Classic Audiobook Collection - Battles for the Stars by Dave Dryfoos ~ Full Audiobook [scifi]

Episode Date: March 1, 2024

Battles for the Stars by Dave Dryfoos audiobook. Genre: scifi Battles for the Stars is a fast-moving anthology of classic short science fiction centered on conflict in many forms: battlefield action, cold war brinkmanship, and moral battles over what it means to be human. Across a wide range of settings, the collection follows desperate diplomats trying to stop an alien threat before it can report back to its empire, commanders and scientists forced to weigh duty against conscience, and professional fighters pushed into contests where the odds are never what they seem. Other tales explore the machinery of future war, from uncanny weapons and military automation to grim social experiments that send the young to fight for the sake of 'peace.' Dave Dryfoos appears as one of the contributing authors, with a tense, near-future chase in which Robbie must choose where his loyalty lies - with a robot or with a man - as danger closes in on the Golden Gate Bridge. Read as a set, these stories deliver quick hooks, sharp twists of premise, and the uneasy question that lingers after the shooting stops: what, exactly, is worth defending when the battlefield is the stars? For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 01 (00:28:45) Chapter 02 (00:57:48) Chapter 03 (01:11:28) Chapter 04 (01:23:39) Chapter 05 (01:44:45) Chapter 06 (02:04:55) Chapter 07 (02:16:21) Chapter 08 (02:20:47) Chapter 09 (03:22:00) Chapter 10 (03:49:43) Chapter 11 (04:24:24) Chapter 12 (04:37:58) Chapter 13 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Story one of Battled for the Stars. In Space, Ed Reed short sci-fi, volume three. Strain by L. Ron Hubbard. It was unreasonable, he told himself, to feel no agony of apprehension. He was in the vortex of a time whirlwind, and here all stood precariously upon the edge of disaster, but stood quietly waiting, and unbreathing.

No man who had survived a crash, survived bullets, survived the paralyzing rays of the guards had a right to be calm, and it was not like him to be calm. His slender hands and even delicate features were those of an aristocrat, those of a sensitive thoroughbred

whose nerves coursed on the surface, whose health depended upon the quietness of those nerves. They threw him into the domed room, and his space boots rang upon the metal floor, and the glare of savage lights bit into his skull scarcely less than the impact from the eyes of the enemy intelligence officer. The identification papers were pushed across the desk by this guard,

and the intelligence officer scanned them. Hmm. The brutish, Saturnian countenance lighted and became interested. The slitted eyes flicked with satisfaction from one to the other of the two captured officers. "'Captain Forrested Wolf,' said the man behind the desk. "'Which one of you?'

He looked steadily at the saturnian, and was a little amazed, to find himself still calm. "'I'm he.' "'Ah, then you our flight officer Morrison.' The captain's companion was sweating, and his voice had a tremor in it. His youthful, not too bright face, twitched. "'He got no right to do anything to us. We are prisoners of war, captured in uniform and line of combat duty. we treat Satanians well enough and we grab them.

This speech, or perhaps its undertone of panic, was of great satisfaction to the intelligence officer. He stood up with irony in his bearing and shook Captain DeWolf by the hand. Then, less politely, but with more interest, bowed slightly to flight officer Morrison. The intelligence officer sat down. Ah, yes, he said, looking at the papers.

Fortunes of war. You came down into range of the battery isn't. Well, you came down. You gentlemen don't accuse the Cisternians of a lack in knowing the rules of war, I trust. But there was false candor there. You will give you every courtesy he's captured officers. Your pay until the end of the war. Suitable quarters, servants, good food, access to entertainment,

and a right to look after your less fortunate enlisted captives. There was no end to the statement. It hung there, waiting for an additional qualification. And then the intelligence officer looked at them quickly, falsely, and said, Of course that is contendent upon your willingness to give us certain information. Flight officer Morrison licked overly dry lips. He was young. He had heard many stories about the treatment, even the torture the Saternians gave their prisoners.

And he knew that as a staff officer, the Saternians would know his inadvertent possession of the battle plan, so all important to this campaign. Morrison flicked a scared glance at his captain, and then tried to assume a blustering attitude. Captain DeWolf spoke calmly, a little surprised at himself that he could be so calm in the knowledge that has aid to General Ballantine he knew far more than was good to know. I'm afraid, said the captain quietly, but we know nothing of any use to you. The intelligence officer smiled and read the papers again. "'I'm not contrary, my dear Captain. I think you know a great deal.' It was not clever of you to wear that staff Aguilat on a reconnaissance patrol.

It was not clear of you to suppose that merely because we had never succeeded in forcing down a G434 such as yours that it could not be done. And that is not at all cleverer view to suppose that we have no knowledge of a pending attack, a very broad attack. We have that knowledge. We must know more. His smile was ingratiating, and you naturally will tell us. You go to hell, said Flight Officer Morrison, hysteria, lurking behind his eyes.

Now, now, do not be so hasty, gentlemen, said the intelligence officer. Sit down and smoke a cigarette with me, and settle this thing. Neither officer made a move toward the indigated chairs. Through Morrison's mind, coarsed the crude atrocity stories which had been circulating among the troops of Earth, stories which concerned Earth's soldiers lashed to Antillard. and honey injected into their wounds. Stories which dealt with a courier skinned alive, square inch by square inch.

Stories about a man staked out, eyelids cut away to be let go mad in the blaze of Mercurian noon. Captain DeWolf was detached in a dull and disinterested way, standing back some feet from himself and watching the clever young staff captain emotionally regard the sly Saturnian. The intelligence officer looked from one to the other. He was a good intelligence officer.

He knew faces, could feel emotions telepathically, and he knew exactly what information he must get. The flight officer could be broken. It might take several hours and several persuasive instruments, but he could be broken. The staff captain could not be broken, but because he was an intelligent, sensitive man, he could be driven to the brink of madness.

His mind could be war. and the information could thus be extracted. It was too bad to have to resort to these expedients. It was not exactly a gentlemanly way of conducting a war. But there were necessities which knew no rules, and there was a saturnian general staff which did not now believe in anything resembling humanity. "'Dentlemen,' said the intelligence officer, looking at his cigarette, and then at his long, sharp nails.

"'We have no wish to break your bodies. your minds and discard you. That is useless. You are already beaten. The extraction of information is with us, a science. I do not threaten. But unless we learn what we wish to learn, we must proceed. Now, why don't you tell me all about it here and now? And save us this uncomfortable and regrettable necessity. He knew men. He knew earth men. He knew the temper of an officer of the United States of Earth, and he did not expect them to do anything but what they did. Stiffen up, become hostile and angry. But this was the first step. This was the implanting of the seed of concern. He knew just how far he could go. He smiled at them. You, he continued,

a young, women doubtless love you. Your lives lay far ahead of you. It is not so bad to be an at prison truly. Why caught the possibility of broken bodies, broken minds, warped and twisted spirits? There is nothing worth that. Your loyalty lies to yourselves, primarily. The state does not own a man.

Now, what have you to say? Flight Officer Morrison glanced at his captain. He looked back at the intelligence officer. Go to hell, he said. There were no blankets or bunks in the cell. and there was no light save when the guard came, and then there was a blinding torrent of it. The walls sloped toward the centre,

and there was no flat floor but a rounded continuation of the walls. The entire place was built of especially heat-conductive metal, and the two prisoners had been stripped of all their clothes. Captain DeWolf sat in the freezing ink and tried to keep as much of himself as possible from contacting the metal. For some hours a water drop had been falling somewhere, on something tinny, and it did not fall with regularity. Sometimes there were three splashes in rapid succession,

and then none for ten seconds, twenty seconds, or even for a minute. The body would build itself up to the next drop, would relax only when it had fallen, would build up for the expected interval, and then wait, wait, and finally slack down in the thought that it would come no longer. Suddenly the drop would fall, her very small, small sound to react so shatteringly upon the nerves. The captain was trying to keep his thoughts in a logical regulation pattern,

despite the weariness which assailed him, despite the shock of chill, which racked him every time he forgot, and relaxed against the metal. How hot was this foul air, how cold was this wall. "'Borster!' wrote Morrison's voice, "'Hello!' starting himself with the loudness of his tone.

"'Do? Is it possible they'll keep us here, forever. I don't think so, said the captain. After all, our information won't be any good in any length of time. If you are hoping for action, I think you'll get it. Is this good sense to hold out? Listen to me, said the captain. You've been in the service long enough to know that if one man fails, he is liable to take the regiment along with him. If we fail, we'll take the entire army. Remember that. We can't let General Ballantyne down. We can't let our brother off. We can't let our brother officers down. We can't let the troops down, and we can't let ourselves down. Make up your mind to keep your mouth shut and you'll feel better. It sounded, thought the captain, horribly melodramatic.

But he continued, you haven't had the grind of West Point. A company, a regiment or an army has no thought of the individual. It cannot have any thought, and the individual, therefore, cannot fail, being a vital part of the larger body. If either of us break now, it would be like a man's heart, stop. We're unlucky enough to be that hard at the moment. I've heard, said Morrison in a gruesome attempt of jocularity. Getting gutted is comfortable compared to some of the things

the Saturnians can think up. The captain wished he could believe fully the trite remark he must offer here. Anything they can do to us won't be half of what we'd feel in ourselves if we did talk. "'Sure,' agreed Morrison. "'Sure, I see that.' But he had agreed too swiftly. The shock of the light was physical,

and even a captain carried away from it and threw a hand across his eyes. There was a clatter and a slither, and a tray lay in the middle of the cell, having come from an unseen hand at the bottom of the door. Marison squinted at it with a glad grin. There were several little dishes, sitting around a big metal cover of the type used to teard, keep food warm. Morrison snatched at the cover and whipped it off, and then cover still raised,

he stared. On the platter, a cat was lying, agony and a peel in its eyes, crucified to a wooden slab with forks through its paws, cockroaches crawling and eating at its skin's side. The cover dropped with a clatter and was then snatched up. The heavy edge of it came down on the skull of the cat, and with a sound between a sigh and a scream it relaxed, dead. Grey-faced, Morrison put the cover back on the dish. The captain looked at the flight officer and tried to keep his attention upon Morrison's reaction and thus avoid the illness which fought upward within him. The light went out, and they could feel each other staring into the dark, could feel each other's

thoughts. From the captain came the compulsion to silence. Morrison, struggling but unspoken panic. One sentence ran through Captain DeWolf's mind over and over. He is going to break at the first chance he has. He is going to break at the first chance he has. He is going to break at the first chance he has. He is, angrily he broke the chain.

How could he tell this man what it would mean? Himself a point officer. It was hard for him to reach out. and understand the reaction of one who had been until recently, a civilian pilot, how could he harden in an hour or a day the resolution to loyalty? It was a step ahead, a tribute to dwarf's understanding, that he realized the difference between them. He knew how carefully belief in service had been built within himself,

and he knew how vital was that belief. But how could he make Morrison know that 50,000 Earthmen, His friends, the hope of Earth, might die if the time and plan of the attack were disclosed. Futilely, he wished that they had not been at the council which had decided it, that knowledge of it had been necessary for them to do a complete scout of the situation, for General Ballantine. If no word of this came to the Saturnians, then this planet might be wholly cleared of the enemy,

with one lightning blow by space and land. Suddenly, Dwarf discovered that he had been wondering for a long time about his daughter, who had been reported by his wife as having a case of measles. Angrily, he yanked his mind from such a fatal course. He could not allow himself to be human, to know that people would sorrow if he went. It was part of an army, and as part of that army, he had no right to personality or self. He was here. He could not fail.

He could not let Marison fail. If only that drop would stop falling. It was both relief and agony when the light went on once more. The captain had no conception of the amount of time which had passed, was only conscious of the misery of his body, and the determination not to fail. The door swung open, and a dark-headed Saturnian infantryman stood there. An officer behind him beckoned and said,

We want a word with Morrison, the flight officer, if you please. Not until Morrison had begun an hour or more did Captain DeWolf begin to crumble within. The irregular loud drop, the continued shocks of a body sweating in the hot air, and then touching the icy metal. The fact did Morrison, the man was not irregular. It was a civilian less than a year in the service. Unlike Captain DeWolf, who was not a personality moulded into a military machine, and a civilian, having earned a personality of his own to the necessity to seek for self,

could not be drawn too far down the road of agony without breaking. Captain DeWolf, sick with physical and nervous discomfort, was ground down further by his fear that Morrison would crack. And as time went by and Morrison was not returned, DeWolf became convinced. Surging up at last, he battered at the door. No answer came to him. The lock was steadfast. Wildly he turned and beat at the plates of the cell,

and not until pain reached his consciousness from his bloodied fists, did he realize the danger in which he stood. He himself was cracking. He stilled the will to scream at the dropping water. He carefully took himself in hand and felt the light die in his eyes. He had no hope of escape. The Saturnians would be too clever for that, but he could no longer trust himself to wait,

and he used his time by examining the whole of this cell. The walls were huge, unyielding plates, and there was no window, but, passing back and forth, he repeatedly felt the roughness of a grate underfoot. This he finally investigated, a gesture more than a hope, but this served as the room's only plumbing, and was foul and odorous and could lead nowhere save into a sewage pipe.

For the space of several loud and shattering drops, the wolf stood crouched, loose grate in hand, filled with disbelief, there was a faint ray of light reflected from somewhere below, and in that light it could be seen that there was, was room enough to pass through. Suddenly Crafty, he listened at the door, then with quick sure motions slid into the foul hole and pulled the grate into place over his head. The light not yet seen was beckoning to him at the end of a tunnel, in which he could just crouch. Crawled in the muck for two hundred feet before he came to the light, and here he stopped, daring upward. Open him flickered,

waned, it nearly vanished in a tidal wave of despair, for the light came from an upper great fourteen feet above the floor of the tunnel, far out of reach upon a slimy, unflored wall. He tried to leap for it and fell back, slipping and cruelly banging his head as he dropped. Again he took solid whole of himself. He forced his trained mind to think, forced his trained body to obey. He stood a long way back from himself and critically observed his actions and impulses. as though he was something besides a man, and the man was on parade. He looked farther along the tunnel, and fumbled his way away from the light.

He was sure it would have another outward presented to him by fate. He did not be led this far, without some recompense, and he felt in the top of the tunnel for a grate which might lead out through an empty cell. The tunnel curved, and then a new sound made him fumble before he took another step. There was a drop there, an emptiness which might extend ten feet. or a hundred, he had to return or chance it. The water, which sluggishly gurgled about his ankles, spilled over the soft lip of the hole, and dropped soundlessly.

Suddenly he was filled with sickness and panic and premonition. This foul trap into which he had ventured him close, imprisoned him, would embrace him for some awesome purpose and never give him up. He forced himself into line. He froze his terror. He dropped blindly over the lip of the hole. It was not shaken, for he had dropped less than six feet, and the bottom was soft. He crouched, his emotions clashing, disgust and relief.

And then when he looked about him again, he felt the mad surge of hope, for there was light ahead. Floundering and splashing and steadying himself against the walls, he gained the bend and saw the blinding force of daylight. For some little while he could not look directly at it, nor could his wits embrace the whole of the promise that light offered. But at last, when his pupils were contracted to normal, and his realization distilled into reason, he went forward and looked down. Once more his hope died. Here was a sheer drop of nearly a hundred feet, a cliff face which offered no slightest

hold, greased by the sewage and worn smooth by the water. Clinging forlornly to the edge, He scanned the great dome of the military base a mile overhead, scanned the cluster of metal huts on the plane before him, watched far-off dots which were soldiers. There was a roar overhead, and he drew back lest he be seen by the small scout-plane which cruised beneath the dome. When its sound had faded, he again ventured a glance out, looking up to make sure he was not seen from above, and once more hope flared. For the wall above this opening offered grips in the form of projecting stone.

and the climb was less than twenty feet. It was difficult to swing out of the opening and grab the first rock. It took courage to so expose himself to the centuries who, though two thousand yards away, could pick him off easily, off the wall if they noticed him. The rock he grabbed came loose in his hand and he nearly hurtled down the cliff.

