceivably were, it would be something altogether horrible. She remembered some of the pariahs, hairless, witless creatures, with radiation welts crawling over their bodies like worms who had come begging for succor during the last months of the terror, and been shot down. How they must have hated the people and refuges. But even as she was thinking these things, her fingers were caressing the bolts, generally drawing them, and she was opening the shutters gently, apprehensively. No, there couldn't be anything outside, she assured herself, wryly, peering out into the green night. Even her fears had been groundless. But the face came floating up toward the window. She started back in terror, then checked herself. For the face wasn't horrible at all, only very thin, with full lips and large eyes, and a thin, proud nose, like the jutting beak of a bird. And no radiation welts or scars marred the skin, olive in the tempered moonlight. It looked, in fact, just as it had, when she had seen it the first time. For a long moment the face stared deep, deep into her brain. Then the full lips smiled, and a half-clenched, thin-fingered hand materialized itself from the green darkness and wrapped twice on the grimy pain. Her heart pounding, she furiously worked the little crank that opened the window. It came unstuck from the frame, with a tiny explosion of dust and a zing like that of the watch, only louder. A moment later it swung open wide, and a puff of incredibly fresh air caressed her face in the inside of her nostrils, stinging her eyes with unanticipated tears. The man outside balanced on the cell, crouching like a fawn, head high, one elbow on knee. He was dressed in scarred, snug trousers and an old sweater. Is it tears I get for a welcome? He mocked her gently in a musical voice. Or are those only to greet God's unbreath, the air? He swung down inside, and now she could see he was tall. Turning he snapped his fingers and called, Compass! A black cat, with a twisted stump of a tail, and feet like small boxing gloves, and ears almost as big as rabbits, hopped clumsily in view. He lifted it down, gave it a pat. Then nodding familiarly to Effie, he unstrapped a little pack from his back, and laid it on the table. She couldn't move. She even found it hard to breathe. The window she finally managed to get out. He looked at her inquiringly, caught the direction of her stabbing finger. Moving without haste he went over and closed it carelessly. The shutters, too, she told him, but he ignored that, looking around. It's a snug enough place you and your man have, he commented. Or is it that this is a free-love town, or a harem spot, or just a military post? He checked her before she could answer. But let's not be talking about such things now. Soon enough I'll be scared to death for both of us. Best enjoy the kick of meeting, which is always good for 20 minutes, at the least. He smiled at her rather shyly. Have you food? Good, then bring it. She set cold meat and some precious canned bread before him, and had water heating for coffee. Before he fell to, he shredded a chunk of meat and put it on the floor for the cat, which left off its sniffing inspection of the walls and ran up eagerly, mewing. Then the man began to eat, chewing each mouthful slowly and appreciatively. From across the table, F. he watched him, drinking in his every deft movement, his every cryptic quirk of expression. She attended to making the coffee, but that took only a moment. Finally she could contain herself no longer. What's it like up there? She asked breathlessly. Outside, I mean. He looked at her, oddly, for quite a space. Finally he said flatly. Oh, it's a wonderland, for sure. More amazing than you tombfolk could ever imagine, a veritable fairyland. And he quickly went on eating. No, but really, she pressed. Noting her eagerness, he smiled, and his eyes filled with playful tenderness. I mean it, on my oath, he assured her. You think the bombs and the dust made only death and ugliness. That was true at first, but then, just as the doctors foretold, they changed the life in the seeds and loins that were brave enough to stay. Wonders bloomed and walked. He broke off suddenly and asked, do any of you ever venture outside? A few of the men are allowed to, she told him, for short trips in special protective suits to hunt for canned food and fuels and batteries and things like that. I and those blind-sold slugs would never see anything but what they're looking for, he said, nodding bitterly. They'd never see the garden where a dozen buds blossom where one did before, and the flowers have petals a yard across with stingless bees, biggest sparrows gently supping their nectar. House cats grown spotted and huge as leopards, not little runts, like Joe Lewis here, stalked through those gardens. But their gentle bees no more harmful than the rainbow-scaled snakes that glide around their paws, for the dust burned all the murder out of them, as it burned itself out. I've even made up a little poem about it. It starts, fire can hurt me, or water, of the weight of earth, but the dust is my friend. Oh, yes, and the robins, like cockatoos and squirrels, like a princess's ermine, all under a treasure chest of sun and moon and stars that the dust magic powder changes from ruby to emerald and sapphire and amethyst and back again. Oh, and then the new children. You're telling the truth, she interrupted him, her eyes brimming with tears. You're not making it up? I am not, he assured her solemnly. And if you could catch a glimpse of one of the new children, you'd never doubt me again. They have long limbs, as brown as this coffee would be, if it had lots of fresh cream in it, and smiling delicate faces and the whitish teeth and the finest hair. They're so nimble that I, a sprightly man and somewhat enliven by the dust, feel like a cripple beside them. And their thoughts dance like flames and make me feel a very imbecile. Of course they have seven fingers on each hand and eight toes on each foot, but they're the more beautiful for that. They have large pointed ears that the sun shines through. They play in the garden all day long, slipping among the great leaves and blooms, but they're so swift that you can hardly see them, unless one chooses to stand still and look at you. For that matter you have to look a bit hard for all these things I'm telling you. But is it true, she pleaded. Every word of it, he said, looking straight into her eyes, he put down his knife and fork. What's your name, he asked softly. Mine's Patrick. Effie, she told him. He shook his head. That can't be, he said. Then his face brightened. Euphemia, he