 The Committee had unquestionably made a mistake. There was no doubt that Edie had achieved the long-sought cancer cure, but awarding the Nobel Prize was, none the less, a mistake. The letter from America arrived too late. The Committee had regarded acceptance as a foregone conclusion, for no one, since Boris Pasternak, had turned down a Nobel Prize. So when Professor Dr. Nells Christensen opened the letter, there was not the slightest fear on his part, or on that of his fellow committeemen, Dr. Eric Karlström and Dr. Sven Ecklund, that the letter would be anything other than the usual routine acceptance. At last we learned the identity of this great research worker, Christensen murmured, as he scanned the closely typed sheets. Karlström and Ecklund waited impatiently, wondering at the peculiar expression that fixed itself on Christensen's face. Fine beads of sweat appeared on the Professor's high, narrow forehead, as he laid the letter down. Well, he said heavily, now we know. Know what? Ecklund demanded. What does it say? Does she accept? She accepts, Christensen said, in a peculiar, house-strangled tone, as he passed the letter to Ecklund. See for yourself. Karlström's reaction was different. His face was a mottled, reddish white, as he finished the letter, and handed it across the table to Karlström. Why, he demanded, of no one in particular, did this have to happen to us? It was bound to happen sometime, Karlström said. It's just our misfortune that it happened to us. He chuckled, as he passed the letter back to Christensen. At least this year the presentation should be an event worth remembering. It seems that we have a little problem, Christensen said, making what would probably be the understatement of the century. Possibly there would be greater understatements in the remaining ninety-nine years of the twenty-first century, but Karlström doubted it. We certainly have our necks out, he agreed. We can't do it! Ecklund exploded. We simply can't award the Nobel Prize in Medicine and Physiology to that—that—C. Edie. He sputtered into silence. We can hardly do anything else, Christensen said. There's no question as to the identity of the winner. Dr. Hansen's letter makes that unmistakably clear, and there's no question that the award is deserved. We still could award it to someone else, Ecklund said. Not a chance. We've already said too much to the press. It's known all over the world that the medical award is going to the discoverer of the basic cause of cancer, to the founder of modern neoplastic therapy, Christensen grimaced. If we changed our decision now, there'd be all sorts of embarrassing questions from the press. I can see it now, Karlström said, the banquet, the table, the flowers, and Professor Dr. Nels Christensen in formal dress with the order of St. Olaf, gleaming across his white shirt front, standing before that distinguished audience, and announcing the Nobel Prize in Medicine and Physiology is awarded too, and then that deadly hush when the audience sees the winner. You needn't rub it in, Christensen said unhappily. I can see it too. These Americans, Ecklund said bitterly. He wiped his damp forehead. The picture Karlström had drawn was accurate but hardly appealing. One simply can't trust them. Publishing a report as important as that as a laboratory release, they should have given proper credit. They did, Karlström said. They did precisely. But the world, including us, was too stupid to see it. We have only ourselves to blame. If it weren't for the fact that the work was inspired and effective, Christensen muttered, we might have a chance of salvaging the situation, but through its application ninety-five percent of cancers are now curable. It is obviously the outstanding contribution to medicine in the past five decades. But we must consider the source, Ecklund protested. This award will make the prize for medicine a laughing stock. No doctor will ever accept another. If we go through with this, we might as well forget about the medical award from now on. This will be its swan song. It hits too close to home. Too many people have been saying similar things about our profession and its trend toward specialization. And to have the Nobel Prize confirm them would alienate every doctor in the world, we simply can't do it. Yet who else has made a comparable discovery, or one that is even half as important, Christensen asked. That's a good question, Karlström said, and a good answer to it isn't going to be easy to find. For my part I can only wish that Alphax Laboratories had displayed an interest in literature rather than medicine. Then our colleagues at the academy could have had the painful decision. Their task would be easier than ours, Christensen said warily. After all, the criteria of art are more flexible. Medicine, unfortunately, is based upon facts. That's the hell of it, Karlström said. There must be some way to solve this problem, Eklund said. After all, it was a perfectly natural mistake. We never suspected that Alphax was a physical rather than a biological sciences laboratory. Perhaps that might offer grounds. I don't think so, Karlström interrupted. The means in this case aren't as important as the results, and we can't deny that the cancer problem is virtually solved. Even though men have been saying for the past two generations that the answer was probably in the literature, and all that was needed was someone with the intelligence and the time to put the facts together, the fact remains that it was C.E.D. who did the job. And it required quite a bit more than merely collecting facts. Intelligence and original thinking of a high order was involved, Christensen sighed. Someone, Eklund said bitterly, some thing you mean, C.E.D. C.E.D. Computer, extrapolating discriminatory. Manufactured by Alphax Laboratories, Trenton, New Jersey, USA. C.E.D. Americans, always naming things. A machine wins the Nobel Prize. It's fantastic. Christensen shook his head. It's not fantastic, unfortunately, and I see no way out. We can't even award the prize to the team of engineers who designed and built E.D. Dr. Hansen is right when he says the discovery was E.D.'s and not the engineers. It would be like giving the prize to Albert Einstein's parents because they created him. Is there any way we can keep the presentation secret? Eklund asked. I'm afraid not. The presentations are public. We've done too good a job publicizing the Nobel Prize. As a telecast item it's almost the equal of the Motion Picture Academy award. I can imagine the reaction when our candidate is revealed in all her metallic glory, a two-meter cube of steel filled with micromaniatrized circuits, complete with flashing lights and cogwheels. Carlson chuckled. And where are you going to hang the metal? Christensen shivered. I wish you wouldn't give that metal nightmare a personality, he said. It unnerves me. Personally, I wish that Dr. Hansen, Alphax Laboratories, and E.D. were all at the bottom of the ocean, in some nice deep spot like the Marianas Trench. He shrugged. Of course we won't have that sort of kick, so we'll have to make the best of it. It just goes to show that you can't trust Americans, Eklund said. I've always thought we should keep our awards on this side of the Atlantic, where people are sane and civilized, making a personality out of a computer. I suppose it's their idea of a joke. I doubt it, Christensen said. They just like to name things, preferably with female names. It's a form of insecurity, the mother fixation, but that's not important. I'm afraid, gentlemen, that we shall have to make the award as we have planned. I can see no way out. After all, there's no reason why the machine cannot receive the prize. The conditions merely state that it is to be presented to the one, regardless of nationality, who makes the greatest contribution to medicine or physiology. I wonder how His Majesty will take it, Karlstrom said. The king, I'd forgotten that, Eklund gasped. I expect he'll have to take it. Christensen said he might even appreciate the humor in the situation. Gustav Adolf is a good king, but there are limits, Eklund observed. There are other considerations, Christensen replied. After all, Edie is the reason the crown prince is still alive and Gustav is fond of his son. After all these years, Christensen smiled. Swedish royalty was long lived. It was something of a standing joke that King Gustav would probably outlast the pyramids, providing the pyramids lived in Sweden. I'm sure His Majesty will cooperate. He has a strong sense of duty, and since the real problem is his, not ours, I doubt if he will shirk it. How do you figure that? Eklund asked. We merely select the candidates according to the rules, and according to the nature of their contribution. Edie is obviously the outstanding candidate in medicine for this year. It deserves the prize. We would be compromising with principle if we did not award it fairly. I suppose you're right, Eklund said flumily. I can't think of any reasonable excuse to deny the award. Nor I, Christensen said, but what did you mean by that remark about this being the king's problem? You forget, Christensen said mildly, of all of us, the king has the most difficult part. As you know, the Nobel Prize is formally presented at a state banquet. Well, His Majesty is the host, Christensen said, and just how does one eat dinner with an electronic computer? End of A Prize for Edie by Jesse Franklin Bown. Service with a Smile by Charles L. Fontenay This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This recording is made by Rachelle Hart. Service with a Smile by Charles L. Fontenay Herbert was truly a gentleman robot. The lady's slightest wish was his command. Herbert bowed with a muted clink, indicating he probably needed oiling somewhere, and presented Alice with a perfect martini on a silver tray. He stood holding the tray with a white, permanent porcelain smile on his smooth metal face, as Alice sipped the drink and grimaced. It's a good martini, Herbert, said Alice. Thank you, but damn it, I wish you didn't have that everlasting smile. I am very sorry, Miss Alice, but I am unable to alter myself in any way, replied Herbert in a polite, hollow voice. He retired to a corner and stood impassively, still holding the tray. Herbert had found a silver deposit and made the tray. Herbert had found a sand and made the cocktail glass. Herbert had combined God-knew-what atmospheric and earth chemicals to make what tasted like gin and vermouth, and Herbert had frozen the ice to chill it. Sometimes, said Thera wistfully, it occurs to me it would be better to live in a mud hut with a real man than in a