 THE SUCCESS MACHINE, by Henry Schleser. THE PERSONELEVAC WINKED, CHITTERED, CHORTLED, CHUCKLED, AND BURPED A CARD INTO THE SLOT. THEN PICKED IT UP AND CLOSED HIS EYES IN PRAYER. Oh Lord, let this one be all right. He read the card. It was pink. SUBJECT 34580, aptitude rating 34577, psychological class 45, last personal, VAC analysis 3598, rating 19, current rating 14, analysis, subject demonstrates decreased mechanical coordination, increase in work energy per man hour, marked increase in waste motion due to subject's interest in non-essential activities such as horse racing, indication of hostility towards superiors, recommendation, fire him. Callahan's legs went weak. He sat down and placed the card in front of him. Then, making sure he was unobserved, he broke a company rule and began to think. Something's wrong, he thought. Something is terribly wrong. Twenty-four pink cards in the last month, twenty-four out of forty. That's a batting average of—he tried to figure it out with a pencil, but gave it up as a bad job. Maybe I'll run it through the average of VAC, he thought. But why bother? It's obvious that it's high. There's obviously something wrong. The intercom beeped. Ten o'clock department head meeting, Mr. Callahan. All right, Miss Blanche. He rose from his chair and took the pink card with him. He stood before the action chute for a moment, tapping the card against his teeth. Then his back stiffened with a sense of duty, and he slipped the card inside. The meeting had already begun when Callahan took his appointed place. Grim switch, the materiel of VAC operator, looked at him quizzically. Damn your eyes, Grim switch! He thought. There's no crime to be three minutes late. Nothing but a lot of pep talk first five minutes anyway. PEP! said President Moss at the end of the room. He slammed his little white fist into the palm of his other hand. It's only a little word. It only has three little letters, P-E-P-P-P-P. Moss, standing at the head of the impressive conference table, leaned forward and eyed them fixedly. But those three little letters, my friends, spell out a much bigger word. A much bigger word for general products incorporated. They spell profit. And if you don't know how profit is spelled, it's M-O-N-N-E-Y. There was an appreciative laugh from the assembled department heads. Callahan, however, was still brooding on the parade of pink cards which had been emerging with frightening regularity from his think machine, and he failed to get the point. Naughty naughty! Grim switch whispered to him archly. Boss made a funny, don't forget to laugh, old boy. Callahan threw him a sub-zero look. Now let's be serious, said the boss, because things are serious, mighty serious, somewhere, somehow, somebody's letting us down. The department heads looked uneasily at each other. Only Grim switch continued to smile vacantly at the little old man up front, drumming his fingers on the glass tabletop. When the president's machine-gunning glance caught his eyes, Callahan went white. Does he know about it? He thought. I'm not making accusations, said Moss, but there is a let-down someplace. Douglas, he snapped. Douglas, the treasurer, did a jack-in-the-box. Read the statement, said the president. First quarter physical year, said Douglas Dryley, investment capital $17,836,975,238.96, assets $84,967,442,279.55, liabilities $83,964,283,774.60, production costs are, Moss waved his hand impatiently. The meat, the meat, he said. Douglas adjusted his glasses. Total net revenue $26,876,924.99. Comparison, the president screamed. Let's have last first quarter, you idiot! Douglas rattled the paper in annoyance. Last first quarter fiscal year, net revenue $34,955,376.81, percent decrease, never mind. The little old man waved the treasurer to his seat with a weary jester. His face, so much like somebody's grandmother, looked tragic as he spoke his next words. You don't need the account-of-act to tell you the significance of those figures, gentlemen. His voice was soft with a slight quaver. We are not making much P-R-O-F-I-T. We are losing M-O-N-E-Y. And the point is, what's the reason? There must be some reason. His eyes went over them again, in Callaghan feeling like the culprit slumped in his chair. I have a suggestion, said the president, just an idea. Maybe some of us are just not showing enough P-E-P. There was a hushed silence. The boss pushed back his chair and walked over to a cork-blind wall. With a dramatic gesture, he lifted one arm and pointed to the white sign that covered a fourth of it. See that? He asked. What does it say? The department heads looked dubious. Well, what does it say? Act. The department heads cried in chorus. Exactly! Said the little old man with a surprising bellow. Act. The word that made us a leader. The word that guides our business destiny. The word that built general products. He paced the floor. The chairs in the conference room creaked as the department heads stirred to follow him with their eyes. Act is our motto. Act is our password. Act is our key to success. And why not? The brains do the thinking. All of us put together couldn't think so effectively, so perfectly, so honestly as the brains. They take the orders, designate raw materials, equipment, manpower. They schedule our work. They analyze our products. They analyze our people. Callahan trembled. There's only one important function left to us, and that's act. The president bowed his head and walked slowly back to his seat. He sat down with great fatigue evident in his voice. He concluded his polemic. That's why we must have pep, gentlemen, pep. Now how do you spell it? P-E-P roared the department heads. The meeting was over. The department heads filed out. Callahan's secretary placed the morning mail on his desk. There was a stack of memos at least an inch thick, and the personal manager moaned at the sight of it. Production report doesn't look too good, said Miss Blanche crisply. Bet we get a flood of aptitude cards from Morgan today. Grim Switch has sent over a couple. That makes eleven from him this month. He really has his problems. Callahan grunted. He deserves him, he thought. How did the meeting go? Huh? Callahan looked up. Oh, fine, fine. Boss was in good voice, as usual. I think there's an envelope from him in the stack. What? Callahan hoped that his concern wasn't visible. He riffled through the papers hurriedly and came up with a neat white envelope engraved with the words Office of the President. Miss Blanche watched him, frankly curious. That'll be all, he told her curly. When she had left, he ripped the envelope open and read the contents. It was in Moss's own cramped handwriting, and it was a request for a three o'clock man to man talk. Oh, Lord, he thought now it's going to happen. President Moss was eating an apple. He ate so greedily that the juice spilled over his chin. Sitting behind his massive oak desk, chair tilted back, apple juice dappling his whiskers, he looked so small and unformidable that Callahan took heart. Well, Ralph, how goes it? He called me Ralph, thought Callahan cheerfully. He's not such a bad old guy. Don't grow Apple's light they used to, the President said. This hydroponic stuff