 Section 7 of 20 Short Science Fiction Stories by Various Authors This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Sun King, by Gaston de Roe. The people of Parseia forgot their God, and worshipped only murder and sin. But then the virgin Tuche gave birth to a male child. Before the flood, even before Egypt's greatness, the world was divided into three main countries, named Javeth, Shem, and Erebenia. There were other less populated lands and places. Europa in the west, Hallesta in the north, and the two great lands of the far west called north and south Gautama. Now at the juncture of the borders of the three greatest countries, Leomite city named Ous. It was the capital city of the Erebenian nation called Parseia. Its temple of skulls was the greatest known to any traveller, but the temples built to the God Mazda, and his son, Ihua Mazda, were empty and unadorned. The people had forgotten God. Sochi, king of Ous, sent out his armies throughout Javeth, China, conquering and slain, bringing back ever more skulls for the Golgotha temples, more gold and more slaves for the enriching of King Sochi. His harem was the greatest of buildings, of the mighty city, and his wives beyond man's ability to count. Tuche was one of the finest ornaments of the city of Ous. Tuche was slim, her breasts were two mounds of magic, her eyes were pools of mystic green depths. Her legs were subtle, sinuous beauty. But Tuche was a virgin, and in all that city of a million sinful souls she alone held a loop from the sins of the flesh. Which was very strange, for Tuche became big with child, though she had not been with a man. Which came to the ears of Sochi upon his great black throne supported on a tower of human skulls, in his palace of Gran, across from the great Golgotha, which was built entirely of human skulls, the skulls of people conquered by the armies of Perseya, over which the city of Ous reigned. Sochi shook his big belly under the lion's skin. Let slip his serpent-skinned headdress, and let the battle-axe that was his symbol of office drop from his hand as he shook with mirth at the great and thumping light held by Tuche. I suppose her child was fathered by Mazda, peering into her womb with his all light. He laughed, Sochi. For in Ous it was not the fashion to worship the god Mazda any more. The great skull-temples had their priests and their sacrifices, but no more did people bow down in the temples of Mazda, or have anything but ridicule for those few who did still worship in the old way. His serpent-skin headdress and battle-axe scepter, too, were relics from the past, just as the belief in Mazda, but more potent relics by far. With them he was the Sun King, Lord of Battles, Master of Life and Death, Creator of the Universe, Lord of Souls, Maker of the Law, etc. Without them he was just old Sochi, getting fatter and more stupid every day. Bring this harlot before me, to see if she can produce a miracle to prove her child is not a common one. If she cannot, she will be stoned to death at once, do you hear? I have no time to be bothered with the lies of every sinning woman who seeks to hide her bastard's origin. Asha, the philosopher who had told his king of the birth of the world, nodded his head sadly and left the presence. Why did kings have to get so blown up as to be inhuman? He sympathized with the girl and her predicament. If it had been his to say, he would have had the child proclaimed divine a thousand times in preference to shedding one drop of her blood. But then he had seen Sochi sauntering home from the well, with her water jug on her head, and her hips the focal point of all eyes in the street. Asha smiled, and took his gray-headed, bent, unnoticed figure back down the streets to the house of Tuche. As he went, he pondered gloomily on the fate of this great city under the heartless and ignorant Sochi. Surely, something dreadful would happen to Parsea, lain as it did at the juncture of the lands of the three mightiest kingdoms of the world. Jaffeth, China, Shem, Africa, and Erebenia. Any one of them could crush them. Did they get themselves organized for it? And Sochi prayed upon them all ruthlessly, knowing they could never stop warring interiorly long enough to attack him. Old Asha thought of the future, which his star studies were supposed to give him power to foretell, and of the great flood that was to come and wipe out all the old boundaries and nations. He thought of the peculiar gray-blue sky, which the wise men had taught him bore up within its whirling self-fast oceans of water, waiting for the time to drop the whirling water-shell upon them all. He thought of Europa, the great land in the west, and all her peoples. He thought of Hallest, that mighty and gracious land in the north, and all her beautiful and strong and courageous people. And he thought of the true great lands of the far west, called north and south Guatama. And he was sad, for they were all to die in the great deluge to come. But the time was not yet come. Sadly he pushed among the stalwart copper-colored men of Ous, gazing a little wistfully at the women's proud breasts and the strong young hues of their lovers beside them. If only he were young again, Asha sighed, and knocked upon the low rude door of the house of Tuche. The smile of the beautiful Tuche made him welcome, very proud to have the wise men come from the court inquire after her child. He worries me, wise Asha, said to Tuche, moving slim and supple, as a panther to sit protectively beside the little cradle of bent ash bow slashed together with strips of hide. He talks like a grown man, and him not yet weaned. Hmm! Old Asha looked down upon the over-large infant solemnly looking back at him. He nearly fainted when the tiny red lips opened, and a strange, small voice, cultured and adult, said, I am not the child you see, but your God, Mazda, speaking through the child's lips. Asha pondered only for a moment, then turned in anger upon the woman to Tuche. I pitted you, Harled, because the king has ordered your death if you did not produce a miracle. But I did not think you would hide a man behind the child's cradle to befool me. Old Asha, what do you take me for? Tuche broke into tears, bending her graceful neck and sobbing to hear that the king had decreed death for her. But the peculiar voice came again from the child's mouth. Take me in your arms, Asha! Feeling very foolish, but unable to refuse, for some mysterious reason, Asha bent and picked up the child. O man, temper thy judgment with patience and wisdom! Asha knew now that it was the child's voice truly, and, at last, asked, Why do you come in such a weak and helpless guise, O Lord Mazda? I had hoped to see a God appear in stronger shape. Nevertheless, through this helpless child in your arms, this city shall be overthrown, yourself made king of kings, and I shall deliver all the slaves and strike off all the bonds from the old time. Mazda will have this city for his own, or it will be destroyed forever. Now Asha was filled with wonder and asked the babe of many obtruse things, receiving answers beyond his understanding. So at last convinced, he put the babe down, turned to Tuche. Listen, maiden, who in my eyes is without fault. I cannot go to my king and tell him one word of what this child has revealed, for I would only die with both of you as a liar and worse. You must take this child and hide him away from the eyes and the ears of the men of this city. You in your innocence do not understand the ways of kings and courts and warriors and such things. Flea, for if you are here to-morrow, you will die and your child will die with you. Asha took himself out then, and made his way sadly along the crowded streets to his home. There he packed up a few belongings and left to go into hiding himself, for he knew better than try to tell Soki any such cock-and-bowl story. Yet if he went at all to Soki, he had to tell something, and either way someone would be doomed, if not himself. Tuche took up the babe and fled through the city by night to the home of one Kojan, a maker of songs. This man had long made love to her with his poetry and his voice from afar, and she knew he would hide her and protect her. Her heart was in her throat, because she wondered if he would believe in her virtue now that she had had a child, or in her love for him when he felt that another had given her child when he had been denied the privilege. Here in dark-eyed and handsome he stood in his doorway, looking upon this girl who had come to him with her babe in her arms. A babe by another! His heart was hurt, tears came unbidden to his eyes as he turned and allowed her to enter. For a long time he could not speak, the shame and the hurt and pride, and the strange news sudden emotions in him not suffering him to talk. But last he said, "'Tuche, I love you, and I cannot deny you anything. If you put this shame upon me, I will bear it as my own. Consider this your home, and me as your slave. If I did not love you, I would not bear this, but I do.' Tuche saw the conflicting emotions upon his face. How his dark red lips struggled to remain firm. How his thin, wide nostrils trembled. How his eyes were wet with unshed tears. How his shoulders bowed as with a sudden burden. "'Oh, my dear Kajan, I have no other friend to whom I can turn, and that I thought of you, who has only loved me from afar with your eyes and your soft-sad songs, should tell you that I bring you no shame or insult. This is not the child of another man, for I have been with no man ever. This is a child of the legends, a son of a God in the skies, our God, Mazda. He is a miracle, as hard for me to believe as for you, but it is true.' Tuche could not stand the unbelieving eyes of Kajan, who thought that Tuche lied, and looked down at the sleeping baby in her arms, sane with a pitiful voice. Please, little stranger who talks like a wise man, wake and tell my Kajan that you are not the son of a man, but the son of one whom no maid could resist or run away from, ever. Tell him, little one. And Mazda heard Tuche imploring speech of her child, and made it to speak with his own voice. Kajan, what my mother says is true. I am the child of the All Light, endowed with powers beyond ordinary men, to accomplish my Lord's mysterious purposes here on earth. Do not hold my mother the less for my birth. Kajan sank slowly to his knees, realization stealing over him as he heard the adult words issue from the suckling babe's mouth. The unleashed tears began to pour from his eyes in relief, for he knew now that Tuche might not love him yet as she would when she learned love, but at least he had given herself to no other mortal man, and the miracle of the child of a God there before him lighted up his face as his inward soul, so that he took up his flute and lifted his rich deep voice in a joyous song, the song of Zarathrusta. For the legend of their people had the name of the babe to come as Zarathrusta, and Kajan knew that its name was thus now. Tuche dwelled for some time in the house of Kajan, and the songs of Kajan were circulated among the singers of the city, so that every one knew he sheltered the child of the God Mazda in his home. The songs of Kajan came at last to the king's ears, and as one of the