mansion with Herbert. The foreign women lauled comfortably in a living-room of their spacious house, as luxurious as anything any of them would have known on a distant earth. The rugs were thick, the furniture was overstuffed, the paintings on the walls were aesthetic and inspiring, the shelves were filled with book-tapes and music-tapes. Herbert had done it all, except to the book-tapes and music-tapes, which had been salvaged from the wrecked spaceship. You suppose we'll ever escape from this best of all possible manless world? asked Betsy, fluffing her thick black hair with her fingers and inspecting herself in a Herbert-made mirror. I don't see how, answered Blonde Alice glumly, that atmospheric trap would wreck any other spaceship just as it wrecked ours, and the same magnetic layer prevents any radio message from getting out. No, I'm afraid we're a colony. A colony perpetuates itself, reminded sharp-faced Margaret Assily, we aren't a colony without men. They were not the prettiest women in the universe, nor the youngest. The prettiest women and the youngest did not go to space. But they were young enough and healthy enough, or they could not have gone to space. It had been a year and a half now, an earth year and a half, on a nice little planet revolving around a nice little yellow sun. Herbert, the robot, was obedient and versatile and had provided them with a house, food, clothing, anything they wished created out of the raw materials of earth and air and water. But the bones of all the men who had been a space with these four ladies lay moldering in the wreckage of their spaceship. And Herbert could not create a man. Herbert did not have to have direct orders, and he had tried once to create a man when he had overheard them wishing for one. They buried the corpse, perfect in every detail, except that it had never been alive. It's been a hot day, said Alice, fanning her brow. I wish it would rain. Silently Herbert moved from his corner and went out the door. Margaret gestured after him with a bitter little laugh. It'll rain this afternoon, she said. I don't know how Herbert does it. Maybe with silver eye died. But it'll rain. Wouldn't it have been simpler to get him to air condition the house, Alice? That's a good idea, said Alice thoughtfully. We should have had him do it before. Herbert had not quite completed the task of air conditioning the house when the other spaceship crashed. They all rushed out to the smoking site, the four women and Herbert. It was a tiny scout ship, and its single occupant was alive. He was unconscious, but he was alive. And he was a man. They carted him back to the house, tenderly, and put him to bed. They hovered over him like four hands over a single chick, waiting and watching for him to come out of his coma, while Herbert scurried about creating and administering the necessary medicines. He'll live, said Sarah happily. Sarah had been a space nurse. He'll be on his feet and walking around in a few days. A man, murmured Betsy, with something like awe in her voice. I could almost believe Herbert brought him here in answer to our prayers. Now girls, said Alice, we have to realize that a man brings problems as well as possibilities. There was a matter of fact hardness in her tone, which almost masked the quiver behind it. There was a defiant note of competition there which had not been heard on this little planet before. What do you mean? asked there. I know what she means, said Margaret, and the new hardness came natural to her. She means which one of us gets him. Betsy, the youngest, gassed her mouth rounded to a startled Oh, Sarah blinked as though she were coming out of a daze. That's right, said Alice. Do we draw straws or do we let him choose? Couldn't we wait? Suggested Betsy timidly. Couldn't we wait until he gets well? Herbert came in with a new thermometer and poked it into the unconscious man's mouth. He stood by the bed waiting patiently. No, I don't think we can, said Alice. I think we ought to have it all worked out and agreed on so there won't be any dispute about it. I say draw straws, said Margaret. Margaret's face was thin and she had a skinny figure. Betsy, the youngest, opened her mouth, but Sarah forestalled her. We are not on earth, she said firmly in her soft mellow voice. We don't have to follow terrestrial customs and we shouldn't. There's only one solution that will keep everybody happy. All of us and the man. And that is, asked Margaret dryly. Polygamy, of course. He must belong to us all. Betsy shuddered, but surprisingly she nodded. That's well and good, agreed Margaret. But we have to agree that no one of us will be favored above the others. He has to understand that from the start. That's fair, said Alice, pursing her lips. Yes, that's fair. But I agree with Margaret. He must be divided equally among the four of us. Chattering over the details, the hard competitiveness vanished from their tones. The four left the sick room to prepare for supper. After supper, they went back in. Herbert stood by the bed, the eternal smile of service on his metal face. As always, Herbert had not required a direct command to accede to their wishes. The man was divided into four quarters, one for each of them. It was a very neat surgical job. Service with a smile by Charles L. Fontenay. Recording by Rachelle Hart. hartbooks.blogspot.com. The Stowaway by Alvin Heiner. 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 Bologna Times. The Stowaway by Alvin Heiner. He stole a ride to the moon in search of glory, but found a far different destiny. His eyes were a little feverish, as they had been of late, and his voice held a continuous intensity. As though he were importing a secret, I've got to get on that ship. I've got to. I tell you, and I'm going to make it. Different members of the group regarded him variously, some with amusement, some with contempt, others with frank curiosity. You're plain nuts, Joe. What do you want to go to the moon for? Sure, why do you want to go? What they got on the moon we ain't got right here. There was general laughter from the dozen or so who sat eating their lunch in the shade of Building B. They all thought that was a pretty good one, good enough to repeat. Sure, what they got on the moon we ain't got here. But Joe Spain wasn't in the mood for jokes. He burned with even greater conviction, and stood up as though to harangue the workers. You want to know why I got to go to the moon? Why I've got to get on that ship? Then I'll tell you, it's because I'm a little guy. That's why, Joe Spain, working stiff, one of the great inarticulate masses. More laughter. Where did you get those big words, Joey, out of a book? Come on, talk English. Joe Spain pointed to the huge tube-like Building A off across the desert. The building, you had to have two different passes and a written permit to enter. The mystery building where even newspaper reporters were barred. It's only the big shots they let in there, ain't it? Only them that's got to drag, or went to college or something. Us little guys, they tell go to blow. Ain't that right? Who the hell cares? Maybe it's a damn good place to stay away from. Maybe it'll explode or something. Who wants to die and collect his insurance? I got to get on that ship when it blasts off, because they can't push the masses around. And we got a right to be represented even if we got to sneak in. Me, I'll stay on the ground. And besides, there's the glory. You guys are too stupid to see that. But it's there, the glory of being on the first rocket ship to the moon. The name of Joe Spain, written down in the history books, and said over by people and school kids for thousands of years, immortality. That's the word. Well, just forget about it, Joe, because he ain't going. Joe Spain's eyes burned brighter. Joe Spain coming down the ramp with the big shots when it's all over. News cameras napping, people asking for interviews. But you ain't going because Joe shouted the man down. And another thing, us little people are entitled to a representative aboard that ship. We got a right to know what's going on. How come there's nothing about it in the papers? Only the big shots knowing about it, and whispering among themselves, it's because they're trying to snag it all and freeze us out. You're crazy. It's for security reasons. It's all hush hush, so it won't leak out like the atom bombed it. The big boys are being smart this time. And you ain't getting on the interrupted man, repeated doggedly, because there ain't a way in God's world to get on. With triple security all around the building, just tell me a way to get in. Just tell me one. I'm going to get on that ship, Joe Spain said. Then he clammed up suddenly. Joe Spain wasn't stupid. He was a talker, but he knew when to stop sounding off. The men went back to work shifting the big aluminum barrels from trucks into Building B, carrying the wooden crates and the paper wrapped parcels up the ramps and to the side of the building, facing the big secret structure labeled A. They worked until five o'clock. Then they filed out and got into the waiting trucks and were hauled back to town, the boom town that had mushroomed up in the desert overnight, and would die with the same swiftness when the project was completed. Joe went straight to his rooming-house, washed up, put on his good clothes, and found a stool in a nearby restaurant. He ate a leisurely supper, glancing now and again at the clock. When the clock read eight, he went out into the neon-stained darkness and walked three blocks to the black cat, one of the three nightclubs the desert town boasted. He went to the bar in order to drink. He downed it slowly, carefully, after the manner of a man who wanted to stay sober. A half hour passed before a thin, nervous individual elbowed to the bar and stood beside him. Joe said, Hello, Nick. You've been thinking it over? I need a drink. Then we'll go someplace and talk. But Nick got rid of five drinks while Joe protected his own glass from the barkeep. After a while, Joe said, I'm willing to up the price, Nick. 2000 cash, all I got. Let's get out of here. Nick mumbled. They walked out of the town and into the desert, Nick stumbling now and again to be supported by the tents sober Joe. 2000 Nick, you need the dough. Sure, need the dough, but it wouldn't work. Couldn't get you into one of them barrels. You wouldn't have to. All I ask is that you come along in the morning and seal me up in one. All you have to do is lock on the lid. How do you know the barrels are going on the chip? Never mind about that. I just know I paid to find out. Okay, suppose you do get on the ship and a barrel. Maybe