He crouched, panting, denied, wearied beyond endurance with a sudden shock of it, and then he stood off from himself again and snarled a command, to go on and up. The next rock he trusted held, and in a moment he was glued to the face of the sheer wall, making weary muscles respond to orders. While he was tired he did not understand, for he had done no great amount of physical exertion, but rock by rock as he went up, his energy flooded from him, and left him in a hazed realm of semi-consciousness, which threatened uncaring

surrender. He rested for longer and longer intervals between lifts, and what had been twenty feet seemed to stretch to a tortured infinity. You cannot believe that he had come within two feet of the top. Not staring up, he saw that he should believe it. Savit will took hold of him, and he reached out for the next handhold. It did not exist. He fumbled and groped across the smooth face above him. He stretched to reach the lip so near him,

and then he realized that near as he was, he could not go farther. Already his bleeding hands refused to hold beyond the next few seconds. A foot slipped and in sweating terror he wildly clawed for his hold. His right hand slipped loose. A red haze of strain covered his vision. One foot came free in the tendons of his right arm was stretched to the snapping point. He knew where he was going, knew that he would fall, knew that Morrison would sell an army to the gods of slaughter.

His right hand numbed and lost its grip and he started to fall. There was a wrench which tore muscles and nerves And something was around his wrist It was not falling It was dangling of emptiness And something had him from above They pulled them up over the edge And dropped him in an exhausted

Broken huddle upon the gravel of the small plateau And at last when he opened his eyes It was to see the grinning face of the intelligence officer And the stolid guards Usually, said the intelligence officer In an off-hand voice To make it up and over By tearing a grip out of the cliff

with their fingernails. You, however, however much more delicate, nervous structure, it seems. I rather thought you'd fail where you did. One gets to know these things after some practice. Captain DeWolf lay where they had dropped him. A dull haze of beaten anger clouded his sight, and then dropped away from him and left him naked, filthy and alone among his country's enemies. Dividently, the guards picked him up and lugged him toward the small buildings.

They took him down a corridor and into a large, strange room. Glad to be quit of this, they put him in a chair and strapped his wrists down. Captain DeWolf made no resistance. He did not look up. The intelligence officer walked gracefully back and forth, slowly touring the room. He stopped and lighted a cigarette. It was really quite useless that escape of yours, he said. A friend Morrison talked to the limit of his knowledge.

He gave his troops, divisions to be. be used, state of equipment, general battle plan, in fact everything but two small facts which you did not know. He came nearer to DeWolf. He was not able to recall the time of the attack. Or the assembly point after it had succeeded, if it did succeed. You are to give us that data, for as a staff officer, you of course know. Balls.

Make ready with number four. Captain DeWolf tried to rally. He tried to feel rage against Morris. He tried to realize that an army would perish because of this day's work. He could not think. He could not feel. They were rolling some kind of machine toward him, and the wriggling thing called Brawls adjusting something on it.

I won't tell you anything, said DeWolf, leadenly. A dog was pulled out of a cage and placed on a table where it was strapped down. It whimpered and tried to lick at the hand of the soldier who did the work. Brawls, face hidden in a hood, worked expertly with a little track. On this was a small car having two high sides and neither back nor front. It ran on a little track which had been widened to accommodate the width of the dog. Brawls touched a button and from jets on either side of the car, small streams shot forth with sudden ferocity.

These jets sprayed water under tremendous hydraulic pressure, jets which would cut wood faster than any saw, and which hissed hungrily as they began to roll toward the dog. Captain DeWolf tried to drop his eyes. Could not. The little car crept up on the dog, and then the jets began to carve away a fraction of an inch at a time. DeWolf managed to look away, the shrieks of agony which came from the dog carved through DeWolf. I won't tell you anything, he said. They stretched out his arm and fixed the track on either side of it.

He started the car toward his outstretched hand. Fixedly he watched it coming. To the persuasive drawl of the intelligence officer, he said, I won't tell you anything. A few hours later, the intelligence officer was making out his report. He stopped after he had written a caption and the date and gazed at his long, sharp fingernail. stained with nicotine.

Then he sighed and resumed his writing. Intelligence report, base 34D Mercury, Ed Samar, 452. Today interrogated two officers captain from Earth reconnaissance plane, Captain Forrester DeWolf and Flight Officer Morrison. Captain DeWolf under procedure 23 escaped tactic revealed nothing. Later he was given procedures 45, 97, 21 and 6. He died without talking. Flight Officer Morrison was taken from the cell to the chamber.

It was very competitive. Procedures 45, 97, and 6 were employed. Despite state of subject, he was able to get at the automatic of a guard in a moment of carelessness and succeeded in retaining it even after he was shut. Rather than risked the divulgence of data, Flight Officer Morrison blew out his brains. The guard is under arrest. From this attempt, and the stubbornness of the enemy, I conclude that there may be some attack

in the making, but as our own scouts have discovered nothing, I do not expect it in this quarter for some time. Drow Shadma, captains, attorney and imperials, intelligence. At headquarters of the Third Space Army, United States of Earth, General Ballantine sat massively at his field desk impatiently going through a sheaf of reports. "'Belts,' he brayed and neighed. "'Tolk, command a strong. "'Thirty whether he thinks regulation hold down belts are useless or not, "'his troops will wear them and parade with them.'

"'Yes, sir,' said the aide timidly. "'He had a report in his hand, "'and was not very anxious to give it.' "'Well?' said General Ballantyne sharply. "'What have you there?' "'It's a report, sir. "'Captain de Wolfe and flight officer Marison are missing in reconnaissance. "'They are unreported for a day and a half.'

"'Marson, DeWolf? "'Oh, yes, DeWolf.' "'General Ballantine was perfectly silent for a moment, then in an altered tone. Morrison, Morrison, I don't know the man. I don't know. He was silent again, so that his abrupt return to activity was the more startling. Post an order for a council of officers, and have another area appointed to me. Damn it, that was a neat plan of attack, too. You're changing the plan, sir? General Ballantyne snorted. They'll wear those hold down safety belts. They'll change that

kind of attack. I don't know. Can't know what the Sartanians found out. I don't think the wolf, but it makes no difference. I'd have to know, and it's impossible. It's sign to change. Post that notice. End of story one. Story two of Battles for the Stars In Space, Edread short sci-fi, volume three. This Leibervox recording is in the public domain. The Sling in the Stone by Michael Shara. On the morning of the first day, floating in the cold of space, they inflated the station. It puffed up tightly to a silvery donut, and four men whose names were Krylov, Mirkov, Stylikin, and Davchenko went to live inside. There was no ceremony.

Out of a motionless rocket which hung in space nearby, other men came, trailing long wires. All the long black afternoon of that day, these men clustered on the skin of the donut, fixing curved weightless slabs of carbon-coated aluminum to the sides, and within the station, where there was air and therefore blessed noise, the four men worked with fluttery movements, attaching wires and steel ribs, adjusting, connecting. After a while there was nothing more to do. The rocket pulled in its lines, gathered up its men.

When they were all inside, it turned over slightly and spat a silent flame and began to fall and fell and was gone. That was the first day. The second day was filled with work and watching, and a great awe. The third day began to be lonely. On the fourth day they had a visitor. The mindless insanity so carefully bypassed to so many years, years, reached out at last and drew him in. Di Avalove awoke. The room was very cold. Piotta DiAvalov struggled into his clothes, not sleepy at all. The army man stood silently

the foot of the bed. Outside the door, stolid and heavy-footed in the darkness, there were other army men, creaking on the floorboards and chuckling. And so it comes, Diave thought. There's nothing at all to say or do. He hitched his belt tightly, and breathed, for the for what seemed like the first time. And then he nodded to the Armyman. He was taken away. He sat in the dark, and the plush rear seat of a huge car

being driven at great speed through the city. He was surprised. He had expected them to be more brutal, but they were never, ever what you expected. In the darkness, he strove to compose himself. The Armyman asked him for a cigarette. When he struck the match, Di Avalov realized that he had forgotten his glasses,

My glances, he said humbly. Please, I have forgotten my glances. The army man surprisingly seemed concerned. Then he said, never mind, we will get them. He leaned forward and spoke into a radio. There was a brief reply, which Di Avalov could not hear, and the army man sat back comfortably, satisfied. Your glances will be there, he said.

Diavalev thanked him. Because of the unexpected courtesy, the level of his fear began to go down, Perhaps it will not be so bad, he thought. Maybe, after all, it is only interrogation. But again, he thought, that you never knew what to expect, that in all the long years of yesing and bowing and applauding, you never understood them. Well, then, now, was the time to understand.

I'll say whatever they want me to say. I will not resist in the least. What does it matter? The world belongs to them, and if a man wishes to live, he must be logical and agree. Let them do what they will, and I will applaud every step of the way. He folded his hands in his lap.

After a long while, the car stopped. The first armyman gave him over to another army man, whom he could not see in the darkness, and after many a salute he was conducted through a black iron gate. Within minutes he was aboard a plane with four more armymen. No one would say anything. Piotr Diavelev slept. This, of course, he could not believe.

He saw the thing clearly in the late morning sun, rising in an enormous shining tube from the hard-baked floor of the desert, but it was obviously impossible. It was taken on an elevator 100 feet into the air, and ushered through a door and to the side of the thing, not believing any of it for an instant. He was told, whether kindly for once, that he was to be taken up in this thing and not to worry because it had been tested, many times, but he was so completely overwhelmed that he could not ask a question. There was nothing but army men now, one of whom conducted him to a foam rubber hammock and strapped him in. To his utter astonishment, the thing actually did take off.

There were some very bad minutes. For a while he weighed several tons and could not move, and then he weighed nothing at all and was sick. Someone else unstrapped him and gave him pills, and then thoughtfully tied him to a hand-ring in the wall, and at long last his mind began to accept it. The incredible Soviet had succeeded, as Russian contemporaries had put a manned vessel in outer space. Diavellev sat quietly stupefied. That the spouting unshaven, preposterous baboons with whom he had worked could have built this thing seemed to him blankly impossible. Being one himself, Pyotr de Avalov, had no great respect for what Russian scientists

the great many purges had left. But of course there the thing was, built by Germans, perhaps. with secrets stolen from the Americans while they haggled about peace. Nevertheless, there the thing was. And if he was going up now, they could only be one place to go, and therefore he was not a prisoner at all. The wonder and relief of it was too much at once. He surrendered himself to awe.

When the time came to board the satellite, he was poised and ready. In the midst of a curving room hung and inset with a thousand shining gadgets, Piotto Diave floated in the air. A black-browed man took his arm carefully and pulled him to the floor, placed magnetic-souled shoes on his feet. Di Avalov could not help grinning delightedly. The dark man whose name was Krylov stood thoughtfully and absently scratching his cheek. Now as to why you were here, he said, and DiAvalov tensed and waited. There were three other men in the room, but no one moved.

You understand, of course, what this station is, and that the building of it places us our people in control of the world. Di Avalov nodded. Automic missiles launched from this base may be guided exactly to any point on the surface of the earth that we select. Yet the station itself represents so small and distinct a target as to be virtually invulnerable. Russia, my friend, need fear no country on Earth. Not, he added quickly, that she ever did, of course. Di Avalov, with the inbred habit of years, gave his congratulations. Pylov stood looking at him closely, half smiling, rubbing again.

his cheek. There was something infinitely chilling in the moment, but DiAvalov was able to smile back. Station has been in existence, said Krilylov, for slightly more than a week. There are not 50 people in the entire world who know of it. You have become one who are therefore most important. Di Avalov was becoming nervous. But you are important, Krilyov went on slowly, for other reasons. To be exact, you are perhaps as important at this moment as any man who ever lived. Avalov, dazed, struggled to digest that, for Quilev held him with his eyes, and the three other men spoke lowly among themselves. I am saying all this to impress upon you the vastness of the work with which you have been entrusted.

I want you to understand clearly that the accuracy of your work could mean the collapse of all our enemies, with the entire capitalistic empire. Therefore you will be accurate. There was a fixity to Krilylov's face which was unsettling. Di Avalov waited, uneasy and bewildered. and smiled. You are a Russian, he stated powerfully. We know that we will do your best.

Of course, Diavev said. Krilov turned and pulled open a drawer. Out of the drawer he drew a chart and handed it to Deavelev. Do you recognize that? Diabelle stared. That is the plotted orbit, Krilylov said carefully, of a moon. It is not, of course, the moon with which you are familiar, but it is a moon circling the Earth.

The second moon. It is a moon of which no one knows, excepting ourselves and the Kremlin. We discovered it shortly after we arrived, when it passed quite near the station. It is small and dark, too small and non-reflecting to be seen from Earth. It is approximately five miles wide.

Do you understand? Di Avalov, who had had to digest a great many things in a very short while, was able to nod, because this was, after all, DiAvalov's field. A second moon, he told Korylov, speaking with some excitement, had long been predicted by astrophysicists everywhere. Since the Earth had been attracting meteors for something like two billion years, it was inevitable that some, at least, should be captured

as moons. Krilov broke in, nodding with impatience. Exactly, and now as to your work, you will see this moon shortly when it crosses up Earth again. At that time you will correct the orbit we have plotted. also give us the exact mass and speed of that moon. The instruments you will need are already here. Let me emphasize this. You will be accurate. Is that clear? DiAvalov nodded. Do you have any questions? DiAvalov had none. He wanted to ask why, of course, but he knew from long experience of army men that Krylov was not ready to tell him. He set himself, as always, to be patient. And now, as well, he wanted to think. He wanted to be.

alone. The magnificent fact of where he was had begun at last to envelop him. Now he wanted to see. Very well, said Krylov. The moon will be here in three hours. The interview ended. The armyman moved away awkwardly through the air. A young man named Stoliacan, clearly showing his contempt for intellectuals and scientists, was left to show him around. And for the universe, for creation, for the most magnificent sight that any man would ever see, DiAvalov had three hours. At 3.23 in the black afternoon, the moonlit came within Rado range. The alarm, claxon screamed. Piotto Diave sat poised and ready, holding himself tightly,

or the thing came by with a great curving rush. It was very little time, but Diave worked with care and precision. When he was done, he looked into the television screen. and saw the moonlet go by. In that moment he felt the presence of God. The thing was so huge, so incredibly immense that Di Avalov was terrified. Jagged, pitted,

revolving slowly like a great rolling stone, the ball rushed by in the awful silence, blotting out the stars. To DiAvalve there was never anything so cold or dark or ominous, never anything at all like it in all the history of man, all the world. Like a stone, Di Avalove thought, from the sling of God. It bore off into the west, reflecting dimly the cold yellow rays of the sun. It was gone in seconds. The Avalov tried to relax. He put a cigarette in his mouth and lighted it. But as usual,

the heated gases did not rise, and the cigarette put itself out. The Avalov did not notice. Before he could think, before he could even begin to realize the thought that was forming in his mind. Kralov was beside him, speaking with restrained exultation. Were you successful? Diavile looked up, shakily. Yes. You will check your figures, of course.

They are accurate. Doubtless, but you will check them. When you are certain that there is no possibility of error, you will be given your final work. I will not tell you that until you are finished here, since what we plan may affect the clarity of your thinking. It must not happen. Di Avalov could not stop the question.

What are you going to do? You will know when there is a need. The figures must be accurate. Kralov was gone. Di Avalov sat for a long time without thinking, and he reached up slowly and turned off the television, and the earth and the stars were gone. Now he must begin to think.