songs proclaimed Zarathrusta as stronger in one finger than all the power of Sochi, he let out a great oath and set his soldiers to find Tuche and the babe. But Kajan heard of the search. He took Tuche and her babe out of the gates in the night, and went off into the forest and joined a band of Listians, who are razors of goats and a fine, strong people. Now when the search failed to find the babe, Sochi proclaimed that every male child of the city, Ous, should be slain if the child was not found. And within a week Sochi was sorry, because his own wife gave birth to a little son whose life was already forfeited by royal decree, unless Tuche and her child were found. And they were not to be found in all Parasya. Asha, the old philosopher, who had been in hiding all this time, now came out of his hole and went to the king to give him counsel. As Asha progressed through the city, mothers with male children in their arms on all sides were making their way through the streets to the gates to flee the city. For no decree of a king of Ous may be repealed, but his law for ever more. The king set upon his throne of skulls, nying his nails off his fingers, for he had either to slay his own son or say that a law once made by a king could be unmade. If he allowed the law to be thus abused even by himself, such was the nature of his people they would have no respect for him, and might even kill him for a fool who could not enforce his own decrees when they hurt him little. So it was that when Asha presented himself before the king, Tuche asked, What shall I do, O Asha? My son has smiled in my face. Asha was prepared for this, and answered, Thou shalt send me and thy son and thy daughter's son and every male infant to the slaughter pens, and have us all beheaded and cast into the fire. Otherwise it will become true as the infant Zerathrusta prophesied. His hand will smite Ous city, and it will fall as a heap of straw. So the king appointed a day for the slaughter, and ninety thousand male infants were adjudged to death. Kojan, from the safety of the forest, made a scornful song about the tyrant of Ous who went to war against babies, and it was sung everywhere in the city, and the king could do nothing about it, for it was cleverly worded, seeming to approve, though in satire only. When the day for the slaughter arrived, there were but a thousand appeared with their babes out of the ninety thousand adjudged to death, all the rest having fled to the forest as had Kojan. The king saw an excuse in this to get out of killing his own son, and stood pondering how to escape his own decree. His wife, Betraj, came before him, holding out her son sane. Here, O king, take thou thy flesh and blood, and prove the inexorable justice of the king's decrees. But the king said, Let the officers go and collect all the others who have fled beyond the walls, and until are gathered here before me, no matter how long it takes, let the decree be suspended. Now the god Mazda moved the soldiers' minds to see their king had not the backbone to enforce his own decree when it hurt himself, and they, one and all, took up stones and stoned the king to death. Asha, standing strip for the slaughter, was made king by the clamor of the men who stoned Sochi to death. A great voice came out of the sky and announced to the people that God had given them a new and righteous ruler. Asha bowed his head and accepted the task put upon him. The people gave thanks to Mazda, the god, and Asha proclaimed him all to the city. Off in the forest Sochi lifted her eyes to those of Kojan, and thanked him for saving her son, and Kojan touched her with his fingertips, and kissed her on the lips, and the child crawled lustily to see their love. These two walked through the forest of the goats, Tochi bringing beauty like a spring breeze with her, and Kojan singing and touching his harp with magic fingers, so that joy and love walked before them, announcing them to the Listians, the people of the forest. When Zerothrusta, the infant child, the woman bore in her arms, lifted up his piping voice and spoke to these rude wild people, their worship sprang into life, for surely these were gods come to them. And thus all the people gave up the worship of murder and became Zerothustrians. END OF SECTION VII SECTION VIII OF TWENTY SHORT SCIENCE FICTION STORIES BY VARIOUS AUTHORS. THIS LIBERVACTS RECORDING IS IN THE PUBLIC DOMAIN. DESONED BY VICTOR ENTERS BE. THE SKY SAGged downward, belling blackly with a sudden summer rain, giving me a vision of catching my train in sodden clothing after the short cut across the fields, which I was taking in company with my brother Tristan and his fiancée. The sullen atmosphere ripped apart with an electric glare. Our ears quivered to the throbbing sky, while huge drops, jarred loose from the air by the thunder impact, splattered sluggishly, heavily about us. Little breezes swept out from the storm-center, lifting the undersides of the long grass-leaves to view in waves of lighter green. I complained peevishly. Ah, mop up, said Tristan. You've plenty of time, and there's a big oak. It's as dry under there as a cave. I think that'll be fun, twittered Alice, to wade out a thunderstorm under a tree. Under a tree, I said, hardly. I'm not hankering to furnish myself as an exhibit on the physiological effects of a lightning-stroke. No, sir. Rats, said Tristan. All that's a fairytale. Tree's being dangerous in a thunderstorm. The rain now beat through our thin summer clothing, as Tristan seized Alice's hand and told her to ward the spreading shelter. I followed them at first, then began to lag with an odd unwillingness. I had been only half-serious in my objection, but all at once that tree exercised an odd repulsion on me. An imaginary picture of the electric fluid coursing through my shriveling nerve channels grew unpleasantly vivid. Suddenly I knew I was not going under the tree. I stopped dead, pulling my hat brimmed down behind to divert the rivulet coursing down the back of my neck, calling to the others in a voice rather cracked from embarrassment. They looked at me curiously, and Alice began to twit me, standing in the rain while Tristan desired to know whether we thought we were a pair of goldfish. In his estimation, we might belong to the pristine tribe all right, but not to that decorative branch thereof. To be frank, he used the term suckers. Feeling exceptionally foolish, I planted myself doggedly in the soaking grass as Alice turned to dash for the tree. Then the thing happened. The thing, which to this hour makes the fabric of space with its unknown forces seem an insecure and eerie garment for the body of man. Over the slight rise beyond the tree, as the air crackled, roar and shook under the thunder blasts, there appeared an object moving in long, leisurely bounds, drifting before the wind, and touching the ground lightly each time. It was about eighteen inches in diameter, globular, glowing with coruscating fires, red, green, and yellow. A thing of unearthly and wholly sinister beauty. Alice poised with one foot half raised and shrieked at Tristan, half terrified, half elated at the sight. He wheeled quickly, there under the tree, and slowly backed away as the thing drifted in to keep him company in his shelter. We could not see his face, but there was a stiffness to his figure indicating something like fear. Suddenly things I had read rose into my memory. This was one of those objects fariously called fireballs, globe lightning, meteors, and the like. I also recalled the deadly explosive potencies said to be sometimes possessed by such entities, and called out frantically. Tristan, don't touch it! Get away quickly, but don't disturb the air. He heard me, and as the object wavered about in the comparative calm under the tree, drifting closer to him, started to obey. But it suddenly approached his face, and seized with a reckless terror, he snatched off his hat and batted at it as one would at a pestulent be. Instantly there was a blinding glare, a stunning detonation, and a violent air-wave which threw me clear off my feet and on to the ground. I sat up blindly with my vision full of upolescent lights in my ears ringing, unable to hear, see, or think. Slowly my senses came back. I saw Alice struggling upright in the grass before me. She cast a quick glance toward the tree, then, still on her knees, covered her face and shuttered. For a long time, it seemed, I gazed toward the tree without sight conveying any mental effect whatever. Quite aside from my dazed state, the thing was too bizarre. It gave no foothold to experience for the erection of understanding. My brother's body lay, or hung, or rested. What term could describe it? With his stomach across the underside of a large limb, a few feet above where it stood. He was doubled up like a hairpin. His abdomen pressed tightly up against this bow, and his arms, legs, and head extended stiffly, straightly skyward. Getting my scattered faculties and discordant limbs together, I made my way to the tree. The gruesome thought entering my mind that Tristan's body had been transfixed by some downward-pointing snag as it was blown up against the limb, and that the strange stiffness of his limbs was due to some ghastly, sudden rick-a-mortice brought on by electric shock. Dazed with horror and grief, I reached up to his clothing and pulled gently, braced for the shock of the following body. It remained immovable against the bow. A harder tug brought no results either. Gathering up all my courage against the vision of the supposed snag tearing its rough length out of the poor flesh, I leaped up, grasping the body about chest and hips, and hung. It came loose at once, without any tearing resistance such as I had expected, but manifesting a strong elastic pull upward, as though someone were pulling it with rope. As I dropped back to the ground with it, the upward resistance remained unchanged. Nearly disorganized entirely by this phenomenon, it occurred to me that his belt or some of his clothing was still caught, and I jerk sideways to pull it loose. It did not loosen, but I found myself suddenly out from under the tree, my brother dragging upward from my arms until my toes almost left the ground. And there was obviously no connection between him and the tree, or between him and anything else but myself, for that matter. At this I went weak, my arms relaxed despite my will, and an incredible fact happened. I found the body sliding skyward through my futile grasp. Desperately I caught my hands clasped together about his wrist, this last grip almost lifting me from the earth. His legs and remaining arms streamed fantastically skyward. Through the haze which seemed to be finally drowning my amazed and tortured soul, I knew that my fingers were slipping through one another, and that in another instant my brother would be gone. Gone where? Why and how? There was a sudden shriek and the impact of a frantic body against mine, as Alice, whom I'd quite forgotten, made a skyward-running jump and clasped the arm frantically to her bosom with both her own. With vast relief I loosened my cramped fingers, only to feel her silken garments begin to slide skyward against my cheek. It was more instinct than sense which made me clutch at her