I'll be stored in a hole somewhere. Maybe they wouldn't open up very soon. You'll die. I got a way to get out. One of them special torches, the little ones, aluminum isn't very strong. I can cut it like butter. It'll be hot. You'd burn yourself. Let me worry about that, Joe said fiercely. You want the two grand or not. Nick wanted the 2000 and he was against the wall for excuses. Then he had a happy thought. barrels is airtight. You smother things in infractical. We'll forget it. I won't smother. I'm taking my own oxygen enough to last me clear to the moon if it has to. Come on, breakdown. Okay, for two grand. Got to add the dough now, though. His heart singing, Joe Spain counted out 2000 and cash. When he'd finished, he had exactly $9 left. He was a popper, but the happiest popper, whoever bought with his whole fortune, the thing he craved most. You won't double cross me now, will you? If you got any ideas like that, I'll do it like we said. Nick Sparks never went back on his word. Never. But how are you going to stay hid when it's time to leave work? Leave that to me. It'll be easy. They don't check building be too close. No double check because it's over a mile from building a outside the safety perimeter. I'll stay in tomorrow night and I'll put a little chalk mark on the barrel I'm in right near the top rim. First thing you do when come to work the next morning is seal it and line it up with filled ones. Okay, but I got to go home now. I got a head. I got to get some sleep. What's in the duffel bag? Clean overalls, towel. Joe pulled the zipper down halfway. The guard fingered the blue denim but didn't dig deeper to find the towel. He checked Joe's badge number, made a note on his pad, and motioned to the next worker. Joe let tight breath slowly out of his lungs as he walked toward building B. Getting past the guard was a load off his mind. He expected to get by, but it was one of the calculated risks that could have stopped him cold. Once inside the building, he put the bag into his locker and went to work. He labored briskly and carried more than his share of the load. But now and again he stopped to look over at the outline of building A, limbed hard against hot blazing sky. And each time it was with a sense of heady exhilaration that he thought of his destiny, his hard-earned, dearly-bought destiny, to be among that select group who would first set foot on the surface of the moon. He had no worries about not being allowed to do so. Once he showed himself, with the ship far out in space, they'd have to accept him. Not graciously, of course, but they'd have to admire his courage and tenacity. They could not, in all humanity, deny him a share of the victory. The day wore on, and as quitting time approached, he became more tense, more alert. Five minutes before the whistle, he faded back into the building and hurried to the lavatory. He went into the booth furthest from the entrance and locked the door. Now there was nothing to do but wait. Another of the calculated risks. The whistle blew. Almost immediately the sound of footsteps broke the silence and the lavatory was filled with hurrying men. Their stay in the room was short, however, as Joe had known it would be. Men leaving for home do not dawdle on the premises. The lavatory was empty again. A period of silence while Joe raised his feet from the floor and braced them on the toilet seat. The entrance door opened, a guard making the departure check-up. Joe held his breath. If the guard came down the line and tried the door, he was finished. But Joe had banked upon human nature. The guard stopped. For a long moment there was no sound, and Joe knew the man was bending over to run his eyes down the line of the toilets close to the floor. In this manner he could see the floor of every booth. The guard straightened, turned, walked out. The door closed. Silence. Joe's heart swelled with gratitude. He grinned, looking forward with joy to the long night ahead. He found a spot over behind the barrels where the night watchman would have to climb over a lot of equipment in order to find him. He made himself comfortable, practically certain the guard would not do this. He stretched out on the hard floor and recorded the passing of the hours by the number of times the watchman went through. And he was surprised at how fast the time passed. Finally checking his count carefully he had left his hiding-place and tip-toed to the line of lockers. He took the oxygen equipment from the duffel bag, after which he hid the bag and the clothing therein behind a wall flange and a far corner. Then he climbed into the barrel at the front end of the packing line. He checked the barrel with a small X and jockeyed the lid into place. Time passed. Nothing happened. He wondered if he'd missed on the time element. The men should certainly have come to work now. More than once he was tempted to push the barrel lid aside and check the situation. When footsteps sounded, close by, and the lid snapped firmly into place, he was glad he hadn't done so. Good old Nick. When he got back from the moon he'd see to it that Nick got credit for his courageous act. Soon the barrel began to move. Joe felt it rise into the air and settle with a thump. Then the motor of a truck roared, and Joe knew where he was going, straight toward building A and the moon rocket. There was more movement until finally the barrel was set down for what appeared to be the last time. Joe put the nosepiece of the oxygen tube in place and visualized himself safe and snug in a storage room of the rocket. He closed his eyes and went peacefully to sleep. He slept a long time, to be awakened by a crushing, a wrenching, that all but drove his head down into his spine. The pain brought him sharply alert. He knew instantly what had happened. Blast off. He braced himself against the sides of the barrel and gritted his teeth. Soon it was better, then no pressure at all. Only the fierce happiness on his heart. He'd set a course and won through. He was on the way to the moon. Joe let plenty of time elapse. He knew it was well over an hour later when he unlimbered the torch to cut an escape hole in the barrel. This he knew would be tricky. He could easily burn himself. The heat would be intense. But it wasn't too bad. The aluminum cut quickly, and in a matter of minutes he was standing beside the barrel. As he suspected it was a storage hold. The pitch darkness did not bother him. He'd come prepared with a small pencil flash that threw an adequate beam. He found the door, opened it, and went out into a long passageway. Now he'd covered the length and breadth of the ship. He'd found a lot of rooms all in pitch darkness, no observation ports, and no living thing. He stood frozen in one of the rooms while the beam of his flash picked out a code stenciled on a steel plate over some piece of machinery. X-59 306 MY Experimental Explosion Rocket Moan. The flash dropped from Joe Spain's fingers. He stood in the pitch darkness while the jets vibrated through the rocket. But there was no fear in him. Only the great pain of futility. Only his tears and his whispered words. They'll never know. Nobody won't ever know. End of Stow-Away by Alvin Heiner. Strange Alliance by Bryce Walton This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Stephen Anderson. Strange Alliance by Bryce Walton. Dr. Spechag stopped running, breathing deeply and easily where he paused in the middle of the narrow winding road. He glanced at his watch, 9 AM. He was vaguely perplexed because he did not react more emotionally to the blood staining his slender hands. It was fresh blood, though just beginning to coagulate. It was dabbled over his brown, surged suit, splotching the neatly starched white cuffs of his shirt. His wife always did them up so nicely with a peasant's love for trivial detail. He had always hated the silent ignorance of the peasants who surrounded the little college where he taught psychology. He supposed that he had begun to hate his wife too when he realized after taking her from a local barnyard and marrying her that she could never be anything but a slow-eyed, shuffling peasant. He walked on with brisk health down the narrow dirt road that led toward Glen Oaks. Elm trees lined the road. The morning air was damp and cool. Dew kept the yellow dust settled where spots of sunlight came through leaves and speckled it. Birds started freshly through thickly hung branches. He had given perennial lectures on hysterical episodes. Now he realized that he was the victim of such an episode. He had lost a number of minutes from his own memory. He remembered the yellow, staring eyes of the breakfast eggs gazing up at him from a sea of grease. He remembered his wife screaming, after that, only blankness. He stopped on a small bridge crossing Calvert's Creek, wiped the blood carefully from his hands with a green silk handkerchief. He dropped the stained silk into the clear water. Silver flashes darted up, nibbled the cloth as it floated down. He watched it for a moment, then went on along the shaded road. This was his chance to escape from Glen Oaks. That was what he had wanted to do ever since he had come here five years ago to teach. He had a good excuse now to get away from the shambling peasants whom he hated and who returned the attitude wholeheartedly, the typical provincial's hatred of culture and learning. Then he entered the damp, chilled shadows of the thick wood that separated his house from the college grounds. It was thick, dense, dark. One small corner of it seemed almost ordinary. The rest was superstition, haunted, mysterious and brooding. This forest had provided Dr. Spechag many hours of escape. He had attempted to introspect, but had never found satisfactory causes for his having found himself running through these woods at night in his bare feet, nor why he sometimes hated the sunlight. He tensed in the dank shadows. Someone else was in this forest with him. It did not disturb him. Whatever was here was not alien to him or the forest. His eyes probed the mist that slithered through the ancient mossy trees and hanging vines. He listened, looked, but found nothing. Birds chittered, but that was all. He sat down, his back against a spongy tree trunk fondled dark green moss. As he sat there, he knew he was waiting for someone. He shrugged. Mysticism was not even interesting to him ordinarily. Still, though a behaviorist, he upheld certain instinctual motivation theories. And though reluctantly, he granted Freud contributory significance. He could be an avatist, a victim of unconscious regression, or a prey of some insidious influence. Some phenomena or