 Moment of Truth by Basil Wells This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Betsy Bush, March 2009. Moment of Truth by Basil Wells Basil Wells, who lives in Pennsylvania, has been doing research concerning life in the area during the period prior to and following the War of 1812. Here he turns to a different problem. The adjustment demanded of a pioneer woman. Not in those days, but tomorrow, on Mars. Beyond the false windows she could see the reddish wasteland where dust clouds spun and shifted so slowly. She had been asleep. Now she stretched luxuriously beneath the crisp white sheet that the vapid August heat decreed. From memory to memory her dream-fogged mind drifted, and to the yet to be. It was good to remember, and to imagine, and to see and feel and hear. She smiled. She was Ruth Halsey, fourteen, Brunette, and pretty. Earl and Harry and Bewell had told her she was pretty. Especially Bewell. Bewell was her favorite date now. The room closed around her with its familiar colors and furnishings. Sometimes she would dream that she was elsewhere, unfamiliar, ugly places, but then she would awaken to the four long windows with their coarse beige drapes of monk's cloth, and the fantasies were forever dispelled. Her eyes loved the two paintings, the dark curls of the pink and white doll sitting pristily atop the dresser, and the full-length mirror on the open-closet door. The pictured design of the wallpaper, its background merging with the pastel blue of the slanted ceiling, almost as they had blended together that first day when she was twelve, yet not the same, she corrected her thoughts frowning. Sometimes as today the design seemed faded and changed. The gay little bridges and the flowered impossibly blue trees seemed to change and threaten to vanish. She laughed over at the demurely sitting doll. Essie had been her favorite doll when she was younger. Of course now that she was fourteen she did not play with dolls any more, but it was permissible that she keep her old friend neatly dressed and ever at hand as a confidant. She smiled at the thought. Essie never tattled. It must be from that polio, she told Essie, knowing all the time that she was almost well now, and needed plenty of rest and careful doses of exercise. It makes my eyes funny. Essie smiled back glassily and Ruth laughed. It was good to awaken and see the thick black arms of the maple tree outside the windows. It was good to have the cool green leaves waving at her and see the filtered dapplings of sunshine cross and recross them. She loved that old tree. She had played among its long horizontal branches from childhood. Her brother Alex, who had been killed in the Normandy landing during World War III, had loved the tree too. He had built the railed, shingled-roofed little nest high up in the trees, crouched heart, where Ruth kept some of her extra special notes and jewellery in a book of poems. One of the two paintings on the bedroom walls was of the old tree. The tree dominated the old story-and-a-half White House with the green shutters that was the Halsey's house, her home. Alex had painted that picture as well as the other showing the graceful loop of the river in the roofs of the village of Thayer in the distance. Ruth had been with him as he painted that second picture from the jutting rock ledge five hundred feet above the river. I was just ten then, Essie. She chirped gaily. I remember how afraid I was of the height and how Alex scolded. But Alex was dead now, and all she had to remember of him was the paintings and the photographs that Mother kept in a battered brown leather folder. For a moment the bright sunlight in her beloved maple tree's leaves seemed to dim and the room wavered about her. She wondered about that. She must tell her father or her mother. Perhaps the polio, light touch of it or not, had hurt her eyesight. Glasses. She shuddered at the thought. The room shimmered and blurred, and suddenly broke apart to reform into something. She squinched her eyes shut to the hideous vision, and then opened them the mirrored slit. Nothing had changed. Mother! she cried. Daddy! she cried. What has happened? She heard the door to this hideous travesty of a room opening. Her eyes darted around the shrunken metal-walled shell, even the ceiling curved overhead, and she saw two grotesque dobs taped to the wall that parodied the paintings of her dead brother Alex. The coloring was ugly and the proportions out of line, and it was not canvas, but curling sheets of paper taped and painted to resemble frames. A big man, sandy-haired, and with vertical wrinkles deep between piercing blue eyes came into the room. She shrank into the bed, seeing that the sheet she tugged atot across her breast was ragged and blue. Ruth, he said, a slow smile, making his face almost handsome. You're better. You haven't spoken in weeks. Ruth wanted to giggle, as though they could keep her quiet. Daddy was always shushing her. But who was this big man in his dusty drab coveralls and dropped dust-mask dangling upon his chest? Don't you know me, dear? It's Bewell, your husband. Bewell was fifteen, and only a couple of inches taller than Ruth. Of course, he had sandy hair like this man, but this man was old enough to be Bewell's father. This was crazy, like one of the dreams that always made her unhappy. So—so it was a dream. She felt warmth and release. Why not see what this dream had to offer that might be amusing to remember until Bewell sometime soon? Wouldn't he laugh when he heard she had dreamt about him and been married to him? She saw the strip of shiny metal that masqueraded as her mirror, and where her four long windows with their thick, loose-woven drapes had been, there were only four taped strips of paper with crude pictures of draped windows doved on them. There were even green dobs of paint and black splashes to simulate her beloved maple tree. Ruth, do you feel better now? Please don't smile at me like that. I know you loved the baby, but this Martian atmosphere is tough enough for men. It wasn't your fault. Go ahead and talk, Ruth laughed gaily. This is just another bad dream, and I know it. I'll wake up in a little while and be back in my cool old room. Blast your room in your dreams. The man went across the room in a swift rush and tore down one of the false windows, the painted strip of paper. And beyond, through a dusty oval glass window, Ruth could see a reddish-brown wasteland where dust clouds spun and shifted slowly, and a dusty huddle of what looked like quonset huts or storage sheds of metal. That is reality, Ruth. You must face it. This pretense, this sleazy imitation of your old room is wrong. You're strong enough, and I love you. You can accept the truth. His face changed. All expression sponged from it in an instant as he looked into her eyes, and then it seemed to dissolve into something ugly and yet childish. She saw tears burst through and furrowed the dust on his cheeks. Dear Lord, he cried almost reverently, must this go on forever? Will she ever come back to me? His voice choked off, and he stumbled across the room and out the door. She heard it shut behind him, and she was hunting for Essie, already having forgotten the ill-mannered intruder. There was no Essie, only a mannequin of cloth-stuffed white nylon and lipstick, with black nylon for hair. And then the room shimmered and broke apart and reformed, and she was back in her bed with a sun on the slowly dancing green leaves outside the four long windows. Essie was smiling down at her from the dresser, and the paintings were, as always, soft colors and perfectly drafted. Had she thought there were four windows? How silly of her! The second from the right was a small oval of glass, or rather, a glass-covered picture of desert scene. Odd that she had forgotten about that picture. Oh, well, what did it matter? In a few days she would be well enough again to climb out on the giant limbs and into the tree nest that her brother Alex had built. And the boys would come to see her and take her to the drugstore for sodas and sundaes. Yes, she was sure now. She did like Buell Austin best. End of Moment of Truth by Basil Wells The next logical step. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Bill Russem The next logical step by Ben Bova. Ordinarily, the military at least wants to have the others know the final details of their war plans. But, logically, there would be times. I don't really see where this problem has anything to do with me, the CIA man said. And, frankly, there are a lot of more important things I could be doing. Ford, the physicist, glanced at General Leroy. The general had that quizzical expression on his face. The look that meant he was about to do something decisive. Would you like to see the problem firsthand? The general asked, innocently. The CIA man took a quick look at his wristwatch. Okay, if it doesn't take too long. It's late enough already. It won't take very long, will it, Ford, the general said, getting out of his chair. Not very long, Ford agreed. Only a lifetime. The CIA man grunted, as they went to the doorway and left the general's office. Going down the dark, deserted hallway, their footsteps echoed hollowly. I can't overemphasize the seriousness of the problem General Leroy said to the CIA man. Eight ranking members of the general staff have either resigned their commissions or gone straight to the violent ward after just one session with the computer. The CIA man scowled. Is this area secure? General Leroy's face turned red. This entire building is as secure as any edifice in the free world, mister, and it's empty. We're the only living people inside here at this hour. I'm not taking any chances. Just want to be sure. Perhaps if I explain the computer a little more, Ford said, changing the subject, you'll know what to expect. Good idea, said the man from CIA. We told you that this is the most modern, most complex, and delicate computer in the world. Nothing like it has ever been attempted before. Anywhere. I know that they don't have anything like it, the CIA man agreed. And you also know, I suppose, that it was built to simulate actual war situations. We fight wars in this computer. Wars with missiles and bombs and gas. Real wars, complete now to the tiniest detail. The computer tells us what will actually happen to every missile, every city, every man. Who dies, how many planes are lost, how many trucks will fail to start on a cold morning. Whether a battle is won or lost, General Leroy interrupted. The computer runs these analyses for both sides, so we can see what's happening to them too. The CIA man gestured impatiently. War game simulations aren't new, you've been doing them for years. Yes, but this machine is different, Ford pointed out. It not only gives a much more detailed war game, it's the next logical step in the development of machine simulated war games. He hesitated dramatically. Well, what is it? We've added a variation of the electroencephalograph. The CIA man stopped walking. The electro