 As long as you wish by John O'Keefe. If, somehow, you get trapped in a circular time system, how long is the circumference of an infinitely retraced circle? The patient sat stiffly in the leather chair on the other side of the desk. Nervously, he pressed a coin into the palm of one hand. Just start anywhere, I said, and tell me all about it. Without waiting for an answer, he continued, The coin clutched tightly in one hand. I'm Charles J. Fisher, Professor of Philosophy at Reiser College. He looked at me quickly, or at least I was until recently. For a second his face was a boyish, Professor of Philosophy, that is. I smiled and found that I was staring at the coin in his hand. He gave it to me. On one side I read the words. The statement on the other side of this coin is false. The patient washed me with an expressionless face. I turned over the coin. It was engraved with the words, The statement on the other side of this coin is false. That's not the problem, he said. Not my problem. I had the coin made when I was an undergraduate. I enjoyed reading one side, turning it over, reading the other side, and so on. A fiendish enjoyment, like boys planning where to put the tip-over outhouse. I looked at the patient. He was thirty-eight, single, medium-built, had an MA and PhD from an eastern university. I knew this and more from the folder on my desk. Eight months ago, he continued, I read about the spheres found on Paney Island. He stopped, looking at me questionnally. Yes, I know, I said. I opened my desk drawer, took out a clipping from the newspaper, and handed it to him. That's it. I read the clipping before putting it back into the drawer. Manila, September 24. INS. Archaeologists from University of California have discovered an earthfault of recent quake, a sphere two feet in diameter, of unidentifiable material. Dr. Carl Schwartz, head of the group, said the sphere was returned to the university for study. He declined to answer questions on the cultural origin of the sphere. There wasn't any more in the newspapers about it. He said, I have a friend in California who got me the photographs. He looked at me intently. You won't believe any of this. He pressed the coin into the palm of his hand. You won't be able to. The photographs, he continued, as if lecturing, were of characters projected by the sphere when placed before a focused light. The sphere was transparent, you see, embedded with dark microscopic specks. By moving the sphere a certain distance each time, there was a total projection of 360 different characters in 18 different orderings, or 19 different orderings if you count one, which was a list of all the characters. I made a mental note of the numbers. I felt they were significant. As I said, he continued, I obtained the photographs of the characters. Very strange shapes, totally unlike the characters of Oriental languages, but yet that is the closest way to describe them. He jerked forward in his chair, except, of course, ostensibly. Later, I said, I wanted to get through the preliminaries first. There would be time later to see the photographs. The characters projected by the sphere, he said, weren't like the characters of any known language. He paused dramatically. There was reason to believe that they had origin and an unknown culture, a culture more scientifically advanced than our own. And the reasons for this opposition, I asked. The material, the material of the sphere. It could only be roughly classified as ferroplastic, totally unknown, amazing, imperviousness, a synthetic material, hardly the product of a former culture. From Mars, I said, smiling. There were all kinds of conjectures, but, of course, the important thing was to see if the projection of characters was a message. The message, if any, would mean more than any conjecture. You translated it? He polished the coin on his jacket. You won't dare believe it, he said sharply. He cleared his throat and stiffened into a more rigid posture. It wasn't exactly translation. You see, to us, none of the characters had designation. They were just characters. So it was a problem of decoding, I asked. As it turned out, no. Decoding is dependent on knowledge of language characteristics, characteristics of known languages. Decoding was tried, but without success. No, what we had to find was a key to the language. More or less, in principle, we needed a picture of a cow and a sign of meaning indicating one of the characters. For me, there was no possibility of finding similarities between the characters and characters of other languages. That would require tremendous linguistic knowledge and library facilities. Nor could I use a decoding approach. That would require special knowledge of techniques and access to electronic computers and other mechanical aids. No, I had to work on the assumption that the key to the sphere was implicit in the sphere. You hoped to find the key to the language in the language itself. Exactly. You know, of course, some languages do have an implicit key. For example, hieroglyphics or picture language. The word for cow is a picture of a cow. He looked at the ties of his shoes. You won't be able to believe it. It's impossible to believe. I use the word impossible in a zoological sense. In most languages, he continued, looking up from his shoes, the sound of some words themselves indicate the meaning of the word. Onomatopoetic words like bow-ow, buzz. And the key, the unknown language, I asked, how did you find it? I watched him push the coin against the back of his arm, then lifted to read the backward letters pressed into his skin. He looked up at me and smiled. I built models of the characters, big material ones, exactly proportionate to the ones projected. Then, quite by accident, I viewed one of them through a glass globe the size of the original sphere. What do you think I saw? What! I noticed he had the boyish look again. A distortion of the model. But that's not what's important. The distortions on study gave specific visual entities, like when looking at one of those trick pictures and suddenly seeing the lion in the grass. The lion's outlying the lion are there all the time, only the observer has to view them as the outline of a lion. It was the same with the models of the characters, except the shapes that appeared were not of lions or other recognizable things. But they did suggest. He pressed the coin against his forehead, closed his eyes, and appeared to be thinking deeply. Yes, impossible to believe. No one can believe it. In addition to the visual response, the distortions gave me definite feelings, not mixtures of feelings, but one definite emotional experience. How do you mean? One character, when viewed through the globe, gave me a visual image and, at the same time, a strong feeling of light, hilarity. I take it then that these distortions seem to connote meanings, rather than denote them. You might say that their meaning was conveyed through a Gestalt experience on the part of the observer. Yes, each character gave a definite Gestalt, but the Gestalt was the same for each observer, or at least for thirty-five observers. There was an eighty percent correlation. I whistled softly. And the translation. Doctor, what would you say if I told you the translation was unbelievable, that it couldn't be seriously entertained by any man? What if I said it would take the sanity of any man who believed it? I would say that it might well be incorrect. He took some papers from his pocket and laughed excitedly, slumping down in the chair. This is the complete translation in idiomatic English. I'm going to let you read it, but first I want you to consider a few things. He hid the papers behind the back of his chair. His face became even more boyish, almost as if he were deciding on where to put the tipped-over outhouse. Consider first, doctor, that there was a total projection of three hundred and sixty different characters, the same number as the number of degrees in a circle. Consider also that there were eighteen different orderings of the characters, or nineteen counting the alphabetical list. The square root of three hundred and sixty lie between eighteen and nineteen. Yes, I said. I remembered there was something significant about the numbers, but I wasn't at all sure that it was this. Consider also, he continued, that the communication was through the medium of a sphere. Moreover, keep in mind that physics accepts the path of beam of light as its definition of a straight line, yet the path is a curve. If extended sufficiently, it would be a circle, the section of a sphere. All right, I said. By now the patient was pounding the coin against the sole of one shoe. And, he said, keep in mind that, in some sense, time can be thought of as another dimension. He suddenly threw some papers at me and sat back in the chair. I picked up the translation and began reading. The patient sat stiffly in the leather chair on the other side of the desk. Nervously, he pressed the coin into the palm of one hand. Just start anywhere, I said, and tell me all about it. As before, without waiting for an answer, he continued. The coin clutched tightly in one hand. I'm Charles J. Fisher, Professor of Philosophy at Riser College. He looked at me quickly, or at least I was until recently, for a second time his face was a boyish, Professor of Philosophy, that is. I smiled and found that I was staring at the coin in his hand. He gave it to me. On one side, I read the words, the statement on the other side of this coin is false. The patient watched. End of As Long as You Wish The Beast of Space by F. E. Hardart read by Mark Nelson This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org The Beast of Space by F. E. Hardart Hear the dark cave along which Nat Starrett had been creeping broadened into what his powerful searchlight revealed to be a low, wide, smoothly circular room. At his feet lapped black, thick-looking waves of an underground lake, a pool of viscous substance that gave off a penetrating, poignant odor of acid, Swedish and intoxicating, unlike any acid he knew. The smell rolled up in a sickening, sultry cloud that penetrated his helmet, made him cough near its center, projected from the sticky stuff what appeared to be the nose of a spaceship. He looked down near his feet at the edge of the pool where thick, slowly moving tongues of the liquid appeared to reach up toward him, as if intent on pulling him into its depths. As each hungry wave fell back it left a slimy, snake-like trail behind. Now came a wave of strange music, music such as he had never heard before. Fately it had begun some time back, so fately he was barely aware of it. Now it swelled into a smooth, impelling wail, lulling him into drowsiness. He did not wonder why he could hear through the soundproof space helmet he wore. He ceased to wonder about anything. There was only the strange sweetness of the acid and the throbbing music. Abruptly the spell was broken by something shrilling in his brain, sending little chills racing up and down his spine. Digger, a small, oddly canine-like creature with telepathic powers, a space-dweller which men found when they first came to the asteroids. The relationship between spacehounds and men was much the same as between man and dog in the old earthbound days. Appropriate name for the beast, Digger. With those large, incredibly hard claws designed for rooting in the metal make-up of the asteroids for vital elements, the spacehound could easily have shredded the man's space suit and helmet, could, at any time, tear huge chunks out of men's fine ships. The half-conscious man jerked his thin form erect. His mouth, which had gaped loosely, closed with a snap into firm lines. She isn't in this hell-hole, Digger. You wouldn't expect her to be where we could find her easily. Scooping the small beast up under his good arm, he quickly climbed the steep, slimy slope of