rather childish science had not yet become aware of. But it was of no importance. He was happier now than he had ever been. He felt free, young and new. Life seemed worth living. Abruptly, with a lithe liquid ease, he was on his feet, body tense, alert. Her form was vaguely familiar as she ran toward him. She dodged from his sight, then reappeared as the winding path cut behind screens of foliage. She ran with long, smooth grace. And he had never seen a woman run like that. A plain skirt was drawn high to allow long, bronzed legs, free movement. Her hair streamed out a cloud of red gold. She kept looking backwards, and it was obvious someone was chasing her. He began sprinting easily toward her. And as the distance shortened, he recognized her. Edith Bailey, a second year psychology major who had been attending his classes two semesters. Very intelligent, reclusive, not a local grown product. Her work had a grimness about it, as though psychology were a dire obsession, especially abnormal psychology. One of her theme papers had been an exhaustive, mature, but somehow overly determined, treatise on self induced hallucination and auto suggestion. He had not been too impressed because of an unjustified emphasis on supernatural myth and legend, including werewolves, vampires and the like. She sprang to a stop like a corner deer as she saw him suddenly blocking the path. She turned, then stopped and turned back slowly. Her eyes were wide, cheeks flushed, taut breasts rose and fell deeply. And her hands were poised for flight. But she wasn't looking at his face. Her gaze was on the blood spattering his clothes. He was breathing deeply to his heart was swelling with exhilaration, his blood flowed hotly, something of the whirling ecstasy he had known back in his student days as a track champion returned to him, the mad bursting of the wind against him, the wild passion of the dash. A burly figure came lurching after her down the path, a tramp evidently from his filthy smoke sodden clothes and thick stubble of beard. He recalled the trestle west of the forest where the spindle-stiffs from the Pacific fruit line jungled up at nights or during long layovers. Sometimes they came into the forest. He was big, fat and awkward. He was puffing and blowing and he began to groan as Dr. Spechog's fist thudded into his flesh. The degenerate fell to his knees, his broken face blowing out bloody air. Finally he rolled on to his side with a long sighing moan. Lay limply, very still. Dr. Spechog's lips were thin, white as he kicked savagely. He heard a popping. The bum flopped sideways into a pile of dripping leaves. He stepped back, looked at Edith Bailey. Her full red lips were moist and gleaming. Her oddly opaque eyes glowed strangely at him. Her voice was low, yet somehow very intense. Wonderful laboratory demonstration, doctor. But I don't think many of your student embryos would appreciate it. Dr. Spechog nodded, smiled gently. No. And an orthodox case. He lit a cigarette and she took one. Their smoke mingled with a dissipating morning mist and he kept on staring at her. A pronounced sweater girl with an intellect. This, this he could have loved. He wondered if it were too late. Dr. Spechog had never been in love. He wondered if he weren't now with this fundamental archetypal beauty. By the way, he was saying, What are you doing in this evil wood? Then she took his arm, very naturally, easily. They began walking slowly along the cool, dim path. Two principal reasons. One, I like it here. I come here often. Two, I knew you always walk along this path. Always late for your eight o'clock class. I've often watched you walking here. You walk beautifully. He did not comment. It seemed unnecessary now. The morning's almost gone. She observed. The sun will be out very warm in a little while. I hate the sun. On an impulse, he said, I'm going away. I've wanted to get out of this obscene nest of provincial stupidity from the day I first came here. And now I've decided to leave. What are you escaping from? He answered softly. I don't know. Something Freudian, no doubt. Something buried, something buried deep, something too distasteful to recognize. She laughed. I knew you were human and not the cynical pseudo-intellectual you predented to be. Disgusting, isn't it? What? Being human, I mean. I suppose so. I'm afraid we're getting an extraordinarily prejudiced view. I can't help being a snob here. I despise and loathe peasants. And I, she admitted, which is merely to say probably that we loathe humanity. Tell me about yourself, he said finally. Gladly, I like doing that to one who will understand. I'm 19. My parents died in Hungary during the war. I came here to America to live with my uncle. But by the time I got here, he was dead too. And he left me no money. So there was no sense in being grateful for his death. I got a part-time job in finished high school in Chicago. I got a scholarship to this place. Her voice trailed off. She was staring at him. Hungary, he said and repeated it. Why, I came from Hungary. Her grip on his arm tightened. I knew somehow I remember Hungary. It's ancient horror. My father inherited an ancient castle. I remember long cold corridors and sticky dungeons and cobweb rooms thick with dust. My real name is Burman. I changed it because I thought Bailey more American. Both from Hungary. Muse Dr. Spechog. I remember very little of Hungary. I came here when I was three. All I remember the ignorant peasants. They're dumb, blind superstition. They're hatred for you're afraid of them, aren't you? She said. He started. The peasants I he shook his head, perhaps. You're afraid. She said. Would you mind telling me, doctor, how these fears of yours manifest themselves? He hesitated. They walked. Finally, he answered, I've never told anyone but you. There are hidden fears. And they reveal themselves consciously in the absurd fear of seeing my own reflection of not seeing my shadow of she breathed sharply. She stopped walking, turned stared at him, not seeing your reflection. He nodded. Not seeing your shadow. Yes. And the full moon, a fear of the full moon, too. But how did you know? And and you're allergic to certain metals, too. For instance, silver. He could only nod. And you go out in the night sometimes and do things. But but you don't remember what? He nodded again. Her eyes glowed brightly. I know. I know I've known those same obsessions ever since I can remember. Dr. Spechog felt strangely uneasy then. A kind of dreadful loneliness. Superstition, he said, our old world background where superstition is the rule old, very old superstition frightened by them when we were young. No. Now those old childhood fixations reveal themselves and crazy symptoms. He took off his coat, threw it into the brush. He rolled up his shirt sleeves. No blood visible now. He should be able to catch the little local passenger train out of Glen Oaks without any trouble. But why should there be any trouble? The blood. He thought, too, that he might have killed the trap. That popping sound. She seemed to sense his thoughts. She said quickly, I'm going with you, doctor. He said nothing. It seemed part of the inevitable pattern. They entered the town. Even for mid morning, the place was strangely silent, damply hot and still. The town consisted of five blocks of main street from which cow paths wound off aimlessly into fields, woods, meadows, and hills. There were always a few shuffling, dull eyed people lauling about in the dusty heat. Now there were no people at all. As they crossed over toward the shady side, two freshly clothed kids ran out of Davis's filling station, stared at them like vacant eyed lambs, then turned and spurted inside Ken Wagner's shoe hospital. Dr. Spachog turned his dark head. His companion apparently hadn't noticed anything ominous or peculiar. But to him, the whole scene was morose, fetid and brooding. They walked down the cracked concrete walk, past the big plate glass window of Murphy's general store, which were kind of fetish in Glen Oaks. But Dr. Spachog wasn't concerned with the cultural significance of the windows. He was concerned with not looking into it. And oddly, he never did look at himself in the glass. Neither did he look across the street, though the glass did pull his gaze into it with an implacable, somewhat terrible insistence. And he stared. He stared at that portion of the glass, which was supposed to reflect Edith Bailey's material self, but didn't reflect anything. Not even a shadow. They stopped. They turned slowly toward each other. He swallowed hard, trembled slightly. And then he knew deep and dismal horror. He studied that section of the glass where her image was supposed to be. It still wasn't. He turned. And she was still standing there. Well, and then she said in a horse whisper, and all he could say was, and yours little bits of chuckling laughter echoed in the incoherent madness of his suddenly whirling brain, echoing years of lecture on cause and effect logic, little bits of chuckling laughter. He grabbed her arm. We can see our own reflections. But we can't see each other's. She shivered. Her face was terribly white. What? What's the answer? No. He didn't have it figured out. Let the witches figured out. Let some old forbidden books do it. Bring the problem to some warlock, but not to him. He was only a doctor of philosophy and psychology. But maybe hallucinations. He muttered faintly. Negative hallucinations. Doctor. Did you ever hear the little joke about the two psychiatrists who met one morning and said, You're feeling excellent today. How am I feeling? He shrugged. We have insight into each other's abnormality, but are unaware of the same in ourselves. That's the whole basis for psychiatry, isn't it? In a way. But this is physical, functional. When psychiatry presents situations where his voice trailed off. I have it figured this way. How eager she was. Somehow it didn't matter much now to him. We're conditioned to react to reality in certain accepted ways. For instance, that we're supposed to see our shadows. So we see them. But in our case, they were never really there to see. Our sanity or normalcy is maintained that way. But but the constant auto illusion must always lead to neuroticism and pathology, the hidden fears. But these fears must express themselves. So they do so in more socially acceptable ways. Her voice suddenly dropped as her odd eyes flickered across the street. But we see each other as we really are. She whispered intensely, though we could never have recognized the truth in ourselves. He turned slowly. His mouth twitched with a growing terrible hatred. They were coming for