what? Electroencephalograph, you know. A recording device that reads the electrical patterns of your brain, like the electrocardiograph. Oh, but you see, we've given the EEG a reverse twist. Instead of using a machine that makes a recording of the brain's electrical wave output, we've developed a device that will take the computer's readout tapes and turn them into electrical patterns that are put into your brain. I don't get it. General Leroy took over. You sit at the machine's control console. A helmet is placed over your head. You set the machine in operation. You see the results. Yes, Ford went on. Instead of reading rows of figures from the computer's printout, you actually see the war being fought. Complete visual and auditory hallucinations. You can watch the progress of the battles. And as you change strategy and tactics, you can see the results before your eyes. The idea, originally, was to make it easier for the general staff to visualize strategic situations, General Leroy said. But everyone who's used the machine has either resigned his commission or gone insane, Ford added. The CIA man cocked an eye at Leroy. You've used the computer. Correct. And you have neither resigned nor cracked up. General Leroy nodded. I called you in. Before the CIA man could comment, Ford said, the computer's right inside the doorway. Let's get this over with while the building is still empty. They stepped in. The physicist and the general showed the CIA man through the room filled rows of massive consoles. It's all transistorized and subminiaturized, of course, Ford explained. That's the only way we could build so much detail into the machine and still have it small enough to fit inside a single building. A single building? Oh yes, this is only the control section. Most of this building is taken up by the circuits, the memory banks, and the rest of it. Hmm. They showed him finally to a small desk, studied with control buttons and dials. The single spotlight above the desk lit it brilliantly, in harsh contrast to the semi-darkness of the rest of the room. Since you've never run the computer before, Ford said, General Leroy will do the controlling. You just sit and watch what happens. The general sat in one of the well-padded chairs and donned a grotesque headgear that was connected to the desk by a half-dozen wires. The CIA man took his chair slowly. When they put one of the bulky helmets on him, he looked up at them, squinting a little in the bright light. This isn't going to, well, do me any damage, is it? My goodness, no, Ford said. You mean mentally? No, of course not. You're not on the general staff, so it shouldn't, it won't affect you the way it did the others. Their reaction had nothing to do with the computer, per se. Several civilians have used the computer with no ill effects, General Leroy said. Ford has used it many times. The CIA man nodded, and they closed the transparent visor over his face. He sat there and watched General Leroy press a series of buttons, then turn a dial. Can you hear me? The general's voice came muffled through the helmet. Yes, he said. All right, here we go. You're familiar with Situation 121? That's what we're going to be seeing. Situation 121 was a standard war game. The CIA man was well acquainted with it. He watched the general flip a switch, then sit back and fold his arms over his chest. A row of lights on the desk console began blinking on and off. One, two, three. Down to the end of the row, then back to the beginning again. On and off, on and off. And then, somehow, he could see it. He was poised incredibly somewhere in space, and he could see it all in a funny, blurry, double-sided, dream-like way. He seemed to be seeing several pictures and hearing many voices all at once. It was all mixed up, and yet it made a weird kind of sense. For a panicked instant, he wanted to rip the helmet off his head. It's only an illusion, he told himself, forcing calm on his unwilling nerves. Only an illusion. But it seemed strangely real. He was watching the Gulf of Mexico. He could see Florida off to his right, and the arching coast of the southeastern United States. He could even make out the Rio Grande River. Situation one-to-one started, he remembered, with the discovery of missile-bearing enemy submarines in the Gulf. Even as he watched the whole area, as though perched on a satellite, he could see, underwater in close-up, the menacing shadowy figure of a submarine gliding through the crystal-blue sea. He saw, too, a patrol plane as it spotted the submarine and sent an urgent radio warning. The underwater picture dissolved in a bewildering burst of bubbles. A missile had been launched. Within seconds, another burst. This time, a nuclear depth charge utterly destroyed the submarine. It was confusing. He was every place at once. The details were overpowering, but the total picture was agonizingly clear. Six submarines fired missiles from the Gulf of Mexico. Four were immediately sunk, but too late. New Orleans, St. Louis, and three Air Force bases were obliterated by hydrogen fusion warheads. The CIA man was familiar with the opening stages of the war. The first missile fired at the United States was the signal for whole fleets of missiles and bombers to launch themselves at the enemy. It was confusing to see the world at once. At times, he could not tell if the fireball and mushroom cloud was over Chicago or Shanghai, New York or Novosibirsk, Baltimore or Budapest. It did not make much difference, really. They all got it in the first few hours of the war, as did London and Moscow, Washington and Peking, Detroit and Delhi, and many, many more. The defensive systems on all sides seemed to operate well, except that there were never enough anti-missiles. Defensive systems were expensive compared to attack rockets. It was cheaper to build a deterrent than to defend against it. The missiles flashed up from submarines and railway cars, from underground siloes and stratospheric jets. Secret ones fired off automatically when a certain airbase command post ceased beaming out a restraining radio signal. The defensive systems were simply overloaded, and when the bombs ran out, the missiles carried dust and germs and gas on and on. For six days and six fire-lit nights, launch, boost, coast, re-enter, death. And now it was over, the CIA man thought. The missiles were all gone. The airplanes were exhausted. The nations that had built the weapons no longer existed. By all the rules he knew of, the war should have been ended. Yet the fighting did not end. The machine knew better. There were still many ways to kill an enemy. Time tested ways. There were armies fighting in four continents, armies that had marched over land or splashed ashore from the sea or dropped out of the skies. Incredibly, the war went on. When the tanks ran out of gas and the flamethrowers became useless and even the prosaic artillery pieces had no more rounds to fire, there were still simple guns and even simpler bayonets and swords. The proud armies, the descendants of the Alexanders and Caesars and Temmingens and Wellingtons and Grants and Rommels relived their evolution in reverse. The war went on. Slowly, inevitably, the armies split apart into smaller and smaller units until the tortured countryside that so recently had felt the impact of nuclear war once again knew the tread of bands of armed marauders. The tiny savage groups stranded in alien lands far from the homes and families that they knew to be destroyed carried on a mockery of war, living off the land, fought their own countrymen if the occasion suited to drive the ancient terror of hand-wielded, personal, one-head-at-a-time killing. The CIA man watched the world disintegrate. Death was an individual business now, none the better from no longer being mass-produced. In agonized fascination, he saw the myriad ways in which a man might die. Murder was only one of them. Radiation, disease, toxic guesses that lingered and drifted on the once-innocent winds. And, finally, the most efficient destroyer of them all, starvation. Three billion people, give or take a meaningless hundred million, lived on the planet Earth when the war began. Now, with the tenuous threat of civilization burned away, most of those who were not killed by the fighting itself succumbed inexorably to starvation. Not everyone died, of course. Life went on. Some were lucky. A long darkness settled on the world. Life went on for a few, a pitiful few, a bitter, hateful, suspicious, savage few. Cities became pest holes. Books became fuel. Knowledge died. Civilization was completely gone from the planet Earth. The helmet was lifted slowly off his head. The CIA man found that he was too weak to raise his arms and help. He was shivering and damp with perspiration. Now you see, Ford said quietly, why the military men cracked up when they used the computer. General LaRoy even was pale. How can a man with any conscience at all direct a military operation when he knows that that will be the consequence? The CIA man struck up a cigarette and pulled hard on it. He exhaled sharply. Are all the war games like that every plan? Some are worse, Ford said. We picked an average one for you. Even some of the brush fire games get out of hand and end up like that. So what do you intend to do? Why did you call me in? What can I do? You're with the CIA, the general said. Don't you handle espionage? Yes, but what's that got to do with it? The general looked at him. It seems to me that the next logical step is to make damn certain that they get the plans to this computer and fast. End of the next logical step by Ben Bova. Recording by Bill Russem of TalkingTraffic.org. Pandemic. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Hollis Hanover. Pandemic by J.F. Bone. Generally, human beings don't do totally useless things consistently and widely. So maybe there is something to it. We call it Thurston's disease for two perfectly good reasons, Dr. Walter Kramer said. He discovered it and he was the first to die of it. The doctor fumbled fruitlessly through the pockets of his lab coat. Now where the devil did I put those matches? Are these what you're looking for? The trim blonde and the gray seersucker uniform ass. She picked a small box of wooden safety matches from the littered lab table beside her and handed them to him. Ah, Kramer said. Thanks. Things have a habit of getting lost around here. I could believe that, she said, as she eyed the frenzied disorder around her. Her boss wasn't much better than his laboratory. She decided as she watched him strike a match against the side of the box and apply the flame to the charred bowl of his pipe. His long, dark face became half obscured behind the cloud of bluish smoke as he puffed furiously. He looked like a lean, untidy devil, recently escaped from hell with his thick brows, green eyes, and like black hair highlighted intermittently by the leaping flame of the match. He certainly didn't look like a pathologist. She wondered if she was going to like working with him and shook her head imperceptibly. Possibly, but not probably. It might be difficult being cooped up here with him day after day. Well, she could always quit if things got too tough. At least there was that consolation. He draped his lean body across a lab stool and leaned his elbows on its back. There was a faint smile on his face as he eyed her quizzically. Your newbie said, not just at this lab, but to the institute. She nodded. I am, but how did you know? Thurston's disease. Everyone in the institute knows that name for the plague, but few outsiders do. He smiled sardonically. Virus pneumonic plague. That's a better term for public use. After all, what good does it do to advertise a doctor's stupidity? She eyed him curiously. Demortus? She asked. He nodded. That's about it. We may condemn our own, but we don't like laymen doing it. And besides, Thurston had good intentions. He never dreamed this would happen. The road to hell, so I hear, is paved with good intentions. Undoubtedly, Cramer said dryly. Incidentally, did you apply for this job or were you assigned? I applied. Someone should have warned you I disliked cliches, he said. He paused a moment and eyed her curiously. Just why did you apply? He asked. Why are you imprisoning yourself in a sealed laboratory, but you won't leave as long as you work here? You know, of course, what the conditions are. Unless you resign or are carried out feet first, you will remain here. Have you considered what such an imprisonment means? I considered it, she said. And it doesn't make any difference. I have no ties outside and I thought I could help. I've had training. I was a nurse before I was married. Divorced? Widowed. Cramer nodded. There were plenty of widows and widowers outside. Too many. There wasn't much worse than in the institute where, despite precautions, Thurston's disease took its toll of life. Did they tell you this place is called the Suicide Section? He asked. She nodded. Weren't you frightened of dying? Hardly. Too many people are doing it. Nowadays, he grimaced, looking more satanic than ever. You have a point, he admitted, but it isn't a good one. Young people should be afraid of dying. You're not. I'm not young. I'm 35 and besides, this is my business. I've been looking at death for 11 years. I'm immune. I haven't your experience, she admitted, but I have your attitude. What's your name? Cramer said. Barton? Mary Barton. Hmm. Well, Mary, I can't turn you down. I need you. But I could wish you had taken some other job. I'll survive. He looked at her with faint admiration in his greenish eyes. Perhaps you will, he said. All right, as to your duties, you will be my assistant, which means you'll be a dishwasher, a laboratory technician, secretary, junior pathologist, and coffee maker. I'll help you with all the jobs except the last one. I make lousy coffee. Cramer grinned his teeth a white flash across the darkness of his face. You'll be on call 24 hours a day, underpaid, overworked, and in constant danger until we lick Thurston's virus. You'll be expected to handle the jobs of three people unless I can get more help, and I doubt that I can. People stay away from here in droves. There's no future in it. Mary smiled riley. Literally or figuratively, she asked. He chuckled. He had a nice sense of graveyard humor, he said. It'll help, but don't get careless. Assistants are hard to find. She shook her head. I won't. But I'm not afraid of dying. I don't want to do it, and I have no illusions about the danger. I was briefed quite thoroughly. They wanted you to work upstairs? She nodded. I suppose they need help too. Thurston's disease has riddled the medical profession. Just don't forget that this place can be a death trap. One mistake, and you've had it. Naturally, we take every precaution, but with a virus, no protection is absolute. If you're careless and make errors in procedure sooner or later, one of those submicroscopic protein molecules will get into your system. You're still alive. So I am, Kramer said, but I don't take chances. My predecessor, my secretary, my lab technician, my junior pathologist, and my dishwasher all died of Thurston's disease. He eyed her grimly. Still want the job? He asked. I lost a husband and a three-year-old son, Mary said, with equal grimness. That's why I'm here. I want to destroy the thing that killed my family. I want to do something I want to be useful. He nodded. I think you can be, he said quietly. Mind if I smoke? She asked. I need some defense against that pipe of yours. Now, go ahead. Out here it's all right, but not in the security section. Mary took a package of cigarettes from her pocket, lit one, and blew a cloud of gray smoke to mingle with the blue haze from Kramer's pipe. Comfortable? Kramer asked. She nodded. He looked at his wristwatch. We have half an hour before the roll tube cultures are ready for examination. That should be enough to tell you about the modern pastor and his mutant virus. Since your duties will primarily involve Thurston's disease, you'd better know something about it. He settled himself more comfortably across the lab bench and went on talking in a dry school master's voice. Alan Thurston was an immunologist at Midwestern University Medical School. Like most men in the teaching trade, he also had a research project. If it worked out, he'd be one of the great names in medicine like Jenner, Pasteur, Salk. The result was that he pushed it and wasn't too careful. He wanted to be famous. He's well known now, Mary said, at least within the profession. Quite, Kramer said jointly. He was working with gamma radiations on microorganisms, trying to produce a mutated strain of microcaucas piogenes that would have enhanced anagenic properties. Wait a minute, doctor. It's been four years since I was active in nursing. Translation, please. Kramer chuckled. He was trying to make a vaccine out of a common infectious organism. You may know it better as staphylococcus. As you know, it's a pus former that's made hospital life more dangerous than it should be because it develops resistance to antibiotics. What Thurston wanted to do was to produce a strain that would stimulate resistance in the patient without causing disease. Something that would help patients protect themselves rather than rely upon doubtfully effective antibiotics. That wasn't a bad idea. There was nothing wrong with it. The only trouble was that he wound up with something else entirely. He was like the man who wanted to make a plastic suitable for children's toys and ended up with a new explosive. You see, what Thurston didn't realize was that his cultures were contaminated. He'd secured them from the university clinic and had, so he thought, isolated them. But somehow he'd brought a virus along, probably one of the orphan group or possibly a phage. Orphan? Yes, one that was not a normal inhabitant of human tissues. At any rate, there was a virus and he mutated it rather than bacteria. Actually, it was simple enough, relatively speaking, since a virus is infinitely simpler in structure than a bacterium and hence much easier to modify with ionizing radiation. So he didn't produce the antigen. He produced a disease instead. Naturally, he contracted it and during the period between his infection and death he managed to infect the entire hospital. Before anyone realized what they were dealing with, the disease jumped from the hospital to the college and from the college to the city and from the city to, yes, I know that part of it. It's all over the world now, killing people by the millions. Well, Kramer said, at least it solved the population explosion. He blew a cloud of blue smoke in Mary's direction and it did make Thurston famous. His name won't be quickly forgotten. She coughed. I doubt if it ever will be, she said, but it won't be remembered the way he intended. He looked at her suspiciously. That cough. No, it's not Thurston's disease. It's the pipe. It's rancid. It helps me think, Kramer said. You could try cigarettes or candy, she suggested. I'd rather smoke a pipe. There's cancer of a lip and tongue, she said healthfully. Don't quote Oxner. I don't agree with him. And besides, you smoke cigarettes, which are infinitely worse. Only four or five a day, I don't saturate my system with nicotine. In another generation, Kramer observed, you'd have run through the streets of the city brandishing an axe smashing saloons. You're a lineal descendant of Kerry Nation. He puffed quietly until his head was surrounded by a nimbus of smoke. Stop trying to reform me, he added. You haven't been here long enough. Not even God could do that, according to the reports I've heard. She said, he laughed. I suppose my reputation gets around. It does. You're an opinionated slave driver, a bully and intellectual tyrant and the best pathologist in the center. The last part of that sentence makes up for unflattering honesty of the first, Kramer said. At any rate, once we realized the situation, we went to work to correct it. Institutes like this were established everywhere the disease appeared for the sole purpose of examining, treating, and experimenting with the hope of finding a cure. This section exists for the evaluation of treatment. We check human cases and the primates in the experimental laboratories. It is our duty to find out if anything the boys upstairs try shows any promise. We were a pretty big section once, but Thurston's virus has whittled us down. Right now, there is just you and me, but there's still enough work to keep us busy. The experiments are still going on, and there are still human cases, even though the virus has killed off most of the susceptibles. We've evaluated over a thousand different drugs and treatments in this institute alone. And none of them have worked? No, but that doesn't mean the work's been useless. The research has saved others thousands of man-hours chasing false leads. In this business, negative results are almost as important as positive ones. We may never discover the solution, but our work will keep others from making the same mistakes. I never thought of it that way. People seldom do, but if you realize that this is international, that every worker on Thurston's disease has a niche to fill, the picture will be clearer. We're doing our part inside the plan. Others are too, and there are thousands of labs involved. Somewhere, someone will find the answer. It probably won't be us, but we'll help get the problem solved as quickly as possible. That's the important thing. It's the biggest challenge the race has ever faced. And the most important, it's a question of survival. Kramer's voice was sober. We have to solve this. If Thurston's disease isn't checked, the human race will become extinct. As a result, for the first time in history, all mankind is working together. All? You mean the Communists are too? Of course. What's an ideology if there are no people to follow it? Kramer knocked the ashes out of his pipe, looked at the laboratory clock and shrugged. Ten minutes more, he