exclaimed. That's what Effie is short for. Your name is Euphemia. As he said that, looking at her, she suddenly felt beautiful. He got up and came around at the table and stretched out his hand toward her. Euphemia, he began. Yes, she answered huskily, shrinking from him a little, but looking up sideways and very flushed. Don't either of you move, Hank said. The voice was flat and nasal, because Hank was wearing a nose respirator that was just long enough to suggest an elephant's trunk. In his right hand was a large blue-black automatic pistol. They turned their faces to him. Patrick's was abruptly alert, shifty, but Effie's was still smiling tenderly as if Hank could not break the spell of the magic garden, and should be pitied for not knowing about it. You little Hank began with an almost gleeful fury, calling her several shameful names. He spoke in short phrases, closing tight his unmasked mouth between them while he sucked in breath through the respirator. His voice rose in the crescendo. And not with the man of the community, but a pariah. A pariah! I hardly know what you're thinking, man, but you're quite wrong, Patrick took the opportunity to put in hurriedly, conciliatingly. I just happened to be coming by hungry to-night, a lonely tramp, and knocked at the window. Your wife was a bit foolish, and let kind-heartedness get the better of prudence. Don't think you pulled the wool over my eyes, Effie! Hank went on with a screechy laugh, disregarding the other man completely. Don't think I don't know why you're suddenly going to have a child after four long years! At that moment the cat came nosing up to his feet. Patrick watched him narrowly, shifting his weight forward a little, but Hank only kicked the animal aside, without taking his eyes off them. Even that business of carrying the wristwatch in your pocket, instead of on your arm, he went on with channeled hysteria. A neat bit of camouflage, Effie, very neat, and telling me it was my child, when all the while you've been seeing him for months. Man, you're mad. I've not touched her. Patrick denied hotly, though still calculatingly, and risked a step forward, stopping when the gun instantly swung his way. Pretending you were going to give me a healthy child, Hank raved on, when all the while you knew it would be either in your body or germ plasm, a thing like that. He waved his gun at the malformed cat, which had leapt to the top of the table, and was eating the remains of Patrick's food, though its watchful green eyes were fixed on Hank. I should shoot him down, Hank yelled, between sobbing, chest racking inhalations through the mask. I should kill him this instant for the contaminated pariah he is. All this while Effie had not ceased to smile, compassionately. Now she stood up without haste, and went to Patrick's side. Disregarding his warning, apprehensive glance, she put her arm lightly around him, and faced her husband. The newbie killing the bringer of the best news we've ever had, she said, and her voice was like a flood of some warm, sweet liquor, and that musty hate-charged room. Oh, Hank, forget your silly, wrong jealousy, and listen to me. Patrick here has something wonderful to tell us. Hank stared at her. For once he screamed a reply. It was obvious that he was seeing, for the first time, how beautiful she had become, and that the realization jolted him terribly. What do you mean? He finally asked, unevenly, almost fearfully. I mean that we no longer need to fear the dust, she said, and now her smile was radiant. It never really did hurt people the way the doctors said it would. Remember how it was with me, Hank, the exposure I had and recovered from, although the doctors said I wouldn't at first, and without even losing my hair? Hank, those who were brave enough to stay outside and who weren't killed by terror and suggestion and panic, they adapted to the dust. They changed, but they changed for the better. Everything. Effie, he told you lies, Hank interrupted, but still in that same agitated, broken voice, cowed by her beauty. Everything that grew or moved was purified, she went on ringingly. You men going outside have never seen it because you've never had eyes for it. You've been blinded to beauty, to life itself. And now all the power and the dust has gone and faded anyway, burned itself out. That's true, isn't it? She smiled at Patrick for confirmation. His face was strangely veiled as if he were calculating obscure changes. He might have given a little nod at any rate. Effie assumed that he did, for she turned back to her husband. You see that, Hank? We can all go out now. We need never fear the dust again. Patrick is a living proof of that. She continued triumphantly, standing straighter, holding him a little tighter. Look at him, not a scar or a sign, and he's been out in the dust for years. How could he be this way if the dust hurt the brave? Oh, believe me, Hank, believe what you see. Test it if you want. Test Patrick here. Effie, you're all mixed up. You don't know, Hank faltered, but without conviction of any sort. Just test him, Effie repeated, with utter confidence, ignoring, not even noticing, Patrick's warning nudge. All right, Hank mumbled. He looked at the stranger dully. Can you count? He asked. Patrick's face was a complete enigma. Then he suddenly spoke, and his voice was like a fencer's foil. Light, bright, alert, constantly playing, yet utterly on guard. Can I count? Do you take me for a complete simpleton, man? Of course I can count. Then count yourself. Hank said, barely indicating the table. Count myself, should I, the other retorted, with a quick facetious laugh. Ha! Is this a kindergarten? But if you want me to, I'm willing. His voice was rapid. I have two arms and two legs, that's four, and ten fingers and ten toes. You'll take my word for them. That's twenty-four. I had twenty-five, and two eyes, and a nose, and a mouth. With this I mean, Hank said heavily, advanced to the table, picked up the Geiger counter, switched it on, and handed it across the table to the other man. But while it was still in arm's length from Patrick, the clicks began to mount furiously, until they were like the chatter of a pygmy machine-gun. Abruptly the clicks slowed, but that was only the counter-shifting to a new scaling circuit in which each click stood for five hundred and twelve of the old ones. With those horrid, rattling little volleys, fear cascaded into the room and filled it, smashing like so much colored glass all the bright barriers of words Effie had raised against it. For no dreams can stand against the Geiger counter, the twentieth century's mouthpiece of ultimate