can't touch the fruit we used to pick. Hey, did you ever climb a real apple tree and knock them off the branches? Callahan blinked. No, sir. Greatest thrill in the world. My father had an orchard in Kenabunkport. Apples buy the million. Green apples, sweet apples, delicious, spy, Baldwin. He sighed. Something's gone out of our way of life, Ralph. Why, he's just an old deer, thought Callahan. He looked at the boss with new sympathy. Funny thing about apples. My father used to keep them in barrels down in the basement. He used to say to me, Andrew, he'd say, don't never put a sour apple in one of these barrels, because just one sour apple can spoil the whole darn lot. The boss looked at Callahan and took a big noisy bite. Callahan smiled innately. Was Moss making some kind of point? Well, we can't sit around all day in reminisce, eh, Ralph? Much as I enjoy it. But we got a business to run, don't we? Yes, sir, said the personnel manager. Mighty big business, too. How's your side of it, Ralph? Old personnel of that coming along nicely? Yes, sir, said Callahan, wondering if he should voice his fears about the brain. Marvelous machine, that. Most marvelous of them all, if you ask me. Sizes up a man beautifully. And best of all, it's 100% honest. That's a mighty important quality, Ralph. Callahan was getting worried. The boss's conversation was just a little too folksy for his liking. Yes, sir, a mighty fine quality. My father used to say, Andrew, an honest man can always look you in the eyes. Callahan stared uncomprehendingly. He realized that Moss had stopped talking, so he looked him squarely in the eyes and said, he must have been a fine man, your father. He was honest, said Moss. I'll say that for him. He was as honest as they come. Did you ever hear of DiMaggio? It sounds familiar. It should. DiMaggio was a legendary figure. He took a lander and went out into the world looking for an honest man. And do you know something? He couldn't find one. You know, Ralph, sometimes I feel like DiMaggio. Callahan gulped. And do you know why? Because sometimes I see a thing like this. The boss's hand reached into the desk and came out with a thick bundle of pink cards. And I wonder if there's an honest man left in the world. He put the cards in front of Callahan. Now, sir, said Moss, let's talk a little business. These cards are all pink. That means dismissal, right? That's 24 people fired in the last month. Is that correct? Yes, sir, said Callahan unhappily. And how many cards went through the Personnel of Act this month? 40. So that's 24 out of 40. A batting average of the boss's brow puckered. Well, never mind. But that's quite an unusual record, wouldn't you say so? Yes, sir, but so unusual that it would call for immediate action, wouldn't it? The president's face was now stormy. Yes, sir, but I checked the brain. Did you, Ralph? Yes, sir. And the maintainer of Act said it was perfect. There's nothing wrong with it. Nothing wrong? You call 24 firings out of 40 nothing? The old man stood up, still holding the core of his apple. Well, I don't understand it either, Mr. Moss. Callahan felt due on his forehead. Nothing seems to satisfy the brain anymore. It seems to develop higher and higher standards or something. Why, I'm not sure it wouldn't even fire. Who? said Moss, thundersly. Who wouldn't it even fire? The thunder hit Callahan squarely. He swallowed hard and then managed to say, anybody, me, sir, me, for instance. The president's face suddenly relaxed. I'm no tyrant, my boy. You know that. I'm just doing a job, that's all. Of course, sir. Well, all I want you to do is keep your eye on things. It could be a coincidence, of course. That's the logical explanation. He narrowed his eyes. What do you think, Ralph? Me, sir, said Ralph wide-eyed. I don't think, sir. I act, sir. Good boy, the boss chuckled and clapped his hand on Callahan's shoulder. Moss was momentarily satisfied. The personnel of Ack burped. Callahan picked up the card with a groan. It was pink. He walked over to the action chute and dropped it inside. As it fluttered down below, Callahan shook his head sadly. 31, he said. He placed the next personnel record into the information chamber. He flipped the lever, and the personnel of Ack, now hot with usage, winked, chittered, chortled, and chuckled with amazing speed. The burp was almost joyful as the card popped out. But Callahan's face was far from joyful as he picked it up. Pink. 32, he said. The next card was from Grimswitch's department. It was subject number 52098. The number was familiar. Callahan decided to check the file. Sam Gilchrist, he said, couldn't be anything wrong with Sam while he's a blinking genius. Flip, wink, chitter, chortle, chuckle, burp. Pink. Poor Sam, said Callahan. He fed the other records through quickly. Pink, pink, pink. At the end of the day, Callahan worked laboriously with a blunt pointed pencil. It took him 15 minutes for the simple calculation. 67 tests. 23 OK. 44. Callahan put his hands to his head. What am I going to do? Grimswitch followed Callahan down the hall as he came out of the boss's office for the third time that week. Well, he said fatuously, quite the teacher's pet these days, eh, Callahan? Go away, Grimswitch. On the carpet, eh? Temper a little short, don't worry. Grimswitch's beefy hand made unpleasant contact with the personnel man's shoulder. Your old friends won't let you down. Grimswitch, will you please leave me alone? Better watch that think machine of yours, Grimswitch chuckled. Might fire you next, old boy. Callahan was glad when Morgan, the production operator, hailed Grimswitch away. But as he entered his own office, Grimswitch's word still troubled him. Grimswitch, he thought, that fat piece of garbage, that big blowhard, that know-it-all. Almost savagely, he picked up the day's personnel cards and flipped them carelessly. Grimswitch, that louse, he thought. Then he had the idea. If Grimswitch was still chewing the fat with Morgan, then his secretary would be alone. If he called her and asked for Grimswitch's record, no better yet got Miss Blanche to call. Why not, he thought? After all, I am the personnel manager. I'm sure it's a little irregular, he is a department head, but it's my job, isn't it? Callahan flipped the intercom and proceeded to call Miss Blanche. His hand shook as he placed Grimswitch's card into the personnel-evac. The machine, though still heated by the day's activity, seemed to take longer than usual for its chittering, chuckling examination of the pin-hold facts on the record. Finally it gave a satisfied burp and proffered the result to Grimswitch's eager hand. Ah-ha! cried the personnel man gleefully. He walked over to his desk, wrote a quick note on his memo-pad and placed both the note and card into an envelope. He addressed it to, Office of the President, then he dropped it into the action chute. When it was out of sight, he rubbed his hands together in happy anticipation. When Miss Blanche announced that President Moss himself was in Callahan's outer lobby, the personnel manager spent a hasty minute in straightening up paper debris on his desk. The old man came striding into the room, exhibiting plenty of P.E.P., and