said, and these tubes will be ready. Keep an eye on that clock and let me know. Meantime, you can straighten up this lab and find out where things are. I'll be in the office checking the progress reports. He turned abruptly away, leaving her standing in the middle of the cluttered laboratory. Now, what am I supposed to do here? Mary wondered aloud. Clean up, he says. Find out where things are, he says. Get acquainted with the place, he says. I could spend a month doing that. She looked at the littered bench, the wall cabinets with sliding doors half open, the jars of reagents sitting on the sink, the drain board on top of the refrigerator and on the floor. The disorder was appalling. How he ever manages to work in here is beyond me. I suppose that I better start somewhere. Perhaps I can get these bottles in some sort of order first. She sighed and moved toward the wall cabinets. Oh, well, she mused. I asked for this. Didn't you hear that buzzer? Kramer asked. Was that for me? Mary said, looking up from a pile of bottles and glass where she was sorting. Partly, it means they've sent us another post-mortar from upstairs. What is it? I don't know. Man or monkey, it makes no difference. Whatever it is, it's thirst and it's a disease. Come along, you might as well see what goes on in our ultra-modern neck-cropsy suite. I'd like to. She put down the bottle she was holding and followed him to a green door at the rear of the laboratory. Inside, Kramer said, you will find a small ante room, a shower and a dressing room, a strip, a shower and put on a clean set of lab coveralls and slippers, which you will find in the dressing room. You will find masks in the wall cabinet beside the lockers. Go through the door beyond the dressing room and wait for me there. I'll give you 10 minutes. We do this both ways, Kramer said as he joined her in the narrow hall beyond the dressing room. We'll reverse the process going out. You certainly carry security to a maximum, she said through the mask that covered the lower part of her face. You haven't seen anything yet, he said as he opened a door in the hall. Note the positive air pressure, he said. Theoretically, nothing can get in here except what we bring with us and we try not to bring anything. He still decided to show her the glassed in cubicle overhanging a bare room dominated by a polished steel postmortem table that glittered in the harsh fluorescent lighting. Above the table, a number of jointed rods and clamps hung from the ceiling. The metal door and series of racks containing instruments and glassware were set into the opposite wall together with the gaping circular orifice of an open autoclave. We work by remote control just like they do at the AEC. See those handlers? He pointed to the control console set into a small stainless steel table standing beside the sheet of glass at the far end of the cubicle. They're connected to those gadgets up there. He indicated the jointed arms hanging over the autopsy table in the room beyond. I could perform a major operation from here and never touch the patient. Using these, I can do anything I could do in person with the difference that there's a quarter inch of glass between me and my work. I have controls that let me use magnifiers and even do micro dissection if necessary. Where's the cadaver, Marianne? Across the room behind that door he said waving at the low sliding metal partition behind the table. It's been prepped, decontaminated and ready to go. What happens when you're through? Watch. Dr. Kramer pressed a button on the console in front of him. A section of flooring slid aside and the table tipped. The cadaver slides off that table and through that hole. Down below is a highly efficient device. Mary shivered. Neat and effective. She said, shakily. After that, the whole room is sprayed with germicide and sterilized with live steam. The instruments go into the autoplave and 30 minutes later we're ready for another post mortem. We use the handlers to put specimens into those jars, he said. Pointing to a row of capped glass jars of assorted sizes on a wall and capped, the jars go onto that carrier beside the table. From here they pass through a decontamination chamber and into the remote control laboratory across the hall where we can run biochemical and histological techniques. Finished slides and mounted specimens then go through another decontamination process to the outside lab. Theoretically, this place is proof against anything. Mary said, obviously impressed. I've never seen anything so elegant. Neither did I until Thurston's disease became a problem, Kramer shrugged as he sat down behind the controls. Watch now, he said as he pressed a button. Let's see what's on the deck, man or monkey. Want to make a bet? I'll give you two to one it's a monkey. She shook her head. The low door slid aside and the steel carriage emerged into the neck proxy room bearing the nude body of a man. The corpse gleamed paladly under the harsh, shadowless glare of the fluorescence in the ceiling as Kramer, using the handlers, rolled it onto the post mortem table and clamped it in place on its back. He pushed another button and the carriage moved back into the wall and the steel door slid shut. He contaminated, he said and sent back upstairs for another body. I'd have lost, he remarked idly. Lately the posts had been running three to one in favor of monkeys. He moved a handler and picked up a heavy scalpel from the instrument rack. There's a certain advantage to this, he said as he moved the handler delicately. These gadgets give a tremendous mechanical advantage. I can cut right through small bones and cartilage without using saw. How nice, Mary said. I expect you enjoy yourself. I couldn't ask for better equipment, he replied noncommittally. With deft motion of the handler he drew the scalpel down across the chest and along the costal margins in the classic inverted Y incision. We'll take a look at the thorax first, he said, as he used the handlers to pry open the rib cage and expose the thoracic viscera. Ah, thought so. See that? He pointed with a small handler that carried a probe. Look at those lungs. He swung a viewer into place so Mary could see better. Look at those abscesses and necrosis. It's Thurston's disease, all right, was secondary bacterial invasion. The grayish solidified masses of tissue looked nothing like the normal pink appearance of healthy lungs. Studded with yellowish spherical eyes, they lay swollen and engorged within the gaping cavity of the chest. You know the pathogenesis of Thurston's disease? Kramer asked. Mary shook her head, her face yellowish-white in the glare of the fluorescence. It begins with a bronchial cough, Kramer said. The virus attacks the bronchioles first, destroys them, and passes into the deeper tissues of the lungs. As with most virus diseases there is a transitory leukopenia, a drop in the number of white blood cells and a rise in temperature of about two or three degrees. As the virus attacks the alveolar structures, the temperature rises and the white blood cell count becomes elevated. The lungs become inflamed and painful. There is a considerable quantity of lymphoid exudate and pleural effusion. Secondary invaders and thus forming bacteria follow the viral destruction of the lung tissue and form abscesses. Breathing becomes progressively more difficult as more lung tissue is destroyed. Hepatization and necrosis inactivate more lung tissue as the bacteria get in their dirty work and finally the patient suffocates. But what if the bacteria are controlled by antibiotics? Then the virus does the job. It produces atlectosis followed by progressive necrosis of lung tissue with gradual liquefaction of the parenchyma. It's slower but just as fatal. This fellow was lucky. He apparently stayed out of here until he was almost dead. Probably he's had the disease for about a week. If he had come in early we could have kept him alive for maybe a month. The end however would have been the same. Mary said faintly you'll get used to it. We get one or two every day. He shrugged. There's nothing here that's interesting. He said as he released the clamps and tilted the table. For what seemed to marry an interminable time the cadaver clung to the polished steel. Then abruptly it slid off the shining surface and disappeared through the square hole in the floor. We'll clean up now. Cramer said as he placed the instruments in the room, closed the door and locked it and pressed three buttons on the console. From jets embedded in the walls a fine spray filled the room with fog. Germicide Cramer said later there'll be steam. That's all for now. Do you want to go? Mary nodded. If you feel a little rocky there's a bottle of scotch in my desk. I'll split a drink with you when we get out of here. Thanks Mary said. I think I could use one. Barton where's the McNeil stain? Cramer's voice came from the lab. I left it on the sink and it's gone. It's with the other blood stains and reagents. Second drawer from the right in the big cabinet. There's a label on the drawer Mary called from the office. If you can wait until I finish filing these papers I'll come in and help you. I wish you would. Cramer's voice was faintly exasperated. Ever since you've organized my lab I can't find anything. You just have a disorderly mind Mary said as she slipped the last paper into its proper folder and closed the file. I'll be with you in a minute. I don't dare lose you Cramer said as Mary came into the lab you've made yourself indispensable. It'd take me six months to undo what you've done in one. Not that I mind he amended but I was used to things the way they were. He looked around the orderly laboratory with a mixture of pride and annoyance. Things are so neat they're almost painful. You look more like a pathologist should. Mary said as she deftly removed the tray of blood slides from in front of him and began to run the stains. It's my job to keep you free to think. Whose brilliant idea is that? Yours? No. The directors. He told me what my duties were when I came here and I think he's right. You should be using your brain rather than fooling around with blood stains and sectioning tissues. But I like to do things like that Cramer protested. It's relaxing. What right have you to relax? Mary said. Outside people are dying by the thousands and you want to relax. Have you looked at the latest mortality reports? No. Mary estimates that nearly two billion people have died since Thurston's disease first appeared in epidemic proportions. That's two out of three and more are dying every day yet you want to relax. I know Cramer said but what can we do about it? We're working but we're getting no results. You might use that brain of yours Mary said bitterly. You're supposed to be a scientist. You have facts. Can't you put them together? I don't know he shrugged. I've been working on this problem longer than you think. I come down here at night. I know I clean up after you. I haven't gotten anywhere. Sure we can isolate the virus and