truth. It was as if the dust and all the terrors of the dust had incarnated themselves in one dread-invading shape that said in words stronger than audible speech. Those were illusions, whistles in the dark. This is reality, the dreary, pitiless reality of the burrowing years. Hank scubbled back to the wall. Through chattering teeth he babbled, Enough radioactives, kill a thousand men, freak, a freak! In his agitation he forgot for a moment to inhale through the respirator. When Effie, taken off guard, all the fears that had been drilled into her twanging like piano wires, shrank from the skeletal seeming shape beside her, held herself to it only by desperation. Patrick did it for her. He disengaged her arm and stepped briskly away. Then he whirled on them, smiling sardonically, and started to speak. But instead looked with distaste at the chattering Geiger he held between fingers and thumb. Have we listened to this racket long enough? he asked. Without waiting for an answer he put down the instrument on the table. The cat hurried over to it, curiously, and the clicks began again to mount in a minor crescendo. Effie lunch for it frantically, switched it off, darted back. That's right, Patrick said, with another chilling smile. You do well to cringe, for I am death itself. Even in death I could kill you like a snake. And with that his voice took on the tones of a circus barker. Yes, I'm a freak, as the gentleman so wisely said. That's what one doctor who dared talk with me for a minute told me before he kicked me out. He couldn't tell me why. But somehow the dust doesn't kill me, because I'm a freak, you see, just like the men who ate nails and walked on fire and ate arsenic and stuck themselves through with pens. Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, only not too close, and examine the man the dust can't harm. Rappaccini's child brought up to date, his embrace, death. And now, he said, breathing heavily, I'll get out and leave you in your damned lead cave. He started toward the window. Hank's gun followed him, shakingly. Wait! Effie called in an agonized voice. He obeyed. She continued, falteringly, when we were together earlier, you didn't act as if, when we were together earlier, I wanted what I wanted, he snarled at her. You don't suppose I'm a bloody saint, do you? And all the beautiful things you told me? That, he said cruelly, is just a line I've found that women fall for. They're also bored and so starved for beauty, as they generally put it. Even the garden? Her question was barely audible through the sobs that threatened to suffocate her. He looked at her, and perhaps his expression softened, just a trifle. What's outside, he said flatly, is just a little worse than either of you can imagine. He tapped his temple. The garden's all here. You've killed it, she wept. You've killed it in me. You've both killed everything that's beautiful, but you're worse, she screamed at Patrick, because he only killed beauty once, but you brought it to life just so you could kill it again. Oh, I can't stand it, I won't stand it. And she began to scream. Patrick started toward her, but she broke off and whirled away from him to the window, her eyes crazy. You've been lying to us, she cried. The garden's there, I know it is, but you don't want to share it with anyone. No, no, Euphemia, Patrick protested anxiously. It's hell out there, believe me, I wouldn't lie to you about it. Wouldn't lie to me, she mocked. Are you afraid too? With a sudden pull, she jerked open the window and stood before the blank, green-tinged oblong of darkness that seemed to press into the room, like a menacing, heavy, wind-urged curtain. At that, Hank cried out, a shocked, pleading, Effie, she ignored him. I can't be cooped up in here any longer, she said, and I won't, now that I know, I'm going to the garden. Both men sprang at her, but they were too late. She leapt lightly to the cell, and by the time they had flung themselves against it, her footsteps were already hurrying off into the darkness. Effie, come back, come back! Hank shouted after her desperately, no longer thinking to cringe from the man beside him or how the gun was pointed. I love you, Effie, come back! Patrick added his voice, come back, Euphemia, you'll be safe and you'll come back right away, come back to your home. No answer to that at all. They both streamed their eyes through the greenish murk. They could barely make out a shadowy figure, about half a block down the near-black canyon of the dismal, dust-blown street, into which the greenish moonlight hardly reached. It seemed to them that the figure was scooping something up from the pavement and letting it sift down along its arms and over its bosom. Go out and get her, man, Patrick urged the other, for if I go out for her, I warn you, I won't bring her back. She said something about having stood the dust better than most, and that's enough for me. But Hank, chained by his painfully learned habits and by something else, could not move. And then a ghostly voice came whispering down the street, chanting, fire can hurt me, or water, or the weight of earth, but the dust is my friend. Patrick spared the other man one more look. Then, without a word, he vaulted up and ran off. Hank stood there. After perhaps a minute, he remembered to close his mouth when he inhaled. Finally he was sure the street was empty, as he started to close the window. There was a little mew. He picked up the cat and gently put it outside. Then he did close the window and the shutters and bolted them and took up the Geiger counter and mechanically began to count himself. End of The Moon is Green by Fritz Leiber. No moving parts. 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 Megan Argo. No moving parts by Murray F. Yacko. Hanson was sitting at the control board in the single building on Communications Relay Station 43.4SC, when the emergency light flashed on for the first time in 200 years. With textbook recommended swiftness, he located the position of the ship sending the call, identified the ship and the name of its captain and made contact. This is Hanson on 43.4SC. Put me through to Captain Froma. Froma here, said an incredibly deep voice. What the devil do you want? What do I want? asked the astonished Hanson. It was you, sir, who sent the emergency call. I did no such thing, said Froma with great certainty. But the light flashed. How long have you been out of school? Froma asked. Almost a year, sir, but that doesn't change the fact that you're imagining things and that you've been sitting on that asteroid hoping that something would happen to break the monotony. Now leave me the hell alone or I'll put you on report. Now look here, Hanson began, practically beside himself with frustration. I saw that emergency light go on. Maybe it was activated automatically when something went out of order on your ship. I don't allow emergencies on the Euclid Queen, said Froma, with growing anger. Now if you don't, Hanson spared himself the indignity of being cut off. He broke contact himself. He sighed, reached for a book entitled Emergency Procedure Rules and settled back in his chair. 