legs. God, had I not done that! As it was I held both forms anchored with only a slight pull, waiting dumbly for the next move, quite non-composed by this time, I think. Quick, Jim! she shrieked. Quick, under the tree! I can't hold him long. Very glad indeed to be told what to do, I obeyed. Under her direction we got the body under low limb and wedged up against it, under our feet, both now on the ground, we balanced it with little effort. Feverishly, once more at her initiative, we took off our belts and strapped it firmly, whereupon we collapsed in one another's arms, shuddering beneath it. The blasé reader may consider that we here manifested the characters of sensitive weaklings, but let him undergo the like. The supernatural, or seemingly so, has always had the power to chill the hottest blood. And here was an invisible horror reaching out of the sky for its prey, without any of the ameliorating trite features which would temper an encounter with the alleged phenomena of ghost-land. For a time we sat under that fatal tree, listening to the dreary drench of rain pouring off the leaves, quivering nerve-shaken to the thunder-claps. Lacking one another, we had gone mad. It was the beginning of a mutual dependence in the face of the unprecedented, which was to grow into something greater during the bizarre days to follow. There was no need of words for each of us to know that the other was struggling frantically for a little rational light on the outer catastrophe in which we were entangled. It never once occurred to us that my brother might still be alive, until a long, shuddering groan sounded above us. In combined horror and joy we sprang up. He was twisting weakly in the belts, muttering deliriously. We unfastened him and pulled him to the ground, where I sat on his knees while she pressed down on his shoulders, and so kept him recumbent, both horrified at the insistent lift of his body under us. She kissed him frantically and stroked his cheeks, eye feeling utterly without resource. He grew stronger, muttered wildly, and his eyes opened, staring upward through the tree limbs. He became silent and stiffened, gazing fixedly upward with a horror in his wild blue gaze which chilled our blood. What did he see there? What dire other-world thing dragging him into the depths of space? Shortly his eyes closed and he ceased to mutter. I took his legs under my arms, the storm was clearing now, and we set out for home with gruesomely buoyant steps, the insistent pull remaining steady. Would it increase? We gazed upward with terrified eyes, becoming calmer by degree as conditions remained unchanged. Jim, we can't take him in like this. I stopped. Why not? Oh, because, because, it's too ridiculously awful. I don't know just how to say it. Oh, can't you see it for yourself? In a dim way I saw it. No cultured person cares to be made a center of public interest, unless on grounds of respect. To come walking in in this fashion, buoyed balloon-like by the body of this loved one, and before the members of a frivolous, gaping house-party. Ah, even I could imagine the mingled horror and derision, the hysterics among the women, perhaps. Nor would it stop there. Rumors, and Heaven only knows what distortion such rumors might undergo, having their source in the incredible, would range our social circle like wildfire. And the newspapers, for our families are established and known, know it wouldn't go. I tied Tristan to a style and called up Jack Briggs, our host from a neighboring house, explaining briefly that Tristan had met with an accident, asked him to say nothing, and explained where to bring the machine. In ten minutes he had maneuvered the heavy sedan across the rough wet fields. And then we had another problem on our hands. To let Jack in to what had happened without shocking him into uselessness. It was not until we got him to test Tristan's eerie buoyancy with his own hands that we were able to make him understand the real nature of our problem. And after that his comments remained largely gibberish for some time. However, he was even quicker than we were to see the need for secrecy. He had vivid visions of the political capital which opposing newspapers would make of any such occurrence at his party, and so we arranged a plan. According to which we drove to the back of the house, explained to the curious who rushed out that Tristan had been injured by a stroke of lightning, and rushed the closely wrapped form up to his room, feeling a great relief at having something solid between us and the sky. While Jack went downstairs to dismiss the party as courteously as possible, Alice and I tied my brother to the bed with trunk straps. Whereupon the bed and patient plumped lightly but decisively against the ceiling as soon as we removed our weight. While we gazed upward, open mouthed, Jack returned. His faculties were recovering better than ours, probably because his affections were not so involved, and he gave the answer at once. Ah, hell! he said. Pull the damn bed down and spike it to the floor. This we did. Then we held a short but intense consultation. Whatever else might be the matter, obviously Tristan was suffering severely from shock and, for all we knew, may be from partial electrocution. So we called up Dr. Grossnoff in the nearest town. Grossnoff, after our brief but disingenuous explanation, threw off the bed covers in a business-like way, then straightened up grimly. May I ask, he said, with sarcastic politeness, since when a straight jacket has become first aid for a case of lightning stroke. He was delirious, I stammered. Delirious my eye. He says quiet as a lamb, and you've tied him down so tightly that the straps are cutting right into him. Of all the—the—he stopped, evidently feeling words futile, and before we could make an effective attempt to stop him, whipped out a knife and cut the straps. Tristan's unfortunate body instantly crashed against the ceiling, pushing the lathing and plaster, and remaining half-embedded in the ruins. A low cry of pain arose from Alice. Dr. Grossnoff staggered to a chair and sat down, his eyes fixed on the ceiling with a steady stare, the odd caricature of a man coolly studying an interesting phenomenon. My brother appeared to be aroused by the shock, struggling about in his embedment, and finally sat up—up, down, I mean. Then he stood on the ceiling, and began to walk. His nose had been bruised by the impact, and I noticed with uncomprehending wonder that the blood moved slowly upward over his lip. He saw the window and walked across the ceiling to it upside down. There he pushed the top of the window down and leaned out, gazing up into the sky with some sort of fascination. Instantly he crouched on the ceiling, hiding his eyes, while the house rang with shriek after shriek of mortal terror, speeding the packing of the parting guests. Alice seized my arm, her fingers cutting painfully into the flesh. Jim! she screamed. I see it now, don't you? His gravity's all changed around. He weighs up. He thinks the sky's under him. The human mind is so constructed that merely to name a thing oddly smooths its unwanted outlines to the grasp of the mind. The conception of a simple reversal of my brother's weight, I think, saved us all from the padded cell. That made it so commonplace, such an everyday sort of thing, likely to happen to anybody. The ordinary phenomenon of gravitation is no witt more serious in all truth than that which we are now witnessing, but we are born to it. Dr. Grossnopf recovered in a manner which showed considerable caliber. Well, he grunted. That being the case, we'd best be looking after him. Nervous shock, possible electric shock and electric burns, psychosthenia, that's going to be a long-drawn affair, bruises, maybe a little concussion, and possibly internal injury. That was equivalent to a ten-foot unbroken fall flat on his stomach, and I'll never forgive myself if. Could be that chair. With infinite care and reassuring words, the big doctor with her help pulled my brother down. The latter frantically begging us not to let him fall again. Holding him securely on the bed and trying to reassure him, Grossnopf said, Straps and ropes won't do. His whole weight hangs in them. They'll cut him unmercifully. Take a sheet, tie the corners with ropes, and let him lie in that like a hammock. It took many reassurances as to the strength of this arrangement before Tristan was at comparative's peace. Dr. Grossnopf affected an examination by slacking off the ropes until Tristan lay a couple of feet clear of the bed, then himself lay on the mattress face up, prodding the patient over. The examination concluded he informed us that Tristan's symptoms were simply those of a general physical shock, such as would be expected in the case of a man standing close to the center of an explosion, though from our description of the affair he could not understand how my brother had survived at all. The glimmering of an explanation of this did not come until long afterward. So far as physical condition was concerned, Tristan might expect to recover fully in a matter of weeks. Mentally the doctor was not so sure. The boy had gone through a terrible experience, and one which was still continuing. Might continue no one knew how long. We were, said the doctor, up against a trick played by the great Sphinx nature, and one which, so far as he knew, had never before taken place in the history of all mankind. There is faintly taking shape in my mind, he said, the beginning of a theory as to how it came about. But it is a theory having many ramifications and involving much in several lines of science, with most of which I am but little acquainted. For the present I have no more to say than that if a theory of causation can be worked out, it will be the first step toward cure. But it may be the only step. Don't build hopes. Looking Alice and me over carefully, he gave us each a nerve sedative and departed, leaving us with the feeling that there was a man of considerable wider learning than might be expected of a small town doctor. In point of fact, we learned that this was the case. The specialist has been described as, a man who knows more and more about less and less. In Dr. Groznoff's mind, the less and less outweighed the more and more. Tristan grew stronger physically. Mentally he was intelligent enough to help us and help himself by keeping his mind as much as possible off his condition, sometimes by sheer force of will. Meantime, Dr. Groznoff, realizing that his patient could not be kept forever tied in bed, had assisted me in preparing for his permanent care at home. The device was simple. We had just taken his room, remodeled the ceiling as a floor, and fitted it with furniture upside down. Most of the problems involved in this were fairly simple. The matter of a bath rather stumped us for a while, until we hid up on a shower. The jets came up from under Tristan's feet, from the point of view of his perception. He told us that one of the strangest of all his experiences was to see the wastewater swirl about in the pan over his head, and being sucked up the drain as though drawn by some mysterious magnet. My brother and I shared a flat alone, so there was no servant problem to deal with, but he was