Now really, he must try to understand. Twenty-four hours ago he had been in his bed, in his home. sleeping, and now he was in outer space. It was too much for him. He did not understand why they had brought him here, and before the stupendous fact of what was outside, he was helpless even to think. He had only a fear, a cold, growing fear deep inside, because the station was the most potent military weapon the world had ever known, and because there was no hope now for the rest of the world. Always before he had thought, as a matter of course, that the armymen would never last, we swallowed eventually in the Russian soil, just as had all the other conquerors before them.

But now he saw that there was no chance, and the power of these men, their overwhelming power, was a fact he could not deny. Yet the habit of obedience was great, and this thing too Diave could forget, for in the end what matters was only this. Diave was outside. No more time to think. He reached back up, turned on a seat. screen. He surrendered himself with awe to watch the shining movements, and the moonlet was forgotten.

There were many, many things which the moonlet would end, and Piotr Diavev was one of them, but of this, of course, he could not know, and so he continued to watch while the moonlet swung out over Russia, Denmark, and the northern tip of England, just as it had been passing, silently, for a hundred million years, just as it would pass, still silently. for a few more days. The moonlit came round twice more, and each time Biotr Di Avalov carefully checked his figures. They were true.

The thing was roughly circular, something less than five miles in diameter, at an orbital speed approaching that of the station. Because of its weight, Di Avalov was certain that it was virtually solid nickel-ion. A cold, whirling mass of iron, five miles thick, come out of eternity,

and the endless reaches of space. It occurred to DiAvalov with fascination that no one as yet had boarded the thing. It was about to ask when Krilov came up, but now the end came, and he had no time. Krilov wanted to know if he was now certain, Diavlev said, yes.

Good, now we may begin. Krilov looked into the television screen, again rubbing his face with thick, hairy hands. They were just past, over the northwestern coast of America, the Avalov waited. If we were to take us pale of water, Krilyov said calmly. And whirl it around over your head, what would happen to the water? The Avalov looked at him, querily.

It would remain in the pale, Krilylav said, smiling. If you were swinging it first enough. Exactly. Krilov turned back to stare at the screen. Below them was the pale gleaming blue of the Pacific. But if you were to slow it down, comrade. Kralov said gently. What would happen then?

It would fall. And then all of a sudden, the Avalov understood. Time stopped. The Avalov began to feel sick. Prylov laughed at his amazement. Well, take the case of this moon. If we were to slow it down, would it not fall? But how?

What did not? Yes. Ha! Kralov laughed delightedly. It was my own ideas, you know. Although I am not a scientific man This I could do myself Are you amazed I see that you are?

He clapped a rough hand on DiAvalov's knee The Avalov strove to keep the horror from his face No one thing more The moon or moonlit as you say Passes along a definite line of a certain areas of the earth If we were able to slow it down When and where we wanted The moon could be made to fall at a predetermined point

Along that line That is obvious You have already computed that path along with all the necessary data. We, my friend, have picked a target. Your further work, therefore, is this. You will determine the point and the time at which the moonlet must be slowed

in order to fall upon the target. It is a simple Christian of trajectory. And this is your mission, your trust. Di Avalov could not speak. This man was clearly mad. Krilov was laughing again. His teeth bared into de Avalov's eyes. Can you conceive it, comrade?

Can you conceive it? The hand of God. You call it the hand of God. He leaned back and roared almost upsetting himself in the weightless air. The other crewman heard him laugh and turned to look. They were all grinning. Di Avalov felt his clothes becoming son. Trialov was serious.

More than that, they were all serious. The leader himself must know of all this and must have approved. No, Di Avalov would not be here. And they cannot have fallen this, far, DiAvalov told himself, not in so little a time, but they would do it. Observing Krylov, Diavov understood at last that they would, and a great wave of despair cut through him. Oh, you slow it down, Krilov waved a fat hand smoothly. By a series of Hajidum bomb explosions, placed at intervals along the leading face. We have already begun. The bombs are

here, comrade. The thrust of each bomb is known. Each will slow them with. soon lit to a certain extent. The last one, which was time, was slow it too much, and it will begin to fall. And then, Prylov grinned, the hand of God! Dieuilov removed his glasses, wiped them slowly, futile to fight, futile to oppose. The thing would work, he thought, and this hairy, itching maniac knew it. Futile to tell him anything, but he had to say something. If you only idea of the explosive bowels, he thought, and this hairy, it of bow the moon it will have. Some, Kralov said calmly, turning to watch him now with rock-like eyes.

At the speed with which it will hit, it can have no tensile strength. Therefore the kinetic energy will be transformed into an explosive energy. The thing will blow up. It will devastate an area several hundred miles wide. It will kill quite a few million people. Crylov chuckled. And it can never be twist to us. It will be an act of providence. Klylov roared again, waving his arms.

Think of the reaction, consider the necessary psychology, at this most crucial point in the history of the world, at this time when the enemy is preparing for a holy war, suddenly a meteor was fallen in a center of their land, a meteor like none that has ever been dreamed of, and it will be so great a coincidence that it should fall at this time, in this place, that they will be forced to their knees. the fools, the fat, weak, superstitious fools will say that it is God's will. Krilov roared again,

and then he reminded Diavelev that it was his own idea. There was more. Krilov even suggested that the moonlit would be humane. It was, after all, only a bomb. And if there was a war, there will be many bombs. But now the Americans would not dream of bombs, then he'd not be a war at all. Di Avalov sat very still, yessing the reign of incredible logic.

It was clear to him only that this man was not human at all, but none of them were, and that the destruction of civilization was the most inevitable thing that ever was. Karloff said that he knew Di Avalov was overwhelmed, that he should rest before he completed the final figures. He clapped Di Avalov on the shoulder, and before leaving gave him the name of the target area. Accuracy, after all. was not so important. If the moonlit hit within a few hundred miles, that would be enough. Karlov went off, and Diave was alone. The light of the room was electric and undying.

There was no blessed darkness to come. Diavalev sat in the glare, until he could not endure it, and then found relief at the screen. With the universe spread out before him, Diabloev made his decision. For out of the crumbling insanity, dropped from the measureless, ignorance, which was his home, his nation, and his time. The Avalov had risen into the only peace and order he had ever known. There down below him was the beautiful earth, and off to his right was the moon. And above him, there was nothing ever and ever, nothing on out to infinity. The utter open nothing of deep space.

He'd never go back to the great sickness below. I realized that with great clarity, and a deep, calm presence came over him. The decision was simple, to everything there is an end. He thought about it for a long while, and then he smiled, and it was done. There was very little time. In the few moments that there were he went to the telescope, maybe, after all, with no atmosphere to hinder, he could really see the canals on Mars. Piotr de Avalov handed in his figures.

handed in his figures. The blasting was done in the daytime, so that there was little chance of it being seen from Earth. Bit by bit, the moonlit slowed. After a while, there was only one more bomb to go. With Kualov, in the waning moments, Di Avalov rode out with a timing equipment. In one of the small light shuttlecraft they went from the station to the main rocket from Earth, which was following the moonlet along its shortening curve. There was one more hour. But he soon Now they, smiled Kralov, looking quite deep into Di Avalov's eyes. Yes, said Di Avalov. We will see it to go all the way down,

ever range for the picture to be relayed to a television screen on the rocket. You will have the seat of honour. Thank you, said the Avalov. Yes, you will have the seat of honour. Krilov was still staring at him. De Avalov looked away. Outside the moonlit seemed stationary in space, huge and black and permanent.

De Avalov could see. see the men on one face of her setting the final bomb, which DiAvalov would detonate with a radio signal. There was one more thing which DiAvalov wanted to do. Kriol, he said suddenly. When he turned back, he saw that Krilov's eyes were still on him. Yes, Krilov asked. I wonder. Would you mind if I went aboard the moonlit?

I'd like to see what it is like, really up close. No scientists have ever had a chance like this. Perhaps I might learn something. Would you mind? Kralov frowned, lowered his eyes slightly. Is there time? There is an hour. Krilyov thought for a long moment.

Then he straightened, smiling. Of course you will go. We will both go. The Avalov stepped out onto the surface of the moonlit, but Kralov was with him did not matter. He had set foot on an alien world. He stood upon metal, gazing with wide shining eyes at the crags

and the cracks in the dark jagged peak. of the thing out of space. This was something of which in his life he had never dreamed. Now that he had done this, his life was complete. He moved forward, carefully down a ragged cleft,

turning to speak to Krylov. He was not there. Boy, love! Emptiness. He turned and ran back, beginning to understand. In the lack of gravity, he almost threw himself out into space,

thought hold of a spur, and pulled himself down. Crylov! He sat down. There was no need to call again. He lifted his head and looked once again through the glass of his helmet at the clean, brilliant stars.

Idiot. It was Kralov's voice, flat and dispassionate, coming through the radio in his helmet. Di Avalov shuddered. You think we trusted you? Did you think that we did not know your kind can never be trusted? Did you think you could fool us?

Diavlov did not answer. I will not ask why, Krilyov said. flatly. That is not only to your miserable self. He waited. When DiAvalov did not speak, his voice came again quickly. Have you nothing to say, idiot, no epitaph, no begging. His voice had become too loud, Di Avalov turned the radio down. A German checked your figures, Diavalev. Do you understand? A German who is now dead, found you out, fool. Your trajectory was radioed to Earth and checked and corrected, and the meteor will not fall in the ocean, de Avalve, it will land on the capital of the United States, and you will be on it, all the way

down, you will be on it. Is that not a fitting end? We are a great people, de Avalve, a poetic and powerful people. Is your ending not poetic? Diavalev rose wearily and clambered up the iron walls to a higher place, a place from which he could see the sun. Krilov was beginning to rave, working himself into a frenzy. The Avalve turned him off, waited patiently in the blank silence. There was nothing heroic about him. If he had it to do now, he would not do it at all, but it was fixed and irrevocable, and now he would have to wait, afraid, and unutterably lonely, until the end. The stars above him were a billion icy eyes.

After a while there was a flash, and the moonlit kicked under his feet. He held on as the metal rocked. He waited, waited, waited, until he could feel it beginning to fall. Then he took a deep breath and spoke. Cry love. Goodbye. Cry love.

Di Avalov said quietly. Listen, my army friend. You gave me a problem. The problem had two parts. Two parts, army man. And if the first part is wrong, the other does not matter. At the other end of the radio, Born through space and the rushing emptiness,

Di Avalov sensed the beginning of fear. He was about to smile. What? came, frankly. When you checked the trajectory, did you also bring some chairman up to compute the size of the moonlit all over again?

Nothing. Diavalev chuckled. You didn't, did you, cry, love. There was nothing on the radio but an aching, brittle, static. You used the speed I gave you. You used the mass I gave you. The moon will not fall on America, cry love.

Gradually, now, over the weakening radio, came back the sounds. which were to be the last pleasure of Piotr Diabloev's life. Rage first, and a vast incoherence. And then Krilov began to change in an ugly, despairing, dirty way, whimpering, and all Diavlov could understand was, My idea, it was my idea! But now Diavlov could not listen, because the moon was falling,

and there was very little time. An end in fire, the little man thought. A blessed quick end as I hit the air. He shouted, trying to make himself heard. We are both dying army man. Soldier boy, my captain, do you know where the moon will fall? Cryloff knew.

He went mad. Watch me go. And now Di Everlev was laughing. Take your seat of honor and watch me all the way. Here I go, Cryloff. Watch me. Watch your world. He stopped, out of breath, to hang on,

while the moon fell away beneath him. Faster, faster, faster, and the stars began to whirl, and up a poetic end, he thought, a lovely end, let there be an end. And eventually the end came, and Diavelev was dust, and his dust mingled evenly with the fire-blasted soil of Russia. End of Story 2. Story 3 of Battles for the Stars In Space!

Ed Reed short sci-fi volume 3. This Lebervox recording is in the public domain. Slaughter on Don L. 4 for Ivor Yorgensen Larry Fillmore stared at his beer and mentally roasted his fight manager for the 50th time. Human beings were supposed to be the toughest race that the galaxy had ever spawned, but as a fighter, Larry didn't put too much faith in the theory. He had fought a good many races throughout the galaxy, and although he had always come out the winner,

he had plenty of scars to show for it. We looked around the bar. It was full of various beings, none of them human except himself. What am I doing here? he asked himself. I'm sitting in a cheap little bar on Dornelphor, waiting for a Denalian fighter to kill me tomorrow. But there was no way out of it, Pumor thought bitterly. Blackmer, his manager, had the whole thing sewed up.

Lorry had found out, three months before, that Blackmer was cheating him. But that had been too late. According to the contract, Larry had to finish. the season or go to prison. If he quit, he would, according to the law, be cheating his manager. On the other hand, if he got killed during the battle, his entire check would go to Blackmer. So Blackmer had done a smart thing. For him, he had lined up Larry with Fornack's Kedrin, the champion of Dernel. The Dernelians were big, eight feet high, with fingers that ended in razor-sharp claws. Of course, Larry would be provided with steel extensions on his fingers,

but they wouldn't help much. Larry had never learned to use them. Fornax, Kedrin, kill him in the first round. Larry took another sip of his beer and stared for Lonely at the bar. With his fingers, he traced meaningless designs in the moisture, left by the cold glass. Maybe he was taking a coward's way out, but it was the only way he could see. Better alive, coward, he thought, than a dead hero. Another bar bartender, he called, finishing the one he held.

"'Cumin up, Earth, man!' "'The beer arrived, and he took a sip. "'Preaning! "'The hell with it,' he thought happily. "'He was going to get himself completely stewed tonight. "'Live high, die young, and have a good-looking corpse. "'Or maybe it would be better simply to get aboard a spaceship and try to get away. "'Maybe the interstellar police would never find him.'

"'He shook his head dismally. "'That wouldn't work either. "'Nothing would work. "'If only he'd had some practice fighting a Denelian. "'He reached out for his beer, not noticing that someone had taken the vacant seat next to him. His elbow collided with a glass. The glass tipped, pouring a green, bubbling liquor

all over the Donelian sitting next to him. Stupid death, man! snapped the Donalian contemptuously. A clumsy beast like you shouldn't be allowed to enter the public place! With one hairy paw, the Donelian shoved against Larry's shoulder, intending to push him off the barstool. Larry moved back, more an astonishment than anything else. He hadn't known that D'nellians had any particular prejudice against Earthmen. There was unmistakable racial hatred in the alien's voice.

He put out his hand to the bar and stopped himself from falling off the stool. What's the idea of that? Larry growled. That was an accident and you're trying to argue with me. He used the wrist of the drink. The Dinellian laughed and heaved to the remaining contents of the glass in Larry's face. A blinding tide of red fury washed over Larry, without thinking, reacting purely by instinct, he lashed out at the Dernelian. His fist didn't contact, it was blocked by the heavy forearm of his opponent.

A hand raked out at Larry, a hand with six fingers, each of which was tipped with lung, cutting talons. Larry moved his head aside barely in time. The talons raked across his cheek, drawing blood. If he hadn't ducked, the cut would have ripped his throat open. The D'anelian's other hand slashed out. Larry blocked it with his own arm, and sent a hard left to the midsection of the eight-foot monster. The Denelian backed away, snarling. The fight was unfore real now. Little Earth-man, I'm going to kill you!

He leaped in suddenly, and his fist smashed against Larry's face. Larry rolled with a blow, but it brought the taste of blood to his mouth. His feet moving fast, the Earth-man bobbed back away from the giant. He felt a blow of pleasure within himself. Here was the chance to practice a little with the Denelian. What better training was there for a time? championship bout and a barren brawl. He had to watch out for those claws, though, those deadly razors that sprouted from the Dernelian's fingertips. Two other Dernelians

started to move in, but an Aldaburanian, a huge reptilian beast, slow-moving but powerful, stepped in front of them. He hissed in his snake-like voice. Larry heard an Arcturian spider-man click his mandibles together and whisper, "'Yes, lead the earthman fight it out by himself.' Larry wasn't too worried. He had fought to the death on half a hundred planets and hadn't been killed yet. An ordinary Denelian didn't bother him much. He moved in confidently for the knockout.