15 minutes later, the emergency light flashed on for the second time in 200 years. With its red glow illuminating his freckled excited face, Hanson triumphantly placed another call to the Euclid Queen. This is Hanson on 43.4 SC. Let me speak to Captain Froma, please. Uh, the captain has asked me to contact you. I'm the navigator. I was just about to call you. We have a small problem that I'll speak to the captain. Hanson repeated grimly. Now see here, I'm perfectly capable of handling this situation. Actually, it's hardly even an emergency. You weren't, it seems signalled automatically when, if you'll check your emergency procedures, Hanson said, holding his thumb in the rulebook. You'll note that the relay station attendant contacts the captain personally during all emergencies. Of course, if you want to violate, look old man, said the navigator, now sounding on the verge of tears. Try to realise the spot I'm in. Froma has ordered me to handle this thing without his assistance. He seems to feel that you've got a grudge of some kind. If you don't put me in touch with Captain Froma in five minutes, I'll put through a call to sector headquarters. Hanson signalled off contact. If he knew nothing else about the situation, he knew that he had the upper hand. Five minutes later, Captain Froma called him back. I'm calling in accordance with the emergency procedures, Froma said, between clenched teeth. The situation is this, we are reporting an emergency. What class emergency? Hanson interrupted. Class, asked Froma, obviously caught off guard. Yes, Captain, there are three classes of emergencies. Major class, which would indicate death and injury. Mechanical class, including malfunction of Hegley units and such, and general class. Yes, yes, of course. General class, by all means, Froma said hurriedly. You see, it's hardly even an emergency. Just what is the nature of the troubled, Captain? Why, well, it seems that we were doing a preliminary landing procedure check, and yes, go on. Why, it seems that we can't get the door open. It was Hanson's turn to be taken aback. You're pulling my leg, sir. I most certainly am not, Captain Froma said emphatically. You really mean that you can't open the door. I'm afraid so. Something's wrong with the mechanism. Our technical staff have never encountered a problem like this, and they advise me that any attempt at repair might possibly result in the opposite situation. You mean not being able to get the door closed? Precisely. In other words, we can't land. I see that I'm afraid there's nothing I can do except advise sector headquarters to send an emergency repair crew. Captain Froma sighed. I'm afraid so too. How long will it take for a message to get there with your transmitting equipment? Two days, Captain. As a guest that we ship alongside within the week, you'll be maintaining your present position, I assume. Oh, we'll be here all right, Froma said bitterly. Then he cut contact. As the single occupant of a large asteroid with nothing but time and boredom on his hands, Hanson was enjoying the whole situation immensely. He allowed himself the luxury of several dozen fantasies in which his name was mentioned prominently in galaxy-wide reports of the episode. He imagined that Captain Froma was also creating vivid accounts of quite another sort that would soon be amusing several hundred billion news-hungry citizens of the Federation. When the repair ship arrived, it came to Hanson's astonishment to the asteroid and not alongside Froma's ship. He soon found out that there was someone else who shared the captain's embarrassment. I'm bullard, said a tall, thin, mournful man. Mind if I sit? Help yourself. Hanson waved a hand towards the meager accommodations. He had no idea why a senior engineer was being so deferential, but he enjoyed the feeling of power. You're probably wondering about a lot of things. Blood began, sadly. Frankly, we don't have any ideas about how we can fix Captain Froma's door. He waited to let that sink in. Then he continued. It took us three days back at base to find out that when these ships were built almost 500 years ago, nobody bothered to include detailed drawings of the door mechanism. But why? You certainly know how to build. We know how to build star-class ships, sure. We've built a few in the past century or two. There's never been need for replacement, really. These ships were designed to last forever. The original fleet was conceived to fill the system's need for a full 1,000 years. But the doors on the few ships that have been built, how? The ships we've built are exact duplicates of Captain Froma's ship, except for the door. Bullard's long face radiated despair. No one ever questioned why the door mechanism wasn't included in the original plans. We simply designed another type, a different type of door. Well, you can certainly find out how this particular door works, can't you? I hope so, Bullard said, ringing his hands. But we have a couple of other problems. Number one, Captain Froma has an extremely important passenger aboard, none other than his exalted excellency, Rathanga Bar. He is, or was, on his way home after conducting a treaty of friendship with the President of the Federation. Hansen managed to whistle. Furthermore, Bullard continued, his excellency has to be home soon to get there in time for the mating season. This occurs once in a lifetime, I'm told, and this is his only chance to continue the ancestral rule. Wait a minute, Hansen said. Are you trying to say that you can't solve a simple problem, like getting him home and getting him out of the ship? You can always cut it in two, can't you? These ships were made to last forever, Bullard explained. The hull is, of course, pseudo-met, but not the kind of pseudo-met used for other applications. In short, about the only way you're getting that ship is to vaporize it. But can't you disassemble the door mechanism? My God, how complicated can it be? We're going to try to do just that, Bullard said, without a trace of confidence. As far as the complication goes, let me just say this, it's full of moving parts. What are you getting at? Hansen