going to need care as well as companionship, and I had to earn my living. For Alice it was a case where the voice of the heart chimed with that of necessity, and I was best man at perhaps the weirdest marriage ceremony which ever took place on this earth. Held down in bed with a roped sheet, all betrained signs carefully concealed. Tristan was married to Alice by an unsuspecting dominey who took it all for one of those ordinary, though romantic, sick bed affairs. From the first Tristan felt better and more secure in his special quarters, and was now able to move about quite freely within his limits. Though such were his mental reactions that for his comfort we had to refinish the floor to look like plaster-ceiling, to eliminate as far as possible the upside-down suggestions left in the room, and to keep the windows closely shaded. I soon found that the sight of me, or anyone else, walking upside down to him, was very painful, only in the case of Alice did other considerations remove the unpleasantness. Little by little the accumulation of experience brought to my mind the full and vivid horror of what the poor lad had suffered and was suffering. Why, when he had looked out of that window into the sky, he was looking down into a bottomless abyss from which he was sustained only by the frail plaster and planking under his feet. The whole earth, with its trees and buildings, was suspended over his head, seemingly about to fall at any moment with him into the depths. The sun at noon glared upward from the depths of an inferno, lighting from below the somber earth suspended over head. Thus the warm comfort of the sun, which has cheered the heart of man from time immemorial, now took on an unearthly, unnatural semblance. I learned that he could never quite shake off the feeling that the houses were anchored into the earth, suspended only by the embedment of their foundations in the soil. That trees were suspended from their roots, which groaned with a strain. That soil was held to the bedrock only by its cohesion. He even dreaded lest, during storms, the grip of the muddy soil be loosened, and the fields fall into the blue. It was only when clasped tight in Alice's arms that the horrors wholly left him. All the reasoning we might use on his mind, or that he himself could bring to bear on it, was useless. We found that the sense of up and down is erratically fixed by the balancing apparatus of the body. Meanwhile his psychology was undergoing strange alterations. The more I came to appreciate the actual conditions he was living under, the more apparent it seemed to me that he must have a cast-iron mental stamina to maintain sanity at all. But he not only did that, he began to recover normal strength, and to be irked umbarably by his constant confinement. So it came about that he began to venture a little at time to time from his room, wandering about on the ceiling of the rest of the house. However, he could not yet look out of windows, but sidled up to them with averted face to draw any blinds that were up. As he grew increasingly restless, we all felt more and more that the thing could not continue as it was. Some way out must be found. We had many a talk with Grossnoff, at last inducing him to speak about this still half-formed theory which he had dimly conceived at the first. For many decades, he said, there have been a few who regarded the close analogies between magnetism and gravitational action as symptomatic of a concealed identity between them. Einstein's field theory practically proves it on the mathematical side. Now it is obvious that if gravitation is a form of magnetism, and if so, it belongs to another plane of magnetic forces than that which we know and use, then the objects on a planet must have the opposite polarity from that of the planet itself. Since the globe is itself a magnet, with a positive and negative pole, its attraction power is not that of a magnet on any plane, because then the human race would be divided into two species, each polarized in the opposite to its own pole. When an individual of either race reached the equator, he would become weightless, and when he crossed it would be repelled into space. Lord, I said, there would be a plot for one of your science fiction writers. I can present you with another, said Dr. Grossnoff. How do we know whether another planet would have the opposite sign to our own bodies? Well, I chuckled, they'll find that out soon enough when the first interplanetary expedition tries to land on one of them. Huh! grunted the medico, that'll be the least of their troubles. But you said the polarity couldn't be that of a magnet, then what? Don't you remember the common pith ball of your high school physics days? An accumulation of positive electricity repels an accumulation of the negative. If indeed we can correctly use accumulation for negativity, and it is my idea that the earth is the container of a gigantic accumulation of this meta, or hyper-electricity, which we are postulating, and our bodies contain a charge of the opposite sign. But doctor, the retention of a charge of static electricity by a body in the presence of one of the opposite sign requires insulation of the containing bodies. For instance, lightning is a breaking down of the air insulation between the ground and a cloud. In our case we are constantly in contact with the earth, and the charges would equalize. Please bear in mind, Jim, that we are not talking about electricity as now handled by man, but about some form of it yet hypothetical. We don't know what kind of insulation it would require. We may be constitutionally insulated. And you think the fire-ball broke down that insulation by the shock-de-tristan system? I asked. The logic of the thing was shaping up hazily, but unmistakably. But then, why don't we frequently see people kiting off the earth as the result of explosions? How do you know they haven't? Don't we have plenty of mysterious disappearances as the result of explosions, and particularly, strangely large numbers of missing in a major war? My blood chilled. The world was beginning to seem a pretty awful place. Grosenoff saw my disturbance and placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. I'm afraid, he said smiling, that I rather yielded to the temptation to get a rise out of you. That suggestion might be unpleasantly true under special circumstances. But I particularly have an eye out for the special capacities of that weird and rare phenomenon, the fire-ball. It isn't impossible that the energy of the fire-ball went into the repolarization rather than into a destructive concussion, hence Tristan's escape. You mean its effect is quantitatively different from that of any other explosion? It may be so. It is known to be an electric conglomeration of some kind, but that's all. Meantime circumstances weren't going well with us. The financial burden of Tristan's support, added to the strain of the situation, was becoming overwhelming. Tristan knew this and felt it keenly. This brought him to a momentous decision. He looked down at us from the ceiling one day, with an expression of unusual tenseness, and announced that he was going out permanently and to take part in the world again. I've gotten now so I can bear to look out the windows quite well. It's only a matter of time and practice until I can stand in the open. After all, it isn't any worse than being a steel worker or a steeple-jack. Even if the worst came to the worst, I'd rather be burst open by the frozen vacuum of interstellar space than to splash upon a sidewalk before an admiring populace, and people do that every day. Dr. Grossnoff, who was present, expressed great delight. His patient was coming along well mentally at least. Alice sat down trembling. But good Lord Tristan, I said, what possible occupation could you follow? Oh, I've brooded over that for weeks, and I've come across the Rubicon. I think we're a long way past such petty things as personal pride. Did it ever occur to you that what from one point of view is a monstrous catastrophe, from another is an asset? What in the dickens are you talking about? I asked. I'm talking about the, the—he gulped painfully—the stage. Alice rung her hands crying bitterly. Wonderful! Splendid! Tristan LeUber! The world's unparalleled upside-down man. He doesn't know whether he's on his head or his heels. He's always up in the air about something. But you can't upset him. Boddville to-night. The Bodongo brothers. Brilliant Bernie's balancers. Archik Annie. The Primadonna. Of Seldum. And Tristan LeUber. The balloon man. He uses an anchor for a parachute. And last indeed, the LeUber family will have arrived sensationally in the public eye. There are, Alice raved, two billion people on the earth today, counting three generations per century. There have been about twelve billion of us in the last two hundred years. And out of all those, and all the millions and billions before that, we had to be picked for this loathsome cosmic joke. Just little us, for all that distinction. Why oh why? If our romance had to be spoiled by a tragedy smeared across the billboards of notoriety, why couldn't it have been in some decent human sort of way? Why this ghastly absurdity? From time immemorial, said Grossnoff, there have been men who sought to excite the admiration of their fellows to get themselves worshipped, to dominate, to collect perquisites, by developing some wonderful personal power or another. From Icarus on down, levitation or its equivalent has been a favorite. The ecstatic of medieval times, the Hindu yogis, even the day-dreaming schoolboy, have had visions of floating in air before the astounding multitudes by a mere act of will. The frequency of flying dreams may indicate such a thing as a possibility in nature. Tradition says many have accomplished it. If so, it was by a reversal of polarity through an act of will. Those who did it, yogis, believed in successive lives on earth. If they were right about the one, why not the other? Those one who had developed that power of will carried it to another birth, where it lay dormant in the subconscious until set off and controlled by some special shock. How has paled? Then Tristan might have been. He might. Then again, maybe my brain is addled by this thing. In any case, the moral is, don't monkey with nature. She's particular. Tristan's vaudeville scheme was not as easily realized as said. The first manager to whom we applied was stubbornly skeptical in spite of Tristan's appearance standing upside down in stilts heavily weighted at the ground ends, and even after his resistance was broken down in a manner which left him gasping and a little woozy, began to reason unfavorably in a hard-headed way. Audiences, he explained, were off levitation acts. Too old, no matter what you did they'd lay it to concealed wires and yawn. Even if you called a committee from the audience, the committee itself would merely be sore at not being able to solve the trick, the audience would consider the committee a fake or merely dumb. And all that would take too much time for an act of that kind. Oh, yeah, I know. It's got me going all right. But I can't think like me about this sort of thing. I got to think like the audience does, or go out of