him now. Four men with rifles were coming toward him. Stealthily creeping they were as though it were some pristine scene with caves in the background. They were bent slightly stalking hunters and hunted and the law of the wild and two of them stopping in the middle of the street. The other two branched circled came at him from either side clumping down the walk. George recognized them all the town Marshal Bill Conway and Mike lash Harry Hutchinson and Dwight Farraghan. Edith Bailey was blacked up against the window. Her eyes were strangely dilated. But the faces of the four men exuded cold animal hate and bloodlust. Edith Bailey's lips said faintly. What are we going to do? He felt so calm. He felt his lips writhe back in a snarl. The wind tingled on his teeth. I know now, he said. I know about the minutes I lost. I know why they're after me. You'd better get away. But but why the guns? I murdered my wife. She served me greasy eggs. God, she was an animal. Just a dump beast. Conway called his rifle crooked and easy promising grace. All right, doc. Come along without any trouble. Though I just assumed you made a break. I'd like to shoot you dead doctor. And what have I done exactly? said Dr. Spechog. He's hog wild yelled Mike lash cutting her up all that way. Let's string him up. Conway yelled something about a fair trial, though not with much enthusiasm. Edith screamed as they charged toward them. A wild and human cry. Dr. Spechog's eyes flashed up the narrow street. Let's go. He said to eat it Bailey. They'll see running. They've never seen before. They can't touch us. They ran. They heard the sharp crack of rifles. They saw the dust spurting up. Dr. Spechog heard himself howling as he became aware of peculiar stings in his body. Queer, painless, deeply penetrating sensations that made themselves felt all over his body as though he were awakening from a long paralysis. Then the mad yelling faded rapidly behind them. They were running streaking out of the town with inhuman speed. They struck out in long easy strides across the meadow toward the dense woods that brooded beyond the college. Her voice gasp exultingly. They couldn't hurt us. They couldn't. They tried. He nodded straining eagerly toward he knew not what nosing into the fresh wind how swiftly and gracefully they could run. Soon they lost themselves in the thick dark forest. Shadows hid them. Days later, the moon was full. It edged over the low hill flanking Glen Oaks on the east. June bugs buzzed ponderously like armor plated dragons toward the lights glowing faintly from the town. Frogs croaked from the swampy meadows in the creek. They came up slowly to stand silhouetted against the glowing moon nosing hungrily into the steady aromatic breeze blowing from the Conway farm below. They glided effortlessly down then across the sharp bladed marsh grass leaping high with each bound as they came disdainfully close to the silent farmhouse. A column of pale light from a coal oil lamp came through the living room window and haloed an neglected flowerbed sorrow and fear clung to the house. The shivering shadow of a gaunt woman was etched against the half drawn shade. The two standing outside the window called the woman's shadow trembled. Then a long rigid finger of steel projected itself beneath the partially raised window. The rifle cracked almost against the faces of the two. He screamed hideously as his companion dropped without a sound twitching twitching. He screamed again and began dragging himself away toward the sheltering forest. Intently and desperately the rifle cracked again. He gave up then. He sprawled out flatly on the cool damp moon bathed path. His hot tongue lapped feverishly at the wet grass. He felt the persistent impact of the rifle's breath against him. And now there was a wave of pain. The full moon was fading into black mental clouds as he feebly attempted to lift his bleeding head. He thought with agonized irony. Provincial fools. Stupid superstitious idiots. And that damned Mrs. Conway. The most stupid of all. Only she would have thought to load her dead husband's rifle with silver bullets. Damned peasants. Total darkness blotted out futile reverie. End of Strange Alliance by Bryce Walton. Recording by Stephen Anderson, Jacksonville, Florida. Sweet Mentale by Randall Garrett. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Julie Carter. Sweet Mentale by Randall Garrett. Overture. Adagio misterioso. The neurosurgeon peeled the thin surgical gloves from his hands as the nurse blotted the perspiration from his forehead for the last time after the long grueling hours. They're waiting outside for you, doctor. She said quietly. The neurosurgeon nodded wordlessly. Behind him three assistants were still finishing up the operation, attending to the little finishing touches that did not require the brilliant hand of the specialist. Such things as suturing up a scalp and applying bandages. The nurse took the sterile mask, no longer sterile now, while the doctor washed and dried his hands. Where are they? he asked finally. Out in the hall, I suppose. She nodded. You'll probably have to push them out of the way to get out of surgery. Her prediction was almost perfect. The group of men in conservative business suits, wearing conservative ties and holding conservative soft felt hats in their hands, were standing just outside the door. Dr. Malin glanced at the five of them, letting his eyes stop on the face of the tallest. He may live, the doctor said briefly. You don't sound very optimistic, Dr. Malin, said the FBI man. Malin shook his head. Frankly, I'm not. He was shot laterally just above the right temple with what looks to me like a 357 Magnum pistol slug. It's in there. He gestured back toward the room he had just left. You can have it if you want. It passed completely through the brain lodging on the other side of the head just inside the skull. I kept him alive, I'll never know, but I can guarantee that he might as well be dead. It was a rather nasty way to lobotomize a man, but it was effective, I can assure you. The federal agent frowned puzzledly. Lobotomized? Like those operations they do on psychotics? Similar, said Malin. But no psychotic was ever butchered up like this, and what I had to do to him to save his life didn't help anything. The men looked at each other than the big one said, I'm sure you did the best you could, Dr. Malin. The neurosurgeon rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead, and looked steadily into the eyes of the big man. You wanted him alive, he said slowly, and I have a duty to save life. But frankly, I think we'll all eventually wish we had the common human decency to let Paul Wendell die. Excuse me, gentlemen, I don't feel well. He turned abruptly and strode off down the hall. One of the men in the conservative suits said, Louis pastor lived through most of his life with only half a brain and he never even knew it, Frank. Maybe, yeah, maybe, said the big man. But I don't know whether to hope he does or hope he doesn't. He used his right thumbnail to pick a bit of microscopic dust from beneath his left index finger, studying the operation without actually seeing it. Meanwhile, we've got to decide what to do about the rest of those screwballs. Wendell was the only sane one and, therefore, the most dangerous. But the rest of them aren't what you'd call safe, either. The others nodded in a chorus of silent agreement. Nocturne, temple di valse. Now what's the matter with me? Thought Paul Wendell, he could feel nothing, absolutely nothing. No taste, no sight, no hearing, no anything. Am I breathing? He couldn't feel any breathing, nor for that matter could he feel heat, nor cold, nor pain. Am I dead? No, at least I don't feel dead. Who am I? What am I? No answer. Kogito, ergo sum. What did that mean? There was something quite definitely wrong, but he couldn't quite tell what it was. Ideas seemed to come from nowhere, fragments of concepts that seemed to have no reference. What did that mean? What is a referent? A concept. He felt he knew intuitively what they meant, but what use they were, he didn't know. There was something wrong, and he had to find out what it was, and he had to find out through the only method of investigation left open to him. So he thought about it. The President of the United States finished reading the Chief of Papers before him, laid them neatly to one side, and looked up at the big man seated across the desk from him. Is this everything, Frank? He asked. That's everything, Mr. President. Everything we know. We've got eight men locked up in St. Elizabeth's, all of them absolutely psychotic, and one human vegetable named Paul Wendell. We can't get anything out of them. The President leaned back in his chair. I really can't quite understand it. Extra-sensory perception. Why should it drive men insane? Wendell's papers don't say enough. He claims it can be mathematically worked out, but he did work it out, but we don't have any proof of that. The man named Frank scowled. Wasn't that demonstration of his proof enough? A small graying, intelligent-faced man, who had been sitting silently listening to the conversation, spoke at last. Mr. President, I'm afraid I still don't completely understand the problem. If we could go over it and get it straightened out, he left the sentence hanging, expectantly. Certainly. This Paul Wendell is a, well, he called himself a psionic mathematician. Actually, he had quite a respectable reputation in the mathematical field. He did very important work in cybernetic theory, but he dropped it several years ago, said that the human mind couldn't be worked at from a mechanistic angle. He studied various branches of psychology and eventually dropped them all. He built several of those queer psionic machines, gold detectors, and something he called a hexer. He's done a lot of different things, evidently. Sounds like he was unable to make up his mind, said the small man. The President shook his head firmly. Not at all. Not at all. He did new creative work in every one of the fields he touched. He was considered something of a mystic but not a crackpot or a screwball. But anyhow, the point is that he evidently found what he'd been looking for for years. He asked for an appointment with me. I okayed the request because of his reputation. He would only tell me that he'd stumbled across something that was vital to national defense and the future of mankind, but I felt that in view of the work he had done he was entitled to a hearing. And he proved to you beyond any doubt that he had this power? The small man asked. Frank shifted his big body uneasily in his chair. He