he seated himself briskly on Callahan's sofa. Sharp eyes, Ralph, he said. Sharp eyes and a quick wit. This business demands it. That was a sharp notion you had doing a run-through on Grimswitch. Never trusted that back-slapping fellow. Callahan looked pleased. Trying to do a job, sir. Put your finger on it, said Moss. Hit the nail on the head. It's just like my father said. Trees go dead on the top. Callahan, the boss leaned forward confidentially. I've got an assignment for you, big assignment. Yes, sir, said Callahan eagerly. If Grimswitch is a sour apple, maybe other department heads are, too. And who knows? It knows. Moss pointed a finger at the personnel evac. I'm rounding up all the aptitude records of the department heads. They'll be in your hands in the next couple of days. Feed them in, root them out, spot the deadwood, Callahan. Act. Act, echoed Callahan as his face flushed. The old man got up and went over to the brain. Marvelous machine, he said. Honest. That's what I like about it. As Moss went out the door, Callahan could have sworn he saw the personnel evac wink. He walked over to it and fingered the lever. It was turned off, all right. It was an interesting week for Callahan. Morgan, the production man, was fired. Grimswitch came up to see the personnel man and tried to punch him in the nose. Fortunately, he was a little too drunk and the blow went wild. Seagram, the ship evac operator, was fired. Douglas, the treasurer, was permitted to keep his job, but the personnel evac issued a dire threat if improvement wasn't rapidly forthcoming. Wilson, the firm's oldest employee, was fired. In fact, seven out of General Product's twelve department heads were greeted by the ominous pink card. Callahan, no longer plagued by doubt, felt that life was definitely worth living. He smiled all the time. His memos were snappier than ever. His heels clicked merrily down the office hallways. He had P.E.P. Then, the most obvious thing in the world happened, and Callahan just hadn't foreseen it. His record card came up. Have you run through the stack yet? Miss Blanche asked. Um, just about. Callahan looked at her guiltily. He pushed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. A couple more here, he said. Well, we might as well finish up. Mr. Moss would like to have the schedule completed this afternoon. It will be. That's all, Miss Blanche. His secretary shrugged and left. Callahan went to the personnel evac with the record in his hand. The file number was 630. Don't let me down, he told the brain. He placed the pin-hold card into the machine and flipped the lever. It winked, chittered, chortled, and chuckled with almost sinister softness. When the card was burped out at the other end, Callahan took it out with his eyes firmly shut. He walked over to the action chute mechanically. His hand hesitated before he dropped it inside. Then he changed his mind, walked back to the desk, and tore the pink card into the smallest possible shreds. The intercom beeped. Mr. Moss wants to, said his secretary. Callahan! Yes, sir. Don't act so innocent, Callahan. Your report isn't complete. It should have been ready by now. Yes, sir. You're not acting, Callahan. You're stalling. No, sir. Then where's your personnel evac report, Callahan? Eh? Where is it? Callahan rung his hands. Almost ready, sir. You lied. Just running it through now, sir. Speed it up. Speed it up. Time's a waste, and boy. You're not afraid, are you, Callahan? No, sir. Then let's have it. No more delay. Bulled by the horns. Expect it in an hour, Callahan. Understand? Yes, sir. The boss clicked off. Callahan groaned audibly. What can I do? He said to himself. He went to the brain and shook his fist helplessly at it. Damn you, he cursed. He had to think. He had to think. It was an effort. He jerked about in his swivel chair like a hooked fish. He beat his hands on the desktop. He paced the floor and tore at the roots of his hair. Finally exhausted, he gave up and flopped ungracefully on the office sofa, abandoning himself to the inevitable. At that precise moment, the mind being the perverse organ it is, he was struck by an inspiration. The maintainovac bore an uneasy resemblance to Callahan's own think machine. Wilson, the oldest employee of General Products, had been the operator of the maintenance brain. He had been a nice old duffer, Wilson, always ready to do Callahan a favor. Now that he had been swept out in Callahan's old purge, the personnel manager had to deal with a new man named Lockwood. Lockwood wasn't so easy to deal with. Stay out of my files, mister, he said. Callahan tried to look superior. I'm the senior officer around here, Lockwood. Let's not forget that. Them files is my responsibility. Lockwood, a burly young man, stationed himself between Callahan and the file case. I want to check something. I need the service records of my brain. Where's your requisition paper? I haven't got time for that, said Callahan truthfully. I need it now, you fool. Lockwood set his face like a Rushmore Memorial. Be a good fellow, can't you? Callahan quickly saw that whittling wasn't the answer. All right, he said, starting for the door, I just wanted to help you. He opened the door just a crack. Sure enough, Lockwood responded. How do you mean help me? Didn't you know? Callahan turned to face him. I'm running through an aptitude check on the personnel of AC, special department head check, Mr. Moss's orders. So? I was just getting around to yours. But I figured I'd better make sure the brain was functioning properly. He grew confidential. You know, that darn machine has been firing everyone lately. A little rock slide began on Lockwood's stony face. Well, he said, if that's the case, I knew you'd understand, said Callahan very smoothly. Eagerly, the personnel manager collated the records of the personnel of AC. They were far more complex than any employee record, and it took Callahan the better part of an hour. Any moment, he expected to hear the president's angry voice over the intercom. His anxiety made him fumble, but at last the job was done. He slipped the record marked by a galaxy of pinholes into the brain. Now we'll see, he said grimly. Now we'll find out what's eating this monster. He flipped the switch. The personnel of AC winked. It was several minutes before it digested the information in his chamber. Then it chittered. It chortled. It chuckled. Callahan held his breath until the burp came. The card appeared. It read. Subject PV8, mechanical rating 9987, memory rating 9995, last personal VAC analysis, non-current rating 100, analysis, subject operating at maximum efficiency, equipped to perform at peak level, is completely honest and does not exhibit bias, prejudice, or sentiment in establishing personnel evaluations, cumulative increase in mnemonic ability, analytic ability improving. Callahan walked slowly over to the action shoe as he finished reading the card. However, it read. Because of mechanistic approach to humanistic evaluation, subject displays inability to incorporate human equation in analytical computation, resulting in technically accurate, but humanistically incorrect deductions. When Callahan fired him, Callahan dropped the pink card into the chute. In half an hour, the action wheels of general products concluded their work, and the personnel VAC had winked for the last time. The end of This Success Machine by Henry Slusser. Unspecialist. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Unspecialist. By Murray F. Yacco. Banner ripped open his orders, read them, stared in disbelief for a quick moment, then cursed wildly while reaching for the telephone. Hello? Gastonia? Yes, I got him. What kind of way to waste our time you lunkheads think? Oh, it's you, Colonel. Banner dropped the receiver and let it dangle. He sank into the only soft chair in the apartment and watched hypnotically as the phone's receiver limply coiled and uncoiled at the end of the wire. Somebody knocked on and then opened the door. Hi, pretty boy. You got your orders? Come on in and hear about it, Banner said. He got up from the chair, ran his hands compulsively through his recently short cropped red hair, hung up the phone, and shoved the orders into his co-pilot's hands. Harcraft read them over three times, and then sank into the chair just vacated by Banner. Finally, while Banner poured them both a drink, he managed to blurt, Potato fertilizer and tractor fuel! Oh, no! Oh, no, no, no! Oh, yes, yes, yes, Banner said bitterly. We are heroes of the spaceways, yes and d. We train for ten years, acquire great skill in the art of the patrol. We dedicate ourselves to the protection of the Federation. We ready ourselves for war. We gird our young, strong loins. We--" Are you getting hysterical, said Harcraft, who poured himself another drink, began pacing the floor, and took up where Banner had left off. We've never even been lost on patrol. And now they do this? It's unbelievable! Potato fertilizer and tractor fuel? We're supposed to travel thirty-six light-years, pick up one thousand sleds of the stuff, deliver it to some god-forsaken farm planet another thirty years out, and return to base. You know what they'll do then? He turned to Banner, pointed his finger accusingly and repeated. You know what they'll do then? How would I know, said Banner, glumly staring into his drink? Well, I can tell you what they'll do. Yes, sir. I can tell you. Harcraft's pudgy face and oversized brown eyes seem to melt into each other, giving him the appearance of an angry, if not very bright, chimpanzee. OK, what'll they do? Banner said. They'll give us medals. That's what they'll do. For the safe delivery of one million tons of tractor fuel, you two fine specimens of manhood are hereby presented with the order of the oil. And for your courageous service in delivering two million tons of potato fertilizer, you are also awarded the shield of— Never mind, Banner said. It could be worse. They could have saddled us with a bean-brain. Come on, let's go to some bar and get sober. We're leaving for freight duty at seventeen hundred. The bean-brain met them at the airlock. My name is Arnold. Here's my orders. Banner stared at Harcraft. Harcraft stared at Arnold. Get inside, said Banner. The bean-brain smiled. Uh, could you sort of lead the way? I've never been inside a ship before. If you got some kind of can, it would save a mess. I'll probably vomit a while. They stopped calling him Bean-Brain three days later. He was still sick, miserably space-sick, and neither Banner nor Harcraft had the heart to keep needling him. On the fourth day he managed to get up and around. They ate their first meal together that day. Let's get something straight right off the bat, Banner said. Neither Harcraft nor I got anything against you, except prejudice. That right, Harcraft? Right, Harcraft said. In short, continued Banner, between puffs on a cigarette. All we know is what we've heard. And that's not good, said Harcraft. Item 1, said Banner, blowing smoke at the ceiling ventilator. Patrol Command came up with the Bean-Brain idea about six months ago. Patrol Command, in its infinite wisdom, has never seen fit to explain why Bean-Brains are sometimes assigned, evidently at random, to small patrol vessels such as this. The orders always state that the passenger will accompany pilot and co-pilot throughout the entire trip. Still obey orders, yet is equal in rank to the ship's commanding officer. The Bean-Brain has no duties aboard. This seems to make sense, at least, since Bean-Brains aren't trained for anything and can't do anything. Item 2, said Banner, taking his eyes off the ceiling and pointing a finger at Arnold. I have, or had, two good friends, both patrol captains, who had the honor of taxiing Bean-Brains around the universe. One never came back. The other, Captain Slatkin, came back and got a big medal for reasons he'll never talk about. And Slatkin liked to brag, said Hardcraft, knowingly. Arnold stood up slowly. He was a small man, but as he looked up at the ship's pilot and co-pilot, he gave both the impression of height and strength. I'll tell you something, too, he said, speaking slowly as if in pain. I don't know why Bean-Brains are assigned to ships like this either. I've never been told. I took the job because I didn't like what I was doing before. I've never had any real training, and this seemed like a chance to do something that sounded like fun. Like I said, I've never been told anything. They tested me for a lot of things, then they gave me my orders and told me to come along. And if you're wondering, I flunked the ESP tests, so there's nothing there. You want to consider me dead weight? OK, your privilege. Leave me alone if you want to. I'll do the same. Be friendly. I'll be friendly. Ask me to help. I'll do my best. Then he got up and went back to his bunk. During the next six weeks Arnold spent most of the time in his bunk, scanning tapes from the ship's micro-library on an overhead viewer. At mealtimes he was polite, offering no further information about himself, yet entering into any conversation that centered around such trivia as terrestrial sports, taxes, money, liquor, food, government agencies. By mutual, if silent agreement, neither women nor work were discussed. Working in the ship's control room, sometimes together, sometimes spelling each other, banner and heartcraft speculated bitterly and endlessly about their passenger. Theories to explain his presence, most of them propounded by heartcraft, were created, torn apart, modified, exploded, and giant sequences of effort which left both men finally exhausted and tired of the whole business. On the second day of the seventh week out, there Anui vanished. A ship was picked up by the spec-spanner, and at their delight at the break in routine they summoned Arnold up to the cabin. Take a good look, said banner. It's an Anchorbadian ship, probably the first and the last you'll ever see. Arnold watched as banner's finger tracked a slowly moving point of light across a recessed ceiling screen. Yes, sir, said heartcraft, you are looking at the representatives of mankind's only sibling, the noble Anchorbades. Then he recited, in a singsong voice. A simple race to Anchorbades they wear no clothes and live in caves, but out in space they do in minutes what our ships do at speeds infinite. Cultural paranoia, added