business. After which solid but unprofitable lesson in psychology, we dropped the last vestige of pride and tried a circus sideshow, but the results were similar. Nah, the rubes don't wear celluloid collars any more. You can't slip wire tricks over on them. But he can do this in a big topless tent, or even out in an open field, if you like. Nope, steel rods run up the middle of a rope, has been done before. Steel rods on a rope which the people see uncoiled from the ground in front of their eyes? While they'd think of something else then, I'm telling ya, it won't go. Sure, people like to be fooled, but they want to be done right. Yes, I sneered, and a hell of a lot of people have fooled themselves right about this matter, too. He looked at me curiously. Say, have you really got something up your sleeve? You'd be surprised. Thus he grudgingly gave us a chance for a try-out, and he was surprised indeed. But on thinking it over, he decided like the vaudeville man. Listen, Tristan said suddenly, in a voice of desperation. I'll do a parachute-dromp into the sky and land on an airplane. Tristan, shrieked Alice in horror. The circus man nearly lost his cigar, then bid it in two. Say, what the... I'll call that right now. I'll get you the plane and shoot if you'll put up a deposit to cover the cost. If you do that, we'll have the best money in the tents. If you don't, I keep the money. If I don't, said Tristan distinctly, I'll have not the slightest need for the money. But the airplane idea was out. We could think of no way for him to make the landing on such a swiftly moving vehicle. Again, Alice solved it. If you absolutely must break my heart and put me in a sanitarium, she sobbed, get a blimp. Of course, and that's what we did, on the first attempt coming unpleasantly close to doing just that to Alice. The blimp captain was obviously skeptical, and betrayed signs of a peeve at having his machine hired for a hoax, but money was money, and he agreed to obey our instructions meticulously. His tone was perfunctory, however, despite my desperate attempts to impress him with the seriousness of the matter, and that nonchalance of his came near to having dire consequences. The captain was supplied with a sort of boat-hook with instructions to steer his course to reach the parachute ropes as it passed him on its upward flight. And he was seriously warned of the fact that, after the shoot reached two or three thousand feet, its speed would increase because of the rare faction of the air, and in case of a miss, it would become constantly harder to overtake. These directions he received with a scornful half-smile. Obviously, he never expected to see the shoot open. We got all set, the blimp circling overhead, Tristan upside down in his seat suspended skyward, a desperately grim look on his face, and Alice almost in collapse. We were all spared the agony of several hundred feet of unbroken fall. The shoot was open on the ground, and rose at a leisurely speed, but too fast at that for the comfort of any of us. I don't think the wondering crowd, and the dumb founded circus people ever saw a stranger sight than that shoot drifting upward into the blue. We heard nothing of hidden wires, then or ever after. The white circle grew pitifully small and forlorn against the fathomless ashore, and suddenly we noticed that the blimp seemed to be merely drifting with the wind, making no attempt to get under or over Tristan. Our hearts labored painfully, had the engines broken down. Alice buried her face against my sleeve with a moan. I can't look! Tell me! I tried to, in a voice which I vainly tried to make steady. All at once the blimp went into frenzied activity. We learned afterwards that its crew of three, the captain included, had been so completely paralyzed by the reality of the event that they had forgotten what they were there for, until almost too late. Now we heard the high note of its overdriven engines as it rolled and rocked toward the rising shoot. For a moment the white spot showed against its side, then tossed and pitched wildly in the wake of the propellers, as driven to hastily and frenziedly. The ship overshot its mark and the captain missed his grab. I could only squeeze Alice tightly and choke as the aerial objects parted company and the blue gap between them widened. Instantly, avid to retrieve his mistake, the captain swung his craft in a wild careen around and a spiral upward. But he tried to do too many things at a time, make too much altitude and headway both at once. The blimp pitched deeply upward to a standstill, barely moving toward the parachute. Quickly it sloped downward again and gathered speed, nearing the shoot, and then making a desperate zoom upward on its momentum. Mistake number three. He had waited too long before using his elevator, and the shoot fled hopelessly away just ahead of the up-tilted nose of the blimp. I could only moan, and Alice made no sound or movement. Next we saw the blimp's water ballast streaming earthward in the sun, and it was put into a long, steady spiral in pursuit of the parachute, whose speed, or so it seemed to my agonized gaze, was now noticeably on the increase. The altitude seemed appallingly great. The blimp's ceiling, I knew, was only about twenty thousand, and my brother, even if not frozen to death by that time, would be traveling far faster then than any climbing speed the blimp could make. As his fall increased in speed, the climb of the bag decreased. At last, with a quiver of renewed hope, I saw the blimp narrowing down its spirals. It was overtaking. Smaller and smaller grew both objects, but so did the gap between them. At last they merged, the tiny white dot and the little gray minnow. In one long agony I waited to see whether the gap would open out again. Lord of Hosts, the blimp was slanting steeply downward. The parachute had vanished. Then at last I paid some attention to the totally limp form in my arms. And a few minutes later, amid an insane crowd, a pitiful, embarrassed, and nerve-shaking dirgeable navigator was helping me lift my heavily-wrapped, shivering brother from the gondola, while the mechanics turned their attention to the overdriven engines and racked framing. Did I say, helping me lift? Such is the force of habit, but verily a new nomenclature would have to come into being to deal adequately with such a life as my poor brothers. Tristan seized my hand. Jim, he said, through chattering teeth, I'm cured, and of the awful fear. The second time he missed, I just gave up entirely. I didn't care any longer. And then somehow I felt such a sense of peace and freedom. There weren't any upside-down things around to torture me. No sense of insecurity. I just was, in a great blue quiet. It wasn't like falling at all. No awful shock to meet, no sickness or pain, just quietly floating along from here to there, with no particular dividing line between anywhere. The cold heard, of course, but somehow it didn't seem to matter, and was getting better when they caught me. But now I can do things you never even imagined! Thus began my brother's real public career. He had arrived. After that he was able to name his own compensation, and shortly during his tours began to sport a private dirgeable of his own, which he often used for jumps between stands. He told me jokingly that it was very fitting transportation for him, as his hundred and sixty pound lift saved quite a bit of expense for helium. He developed an astonishing set of tricks. After the jump he would arrive on the field suspended above the dirgeable, doing trapeze tricks. After that, in the show tent, he would go through some more of them, with a few hair-raisers of his own invention, one of which consisted of apparently letting go the rope by accident and shooting skyward with a wild shriek, only to be caught at the end of a fine, especially woven piano wire attached to a spring safety belt, the cable being in turn fastened to the end of the rope. Needless to say, Alice was unable to wax enthusiastic about any of these feats, though she loyally accompanied him in his travels. She would sit in the tent gazing at him with horrible fascination, and month by month grew thinner and more strained. Tristan felt her stress deeply, but was making money so fast that we all felt that in a short time, if not able to finance the recovery of a cure, at least he could retire and live a safer life. And he found his ideal haven of rest, in a Pennsylvania coal mine. Thus the project grew in his mind, of buying an abandoned mine and fitting it with comfortable and spacious inverted quarters, environed with fungus gardens, air ferns and the like, plants which could be trained to grow upside down, he emerging only for necessary sunbaths. As time went on, I really grew accustomed to the situation, though seeing less and less of Tristan and Alice. During summers they were on tour, and in winter were quartered in Tristan's coal mine, which had become a reality. One summer day when the circus stopped at a small town where I was taking vacation, I was overjoyed at the opportunity to see them. I timed myself to get there as the afternoon performance was over, but arrived a little early, and went on in to the untopped tent. Tristan waved an inverted greeting at me from his poise on his trapeze, and I watched for a few minutes. There was an odd mood about the crowd that day, largely due to a group of loud mouthed hillbillies from the back country, the sort of which is so ignorant as to live in perpetual fear of getting something slipped over, and so believes everything it is told, looking for something ulterior behind every exterior. Having duly exposed to their own satisfaction the strongman's wooden dumbbells, the snake-charmer's rubber serpents, the fat woman's pillows, and the bearded lady's false whiskers. I don't know what they did about the living skeleton. These fellows were now gaping before Tristan's platform, and growing hostile as their rather inadequate brains failed to cook up any damaging explanation. Yeah! yelled a long neck, flap-eared youth suddenly. He's got an iron bar in that rope. They had come too late to see the parachute drop. Tristan grinned and pulled himself down the rope, which of course fell limp behind him. At this the crowd jeered and booed to the hasty youth, who became so resentfully abusive of Tristan that one of the attendants pushed him out of the tent. As he passed me, I caught fragments of wrathy words. Wished I'd had a. Show him whether it's a fake. Tristan closed his act by dropping full length through the end of his invisible wire, then pulled himself down, got into his stilts, and was unfastening the belt when the manager rushed in with a request that he repeat for the benefit of a special party just arrived on a delayed train. Go on and look at the animals, old man. Tristan called to me. I'll be with you in about half an hour. I strolled out idly, meeting on the way the flap-eared youth, who seemed bent on making his way back into the tent, wearing a mingled air of furtiveness, of triumph, and anticipation. Wondering casually just what kind of fool the lad was planning to make of himself next, I wandered on toward the main entrance, only to be stopped by a appalling uproar behind me. There was a