the cave. The other arm in his suit hung empty. That empty arm in the space suit told the story of an earthman become voluntarily exile, choosing the desolation of space to the companionship of other humans who would deluge him with unwanted sympathy. The spacehound was friendly in its own fashion. Fortunately, such complex things as sympathy were apparently outside its abilities. The two could interchange impressions of danger, comfort, pleasure, discomfort, fear, and appreciation of each other's company, but little more. Whether or not the creature could understand his thoughts he could not tell. As he went on he reviewed mentally the events leading up to his landing here. The sudden appearance on his teleview screen of the face and slim shoulders of a girl. Her attractiveness plainly distinguishable through her helmet. For a moment he forgot that he disliked women. The call for help cut short. But not before he had learned that, apparently, she was being held prisoner on asteroid Moira. He'd have to do what he could even if it meant unwanted company for an indefinite length of time. The spell was gone soon after her face vanished. He remembered former experiences with attractive-looking girls. Damn traditions. A change in his course and a landing on asteroid Moira. Here he'd found a honeycomb of caves, all leading from one large main tunnel. The cavern walls had been of a quartz-like substance, ranging in color from yellowish-brown to violet-gray. It looked vaguely familiar, yet he could not place it. There was not time to examine it more carefully. The room in which he had found the evil, hungry lake had been the first one to the right. Now he crossed to the opening in the opposite wall. The mouth of this cave was much larger, wider than the other. He stood in the opening, slowly swung the beam of his torch around the smooth walls, still holding digger, who by now was indicating that he'd like to be set down. Nat released him unthinkingly, his mind fully taken up with what the light revealed. Spaceships. The room was packed with them, all sizes, old and new. A veritable Sargasso. At first he thought they might be belonging to nameless inhabitants of this world, but as he approached them he recognized terrestrial identifications. The first was a scout ship of American spaceways. Nat recognized the name, Ceres, remembered a telecast account of its disappearance in space. There was a neat little reward for information as to its whereabouts. Nat's lips curled in derision. It wouldn't equal the expense of his journey out here. There was a deep groove in the smooth material of the floor where the ship had been dragged through the doorway into the room. What machines could have done this work without leaving their own traces? He went to the other ships. All were small, mostly single or two's passenger craft. The last entering the logs of many was to the effect that they were about to land on the asteroid Moira to rescue a girl held captive there. None had crashed. All ships were in perfect order. But all were deserted. Two doors were gone from the interior of one of the vessels. They might have been removed for any of a hundred reasons. But why here? Nat's glance swept around the room came to rest on the figure of a heavy-duty robot of familiar design. Semi-human in form, like some misshapen, bent, headless giant. He inspected it. Mayer's Robot, Inc. Earth designed for mining operations on Mars. Well, Digger, I can see now how these ships were brought in here. That robot could move any of one of these with ease. But that doesn't explain where the humans have gone. It might be space pirates using this asteroid for a base. It might be some alien form of life. We're still free. Shall we beat it or stay and try to check this out? He did not know how much of this got over to the spacehound, but the impressions he received in answer were those of approving their remaining where they were. I suppose the best system is to explore the rest of the caves in order. Let's go. Followed by Digger, he walked quietly toward the next cave on the left, slipped through the doorway, and standing with his back against the wall, swung the light of his torch in a wide, swift arc about the room. Halfway around, he stopped abruptly. A slim, petite figure appeared clearly in the search light's glare. The girl he had seen on the televisor stood in the middle of the room, facing a telecaster, her back toward him. She did not seem aware of him as he moved forward. What could be wrong? Surely that light would arouse her. The figure did not turn as he approached. So near was he now that he could seize her easily, still she made no move. Nats stepped to one side, flashed his torch in her face. Her beautifully lashed eyes stared straight ahead, unblinkingly. The expression on her lovely composed face did not change. A robot, he'd laughed bitterly, but then he was not the only one. She was an earth product, Nats opened her helmet and found the trademark of Spurgeon's robots hung like a necklace about her throat. But whoever had lured him here easily could ever move her from one of the vessels in the front cave. It did not seem like the work of pirates, more likely unknown to intelligent beings. He turned to examine the televisor. It too was an earth product. The mechanism was of old design. Evidently it had been taken from the first of the ships to land here. Outside of the telecaster and the solitary robot there was nothing to be seen in this cave. A sound behind him. He whirled, he'd rod poised for swift, stabbing action. Nothing, except small bowling-ball things rolling in through a narrow door. Ridiculous things of the same yellowish quartz material as composed the cave walls. At regular intervals a dull blueish light poured forth from rounded holes in their smooth sides. And issuing forth from within these comic globes was the same weird, compelling music he had heard before. They rolled up to him, brushed against his toes, a shrilling in his brain told him that Digger was aware of them. Back Digger, he thought, as he drew away from the globes, they poured their penetrating blue light over him inspectingly while the music from within rose and fell in regular cadences, sweetly impelling and dulling to the senses as strong oriental incense. But Digger was not souped. The space hound lunged at one of the globes. Instead of slashing its sides he found himself sailing through the air toward it. Nat received impressions of irritation combined with astonishment. Within the globes the music rose to a furious whine while one of the things shot forth long tentacles from the holes in its side. Lightning swift they shot forth, themselves about the body of the space hound, constricting. Digger writhed vainly, his claws powerless to tear at the whip-like tentacles. Nat severed the tentacles at their base with a heat beam. He turned, strode toward the door watching the spheres apprehensively out of the corner of his eye, ready to jump aside should they roll toward him suddenly. But they followed at respectful distances, singing softly. Before he reached the door he found himself walking in rhythm to the music, his head swaying. It came slowly, insidiously. Before he was aware his body no longer obeyed his will. Muscles refused to move other than in coordination with the music. His arm relaxed, the heat rod sliding from his grasp. But Digger, the space hound sent out a barrage of vibrations that fairly rocked his brain out of his skull. Simultaneously the beast attacked the nearest globes, tearing fiercely at them. Rapidly the others rolled away, but too late torn and motionless the music within them stilled. Nat reached down, retrieved the heat rod. I think we better look for a squeaker. Next time they might get you, Digger. They returned to the room of the spaceships, seeking one of the small portable amplifiers used for searching out radium. It was known as a squeaker because of the constant din it made while in use. The noise would cease only when radium was within a hundred feet of the mechanism. He found one after searching a few of the smaller ships. With the portable radio strapped to his back power switched on, he started again down the main tunnel. The globes set up their seductive rhythms as before, but he could not hear them above the discord of his squeaker. Failing to lure him as before, they sought to force him in the direction they desired him to go by darting at him suddenly, lashing him with their tentacles. But it was a simple thing to elude them. Still remained the question, why could they want to lure him into that stinking pool of acid? He flashed a beam of heat at the nearest of the annoying globes. Under the released energy it glowed, yet did not melt. But the tentacles sheared off and the blue lights faded. The flow of music changed to shrill whines as of pain and its rolling ceased. The others drew back. He turned down another tunnel. They stopped at the cave beyond the one where he had found the robot girl. It was sealed by a locked door, one of the airlock doors from that space vessel, firmly cemented into the natural opening of the cave. Nat bit forward, listening, his helmeted head pressed against the door. No sound. He was suddenly aware of the dead silence that pressed in on him from all sides now that the globes no longer sang and his squeaker had been turned off. The powerful energy of his heat beam sputtered as it melted the lock into incandescent pellets which sizzled as they trickled down the cold metal of the door. The greasy quartz-like material at the side of the door glowed in the heat from his rod, but no visible effect upon it could be seen. What was that material? He knew, yes, he knew, but he could not place a mental finger on it. He thrust the shoulder of his good arm against the heavy door, swung it inwards, stepped inside. The light of his torch pierced by the silence picked out a human skeleton in one corner. He hurried toward it. No, it was not entirely a skeleton as yet. The flesh and bone had been eaten away from the lower part of the body to halfway up the hips as though from some strong acid. The rest of the large sturdy frame lay sunken under the remains of a spacesuit which was tied clumsily around the middle to retain all the air possible in the upper half of it. Evidently some acid had eaten away the lower half of the man's body after he had suffocated. The face was that of a Norwegian. By one outstretched hand a small notebook lay open with the leather back upward. The corners of several pages were turned under carelessly. Nat swung the torch around the room. It was bare. The notebook quickly he picked it up. The page in which the writing began was dated May 10, 2040. About two months ago. Helmar Swenson My daughter Helena, age 19 and I were lured into the maw of this hellish monster by a robot calling for help in our television screen. This thing, known to man as asteroid Moira, is in actuality one of the gigantic mineral creatures which inhabited a planet before it exploded, forming the asteroids. Somehow it survived the catastrophe and, forming a hard crustaceous shell about itself, has continued to live here in space as an asteroid. It is apparently highly intelligent and has acquired an appetite for human flesh. The singing spheres act as its sensory organs separated from the body and given locomotion. It uses these to lure victims into its stomach in the first cave. I escaped its lure at first because of the squeaker I carried with me. We set up these two doors as a protection from the beast while we stayed here to examine it. But the monster got me when I fell and the squeaker was broken. My daughter rescued me after the acid of the pool had begun eating away my flesh. My Helena is locked in the room opposite this one. She has food and water to last until July 8. Oxygen seeps in here somehow. The beast wants to keep her alive until