His fist lashed out, but his opponent was even faster. Larry connected with nothing but empty air, and the Denelian's claws waked down his side as the other hand slammed against the side of his head. Dazed, Larry danced back. His arm was dripping blood, and his head felt gruggy and heavy. The D'anelian threw a left jab, and Larry blocked it with his own left arm.

But the giant had done something unexpected. Instead of striking with his closed fist, he had suddenly extended his fingers. The sharp claws stabbed deep into the muscle of the earthman's forearm, sending a wave of pain to his shoulder. Again, Larry backed away, his arm aching from the wounds. Quickly, he reversed his direction and stepped back in. This time he used a kick, but the D'an sidestepped. The toe of Larry's boot caught his hip.

cursing, the Denelian closed in. He punched a hand forward, claws extended. Larry stepped to one side and grabbed the hairy wrist. Using the giant's strength and weight to his own advantage, he propelled the monster across the room, slamming him up against the bar. Then he leaped forward to smash in the Donelian's rib cage with his heavy boots. He was not quick enough. The giant rolled aside and sprang to his feet. Snarling viciously, he advanced toward the earthman. One hand came down in a hard, chopping blow. Larry managed to fend it off, but the Donelian's other hand slugged into the pit of his stomach. Weak with pain, Larry staggered back. He aimed a kick at the alien's shin and a connected hard. Taking advantage of his opportunity, Larry stepped in. His heel came down

on the Donelian's toes at the same time that his fists slammed into the bristly jaw. The giant reeled backwards, his talon hands slashing through the air. He regained his balance and came forward again, but this time Larry was ready for him. The D'Anelian stepped square into a blow to the stomach. Oddly enough, it didn't seem to bother him much. Then Larry remembered that the Dernelian nervous system wasn't much like an earthman's. The nerves just weren't in the same places. But where were they? Again, he cursed Blackmer. The manager hadn't told him anything about D'nellians. He let him sign for the fight with Fornach's Kedrin, even though it would be sure murder. Well, Larry thought somebly, I'll learn tonight. If you ever get out of this bar alive?

He took a deep breath and glanced at the giant, who had recovered from Larry's onslaught. The D'anelian stepped in with a fast one, too, a rake across the face with his left, and a smash to the heart with his right. The claws to his face alerted Larry for the blow to the heart. He stepped back just enough to avoid being really hurt, but the Dernelian's talons had raked his forehead, cutting in deeply. Blood was pouring down. off his eyes. He took a quick look around the bar. The customers were gathered in a ring and were watching the contest wide-eyed, as if there were on fifty-credit ringside seats. The Dinellian still looked relatively unscratched, while Larry knew he looked as though he'd rolled over a barbed wire

fence. But in spite of the blood, Larry had finally gotten the measure of his opponent. The eight-foot giant weighed close to 500 pounds. His mass was too great for him to be able to handle his body rapidly, no matter how fast his reflexes were. Larry moved in. again. He planted a hard right directly in the giant's throat. There had to be nerves there. The Donelian gagged and dropped his head. Larry smiled and slammed his fist into the giant's rib cage, doubling him up even more. He could almost hear the crowd cheering now as he moved in for the kill. He sucked in his breath and lifted one foot from the floor. His right fist came up from his knees, gaining speed as it rose. Like a hammer, it crashed into the hairy jaw of the

Dernelian, and Larry could feel bones splintering against his knuckles. Like an oak with rotten roots, the great Dernelian toppled to the floor. He landed with a crash that seemed to shake the building. Larry stood over the fallen giant for a moment, catching his breath, wondering when the referee was going to start to count. Then he realized there wasn't going to be any count. There wasn't any referee. His arms were quivering, and his face was dripping with blood. He turned away, mopping his face. clean and started to pick up his unfinished beer when the wailing of sirens echoed through the bar. Police! Someone had called the Donelian police!

The Arcturian Spider-Man sidled up to him. Well done, this man, he said in his whispering voice. Come with me as I have a car outside. Without another word, the Arcturian scuttled toward the door. Larry paused for a fraction of a second before making up his mind, as well trust the Arcturian as anyone, if the police caught him. him, his life wouldn't be worth a counterfeit credit. No one tried to stop him as he ran out the door.

The Octurian's car was waiting just outside. Larry climbed in, and the Spider-Man slammed one of his many feet down on the accelerator. The car shot off into the night, its turbo-electric engine humming smoothly. "'Wilersman,' said the grating, whispering voice. "'You made hash out of the Denelian. Frankly, I was surprised.' "'So was I,' Larry said. I don't know why I'm bothering to run away. All they have to do is pick me up in my hotel.

The architurian chuckled dryly. Now, I don't think anyone recognized you. Don't forget that all hurts me and look alike to other beings. You aren't the reason I know who you were that I'm a fan of yours. I was glad to see you beat that Donnellian believe me. Thanks, Larry said. It is not going to do me any good when I get into the ring against Ferenach's Kedron. If an ordinary Donnellian citizen puts up a fight like that,

what am I going to do against a professional, boxer. The Arcturian laughed again. Just get in there and fight Fillmore. You can handle him, I'm sure you can. A car purled up before the hotel where Larry and his manager were staying, and Larry got out. The Arcturian waved to him and drove off. Wearily, Larry dragged himself inside and into the elevator. 17, please. Yes, sir, Mr. Fillmore, said the Dinelli and Elevator boy. He pushed open the door to his room and dropped on the bed, dead-tide. He didn't dare look in the mirror. He was afraid to see what a mess that Donelian had made out of his face,

which hadn't been any too neat before. "'Lackma!' he called. There was no answer. The manager was not around. Larry got up, looked bleary-eyed into the other room, and seeing no one dropped off into a deep sleep. His last thought, before he blacked out, was that he'd get into the ring and do his best.

It had already beaten one Donnellian. How tough could Fornax-Kedron be? And what didn't matter anyway. He was bound to get killed sooner or later anyway. That was the unspoken assumption every fighter operated under. When he awoke the following morning he didn't feel quite so certain about things. The brawl the night before had taken a terrific tar on his nervous system, and he knew that he'd be butchered if he stepped into the ring with a Denali and champ.

He was in no condition to fight. Lachma, you hear. The manager's bed had been slept in, but there was no sign of him. Larry groped for the house phone, grabbed it, broke into it. You know where Mr. Blackmer is? He's on the bar, sir, said the switchboard boy. Do you want me to call him for you? Yes, please.

A moment later Larry heard the manager's harsh voice. Blackmery, who's calling? This is Larry. I'm ready for that fight, Blackmer, he said, helping it have the strength to go through with it. And after I get through with the Donelian, I'm going to knock your teeth in. "'It is my last fight for you.' "'Now, Larry,' Blackmer said. "'Don't be hasty. I—'

"'Shut up, what quits? "'I may get killed in that ring, "'but I'll fight just this once, "'and, what, haven't you heard? "'The fight's off.' "'Larry,' Blanked in astonishment. "'How would I have heard? "'I thought the news was all over.

"'Why, I didn't bother to wake you. "'Fornaxed Kedredin is in the hospital. "'He's got his jaw broken in a bar brawl last night. "'Nobany knows who did it. "'But I got another bout line up "'and don't rank six with schibet,' Larry said. I'll discuss it with you some other time. Larry slowly dropped the receiver back on the hook.

He grinned, and then he began to laugh. End of story three. Story four of battles for the stars. In space! Ed Reed short sci-fi volume three. This Leibervox recording is in the public domain. The Hour of Battle by Robert Sheckley. That hand didn't move, did it?

Edwardson asked, standing at the port, looking at the stars. No, Morse said. He had been staring fixedly at the Addison detector for over an hour. Now he blinked three times rapidly and looked again. Not a millimeter. I don't think it moved either, Castle added, and behind the gunfire panel. And that was that. The slender black hand of the indicator rested unwaveringly on zero.

The ship's guns were ready. their black mouths open to the stars. A steady hum filled the room. It came from the Edison detector, and the sound was reassuring. It reinforced the fact that the detector was attached to all the other detectors,

forming a gigantic network around Earth. Why in the hell don't they come? Edwitzen asked, still looking at the stars. Why don't they hit? Oh, shut up, Morse said. He had a tired, glum look. High on his right temple

was an old radiation burn, a sunburst of pink scar, tissue. From a distance, it looked like a decoration. I just wish that come, Edwitson said. He returned from the port to his chair, bending to clear the low metal ceiling. Don't you wish that come? Edwinson had the narrow, timid face of a mouse, but a highly intelligent mouse, one that cats did well to avoid. Don't you? he repeated. The other men didn't answer. They had settled back to their dreams, staring hypnotically at the detector face. They've had enough time.

Edwardson said, after himself. Castle yawned and licked his lips. "'Anyone want to play some gin?' he asked, stroking his beard. The beard was a memento of his undergraduate days. Castle maintained he could stall almost fifteen minutes' worth of oxygen in its follicles. He had never stepped into space unhelmeted to prove it. Moss looked away, and Edwinson automatically watched the indicator. This routine had been drilled into them, branded into their subconscious.

they would as soon have cut their throats as leave the indicator unguarded. Do you think they'll come soon? Edwitzen asked. His brown rodent's eyes on the indicator. The men didn't answer him. After two months together in space, their conversational powers were exhausted. They weren't interested in castles' undergraduate days, or in Morse's conquests. They were bored to death, even with their own thoughts and dreams. Bored with the attack they expected momentarily.

"'Just one thing I'd like to know,' Edwitson said, slipping with ease, into an old conversational gambit. "'How far can they do it?' They had talked for weeks about the enemy's telepathic range, but they always returned to it. As professional soldiers, they couldn't help but speculate on the enemy and his weapons. It was their shop talk. "'Well,' Mois said wearily,

"'a detected network covers the system out beyond Mars's orbit. "'Where we sit,' Castle said. watching the indicators now that the others were talking. They might not even know we have a detection unit working, Marsh said, as he had said, a thousand times. Oh, stop, Edwardson said. His thin face twisted and scorn. They're telepathic.

They must have read every bit of stuff in Everett's mind. Everett didn't know we had a detection unit, Morse said, his eyes were turning to the dial. He was captured before we had it. Look, Edwitzen said. They ask him, boy, what would you do if he knew a telepathic race was coming to take over Earth, how would you guard the planet? idle speculation, Castle said.

Maybe Everset didn't think of this. He thinks like a man, doesn't he? Everyone agreed on this defence. Everset would, too. Sylogistic, Castle murmured. Very shaky. I sure wish he hadn't been captured, Edwitson said. It could have been worse, more put in.

His face sadder than ever. What if they'd captured both of them? I wish they'd come, Edwinson said. Richard Everset and C.R. Jones had gone on the first interstellar flight. They had found an inhabited planet in the region of Vager. The rest was standard procedure. The flip of the coin had decided it. Everset went down in the scouter, maintaining radio contact with Jones in the ship.

The recording of that contact was preserved for all Earth to hear. "'Just met the natives,' Everset said. "'Funny-looking bunch. Give you the physical description later. Are they trying to talk to you?' Jones asked, guiding the ship in a slow spiral over the planet. No. Hold it.

Well, I'm damned. They're telepathic. How do you like that? Great, Jones said. Go on. Hold it. See, Jonesy, I don't know always I like these boys. They haven't got nice minds.

Brother. What is it? Jones asked, lifting the ship a little higher. Minds, these bastards are power crazy. Seems I'll hit all the systems around here, looking for someone to... Yeah? I've got that a bit wrong. Ever said.

said pleasantly. They're not so bad. Jones had a quick mind, a suspicious nature, and good reflexes. He set the accelerator for all the Gs he could take, lay down on the floor and said, Tell me more. Come on down, Everett said, in violation of every law of spaceflight. These guys are all right. As a matter of fact, it's the most marvelous. That was where the recording ended, because Jones was pinned to the floor by 20 G's acceleration, as he boosted the ship to the level needed for the sea jump. He broke three ribs getting home, but he got there. A telepathic species was on the march. What was Earth going to do about it?

A lot of speculation necessarily clothed the bare bones of Jones's information. Evidently the species could take over a mind with ease. With Everset, it seemed that they had insinuated their thoughts into his, delicately altering his previous convictions. They had possessed him, remarkable ease. How about Jones? Why hadn't they taken him? Was distance a factor?

No hadn't they been prepared for the suddenness of his departure? One thing was certain. Everything ever said knew. The enemy knew. That meant they knew where Earth was, and how defenseless the planet was to their form of attack. It could be expected that they were on their way. Something was needed to nullify their tremendous advantage.

But what sort of something? What armour is there against thought? How do you dodge a wavelength? Pouch-hide scientists, gravely consulted their periodic tables. And how do you know when a man has been possessed? Although the enemy was clumsy with Everset, would they continue to be clumsy?

Wouldn't they learn? Psychologists tore their hair and bewailed the absence of an absolute scale for humanity. Of course, something had to be done at once. The answer from a technological planet was a technological one. Build a space fleet and equip it with some sort of a detection fire network. That was done in record time. The Atterson detector was developed, the cross between radar and the electroencephalograph.

Any alteration from the typical human brain wave pattern of the occupants of a detector-equipped ship would boost the indicator around the dial. Even a bad dream or a case of indigestion would jar it. It seemed probable that any attempt to take over a human mind would disturb something. There had to be a point of interaction somewhere. That was what the Atterson detector was supposed to detect. Maybe it would. The spaceships, three men to a ship, dotted space between Earth and Mars, forming a gigantic sphere with Earth in the center.

Tens of thousands of men crouched behind gunfire panels, watching the dials on the Ateson detector. The unmoving dials. Do you think I could fire a couple of bursts? Edwitson asked, his fingers in the gunfire button. Just to limber the guns. Those guys don't need limbering, Kassel said, stroking his beard. Besides, you throw the whole fleet into a panic. Castle, Morse said very quietly.

Get your hand off your beard. Why shall I? Castle asked. Because, Moss answered, almost in a whisper. I am about to ram it right down your fat throat. Castle grinned and tightened his fists. Pleasure, he said. I'm tired of looking at that scar of yours.

He stood up. Cut it. Edwedson said wearily. Watch the birdie. No reason to, really, Moss said, leaning back. There's an alarm bell attached. But he looked at the dial. What if the bell doesn't work, Ederson asked.

What if the dial is jammed? How would you like something cold slithering into your mind? The dial will work, Castle said. His eye is shifted from Edwinson's face to the motionless indicator. I think I'll sack in, Edwison said. Stick around, Castle said. play you some gin. All right, Edwinson found and shuffled the greasy cards,

or Morse took a turn glaring at the dial. I sure wish there to come, he said. Cut, Edwison said, handing the pack to Castle. I wonder what our friends look like, Morse said, watching the dial. Probably remarkably like us, Edwinson said, dealing the cards. Castle picked them up one by one, slowly, as if he hoped something interesting. would be under them. They should have given us another man, Kessel said.

We could play bridge. I don't play bridge, Edwitson said. You could learn. Why don't we send a task force? Moss asked. Why didn't we bomb their planet? Don't be dumb, Edwinson said. We'd lose any ship we sent.

Probably get them back at us, possessed and firing. Knock with nine, Kassel said. I don't give a good damn if you knock with a thousand, Edwison said gaily. How much do I owe you now? $3,580,010. Dollars. I shall wish they'd come, Maher said.

Want me to write a check? Take your time. Take until next week. Someone should reason with the bastards, Maher said, looking at the port. Castle immediately looked at the dial. I just thought of something,

Edwison said. Yeah. I bet it feels horrible to have your mind grabbed, Edwitson said. I bet it's awful. You'll know when it happens, Castle said.