grows nicely on monkey lung cells but that doesn't help. The thing has no apparent antigenicity. It parasitizes but it doesn't trigger any immune reaction. We can kill it but the strength of the germicide is too great for living tissue to tolerate. Some people seem to be immune. Sure they do but why? Don't ask me. I'm not the scientist. Play like one. Cramer growled. Here are the facts. The disease attacks people of all races and ages. So far everyone who has attacked dies. Adult Europeans and Americans are somewhat more resistant than others on a population basis. Somewhere around 60% of them are still alive but it's wiped out better than 80% of some groups. Children get it worse. Right now I doubt if 1% of the children born during the past 10 years are still alive. It's awful, Mary said. It's worse than that. It's extinction. Without kids the race will die out. The children have been rubbed a spore head. Have you any ideas? Children have less resistance, Cramer replied. An adult gets exposed to a number of diseases to which he builds an immunity. Possibly one of these has a cross immunity against Thurston's virus. Then why don't you work on that line? Mary asked. Just what do you think I've been doing? That idea was put out months ago and everyone has been cracking crack at it. There are 24 laboratories working full time on that facet and God knows how many more working part time like we are. I've screened a dozen common diseases including 6 varieties of the common cold virus. All, incidentally, were negative. Well are you going to keep on with it? I have to. Cramer rubbed his eyes. It won't let me sleep. I'm sure we're on the right track. Everything an adult gets gives him resistance or immunity. He shrugged. Tell you what, you run those bloods out and I'll go take another look at the data. He reached into his lab coat and produced a pipe. I'll give it another try. Sometimes I wish you'd read without puffing on that thing, Mary said. Your delicate nose will be the death of me yet, Cramer said. They'll probably look like two pieces of well-tanned leather if I associate with you for another year. Stop complaining. You've gotten me to wear clean lab coats. Be satisfied with a limited victory, Cramer said absently, his eyes staring unseeingly at a row of reagent bottles on the bench. Abruptly he nodded. Fantastic, he muttered. But it's worth a check. He left the room slamming the door to the jury. That man, Mary murmured, he'd drive a saint out of his mind. If I wasn't so fond of him, I'd quit. If anyone told me I'd fall in love with a pathologist, I'd have said they were crazy. I wish, whatever the wish was, it wasn't uttered. Mary gasped and coughed rackingly. Carefully she moved back from the bench, opened a drawer with her thermometer. She put it in her mouth. Then she drew a drop of blood from her forefinger and filled a red and white cell pipette and made a smear of the remainder. She was interrupted by another spasm of coughing. But she waited until the paroxysm passed and went methodically back to her self-appointed task. She had done this many times before. It was routine procedure to check on anything that might be Thurston's disease. A cold, a sore throat, a slight difficulty in breathing all demanded the diagnostic check. It was as much a habit as breathing. This was probably the result of that cold she'd gotten last week. But there was nothing like being sure. Now let's see. Temperature 99.5 degrees. Red cell count 0.5 million. White cell count 0.2500. Leucopenia The differentials showed a virtual absence of polymorphs, lymphocytes, and monocytes. The whole slide didn't have 200. Eosinophils and vasophils weigh up 20% and 15% respectively. A relative rise rather than an absolute one. Leucopenia, no doubt about it. She shrugged. There wasn't much question. She had Thurston's disease. It was the beginning stages, the harsh cough, the slight temperature, the Leucopenia. Pretty soon her white cell count would begin to rise, but it would rise too late. In fact, it was already too late. It's funny, she thought. I'm going to die, but it doesn't frighten me. In fact, the only thing that bothers me is poor Walters going to have a terrible time finding things. But I can't put this place the way it was. I couldn't hope to. She shook her head, slid gingerly off the lab stool, and went to the hall door. She'd better check in at the clinic, she thought. There was bed space in the hospital now. Plenty of it. That hadn't been true a few months ago, but the only ones who were dying now were the newborn and an occasional adult like herself. The epidemic had died out not because of lack of virulence, but because of lack of victims. The city outside, one of the first affected, now had less than 40% of its people left alive. It was a hollow shell of its former cell. People walked its streets and went through the motions of life, but they were not really alive. The vital criteria were as necessary for a race to be successful. Growth, reproduction, irritability, metabolism. Mary smiled wryly. Whoever had authored that Hackney Mnemonic, that life was a grim proposition, never knew how right it was. Particularly when one of the criteria was missing. The race couldn't reproduce. That was the true horror of Thurston's disease. Not how it killed, but who it killed. No children played in the parks and playgrounds. The schools were empty. No babies were pushed in carriages or taken on tours through the supermarkets and shopping carts. No advertisements of motherhood or children or children's things were in the newspapers or magazines. They were forbidden subjects, too dangerously emotional to touch. Laughter and shrill young voices had vanished from the earth by the drab greenness of silence and waiting. Death had laid cold hands upon the hearts of mankind and the survivors were frozen to numbness. It was odd, she thought, how wrong the prophets were. When Thurston's disease broke into the news, there were frightened predictions of the end of civilization. But they had not materialized. There were no mass insurrections, no rioting, organized violence, individual accesses, yes, but nothing of a group nature. What little panic there was at the beginning disappeared once people realized that there was no place to go. And a grim passivity had settled upon the survivors. Civilization did not break down. It endured. The mechanics remained intact. People had to do something even if it was only routine or normal. The stiff upper lip in the face of disaster. It would have been far more odd, Mary decided, if mankind had given way to panic. Humanity had survived other plagues nearly as terrible as this and racial memory is long. The same grim patience of the past was here in the present. Man would somehow survive on. It was inconceivable that mankind would become extinct. The whole vast resources and pooled intelligence of surviving humanity were focused upon Thurston's disease and the disease would yield. Humanity waited with childlike confidence for the miracle that would save it. And the miracle would happen. Mary knew it with a calm certainty as she stood in the cross-corridor at the end of the hall looking down the 30 yards of tile that separated her from the elevator that would carry her up to the clinic and oblivion. It might be too late for her, but not for the race. Nature had tried unaided to destroy man before and had failed. And her unholy alliance with man's genius would also fail. She wondered as she walked down the corridor if others of the second and died felt as she did. She speculated with grim amusement whether Walter Kramer would be as impersonal as he was with the others when he performed the post-mortem on her body. She shivered at the thought of that bear sterile room in the shining table. Death was not a pretty thing, but she could meet it with resignation if not with courage. She had already seen too much of it for it to have any meaning. As she placed a finger on the elevator button. Poor Walter, she sighed. Sometimes it was harder to be among the living. It was good that she didn't let him know how she felt. She had sensed a change in it recently. His friendly impersonality had become merely friendly. It could, with a little encouragement, have developed into something else, but it wouldn't now. She sighed again. His hardness had been a tower of strength, and his bitter gallows humor had furnished a rye relief to grim reality. It had been nice to work with him. She wondered if he would miss her. Her lips curled in a faint smile. He would, if only for the trouble he would have in making chaos out of the order she had created. Why couldn't that elevator hurry? Mary, where are you going? I'm here, and his hand was on her shoulder. Don't touch me. Why not? His voice was curiously different, younger, excited. I have Thurston's disease, she said. He didn't let go. Are you sure? The presumptive tests were positive. Initial stages, she nodded. I had the first coughing attack on her. You were going to that death trap upstairs, he said. Where else can I go? With me, he said, I think I can help you. How? Have you found a cure for the virus? I think so. At least it's a better possibility than the things they're using up there. His voice was urgent, and to think I might never have seen it if you hadn't put me on the trap. Then I'm going to the clinic. I can't risk infecting you. I'm a carrier now. I can kill you, and you're too important to die. You don't know how wrong you are, Kramer said. Let go of me. No, you're coming back. She twisted in his grasp. Let me go, she sobbed, and broke into a fit of coughing worse than before. What I was trying to say, Dr. Kramer said into the silence that followed, is that you have Thurston's disease. You've been a carrier for at least two weeks. If I'm going to get it, you're going away, can't help. And if I'm not, I'm not. Do you come willingly, or shall I knock you unconscious and drag you back? She looked at his face. It was grimmer than she had ever seen it before. Numbly, she let him lead her back to the laboratory. But Walter, I can't. It was 60 in the last 10 hours, she protested. Take it, he said grimly. Then take another, and inhale, deeply. But they make me dizzy. Better dizzy than dead. And by the way, how's your chest? Better. There's no pain now. But the cough is worse. It should be. Why? You've never smoked enough to get cigarette cough, he said. She shook her head dizzily. You're so right, she said. And that's what nearly killed you, he finished triumphantly. Are you sure? I'm certain. Naturally, I can't prove it, yet. But that's just a matter of time. Your response just about clinches it. Take a look at the records. Who gets this disease? Youngsters. With nearly 100% morbidity and 100% mortality. Adults? And again, 100% mortality. What makes the other 50% immune? Your crack about leather lungs started me thinking. So I fed the data cards into the computer and keyed them for smoking versus incidents. And I found that not one heavy smoker had died of