roshus, gurgling shriek of mortal terror, the loud composite, ooh, of a shocked or astonished crowd, a set of fervent curses directed at someone, loud confused babbling, and then a woman's voice raised in a seemingly endless succession of hysterical shrieks. Thinking that an animal had gotten loose, or something of that kind, I wheeled. Unmistakably the racket came from Tristan's own tent. Cold dread clutching at my heart, and with lead on my boozed souls, I rushed frantically back. At the entrance I was held by a mad onrush of humanity for some moments. When I reached the platform, Tristan was not in sight. Then I noticed the long neck-boy sitting on the platform with his face in his hands shrieking. I didn't mean to do it. I didn't mean to. Damn it, don't touch me. I thought sure it was fake. I saw a new, glittering jackknife lying on the platform beside the limp, foot-long stub of Tristan's rope. Slowly, frozenly, I raised my eyes. The blue abyss was traceless of any object. End of Section 8 Section 9 of 20 short science fiction stories by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Circuit Writers by R. C. Fitzpatrick On the board they were just little lights that glowed, but out there in the night of the city jungle they represented human passions, virulent passions, and deadly crimes to be. He was an old man and very drunk. Very drunk or very sick. It was the middle of the day and the day was hot, but the old man had on a suit and a sweater under the suit. He stopped walking and stood still, swaying gently on widespread legs, and tried to focus his eyes. He lived here, around here, somewhere around here. He continued on, stumbling up the street. He finally made it home. He lived on the second floor and dragged himself up the narrow staircase with both hands clutching the railing. But he was still very careful on the paper bag under his arm. The bag was full of beer. Once in the room he managed to take off his coat before he sank down on the bed. He just sat there, vacant and lost and empty, and drank his beer. It was a hot, muggy, August afternoon, Wednesday in Pittsburgh. The broad rivers put moisture in the air, and the high hills kept it there. Light breezes were broken up and diverted by the hills before they could bring more than a breath of relief. In the East Liberty Precinct station the doors and windows were wide open to snare the vagrant breezes. There were eight men in the room, a desk sergeant, two beat cops waiting to go on duty, the audio-controller, and the Angeles operator, two reporters, and a local book, Businessman. From the back of the building, the jail proper, a voice of a prisoner asking for a match floated out to the men in the room, and a few minutes later they heard the slow, exasperated steps of the turnkey as he walked over to give his prisoner a light. At 3.32 p.m. the de-Angeles board came alive as half a dozen lights flashed red, and the needles on the dials below them trembled in the seventies and eighties. Every other light on the board showed varying shades of pink, registering in the sixties. The operator glanced at the board, started to note the times and intensities of two of the dials in his log, scratched them out, then went on with his conversation with the audio-controller. The younger reporter got up and came over to the board. The controller and the operator looked up at him. Nothing, said the operator, shaking his head in a negative. Bad call at the ball-game, probably. He nodded his head towards the lights on the de-Angeles. They'll be gone in five, ten minutes. The controller reached over and turned up the volume on his radio. The radio should not have been there, but as long as everyone did his job and kept the volume low, the captain looked the other way. The set belonged to the precinct. The announcer's voice came on. Being up, he's fuming. Dawg is holding Sarat back. What a beef! Brutog's got his nose not two inches from Frascoli's face. And, brother, is he letting him have it? Oh! Oh! Here comes Gilbert off the mound. He's stalking over. When Gil puts up a holler, you know he thinks it's a good one. Brutog keeps pointing at the foul line. You can see from here the chock's been wiped away. He's insisting the runner slid out of the base path. Frascoli's walking away, but Danny's going right aft. The controller turned the volume down again. The lights on the de-Angeles board kept flickering, but by 3.37 all but two had gone out, one by one. These two showed readings in the high sixties. One flared briefly to 78.2, then went out. Brutog was no longer in the ball game. By 3.41 only one light still glowed, and it was steadily fading. Throughout the long, hot, humid afternoon the board held its reddish irritated overtones, and occasional reading flashed in and out of the seventies. At 4 o'clock the new duty section came on. The de-Angeles operator, whose name was Chuck Maitzic, was replaced by an operator named Charlie Blaney. Nothing to report, Chuck told Charlie. Rhubarb down at the point, at the Forbes municipal field, but that's about all. The new operator scarcely glanced at the mottled board. It was that kind of day. He noted an occasional high in his logbook, but most signals were ignored. At 5.14 he noted a severe reading of 87 which stayed on the board. At 5.16 another light came on, climbed slowly through the sixties, then soared to 77 where it held steady. Neither light was an honest red. Their angry overtones chased each other rapidly. The de-Angeles operator called over to the audio controller, got us a case of crinkle fender, I think. Where? the controller asked. Can't tell yet, Blaney said. A hothead and a citizen with righteous indignation. They're clear enough, but not too sharp. He swiveled in his chair and adjusted knobs before a large circular screen. Pale streaks of light glowed briefly as the sweep passed over them. There were milky dots everywhere. A soft light in the lower left-hand corner of the screen cut an uncertain path across the grid, and two indeterminant splotches in the upper half of the scope flared out to the margin. Morningside, the operator said. The splashes of light separated. One moved quickly off the screen, the other held stationary for several minutes, then contracted and began a steady, jagged advance toward the center of the grid. One inch down, half an inch over, two inches down, then four inches on a diagonal line. Like I said, said Blaney, an accident. Eight minutes later, at 5.32, a slightly pompous and thoroughly outraged young salesman marched through the doors of the station house and over to the desk sergeant. Some clown just hit me, he began. With his fist, asked the sergeant. With his car, said the salesman. My car, with his car. He hit my car with his car. The sergeant raised his hand. Simmer down, young feller. Let me see your driver's license. He reached over the desk for the man's cards with one hand, and with the other he sorted out an accident form. Just give it to me slowly. He started filling out the form. The deangeless operator leaned back in his chair and winked at the controller. I'm a whiz, he said to the young reporter. I'm a phenom. I never miss. The reporter smiled and walked back to his colleague who was playing gin with the book, Businessman. The lights glowed on and off all evening, but only once had they called for action. At 10.34, two sharp readings of 92.2 and 94 even had sent Blaney back to his dials and screen. He narrowed it down to a four block area when the telephone rang to report a fight at the Red Antler Grill. The controller dispatched a beat cop already in the area. Twenty-two minutes later, two very large and very obedient young Tufts stumbled in, followed by an angry officer. In addition to the marks of the fight, both had a lumbering, off-balance walk that showed that the policeman had been prodding them with his riot club. It was called an electronic persuader. It also doubled as a carbine. Police no longer carried side-arms. He pointed to the one on the left. This one hit me. He pointed to the one on the right. This one kicked me. The one on the left was certain he would never hit another cop. The one on the right knew he would never kick another cop. Book him, the sergeant said. He looked at the two youths. You're going to the can. You want to argue? The youths looked down. No one else said anything. The younger reporter came over and took down the information as the cop and the two Tufts gave it to the sergeant. Then he went back to his seat at the card table and took a mini-typer from his pocket. He started sending to the paper. You ought to send that stuff direct, the card player said. I scribble too bad, the reporter answered. Bat-crap, said the older man. That little jewel can transcribe chicken scratches. The cub scrunched over his mini-typer. A few minutes later he looked up at his partner. What's a good word for hoodlum? The other reporter was irritated. He was also losing at gin. What are you, a steinbeck? He laid down his cards. Look, kid, just send it, just the way you get it. That's why they pay rewrite men. We're reporters, we report, okay? He went back to his cards. At eleven forty a light at the end of the second row turned pinkish, but no reading showed on the dial below. It was only one of a dozen bulbs showing red. It was still pinkish when the watch was changed. Blaney was replaced by King. Watch this one, Blaney said to King, indicating an entry in the log. It was numbered 820-83059-78-4A. I've had it on four times now, all in the high seventies. I got a feeling. The number indicated date, estimated area and relation to previous alerts in the month, estimated intent, and frequency of report. The A meant intermittent. The only last three digits would change. If it comes on again, I think I'd lock a circuit on it right away. The rules called for any continuous reading over seventy-five to be contacted and connected after sixth appearance. What about that one? King said, pointing to a seventy point four that was unblinking in its intensity. Some drunk, said Blaney, or a baby with a head cold. Been on there for twenty minutes. You can watch for it if you like. His tone suggested that it to be a waste of time. I'll watch it, said King. His tone suggested he knew how to read the circuit, and if Blaney had any suggestions he could keep them to himself. Joe Millsop finally staggered home, exhausted. He was half drunk and worn out from being on his feet all day, but the liquor had finally done its work. He could think about the incident without flushing hot all over. He was too tired, and too sorry for himself to be angry at anyone. And with his newfound alcoholic objectivity he could see now where he had been in the wrong. Old Bloomgarden shouldn't have chewed him out in front of a customer like that. But what the hell? He shouldn't have sass the customer, even if she was just a dumb broad who didn't know what she wanted. He managed to get undressed before he stumbled into bed. His last coherent thought before he fell into a drug sleep was that he'd better apologize in the morning. 