Did Everset? Probably. He just couldn't do anything about it. My mind feels fine, Kessel said. But the first one of you guys starts acting queer. Watch out. The old laughed. Well, Edwison said.

I shall like a chance to reason with him. This is stupid. Why not? Kessel asked. You mean go out and meet them? Sure, Kassel said. We're doing no good sitting here. I should think we could do something,

Edwinson said slowly. After all, They're not invincible. They're reasoning beings. Morse punched a course on the ship's tape and looked up. You think we should contact the command, tell them what we're doing. No, Castle said, and Edwinson nodded in agreement. Red tape, we'll just go out and see what we can do.

If they won't talk, we'll blast them out of space. Look, out of the port, they could see the red flare of a reaction engine, the next ship in their sector speeding forward. They must have got the same idea, Edwitson said. Let's get there forced, Castle said. Morse shoved the accelerator in, and were thrown back in their seats. That dial hasn't moved yet, has it? Edwinson asked, over the clamour of the detector alarm bell.

Nor to move out of it, Castle said, looking at the dial, with its indicator slammed all the way over to the highest notch. End of Story 4. Story 5 of Battles for the Star Wars for the Star. Stars in space. Ed Reed short sci-fi, volume 3. This Leibervox recording is in the public domain. Defense Meck by Ray Bradbury.

Oh, my God, do you realize how far from Earth we are? Do you really think about it? It's enough to scare the guts from a man. Hold me up. Do something. Give me sedatives. I hold my hand or run cold mama. A million cold miles up.

See all the flickering stars? Look at my hands tremble. fill my heart whirling like a hot pinwheel. The captain comes toward me, a stunned expression on his small, tight face. He takes my arm, looking into my eyes. Hello, Captain, I'm sick, if that's what you want to know. I have a right to be scared. Just look at all that space. Standing here a moment ago, I stared down at earth,

so round and cloud covered in asleep on a mat of stars, and my brain tore loose and screamed, man, man, how do you get in a mess like this, and a rocket a million miles past the moon shooting for Mars, with a crew of fourteen others. I can hardly stand up, my knees, my hands, my heart. Shaking apart. Hold me up, sir. What a hysterics like?

The captain unpungs the inter-deck audio and speaks swiftly, scowling into it. I hope he's phoning the psychiatrist. I need something up. Damn it. Damn it. The psychiatrist descends the ladder in immaculate, salt-wide uniform and walks toward me in a dream. Hello, doctor. You're the one for me.

Please, sir, turn this damn rocket around and fly back to New York. I'll go crazy with all this spell. face and distance. The psychiatrist and the captain's voices murmur and blend with here and there an emphasis, a toss of head, a gesture. Young Halloway, he is on a fair drag, doctor. Can you help him? I'll try. Good man, Halloway is. Imagine we'll need him in his muscles when we land. With the crow as small as it is, every man's worth his weight in uranium. He's got to be cured. The psychiatrist shakes his head. Might have to squirt him full of drugs to keep him quiet the rest of the expedition? The captain explodes, saying that is impossible. Blood drums in my

The doctor moves closer, smelling, clean, sharp and white. Please understand, Captain, this man is definitely psychotic about going home. His talk is almost a reversion to childhood. I can't refuse his demands, and his fear seems too deeply based for reasoning. However, I think I have an idea. Halloway? Yes, sir. Help me, Doctor.

I want to go home. I want to see Popperhorn exploding into a buttered avalanche inside a glass cube. I want to roller skate. I want to climb into the old, cruel, wet ice wagon and go chick-ch-chick-chick on the ice with a sharp pick. I want to take long, sweating hikes in the cut. country see big brick buildings and bright-faced people fight the old gang anything but this awful. The psychiatrist rubs his chin. All right, son, you can go back to Earth's now tonight.

Again the captain explodes. You can't tell them that we're landing on Mars today. The psychiatrist pats down the captain patiently. Please, Captain. Well, Halloway, back to New York for you. How does it sound? I'm not so scared now. We're going down on the moving ladder, and here is the psychiatrist's cubicle.

He's pouring lights into my eyes. They revolve like stars and a disk. Lots of strange machines around. Attachments to my head, my ears. Sleepy. I'm so sleepy. Like under warm water. Being pushed around, laved, washed, quiet.

Oh, gosh, sleepy. Listen to me, Halloway. Sleepy, doctor's talking, very soft, like feathers, soft, soft, soft. You're going to down on earth. No matter what they tell you, you're landing on earth. No matter what happens, you'll be on earth. Everything you see and do will be like on earth. Remember that?

Remember that. you won't be afraid because you'll be on earth. Remember that? Over and over. You'll land on earth in an hour. Home. Home again. No matter what anyone says.

Oh, yes, sir. Home again. Sleepy. Home again, drifting, sleeping. Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you from the bottom. My drowsy, sleepy, saw. Yes, sir.

Yes, sir. Sleepy, drifting. I'm awake. Hey, everybody come. Look. Here comes earth. Right at us like a giant, like a green moth-sball off a bat,

coming at us on a curve. Check stations, Mars landing. Go into Bogers, tossed atmosphere. Get into your what, did he say? Your baseball uniform, Halloway, your baseball uniform. Yes, sir, my baseball uniform where I put it over here, head into legs, into feet, into there. This is great. Picture in here, oh boy, oh boy, smack, yow.

Yes, sir, it's over in that metal locker, I'll take it out. Head, arms, legs into it, I'm dressed, baseball uniform. Ha, this is great. Picture in here, oh boy, oh boy, smack you. Adjust, bow, your helmet's check oxygen. What? Put on your catchers, Mask, Halloway. Oh, the mask slides down over my face, like that the captain comes rushing up.

I is hot, green, and angry. Doctor, what's this infernal nonsense? He wanted Holloway able to do his work, didn't you, Captain? Yes, but what in the hell have you done to him? Strange. As they talk, I hear their words flow over my head, like a wave dashed on a sea-stone, but the words drain off, leaving no imprint. As soon as some words invade my head, something eats and digests them,

and I think the words is something else entirely. The psychiatrist nods at me. I couldn't change his basic desire. Given time, yes, a period of months I could have, but you need him now. So against all the known ethics of my profession, would say one must never lie to a patient. I followed along in his own thought channel. I didn't dare frustrate him. He wanted to go home, so I let him.

I've given him a fantasy. I've set up a protective defence mechanism in his mind that refuses to believe certain realities, that evaluates all things from its own desire for security. security and home. His mind will automatically block any thought or image that endangers that security. The captain stares wildly. Then Halloway's insane! Would you have him mad with fear, or able to work on Mars, hindered by only a slight tetched condition? Coddle him and he'll do fine. Just remember we're landing on Earth, not Mars. Earth, Mars, you'll have me raving next. The doctor and the captain certainly talk weirdly. Who cares? Here comes Earth, green expanding like

a moist cabbage underfoot. Mars landing, I'll like opening. Use bulger oxygen. Whoie, go, gang, last on out as a pink chimpanzee. Holloway, come back, you damn fool, you kill yourself. Feel the good sweet earth, home again.

Praise the Lord, let's dance, sing off key, laugh. Ha, oh boy! Hello, I come back, look behind you, you fool. I whirl about and cry happily. Shep, Shep, old dog, he comes running to meet me, long fur, shining amber in the sunshine,

barking. Shep, I haven't seen you in years, good old pooch. Come here, Shep, let me pebble. you, the captain shrieks. Don't pet it! It looks like a carnivorous Martian worm. Man, the jaws in that thing! How do I use your knife?

Shep snarls and shows his teeth. Shep, what's wrong? That's no way to greet me. Come on, Shep. I pull back my fingers as his swift jaw snap. Shep circles me swiftly. You haven't rabies, have you, Shep? He darts in, snutches my ankle with strong, locking white teeth.

Lord, Shep, you're crazy. I can't let this go on. And he used to be such a fine, beautiful dog. Remember all the hikes we took into the lazy corn country by the red barns and deep wells. Shep clenches tight my ankle. I'll give him one more chance. Shep, let go. Where did this long knife come from in my hand, like magic?

Sorry to do this, Shep, but there. Shep screams, thrashing screams again. My arm pumps up and down. My gloves are freckled with blood flakes. Don't scream, Shep. I said I was sorry, didn't I? Get out there, you men, and bury that beast immediately. I glare at the captain.

Don't talk that way about Shep. The captain stares at my ankle. Sorry, Halloway, I meant bury that dog, you men. Give him full honors, you a lucky son. Another second, and on those nice teeth had bored through you like ankle-cuff metal. I don't know what he means. I'm wearing sneakers, sir. Oh, yeah, so you are.

Yeah, well, I'm sorry, Halloway. I know how you must feel about. Shep. He was a fine dog. I think about it a moment, and my eyes fill up. Wet. There'll be a picnic and a hike, the captain says. Three hours now the boys have carried luggage from the metal house.

The way they'll talk, this will be some picnic. Some seem afraid, but who worries about copperheads and water moccasins and crawfish? Not me, no, sir, not. Not me. Gus, sweating beside me on some apparatus, squinted me. What's eating you, Halloway? I smile, me? Nothing.

Why? You will not act with that Martian worm. What are you talking about? What worm? Captain interrupts nervously. Bart's lay off Holloway. The doctor will explain. Ask him.

Barts goes away, scratching his head. The captain pats my shoulder. You're a strong-arm, Halloway. You've got muscles from working on the rocket engine, so keep alert today, eh? On your hike to look over the territory. Keep your BB gun ready. "'Beavers, do you think, sir?' "'The captain swallows hard and blinks.'

"'Oh, beavers, yeah, beavers. Sure. Bevers, maybe. Mountain lions and Indians, too, I hear. Never can tell. Be careful.' "'Mountain lions and Indians in New York in this day and age. "'Oh, sir. Let it go. Keep a let, anyhow. Smoke?' "'I know, smoke, sir. A strong mind and a healthy body. You know the old rule.' "'The old rule. Oh, yes, the old rule. Only joking, I don't want to smoke anyway. Like hell. What was that last, sir?'

"'Nothing, Halloway. Carry on, carry on. I help the others work now. Are we taking the yellow streetcar to the edge of town, Gus? We're using proportional belts, skimming low over the Dead Sea. How's that again, Gus? I said we're taking a yellow streetcar to the end of the line, yeah. We're ready, everyone's packed, spreading out. We're going in groups of four, down Main Street past the pie factory, over the bridge, through the tunnel.

Past the circus grounds and whirl rendezvous, says the captain, at a place he points to an a queer, disjointed map. Whosh! We're off. I forgot to pay my fare. That's okay, I paid it. Thanks, Captain. We're really travelling. the cypresses and the maples flashed by, Kaoom! I wouldn't admit this to anyone but you, sir, but momentarily there, I didn't see this street car. Suddenly we moved in empty space, nothing supporting us,

and I didn't see any car, but now I see it, sir. The captain gazes at me. As that a nine-day miracle. You do, eh? Yes, sir, I clutch upward. Here's the strap, I'm holding it. You look pretty funny sliding through the air with your hand up like that, Halloway. How's that, sir?

Why are the others laughing at me, sir? Nothing, son, nothing, just happy, that's all. Ding, ding, ding, ding! Nell Street in Washington, ding, ding, whoosh. This is real travelling. Funny, though, the captain and his men keep moving, changing seats. Never stay seated. It's a long street car.

I'm weighing back now, they're up front. By the large brown house, and the next corner stands a popcorn wagon, yellow and red and blue. I can taste the popcorn in my mind. It's been a long time since I've eaten some. If I asked the captain's permission to stop and buy a bag, he'll refuse. I'll just sneak off the car at the next stop. I can get back on the next car and catch up with the gang later.

How do you stop this car? My fingers fumble with my baseball outfit, doing something I don't want to know about. The car is stopping. Why is that? Popcorn is more important. I'm off the car walking. Here's a popcorn machine with a man behind it. Fussing with little silver metal knobs.

Burlock, Lock, car is. Tony, Tony, Bambino, what are you doing? Here, click. It can be, but it is. Tony, who died ten long years ago when I was so freckled kid. Alive and selling popcorn again. Oh, Tony, it's good to see you. His black mustache is so waxed, so shining.

His dark hair like burnt oily shavings. his dark shining happy eyes, his smiling red cheeks. He shimmers in my eyes like in a cold rain. Tony, let me shake your hand. Give me a bag of popcorn, signor. Click, click, click, split, click. The captain didn't see you, Tony. You were heading so well, only I saw you.

Just a moment while I searched my nickel. Wee. Fuel, I'm dizzy. It's very hot. My head spins like a leaf on a storm wind. Let me hold onto your wagon, Tony, quick. I'm shivering and I've got sharp needle head pains. I'm running a temperature. I feel as if I have a torch flaming in my head.

"'Ather, pardon me for criticising you, Tony, "'but I think it's your papa turned up too high. "'Your face looks afraid, contorted, and your hands move so rapidly. "'Why, can't you shut it off? "'I'm hot. Everything melts. My knees sack. "'Warmers still. "'It better turn nothing off. I can't take any more. "'I can't front my nickel anyhow.

"'Please snap it off, Tony. "'I'm sick. My uniform glows orange. "'I'll take fire. "'Here, I'll turn it off you, Tony. "'You hit me. Stop hitting me. "'Stop clicking those knobs. "'It's hot, I tell you. Stop, oh. "'Toney, where are you?

"'Gone. Where did that purple flame shoot from? "'That loud blast? What was it? The flame seemed to stream from my hand out of my scout flashlight. Purple flame, eating. I smell a sharp bitter odor like hamburger fried over long. I feel better now, cool as winter, but like a fly buzzing in my ears, a voice comes faint, far off. Holloway, damn it, Halloway, where are you? Captain, it's his voice sizzling.

I didn't see you, sir. Hello, we're in the Dead Sea bottom known ancient Martian city, and now, never mind, damn it. If you hear me, press your boys got badge and yell. I press the badge intensely sweating. Hey, Captain, Hallaway, Glory, you're not dead. Where are you? I stuff for popcorn, sir. I can't see you.

How did I hear you? It's an echo. Let it go. If you're okay, grab the next streetcar. It's very opportune, because here comes a big red streetcar now around the corner of the drugstore. What?

Yes, sir, and it's chuck full of people. I'll climb aboard. Wait a minute. Hold on murder! What kind of people, damn it? It's the West Side gang, sure, the whole bunch of tough kids. West Side gang, hell, those are Martians.

Get the hell out of that. Transfer to another car. Take the subway. Take the elevator. Too late. The car stopped. I'll have to get on. The conductor looks impatient.

Impatient, he says. You'll be massacred. Uh-oh. Everybody's climbing from the street car, looking angry at me. Kelly and Grogan and Tompkins and the others. I guess there'll be a fight. The Captain's eye stabs my ear, but I don't see him anywhere. Use your argon, your blaster, your blaster.

Hell, use your slingshot or throw spitballs or whatever the devil you imagine you got holstered there, but use it. Come on, man, about face and back. I'm upnumbered. I bet they'll gum in give me the bumps, the bumps, the bumps, I bet they'll trust me to a maple tree, maple tree, maple tree, Maple Trianticle me. I put the ink tattoo the initials on my forehead.

Mother won't like this. The captain's voice opens up louder, driving nearer. And Papa ain't happy. Get out of the Halloway. They're hitting me, sir. We're battling. Keep it up, Holloway. I'm knocking down, sir.

With an upper cut. I'm knocking another one down now. Here goes a third. Someone's grabbed my ankle. I'll kick him. There. I'm stumbling, falling. Lights in my eyes.

Purple ones. Big purple lightning balls sizzling in the air. Three of them vanished. Just like that. I think they fell on a bonhole. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt them bad. They stole my flashlight, get it back, Holloway.