it can get her out of the room to devour her. Here the writing became more cramped and difficult to read. I have put the key in my mouth to prevent the spheres from opening the door should they force their way into this room. Someone must come to save my Helena. I can't breathe. The writing ended in a long scrawl angling off the page. The pencil lay some distance from the body. July 8. But that had been almost a week ago. He unscrewed the man's helmet, tried to pry the jaws open. They would not move. The airless void surrounding the tiny planetoid had frozen the body until now it was as solid as the quartz cave walls. But there was but one thing to do. The other door must be melted down. He leaped halfway across the room toward the door in the opposite wall. Could it be possible that he was in time? Anxiously he flung a bolt of energy from his heat rod toward the lock, holding a flashlight under the other stump of an arm. The molten metal flowed to the floor like a rivulet of lava. The door, hanging off balance, screeched open. Air swooshed past him in its form in the room. He squeezed himself through, peered carefully about to see a slim spacesuit start to crumple floorward in a corner. The girl was alive. He started to order. The slim figure pulled itself erect again. He saw a drawn, emaciated face behind the helmet. Then, with a fury that unnerved him, she whipped out a heat rod, shot a searing bolt in his direction. He felt the fierce heat of it as it whizzed past his shoulder. In his brain, Digger's thoughts of attack came to him. He flung an arm around the space hound, dragged it back as he withdrew toward the door. The girl continued to fire bolt after bolt straight ahead, her eyes wide and staring. They made the door waited outside while the firing within continued. When at last it was still within, the corner of the room. She lay in a crumpled heap in the corner. Quietly, he re-entered, picked her up awkwardly. Through the thin, resistant folds of the spacesuit, he could feel the warmth of her, but could not tell whether the heart still beat or not. They would have to take her to one of the ships. Her limp form was held tightly under his good arm as Nat hurried down the main tunnel. He nearly realized the seriousness of the situation, for he received the impressions of must hurry from the beast and another creature, looking much like him, surrounded by small creatures of the same type, trapped in a crevice. Are you a bit premature, old fellow, he chided? Halfway there, the globes met them again. The things were not singing. From their many eyes poured a fierce, angry blue light. They rolled with a determination that frightened him, yet he strode on until they were barely a foot away. Jump, digger! The sphere stopped short, reversed their direction toward the little group at a furious rate, flinging out long, whip-like tentacles. One wrapped itself around Nat's ankle, drew him down. He shifted the limp form over to his shoulder, slipped out his heat rod. Suddenly the tentacle was severed. But now others took their place. He continued firing at them, making each bolt tell, but the numbers were too great. Digger sprang into action, rending the globes with those claws that were capable of tearing the hulls of spaceships. But tentacles lashed around him from the rear, snaked about him so that he was helpless. The girl was slipping off Nat's shoulder. He could not raise the stump of an arm to balance her. It was stiff and useless. He stopped firing long enough to make the shift, even as the spheres attacked again. The bolts had put out the lights in fully half the marauders, but the others came on unafraid. Nat straddled Digger's writhing body, held the spacehound motionless between his legs. At short range he seared off the imprisoning tentacles, knowing that it would take far more than a heat bolt to damage the well-nigh impregnable creature. He swooped the dog up under his good arm and fled from the madly pursuing spheres, thanking nameless deities that the gravity here permitted such herculean feats. The spheres rolled faster he soon found than he could jump, so long as he was above them all was well, but by the time the weak gravity permitted him to land they were waiting for him. He tried zigzagging. Good, it worked. He alluded them up to the mouth of the cave, then jumped for the door of his ship's outer airlock. Nat placed the girl in his bunk, removed the cumbersome space suit. Her eyes blinked faintly, then sprang open, but they did not see him. They were staring straight ahead. Her mouth opened and shut weakly as though she were speaking, but no sound issued from it. He brought her water, but when he returned she had fallen asleep. He returned to the kitchen to prepare some food. You're still running around in that pillow case, he remarked to Digger as he extracted the space hound from it. Attend me now. We know why and how those people disappeared. It would take the space patrol ship at least a month to arrive here. I don't intend to perch on the back as long as that. And if we leave, old thing, it'll just lure other chivalrous fools to very unpleasant ends. And we've got to get this kid back to civilization. She needs a doctor's care, preferably a doctor with two arms. Digger's vibrations were one of general approval. We could poison it, he went on. Only I'm not a chemist, even if I knew the compounds contained in that reeking stomach I wouldn't know what would destroy them. Might blow it up, but we haven't enough explosive. No, we'll have to get down into the things insides again. In fact, he paused suddenly, mouth open. Congratulate me, Digger. I have it. The smell of burning vegetables cut short his soliloquy. He fed the starved, half-blind girl, then left her sleeping exhaustedly as he squirmed into his suit. No sooner had he entered the mouth of the cave than a half-dozen of the singing sensory organs rolled quickly, yet not angrily toward him. The beast was apparently optimistic, for the globe sang their most soothing, seductive tones. They tried to hurt him into the first cave on the right, but he had remembered the squeaker. He could not distract him. Effortlessly he leaped over them toward the mouth of the cave on the left. That was where the spaceships lay, pointing in all directions, like a carelessly dropped handful of rice. All the ships were in running order. Good. Had there been one vessel he could not move, then all was lost. The fuel in several ran low, but after a few moments of punching levers and pulling chokes the underrockets thundered in the big room. Taking care not to injure the motor compartments of the other ships, using only the most minute explosion quantities, he jockeyed each ship around until all their noses pointed in one direction. The exhausts pointed out through the wide doorway. It was well that the beast had formed curved corners in the room, otherwise the scheme would not work. The exhausts, which did not point toward the door directly, were toward the curved walls which would deflect the forceful gases expelled doorward. When he emerged from the ship the spheres attacked. He seared off their tentacles throughout what seemed to be eternities. His body was becoming a mass of bruises from the lash of their tentacles. From the last vessel there was a rumbling beneath his feet. Did the monster understand his intent? Was it stirring in its shell? Most of the globes had disappeared. Now a nauseatingly sweet odor penetrated the screen in his headpiece, which permitted him to smell without allowing the oxygen to escape. He hurried around to the rear of the ship, an apprehensive, sickening feeling at the pit a thick jelly-like wave of liquid was rolling over the floor, the reeking, deadly juices from the beast's stomach. If the liquid touched him it would eat through the heavy fabric, exploding the air pressure from around his body. How was he to escape from the cave? The answer came to him suddenly. Quickly he darted back toward the nearest vessel. His ears blocked his way. He sent bolt after searing bolt into them, more of a charge than he had given any of the others. The lights in the globes went out, their voices ceased, and they burst into slowly mounting incandescence. Yet they were not consumed by their fire, only glowed an intense white light like that of a lighthouse. Lighthouse! The word flashed through his mind strongly. They glowed like the Zirconia lights of a lighthouse. Why hadn't he recognized the greasy quartz-like material before? It was Zirconia, a compound of Zirconium, of course. A silicate-based creature could easily have formed a shell of it about itself. Zirconia, one of the compounds he'd intended prospecting for on the moons of Saturn, $100 per pound. Because of its resistance to heat it was used to line the tubes of rockets. Terrorist supply had long been used up. Here was a fortune all around him, but that fortune was about to be destroyed, he along with it, if he did not hurry. If he could only reach the timing mechanism to yank from it the wires connecting it to the other ships. It was at the other end of the line. He started in that direction, but a surge of fatal, thick acid rolled before him, reaching for him with hungry, questing tongues. When it was almost touching his toes he leaped. As he floated toward the floor he placed a chair beneath him so that his feet landed on the seat. The legs of the chair sank slowly into the liquid. Again he leaped, his moment retarded by the fluid away up the chair legs, sucked and clung there. The sweetly evil-smelling stuff was rising rapidly. But the next leap carried him into the main cave. Abandoning the chair he leaped once more, out through the cave's mouth, pursued by the waving tentacles of the sensory spheres. He had lost precious minutes eluding the deadly acid. It would take at least five minutes to get his ship away from the asteroid. He must hurry before all those rocket motors were thrown into action, or it would be too late. Leap and leap again. It seemed ages, but he reached the ship, bolted the door shut. Thumps against the door as the pursuing globes ran up against it. A thought came to him. Swiftly he opened the door, permitted a few of them to enter, then slammed it shut. With the heat-gun he sheared off the tentacles. He could sell the zirconia in the entities. Then he turned to the controls and the ship zoomed up and out. Nat had barely raised his ship from the asteroid Moira when he saw the small planetoid Lurt suddenly bounding off its orbit at almost a right angle. The sudden combined driving force of all the rockets within the cave had sent it hurtling away like a rocket itself. And housing the monster was heading into the flora group of asteroids. There, the fifty-seven odd solid bodies of that group would grind, crack, and rend that dangerous beast into harmless, dead fragments. A good job! Said a weak, but softly friendly voice behind him. He whirled. The girl stood in the doorway of the pilot room, supporting herself against the door frame. Digger rubbed thoughtfully against her legs. We'll just follow that asteroid, miss, he said, and see if we can't pick up some odd fragment of zirconia when it smashed in the grindstone there. Then we'll light out for Terra. She smiled. Earth, to him, seemed like a very good place to go as soon as possible. The end of The Beast of Space by F. E. Hardart The Big Trip Up Yonder by Kurt Vonnegut Jr. 