certainly did, Mr. Secretary. The President nodded. I know it might not sound too impressive when heard second hand, but Paul Wendell could tell me more of what was going on in the world than our central intelligence agents have been able to dig up in twenty years, and he claimed he could teach the trick to anyone. I told him I'd think it over. Naturally, my first step was to make sure that he was followed twenty-four hours a day. A man with information like that simply could not be allowed to fall into enemy hands. The President scowled as though angry with himself. I'm sorry to say that I didn't realize the full potentialities of what he had said for several days, not until I got Frank's first report. You could hardly be expected to, Mr. President, Frank said. After all, something like that is pretty heady stuff. I think I follow you, said the Secretary. You found he was already teaching this trick to others. The President glanced at the FBI man. Frank said, that's right. He was holding meetings, classes, I suppose you'd call them, twice a week. There were eight men who came regularly. That's when I gave the order to have them all picked up. Can you imagine what would happen if everybody could be taught to use this ability? Or even a small minority? They'd rule the world, said the Secretary softly. The President shrugged that off. That's a small item, really. The point is that nothing would be hidden from anyone. The way we play the game of life today is similar to playing poker. We keep a straight face and play the cards tight to our chest. But what would happen if everyone could see everyone else's cards? It would seize to be a game of strategy and become a game of pure chance. We'd have to start playing life another way. It would be like chess where you could see the opponents every move. But in all human history there has never been a social analog for chess. That's why Paul Wendell and his group had to be stopped, for a while at least. But what could you have done with them? Asked the Secretary. Imprisoned them somearily? Have them shot? What would you have done? The President's face became graver than ever. I had not yet made that decision. Thank Heaven it has been taken out of my hands. One of his own men shot him? That's right, said the big FBI man. We went into his apartment an instant too late. We found eight mad men in a near corpse. We're not sure what happened, and we're not sure we want to know. Anything that can drive eight reasonably stable men off the deep end in less than an hour is nothing to meddle around with. I wonder what went wrong? Asked the Secretary if no one in particular. Scherzo. Presto. Paul Wendell, too, was wondering what went wrong. Slowly, over a period of immeasurable time, memory seeped back into him. Bits of memory, here and there, crept in from nowhere, sometimes to be lost again, sometimes to remain. Once he found himself mentally humming an odd, rather funeral tune. Now, though you'd have said that the head was dead for its owner, dead was he. It stood on its neck with a smile well bred, and bowed three times to me. It was none of your impudent off-hand nods. Wendell stopped and wondered what the devil seemed so important about the song. Slowly, slowly, memory returned. When he finally realized with crashing finality where he was and what had happened to him, Paul Wendell went violently insane, or he would have if he could have become violent. March Funerbo, lento. Open your mouth, Paul, said the pretty nurse. The hulking mass of not quite human gazed at her with vacuous eyes and opened its mouth. Dexterously she spooned his mouth full of baby food into it. Now swallow it, Paul. That's it. Now another. In pretty bad shape, isn't he? Nurse Peters turned to look at the man who had walked up behind her. It was Dr. Benwick, the new intern. He's worthless to himself and anyone else, she said. It's a shame, too. He'd be rather nice-looking if there were any personality behind that face. She shoveled another spoonful of mashed asparagus into the gaping mouth. Now swallow it, Paul. How long has he been here? Benwick asked, eyeing the scars that showed through the dark hair on the patient's head. Nearly six years, Miss Peters said. Hmm, but they outlawed the bottomies back in the sixties. Open your mouth, Paul. Then to Benwick. This was an accident, bullet in the head. You can see the scar on the other side of his head. The doctor moved around to look at the left temple. Doesn't leave much of a human being, does it? It doesn't even leave much of an animal, Miss Peters said. He's alive, but that's the best you can say for him. Now swallow, Paul. That's it. Even an amoeba can find food for itself. Yeah, even a single cell is better off than he is. Chop out a man's forebrain and he's nothing. It's a case of the whole being less than the sum of its parts. I'm glad they outlawed the operation on mental patients, Miss Peters said, with a note of disgust in her voice. Dr. Benwick said, it's worse than it looks. Do you know why the anti-libotomists managed to get the bill passed? Let's drink some milk now, Paul. No, doctor. I was only a little girl at that time. It was a matter of electroencephalographic records. They showed that there was electrical activity in the prefrontal lobes even after the nerves had been severed, which could mean a lot of things, but the AL supporters said that it indicated that the forebrain was still capable of thinking. Miss Peters looked a little ill. Why, that's horrible. I wish she'd never told me. She looked at the lump of vegetable-ized humans sitting placidly at the table. Do you suppose he's actually thinking somewhere? Deep inside? Oh, I doubt it, Benwick said hastily. There's probably no real self-awareness, none at all. There couldn't be. I suppose not, Miss Peters said. But it's not pleasant to think of. That's why they outlawed it, said Benwick. RONDO Insanity is a retreat from reality, an escape within the mind from the reality outside the mind. But what if there is no detectable reality outside the mind? What is there to escape from? Suicide, death in any form, is an escape from life. But if death does not come and cannot be self-inflicted, what then? And when the pressure of nothingness becomes too great to bear, it becomes necessary to escape. A man under great enough pressure will take the easy way out. But what if there is no easy way? Why, then, a man must take the hard way. For Paul Wendell there was no escape from his dark, senseless, ghanna by way of death, and even insanity offered no retreat. Insanity in itself is senseless, and senselessness was what he was trying to flee. The only insanity possible was a psychosis of regression, a fleeing into the past, into the crystallized, unchanging world of memory. So Paul Wendell explored his past, every year, every hour, every second of it, searching to recall and savor every bit of sensation he had ever experienced. He tasted and smelled and touched and heard and analyzed each of them minutely. He searched through his own subjective thought processes, analyzing, checking, and correlating them. Know thyself. Time and time again Wendell retreated from his own memories and confusion or shame or fear. But there was no retreat from himself, and eventually he had to go back and look again. He had plenty of time, all the time in the world. How can subjective time be measured when there is no objective reality? Eventually there came the time when there was nothing left to look at, nothing left to see, nothing left to check and remember, nothing that he had not gone over in every detail. Again, boredom began to creep in. It was not the boredom of nothingness, but the boredom of the familiar. Imagination? What could he imagine except combinations and permutations of his own memories? He didn't know. Maybe there might be more to it than that. So he exercised his imagination. With a wealth of material to draw upon, he would build himself worlds where he could move around, walk, talk, and make love, eat, drink, and feel the caress of sunshine and wind. It was while he was engaged in this project that he touched another mind. He touched it, fused for a blinding second, and bounced away. He ran gibbering up and down the corridors of his own memory, mentally reeling from the shock of identification. Who was he? Paul Wendell? Yes, he knew with incontrovertible certainty that he was Paul Wendell, but he also knew with almost equal certainty that he was Captain Sir Richard Francis Burton. He was living, had lived, in the latter half of the nineteenth century. But he knew nothing of the Captain other than the certainty of identity. Nothing else of that blinding mind touch remained. Again he scoured his memory, Paul Wendell's memory, checking and rechecking the area just before that semi-fatal bullet had crashed through his brain. And finally, at long last, he knew with certainty where his calculations had gone astray. He knew positively why eight men had gone insane. Then he went again in search of other minds, and this time he knew he would not bounce. An old man sat quietly in his lawn chair, puffing contentedly on an expensive briar pipe and making corrections with a fountain pen on a thick sheaf of typewritten manuscript. Around him stretched an expansive green lawn, dotted here and there with squat cycads that looked like overgrown pineapples. In the distance, screening the big house from the road, stood a row of stately palms, their fronds stirring lightly in the faint warm California breeze. The old man raised his head as a car pulled into the curving driveway. The warm hum of the turbo-electric engine stopped, and a man climbed out of the vehicle. He walked with easy strides across the grass to where the elderly gentlemen sat. He was lithe of indeterminate age, but with a look of great determination. There was something in his face that made the old man vaguely uneasy, not with fear but with a sense of deep respect. What can I do for you, sir? I have some news for you, Mr. President. The younger one said. The old man smiled riley. I haven't been President for fourteen years. Most people call me Senator or just plain Mr. The younger man smiled back. Very well, Senator. My name is Camberton. James Camberton? I brought some information that may possibly relieve your mind. Or again it may not. You sound ominous, Mr. Camberton. I hope you'll remember that I've been retired from the political field for nearly five years. What is this shattering news? Paul Wendell's body was buried yesterday. The Senator looked blank for a second, then recognition came into his face. Wendell, eh? After all this time. Poor chap, he'd