We're coming, get your flash and use it. That's silly. Silly, he says, silly, silly, silly. I got my flashlight back broken, no good. We're wrestling. There's so many of them, I'm weak. They're climbing all over me, hitting. It's not fair.

I'm falling down, kicking, screaming. Up speed, men, full power. They're binding me up. I can't move. They're rushing me into the street car now. Now we won't be able to go on that hike. And I clamline, it's so hard, too. Here we are, Holloway.

Blaster men, oh my lord. Look at the horrible faces of those creatures. Gah! Watch out, Captain, they'll get you too, and the others. Ah, someone struck me in the back of my head. Darkness, dark, dark, dark, dark, baby, on the treetop, wearing the wind blows. Okay, Halloway, any time, just any out time you want to come in.

Dark, a voice talking, dark as a well's inside. How's my head? I'm flat in my back. I can feel rocks under me. Good morning, dear Mr. Halloway. Thank you, Captain, over and out the dark corner. It ain't the President of the United States. Where is this cave?

Suppose you'd tell me, you got us into this mess with your eternally blasted popcorn. Why'd you get off the streetcar? Did the West Side Gang trust us up again like this, Captain? West Side, Gang, ah, those faces, those inhuman, weird, unsavory and horrible faces, all loose-fleshed and gangreness, aliens, the whole ratting clutch of them. What a funny way to talk. Listen, you, par by all that did. And about now we're going to be fried, gutted, iced, killed, slaughtered, and murdered. We will be, epsop facto dead.

Your friends are webbing up a little blood-letting jamboree. Can't I shove it through your thick skull? We're on Mars, about to be sliced and hammered by a lousy bunch of Martians. Captain, sir? Yes, Berman. Cave doors opening, sir. I think the Martians are ready to have at us again, sir. Some sort of tests are there, no doubt.

Let go on me, you one-eyed monster. I'm coming, don't push. We're outside the cave. They're cutting our bonds. See, Captain, they aren't hurting us after all. Here's the brick alley. There's Mrs. Hates' underwear waving on the clothes line. See all the people from a beer hall.

What are they waiting for? To see us die! Captain what's wrong with Holloway is acting queer. At least he's better off than us. He can't see these creature's faces and bodies. It's enough to turn a man's stomach. This must be their amphitheatre. That looks like an obstacle course.

I gather from their sign linger that if we can make it through the obstacles, we're free. Footnote, nobody's ever gotten through alive yet. Seems I want you to go first, Berman. Good luck, boy. So long, Captain, so long, Gus, so long, Halloway. Berman's running down alley with an easy, long-muscled stride. I hear him yelling high and clear even though he's getting far away. Here comes an automobile.

Berman! Ah, it hit me, he's fallen. Berman, get up, get up. Stay here, Halloway, it's not your turn yet. My turn, what do you mean? Someone's got out, Berman. Halloway, come back. Oh man, I don't want to see this. Lift up my legs, put them down.

Breathe out, breathe in. Swing arms, swing legs. Chew my tongue, blink my eyes. Berman, here I come. Gee, things are crazy, funny. Here comes an ice wagon trangling along. It's coming right at me. I can't see to get around it.

It's coming so fast. I'll jump inside it. Jump, jump, cool, ice. Ice pick, chick, chick, chick. I hear the captain screaming off a million hot miles gone. Chick, chick, chick, chick. Around the ice perimeter. The ice wagon is thundering, rioting, jouncing,

shaking, rolling on big rusty iron wheels, smelling of sour ammonia, bouncing on a corduroyd dirt and Black Alley Road. The rear end of it seems to be snapping shut with mini ice prongs. I feel intense pain in my left leg. Chick, chick, chick, chick, chick. Piece of ice, cold square, cold cube. A shuddering and convulsing a timbre. The wagon wheel stopped rolling. I jumped down and run away from the wrecked wagon.

Did the wagon roll over Berman, I hope not. A fence here. I'll jump over it. Another popcorn machine, very warm, very hot. Oh, flame and red fire and burning metal knobs. so didn't mean to strike the popcorn man down. Hello, Berman. What are you doing in my arms?

How did you get here? Did I pick you up? And why? An obstacle race at the high school? You're heavy. Doug, snipping at my heels. How far am I supposed to carry you? I hear the captain screaming me on.

For why? For why? Here comes the big, bad, truant officer with a club in his hand, to take me back to school. He looks mean and broad. I kicked the truant officer's shins and kicked him in the face. Mama, no, mammy, that's unfair. That's not ethical fighting. Something went squish.

Hmm, let's forget about it, shall we? Breathing hard. Here comes the gang after me, all the rough, bustly Irishmen are scarred Norwegians and stubborn Italians. Hit, kick, wrestle, here comes a swift car. Fast, fast. I'll open a duck with you, Berman. Here comes another car from the opposite way. If I work things right, well, stop screaming, Berman.

The cars crashed into each other. The car's still roll, tumbling like two animals tearing at each other's throats. Not far to go now, Berman, to the end of the alley, just ahead. I'll sleep for 40 years when this is over. But I get this flesh out in my hand. From one of those guys I knocked down from the popcorn man? Or poke it in front of me. People run away.

Maybe they don't like it to light. the end of the alley. There's the Green Valley in my house, and there's mum and pop waiting. Hey, let's sing, let's dance. We're going home. Halloway, you so-and-so, you did it. Dark, sleep. Wake up, slow. Listen. And Halloway ran down at Amphitheater, nonchalant as a high school kid jumping hurdles. A big, a big, a big, it looked like the rear end of a delivery truck. Lunged forward square at Halloway.

What did Halloway do? Halloway jumped right inside the monster's mouth. right inside. What happened then? The animal looked downfounded. It tried to spit out. Then, to tap it all, what did Hallow I do?

I ask you, I ask you, what did he do? He drew forth his Boy Scout blade and went chick-chick-chick all around the bloody interior, pretending like he's hauled up in an ice wagon, chipping himself off pieces of ice. No. Oh, my honour. A monster, after taking a bit of this chick-ch-chick-ch-ch-bisness,

leaped around, cavorting, floundering, rocking, tossing, and then with a spout of blood, out-poped Halloway, grinning like a kid, and on he ran, dodging spears and pretending there were pebbles, leaping a line of crouched warriors and saying there a picket fence, then he lifted Berman and trotted with him, until he met a 300-pound Martian wrestler. Halloway supposed that it was the truant officer and promptly kicked him in the face. Then he knocked down another guy looking furiously at the buttons of a paralysis machine, which looked to Holloway like a popcorn wagon, after which two gigantic black men.

Martian leopards attacked, resembling to him nothing more than two very bad drivers and dark automobiles. Holloway sidestepped, the two cars crashed and tore each other apart, fighting. Halloway, punt-down, shooting people with his flashlight, which he retrieved from the popcorn man, fighting the flush at people. He was amazed when they vanished, and, oh, Hallow's waking up. I saw his eyelids flicker. Quite everyone, Hallow, you awake?

Yeah, I've been listening to you talk for five minutes. I still don't understand. Nothing happened at all. How long I'd been asleep? Two days. Nothing happened, eh? Nothing except you got the Martians cow-towing, that's all, brother. Your spectacular performance impressed people. The enemy suddenly decided that if one Earth man could do what you did, what would happen if a million more came. Everyone keeps on with this joking, just lying about Mars. Stop it. Where am I? I? I bought the rocket, about to take off. Leave Earth? No, no, I don't want to leave Earth. Good Green Earth. Let go, I'm afraid.

Let go of me. Stop the ship. Halloway, this is Mars. We're going back to Earth. Liars. All of you. I don't want to go to Mars. I want to stay here on Earth.

Holy cow, here we go again. Hold him down, Gus. Hey, Doctor and the Double. Come help Holloway change his mind back, will you? Liars. You can't do this. Liars! Liars!

End of story five. Story six of Battles for the Stars. In space! Ed Reed's short sci-fi volume three. This Lebervox recording is in the public domain. The Invisible Enemy by Arnold Castle. It was the day.

The automobile, with its three passengers, moved slowly along the quiet morning street. There was no need for hurry. The boy's father was soberly recalling his own war experiences, wondering how similar tom's would be. The mother was remembering rivully fragments of films, of facsimile reports of forgotten conversations, envisioning her son, cringing pathetically in a shallow foxhole, as the penultimate weapon burst into grizzly glory in the dark darned sky. Tom's own thoughts were tense, but he managed to conceal his nervousness from his parents. We're here, son, his father announced calmly, pulling the car up to the curb.

"'Dear, can't we drive around the block just once?' his mother asked. Her voice almost a whisper. "'We're early.' "'No, mum,' Tom said crisply. He opened the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. "'Wonters to go in, son.' "'No, thanks, Dad.' "'But we want to, Tom,' his mother said.

"'Of course we'll go in. "'There's no need for you, too. "'I'm already registered,' he told her. "'He reached out to grip. his father's hand. Tom! His mother protested. Don't worry about me!

He kissed her hurriedly and was relieved when his father drove away without waiting for him to start up the steps. He knew that they would worry, and he turned abruptly, forcing his attention away. The day was bright, and a chill breeze swept him from the Pacific. Atop a distant hill, eucalyptus glimmered in the white sunlight, inscribed over the portal of the modest building which he now faced with the words, Department of Peace,

that the age of violence may forever remain history. Bullets splattered into the mound in front of the foxhole, sending a dense spray of dust and gravel into the pit. Tom spit out the mouthful of dirt and cursed. They come in?

The soldier next to him asked, waiting silently. No, Tom told him gloomily, but they know where we are. Maybe they'll try martyr. Think they'll try martyr? Tom shrugged. Go on back to sleep.

I'm watching. The other was several years older than he, and a corporal, but not very bright. Still it was better than being alone. The worst thing he could imagine was having to face the enemy, utterly alone. If only he could remember what the enemy looked like, it would not be so bad.

He forgot so much. Sometimes it seemed like he'd been in combat just a few days, but other times it felt like he'd been up there forever, waiting, moving forward, moving backward, thinking that at last he was beginning to get the picture, but not sure, never sure, never sure of anything. If only he could recall something beside the immediate present, then maybe that situation would start to make a little sense. He knew why he was fighting, vaguely, it was to safeguard certain inalienable rights, which ones

he could not exactly remember. The odd thing was that the enemy was fighting for the same goal. He sensed that intuitively. But who was the enemy? He thought he had known once, but that had been quite a while ago. What did they look like? You'd have to ask someone.

An infrared flare blossomed some distance down the valley. Tom adjusted his binoculars and scanned the slope. Nothing. Remotely, the monotonous rumble of atomic artillery began pounding through the night. From far away, echoed the transient whisper of a jet. Now his legs were beginning to get crammed. That happened every night, and he knew that no matter which way he bent them, the pain would

continue to grow. However, there was always the consolation that toward morning they would become numb. He opened his one remaining ration can, tore back the layers of thermothoril insulation, and started devouring the warm lamb stew. The dull staccato of automatic fire commenced far down the valley. Somebody screamed. Tom contemplated his own flashless weapon, trying to do that he had to beckxed to beckxed to weapon, trying to recall what he had been taught about its principles of expulsion. That had been

so far back, a year, two? He didn't remember. It was time for the corporal to take over the watch, but Tom decided to give him another ten minutes. Whirrelly, he raised the binoculars to his eyes, pushed the switch. The battery was about exhausted, and he replaced it. Overhead a flare was drifting downward, and he watched, as it illuminated the murky battleground. "'Lad up!' the Patoon Sergeant growled. The troops had been waiting for a quarter of an hour beside the road. Tom had long since learned the futility of speculation. But conversation was vital, and there had to be a topic.

"'Maybe they're trying to get trucks for us,' he muttered to the soldier next to him. "'Maybe they're planning a picnic for us,' the other suggested. "'Trucks, picnics, you guys make everything too complicated,' a third soldier remarked. "'Every time something happens you figure out a different reason for it, not me. The way you see it, there's just one cause for everything they tell us to do or don't do, say or don't say, think or don't think, and it's discipline. Look at it that way, and you're always one ahead of them. I like the idea of a picnic, the other replied obstinately, only it's supposed to be a surprise

and that's why they don't tell us nothing. Okay, you guys, strip those butts! Tom hoisted the straps of his pack under his aching shoulders, and fell into file behind the other two. The heel of his left boot was wearing badly, and he could sense the same. strain on his ankle. He tried placing his weight on the ball of his foot, but that made him limp. Then he had no time for concern with small discomforts, for the column was scattering at the distant whoosh of jets. Tom, however, got no farther than the ditch. The soldier who liked picnics

had stumbled onto a discarded, recoiledess rifle shell, ten feet from the road. It exploded at the contact. Tom did not hear the jets roll past, for the pain that had burst in his leg was deafening. Momentarily he experienced a curious, detached awareness of both the agony of the wound and the contortions into which he was throwing his body. Then he collapsed on the weed-matted gravel unconscious. He woke to find two medical aidmen seated beside him. The pain had lessened, and the wound was all but covered. He watched furtively as a corporal completed the job

of daubing the gummy white substance from a freshly opened can of plasterderm into a raw gash below his right knee. He hoped none of the ligaments had been torn since they were taken a lot longer to revolve in the undifferentiated surrogate than with the rest of the tissues. Tentatively, he flexed his foot muscles. They seemed all right.

To slain back, buddy, you're okay now, he was informed. How about the jets? We heard any of them? He asked. Couldn't tell, but I don't think so. I got with thereafter, though. Yeah, what was that? Convirt trucks coming to pick us up.

That's what I hear anyway. Tom was silent for a while. Then he asked, "'I'm not going to have any trouble with that, am I?' "'No, but take it easy for the next couple of days. I'll put a bandage on it, but it takes time for that stuff to gel.' He went to work on the bandage,

while his companion started packing out the apparatus. Five minutes later, they had gone. Tom lay thinking, none of his questions had yet been answered. He still could not think coherently about even the recent past, and nobody had been able to state clearly just whom they were fighting. Though everyone agreed on the motives for the war, they were defending freedom against tyranny. It was as simple and as basic as that.

However, it somehow left Tom unsatisfied. Well, what did I tell you? The soldier next to him remarked. Discipline. No trucks, no picnic. Just discipline. Say how about a cigarette? I must have dropped mine in the scramble.

Sure. Tom threw him a mashed half-empty pack. Hey, thanks. He lit one, carefully buttoning the rest in a pocket of his fatigue jacket. Thanks a lot. Okay, you guys, came the horse command. Strip them butts, we're moving. Discipline, the soldier muttered bitterly,

crushing the cigarette into the gravel. Discipline. The night was quiet, too quiet. There were remote and occasional atomic artillery bursts, but no other noise. The two other members of the patrol were immediately ahead of Tom, but they progressed slowly and made little sound. Tom crept forward a single notch,

looking up only when he had sunk again into the grass. On either side there was nothing but blackness. Once more he squirmed forward with his boots and forearms. Still, there was only the quiet and darkness of night. He lay there for a while, waiting and wondering. He had ceased pondering those questions which had most concerned him during the earlier days. Now he asked himself only, when would it be over? Nothing else any longer seemed to matter,

but more and more frequently that had come to his mind a single irrelevant memory. It was an image of a clear day, of a cool breeze off the ocean, of a crest of green and gold eucalyptus on a faraway hill. It had something to do with Home,

but that was all he knew of it, and it was all he could recall of home. A burst of flashless automatic fire from somewhere up the ridge brought a scream from the soldier in front of him and sent him writhing down the slope. Tom lowered himself, till he was on a level with the sight of his carbine, then started scanning the rise.