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 The Big Trip Up Yonder by Kurt Vonnegut Jr. If it was good enough for your grandfather, forget it. It is much too good for anyone else. Gramps Ford, his chin resting on his hands, his hands on the crook of his cane was staring irassably at the five-foot television screen that dominated the room. On the screen a news commentator was summarizing the day's happenings. Every 30 seconds or so Gramps would jab the floor with his cane tip and shout, 100 years ago, Emerald and Lou coming in from the balcony where they had been seeking that 2185 A.D. rarity privacy were obliged to take seats in the back row. Behind Lou's father and mother, brother and sister-in-law, son and daughter-in-law, grandson and wife, grand-daughter and husband, great-grandson and wife, nephew and wife, grand-nephew and wife, great-grandniece and husband, great-grand nephew and wife, and of course who was in front of everybody. All save Gramps, who was somewhat withered and bent, seemed by pre-Antigerison standards to be about the same age, somewhere in their late 20s or early 30s. Gramps looked older because he had already reached 70 when Antigerison was invented. He had not aged in the 102 years since. Meanwhile, the commentator was saying, Council Bluffs, Iowa was still threatened by stark tragedy, but 200 weary rescue workers have refused to give up hope and continue to dig in an effort to save Elbert Haggadorn, 183, who has been wedged for two days in a I wish he'd get something more cheerful, Emerald whispered to Lou. Silence! cried Gramps. Next one shoots off his big bazoo while the TV's on, is going to find his self cut off without a dollar. His voice suddenly softened and sweetened. When they gave that checkered flag at the Indianapolis Speedway, an old Gramps gets ready for the big trip up yonder. He sniffed sentimentally while his airs concentrated desperately on not making the slightest sound. For them, the poignancy of the prospective big trip had been dulled somewhat through having been mentioned by Gramps about once a day for 50 years. Dr. Brainard Keyes Bullard continued the commentator. President of Wyandotte College said in an address that most of the world's ills can be traced to the fact that man's knowledge of himself has not kept pace with his knowledge of the physical world. Hell! snorted Gramps. We said that a hundred years ago. In Chicago tonight, the commentator went on, a special celebration is taking place in the Chicago Lying Inn Hospital. The guest of honor is Lowell W. Hitz, age zero. Hitz, born this morning, is the 25 millionth child to be born in the hospital. The commentator faded away and was replaced on the screen by young Hitz, who squalled furiously. Hell! whispered Luda Emerald. We said that a hundred years ago. I heard that! shouted Gramps. He snapped off the television set and his petrified descendant stared silently at the screen. You there! boy! I didn't mean anything by it, sir. Said Lowell, aged 103. Get me my will! You know where it is. You kids all know where it is. Fetch, boy! Gramps snapped his gnarled finger sharply. Lowell nodded duly and found himself going down the hall, picking his way over bedding to Gramps' room, the only private room in the four department. The other rooms were the bathroom, the living room, and the wide windowless hallway, which was originally intended to serve as a dining area and which had a kitchenette in one end. Six mattresses and four sleeping bags were dispersed in the hallway and living room, and the day bed in the living room accommodated the eleventh couple, the favorites of the moment. On Gramps' bureau was his will, smeared, dog-eared, perforated, and blotched with hundreds of additions, deletions, accusations, conditions, warnings, advice, and homely philosophy. The document was, Lou reflected, a fifty-year diary all jammed onto two sheets, a garbled, illegible log of day after day of strife. This day, Lou would be diminished for the eleventh time, and it would take him perhaps six months of impeccable behavior to regain the promise of a share in the estate, to say nothing of the day bed in the living room for M. and himself. Boy, called Gramps, Coming, sir, Lou hurried back into the living room and handed Gramps the will. Pen, said Gramps, He was instantly offered eleven pens, one from each couple. Not that leaky thing, he said, brushing Lou's pen aside. Ah, there's a nice one. Good boy, Willie. He accepted Willie's pen. That was the tip they had all been waiting for. Willie, then, Lou's father was the new favorite. Willie, who looked almost as young as Lou, though he was a hundred and forty-two, did a poor job of concealing his will. He glanced shyly at the day bed, which would become his, and from which Lou and Emerald would have to move back into the hall, back to the worst spot of all, by the bathroom door. Gramps missed none of the high drama he had authored, and he gave his own familiar roll everything he had. Frowning and running his finger along each line, as though he were seeing the will for the first time, he read aloud in a deep, portentious monotone, like a base note on a cathedral organ. I, Harold D. Ford, residing in building two-fifty-seven of Alden Village, New York City, Connecticut, do hereby make, publish, and declare this to be my last will and testament, revoking any and all former wills and codicils by me at any time here to for-made. He blew his nose importantly and went on, not missing a word and repeating many for emphasis, repeating in particular his ever more elaborate specifications for a funeral. At the end of these specifications, Gramps was so choked with emotion that Lou thought he might have forgotten why he'd brought out the will in the first place. But Gramps heroically brought his powerful emotions under control, and after erasing for a full minute, began to write and speak at the same time. Lou could have spoken his lines for him. He had heard them so often. I have had many heartbreaks air leaving this veil of tears for a better land," Gramps said and wrote. But the deepest hurt of all has been dealt me by— He looked around the group trying to remember who the malefactor was. Everyone looked helpfully at Lou who held up his hand resignedly. Gramps nodded remembering and completed the sentence, My great-grandson Louis J. Ford. Grandson, sir, said Lou, don't quibble, you're in deep enough now, young man," said Gramps. But he made the change and from there he went without a misstep through the phrasing of the disinheritance, causes for which were disrespectfulness and quibbling. In the paragraph following the paragraph that had belonged to everyone in the room at one time or another, Lou's name was scratched out and Willys substituted as air to the apartment and the biggest plum of all, the double bed bedroom. So, said Gramps, beaming. He erased the date at the foot of the Will and substituted a new one, including the time of day. Well, time to watch the McGarvey family. The McGarvey family was a television serial that Gramps had been following since he was sixty, or for a total of one hundred and twelve years. I can't wait to see what's going to happen next, he said. Lou detached himself from the group and lay down on his bed of pain by the bathroom door, wishing M would join him, he wondered where she was. He dozed for a few moments until he was disturbed by something stepping over him to get into the bathroom. A moment later he heard a faint gurgling sound as though something were being poured down the washbasin drain. Suddenly it entered his mind that M had cracked up that she was in there doing something drastic about Gramps. M? He whispered through the panel. There was no reply and Lou pressed against the door. The worn lock whose bolt barely engaged its socket held for a second then let the door swing inward. Morty gasped Lou. Lou's great-grand-nephew, Mortimer, who had just married and brought his wife home to the Ford Menage looked at Lou with consternation and surprise. Morty kicked the door shut, but not before Lou had glimpsed what was in his hand. Gramps' enormous economy-sized bottle of anti-gerosone which had apparently been half emptied and which Morty was refilling with tap water. A moment later Morty came out, glared defiantly at Lou and brushed past him wordlessly to rejoin his pretty bride. Shocked, Lou didn't know what to do. He couldn't let Gramps take the mousetrapped anti-gerosone but if he warned Gramps about it Gramps would certainly make life in the apartment which was merely insufferable now, harrowing. Lou glanced into the living room and saw that the Fords, emerald among them, were momentarily at rest, relishing the botches that the Macgarvies had made of their lives. Stealthily he went into the bathroom, locked the door as well as he could and began to pour the contents of Gramps' bottle down the drain. He was going to refill it with full strength anti-gerosone from the twenty-two smaller bottles on the shelf. The bottle contained a half gallon and its neck was small, so it seemed to Lou that the emptying would take forever and the almost imperceptible smell of anti-gerosone, like Worcestershire sauce now seemed to Lou in his nervousness to be pouring out into the rest of the apartment through the keyhole and under the door. The bottle gurgled monotonously. Suddenly up came the sound of music from the living room and there were murmurs and the scraping of chair legs on the floor. Thus ends, said the television announcer, the twenty-nine thousand one hundred and twenty-first chapter in the life of your neighbors and mine, the McGarvey's. Footsteps were coming down the hall. There was a knock on the bathroom door. Just a sec, Lou cheerily called out. Desperately he shook the big bottle trying to speed up the flow. His palm slipped on the wet glass and the heavy bottle smashed on the tile floor. The door was pushed open and Gramps' thumb-founded stared at the waiting mess. Lou felt a hideous prickling sensation on his scalp and the back of his neck. He grinned engagingly through the nausea and for want of anything remotely resembling a thought waited for Gramps to speak. Well, boy, said Gramps at last, looks like you've got a little tidying up to do. And that was all he said. He turned around, elbowed his way through the crowd, and locked himself in his bedroom. He contemplated Lou in incredulous silence a moment longer, and then harried back to the living-room as though some of his horrible guilt would taint them too if they looked too long. Morty stayed behind long enough to give Lou a quizzical, annoyed glance. Then he also went into the living-room, leaving only Emerald standing in the doorway. Tears streamed over her cheeks. Oh, you poor lamb! Please don't look so awful! It was my fault I put you up to this with Gramps. No, said Lou, finding his voice. Really, you didn't. Honest am. I was just... You don't have to explain anything to me, hun. I'm on your side, no matter what. She kissed him on one cheek and whispered in his ear. It wouldn't have been murder, hun. It wouldn't have killed him. It wasn't such a terrible thing to do. It just would have fixed him up, so he'd be able to go any time God decided he wanted him. Next am, said Lou hollily, what's he going to do? Lou and Emerald stayed fearfully awake almost all night waiting to see what Gramps was going to do. But not a sound came from the sacred bedroom. Two hours before dawn they finally dropped off to sleep. At six o'clock they arose again for it was time for their generation to eat breakfast in the kitchenette. No one spoke to them. They had twenty minutes in which to eat, but their reflexes were so dulled by the bad night that they had hardly swallowed two mouthfuls of egg-type processed seaweed before it was time to surrender their places to their son's generation. Then as was the custom for whoever had been most recently disinherited, they began preparing Gramps's breakfast, which would presently be served to him in bed on a tray. They tried to be cheerful about it. The toughest part of the job was having all the honest-to-god eggs and bacon and oleo margarine on which Gramps spent so much of the income from his fortune. Well, said Emerald, I'm not going to get all panicky until I'm sure there's something to be panicky about. Maybe he doesn't know what it was I busted, Lou said hopefully. Probably