Thurston's disease. Light smokers and non-smokers, plenty of them. But not one single nicotine addict. And there were over 10,000 randomized cards in that spot check. And there's the exact reverse of that classic experiment that lung cancer boys used to sell their case. Among certain religious groups which prohibit smoking, there was nearly 100% mortality of all ages. And so I thought since the disease was just starting in you, perhaps I could stop it if I loaded you with tobacco smoke. And it works. You're not certain yet, Mary said. I might not have had the disease. You had the symptoms and there's virus in your sputum. Yes, but but nothing. I've passed the word and the boys in the other labs figure there's merit in it. We're going to call it Barton's therapy in your honor. It's going to cause a minor social revolution. A lot of laws are going to have to be rewritten. I can see where it's going to be illegal for children not to smoke. Funny, isn't it? I've contacted the maternity ward. Every baby's still alive upstairs. We get all the newborn in this town, or didn't you know? Funny, isn't it? How we still try to reproduce. They're rigging a smoke chamber for the kids. The head nurse is screaming like a wounded tiger but she'll feel better with live babies to care for. The only bad thing I can see is that it may cut down on her chain smoking. She's been worried a lot about infant mortality. And speaking of nurseries, that reminds me, I wanted to ask you something. Yes? Will you marry me? I've wanted to ask you before but I didn't dare. Now I think you owe me something. Your life. And I'd like to take care of it from now on. Of course I will, Mary said. And I have reasons too. If I marry you, you can't possibly do that silly thing you plan. What thing? Naming the treatment Barton's. It'll have to be Kramer's. The End. End of Pandemic by Jesse Franklin Bone. The Perfectionists by Arnold Castle This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Read by Betsy Bush March 2009 The Perfectionists by Arnold Castle Is there something wrong with you? Do you fail to fit in with your group? Nervous, anxious, ill at ease? Happy about it? Lucky you! Frank Pembroke sat behind the desk of his shabby little office over Lamarck's liquors in downtown Los Angeles and waited for his first customer. He had been in business for a week and as yet, had had been in business for years. Therefore, it was with a mingled sense of excitement and satisfaction that he greeted the tall, dark, smooth-faced figure that came up the stairs and into the office shortly before noon. Good day, sir! said Pembroke with an amiable smile. I see my advertisement has interested you. Please stand in that corner for just a moment. Opening the desk drawer, which was almost empty, lived in automatic pistol fitted with a silencer. Pointing it at the amazed customer, he fired four 22-caliber longs into the narrow chest. Then he made a telephone call and sat down to wait. He wondered how long it would be before his next client would arrive. The series of events leading up to Pembroke's present occupation had commenced on a dismal overcast evening in the South Pacific a year earlier. Bound for Sydney, two days out of El Prezzo, the Colombian tramp steamer, Elina Mia, had encountered a dense greenish fog which seemed vaguely redolent of citrus trees. Standing on the forward deck, Pembroke was one of the first to perceive the peculiar odor and to spot the immense gray hulk wallowing in the murky distance. Then the explosion had come. From far below the waterline and the decks were awash with frantic crewmen, officers, and the handful of passengers. Only two lifeboats were launched before the Elina Mia went down. Pembroke was in the second. The roar of the sinking ship was the last thing he heard for some time. Pembroke came as close to being a professional adventurer as one can in these days of regimented travel, organized peril, and political restriction. He had made for himself a substantial fortune through speculation in a great variety of properties, real and otherwise. Life had given him much and demanded little, which was perhaps the reason for his restiveness. Loyalty to person or to people was a trait Pembroke had never recognized in himself, nor had it ever been expected of him. And yet he greatly envied those staunch patriots and lovers who could find it in themselves and elevate the glory and safety of others above that of themselves. Lacking such loyalties, Pembroke adapted quickly to the situation in which he found himself when he regained consciousness. He awoke in a small room in what appeared to be a typical modern American hotel. The wallet in his pocket contained exactly what it should, approximately three hundred dollars. His next thought was of food. He left the room and descended the elevator to the restaurant. Here he observed that it was early afternoon. Ordering a full dinner, for he was unusually hungry, he began to study the others in the restaurant. Many of the faces seemed familiar, the crew of the ship probably. He also recognized several of the passengers. However, he made no attempt to speak to them. After his meal he bought a good corona and went for a walk. His situation could have been any small western American seacoast city. He heard the hiss of the ocean in the direction the afternoon sun was taking. In his full gated walk he was soon approaching the beach. On the sand he saw a number of sunbathers. One in particular, an attractive woman of about thirty, tossed back her long chestnut locks and gazed up intently at Pembroke as he passed. Pembroke was so ingenuous and invitation, he halted and stared down at her for a few moments. Are you looking for someone? She inquired. Much of the time, said the man, could it be me? It could be. Yet you seem unsure, she said. Pembroke smiled uneasily. There was something not entirely normal about her conversation, though the rest of her compensated her. Tell me what's wrong with me? She went on urgently. I'm not good enough, am I? I mean, there's something wrong with the way I look or act, isn't there? Please help me, please. You're not casual enough for one thing, said Pembroke, deciding to play along with her for the moment. You're too tense. Also, you're a bit knock-kneed. Not that it matters. Yes, yes. I mean, I suppose so. I can try to be more casual, but I don't know what to do about my knees, she said wistfully, staring across at the smooth tan limbs. Do you think I'm OK otherwise? I mean, as a whole I'm not so bad, am I? Oh, please tell me. How about talking it over at supper tonight, Pembroke proposed? Maybe with less distraction I'll have a better picture of you as a whole. Oh, that's very generous of you, the woman told him. She scribbled a name and an address on a small piece of paper and handed it to him. Any time after six, she said. Pembroke left at the beach and walked through several small specialty shops. He tried to get the woman off his mind, but the oddness of her conversation continued to bother him. She was right about being different, but it was her concern about being different that made her so. How to explain that to her? Then he saw the weird little glass statuette among the usual bric-a-brac. It rather resembled a groundhog, had seven fingers on each of its six limbs and smiled up at him as he stared. Can I help you, sir? A middle-aged saleswoman inquired. Oh, good heavens, what is that thing doing here? Pembroke watched with lifted eyebrows as the clerk whisked the bizarre statuette underneath the counter. What the hell was that? Pembroke demanded. Oh, you know, or don't you? Oh, my! she concluded. Are you one of the strangers? And if I were? Well, I'd certainly appreciated if you'd tell me how I walked. She came around in front of the counter and strutted back and forth a few times. They'd tell me I leaned too far forward, she confided. But I should think you'd fall down if you didn't. Don't try to go so fast and you won't fall down, suggested Pembroke. You're in too much of a hurry. Also, those fake flowers on your blouse make you look frumpy. Well, I'm supposed to look frumpy, the woman retorted. That's the type of person I am. But you can look frumpy and still walk natural, can't you? Everyone says you can. Well, they've got a point, said Pembroke. Incidentally, just where are we anyway? What city is this? Puerto Pacifico, she told him. Isn't that a lovely name? It means peaceful port in Spanish. That was fine. At least he now knew where he was. But as he left the shop he began checking off every West Coast state, city, town, and inlet. None to the best of his knowledge was called Puerto Pacifico. He headed for the nearest service station and asked for a map. The attendant gave him one which showed the city, but nothing beyond. Which way is it to San Francisco? Pembroke? That all depends on where you are, the boy returned. OK, then where am I? Pardon me, there is a customer, the boy said. This is Puerto Pacifico. Pembroke watched him hurry off to service a car with a sense of having been given the run-around. To his surprise the boy came back a few minutes later after servicing the automobile. Say, I've just figured out where you are, the youngster told him. I'd sure appreciate it if you'd give me a little help on my lingo. Also, you gas up the car first, then try to sell him the oil, right? Right, said Pembroke wearily. What's wrong with your lingo, other than the fact that it's not colloquial enough? Not enough slang, huh? Well, I guess I'll have to concentrate on that. How about the smile? Perfect, Pembroke told him. Yeah? Said the boy delightedly. Say, come back again, huh? I sure appreciate the help. Keep the map. Thanks. One more thing, Pembroke said. What's over that way, outside the city? Sand. How about that way? He asked, pointing north, and that way, pointing south. More of the same. Any railroads? That, we ain't got. Buses, airlines? The kid shook his head. Some city. Yeah, it's kind of isolated. A lot of ships dock here, though. All cargo ships, I'll bet. No passengers. Said Pembroke. Right, said the attendant, giving with his perfect smile. No getting out of here, is there? That's for sure. That's for sure, the boy said, walking away to wait on another customer. If you don't like the place, you've had it. Pembroke returned to the hotel. Going to the bar, he recognized one of the El Anamiya's paying passengers. He was a short, rectangular little man in his fifties, named Spencer. He sat in a booth with three young women, all lovely, all effusive. The topic of the conversation turned out to be precisely what Pembroke had predicted. Well, Louisa, I'd say your only fault is the way you keep wiggling your shoulders up and down. Why don't you try holding them straight? I thought it made me look sexy, the redhead said, petulently. Just be yourself, gal. Spencer drawled, jabbing her intimately with a fat elbow, and you'll qualify. Me, me! The blind with a feather cut was insisting, what is wrong with me? You're perfect, sweetheart, he