asked. Just this, these ships are perfect mechanisms. There is hardly anything in them that could be called a moving part. Now a door has to open and close. Sure, we devised a simple, safe way to do it a few hundred years after the original fleet was built. The men who designed the original door mechanism felt, perhaps, that it was incongruous to include it in the first place. Maybe that is why they threw away the plans. God knows it isn't incongruous. Look, he's a photo we took of one in a ship back at base. Hansen scanned the photograph. It was a meaningless jumble. He handed it back. Well, make yourself at home. I'm afraid the only thing I can help with will be radio communication to Captain Fromer's ship. Good enough, Bullard said. I'm expecting someone else tomorrow. After you bring him down, feel free to drop over and see me any time. Bullard went back to his ship and Hansen went to bed. He dreamed of his exalted Excellency, Rathanga Bar, growing angrier day by day as the time of mating came closer. In his dream, he suddenly came upon a magnificent solution to the problem, a solution involving a telepathic system of fertilization. He woke up before he had completely worked out the details. Bullard's friend arrived the same morning. He was a small, dark, attractive little man whom Hansen immediately disliked. Meet Dr. Cuemos, Bullard said, when Hansen dropped a lemon. Dr. Cuemos is a specialist in the history of technology. He thinks he knows how our cute little door mechanism is made. Can't say for sure, Cuemos said, but I'd guess that those components are made of metal, real metal. I thought that metal was only used in jewellery, Hansen said. Dr. Cuemos grinned slightly. That's what most people think. Actually, refined metals of various types were used in large masses. Formed masses, for thousands of years. Historically speaking, the pseudo-mets are relatively new. It's difficult to imagine metal functioning as machinery, Hansen used. And you say that this door mechanism has moving parts, lots of them. Moving parts are nothing to be afraid of, Cuemos said. Here, look at this. He put something small on the table, much in the manner of a young boy dropping a garter snake in the midst of schoolgirls. Bullard and Hansen crowded round. Now, take turns, said Cuemos sharply, and don't drop it. It's priceless, I assure you. The ancient wristwatch with its transparent back was passed from hand to hand. Frightening little monster, isn't it? Bullard said. Those small round wheels are called gears, elucidated Cuemos. One gear turns another, which turns another, and so on. I rather imagine that your door is operated on some similar principle. I seem to be the one who asks all the schoolboy questions. Hansen began. Would somebody tell me why Captain Froma doesn't take his Excellency to his home planet, land the ship, and then let his technical staff tear off the door mechanism? We've gone through that, Bullard said wearily. Unfortunately, we need special tools, and there's no way to get them into the ship. Can I speak to Captain Froma? Cuemos asked. Right away, Hansen said. He pressed his hand in various patterns on his belt. This is Hansen. Let us talk to Captain Froma, please. Froma here. Who is it? Dr. Cuemos speaking. How is your passenger? My passenger is fine, but he keeps telling me that he is very anxious to plant his seed. When can you get us out of here? Plant his seed, said Cuemos. There's nothing salacious about this, I've been assured. He simply has a biological craving at this time in his life to… to plant his seed. I've got problems like that too, Bullard said, but I don't go around telling everybody. Stop clowning, Froma snapped. You guys better find a way to fix this damn door, or you'll have a galactic war on your hands. Anybody have any ideas yet? We're sure that the door mechanism is made of metal, Cuemos said, and the construction is probably based on the principle of a worm gear. A what? A worm gear, Captain, Cuemos said patiently. It's an ancient myth. It's an ancient metal device that was sometimes used for closing large doors. There is also the possibility that the door is closed and opened by dogs. These seem to have been used, at least, to operate doors of undersea crafts, although we're not quite certain about the function of dogs. The Captain maintained a stony silence. Also, Cuemos continued, we have unearthed, so to speak, a reference to a metal component called a babbit. Now, see here, Captain Froma-Raud, who do you think you're kidding with a list talk about worms and dogs and rabbits? Babbits, Captain, babbits! Perhaps a type of bearing. Anyway, we're at work on the problem, I assure you. Cuemos motioned to Hanson that he was through talking. During the next three days, Hanson twice visited Balad and Cuemos. On each occasion, he found the two men in trance-like conditions, ostensibly thinking through the problem. that they had been assigned to solve. But more probably, Hanson guessed, brooding about the reaction of sector headquarters to their daily progress reports, which Hanson had been relaying for them. Hanson had only sympathy for the people back at sector headquarters. For if these two experts were the galaxy's two top troubleshooters, the Federation was not, as Hanson put it to himself, in very good shape to fight a war with one hundred billion enraged citizens who worshipped his exalted excellency, Rafanga Bar, almost as much as they did his seed. Hanson went back to his reading, only to be interrupted with increasing frequency by message transmissions from an increasingly alarmed sector headquarters. Most messages were addressed to Balad and were briefly designed to disguise the sender's hysteria, while at the same time urging Balad on to more magnificent efforts. A few messages, fairly representative of the state of affairs as time wore on, reflected an increasing suspicion on the part of sector headquarters that Cuimos and Balad, although certainly topped in their fields, were not topped enough. Sector headquarters to Balad communications relay 43.4 SC. President would like estimate of when door will be opened. You sure you can handle? Emphasize the political situation now getting touchy. Repeat, touchy. Rafanga Bar calling on President to make demand that seed be planted on time. Sure you don't need more help? Commander General. Commander General. No help needed, making progress. A sure President. Today found out metal and mechanism is very hard, in constant radio touch with Froma. Passenger impatient but quieter. Sleeps more now. This significant? Cuimos developing theory of mechanism says we'll take time to work