thinks it was your watch crystal, offered Eddie, their son, who was toying apathetically with his buckwheat-type processed sawdust cakes. Don't get sarcastic with your father, said Em, and don't talk with your mouthful either. I'd like to see anybody take a mouthful of this stuff and not say something, complained Eddie, who was seventy-three. He glanced at the clock. It's time to take Gramps's breakfast, you know. Yeah, it is, isn't it? Said Lou weakly. He shrugged. Let's have the tray, Em. We'll both go. Finally, smiling bravely, they found a large semi-circle of long-faced Ford standing around the bedroom door. Em knocked. Gramps, she called brightly. Breakfast is ready. There was no reply, and she knocked again, harder. The door swung open before her fist in the middle of the room, the soft, deep, wide, canopy bed, the symbol of the sweet buy-and-buy to every Ford, was empty. A sense of death as unfamiliar to the Fords as Zoroastrianism or the causes of the Cipoi Mutiny stilled every voice, slowed every heart. Odd, the heirs began to search gingerly under the furniture and behind the drapes for all that was mortal of Gramps, father of the clan. But Gramps had left not his earthly husk but a note, which Lou finally found on the dresser, under a paperweight which was a treasured souvenir from the World's Fair of two thousand. Unsteadily, Lou read it aloud. Somebody who I have sheltered and protected and taught the best I know how all these years last night turned on me like a mad dog and diluted my anti-gerosome, or tried to. I am no longer a young man. I can no longer bear the crushing burden of life as I once could. So, after last night's bitter experience, I say good-bye. The cares of this world will soon drop away like a cloak of thorns and I shall know peace. By the time you find this, I will be gone. Gosh, said Willie brokenly. He didn't even get to see how the five thousand mile speedway race was going to come out. Or the Solar Series, Eddie said, with large mournful eyes. Or whether Mrs. McGarvey got her eyesight back, added Morty. There's more, said Lou, and he began reading aloud again. I, Harold D. Ford, etc., do hereby make, publish, and declare this to be my last will and testament, revoking any and all former wills and codisols by me at any time here to formade. No, cried Willie, not another one. I do stipulate, read Lou, that all of my property of whatsoever kind and nature not be divided, but do devise it to be held in common by my issue without regard for generation, equally share and share alike. Issue? said Emerald. Lou included the multitude in a sweep of his hand. It means we all own the whole damn shooting match. Each eye turned instantly to the bed. Share and share alike? asked Morty. Actually, said Willie, who was the oldest one present, it's just like where the oldest people head up things with their headquarters in here and I like that, exclaimed them. Lou owns as much of it as you do, and I say it ought to be for the oldest one who's still working. You can snooze around here all day waiting for your pension check while poor Lou stumbles in here after work all tuckered out and how about letting somebody who's never had any privacy get a little crack at it? Eddie demanded hotly. Hell, you old people had plenty of privacy back when you were kids. I was born and raised in the middle of that goddamn barracks in the hall. How about... Yeah? challenged Morty. Sure, you've all had it pretty tough and my heart bleeds for you. But try honeymooning in the hall for a real kick. Silence! shouted Willie imperiously. The next person who opens his mouth spends the next six months by the bathroom. Now clear out of my room, I want to think. A vase shattered against the wall inches above his head. In the next moment a free-for-all was underway with each couple battling to eject every other couple from the room. Fighting coalitions formed and dissolved with the lightning changes of the tactical situation. Em and Lou were thrown into the hall where they organized others in the same situation and stormed back into the room. After two hours of struggle with nothing like a decision in sight the cops broke in followed by television cameramen from mobile units. For the next half hour patrol wagons and ambulances hauled away fords and then the apartment was still and spacious. An hour later films of the last stages of the riot were being televised to 500 million delighted viewers on the eastern seaboard. In the stillness of the three room four department on the 76th floor of building 257 the television set had been left on. Once more the air was filled with the cries and grunts and crashes of the fray coming harmlessly now from the loudspeaker. The battle also appeared on the screen of the television set in the police station where the fords and their captors watched with professional interest. Em and Lou in adjacent four by eight cells were stretched out peacefully on their cots. Em called Lou through the partition you got a wash basin all your own too? Sure. Wash basin, bed, light, the works. And we thought Gramps room was something. How long has this been going on? She held out her hand. For the first time in forty years, Han, I haven't got the shakes. Look at me. Cross your fingers said Lou. The lawyer is going to try to get us a year. She, Em said dreamily I wonder what kind of wires you'd have to pull to get put away in solitary. All right, pipe down, said the turnkey. Or I'll toss the whole kit and caboodle of you right out. And first one who lets on to anybody outside how good jail is ain't never getting back in. The prisoners instantly fell silent. The living room of the apartment darkened for a moment as the riot scenes faded on the television screen and then the face of the announcer appeared like the sun coming from behind a cloud. Friends, he said, I have a special message from the makers of anti-gerosone, a message for all you folks over a hundred and fifty. Are you hampered socially by wrinkles, by stiffness of the joints and discoloration or loss of hair? All because these things came upon you before anti-gerosone was developed? Well, if you are, you need no longer suffer, need no longer feel different and out of things. In research, medical science has now developed super anti-gerosone. In weeks, yes, weeks, you can look, feel and act as young as your great-great-grandchildren. Wouldn't you pay $5,000 to be indistinguishable from everybody else? Well, you don't have to. Safe, tested, super anti-gerosone costs you only a few dollars a day. Right now, for your free trial carton, just put your name and address on a dollar postcard and call it to Super Box 500,000 Schenectady, New York. Have you got that? I'll repeat it. Super Box 500,000. Underlining the announcer's words was the scratching of Gramps' pen. The one will he had given him the night before. He had come in a few minutes earlier from the idle hour tavern which commanded a view of Building 257 from across the square of Asphalt known as the Alden Village Green. He had called a cleaning woman to come straighten the place up. Then had hired the best lawyer in town to get his descendants a conviction. A genius who had never gotten a client less than a year in a day. Gramps had then moved the day-bed before the television screen so that he could watch from a reclining position. It was something he'd dreamed of doing for years. Schenectady, murmured Gramps. Got it. His face had changed remarkably. His facial muscles seemed to have relaxed. Revealing kindness and equanimity under what had been taught lines of bad temper. It was almost as though his trial package of super-anti-gerosone had already arrived. When something amused him on television he smiled easily, rather than barely managing to lengthen the thin line of his mouth a millimeter. Life was good. He could hardly wait to see what was going to happen next. End of The Big Trip Up Yonder by Kurt Vonnegut Jr. Cost of Living by Robert Sheckley This is a LibriVox recording or LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Tabithat Cost of Living by Robert Sheckley Karen decided that he could trace his present moot to Miller's suicide last week, but the knowledge didn't help him get rid of the vague, formless fear in the back of his mind. It was foolish. Miller's suicide didn't concern him. But why had that fat, jovial man killed himself? Miller had had everything to live for, wife, kids, good job, and all the marvellous luxuries of the age. Why had he done it? Good morning, dear, Karen's wife said as he sat down at the breakfast table. Morning, honey, morning, Billy. His son grunted something. You just couldn't tell about people Karen decided and dialed his breakfast. The meal was gracefully prepared and served by the new Avignon Electric Autocook. His mood persisted annoyingly enough since Karen wanted to be in top form this morning. It was his day off and the Avignon Electric Finance man was coming. This was an important day. He walked to the door with his son. Have a good day, Billy. His son, Nodder, shifted his books and started to school without answering. Karen wondered if something was bothering him too. He hoped not. One warrior in the family was plenty. See you later, honey. He kissed his wife as she left to go shopping. At any rate, he thought, watching her go down the walk, at least she's happy. He wondered how much she'd spend at the AE store. Checking his watch, he found that he had half an hour before the AE Finance man was due. The best way to get rid of a bad mood was to drown it, he told himself and headed for the shower. The shower room was a glittering plastic wonder and the sheer luxury of it eased Karen's mind. He threw his clothes into the AE automatic clean presser and adjusted the shower spray to a notch above brisk. The five degrees above skin temperature water beat against his thin white body, delightful, and then a relaxing rub dry in the AE auto-towel. Wonderful, he thought, as the towel stretched and needed stringy muscles. And it should be wonderful, he reminded himself. The AE auto-towel with shaving attachments had cost three hundred and thirteen dollars plus tax. But worth every penny of it, he decided, as the AE shaver came out of a corner and whisked off his rudimentary stubble. After all, what good was life if you couldn't enjoy the luxuries? His skin tingled when he switched off the auto-towel. He should have been feeling wonderful, but he wasn't. Miller's suicide kept nagging at his mind destroying the peace of his day off. Was there anything else bothering him? Certainly there was nothing wrong with the house. His papers were in order for the financeman. Have I forgotten something, he asked out loud. The Avignon electric financeman will be here in fifteen minutes. His AE bathroom wall reminder whispered. I know that. Is there anything else? The wall reminder reeled off its later, a vast amount of minutiae about watering the lawn, having the jet-lash checked, buying lamb chops for Monday and the like. Things he still hadn't found time for. All right, that's enough. He allowed the AE auto-dresser to dress him skillfully draping a new selection of fabrics over his bony frame. A whiff of fashionable masculine perfume finished him, and he went into the living-room threading his way between the appliances that lined the walls. A quick inspection of the dials on the wall assured him that the house was in order. The breakfast dishes had been sanitized and stacked, the house had been cleaned, dusted, polished, his wife's garments had been hung up, his son's model rocket-ships had been put back in the closet. Stop worrying, you hypochondriac, he told himself angrily. The door announced, Mr. Puth is from Avignon finances here. Karen started to tell the door to open when he noticed the automatic bartender. Oh, my God, why hadn't he thought of it? The automatic bartender was manufactured