A moment later, he spotted the greenish glow of the sniper's infrared beam, and, flipping the safety into automatic, he squeezed the trigger. Rapidly he replaced the clip and waited. After several moments, he unconsciously flooded the terrain with his own light. The mere hundred feet away was a sprawling greenish form, one of the enemy, a good and dead one. It was ten minutes before he heard the remaining member of patrol working his way back. Goodbye, came a whisper. He got him.

What about, what do you think? Are we going back? Sure. There may no troops up there. That's what we came to find out. Maybe a few snipers is all. He started crawling the way they had come, but this time it was more tedious because of the abrasions and bruises that had been incurred.

Dawn was a pasty grey in the sky behind him, when he at last neared the lines. Something funny, the sergeant muttered suspiciously, rising to his knees. What's wrong? Tom asked wearily. I don't know. Wait here. Tom waited till the sky threatened to become light, then began following. He continued along the route which he felt must lead to the lines, and after some minutes began to feel a sense of panic. The landmarks were all wrong, and the cloud-strewn sky gave no indication of direction.

Then from the other side of a low rocky hillock came the unmistakable sound of approaching troops. Running forward to the edge, he stopped abruptly as he found himself face to face with the enemy. Suddenly all the hate and guilt he had ever known exploded into his awareness. The face before him was a meaningless blur, but he did not need to know the enemy to loathe him. His carbine was in his hands, the safety off, the barrel lowered, the trigger squeezed, but the rifle failed. fire. The cry of the enemy was a wordless oath of anger, the bayonet, a glinting sliver of death, the pain in his side, the ultimate peak of agony. But as he fell back onto the rocks,

he sensed something beyond rage in the bright young eyes of his destroyer. He sensed, hope, the possibility of peace, and even of happiness, for those anger-maddened eyes had been his own. He woke upon a bed in a small white-wall room. It was too soon yet to think things over. So he consciously relaxed and contemplated such immediate and basic pleasures as breathing, and observing the distant sun-gote eucalyptus

through the single broad window. For the present, the experience of life itself was sufficient. When at last an attendant entered, followed by a nurse, Tom felt like talking. He was frustrated. in this by thermometer, which the woman allowed to remain in his mouth throughout the entire check-up. And she had finally concluded her routine, Tom said,

"'I'm feeling pretty good, doctor. Is it all right if I leave?' "'I'm just a mere psych technician.' The man smiled. You'll have to check with Miss Lawton.' "'Fit as a fiddle,' the nurse responded, gathering up her equipment. "'My bayonet wound okay?' Tom asked anxiously, and was immediately startled to find he could refer to the incident with amusement. It is if you can talk about it, she replied with the flicker of sympathy on her dry expressionless face. So it was a bayonet. The man commented after the nurse had left.

That's quite rare, you know. Usually it's a bullet or shell fragment. Don't you decide, I mean, don't you set it all up beforehand? Oh no. Electrohypnosis merely instigates certain motivational and situational patterns. Instrumentation and environment is entirely the product of your own personality. The more feasible, consistent and coherent the subjective aspects, the more adaptable, rational, and stable must be the subject.

What about the bayonet? You chose that, I would suppose, because you not only weren't afraid of meeting the enemy, but actively wanted to. We'll go into that later. Now I want you to relate everything you can remember. Tom waited, while the other set up a recorder. It took less than twenty minutes to narrate every detail he could recall. Well, that'll be enough for today.

We do want you to report back in a week or so just to find out how this affects your normal activities. The receptionist will make an appointment for you. Your clothes are in the closet. Tom dressed and started along the corridor, stopping only once for a brief glimpse of the machine, which had been his battleground. A boy he had seen occasionally at school was approaching, and they nodded at one another. You've been through it? the boy asked. Yeah, Tom told him a little uneasily.

I'm just going in. How is it? Tom noticed the other boy's color was damp with perspiration, and his eyes were somewhat watery. Is it pretty rough? Well, it's— Tom returned uncomfortably. It's just like war. He turned away as the other winced and swallowed nervously. The receptionist made his appointment, and he strode to the doorway. Already the horrors of a mere hour before seemed years in the past, and he wondered as he proceeded down the steps. into the same bright day he had left so long ago,

how those vague and distant imaginings could possibly affect his future behavior. He readily admitted that he would be far less inclined to defend the concept of war than he would have been earlier, but surely it was possible that under certain conditions he might find himself in a situation where he had no alternative to violence. Those who had been through it never seemed to get into fights

like other kids do. That could be simply a matter of growing up, Then why, he wondered, was electrohypnosis universally required in the keystone of the armistice which had concluded the Third World War? With the exception of a few thoroughly socialized individual whose capacity for occasional force was necessary to the maintenance of law and order, every male human being of fifteen underwent the experience, though there must be some aspect of its consequences which he had overlooked. For some reason, a memory of three small boys playing soldier on an autumn dusk slipped in

among his thoughts. How disenchantly different had been the unreal realism of the dream. With an amused start, it occurred to him that the same genuine Captain America infrared electronic sniper kit that had seen him through those childhood skirmishes had accompanied him into combat that morning, and for an instant he wondered if such a thing as an infrared flare actually did exist. Stepping onto the sidewalk, he turned toward home. He would be there in just a little over three hours after his parents had left him.

They could not have worried too much in so short a period. Sirley decided, it would be best to call them. Everyone had heard rumours of subjects coming out of electrohypnosis with psychosomatic or neurotic after effects. And while these had been authoritatively discounted, it would be typical of his mother to imagine her son the exception. There's a drugstore on their next corner, and Tom headed toward it. He did not notice the two younger school acquaintances

until they had crossed the street and had halted in his path. He'd never been on cordial terms with either of them, and was in no mood with their banter today. Well, look who's back from the wars, the more aggressive of the pair exclaimed. Where's your meadows, Colonel? Yeah, the other jibed. And what happened to your crutches? Tom regretted very much not having left the building by a rear exit.

their reaction to meeting him in that manner, considering their determination not to exhibit any anxiety over their own imminent ordeals, was bound to be antagonistic. However, his own responses had not yet stabilized adequately, following the experience, to permit much tolerance. He ignored them and started on. Come on, Tom, the first persisted, stepping swiftly into his path. Tell us about it. How many of them did you get? But he didn't get any, but he just buried himself. himself in his foxhole till it was all over, that he was scared stiff. Nah, not the Colonel. It was out there in front of the wholesome, weren't you, Colonel?

Irritation flamed into anger. Raising his hand, he was about to push them aside, when the hot-searing pain of the bayonet struck him, hurling him back against the wall. For an uncomprehending moment, he leaned immobile, his mouth gaping his eyes awed, then realizing the only way out he relaxed. The agony subsided and vanished. though that was it, he thought bitter. So that was the ultimate weapon, not the indoctrination. For the rest of his life, he was to be burdened with the possibility of that vivid torture

whenever he so much is considered using force. The boys had backed away apprehensively, and now were moving on down the street with frequent backward glances. It made no difference to him. For the present they were of another age, an age of violence. an age which he had outgrown.

The drugstore was crowded, but Tom made his way toward the rear without noticing the customers. His thoughts were soberly and intently focused on the future. Perhaps, he considered, by the time his great grandchildren were men, a way of life would have been created, which involved neither the inevitability of war

nor the oddness necessity for an invisible poised bayonet. And so far as his own life was consistent, If the latter meant that he could return home, instead of trudging back to the barracks, then he accepted it gracefully. The price of peace was bound to be high, he reflected, since man had never before been able to afford it. Sliding into the phone booth and pushing a coin into the slot, Tom began dialing. End of Story six.

Story seven of Battles for the Stars. In space! Ed Reed short sci-fi volume three. This Leberwock's recording is in the public domain. Navy Day by Harry Harrison. General Wingrove looked at the rows of faces without seeing them. His vision went beyond the Congress of the United States, past the balmy June day to another day that was coming,

a day when the army would have its destined place of authority. He drew a deep breath and delivered what was perhaps the shortest speech ever heard in the hallowed halls of Congress. The general staff of the U.S. Army requests Congress to abolish the archaic branch of the armed forces, known as the U.S. Navy. The aging senator from Georgia checked his hearing aid to see if it was in operating order, while the press box emptied itself in one concerted rush and a clatter of running feet that died off in the direction of the telephone room.

A buzz of excited comet ran through the giant chamber. One by one the heads turned to face the naval section where rolls of blue figures stirred and buzzed like smoked out bees. The knot of men around a ponchy figure heavy with gold braid spoke up, and Admiral Fitz James climbed slowly to his feet. Lesser men have quail before that piercing stare, but General Wingrove was never the lesser man. The Admiral tossed his head with disgust, every line of his body denoting outraged dignity. Turned to his audience, a small pulse beating in his forehead. I cannot comprehend the General's attitude. Nor can I understand why he has attacked the Navy in its unwarranted fashion.

The Navy has existed and will always exist as the first barrier of American defence. I ask you, gentlemen, to ignore this request as you would ignore the statements of any person. Uh, slightly demented. I should like to offer a recommendation that the General's sanity be investigated, an inquiry be made as to the mental health of anyone else connected with this preposterous proposal. The General smiled calmly. I understand, Admiral. I really don't blame me for being slightly annoyed, but please let us not bring this issue of national importance down to a shallow personal level.

The Army has facts to back up this request, facts that shall be demonstrated tomorrow morning. Turning his back on the raging Admiral, General Wingrove included all the assembled solons in one sweeping gesture. Reserve your judgment until that time, gentlemen. Make no hasty judgments until you've seen the force of argument with which we back up our request. It is the end of an error. In the morning the Navy joins its fellow fossils, the dodo and the brunt of sorts.

The Admiral's blood pressure mounted to a new record, and the gentle thud of his unconscious body striking the floor was the only sound to break the shocked silence of the giant hall. The early morning sun warmed the white marble of the Jefferson Memorial and glinted from the soldiers' helmets and the roofs of the packed cars that crowded forward in a slow-moving stream. All the gentlemen of Congress were there, the passage of their cars cleared by the screaming sirens of motorcycle policemen, around and under the wheels of their official cars

pressed a solid wave of government workers and common citizens of the capital city. The trucks of the radio and television services pressed close, microphones and cameras extended. The stage was set for a great day. Neat rows of Aleve-drapped vehicles curved along the water's edge. Jeeps and half-trucks showed up close by weapons carriers and six-by,

all of them shrinking to insignificance beside the looming patent tanks. A speaker's platform was set up in the center of the line near the audience. At precisely 10 a.m., General Wingrove stepped forward in scowled at the crowd until they settled into an uncomfortable silence. Its speech was short and consisted of nothing more than amplifications of his opening statement,

that actions speak louder than words. He pointed to the first truck in line, a two-and-a-half ton filled with an infantry squad sitting stiffly at attention. The driver caught the signal, a kicked the engine into life, with a grind of gears it moved forward towards the river's edge. There was an indrawn gas from the crowd as the front wheels ground over the marble powerpet, then the truck was plunging down toward the muddy waters of the Potomac. The whales touched the water and the surface seemed to sink

or taking on a strange, glassy character. The truck roared into high gear and rolled forward on the surface of the water, surrounded by a saucer-shaped depression. It parked 200 yards offshore, and the soldiers, goaded by the sergeant's bark, leapt out and lined up with showy, present arms. The general returned the salute, and waved. to the remaining vehicles. They moved forward in a series of maneuvers that indicated a great number of rehearsal hours on some hidden pond. The tanks rumbled slowly over the water, while the

jeeps cut back and forth through their lines in intricate patterns. The trucks backed and turned like puffing ballerinas. The audience was rooted in a hushed silence, their eyeballs bulging. They continued to watch the amazing display as General Wingrove spoke again. You see before you, a typical example of army ingenuity, developed in army laboratories. These motor units are supported on the water by an intensifying of the surface tension in their immediate area. Their weight is evenly distributed over the surface, causing the shallow depressions you see around them. This remarkable feat has been accomplished by the use of the Dorn fire, a remarkable invention that is named after that brilliant scientist, Colonel Webbett A. Dawn.

Commander of the Brook Point Experimental Laboratory. It was there that one of the civilian employees discovered the darn effect, under the Colonel's constant guidance, of course. Utilizing this invention, the Army now becomes master of the sea as well as the land. Army convoys of trucks and tanks can blanket the world. The surface of the water is our highway, our motor park, our battleground, the airfield and runway for our planes. Mechanics were pushing a shooting star onto the water.

They stepped clear as flame gushed from the tailpipe, with a familiar whooshing rumble it sped down the potomac and hurled itself into the air. When this cheap and simple method of crossing oceans is adopted, it will, of course, mean the end of that fantastic medieval anachronism, the Navy. No need for billion-dollar aircraft carriers, battleships, dry docks, and all the other cumbersome junk that keeps those boats and things afloat. Give the taxpayer back his hard-earned dollar. Teeth grated in the naval section as carriers and battleships were called. Boats, and the rest of America's sea might lumped under the casual heading of things. Lips were curled at the transparent appeal to the taxpayer's pocketbook. But with leaden huts, they knew that all this justified wrath and contempt would avail them nothing.

This was Army Day with a vengeance, and the doom of the Navy seemed inescapable. The army had made elaborate plans for what they called Operation Sinker. Even as the general spoke, the publicity mills ground into high gear. In coast to coast, the citizens absorbed in the news with their morning nourishment. Agnes, you hear what the radio said. The army's going to give a trip around the world in the B-36 as first prize in this limerick contest. All you have to do is fell in the last line and mail one copy to the Pentagon and the other to the Navy. The naval mailroom had standing orders to burn all the limericks when they came in,

but some of the newer men seemed to think the entire thing was a big joke. Commander Bullman found one in the mess hall. The army will always be there, on the land, on the sea, in the air. So why should the Navy take all of the gravy? To which a sea-going scribe had added, To not give us ensigns our share. The newspapers were filled daily with photographs of mighty B-36's land, ending on Lake Erie and grinning soldiers making mock beachhead attacks on Coney Island.

Each man wore a buzzing black box at his waist and walked on the bosom of the now quiet Atlantic like a biblical prophet. Radio and television also carried the thousands of news releases that poured in an unending flow from the Pentecon building. Cards, letters, telegrams and packages descended on Washington in an overwhelming torrent. The Navy Department was the unhappy recipient of deprecatory letters and a vast quantity of little cardboard battleships. The people spoke, and their representatives listened closely. This was an election year. There didn't seem to be much doubt as to the decision,

particularly when the reduction in the budget was considered. It took Congress only two months to make up its collective mind. The people were all pro-army. The novelty of the idea had fired their imaginations. They were about to take the final vote in the lower house. If the amendment passed, it would go to the states for ratification, and their votes was certain to follow that of Congress. The Navy had fought a last-ditch battle to no avail. The balloting was going to be pretty much a sure thing.

A wet-water Navy would soon become ancient history. For some reason, the Admills didn't look as unhappy as they should. The Naval Department had requested one last opportunity to address the Congress. Congress had patronizingly granted permission, for even the doomed man. is allowed one last speech, Admiral Fitz James, who had recovered from his choleric attack with the appointed speaker. Gentlemen of the Congress of the United States, we in the Navy have a fighting tradition. We damn the torpedoes and sail straight ahead into the enemy's fire, if that was necessary.

We have been stabbed in the back. We have suffered the second Pearl Harbor sneak attack. The army relinquished its rights to fair treatment with this attack. Therefore, we are counter-attacking. worn out, by his attacking and mixed metaphors, the Admiral mopped his brow. Our laboratories have been working night and day on the perfection of a device we hoped we would never be forced to use. It is now in operation, having passed the final trials a few days ago. The significance of this device cannot be underestimated.

We are so positive of its importance that we are demanding that the army be abolished. He waved his hand toward the window and bellowed one word. Look, everyone looked. They blinked and looked again. They rubbed their eyes and kept looking. Sailing majestically up the middle of Constitution Avenue was the battleship Missouri. The Admiral's voice rang through the room like a trumpet of victory.