out. How much time we have? When must seed be planted? Balad. Sector headquarters. Sector headquarters to Balad communications relay 43.4 SC. Must have estimate when door opens. This an order. Ambassador threatening war. Can't give deadline of seed planting time since subject vary taboo. Our biologists say Rafanga Bar sleepy significant. May be prelude to seeding time. Tell about Cuimos theory next communication. We'll evaluate here. Nice to know metal is hard. Keep up good work. Pressure here to send you help. President says whole federation praying for door to be fixed. Says to hurry up. Commander General. To Commander General. No estimate possible. Cuimos theory almost complete. States that mechanism built on principle of worm gear. Repeat worm gear. Today instructed Froma's crew to jiggle moving parts of mechanism at random. Parts would not jiggle. Froma states that Rafanga Bar sleeps all time and colour changes to blue and red on stomach. This significant. Bullard. Sector headquarters to bullard communications relay 43.4 SC. Important you amplify last message. Red and blue on stomach. Why Rathanga Bar undressed. Investigate. President orders help sent. Help on way. Repeat. Why Rathanga Bar undressed. Commander General. To Commander General. Froma advises tell you ships physician has put Rafanga Bar in refrigerator. Cuimos. Sector headquarters to Cuimos. Communications relay 43.4 SC. Take out of refrigerator. This an order. Why undressed. Commander General. To Commander General. Bullard making a model of my drawings. Ready soon. Rathanga Bar out of refrigerator as requested. But ships physician very angry and wants to put back in. Colour on stomach pink and yellow with blue squares. The significant. Cuimos. It went on like this for several more days. Hansen at first amused was now alarmed and completely convinced that both Cuimos and Bullard were thoroughly useless. The messages were his only source of information since both experts were too immersed in their work to talk with him. As his alarm grew he decided that he might at least try to strike up a friendship with someone on board Captain Froma's sealed ship. Someone who might have something comforting to report. He called up the ship's navigator. This is Hansen. How are things going up there? Ha! What's that mean? Good or bad? It means, the navigator said while yawning, that things are falling apart rapidly. In fact, in a day or two I don't think it'll make much difference whether or not they open that damn door. You, uh, care to fill me in? Why not, said the navigator, with the voice of a man who knows it is too late for anything to matter. The members of the crew are divided into two factions. It appears that our physician has rallied half the crew to support his medical contention that our exalted passenger belongs in the refrigerator. The good captain, with some justice one must admit, thinks that he is in command of the ship and prefers to believe that Rathanga Bar belongs out of the refrigerator. Who seems to be winning the argument? Argument? There's no argument, old man. It's open warfare. No weapons aboard, of course, but the two teams are grappling up and down the corridors, and shuffling our exalted passenger in and out of the icebox about four times each hour. Quite a sight, really. Right now he's in the refrigerator, but the other team. Let me know who's ahead from time to time, will you? Hansen heard himself say. Glad to oblige, the navigator said, yawning again. Oh, incidentally, have they sent for help yet? Hansen said with some surprise. Why, as a matter of fact, sector headquarters is sending some help. How did you know? Bant happened sooner or later, old man. When they're going really get stuff, they always get around to sending a gypsy. Only way to get anything done, you know. I don't know, Hansen said reluctantly. Why is it that everyone knows except me? What, please, is a gypsy? You're too young to know everything, old man, the navigator said. You're especially too young to know about one of the Federation's best kept secrets. But you might as well, I suppose. The fact is that a gypsy is a generally vagrant, dirty, thieving, clever scoundrel who will not work, who has absolutely no respect for order or authority, who believes that our institutions are a feat and... But then why, patience, patience, cautioned the navigator heartily. If I am to reveal everything I know, I must do it in my own way. The description I just gave you is not necessarily true. It is simply the way that sector headquarters feels about gypsies. Common jealousy, really. It seems that, from time to time, our perfect little galactic society spawns men who don't care to be cast in the common mould. In short, there are a few men around with brains who don't think it means very much to wear pretty uniforms or fancy titles. Uniforms like yours, asked Hanson. Precisely, the navigator said sadly. The truth of the matter is, of course, that I only play at being a navigator. I couldn't get this ship off course if I tried. The same is true with the four engineering officers who stand around watching the Hegler Drive units. They occasionally make a ceremonial adjustment, but beyond that they simply stand around looking pretty. No moving parts, Hanson said. No moving brains, if you like. Anyway, a gypsy has, somewhere along the line, learned how to do things. They'll take an emergency call about once a year if they happen to feel like it. Then they charge about half a million credits. You mean they have an organisation, standard rates, and Heavens know! The navigator said. They hate anything that smells like organisation. They don't even specialise in any certain kind of work. One year they'll be fascinated by sub-nucleonics, the next by horse racing, very erratic. Can't keep attention on any one thing. Heard of one once who engaged in fishing and alcohol drinking. Brilliant mathematician, too, but he'd only take a call once every three years or so. For half a million credits a crack, eh? You could live pretty well for three years on that. Strangely enough, the navigator said thoughtfully, they don't really have any interest in money. If you'd ever met one, you'd know that the high fees sort of a penalty they meet out to everybody else for being so dumb. Well, one thing for sure, Hanson said, if Bilard and Quemos are the cream of the crop, I'm on the side of the gypsies. Ah, youth, the navigator said. Two once had such dreams. We'll see about the dreams, Hanson said almost menacingly. I didn't spend six years in that damn school just to sit around in a pretty uniform for the rest of my life. Oh, you'll get used to it. In