by Castile Motors. He had bought it in a weak moment. Hey, he wouldn't think very highly of that since they sold their own brand. He wheeled the bartender into the kitchen and told the door to open. Ah, very good day to you, sir, Mr. Puth has said. Puth was a tall, imposing man dressed in a conservative tweed drape. His eyes had the crinkled corners of a man who laughs frequently. He beamed broadly and shook Karen's hand looking around the crowded living-room. A beautiful place you have here, sir, beautiful. As a matter of fact, I don't think I'll be overstepping the company's code to inform you that yours is the nicest interior in this section. Karen felt a sudden glow of pride at that, thinking of the rows of identical houses in this block on the next and the one after that. Now, then, is everything functioning properly, Mr. Puth has asked, setting his briefcase on a chair, everything in order? Oh, yes, Karen said enthusiastically, having your electric never goes out of whack. The phone all right? Changes records for the full seventeen hours? It certainly does, Karen said. He hadn't had a chance to try out the phone, but it was a beautiful piece of furniture. The Solido projector all right, enjoying the programs? Absolutely perfect reception. He'd watched a program just last month and it had been startling a life-like. How about the kitchen? Auto cook in order? Recipe master still knock on them out? Marvelous stuff, simply marvellous. Mr. Puth has went on to inquire about his refrigerator, his vacuum cleaner, his car, his helicopter, his subterranean swimming pool, and the hundreds of other items Karen had bought from Avignon Electric. Everything is swell, said Karen, a trifle untruthfully, since he hadn't unpacked every item yet, just a few days ago. He had to go to the kitchen, but she hadn't unpacked every item yet. Just wonderful. I'm so glad, Mr. Puth has said, leaning back with a sigh of relief. You have no idea how hard we try to satisfy our customers. If a product isn't right, back it comes, no questions asked. We believe in pleasing our customers. I certainly appreciate it, Mr. Puth has. Karen hoped the AE man wouldn't ask to see the kitchen. He visualized the Castile motor's bartender in there, like a porcupine in a dog-show. I'm proud to say that most of the people in this neighborhood buy from us, Mr. Puthis was saying, we're a solid firm. Was Mr. Miller a customer of yours? Karen asked. That fellow who killed himself, Puthis frowned briefly. He was, as a matter of fact, that amazed me, sir, absolutely amazed me. Why, just last month, the fellow bought a brand new jet-lash from me, capable of doing it all the way. He was as happy as a kid over it, and then to go and do a thing like that. Of course, the jet-lash brought up his debt a little. Of course. But what did that matter? He had every luxury in the world, and then he went and hung himself. Hung himself? Yes, Puthis said the frown coming back, every modern convenience in his house, and he hung himself with a piece of rope. The frown slid off his face and the customary smile replaced it. But enough of that. Let's talk about you. The smile widened as Puthis opened his briefcase. Now, then, your account. You owe us two hundred and three thousand dollars and twenty-nine cents, Mr. Karen, as of your last purchase, right? Right, Karen said, remembering the amount from his own papers. Here's my instalment. I ended Puthis an envelope which the man checked and put in his pocket. Fine. Now you know, Mr. Karen, that you won't live long enough to pay us the full two hundred thousand, don't you? No, I don't suppose I will, Karen said soberly. He was only thirty-nine with a full hundred years of life before him, thanks to the marvels of medical science, but at a salary of three thousand a year he still couldn't pay it all off and have enough of course we would not want to deprive you of necessities, which in any case is fully protected by the laws we help formulate and pass. To say nothing of the terrific items that are coming out next year, things you wouldn't want to miss, sir. Mr. Karen nodded. Certainly he wanted new items. Well, suppose we make the customary arrangement. If you will just sign over your son's earnings for the first thirty years of his adult life, we can easily arrange credit for you. Mr. Pathas whipped the papers out of his briefcase and spread them in front of Karen. If you'll just sign here, sir. Well, Karen said, I'm not sure. I'd like to give the boy a start in life, not saddle him with. But my dear sir, Pathas interposed, this is for your son as well. He lives here, doesn't he? He has a right to enjoy the luxuries, the marvels of science. Sure, Karen said, only why today, sir? The average man is living like a king. A hundred years ago the richest man in the world couldn't buy what any ordinary citizen possesses at present. You mustn't look upon it as a debt. It's an investment. That's true, Karen said dubiously. He thought about his son and his rocket-ship models, his star charts, his maps. Would it be right? He asked himself. What's wrong? Pathas asked cheerfully. Well, I was just wondering, Karen said, signing over my son's earnings. You don't think I'm getting in a little too deep, do you? Too deep, my dear sir! Pathas exploded into laughter. Do you know Mellon down the block? Well, don't say I said it, but he's already mortgaged his grandchildren's salary for their full life expectancy. And he doesn't have half the goods he's made up his mind to own. We'll work out something for him. That was to the customer is our job and we know it well. Karen wavered visibly. And after you're gone, sir, they'll all belong to your son. That was true, Karen thought. His son would have all the marvellous things had filled the house. And after all, it was only 30 years out of a life expectancy of 150. He signed with a flourish. Excellent, Pathas said. And by the way, has your home been a master operator? It hadn't. Pathas explained that a master operator was new this year, a stupendous advance in scientific engineering. It was designed to take over all the functions of house cleaning and cooking without its owner having to lift a finger. Instead of running around all day pushing half a dozen different buttons with a master operator, all you have to do is push one a remarkable achievement. Since it was only $135, Karen signed for one having it added to his son's debt. Right's right, he thought, walking Pathas to the door. This house will be billy some day, his and his wife's. They certainly will want everything up to date. Just one button, he thought, that would be a time saver. After Pathas left, Karen sat back in an adjustable chair and turned on the soledo. After twisting the easy dial, he discovered there was nothing he wanted to see. He tilted back the chair and took a nap. There's something on his mind was still bothering him. Hello, darling! He awoke to find his wife was home. She kissed him on the ear. Look! She had bought an A.E. Sexitiser negligee. He was pleasantly surprised that that was all she had bought. Usually, Lilo returned from shopping laden down. It's lovely, he said. He was over for a kiss, then giggled a habit he knew she had picked up from the latest popular soledo star. He wished she hadn't. Going to dial supper, she said and went into the kitchen. Karen smiled, thinking that soon she would be able to dial the meals without moving out of the living-room. He settled back in his chair and his son walked in. How's it going, son? he asked heartily. All right. Billy answered listlessly. What's the matter, son? The boy stared at his feet, not answering. Come on, tell Dad what's the trouble. Billy sat down on a packing-case and put his chin in his hands. He looked thoughtfully at his father. Dad, could I be a master repairman if I wanted to be? Mr. Karen smiled at the question. Billy alternated between wanting to be a master repairman and a rocket pilot. The repairmen were the elite. It was their job to fix the automatic repair machines. The repair machines could fix just about anything, but you couldn't have a machine fix the machine that fixed the machine. That was where the master repairmen came in. But it was a highly competitive field and only a very few of the best brains were able to get their degrees, and although the boy was bright, he didn't seem to have an engineering bent. It's possible, son. Anything's possible. But is it possible for me? No, Karen answered as honestly as he could. Well, I don't want to be a master repairman anyway, the boy said, seeing that the answer was no. I want to be a space pilot. A space pilot, Billy, Leela asked, coming into the room. But there aren't any. As there are, Billy argued, we were told in school that the government is going to send some men to Mars. They've been saying that for a hundred years, Karen said, and they still haven't gotten around to doing it. They will this time. Why would you want to go to Mars? Leela asked, winking at Karen. There are no pretty girls on Mars. I'm not interested in girls. I just want to go to Mars. You wouldn't like it, honey, Leela said. It's a nasty old place with no air. It's got some air. I'd like to go there. The boy insisted summonly. I don't like it here. What's that? Karen asked, sitting up straight. Is there anything you haven't got? Anything you want? No, sir, I've got everything I want. Whenever his son called him sir, Karen knew that something was wrong. Look, son, when I was your age, I wanted to go to Mars, too. I wanted to do romantic things. I even wanted to be a master of payment. Then why didn't you? Well, I grew up. I realised that there were more important things. First I had to pay off the debt my father had left me, and then I met your mother. Leela giggled. And I wanted a home of my own. It'll be the same with you. You'll pay off your debt and get married the same as the rest of us. Billy was silent for a while, then he brushed his dark hair straight like his father's, back from his forehead and wet his lips. How come I have debt, sir? Karen explained carefully about the things the family needed for civilised living and the cost of those items, how they had to be paid, it was customary for a son to take on a part of his parents' debt when he came of age. Billy's silence annoyed him. It was almost as if the boy were reproaching him, after he had slaved for years to give the ungrateful welp every luxury. Son, he said harshly, have you studied history in school? Good, then you know how it was in the past, wars. How would you like to get blown up in a war? The boy didn't answer. Or how would you like to break your back for eight hours a day doing work a machine should handle, or be hungry all the time, or cold with the rain beating down on you and no place to sleep? He paused for a response, got none and went on. You live in the most fortunate age mankind has ever known. You're surrounded by every wonder of art and science, the finest music, the greatest books and art, all at your fingertips. All you have to do is push a button. You're kindly atone. Well, what are you thinking? I was just wondering how I could go to Mars, the boy said, with the debt, I mean. I don't suppose I could get away from that. Of course not. Unless I stowed away on a rocket. But you wouldn't do that. No, of course not, the boy said, but his tone lacked conviction. You'll stay here and marry a very nice girl, Leela told him. Sure I will, Billy said. Sure. He grinned suddenly. I didn't mean any of that stuff about going to Mars, I really didn't. I'm glad of that, Leela answered. Just forget I mentioned it, Billy said, smiling stiffly. He stood up and raced upstairs. Probably gone to play with his rockets, Leela said. He's such a little devil. The Karen's ate a quiet supper and then it was time for Mr. Karen He was on night shift this month. He kissed his wife goodbye, climbed into his jet-lash