have been better off if he'd died twenty years ago. Then he paused and looked up. But just who are you, Mr. Camberton? And what makes you think I would be particularly interested in Paul Wendell? Mr. Wendell wants to tell you that he is very grateful to you for having saved his life, Senator. If it hadn't been for your orders, he would have been left to die. The Senator felt strangely calm, although he knew he should feel shocked. That's ridiculous, sir. Mr. Wendell's brain was hopelessly damaged. He never recovered his sanity or control of his body. I know I used to drop over to see him occasionally, until I finally realized that I was only making myself feel worse and doing him no good. Yes, sir. And Mr. Wendell wants you to know how much he appreciated those visits. The Senator grew red. What the devil are you talking about? I just said that Wendell couldn't talk. How could he have said anything to you? What do you know about this? I never said he spoke to me, Senator. He didn't. And as to what I know of this affair, evidently you don't remember my name. James Camberton. The Senator frowned. The name is familiar, but— Zenn his eyes went wide. Camberton! You were one of the eight men who— What? You're the man who shot Wendell! Camberton pulled up an empty lawn chair and sat down. That's right, Senator, but there's nothing to be afraid of. Would you like to hear about it? I suppose I must. The old man's voice was so low that it was scarcely audible. Tell me, were the other seven released too? Have you all regained your sanity? Do you remember— He stopped. Do we remember the extrasensory perception formula? Yes, we do. All eight of us remember it well. It was based on faulty premises and incomplete, of course, but in its own way it was workable enough. We have something much better now. The old man shook his head slowly. I failed, then. Such an idea is as fatal to society as we know it as a virus plague. I tried to keep you men quarantined, but I failed. After all those years of insanity, now the chess game begins. The poker game is over. It's worse than that, Camberton said, chuckling softly. Or, actually, it's much better. I don't understand. Explain it to me. I'm an old man, and I may not live to see my world collapse. I hope I don't. Camberton said, I'll try to explain in words, Senator. They're inadequate, but a fuller explanation will come later. And he launched into the story of the two-decade search of Paul Wendell. Coda, andantino. Telepathy? Time travel? After three hours of listening, the ex-president was still not sure he understood. Think of it this way, Camberton said. Think of the mind at any given instant as being surrounded by a shield, a shield of privacy, a shield which you yourself have erected, though unconsciously. It's a perfect insulator against telepathic prying by others. You feel you have to have it in order to retain your privacy, your sense of identity even. But here's the kicker. Even though no one else can get in, you can't get out. You can call this shield self-consciousness. Perhaps shame is a better word. Everyone has it to some degree. No telepathic thought can break through it. Occasionally some people will relax it for a fraction of a second. But the instant they receive something, the barrier goes up again. Then how is telepathy possible? How can you go through it? The senator looked puzzled as he thoughtfully tamped tobacco into his spire. You don't go through it. You go around it. Now wait a minute. That sounds like some of those fourth dimension stories I've read. I recall that when I was younger I read a murder mystery, something about a morgue, I think, at any rate. The murder was committed inside a locked room. No one could possibly have gotten in or out. One of the characters suggested that the murderer traveled through the fourth dimension in order to get at the victim. He didn't go through the walls. He went around them. The senator puffed a match-flame into the bowl of his pipe, his eyes on the younger man. Is that what you're driving at? Exactly. Agreed Pemberton. The fourth dimension. Time. You must go back in time to an instant when that wall did not exist. An infant has no shame, no modesty, no shield against the world. You must travel back down your own four-dimensional tube of memory in order to get outside it, and to do that you have to know your own mind completely and you must be sure you know it. For only if you know your own mind can you communicate with another mind, because at the instant of contact you become that person. You must enter his own memory at the beginning and go up the hyper-tube. You will have all his memories, his hopes, his fears, his sense of identity, unless you know, beyond any trace of doubt, who you are, the result is insanity. The senator puffed his pipe for a moment, then shook his head. It sounds like Oriental mysticism to me. If you can travel in time you'd be able to change the past. That's like saying that if you read a book the author's words will change. Time isn't like that. Look, suppose you had a long trough filled with super-cold water. At one end you drop in a piece of ice. Immediately the water begins to freeze. The crystallization front moves toward the other end of the trough. Behind that front there is ice, frozen, immovable, unchangeable. Ahead of it there is water, fluid, mobile, changeable. The instant we call the present is like that crystallization front. The past is unchangeable, the future is flexible, but they both exist. I see. At least I think I do. And you cannot do all this? Not yet, said Camberton. Not completely. My mind isn't as strong as Wendell's nor as capable. I'm not the, shall we say, the Superman he is. Perhaps I never will be. But I'm learning. I'm learning. After all, it took Paul twenty years to do the trick, under the most favorable circumstances imaginable. I see. The senator smoked his pipe in silence for a long time. Camberton lit a cigarette and said nothing. After a time the senator took the briar from his mouth, and began to tap the bowl gently on the heel of his palm. Mr. Camberton, why do you tell me all this? I still have influence with the Senate. The present president is a protégé of mine. It wouldn't be too difficult to get you men put away again. I have no desire to see our society ruined. Our world destroyed. Why do you tell me? Camberton smiled apologetically. I'm afraid you might find it a little difficult to put us away again, sir. But that's not the point. You see, we need you. We have no desire to destroy our present culture, until we've designed a better one to replace it. You are one of the greatest living statesmen, Senator. You have a wealth of knowledge and ability that can never be replaced. Knowledge and ability that will help us to design a culture and a civilization that will be as far above this one as this one is above the Wolfpack. We want you to come in with us, help us. We want you to be one of us. I? I'm an old man, Mr. Camberton. I will be dead before this civilization falls. How can I help build a new one? And how could I, at my age, be expected to learn this technique? Paul Wendell says you can. He says you have one of the strongest minds now existing. The Senator put his pipe in his jacket pocket. You know, Camberton, you keep referring to Wendell in the present tense. I thought you said he was dead. Again, Camberton gave him the odd smile. I didn't say that, Senator. I said they buried his body. That's quite a different thing. You see, before the poor useless hulk that held his blasted brain died, Paul gave the aid of us his memories. He gave us himself. The mind is not the brain, Senator. We don't know what it is yet, but we do know what it isn't. Paul's poor damaged brain is dead, but his memories, his thought processes, the very essence of all that was Paul Wendell, is still very much with us. Do you begin to see now why we want you to come in with us? There are nine of us now, but we need the tenth. You. Will you come? I? I'll have to think it over. The old statesman said in a voice that had a faint quaver. I'll have to think it over. But they both knew what his answer would be. End of Sweet Mental by Randall Garrett Recording by Julie Carter Reading by Greg Marguerite Half an hour before, while she had been engrossed in the current soap opera, and Harry Jr. was screaming in his crib, Melinda would naturally have slammed the front door in the little man's face. However, when the bell rang, she was wearing her new Chinese red house coat, had just lustered her nails to a blinding scarlet, and Harry Jr. was sleeping like an angel. Yawning, Melinda answered the door, and the little man said, beaming, excellent day, I have gigos for information. Melinda did not quite recoil. He was perhaps five feet tall, with a gleaming hairless scalp, and a young old face. He wore a plain gray tunic, and a peddler's tray hung from his thin shoulders. Don't want any? Melinda stated flatly. Please, he had great beseeching amber eyes. They all say that I haven't much time, I must be back at the university by noon. You're working your way through college? He brightened. Yes, I suppose you could call it that, alien anthropology major. Melinda softened. The initiations those frats pulled nowadays, shaving the poor guy's head, eating goldfish. It was criminal. Well, she asked grudgingly, what's in the tray? Flanglers, said the little man eagerly, oscilloscopes, portable force field generators, a neural disorder. Melinda's face was blank. The little man frowned. You use them, of course. This is a class four culture. Melinda essayed a weak shrug and the little man sighed with relief. His eyes fled past her to the blank screen of the TV set. Ah, a monitor. He smiled. For a moment I was afraid. May I come in? Melinda shrugged, opened the door. This might be interesting, like a vacuum cleaner salesman who had cleaned her drapes last week for free. And Kitty Kyle battles life wouldn't be on for almost an hour. My name is Portius, said the little man with an eager smile. I'm doing a thematic on class four cultures. He whipped out a stylus, began jotting down notes. The TV set fascinated him. It's turned off right now, Melinda said. Portius's eyes widened impossibly. You mean, he whispered in horror, that you're exercising class five privileges? This is terribly confusing. I get doors slammed in my face when class fours are supposed to have a splendid Gregorian quotient. You do have atomic power, don't you? Oh, sure, said Melinda uncomfortably. This wasn't going to be much fun. Space travel? Little face was intent and sharp. Well, Melinda yawned, looking at the blank screen. They've