820-18-3059-78-4A State Off The Board At 1.18 a.m., the deangelist flared to a 98.4, then started inching down again. The young reporter sat up, alert, from where he had been dozing. The loud clang of a bell had brought him awake. The older reporter glanced up from his cards and waved him down. Forget it, he said. Some wife just opened the door and saw a lipstick on her husband's neck. Oh, honey, how could you? Fifty dollars! She was crying. Don't, mother. I thought I could make some money, some real money. The youngster looked sick. I had four nines, four nines. How could I figure him for a straight flush? He didn't have a thing showing. How could you? sobbed the mother. Oh, how could you? The book Businessman dealt the cards. The reporter picked his up and arranged them in his hand. He discarded one. The businessman ignored it and drew from the deck. He discarded. The reporter picked up the discard and threw away a card from his hand. The businessman drew from the deck and discarded the same card he drawn. The reporter picked it up, tapped it slowly in place with his elbow, placed his discard face down and spread his hand. Gin, he said. Said the businessman. Damn it! You play good. You play real good. A light on the d'Angeles flashed red and showed a reading of 65.4 on the dial. Can't beat skill, said the reporter. Count. Fifty-six, said the businessman. That's counting Gin, he added. Game, the reporter announced, I'll figure the damage. You play good, said the businessman in disgust. You only say that because it's true, the reporter said. But a sweet of you all the same. Shut up, said the businessman. The reporter looked up concerned. You stuck? He asked solicitously. He seemed sincere. Certainly I'm stuck, the businessman snarled. Then stay stuck, said the reporter in a kindly tone. He patted the businessman on the cheek. The same light on the d'Angeles flashed red. This time the dial registered 82. The operator chuckled and looked over at the gamblers, where the reporter was still adding up the score. How much you down, Bernie? He asked the businessman. Four dollars and ninety-six cents, the reporter answered. You play good, Bernie said again. The d'Angeles went back to normal, and the operator went back to his magazine. The bulb at the end of the second row turned from light pink to a soft rose. The needle on his dial finally flickered on to the scale. There were other lights on the board, but none called for action. It was still just a quiet night in the middle of the week. The room was filthy. It had a natural filth that clings to a cheap room, and a man-made careless filth that would disfigure the Taj Mahal. It wasn't so much that things were dirty. It was more that nothing was clean. Pittsburgh was no longer a smoky city. That problem had been solved before the mills had stopped belching smoke. Now with atomics and filters on every stack in every home, the city was clean. Clean as the works of man could make it, yet still filthy as only the minds of man could achieve. The city might be clean, but there were people who were not, and the room was not. Overhead the ceiling light still burned, casting its harsh glare on the trashy room, and the trashy huddled figure on the bed. He was an old man, lying on the bed fully clothed, even to his shoes. He twisted fretfully in his sleep. The body tried to rise, anticipating nature even when the mind could not. The man gagged several times and finally made it up to a sitting position before the vomit came. He was still asleep, but his reaction was automatic. He grabbed the bottom of his sweater and pulled it out before him to form a bucket of sorts. When he finished being sick he sat still, swaying gently back and forth, and tried to open his eyes. He could not make it. Still asleep, he ducked out of the foul sweater, made an ineffectual dab at his mouth, wadded the sweater in a ball, and threw it over in front of the bathroom door. He fell back on the bed, exhausted, and went on with his fitful sleep. At four-fifteen in the morning a man walked into the station house. His name was Henry Tilton. He was a reporter for the evening press. He waved a greeting to the desk sergeant and went over to Kibbutz the card game. Both players looked up, startled. The reporter, playing cards, said, �Hello, Henry!� he looked at his watch. �Hush! I didn�t realize it was that late!� He turned to the businessman. �Hurry up! Finish the hand. Got to get my beauty sleep. �What do you mean hurry up?� said Bernie. �You�re into me for fifteen bucks.� �Get it back from Hank there�, the reporter said. He nodded at the newcomer. �Want this hand? Your fourteen points down. Loverboys got sixty-eight on game, but you�re a box up.� �Sure� said Tilton. He took the cards. The morning news reporters left. The businessman dealt a new hand. Tilton waited four rounds, then knocked with ten. Bernie slammed down his cards. �You lousy reporters are all alike. I�m going home.� He got up to put on his coat. �I�ll be back about ten. You still be here?� �Sure� said Tilton, with the score. He folded the paper and put it in his pocket. The businessman walked out, and Tilton went over to the DeAngeles board. �Anything� he asked. �Nah� said King. He pointed to the lights. Just Lover�s quarrels tonight, all pink and peaceful. Tilton smiled and ambled back to the cell block. The operator put his feet up on the desk, then frowned and put them down again. He leaned toward the board and studied the light at the end of the second row. The needle registered sixty-six. The operator pursed his lips, then flicked a switch that opened the photo file. Every five minutes an automatic camera photographed the DeAngeles board, developed the film, and filed the picture away in its storage vault. King studied the photographs for quite a while, then pulled his logbook over and made an entry. He wrote, 820-93142-1X. The last three digits meant that he wasn�t sure about the intensity, and the X signified a continuous reading. King turned to the audio controller. �Do me a favor, Gus, but strictly unofficial. Contact everybody around us. Oakland, Squirrel Hill, Point Breeze, Lawrenceville, Bloomfield. Everybody in this end of town. Find out if they�ve got one low-intensity reading. That�s been on for hours. If they haven�t had it since before midnight, I�m not interested.� �Something up?� the controller asked. �Probably not,� said the operator. �I just like to pin this one down as close as I can. On a light like this my screen shows nothing but milk.� �Give you a lift home?� the older reporter asked. �Thanks,� said the cub, shaking his head. �But I live out by the Young Hill Jenny River.� �So� the old man shrugged. �Half-hour flight, hop in.� �I don�t understand,� said the cub. �What? Me offering you a lift.� �No,� said the cub. �Back there in the station house. You know.� �You mean the DeAngelis?� �Not that exactly,� said the cub. �I understand a DeAngelis board. Everybody broadcasts emotions, and if they�re strong enough they can be received and interpreted. It�s the cops I don�t understand. I thought any reading over eighty was dangerous and had to be looked into, and anything over ninety was plain murder and had to be picked up. Here they�ve been ignoring eighties and nineties all night long. �You remember that children�s story you wrote last Christmas about an Irish imp named Shanno Claus?� his companion asked him. �Certainly� the cub said scowling. �I�ll sell it someday.� �You remember the fashion editor killed it because she thought Sian was a girl�s name, and it might be sacrilegious.� �You�re right, I remember.� The cub said, his voice rising. �Like to bet you didn�t register over ninety that day?� �As a matter of fact, I�ll head for the nearest precinct and bet you five you�re over eighty right now.� He laughed aloud, and the young man calmed down. �I had that same idea myself at first, about ninety being against the law. That�s one of the main troubles, the law. Every damn state in the dominion has its own ideas on what is dangerous. The laws are all fouled up. But what most of them boil down to is this. A man has to have a continuous reading of over ninety before he can be arrested. Not arrested, really, detained. Just a reading on the board doesn�t prove a thing. Some people walk around boiling at ninety all their lives, like editors. But the sweet old lady down the block, who�s never sworn in her life, she may hit sixty-five and reach for a knife. And that doesn�t prove a thing. Ninety sometimes means murder, but usually not. Up to a hundred and ten usually means murder, but sometimes not. And anything over one twenty always means murder. And it still doesn�t prove a thing. And then again, a psychotic or a professional gun soul may not register at all. They kill for fun, or for business. They�re not angry at anybody. It�s all up to the DeAngelis operators. They�re the kingpins. They make the system work. Not Simon DeAngelis who invented it, or the technician who installs it, or the police commissioner who takes the results to City Hall. The operators make it or break it. Sure, they have rules to follow, if they want. But a good operator ignores the rules, and a bad operator goes by the book, and he�s still no damn good. It�s just like Radar was sixty-seventy years ago. Some got the knack, some don�t. Then the DeAngelis doesn�t do the job, said the cub. Certainly it does, the older man said. Nothing�s perfect. It gives the police a jump on a lot of crime. Premeditated murder for one. The average citizen can�t kill anyone unless he�s mad enough. And if he�s mad enough, he registers on the DeAngelis. And ordinary robbers get caught. Their plans don�t go just right, or they fight among themselves. Or, if they just don�t like society, a good DeAngelis operator can tell quite a bit if he gets a reading at the wrong time of day or night, or in the wrong part of town. But what about the sweet old lady who registers sixty-five and then goes berserk? That�s where your operator really comes in. Usually that kind of a reading comes too late. Grandma�s swinging the knife at the same time the light goes on in the station house. But if she waits to swing, or builds herself up to it, then she may be stopped. You know those poor operators are supposed to log any reading over sixty, and report downtown with anything over eighty. Sure they are. If they logged everything over sixty, they�d have fritters cramped the first hour they were on watch. And believe me, sonny, any operator who reported downtown on every reading over eighty would be back pounding a beat before the end of his first day. They just do the best they can, and you�d be surprised at how good that can be. The old man woke up, but kept his eyes closed. He was afraid. It was too quiet, and the room was clammy with an early morning chill. He opened his eyelids a crack and looked out the window. Still dark outside. He lay there trembling and brought his elbows in tight to his body. He was going to have the shakes. He knew he�d have the shakes, and it was still too early. Too early. He looked at the clock. It was only a quarter after five. Too early for the bars to be open. He covered his eyes with his hands and tried to think. It was no use. He couldn�t think. He sobbed. He was afraid to move. He knew he had to have a drink, and he knew if he got up he�d be sick. Oh, Lord! he breathed. The trembling became worse. He tried to press it away by hugging his body with his arms. It didn�t help. He looked wildly around and tried to concentrate. He thought about the bureau. No. The dresser. No. His clothes. He felt feverishly about his body. No. Under the bed. No. Wait. Maybe. He had brought some beer home. Now he remembered. Maybe there was some left. He rolled over on his stomach and groped under the bed. His tremulous fingers found the paper bag and he dragged it out. It was full of empty cans. The carton inside was ripped. He tore the sack open. Empty cans. No. There was a full one. Two full ones. He staggered to his feet and looked for an opener. There was one on the bureau. He stumbled over and opened his first beautiful, lovely can of beer. He put his mouth down close to the top so that none of the foam could escape. He�d be all right till seven now. The bars opened at seven. He�d be all right till seven. He did not notice the knife lying beside the opener. He did not own a knife and had no recollection of buying one. It was a hunting knife and he was not a hunter. The light at the end of the second row was growing gradually brighter. The needle traveled slowly across the dial. 68.2. 