Warcraft. Huh? I mean just what I said. You and a million others recite that diddy, or variations of it every day of the week. It all adds up to the fact that the world is full of small egged animals who for ten years have done nothing but just scream that we're about to be attacked by the savage Anchorbades. Tisk, tisk, said banner, treason, my lieutenant, treason. Of you I had expected at least a show of chauvinism. Stop tisk, tisking me, heartcraft said irritably. You've known how I felt about this mess for a long time. Yes, indeed, said banner, yawning. Ever since you took that micro-course in culture-ology you have insights into the situation denied to the rest of the race. Anyway, heartcraft said, making a small adjustment on the screen. You and countless other adivisms are reacting in a very predictable way, since you can't reconcile the naked Anchorbades and their superior technology, and since they are alien to point of showing no interest whatsoever in our elaborate art, institutions, rituals, and since—piped up Arnold, startling both men—the human unconscious can't help but equate nakedness with savagery, we have armed our mighty planet to the teeth, convinced that Armageddon is around the corner. Wow! said the surprise heartcraft. Where'd you pick that up? asked banner. From Captain Slatkin, said Arnold, smiling. I met him when I was indoctrinated. He took the same micro-course in culture-ology. Of course, he only believed that stuff when he was scared. Oh, you don't say, said banner. Tell us, my little friend. Are you too convinced that Armageddon is around the corner? Not that I really think you're capable of having an opinion. I got plenty of opinions all right, said Arnold quietly, staring at his shoes. Opinion number one is this. We're not really at war yet, but within the past two years fifty-six patrol ships have disappeared in the vicinity of our friendly neighbor. Well, that's not an opinion, banner said, and disappeared can mean a lot of things. Opinion number two, continued Arnold, scratching himself under an arm. About the only diplomatic relations we got with them animals is when they write a note complaining about some patrol ship getting too close to some piece of dirt in their system. Speaking of that, you'll have to excuse me for a moment, Hartcraft said. Stop clowning, snapped banner. Listen to him. Here's your chance to get some insight into the nature of the thorn in your side. Go on, beambrain. Any more opinions? Yeah, if you're such a wise guy, tell me why you're here right now. Why? Arnold's mouth screwed itself into a knowing, bitter smile. When both of you were children, you heard the story about the big fleet. So you made it into the patrol, spent the rest of your life training, looking, thinking that some day, Hartcraft broke in. That tale about Anchorbadian fleet buildup has been discredited a full thousand times. When they pride that crazy scout out of his ship, he was an hour away from the crematorium. You try spending 46 days in space without food or water sometime. You'll see hidden arsenals of alien ships till hell won't have it. And, added banner, where is this fleet buildup supposed to take place? The patrol has had every planet in reachable space under scheduled surveillance for the past 20 years. You don't hide a thousand S-type cruisers in somebody's pocket. So nobody's scared, huh? Said Arnold. So the entire space command has been playing footsie all over the galaxy for twenty years, looking for a thousand ships that aren't there in the first place, huh? Routine surveillance, said Hartcraft. A thousand ships, said Arnold, slapping his sweaty forehead. They'll burn through our defense system like... You're a paranoid rabble-rouser, said Banner lightly. We've got work to do up here. How about getting back to your bunk? Two days later they made scheduled contact with the caravan of potato fertilizer and tractor fuel. One thousand sleds, in tandem, were in proper orbit, two hundred miles above sea-door two. Their orders provided for a landing on the planet and a short ship leave, at the discretion of the ship's pilot to refresh personnel. Banner and Hartcraft decided against landing. All necessary contact, now that they were out of hyperdrive, could be accomplished with the ship's radio. What planetfalls were, psychologically, more trouble than they were worth, often destroying the hard-earned, dedicated space orientation which was their only defense against the abysmal boredom. It's a dull place, anyway, explained Hartcraft to Arnold, who had come up from the control room. It's a mining and processing settlement, maybe five hundred families altogether. Got a funny religion, too. Huh? What kind? Well, began Hartcraft breezily. Sort of sacrificial, you might say. They believe in killing strangers who annoy their women. A dull place, Arnold agreed, wiping his nose with his sleeve. Speaking of religion, said Banner, I just talked to their monitor on the radio. They've picked up twelve big ships on their scanner during the past two days. Anchor-baids? asked Arnold quickly. Uh-huh. But not what you think. It's Easter time or some such thing at home. They all return to the home-planet and stay there for about thirty days in the spring. Religious festival. Oh, yeah! They paint themselves blue and howl at both of their moons for a month. I read about it once. We'll be home, too, pretty soon, ventured Hartcraft, for whom the return journey was subjectively always short. Let's hitch up to those sleds, Banner said. It's time to get going. Four weeks later two of the fertilizer sleds went out of phase and automatically cut the ship out of hyperdrive. A welcome diversion, Banner said to Hartcraft. You are now about to meet your mortal enemy face to face. Manual labor? Never! said Hartcraft, assuming the pose of a man bravely facing the firing squad. Patrol duty is my lifeblood. Even freight duty, such as this, I can stomach. But manual labor? Please, Captain, let the air out of the ship, if you will, but never shall these hands. Did somebody call me? asked Arnold, appearing silently. Yeah, said Banner, how'd you like to help? Well, sure, what do you got? Couple sleds are out of phase. You and Hartcraft are going to slip into suits and go out and find the trouble. Arnold shrugged. OK with me, when do we start? Very quick, said Banner, who had turned to look at the ship's spec scanner. Looks like we're in a belt of meteorites. We'll be able to match velocities, but we could still be creamed if the path gets too eccentric. Show them the way, Hartcraft. I don't want to take any longer than necessary, either. Understand? Fifteen minutes later, both Arnold and Hartcraft were out of the airlock, each clutching a new phase unit. Hartcraft called instructions to Arnold over his suits and her comm. But within minutes the smaller man was, if anything, more adept at the business of maneuvering himself through the void than his teacher. They replaced the phase unit in the first sled, the fiftieth from the ship, with Hartcraft doing the work and Arnold watching. Can you do the next one alone? Hartcraft asked. Easy as pie, Arnold said. Where is it? About two hundred sleds farther back, numbers