told her, taking her hand. Ah, come on! She pleaded. Everyone tells me I chew gum with my mouth open. Don't you hate that? No, that's part of your charm, Spencer assured her. How about me, sugar? Asked the girl with the coal-black hair. Ah, you're perfect, too. You're perfect, too. Ah, you're perfect, too. You are all perfect. I've never seen such a collection of dolls as parade around this here city. Come on, kids, how about another round? But the dolls had apparently lost interest in him. They got up one by one and walked out of the bar. Pembroke took his romantonic and moved over to Spencer's booth. OK, if I join you. Sure, said the fat man. Wonder what the hell got into those babes. You said they were perfect. They know they're not. You've got to be rough with them in this town, said Pembroke. That's all they want from us. Mr., you've been doing some thinking, I can see, said Spencer, peering at him suspiciously. Maybe you've figured out where we are. Your bet's as good as mine, said Pembroke. It's not Wellington and it's not Brisbane and it's not Long Beach and it's not Tahiti. There are a lot of places it's not. But where the hell it is, you tell me. And by the way, he added, I hope you like it in Porto Pacifico because there isn't any place to go from here and there isn't any way to get there if there were. Pardon me, gentlemen, but I'm Joe Valencia, manager of the hotel. I would be very grateful if you would give me a few minutes of honest criticism. Ah, no, not you too, groaned Spencer. Look, Joe, what's the gag? You are newcomers, Mr. Spencer. Valencia explained. You are, therefore, in an excellent position to point out our faults as you see them. Well, so what? demanded Spencer. I've got more important things to do than to worry about your troubles. You look okay to me. Mr. Valencia, said Pembroke, I've noticed that you walk with a very slight limp. If you had a bad leg, I should think you would do better to develop a more pronounced limp. Otherwise you may appear to be self-conscious about it. Spencer opened his mouth to protest, but saw with amazement that it was exactly this that Valencia was seeking. Pembroke was amused at his companion's reaction but observed that Spencer would not be able to speak. Also, there is a certain effeminiteness in the way in which you speak, said Pembroke. Try to be a little more direct, a little more brusque. Speak in a monotone. It will make you more acceptable. Thank you very much, said the manager. There is much food for thought in what you have said, Mr. Pembroke. However, Mr. Spencer, your value has failed to prove itself. Cooperation is all we require of you. Valencia left. Spencer ordered another martini. Neither he nor Pembroke spoke for several minutes. Somebody's crazy around here. The fat men muttered after a few minutes. Is it me, Frank? No, you just don't belong here in this particular place, said Pembroke thoughtfully. You're the wrong type, but they couldn't know that ahead of time. They operate. It's a pretty hit or miss operation. But they don't care one bit about us, Spencer. Consider the men who went down with the ship. That was just part of the game. What the hell are you saying? Asked Spencer in disbelief. You figured they sunk the ship? Valencia and the waitress and three babes? Ah, come on. It's what you think that will determine what you do, Spencer. I suggest you change your attitude. Play along with them for a few days till the picture becomes a little clearer to you. We'll talk about it again then. Pembroke rose and started out of the bar. A policeman entered and walked directly to Spencer's table, loitering at the jukebox. Pembroke overheard the conversation. You, Spencer? That's right, said the fat men sullenly. What don't you like about me? The truth, buddy. Ah, hell. Nothing's wrong with you at all. And nothing'll make me say there is, said Spencer. You're the guy all right. Too bad, Mac, said the cop. Pembroke heard the shots as he strolled casually out into the brightness of the hotel lobby. While he waited for the elevator, he saw them carrying the body into the street. How many others, he wondered, had gone out on their backs during their first day in Porto Pacifico. Pembroke shaved, showered, and put on his new suit and shirt he had bought. Then he took Mary Ann, the woman he had met on the beach, out to dinner. She would look magnificent, even when fully clothed, he decided, and the pale chartreuse gown she wore hardly placed her in that category. Her conversation seemed considerably more normal after the other denizens of Porto Pacifico Pembroke had listened to that afternoon. After eating they danced for an hour, had a few more drinks, then went to Pembroke's room. He still knew nothing about her and had almost exhausted his critical capabilities, but not once had she become annoyed with him. She seemed to devour every factual point of imperfection about herself that Pembroke brought to her attention. And fantastically enough she actually appeared to have overcome every little imperfection he had been able to communicate to her. It was in the privacy of his room that Pembroke became aware of just how perfect physically Mary Ann was. Too perfect. No freckles or moles anywhere on the visible surface of her brown skin, which was more than a mere sampling. Furthermore, her face and body were meticulously symmetrical and she seemed to be wholly amadextrous. With so many beautiful women in Porto Pacifico, said Pembroke probingly, I find it hard to understand why there are so few children. Yes, children are decorative, aren't they? said Mary Ann. I do wish there were more of them. Why not have a couple of your own? he asked. Oh, they're only given to maternal types. I'd never get one. Anyway, I won't ever marry, she said. I'm the paramour type. It was obvious that the liquor had been having some effect. Either that or she had a basic flaw of loquacity that no one else had discovered. Pembroke decided he would have to cover his tracks carefully. What type am I? he asked. Silly, you're real. You're not a type at all. Mary Ann, I love you very much. Pembroke murmured, gambling everything on this one throw. When you go to Earth, I'll miss you terribly. Oh, but you'll be dead by then, she pouted. So I mustn't fall in love with you. I don't want to be miserable. If I pretended I was one of you, if I left on the both with you, they'd let me go to Earth with you, wouldn't they? Oh, yes, I'm sure they would. Mary Ann, you have two other flaws I feel I should mention. Yes, please tell me. In the first place said Pembroke, you should be willing to fall in love with me even if I will eventually make you unhappy. How can you be the Paramore type if you refuse to fall in love foolishly? And when you have fallen in love, you should be very loyal. I'll try, she said unsurely. What else? The other thing is that as my mistress, you must never mention me to anyone. It would place me in great danger. I'll never tell anyone anything about you, she promised. Now try to love me. Pembroke said, drawing her into his arms and kissing with little pleasure the smooth warm perfection of her tanned cheeks. Love me, my sweet, beautiful, affectionate Mary Ann, my Paramore. Making love to Mary Ann was something short of ecstasy. Not for any obvious reason, but because of subtle little factors that make a woman a woman. Mary Ann had no pulse. Mary Ann did not perspire. Mary Ann did not fatigue gradually but all at once. Mary Ann breathed regularly under all circumstances. Mary Ann talked and talked and talked. But then Mary Ann was not human being. When she left the hotel at midnight, Pembroke was quite sure that she understood his plan and that she was irrevocably in love with him. Tomorrow might bring his death, but it might also ensure his escape. After forty-two years of searching for a passion, for a cause, for a loyalty, Frank Pembroke had at last found his earth and the human race that peopled it. And Mary Ann would help him to save it. The next morning Pembroke talked to Valencia about hunting. He said that he planned to go shooting out on the desert which surrounded the city. Valencia told him that there were no living creatures anywhere but in the city. Pembroke said he was going out anyway. He picked up Mary Ann at her apartment and together they went to a sporting goods store. As he guessed there was a goodly selection of firearms despite the fact that there was nothing to hunt for a single target range within the city. Everything, of course, had to be just like earth. That, after all, was the purpose of Porto Pacifico. By noon they had rented a jeep and were well away from the city. Pembroke and Mary Ann took turns firing at the paper targets they had purchased. At twilight they headed back to the city. On the outskirts where the sand and soil were mixed and no footprints would be left Pembroke hopped off. Mary Ann would go straight to the police and report that Pembroke had attacked her and that she had shot him. If necessary she would conduct the authorities to the place where they had been target shooting but would be unable to locate the spot where she had buried the body. Why had she buried it? Because at first she was not going to report the incident. She was frightened. It was not airtight and there would possibly be no further investigation and they certainly would not prosecute Mary Ann for killing an earthman. Now Pembroke had himself to worry about. The first step was to enter smoothly into the new life he had planned. It wouldn't be so comfortable as the previous one but should be considerably safer. He headed slowly for the old part of town aging his clothes against buildings and fences as he walked. He had already torn the collar of the shirt and discarded his belt. By morning his beard would grow to black in his face and he would look weary and hungry and aimless. Only the last would be a deception. Two weeks later Pembroke phoned Mary Ann. The police had accepted her story without even checking and when, when would she be seeing him again? He had aroused her passion and no amount of long-distance love would requite it. Soon he assured her. Soon. Because, after all, you do owe me something," she added and that was bad because it sounded as if she had been giving some womanly thought to the situation. A little more of that and she might go to the police again this time for vengeance. Twice during his wanderings Pembroke had seen the corpses of earthmen being carted out of buildings. They had to be earthmen because they bled. Mary Ann had admitted that she did not. There would be very few earthmen left in Porto Pacifico and it would be simple enough to locate him if he were reported as being on the loose. There was no out but to do away with Mary Ann. Pembroke headed for the beach. He knew she invariably went there in the afternoon. He lured her to round the stalls where hot dogs and soft drinks were sold, leaning against a post in the hot sun, hat pulled down over his forehead. Then he noticed that people all