and roared to the factory. The automatic gates recognized him and opened. He parked and walked in. Automatic lathes, automatic presses, everything was automatic. The factory was huge and bright and the machines hummed softly to themselves doing their job and doing it well. Karen walked to the end of the automatic washing-machine assembly line to relieve the man there. Raising all right, he asked. Sure, the man said, haven't had a bad one all year. These new models have built-in voices. They don't light up like the old ones. Karen sat down where the man had sat and waited for the first washing-machine to come through. His job was the soul of simplicity. He just sat there and the machines went by him. He pressed a button on them and found out if they were all right. They always were. After passing him the washing-machines went to the packaging section. The first one slid by on the long slide of rollers. He pressed the starting button on the side. Ready for the wash, the washing-machine said. Karen pressed the release and let it go by. That boy of his Karen thought, would he grow up and face his responsibilities? Would he mature and take his place in society? Karen doubted it. The boy was a born rebel. If anyone got to Mars, it would be his kid. But the thought didn't especially disturb him. Ready for the wash, another machine went by. Karen remembered something about Miller. The jovial man had always been talking about the planets, always kidding about going off somewhere and roughing it. He hadn't, though. He'd committed suicide. Ready for the wash? Karen had eight hours in front of him and he loosened his belt to prepare for it. Eight hours of pushing buttons and listening to a machine announced its readiness. Ready for the wash? He pressed the release. Ready for the wash? Karen's mind strayed from the job which didn't need much attention in any case. He wished he'd done what he'd long to do as a youngster. It would have been great to be a rocket pilot to push a button and go to Mars. End of Cost of Living by Robert Sheckley. 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. Dead Ringer by Lester Delray. There was nothing especially on earth which could set him free. The truth least of all. Dane Phillips slouched in the window seat watching the morning crowds on their way to work and carefully avoiding any attempt to read Jordan's old face as the editor skimmed through the notes. He had learned to make his tall bony body seem all loose jointed relaxation no matter what he felt. But the oversized hands in his pockets were clenched so tightly that the nails were cutting into his palms. Every tick of the old fashioned clock sent a throb bracing through his brain. Every rustle of the pages seemed to release a fresh shot of adrenaline into his bloodstream. This time his mind was pleading. It has to be right this time. Jordan finished his reading and shoved the folder back. He reached for his pipe, sighed, and then nodded slowly. A nice job of researching Phillips and it might make a good feature for the Sunday section at that. It took a second to realize that the words meant acceptance for Phillips had prepared himself too thoroughly for failure. Now he felt the tautened muscles release so quickly that he would have fallen if he hadn't been braced against the seat. He groped in his mind hunting for words and finding none. There was only the hot, sudden flame of unbelieving hope and then an almost blinding exaltation. Jordan didn't seem to notice his silence. The editor made a neat pile of the notes nodding again. Sure, I like it. It's tough lately and the readers go for it when we can get a fresh angle. But naturally you'd have to leave out all that nonsense on blanding. Hell, the man's just buried and his relatives and friends. But that's the proof! Phillips stared at the editor trying to penetrate through the haze of hope that had somehow grown chilled and unreal. His thoughts were abruptly disorganized and out of his control. Only the urgency remained. It's the key evidence not to move fast. I don't know how long it takes but even one more day may be too late. Jordan nearly dropped the pipe from his lips as he jerked upright to peer sharply at the younger man. Are you crazy? Do you seriously expect me to get an order to exune him now? What would it get us other than lawsuits? Even if we could get the order without cause which we can't. Then the pipe did fall as he gaped open mouth. You believe all that stuff. You expected us to publish it straight. No, said Dane Thickely. The hope was gone now as if it had never existed leaving a numb emptiness where nothing mattered. No, I guess I didn't really expect anything but I believe the facts. Why shouldn't I? He reached for the papers with hands he could hardly control and began stuffing them back into the folder. All the careful documentation, the fingerprints searched perhaps in some cases but still evidence enough for anyone but a fool. Phillips Jordan said questioningly to himself and then his voice was talking on a new edge. Phillips, wait a minute, I've got it now. Dane Phillips, not Arthur. Two years on the trip then you turned up on the register in Seattle. Philip Dean or some such name there. Yeah, Dane agreed. There was no use in denying anything now. Yeah, Dane Arthur Phillips. So I suppose I'm through here. Jordan nodded again and there was a faint look of fear in his expression. You can pick up your pay on the way out and make it quick before I change my mind and call the boys in white. It could have been worse. It had been worse before and there was enough in the pay envelope to buy what he needed. A flash camera, a little folding shovel from one of the surplus houses and a bottle of good scotch. It would be dark enough for him to taxi out to O'Cave and Cemetery where Blanding had been buried. It wouldn't change the minds of the fools, of course, even if he could drag back what he might find without the change being completed they wouldn't accept the evidence. He'd been crazy to think anything could change their minds. And they called him a fanatic. If the facts he dug up in ten years of hunting wouldn't convince them nothing would and yet he had to see for himself before it was too late. He picked a cheap hotel at random and checked in under an assumed name. He couldn't go back to his room while there was a chance that Jordan might still try to turn him in. There wouldn't be time for Sylvia's detectives to bother him, probably, but there was the ever-present danger that one of the aliens might intercept the message. He shivered. He'd been risking that for ten years, yet the likelihood was still a horror to him. The uncertainty made it harder to take than human-devised torture could be. There was no way of guessing what an alien might do to anyone who discovered that all men were not human, that some were... zombies. There was the classic syllogism. All men are mortal, I am man, therefore I am mortal. But not blending or corporal harding. It was Harding's death that had started at all during the fighting on Guadalcanal. He had come flying into the foxhole where Dane and Harding had felt reasonably safe. The concussion had knocked Dane out, possibly saving his life when the enemy thought he was dead. He'd come too in the daylight to see Harding lying there, mangled and twisted with his throat torn. There was blood on Dane's uniform, obviously spattered from the dead man. It hadn't been a mistake or delusion. Harding had been dead. It had taken Dane two days of crawling and hiding to get back to his group. Too exhausted to report Harding's death, he'd slept for twenty hours, and when he awoke, Harding had been standing beside him with a whole throat and a fresh uniform, grinning and kidding him for running off and leaving a stunned friend behind. It was no ringer, but Harding himself, complete to the smallest personal memories and personality traits. The pressures of war probably saved Dane's sanity while he learned to face the facts. While men are mortal, Harding is not mortal, therefore Harding is not a man. Nor was Harding alone. Dane found enough evidence to know there were others. The Tribune Morgue yielded even more data. A man had faced seven firing squads and walked away. Another survived over a dozen attacks by professional killers. Fingerprints turned up mysteriously copied from those of men long dead. Some of the aliens seemed to heal almost instantly. Others took days. Some operated completely alone. Some seemed to have joined with others, but they were legion. Lack of a clearer pattern of attack made him consider the possibility of human mutation, but such tissue was too wildly different, and the invasion had begun long before atomics or X-rays. He gave up trying to understand their alien motivations. It was enough in secret, slowly growing in numbers while mankind was unaware of them. When his proof was complete and irrefutable he took it to his editor, to be fired politely, but coldly. Other editors were less polite, but he went on doggedly trying and failing. What else could he do? Somehow he had to find the few people who could recognize facts and warn them. The aliens would get him, of course, when the story broke, but a warned humanity could cope with them. Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free. Then he met Sylvia by accident after losing his fifth job. A girl who had inherited a fortune big enough to spread his message in paid ads across the country. They were married before he found she was hard-headed about her money. She demanded a full explanation for every cent beyond his allowance. In the end she got the explanation. And while he was trying to cash the cheque she gave him, she visited Dr. Buell to come back with a squad of quiet, refined, strong-arm boys who made sure Dane reached Buell's rest home safely. Hydrotherapy. Buell as the kindly firm father image. Analysis. Hypnosis that stripped every secret from him, including his worst childhood nightmare. His father had committed a violent bloody suicide after one of the many quarrels with Dane's mother. Dane had found the body. Two nights after the funeral he had dreamed of his father's face horror-filled at the window. He knew now that it was a normal nightmare caused by being forced to look at the face in the coffin. But the shock had lasted for years. It had bothered him again after his discovery of the aliens until a thorough cheque had proved without doubt that his father had been fully human, with a human if tempestuous childhood behind him. Dr. Buell was delighted. You see, Dane, you know it was a nightmare, but you don't really believe it even now. Your father was an alien monster to you. No adult is quite human to a child, and that literal-mind itself, your subconscious, saw him after he died. So there are alien monsters who return from death. Then you come, too, from a concussion. Harding is sprawled out unconscious, covered with blood. Probably your blood since you say it wounded later. But after seeing your father, you can't associate blood with yourself. You see it as a horrible wound on Harding. When he turns out to be alive, you're still in partial shock with your subconscious dominant. And that has the answer already. There are monsters who come back from the dead. An exaggerated reaction, but nothing really abnormal will have you out of here in no time. No non-directive psychiatry for Buell. The man seemed paternally chuckling as he added what he must have considered the clincher. Anyhow, even zombies can't stand fire, Dane, so you can stop worrying about Harding. I checked up on him. He was burned to a crisp in a hotel fire two months ago. It was logical enough to shake Dane's faith until he came across Milo Blanding's picture in a magazine article on society in St. Louis. According to the item, Milo was a cousin of the Blandings, whose father had vanished in Chile as a young man