on the side. There are two hundred sixty-three. Can you remember? I ain't dumb, where you gonna be? Back in the ship. We'll be waiting for ya. Back again in the control cabin with Banner, Hartcraft was about to congratulate himself on inventing the apprentice system. When a piercing scream brought both men to their feet. It's Arnold, Banner said. Arnold, are you all right? Hartcraft pushed Banner away from the speaker. Arnold, what's wrong? You OK? The speaker remained silent. You better suit up, Banner said quietly. Yeah, Hartcraft said, staring dumbly at the speaker. Yeah, I better suit up. Wait, better take a look on the view screen. Hey, he's coming this way. Quick, get ready at the airlock. It was fifteen minutes before they could get anything out of him. And then he wasn't too coherent. They gave him an injection of herodyne to quiet him down, but his eyes still rolled wildly, and all he could manage was Big hunk of rock, big hunk of rock, rock, quick, monkey ships. Any idea what he's talking about? No, Banner said thoughtfully. There was a sizable meteorite that came pretty close while you were on your way back to the ship, but I'd already tracked it before either one of you went outside. How close? Hmm, visually a dozen kilometers, I'd guess. I could run the tape if you're... Velocities are almost the same, as Hartcraft, who is now fiddling with the view screen controls. Yeah, shouldn't be too hard to find. How about lugging bean brain back to his bunk? I'll run the tape, then you can plot it on the screen. When Hartcraft returned to the control cabin, Banner had already plotted it on the screen. I'll say it's a big piece of rock, about four kilometers in diameter. Yeah, but nothing out of order. Uh-huh. Let me turn up the magnification a little and see if... Banner watched as Hartcraft turned the control buttons, skillfully increasing magnification without losing hold of the view. Suddenly the object exploded into iridescence. What? Watch, Hartcraft said. He bumped the magnification as much as he dared. The Anchorbadian Fleet, said Banner between clenched teeth. They spent the next hour scanning the ship's micro-library for anything at all on Anchorbadian religious practices. There was nothing. Arnold awoke in another hour and seemed remarkably free of hysteria. What do you know about our friend's religious holiday? asked Banner. We checked the library without any luck. Arnold scratched the side of his face. Let me think. Yeah, I remember. They go home to celebrate spring, like you said. They all go home? Uh-huh. They got to. Only time they can meet. Only place, too. How long they stay? I've heard it's about one of our months, but we have to know exactly. That's all I know. Read it someplace a long time ago. Can I go back to sleep now? Go back to sleep, said Banner. They spent the next three hours maneuvering carefully around the asteroid. They took 6,000 feet of movies and stared at the projections for another three hours. 1,730 silvery needles flashed reflected starlight into astonished, wild eyes. At least, whispered Banner. There's nobody there. A lot of good that does us. They'll be back from their home planet in a few weeks, just as soon as the breeding season is over. Why should they leave anybody here? There's not a map in the galaxy that indicates a position of this piece of rock, and we haven't any weapons. I don't suppose the computer. You can't compute an orbit without at least one more reference point. Besides, we're four weeks from any kind of fleet contact. Great. In other words, they'll be back here, ready to roll, before we can even tell anybody that we don't know how to find it again. Right. And since there's not any room left to park another ship of that size, it's a pretty safe assumption that they're ready to roll. Armageddon, muttered hard-craft. You sure we don't have anything to... weapons? Yeah, we have a pistol and three small nitro packs and a locker someplace. You couldn't even blow your way inside one of those ships. And if you could, you'd spend two weeks and then blow yourself to hell before you'd know anything about the armament. Okay, let's land and look around. Go get Arnold. They cut off the sleds and plunged down, landing between two of the ships. Before putting on suits, Banner sent Arnold to the locker to get the three nitro packs. He hoped it would help him overcome the terrible feeling of nakedness and impotence. They spent only a little time out of the ship. There was nothing to see that hadn't been seen before, and the heavy artificial gravity generated by the alien ships, coupled with a maze of deep crevices, made walking difficult and dangerous. Back in the control cabin, Banner turned to hard-craft. Any ideas? Ideas? You mean for saving Homo sapiens? I'm afraid not. I simply do not feel up to saving six billion sentient organisms today. I feel... You're getting hysterical, said Banner, whose own tight small voice was very audible. I got an opinion, said Arnold. You guys stop crying for a minute, and I'll tell ya. It took him five minutes to explain the whole thing. When he was through, both Banner and hard-craft turned him down flat. Not a chance, said Banner. It would take a week to set the thing up, and then it wouldn't work. Our best chance is a long one, but maybe we'll make it. We're four weeks away from any fleet contact, but it's the only sensible course of action. And that makes it a total of eight weeks, with four weeks to get back here. That's two months, said Arnold. You think they're going to wait two months before they shove out of here? Maybe not, Banner said, but that's the only thing to do. And the sooner we get started, the better the chances. Let's get going. You look here, Arnold began. No more opinions, being brained. You're not entitled to an opinion. You think we should take your word for everything you told us? Tell me why. You said yourself you never had any training. So you're guessing and hoping. It would take a staff of two dozen highly specialized technicians to even evaluate your idea, much less put it into action. Hell, man. Face it. What do you know about geology, chemistry, mining? What do you know about anything? Arnold pointed a trembling finger at Banner. Look, I told you guys that I know rock. I know plenty of gardening, too. I gave you guys a chance to say, OK, but you still say no? Have it your way. But we'll do it my way. Both Banner and Hartcraft found themselves staring into the barrel of the ship's only weapon. Hartcraft recovered from his astonishment quicker than Banner. OK, being brained, have it your way. Quickly, casually, he started for the cabin door. Then, with such speed that Banner hardly saw the movement, he chopped down viciously toward Arnold's wrist with the edge of his hand. Hartcraft recovered consciousness a half an hour later. Don't try that again, little boy, said Arnold, with unconcealed hatred. I'll give you another thirty minutes to catch your breath. Then we all go to work. It took ten days instead of seven. Under Arnold's close supervision they made the ship perform like a tractor, an air hammer, a foundation borer, and an angle dozer. Once when they told him that some particular