68.4. 68.6. King called over to the audio controller. They all report in yet? The controller nodded. Squirrel Hills got your signal on. Same reading as you have. Bloomfield thinks they may have it. Oakland�s not too sure. Everybody else is negative. The controller walked over. Which one is it? King pointed to the end of the second row. Can you get it on your screen? Hell yes! I�ve got him on my screen. King swiveled in his chair and turned on the set. The scope was covered with pale dots. Which one is he? There? He pointed to the left. That�s a guy who didn�t get the rays he wanted. There? He pointed to the center. That�s the girl with bad dreams. She has them every night. There? That�s my brother. He�s in the Veterans Hospital and wanted to come home a week ago. So don�t get excited, said the controller. I only asked. I�m sorry, Gus� King apologized. My fault. I�m a little edgy. Probably nothing at all. Well, you got it narrowed down anyway, Gus said. If you�ve got it, and Squirrel Hills got it. Then he�s in shady side. If Oakland doesn�t have him, then he�s on this side of Aiken Avenue. The controller had caught King�s fever. The it had become a him. And if Bloomfield doesn�t have him, then he�s on the other side of Bomb Boulevard. Only Bloomfield might have him. Well, what the hell? You�ve still got him located in the lower half of Shadyside. Tell you what, I�ll send a man up Ellsworth, get Bloomfield to cruise Bomb Boulevard in a scout car, and have Squirrel Hill put a patrol on Wilkins. We can triangulate. No, said King, not yet. Thanks anyway, Gus, but there�s no point in stirring up a tempest in a teapot. Just tell them to watch it. If it climbs over seventy-five, we can narrow it down then. It�s your show, said Gus. The old man finished his second can of beer. The trembling was almost gone. He could stand and move without breaking out in a cold sweat. His hand ran through his hair and looked at the clock, six-fifteen, too early. He looked around the room for something to read. There were magazines and newspapers scattered everywhere. The papers all folded back to the sports section. He picked up a paper, not even bothering about the date, and tried to interest himself in the batting averages of the Intercontinental League. Yamamura was on top, with .387. The old man remembered when Yamamura came up as a rookie. But right now he didn�t care. The page trembled and the type kept blurring. He threw the paper down. He had a headache. The old man got up and went over to the bathroom. He steadied himself against the door-jam and kicked the wadded sweater out of sight beneath the dresser. He went into the bathroom and turned on the water. He ran his hands over his face and thought about shaving, but he couldn�t face the work involved. He managed to run a comb through his hair and rinse out his mouth. He came back into the room. It was .630. Maybe Freddy�s was open. If Freddy wasn�t, then maybe the grill. He�d have to take his chances. He couldn�t stand it here any longer. He put on his coat and stumbled out. At eight o�clock the watch was changed. Maitzik replaced King. �Anything?� asked Maitzik. �Just this one, Chuck� said King. �I may be a fool, but this one bothers me.� King was a diplomat where Blaney was not. King showed him the entry. The dial now stood at 72.8. It�s been on there all night since before I had the watch, and it�s been climbing, just slow and steady. But all the time climbing. I locked a circuit on him, but I�ll take it off if you want me to. �No,� said Maitzik. �Leave it on. That don�t smell right to me, neither.� The old man was feeling better. He�d been in the bar two hours, and he�d had two pickled eggs, and the bartender didn�t bother him. The beer was all right, but a man needed whiskey when he was sick. He�d have one, maybe two more, and then he�d eat some breakfast. He didn�t know why, but he knew he mustn�t get drunk. At nine o�clock the needle on the dial climbed past 75. Maitzik asked for coverage. That meant that two patrolmen would be tied up, doing nothing but searching for an echo. And it might be a wild goose chase. He was complaining to the captain, but the captain wasn�t listening. He was looking at the photographs in the DeAngelis file. �You don�t like this?� the captain asked. Maitzik said he didn�t like it. And King said he didn�t like it. �King thinks the same way I do. He�s been on there too damn long and too damn consistent. �Pick him up� the captain turned and ordered the audio controller. �If we can�t hold him, we can at least get a look at him. �It�s not too clear yet,� said Maitzik. �It�ll take a spread. �I know what it�ll take,� the captain roared. �Don�t tell me my job. Put every available man on this. I want the guy brought in.� The old man walked back to his room. He was carrying a dozen cans of beer, but the load was light and he walked upright. He fell fine, like a million dollars, and he was beginning to remember. When he entered the room he saw the knife and when he saw the knife he smiled. A man had to be smart and a man had to be prepared. They were smart, wicked and smart, but he was smarter. He�d bought the knife a long, long time ago, in a different world. They couldn�t fool him that way. They were clever all right. They fooled the whole world. He put his beer on the bureau, then walked into the bathroom and turned on the water in the tub. He came back out and started to undress. He was humming to himself. When he finished undressing he went over to the bureau and opened a can of beer. He carried it back into the bathroom, put it beside the tub, and lowered himself into the water. Ah, that was the ticket. Water and being clean. Clean and being water. Being water and being candy and being smart. They fooled the whole world, but not him. The whole wide world, but they couldn�t fool him. He was going to fool them. All pretty and innocent. Ha, innocent, he knew. They were rotten. They were rotten all the way through. They fooled the whole world, but they were rotten, rotten, and he was the only one who knew. He finished the beer and stood up in the tub. The water ran off his body in greasy runlets. He didn�t pull the plug. He stepped out of the tub and over to the bathroom mirror. His face looked fine, not puffy at all. He�d fooled them. He sprinkled himself with lilac water, put the bottle to his lips, and switched some of it in his mouth. Oh, yes, he�d fooled them. A man couldn�t be too clever. They were clever, so he had to be clever. He began to shave. The captain was on an audio circuit talking to an assistant commissioner. Yes, sir. I know that. Yes, sir. It could be, but it might be something else. Yes, sir. I know Squirrel Hill has problems, but we need help. Yes. Commissioner, it�s over ninety now. The captain signaled wildly to Maitzik. Maitzik held up for fingers then too. Ninety-four point two and still going up. No, sir. We don�t know. Some guy going to quit his job or kill his boss. Maybe he found out his wife is cheating on him. We can�t tell until we pick him up. Yes, sir. Yes. Thank you, sir. The captain hung up. I hate politicians, he snarled. Watch it, Captain, said Maitzik. I�ll get you on my board. Get me on it, hell, the captain said. I�ve never been off. The old man finished dressing. He nodded his tie and brushed off the front of his suit with his hand. He looked fine. He�d fooled them. He looked just like everybody else. He crossed to the bureau and picked up the knife. It was still in the skybird. He didn�t take it out. He just put it in his pocket. Good, it didn�t show. He walked out on the street. The sun was shining brightly and the heat waves were coming up from the sidewalk. Good, good. This was the best time. People, the real people, would be working or lying down asleep, but they�d be out. They were always out, out all sweet and innocent in the hot sun. He turned down the street and ambled toward the drugstore. He didn�t want to hurry. He had lots of time. He had to get some candy first. That was the ticket, candy. Candy worked. Candy always worked. Candy was good, but candy was wicked. He was good, but they were wicked. Oh, you had to be smart. �That has to be him,� Metsick said. The screen was blotched and milky, but a large splash of the light in the lower left-hand corner outshone everything else. He�s somewhere around Negli Avenue. He turned to the captain. Where do you have your men placed? �In a box,� the captain said. �Fifth and Negli. Akin and Negli. Send her in Akin. And send her in Negli. And three scout cars overhead.� The old man walked up Ellsworth to the Liberty School. There were always lots of young ones around Liberty School. The young ones were the worst. �I�m losing him. Where are you? Send her in Akin. Anybody getting him stronger? �Yeah, me. Negli and Fifth. Never mind. Never mind. We�ve got him. We see him now.� Where? �Bella Fond and Ivy. Liberty School. She was a friendly little thing and pretty. Maybe five, maybe six. And her mommy had told her not to talk to strangers. But the funny old man wasn�t talking. He was sitting on the curb, and he was eating candy, and he was offering some to her. He smiled at the little girl and she smiled back. The scout car settled to earth on automatic. Two officers climbed out of the car and walked quietly over to the old man, one on either side. They took an arm and lifted him gently to his feet. �Hello there, old timer.� �Hi, little girl.� The old man looked around bewildered. He dropped his candy and tried to reach his knife. They musn�t interfere. It was no use. The officers were very kind and gentle, and they were very, very firm. They led him off as though he were an old, old friend. One of the officers called back over his shoulder. �Bye-bye, little girl.� The little girl dutifully waved by. She looked at the paper sack on the sidewalk. She didn�t know what to do, but the nice old man was gone. She looked around, but no one was paying any attention. They were all watching the soft ball game. Suddenly she made a grab and clutched the paper back to her body. Then she turned and ran back up the street to tell her mommy how wonderful, wonderful lucky she was.