about him were talking excitedly. They were discussing a ship. It was leaving that afternoon. Anyone who could pass the interview would be sent to earth. Pembroke had visited the docks every day without being able to learn when the great exodus would take place. Yet he was certain the first lap would be by water rather than by spaceship since no one he had talked to in the city had ever heard of spaceships. In fact, they knew very little about their masters. Now the ship had arrived and was to leave shortly. If there was any but the most superficial examination, Pembroke would no doubt be discovered and exterminated. But since no one seemed concerned about anything but his own speech and behavior, he assumed that they had all qualified in every other respect. The reason for transporting earth people to this planet was, of course, to apply a corrective to any of the Pacifico's aberrant mannerisms or articulation. This was the polishing up phase. Pembroke began hobbling toward the docks. Almost at once he found himself face-to-face with Marianne. She smiled happily when she recognized him. That was a good thing. It is a sign of poor breeding to smile at tramps. Pembroke admonished her in a whisper. Walk on ahead. She obeyed. He followed. The crowd grew thicker. They neared to the docks and Pembroke saw that there were now set up on the roped off wharves small interviewing booths. When it was their turn, he and Marianne each went into separate ones. Pembroke found himself alone in the little room. Then he saw that there was another entity in his presence confined beneath the glass dome. It looked rather like a groundhog and had seven fingers on each of its six limbs. But it was larger and hairier than the glass one he had seen at the gift store. With four of its limbs, it tapped on an intricate keyboard in front of it. What is your name? Inquired a metallic voice from a speaker on the wall. I'm Jerry Newton. Got no middle name. Pembroke said in a surly voice. Occupation. I work a lot of trades. Fishermen. Fruit picker. Fightin' range fires. Vineyards. Car washer. Anything. You name it. Been out of work for a long time now, though. Going on five months. These here are hard times, no matter what they say. What do you think of the Chinese situation? The voice inquired. Which situation's that? Where's Seattle? Seattle. State of Washington. And so it went for about five minutes. Then he was told he was qualified as a satisfactory surrogate for a mid-20th century American male, a tenorant type. You understand your mission, Newton? The voice asked. You are to establish yourself on Earth. In time you will receive instructions. Then you will attack. You will not see us, your masters, again until the atmosphere has been sufficiently chlorinated. In the meantime, serve us well. He stumbled out toward the docks, then looked about for Marianne. He saw her at last behind the ropes, her lovely face in tears. Then she saw him, waving frantically. She called his name several times. Pembroke mingled with a crowd moving toward the ship, ignoring her. But still the woman persisted in her shouting. Sightling up to a well-dressed man about town-type, Pembroke winked at him and snickered. You Frank, he asked. Hell no! But some poor punks sure read in the face I'll bet. The man about town said with a chuckle, those high-strung paramour types always raising a ruckus. They never do pass the interview. Don't know why they even make them. Suddenly Marianne was quiet. Ambulance squad, Pembroke's companion explained. They'll take her off to the buggy-house for a few days and bring her out fresh and ignorant of the day she was assembled. Don't know why they keep making them, as I say. But I guess there's call for that type up there on earth. Yeah, I reckon there is at that, said Pembroke, snickering as he moved away from the other. And why not? Hey, why not? Pembroke went right on hating himself, however, till the night he was deposited in a field outside of Ensenada, broke but happy, with two other itinerant types. They separated in San Diego, and it was not long before Pembroke was explaining to the police how he had drifted far from the scene of the sinking of the Elinomia on a piece of wreckage, and he was picked up by a Chilean trawler, how he had then made his way with much suffering up the coast to California. Two days later, his identity established and his circumstances again solvent, he was headed for Los Angeles to begin his Save Earth campaign. Now seated at his battered desk in the shabby rented office over Lamarck's liquors, Pembroke gazed without emotion at the two demolished pacificos that laid sprawled one atop the other in the corner. His watch said 115. The man from the FBI should arrive soon. There were footsteps on the stairs for the third time that day, not the brisk, efficient steps of a federal official, but the hesitant, self-conscious steps of a junior clerk type. Pembroke rose as the young man appeared at the door. His face was smooth, unpimpled, clean-shaven, without sweat on a warm summer afternoon. Are you Dr. Von Schubert, the newcomer asked, peering into the room? You see, I've got a problem. The four shots from Pembroke's pistol solved his problem effectively. Pembroke tossed his third victim onto the pile, then opened a can of lager, quaffing it appreciatively. Seating himself once more, he leaned back in the chair, both feet upon the desk. He would be out of business soon, once the FBI agent had got there. Pembroke was only in it to get the proof he would need to convince people of the truth of his tale. But in the meantime, he allowed himself to admire the clipping of the newspaper ad he had run in all the Los Angeles papers for the past week. The little ad that had saved mankind from God knew what insidious menace. It read, Are you imperfect? Let Dr. Von Schubert point out your flaws. It is his goal to make you the average for your type. Fee three dollars and seventy-five cents. Money back if not satisfied. End of The Perfectionists by Arnold Castle. Reluctant Genius by Henry Slesar. 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. Reluctant Genius by Henry Slesar. It is said that life crawled up from the slime of the sea-bottoms and became man because of inherent greatness bred into him before the dawn of time. But perhaps this urge was not as formless as we think. Wose was chastising LaLoy as they sped through the ionosphere of the green planet. But like the airy creature she was, LaLoy ignored the criticism and rippled Zephyr-like through a clump of daffodils when they completed their descent. So pretty, she sighed. She flung her incorporeal substance around each flower, absorbing their unified beauty of scent, sight, and feel. Wose shrilled himself into a column of wind and expressed his displeasure at her attitude. Stupid, silly, shallow thing, he said, if the others only knew how you behaved. And you'll be glad to tell them, of course, she said, extending her fingers of air into the roots of the wind-bent grass. She rolled across the hill ecstatically and Wose followed in grumbling billows of energy. I don't carry tales, he replied somewhat mortified, but we're here as observers and you insist upon making this world a plaything. I love it, she said happily. It's so warm and green. Wose whipped in front of her angrily. This is an assignment, he snapped. His emotion crackling the air about him. We have a purpose here. Purpose, she groaned, settling over a patch of crowded clover. How many centuries will this assignment last? This world is young, said Wose. It will take time. But how long, she asked mournfully, our world will be shriveled and dead before these people have the knowledge to rescue us. Why can't we spend our lives here? And leave the others behind, said Wose stiffly. Selfish being, he said sadly. This world cannot support one-fourth our number. Oh, I know, I know, Lloy said. I do not mean to say such things. I am twisted by my sorrow. As if to express herself abnegation, she corkscrewed out of the clover and into a thin spiral of near-nothingness. Settle down, foolish one, said Wose, not unkindly. I know your feelings. Do you think I am not tormented as well by the slow pace of these earth things? Crude, barbaric beings like children with the building blocks of science. They have such a long way to go. And so few know, said Lloy despairingly, a handful of seeing minds, tens of millions of ignorant ones, not even first principles. They're stupid, stupid. But they will learn, Wose said stubbornly. That is historical fact. Someday they will know the true meaning of matter and light and energy. Slowly, yes, slowly. But in terms of their growth, it will seem like great speed to them. And in terms of our world, said Lloy, spinning sadly over the ground, they may be far too late. No. In his excitement, Wose forgot himself and entwined with the flowing form of the she-creature. And the result was a rending of the air that cracked like heat lightning over the field. No, he repeated again. They must not be too late. They must learn. They must build from the very ground. And then they must fly. And then their eyes must be lifted to the stars. And desire must extend them to all the universe. It seems so hopeless. It cannot be. Our destiny is not extinction. They must come to us in fleets of silver and replant our soil and send towers of green shooting into our sky, breathing out air. Yes, yes, Lloy cried pitifully. It will be that way, Wose. It will be that way. That man-creature. We will begin with him. Wose floated earthward disconsolidly. He is a dreamer, he said cheerlessly. His mind is good. He thinks of tomorrow. Wose is one of the knowing ones. But he cannot be moved, Lloy. His thoughts may fester and die in the prison of his brain. No, they will not. We have watched him. He understands much. He will help us. I have seen his like before, said Wose helplessly. He thinks and he works. And his conclusions will die stillborn for lack of a moving force. Then let us provide it, Wose. Let us move him. But, said the other disdainfully, arms of nothing, hands of vacuum, a breeze against his cheek, a rustle of leaves, a meaningless whistle in his ear. Let us try. Let us try. This empty watchfulness is destroying us. Let us move him, Wose. Come. Faster than the sky-sweeping clouds, they flew over the gently-swelling hills, over the yearning branches of the trees, over the calm blue waters of the lakes. Swifter than the flight of birds they came, searching for a thinking mind. They found him at last. He knows. He knows, said Lalloy. Only now to say this is so because, and this must happen when, only to think, to understand. They hovered over his head in a pandemonium of helplessness. They whirled and tumbled and shrilly circled. And then to Lalloy the inspiration came. The apple, caught by a sudden gust of wind, twisted from the tenuous hold of the tree and fell to the ground. The man, startled, picked it up. He gazed at it, deep in thought. End of Reluctant Genius by Henry Slesar