maneuver couldn't be done, he took the controls himself and came so close to killing them all that Banner, out of sheer terror, took over and made it do the things Arnold decreed necessary. Finally it was finished. Two million tons of potato fertilizer, one million tons of tractor fuel, combined into a slimy pulp, lay jammed into the largest crevice on the asteroid. A few hours later they were a thousand miles out in space. Now, asked Banner, now, said Arnold. With the view screen at maximum magnification, they watched as the asteroid blew itself into a thousand million pieces. In the control cabin, a short week away from fleet contact, Banner was still gloating over the movies. Look at these, before and after. How many medals do you think we can carry on our strong, manly chests? I really couldn't care less, answered Harcraft. While you've been sitting there enriching your fantasy life, I've solved the mystery of mysteries. Out with it. OK. While our little friend has been lying in his bunk, ruining his BDIs on the micro-viewer, I've been asking myself significant questions. Question number one. What kind of person does it take to survive the inactivity and boredom of three, four, maybe six months in a space can like this? Answer. It takes a highly trained and conditioned person such as yours truly or yourself. Arnold is obviously not such a person. Obviously. Question number two. For what circumstances can a person as obviously intelligent as Arnold manage not to become a highly specialized member of society? And last, what kind of person can be so revoltingly unspecialized as to know, with fanatical certainty, that the main ingredient of a good potato fertilizer is ammonium nitrate, that such a substance is rather ineffective as an explosive unless you mix it with a good oxidizable material such as diesel fuel? That a four square mile chunk of rock is brittle. And don't forget to add another nice facet, that he's a lot cleverer in the manly art of self-defense than you'll ever be. I acknowledge my humiliation and at the same time repeat my question. What kind of person can be so unspecialized and at the same time so miserably competent? I give up. Do you really know the answer? I know this. I know that whoever he is, it makes good sense to send somebody like him along with two over-specialized robots like us. Look at us. You couldn't pull a cotter-pin with a pair of pliers if you knew what a cotter-pin was. As for myself, if I'd gotten that gun away from Arnold, I'm not even sure I'd have known how to fire it. Which still doesn't answer any questions. There are still a hundred places on our primitive homeland that provide the answer. That's what Hartcraft thoughtfully. Places where men spend half the year working with vegetables and fertilizer. And the other half, breaking rock with a sledgehammer? Yes. And there's probably no better place than a cell to train for the isolation of space. Uh-huh. It also explains a certain familiarity with makeshift explosives and weapons. And, Brother Bean Brain, summed up Hartcraft wistfully, what better place in the universe to find asylum from specialization. End of Unspecialist by Murray F. Yackel. What's he doing in there? 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. Reading by Greg Marguerite. What's he doing in there? By Fritz Leiber. He went where no Martian ever went before. But would he come out? Or had he gone for good? The professor was congratulating Earth's first visitor from another planet on his wisdom in getting in touch with a cultural anthropologist before contacting any other scientists, or governments, God forbid. And in learning English from radio and TV before landing from his orbit-parked rocket. When the Martians stood up and said hesitantly, Excuse me, please, but where is it? That baffled the professor and the Martians seemed to grow anxious. At least his long mouth curved upward, and he had earlier explained that it curling downward was his smile. And he repeated, please, where is it? He was surprisingly humanoid in most respects, but his complexion was textured so like the rich dark armchair he'd just been occupying that the professor's pinstriped gray suit, which he had eagerly consented to wear, seemed an arbitrary interruption between him and the chair. A sort of mother-hubbered dress on a phantom conjured from its leather. The professor's wife, always a perceptive hostess, came to her husband's rescue by saying with equal rapidity, top of the stairs, end of the hall, last door. The Martians' mouth curled happily downward, and he said, thank you very much, and was off. Comprehension burst on the professor. He caught up with his guest at the foot of the stairs. Here, I'll show you the way, he said. No, I can find it myself, thank you," the Martian assured him. Something rather final in the Martians' tone made the professor desist, and after watching his visitors sway up the stairs with an almost hypnotic, softly jogging movement, he rejoined his wife in this study, saying, wonderingly, who'd have thought it by George Function taboos as strict as our own? I'm glad some of your professional visitors maintain him, his wife said darkly. But this one's from Mars, darling, and to find out he's well similar in an aspect of his life is as thrilling as the discovery that water is burned hydrogen. When I think of the day, not far distant, when I'll put his entries in the cross-cultural index, he was still rhapsodizing when the professor's little son raced in. Pop! The Martians' gone in the bathroom. Hush, dear Manners! Now it's perfectly natural, darling, that the boy should notice and be excited. Yes, son, the Martians' not so very different from us. Oh, certainly, the professor's wife said with a trace of bitterness. I don't imagine his turquoise complexion will cause any comments at all when you bring him to a faculty reception. They'll just figure he's had a hard night, and that he's got that baby elephant nose sniffing around for assistant professorships. Really, darling, he probably thinks of our noses as it disagreeably amputated and paralyzed. Well, anyway, Pop, he's in the bathroom. I followed him when he squiggled upstairs. Now, son, you shouldn't have done that. He's on a strange planet, and it might make him nervous if he thought he was being spied on. We must show him every courtesy. By George, I can't wait to discuss these things with accurately Rams' bottom, when I think of how much more this encounter has to give the anthropologist than even the physicist or astronomer. He was still going strong on his second rhapsody when he was interrupted by another high-speed entrance. It was the professor's cultish daughter. Mom, Pop, the Martians—hush, dear, we know. The professor's cultish daughter regained her adolescent poise, which was considerable. Well, he's still in there, she said. I just tried the door, and it was locked. I'm glad it was, the professor said, while his wife added, Yes, you can't be sure what—and caught herself. Really, dear, that was very bad manners. I thought he'd come downstairs long ago, her daughter explained. He's been in there an awfully long time. It must have been a half hour ago that I saw him