and who had just rejoined the family. The picture was of Harding. An alien could have gotten away by simply committing suicide and being carried from the rest home. But Dane had to do it the hard way, watching his chance and using commando tactics on a guard who had come to accept him as a harmless nut. In St. Louis he'd used the perloined letter technique to hide, going back to newspaper work and using almost his real name. It had seemed to work too, but he'd been less lucky about Harding Blanding. The man had been in Europe on some kind of tour until his return only this last week. Dane had seen him just once then, but long enough to be sure it was Harding, before he died again. This time it was a drunken auto accident that seemed to be none of his fault, but left his body a mangled wreck. It was almost dark when Dane dismissed the taxi at the false address, a mile from the entrance to the cemetery. He watched it turn back down the road, then picked up the valice with his camera and folding shovel. He shivered as he moved reluctantly ahead. War had proven that he would never be a brave man and the old fears of darkness and graveyards were still strong in him. But he had to know what the coffin contained now, if it wasn't already too late. It represented the missing link in his picture of the aliens. What happened to them during the period of regrowth? Did they revert to their natural form? Were they at all conscious while the body reshaped itself into wholeness? Dane had puzzled over it night after night with no answer. Nor could he figure how they could escape from the grave. Perhaps a man could force his way out of some of the coffins he had inspected. The soil would still be soft and loose in the grave and a lot of the coffins in the boxes around them were strong in appearance only. A determined creature that could exist without much air for long enough might make it. But there were other caskets that couldn't be cracked, at least without the aid of outside help. What happened when a creature that could survive even the poison of embalming fluids and the draining of all the blood woke up in such a coffin? Dane's mind skittered from it, as always, and then came back to it reluctantly. There were still accounts of corpses turned up with the nails and hair grown long in the grave. Could normal tissues stand the current tricks of the morticians to have life enough for such growth? The possibility was absurd. Those cases had to be aliens, ones who hadn't escaped. Even they must die eventually, in such a case. After weeks and months it took time for hair to grow. And there were stories of corpses that had apparently fought and twisted in their coffins still. What was it like for an alien then going slowly mad while it waited for true death? How long did madness take? He shivered again, but went steadily on while the cemetery fence appeared in the distance. He'd seen Blanding's coffin and the big solid metal casket around it that couldn't be cracked by any amount of effort and strength. He was sure the creature was still there, unless it had a confederate. But that wouldn't matter. An empty coffin would also be proof. Dane avoided the main gate, unsure about whether there would be a watchman or not. A hundred feet away there was a tree near the ornamental spikes of the iron fence. He threw his bag over and began shinnying up. It was difficult but he made it finally dropping onto the soft grass beyond. There was the trace of the moon at times through the clouds, but it hadn't been him, and there had been no alarm wire along the top of the fence. He moved from shadow to shadow, his hair prickling along the base of his neck. Locating the right grave in the darkness was harder than he had expected, even with an occasional brief use of the small flashlight. But at last he found the marker that was serving until the regular monument could arrive. His hands were sweating so much that it was hard to use the small shovel, but the digging of foxholes had given him experience and the ground was still soft from the gravedigger's work. He stopped once as the moon came out briefly. Again a sound in the darkness above left him hovering and sick in the hole, but it must have been only some animal. He uncovered the top of the casket with hands already blistering. Then he cursed as he realized the catches were near the bottom, making his work even harder. He reached them at last, fumbling them open. The metal top of the casket seemed to be a dome of solid lead and he had no room to maneuver, but it began swinging up reluctantly until he could feel the polished wood of the coffin. Dane reached for the lid with hands he could barely control. Fear was thick in his throat now. What could an alien do to a man who discovered it? Would it be harding there, or some monstrous thing still changing? How long did it take a revived monster to go mad when there was no way to escape? He gripped the shovel in one hand working at the lid with the other. Now, abruptly, his nerves steadied as they had done whenever he was in real battle, he swung the lid up and began groping for the camera. His hand went into the silk-lined interior and found nothing. He was too late. Either harding had gotten out somehow before the final ceremony or a confederate had already been there. The coffin was empty. There were no warning sounds this time, only hands that slipped under his arms and across his mouth lifting him easily from the grave. A match flared briefly and he was looking into the face of Buell's chief strong-arm man. Hello, Mr. Phillips. Promise to be quiet and we'll release you, okay? At Dane's sickened nod he gestured to the others. Let him go. And Tom, better get that filled in. We don't want any trouble from this. Surprise came from the grave a moment later. Hey, Burke, there's no corpse here. Burke's words killed any hopes Dane had at once. So what? Ever hear of a cremation? Lots of people use a regular coffin for the ashes. He wasn't cremated, Dane told him. You can check up on that. But he knew it was useless. Sure, Mr. Phillips, we'll do that. The tone was one reserved for humoring madmen. Burke turned, gesturing. Better come along, Mr. Phillips. Your wife and Dr. Buell are waiting at the hotel. The gate was open now. But there was no sign of a watchman. If one worked here Sylvia's money would have taken care of that, of course. Dane went along quietly, sitting in the rubble of his hopes while the big car purred through the morning an on-down lindle boulevard toward the hotel. Once he shivered and Burke dug out a hot brandied coffee. They had thought of everything, including a coat to cover his dirt-soiled clothes as they took him up the elevator to where Buell and Sylvia were waiting for him. She had been crying, obviously, but there were no tears or recriminations when she came over to kiss him. Funny, she must still love him as he'd learned to his surprise he loved her under different circumstances. So you found me, he asked needlessly of Buell. He was operating on purely automatic habits now. The reaction from the night and his failure numbing him emotionally. Jordan got in touch with you? Buell smiled back at him. We knew where you were all along, Dane. But as long as you acted normal, we hoped it might be better than the home. Too bad we couldn't stop you before you got all mixed up in this. So I suppose I'm committed to your booby-hatch again. Buell nodded, refusing to resent the term. I'm afraid so, Dane, for a while anyhow. You'll find your clothes in that room. Why don't you clean up a little? Take a hot bath, maybe. You'll feel better. Dane went in, surprised when no guards followed him. But they had thought of everything. What looked like a screen on the window had been recently installed, and it was strong enough to prevent his escape. Blessed are the poor, for they shall be poorly guarded. He was turning on the shower when he heard the sound of voices coming through the door. He left the water running and came back to listen. Sylvia was speaking. Seem so logical, so completely rational. It makes him a dangerous person, Buell answered, and there was no false warmth in his voice now. Sylvia, you've got to admit it to yourself. All the reason and analysis in the world won't convince him he's wrong. This time we'll have to use shock treatment, burn over those memories, fade them out. It's the only possible course. There was a pause and then a sigh. I suppose you're right. Dane didn't wait to hear more. He drew back while his mind fought to accept the hideous reality. Shock treatment. The works. If what he knew of psychiatry was correct. Enough of it to erase his memories, a part of himself. It wasn't therapy Buell was considering. It couldn't be. It was the answer of an alien that had a human in its hands, one who knew too much. He might have guessed. What better place for an alien than in the guise of a psychiatrist? Where else was there that chance for all the refined modern torture needed to burn out a man's mind? Dane had spent ten years in fear of being discovered by them, and now Buell had him. Sylvia? He couldn't be sure. Probably she was human. It wouldn't make any difference. There was nothing he could do through her. Either she was part of the game or she could. Dane tried the window again, but it was hopeless. There would be no escape this time. Buell couldn't risk it. The shock treatment, or whatever Buell would use under the name of shock treatment, would begin at once. It would be easy to slip, to use an overdose of something to make sure Dane was killed. Or there were ways of making sure it didn't matter. They could leave him alive, in the chambers. The sickness grew in his stomach as he considered the worst that could happen. Death he could accept if he had to. He could even face the chance of torture by itself as he had accepted the danger while trying to have his facts published. But to have his mind taken from him a step at a time, to watch his personality, his ego rotted away under him, and to know that he would wind up as a drooling idiot. He made his decision almost as quickly to realize what Buell must be. There was a razor in the medicine chest. It was a safety razor, of course, but the blade was sharp, and it would be big enough. There was no time for careful planning. One of the guards might come in at any moment if they thought he was taking too long. Some fear came back as he leaned over the wash basin, staring at his throat, fingering the suddenly murderous blade. But the pain wouldn't last long. A lot less than there would be treatment and less pain. He'd read enough to feel sure of that. Twice he braced himself and failed at the last second. His mind flashed out in wild schemes fighting against what it knew had to be done. The world still had to be warned. If he could escape somehow, if he could still find a way, he couldn't quit no matter how impossible things looked. But he knew better. There was nothing one man could do in the world they had taken over. He'd never had a chance. Man had been chained already by carefully developed ridicule against superstition, by carefully indoctrinated gobbledygook about insanity, persecution complexes, and all the rest. For a second Dane even considered the possibility that he was insane. But he knew it was only a blind effort to cling to life. There had been no insanity in him when he groped for evidence he leaned over the wash basin. His eyes focused on his throat and his hand came down and around, carrying the razor blade through a lethal semicircle. Dane Phillips watched fear give place to sickness on his face as the pain lanced through him and the blood spurred it. He watched horror creep up to replace the sickness while the bleeding stopped and the gash began closing. By the time he recognized his expression as the same what he'd seen on his father's face at the window the wound was completely healed.