got space patrol, space cadet, tales of tomorrow. Excellent! Rocket ships are force fields. Melinda blinked. Does your husband own one? Melinda shook her blonde head helplessly. What are your economic circumstances? Melinda took a deep, rasping breath, said, Listen, mister, is this a demonstration or a quiz program? Oh, my excuse. Demonstration, certainly. You will not mind the questions? Questions? There was an ominous glint in Melinda's blue eyes. Your delightful primitive customs, art forms, personal habits? Look, Melinda said crimsoning. This is a respectable neighborhood, and I'm not answering any Kinsey report. Understand? The little man nodded, scribbling. Personal habits are taboo? I so regret. The demonstration. He waved grandly at the tray. Antigrav sandals? A portable solar converter. Apologizing for this miserable selection, but on Capella, they told me. He followed Melinda's entranced gaze, selected a tiny green vial. This is merely a regenerative solution. You appear to have no cuts or bruises. Oh, Melinda said nastily. Cures warts, cancer, grows hair, I suppose. Portious brightened. Of course, I see you can scan. Amazing! He scribbled further with his stylus, glanced up, blinked at the obvious scorn on Melinda's face. Here, try it. You try it. Now watch him squirm. Portious hesitated. Would you like me to grow an extra finger, hair? Grow some hair, Melinda tried not to smile. The little man unstopped the vial, poured a shimmering green drop on his wrist, frowning. Must concentrate, he said. The thorium-base suspended solution really jolts the endocrine's complete control. See? Melinda's jaw dropped. She stared at the tiny tuft of hair which had sprouted on that bare wrist. She was thinking abruptly, unhappily, about that shenan she had bought yesterday. They had let her buy that for eight dollars when, with this stuff, she could have a natural one. How much, she inquired cautiously. Only half an hour of your time, said Portious. Melinda grasped the vial firmly, settling down on the sofa with one leg tugged carefully under her. Okay, shoot, but nothing personal. Portious was delighted. He asked a multitude of questions, most of them pointless, some naive, and Melinda dug into her infinitesimal fund of knowledge and gave. The little man scribbled furiously, clucking like a gravid hen. You mean, he asked in amazement, that you live in these primitive huts of your own volition? It's a GI housing project, Melinda said, ashamed. Astonishing, he wrote, futile anachronisms and atomic power side by side, class fours periodically ruffet in back-to-nature movements. Harry, Jr. chose that moment to begin screaming for his lunch. Portious sat trembling. Is that a security alarm? My son, said Melinda despondently, and went into the nursery. Portious followed and watched the undulating child with some trepidation. Newborn? Eighteen months, said Melinda stiffly, changing diapers. He's cutting teeth. Portious shuddered. What a pity. Obviously out of vistic. Wouldn't the crash accept him? You shouldn't have to keep him here. I keep after Harry to get him made, but he says we can't afford one. Manifestally insecure, muttered the little man, studying Harry, Jr. Definite paranoid tendencies. He was two weeks premature, volunteered Melinda. He's real sensitive. I know just the thing, Portious said happily. Here. He dipped into the glittering glitter on the tray and handed Harry, Jr. a translucent prism. A neural disorder. We use it to train regressives on Rigel too. It might be of assistance. Melinda eyed the thing doubtfully. Harry, Jr. was peering into the shifting crystal depths with a somewhat strained expression. Speeds up the neural flow, explained the little man proudly. Helps tap the unused 80%. The pre-symptomatic memory is unaffected due to automatic cerebral lapse in case of overload. I'm afraid it won't do much more than cube his present IQ, and an intelligent idiot is still an idiot, but— How dare you! Melinda's eyes flashed. My son is not an idiot. You get out of here this minute and take your things with you. As she reached for the prism, Harry, Jr. squalled. Melinda relented. Here, she said angrily fumbling with her purse. How much are they? Medium of exchange? Portious rubbed his bald skull. I really shouldn't, but it'll make such a wonderful adentum to the chapter on malignant primitives. What is your smallest denomination? Is a dollar okay? Melinda was hopeful. Portious was pleased with the picture of George Washington. He turned the bill over and over in his fingers. At last bowed low and formally apologized for any taboo violations and left via the front door. Crazy fraternities, muttered Melinda, turning on the TV set. Kitty Kyle was dull that morning. At length, Melinda used some of the liquid in the green vial on her eyelashes, was quite pleased at the results, and hid the rest in the medicine cabinet. Harry, Jr. was a model of docility the rest of that day. While Melinda watched TV and munched chocolates, did and re-did her hair, Harry Jr. played quietly with the crystal prism. Toward late afternoon, he crawled over to the bookcase, wrestled down the encyclopedia, and pawed through it, gurgling with delight. He definitely, Melinda decided, would make a fine lawyer some day. Not a useless potterer like Big Harry, who worked all hours over time in that damned lab. She scowled as Harry, Jr. bored with the encyclopedia began reaching for one of Big Harry's tomes on nuclear physics. One putterer in the family was enough, but when she tried to take the book away from him, Harry, Jr. howled so violently that she let well enough alone. At 6.30, Big Harry called from the lab with the usual, despondent message that he would not be home for supper. Melinda said a few resigned things about cheerless dinners eaten alone, hinted darkly what lonesome wives sometimes did for company, and Harry said he was very sorry, but this might be it. And Melinda hung up on him in a temper. Precisely fifteen minutes later, the doorbell rang. Melinda opened the front door and gaped. This little man could have been Porteus's double except for the black metallic tunic and glacial gray eyes. Mrs. Melinda Adams? Even the voice was frigid. Yes, why? Major Nord, Galactic Security, the little man bound. You were visited early this morning by one Porteus. He spoke the name with a certain disgust. He left a neural disorder here, correct? Melinda's nod was tremulous. Major Nord came quietly into the living room, shut the door behind him. My apologies, Madam, for the intrusion. Porteus mistook your world for a class four culture instead of a class seven. Here. He handed her the crumpled dollar bill. You may check the serial number. The distorter, please. Melinda shrunk limply onto the sofa. I—I don't understand, she said painfully. Was he a thief? He was careless about his spatial coordinates. Major Nord's teeth showed in the faintest of smiles. He has been corrected. Where is it? Now look, said Melinda with some asperity. That thing kept Harry Jr. quiet all day. I bought it in good faith, and it's not my fault. Say, have you got a warrant? Madam, said the Major with dignity. I disliked violating local taboos, but must I explain the impact of a neural disorder on a backwarder culture? What if your Neanderthal had been given atomic blasters? Where would you have been today? Swinging through trees, no doubt. What if your Hitler had force fields? He exhaled. Where is your son? In the nursery, Harry Jr. was contentedly playing with his blocks. The prism laid glinting in the corner. Major Nord picked it up carefully, scrutinized Harry Jr. His voice was very soft. You said he was playing with it? Some vestigial maternal instinct prompted Melinda to shake her head vigorously. The little man stared hard at Harry Jr. who began whimpering, trembling. Melinda scooped up Harry Jr. Is that all you have to do? Run around frightening women and children? Take your old disorder and get out. Leave decent people alone. Major Nord frowned. If only he could be sure. He peered stonely at Harry Jr., murmured. Definite egomania. It doesn't seem to have affected him. Strange. Do you want me to scream? Melinda demanded. Major Nord sighed. He bowed to Melinda, went out, closed the door, touched a tiny stud on his tunic, and vanished. The manners of some people. Melinda said to Harry Jr. She was relieved that the Major had not asked for the green vial. Harry Jr. also looked relieved, although for quite a different reason. Big Harry arrived home a little after eleven. There were small worry creases about his mouth and forehead and the leaden cast of defeat in his eyes. He went into the bedroom and Melinda sleepily told him about the little man working his way through college by peddling silly goods and about that rude cop named Nord. And Harry said that was simply astonishing. And Melinda said, Harry, you had a drink. I had two drinks. Harry told her allishly. You married a failure, dear. Part of the experimental model vaporized. Whoosh! Just like that. On paper it looks so good. Melinda had heard it all before. She asked him to see if Harry Jr. was covered and Big Harry went unsteadily into the nursery, sat down by his son's crib. Poor little guy, he mused. You're old man's a bum, a useless tinker. He thought he could send man to the stars on a string of helium nuclei. He was smart. Thought of everything. Auxiliary jets to kick off the negative charge. Bigger mercury vapor banks, a fine straight thrust of positive alpha particles. He hiccuped, put his face in his hands. Didn't you ever stop to think that a few air molecules could defocus the stream? Try a vacuum, stupid! Big Harry stood up. Did you say something, son? Girlful, said Harry Jr. Big Harry reeled into the living room like a synombalist. He got pencil and paper, began jotting frantic formula. Presently he called a cab and raced back to the laboratory. Melinda was dreaming about little bald men with diamond-studded trays. They were chasing her. They kept pelting her with rubies and emeralds. All they wanted was to ask questions, but she kept running. Harry Jr. clasped tightly in her arms. Now they were ringing alarm bells. The bells kept ringing and she groaned. She sat up in bed and seized the telephone. Darling! Big Harry's voice shook. I've got it! More auxiliary shielding plus a vacuum will be rich! That's just fine, said Melinda Crossley. You woke the baby. Harry Jr. was sobbing bitterly into his pillow. He was sick with disappointment. Even the most favorable extrapolation showed it would take him 19 years to become master of the world. An eternity. Nineteen years. End of Teething Ring by James Causie