fact, you'll like it after a while. The home leaves, the fuss your friends will make over you when you step off the ship, the regular and automatic promotions in grade with the extra gold band added to your sleeve, the move from one outpost to an always larger installation. You'll never do much, of course, but why should you? After all, there aren't any moving parts. Hanson cut the communicator off. He stood there for a moment, feeling depressed and betrayed. Automatically, he reached out and flicked imaginary dust from his blue sleeve with its narrow solitary gold band. Ten minutes later, the gypsy's ship signalled for landing. The man who walked into Hanson's control room was hardly the ogre he had been prepared for. He looked, Hanson was later to reflect, like Santa Claus, with muscles in place of the fat. Wearing an almost unheard of beard and dressed in rough clothes, he walked across the room and made short work of the usual formalities. Names candle, said the man. Where's those two phonies I'm supposed to replace? You'll have to go suit up and go back through the airlock, Hanson said, motioning to the door. They're in the ship. It's the one next to yours. Want me to tell them you're on your way over? Hell no, said Candle, grinning, I'll surprise them. Now, suppose you and me sit down and have a little chat. They sat, and Candle pumped Hanson of everything he knew about the entire situation. An hour later, Hanson felt almost as if he had been had. Is that all? he asked, weirdly. I got the facts, Candle said. Now let's go throw those experts out. It wasn't quite that simple. Neither Balard nor Quemos had any intention of simply clearing out. Who the hell do you think you are? Balard said, to come over here and order us off. We didn't even ask for help, and God knows you couldn't supply it anyway. Balard, with evident distaste, ran his eyes up and down Candle's clothing. Dr. Quemos had some ideas, too. Letter of authority or no letter of authority, Quemos said, pointing a manicured forefinger at the paper in Candle's hand. You'll ruin everything. You have no idea what you're up against. We've spent weeks working this thing out. Candle grinned. What have you worked out? Why, we know that this is a metal double-enveloping worm gear. Wrong, Candle said. It's a single-enveloping worm gear. It's made of steel with an aluminium alloy wheel gear, and the two parts are corroded and stuck. The whole mechanism was originally designed for submarines. Quemos started to say something, then turned and looked at Balard for reassurance. He's crazy, Balard said. He's making it up as he goes along. How could he possibly know what he's talking about? Why, there haven't been any submarines for centuries. I'm tired of playing games, Candle said, no longer grinning. The boy and I have work to do. You two are in the way. You'll only take up time if I have to work with you and show you what to do. I want you and your ship out of here in half an hour. Who's going to make us, Balard asked, with great originality? I am. Everybody turned around to see who else had entered the conversation. It was Hanson. I'm going to give you fifteen minutes, not thirty, Hanson said. Then I'm going to turn the grid-power on at full intensity. You can either use it to take off, or sit around and roast alive inside your ship. Candle turned and looked at Hanson with new respect. Okay, let's go back to your place. I've still got some things to figure out. Quemos was on the verge of hysteria. You're bluffing! You wouldn't dare! I'll report this! Fifteen minutes later, the ship was headed for space. Back in Hanson's room, the two men ate a quick lunch, then sat at the table and talked about Candle's plans for opening the reluctant door. The way I figure it, Candle said, I think that we can handle the whole thing by radio. Which reminds me, one of these days I'm going to build a telescreen that will transmit and receive through Pseudomat. Not too difficult, really, if you approach the problem. I'd better get Froma for you, Hanson said hurriedly. Froma here, said the bass voice. This is Candle. Let me talk to one of your so-called engineering officers. Who the hell? Shut up and go get him, Candle growled back, and one will yell part of you and you'll stay in that ship till you've brought. There was a pause, then Froma again, a meek Froma. My chief engineering officer is with me. Okay, now get this. Come to think of it, you'd better record it. Number one. By now you know which component is a worm gear. You will notice, I'm quite certain, that it engages a large notched wheel. The reason that the door will not move is because at the point where the two gears meet, some of the metal has oxidised. For possible use in future emergencies, I offer this explanation. The entire mechanism is subject to periodic vacuum when the airlock is operated. In between times, the mechanism is in the ship's atmosphere, a condition of lower oxygen content that subtains around the sealed-off area, and such an area is anodic, in other words, corrodeable with respect to the surrounding areas in which oxygen has free access. Now, since this door has opened and closed successfully for about 500 years, it appears that there's a special reason why it suddenly refuses to function. At a guess, you would experience this condition of intense corrosion, only when the aluminium in the wheel gear is exposed to something like sodium hydroxide, and only at the point where it controls the worm gear. Now, has the ship landed recently within such an atmosphere? Three weeks ago on Gorton 4, said the weak voice of the engineer, we landed to get some pictures of the cloud formations for souvenirs, we dropped on the edge of a large body of water because the view was better. Candle shook his head sadly, and said, you could have avoided trouble by coming in over the land instead of the water. The heat from the ship boiled the water which undoubtedly contained sodium carbonate and calcium hydroxide. Presto on the air was filled with clouds of sodium hydroxide. I suggest that you steer away from all such wicked places in the future. Of course, if you'd learned how to mine or smelt metal or machine components. First they'd have to discover fire, and some said out of the corner of his mouth. You're catching on, son. Candle replied out of the corner of his mouth. Now, gentlemen, to open the door it will be necessary to break the corroded area apart. This is a large heavy mechanism as such things go. Since you have no tools heavy enough to batter the corroded area apart, you'll have to make some. How can we? Candle sighed. I wish I had time to teach you to