gyre and gimbal upstairs in that real gone way he has, with nosy here following him. The professor's cultish daughter was currently soaking up both Jive and Alice. When the professor checked his wristwatch, his expression grew troubled. Why, George, he is taking his time. Though, of course, we don't know how much time Martians—I wonder. I listened for a while, Pop, his son volunteered. He was running the water a lot. Running the water, eh? We know Mars is a water-starved planet. I suppose that in the presence of unlimited water he might be seized by a kind of madness, and—but he seemed so well adjusted. Then his wife spoke, voicing all their thoughts. Her outlook on life gave her a naturally sepulchral voice. What's he doing in there? Twenty minutes, and at least as many fantastic suggestions later, the professor glanced again at his watch and nerved himself for action. Motioning his family aside, he mounted the stairs and tiptoed down the hall. He paused only once to shake his head and mutter under his breath. By George, I wish I had Fenchurch or Van Gogh stock here. There a shade better than I am on intercultural contracts, especially taboo breakings and affronts. His family followed him at a short distance. The professor stopped in front of the bathroom door. Everything was quiet as death. He listened for a minute and then rapped measurably, steadying his hand by clutching its wrist with the other. There was a faint splashing, but no other sound. Another minute passed. The professor rapped again. Now there was no response at all. He very gingerly tried to knob. The door was still locked. When they had retreated to the stairs, it was the professor's wife who once more voiced their thoughts. This time her voice carried overtones of supernatural horror. What's he doing in there? He may be dead or dying, the professor's cultish daughter suggested briskly. Maybe we ought to call the fire department like they did for old Mrs. Frisbee. The professor winced. I'm afraid you haven't visualized the complications, dear," he said gently. No one but ourselves knows that the Martian is on earth, or even has the slightest inkling that interplanetary travel has been achieved. Whatever we do, it will have to be on our own. But to break in on a creature engaged in—well, we don't know what primal private activity is still against all anthropological practice. Still— Dying's a primal activity, his daughter said crisply. So's ritual bathing before mass murder, his wife added. Please! Still, as I was about to say, we do have the moral duty to succor him, if, as you all too reasonably suggest, he has been incapacitated by a germ or virus, or more likely by some simple environmental factor such as earth's greater gravity. Tell you what, Pop, I can look in the bathroom window and see what he's doing. All I have to do is crawl out of my bedroom window and along the gutter a little ways. It's safe as house is. The professor's question, beginning with, Son, how do you know— Died unuttered, and he refused to notice the words his daughter was voicing silently at her brother. He glanced at his wife sardonically composed face, thought once more of the fire department and of other and larger and even more jealous—or would it be skeptical—government agencies, and clutched at the straw offered him. Ten minutes later he was quite unnecessarily assisting his son back through the bedroom window. Gee, Pop, I couldn't see a sign of him. That's why I took so long. Hey, Pop, don't look so scared. He's in there, sure enough. It's just that the bathtub's under the window and you have to get real close up to see into it. The Martian's taking a bath? Yep. Got it full up and just the end of his little old schnozzle sticking out. Your suit, Pop, was hanging on the door. The one word the professor's wife spoke was like a death knell. Drowned? No, Ma, I don't think so. His schnozzle was opening and closing regular like. Maybe he's a shape-changer, the professor's cultish daughter said in a burst of evil fantasy. Maybe he softens in water and thins out after a while until he's like an eel and then he'll go exploring through the sewer pipes. Wouldn't it be funny if he went under the street and knocked up on the stopper from underneath and crawled into the bathtub with President Rexford or Mrs. President Rexford? Or maybe right into the middle of one of Jeannie Rexford's, oh, I'm so sexy, bubble baths. Please, the professor put his hand to his eyebrows and kept it there, cuddling the elbow in his other hand. Well, have you thought of something? The professor's wife asked him after a bit. What are you going to do? The professor dropped his hand and blinked his eyes hard and took a deep breath. Telegraph Fenchurch and accurately rams bottom and then break in, he said in a resigned voice, into which nevertheless a note of hope seemed also to have come. First, however, I'm going to wait until morning. And he sat down cross-legged in the hall a few yards from the bathroom door and folded his arms. So the long vigil commenced. The professor's family shared it, and he offered no objection. Other and sterner men he told himself might claim to be able to successfully order their children to go to bed when there was a Martian locked in the bathroom, but he would like to see them faced with the situation. Finally Dawn began to seep from the bedrooms. When the bulb in the hall had grown quite dim, the professor unfolded his arms. Just then there was a loud splashing in the bathroom. The professor's family looked toward the door. The splashing stopped, and they heard the Martian moving around. Then the door opened, and the Martian appeared in the professor's gray pinstripe suit. His mouth curled sharply downward in a broad alien smile as he saw the professor. Good morning, the Martian said happily. I've never slept better in my life, even in my own little wet bed back on Mars. He looked around more closely, and his mouth straightened. But where did you all sleep, he asked? Don't tell me you stayed dry all night. You didn't give up your only bed to me. His mouth curled upward in misery. Oh, dear, he said. I'm afraid I've made a mistake somehow, yet I don't understand how. Before I studied you, I didn't know what your sleeping habits would be, but that question was answered for me. In fact, it looked so reassuringly home-like when I saw those brief TV scenes of your females ready for sleep in their little tubs. Of course, on Mars only the fortunate can always be sure of sleeping wet, but here, with your abundance of water, I thought there would be wet beds for all. He paused. It's true I had some doubts last night, wondering if I'd used the right words and all, but then when you wrapped good night to me, I splashed the sentiment back at you and went to sleep in a wink. But I'm afraid that somewhere I've blundered and, no, no, dear chap, the professor managed to say. He had been waving his hand in a gentle circle for some time in token that he wanted to interrupt. Everything is quite all right. It's true we stayed up all night, but please consider that as a watch, an honor guard, by George, which we kept to indicate our esteem. What's he doing in there by Fritz Lieber?