think, but instead you'll just have to do as I tell you to do. I think you can probably make a batching room out of water. You just don't interrupt, find or make a long cylindrical container, fill it with water, and quick freeze it in your refrigerator. But they put Rathanga Bar in the refrigerator again. Then I suggest you get in the hell out, Candle said. An hour later, ten men smashed a half-ton cylinder of ice against the corroded junction of the two gears. Following Candle's instructions, the next applied the ram to the door itself, which smoothly swung open. You'll find, Candle explained, that the only damage will be the two missing teeth on the aluminium gear. Since only two teeth are ever in contact at any time, you can simply slide the gear forward and engage it at a point where the teeth are intact. You'll find, I'm quite sure, that your door will function properly. Also, Captain, don't pull out of there until I'm aboard. I think I'd like to bring an assistant along, too. An assistant, Hansen asked. Candle twirled the ends of his long white moustache. You, my lad, if you'd like to go along. He pulled a letter from his pocket and found the air with it. I'm in complete command of this expedition, at least until his exalted excellency gets home to plant his seed. Hansen's face glowed. I can't think of anything I'd rather do. Let's get a couple of messages off to sector headquarters and get on board ship. It may not be any joyride, Candle said thoughtfully. You probably haven't heard about it, but there have been a number of ship emergencies in the past few weeks. Door failures? No, at least none that I've heard of, but at least two Heglar drives have stopped working in mid-space. But there's nothing to stop working. Candle's eyes twinkled. No moving parts, eh? Hansen reddened. I hope I've outgrown that silly notion. Candle peered into Hansen's eyes. I'm sure you have. I'm sure that you'll find out a lot more things for yourself. You're the kind. And we're going to need a lot of your kind, because failures—failures of so-called perfect mechanisms—are becoming more and more commonplace. Candle pointed to the emergency light on the traffic control panel. That light will be flashing with more and more frequency in the months to come, but not just a signal trouble in space. If I were a superstitious man, I think that the age of the perfect machine is about to be superseded by the age of the perfect failure—mechanical failures that can't be explained on any level. I have several friends who've been in touch with me recently about, you think it's time for a change? Candle smiled quickly. That's the idea. And the truth of the matter is that I am a superstitious man. I really believe, childishly, that the mechanics and motions of the galaxy may turn themselves upside down just to snap man out of his apathy and give him some work to do. Upside down turned out to be a good word. They boarded the big ship an hour later and were respectfully ushered into the presence of Captain Froma and his staff. We're under way, Captain Froma said, we'll be landing in nine days to deliver a thangabar home. How is he? Hansen asked. Froma shrugged. He's been thawed out, frozen and thawed out so many times it's anybody's guess. Take a look for yourself. Someone pulled back a curtain to expose the recumbent, thawing, steamy form of his exalted excellency, the thangabar. Why is he undressed? Hansen asked. Funny, now that you mention it, Froma said puzzled. Why is he undressed? Fascinating! Damn this thing I've ever seen! What's so fascinating? Froma asked suspiciously, moving closer. His belly never saw anything like it. Those black squares keep appearing and disappearing if I've ever seen a truly random pattern. It started right after they frozen the first time, Froma said, disconsolately. Fascinating by heaven, said Candle, who was now down on his hands and knees. Look at that top sequence! Random yet physiological. I've got a friend on Bride and Three who'll trade anything for some photos of this. Get me some photo equipment, will you? Captain Froma ran his hands through what was left of his hair. Get him some photo equipment, he said to no one in particular, and somebody make a truce with that idiot doctor long enough to get me a sedative. About this time the ship turned upside down. But there's no reason for it, the chief engineer said running alongside Hansen and Candle. The ship can't turn upside down. Everything is functioning perfectly. Really not interested, said Candle, running down the corridors mile-long ceiling. Figure something out for yourself for a change. But what I can't understand, said Hansen dutifully trotting alongside, is how you knew with such certainty how the door mechanism was made. Even if submarines were built like that you'd have no way of knowing. There haven't been any submarines in centuries. The hell you say, said Candle, increasing his pace. I bit one five years ago. Built one? What for? For the hell of it. And it was a damn good outfit too. I found plans in an old museum and had the good sense not to improve on them. Always remember, boy, that something that really works can't be improved. That's why the submarine mechanism was adopted, not adapted, for space. The so-called better way they're building them today is simply a disguise for the fact that most of the gas has gone from our technology. What happened to the submarine? Oh, I traded it to a friend for some falcons. You interested in falconry by any chance? Uh, no, can't say that I am. You will be, Candle said prophetically. You also come to every enthusiasm man has ever been deviled with. You're the type. It's a disease boy, and the big symptom isn't just curiosity, but the kind of intense curiosity that turns you inside out devours you and ruins you for orthodoxy. Hansen had stopped listening. He was absorbed in trying to recall the pattern he had pressed on his radio belt. A pattern never taught to him, when the ship had suddenly turned upside down. Hesitantly he played with the notion that he had been thinking of the ship travelling upside down at the time he impressed the novel pattern on the belt. Now, could that have possibly— The man and the boy disappeared down the ceiling, running at top speed to catch up as the rapidly vanishing form of a thangabar was dragged and pulled relentlessly towards the refrigerator in a tug of war between the ship's wild divided crew. Fascinating, said Candle, his eyes glittering with their own peculiar madness remained riveted on the distant imperial belly. Never saw anything like it. End of No Moving Parts by Murray F. Yacco, recording by Megan Argo.