Mark Indebinder, as you see, temporarily lessens the binding energies that hold molecules of solid matter together. Solids become liquids, and a ship equipped with this device can sail anywhere in the world and sea or land take your vote gentlemen the world awaits your decision end of story seven

story eight of battles for the stars in space edwitch short sci-fi volume three belly laugh by ivor yorgensen me i'm looking for my outfit got cut off in that holland tunnel attack man if i sit down with you guys a while thanks coffee

Damn, this is heaven. Ain't in a cup of coffee in a year. What? You said it. It sure is a hell of a war. Tough on a guy's feet. Yeah, that's right, Holland Tunnel skirmish. Where the Ruskies used that new gun. Uh-huh. God, it was awful. Guys popping off around the guy on him not knowing why. No sense to it. No noise. No wound. Just popping off. That's the trouble with this war. It won't settle down to a routine. Always something new. What the hell chances a guy got to figure things out. And I tell you, them Ruskies are coming up with new weapons just as fast as we are, enough to make your hair stand on end. Sugar? Christ, yes, ain't seen sugar for a year. You see, it's like this, we were bottled up in the

pits around the tunnel for seven damn days. It was like nothing you ever saw before. Oops, sorry, didn't mean to splash you. I was laughing about something to happen there to a guy. Maybe you guys would get a kick out of it. After all, we got to keep our sense of humor. You see, there was me and a Kentucky kid named Stillwell in this pit, a pretty big pit with lots of room when we were all alone. This still well was a nice kid, green and lonesome, and it was pretty sad, really, but there's a yak in it, and as I say, we got to keep a sense of humor. Well, this stillwell, a really green kid, is unhappy, and just plain drooling for his gal back home. He talks about his mother, of course, and his old man, but it's the girl that's really on his mind, as you guys can plainly understand. He's seeing her every place, like spots in front of his eyes, nice spots doing things to him, when this risky babe shows up.

My gun came up without any orders from me, just as she poked her puss over the edge of the pit, and, oh, thank you kindly. It sure tastes good, but I don't want to short you guys. Thank you kindly. Well, as I was saying, this Rusky babe pokes her nose over the edge of the pit, and still well dives and knocks down my gun, he says, you son of a bitch, just like that, wild and desperate like you'd see to a guy after the guy was just kicking off the last jug of water on a desert island. It would have been long enough for her to kill us if I hadn't had good reflexes. Even then all I had time to do was knock the pistol out of her hand and drag her into the pit. With her play-bolixed, she was confused and bewildered.

She aimed to fight her, and she sits back against the wall, staring at us deadpam with big, expressionless eyes. She is a plenty, baby, and I could see exactly what to happen as far as Stillwell was concerned. His spots have come to life in very adequate form, so to speak. Stillwell goes over and sits down beside her, and I'm very much on the alert, because I know where his courage comes from, but I decided it's all right, because I see the baby is not belligerent. It's confused, kind of, and friendly, and willing. Kind of a wept little dog, willing, a man on man, she was sure what's still well needed.

They kind of went together like a hand and a glove, natural-like, and it followed pretty natural, that when Stiro got up and led her around a wing of the pit out of sight, she went willing like that same little dog. Oh, no, you guys, too's enough, I wouldn't rob you. Well, okay, and thanks kindly. Well, there I was all alone, but happy for Stilowler, I know it's what the kid needs and in spots like that.

What difference does it make? Yank, Ruskin, and go it in as long as she's willing. Then you guys, Stilwell comes back out. Wall-eyed, real wall-eyed. Like being hit, but not knocked out and still walking. I know what it is, some kind of shock. I get up and walk over and take a look at the baby where it left her, and I burst out laughing.

I told you guys I was a yak in this. I laughed like a frule. It was that funny, as much as I had time to you before Stirlwell cracked. It was enough to crack him, the little thing that pushes a guy over the edge. He lets out a yell and screams for Christ's sake, for cry's sake, nothing but a bucket of bolts, nothing but a couple of plastic lumps. That was when I hit him. I had to. He was for the bird, still well was.

An hour later we got relieved and a couple of medicos carried him away, strapped to a stretcher, gone like a kite. They took the robot too and its clothes, but they forgot the bazaar, so I took it, and I've been carrying it ever since. But I'll leave it with you guys, if you want, for the coffee might make you think about home. After all, like the man says, we've got to keep our sense of humour. Or so long, you guys, and thanks. End of story eight. Story nine of battles for the stars. In space. Ed Reed short sci-fi, volume three. This Leibervox recording

is in the public domain. Hunter Patrol by H. Beam Piper and John J. McGuire. At the The crest of the ridge, Benson stopped for an instant, glancing first at his wristwatch, and then back over his shoulder. It was 0.539. The barrage was due in 11 minutes, at the spot where he was now standing. Behind on the long northeast slope, he could see the columns of black oil smoke rising from what had been a pan-Soviet advanced supply dump. There was a great deal of firing going on. Back there, he wondered if the commies had managed to corner a few of his men. After the patrol had accomplished its mission and scattered, or if a couple of communist units were shooting each other up in mutual mistaken identity.

The result would be about the same in either case. Reserve units would be disorganized, and some men would have been pulled back from the front line. His dozen are the UN regulars and Turkish partisans had done their best to simulate a paratroop attack in force. At least his job was done now to execute that classic infantry maneuver described as, let's get the hell out of here. This was his last patrol before rotation home. He didn't want anything unfortunate to happen. There was a little ravine to the left.

The stream which had cut it in the steep southern slope with a ridge would be dry at this time of year, and he could make better time and find protection in it from any chance shuts when the interdictory barrage started. He hurried toward it and followed it down to the valley that would lead toward the front, the thinly held section of the communist lines and the UN lines beyond,

where fresh troops were waiting to jump from their holes and begin the attack. There was something wrong about this ravine, though. At first it was only a vague pre-sentiment, growing stronger as he followed the dry gully down to the valley below. Something he had smelled, or heard or seen, without conscious recognition. Then in the dry sand where the ravine debouched into the valley, he saw faint tank tracks, only one pair. There was something wrong about the vines that mantled one side of the ravine too. An instant later he was diving to the right, breaking his fall with the bust of his auto-carbine,

rolling rapidly toward the cover of a rock, and as he did so, the thinking part of his mind recognized what was wrong. The tank tracks had ended against the vine-grown side of the ravine. What he had smelled had been lubricating oil and petrol, and the leaves on some of the vines hung upside down. Almost at once from behind the vines a tank's machine-gun snarled at him, clipping the place where he had been standing, then shifting to rage against the sheltering rock.

For a sudden motor-raw, the muzzle of a long tank-gun pushed out through the vines, and then the low body of a tank with a red star on the turret came rumbling out of the camouflaged bay. The machine guns kept him pinned behind the rock. The tank swerved ever so slightly, so that its wide left tread was aimed directly at him, then picked up speed, not even going to waste a shell on me, he thought. Futilely, he let go a clip from his carbine, trying to hit one of the vision slits, then rolls to one side, dropped out the clip, slapped in another. There was a shimmering blue mist around him.

if he only hadn't used his last grenade back there at the supply dump. The strange blue mist became a flickering radiance that ran through all the colours of the spectrum and became an utter impenetrable blackness. There were voices in the blackness, and a softness under him, but under his back, when he had been lying on his stomach, as though he were now in a comfortable bed. They got me alive, he thought.

Now comes the brainwashing. He cracked one eye open, imperceptibly, lights, white and glaring from a ceiling far above, walls as white as the lights. Without moving his head, he opened both eyes and shifted them from right to left. Vaguely he could see people, and behind them machines, so simply designed that their functions were unguessable. He sat up and looked around, groggling. The people, their costumes, definitely not pan-Soviet uniforms, and the room in its machines

told him nothing. The hardness under his right hip was a welcome surprise. surprise. He hadn't taken his pistol from him. Fainting even more puzzlement and weakness, he clutched his knees with his elbows and leaned his head forward on them, trying to collect his thoughts. "'We shall have to give up, Grigory.' A voice trembled with disappointment. "'Why, Antony!' the new voice was deeper, more aggressive.

"'Look, another typical reaction, retreat to the fetus.' But steps approached. Another voice, discouragement heavily waiting each syllable. "'Right. He's like all the others. We'll have to send him back. And look for no more,' the voice he recognised as Anthony, faltered between question and statement. The babel of voices in dispute, then clearly the vice Benson had come to label as Gregory. "'I will never give up!' he raised his head. There was something in the timbre of that voice reminding him of his own feelings in the dark days, when the UN had everywhere been

reeling back under the Pan-Soviet hammer blows. "'Antony!' Gregory's voice again. Benson saw the speaker, short, stocky, grey-haired, stubborn lines about the mouth, the face of a man, chasing an elusive but not uncapturable dream. That means nothing. A tall, thin man, too lean for the tunic-like garment he wore, was shaking his head. Deliberately trying to remember his college courses in psychology, he forced himself to accept and to assess what he saw as reality.

He was on a small table, like an operating table. table, the whole place looked like a medical lab or a clinic. He was still in uniform. His boots had soiled the white sheets with the dust of Armenia. He had all his equipment, including his pistol and combat knife. His carbine was gone, however. He could feel the weight of his helmet on his head. The room still rocked and swayed a little, but the faces of the people were coming into focus. He counted them, saying each number to himself, one, two, three, three, four, five men, one woman. He swung his feet over the edge of the table, being careful that it would be between him and the others when he rose,

and began inching his right hand toward his right hip, using his left hand on his brow to misdirect attention. I would classify his actions as arising from conscious effort at corticothalamic integration, the woman said, like an archaeologist who had just found a k-rash and tin at the bottom of a Neolithic kitchen midden. She had the peculiarly young, old look of the spinster teachers with whom Benson had worked before going to the war. "'I want to believe it, but I'm afraid to,' another man for whom Benson had no-name association said. He was partly grey-haired, arrogant-faced. He wore a short black jacket with a jeweled lippable and striped trousers. Benson cleared his throat.

"'Just who are you people?' he inquired. "'And just where am I?' Anthony grabbed Gregory's hand and pumped it frantically. I've dreamed of the day when I could say this, he cried. Congratulations, Gregory! That touched off another bedlam of joy this time instead of despair. Benson hid his amusement at the facility with which all of them were discovering in one another the courage, vision and stamina of true patriots and pioneers.

He let it go on for a few moments, hoping to glean some clue. Finally he interrupted. I believe I asked a couple of questions, he said, using the voice he reserved for sergeants and second lie to break up this mutual admiration session, but I would appreciate some answers. This isn't anything like the situation I last remember. He remembers, Gregory exclaimed. That confirmed your first derivation by symbolic logic, and it strengthens the validity of the second. The school-teacherish woman began jabbering excitedly.

She went through about a paragraph of what was pure gobbled, he gooked to Benson, before the man with the arrogant face and the jeweled zipper pull broke in on her. So that's for later, Paula, he barked. I'd be very much interested in your series about why memories are unimpaired when you time jump forward and lost when you reverse the process, but let's stick to business. We have what we wanted. Now let's use what we have. I never liked the way you made your money, dark-faced, cadaverous man said.

But when you talk, it makes sense. Let's get on with it. Benson used the brief silence which followed to study the six. With the exception of the two who had just spoken, there was the indefinable mark of the fanatic upon all of them. fanatical about different things, united for different reasons and a single purpose. It reminded him sharply of some teachers' committee about to beard a school board with an unpopular and expensive recommendation.

Anthony, the oldest of the lot, in a knee-length tunic, turned to Gregory. I believe you had better, he began. As to who we are, we'll explain that partly later. After your question, where am I? That will have to be rephrased, if you ask, when and where am I? I can finish a rational answer. In the temporal dimension you are, fifty years futureward of the day of your death.

Basically, you're about eight thousand miles from the place of your death, and what is now the world capital, St. Louis. Nothing in the answer made sense, but the name of the city, Benson chuckled. What happened? The Cardinals conquer the world? I knew they had a good team, but I didn't think it was that good. No, no, Gregory told him earnestly.

The government isn't a theocracy, at least not yet, but if the guide keeps on insisting that only beautiful things are good, and that he is uniquely qualified to define beauty, watch his rule change into just that. I've been detecting symptoms of religious paranoia, my psionic delusions about his public statements, the woman began. Adulatory! Another member of the group who wore a black coat fastened to the neck and white neckbands

rasked. A idolatry is dead, as well as in spirit. The sense of unreality, partially dispelled, began to return. Benson dropped to the floor and stood back. beside the table, getting a cigarette out of his pocket and lighting it. I made a joke, he said, putting his light as away. The fact that none of you got it has done more to prove that I am fifty years in the future than anything any of you could say.

We want on to explain who the St. Louis Cardinals were. Yes, I remember. Baseball! Entney exclaimed. There is no baseball now. The guide will not allow competitive sports. He says they foster the spirit of violence. The cadaverous man in the blue jacket turned. to the man and the black garment of similar cut.

You ought better know more history than any of us, he said, getting a cigar out of his pocket and lighting it. He lighted it by rubbing the end on the sole of his shoe. Suppose you tell him what the score is, he turned to Benson. He can rely on his dates and happenings, as interpretation of strictly capitalist, of course, he said. Black jacket shook his head. You first, Gregory, he said.

Tell him how he got here, and then I'll tell him why. I believe, Gregory began, that in your period fiction writers made some use of the subject of time, travel. It will not, however, given serious consideration largely because of certain alleged paradoxes involved, and because of an elementalistic and objectifying attitude toward the whole subject of time. They won't go into the mathematics and symbolic logic involved, but we have disposed of the objections. More, we have succeeded and constructing a time machine, if you want to call it that. We prefer to call it a temporal spatial displacement field generator.

It's really very simple, the woman called Powell interrupted. If the universe is expanding, time is a widening spiral, if contracting, a diminishing spiral, a static, a uniform spiral. The possibility of pulsation was her only worry. That's no worry. Gregory reproved her. I showed you that the rate was too slow to have an effect on, oh, nonsense, you can measure something which exists within a microsecond, but wears the instrument to measure a temporal pulsation that may require years. You haven't come to that yet. Be quiet, both of you. The man with a black coat and the white bands commanded. What do you argue about vanities? Thousands being converted. to the godlessness of the guide,

and other thousands of his dupes are dying, I'm prepared to face their maker. All right, you invented a time machine, Benson said. In civvies, I was only a high school chemistry teacher. I can tell a class of juniors the difference between H-2O and H-2S-O4, but the theory of time travel is wasted on me.

Suppose you just let me ask the questions. Then I'll be sure of finding out what I don't know. For instance, who won the war I was fighting in, before he grabbed me and brought me here. The commies? No, the United Nations, Anthony told him. At least they were the least exhausted when both sides decided to quit. And what's this dictatorship, the guide? Extreme Rightest?

Walter, you better tell him. We damn near lost the war, the man in the black jacket and striped trousers said. But for once we won the peace. The Soviet bloc was broken up. India, China, Indonesia, Mongolia, Russia, to Ukraine, all the satellite states. Most of them turned into little dictatorships, like the Latin American countries, after the liberation from Spain. But they were personal, non-ideological,

generally benevolent dictatorships, the kind that'd grow into democracies of the given time. Capitalistic dictatorships remains, cadaverous man in the blue jacket, explained. Be quiet, Carl, Anthony told them. Let's not confuse this with any plough struggle stuff. Actually, the United Nations rules the world,

Walter continued. What goes on in the Ukraine or Latvia or Manchuria is about analogous to what went on under the old United States government in, let's say, Tammany ruled in New York. But here's the catch. The UN is ruled absolutely by one man. Now could that happen? The UN had its function so subdivided and compartmented that it couldn't even want a war properly.

Our army commanders were making war by systematic disobedience. The charter was changed shortly after. There is, after. Walter was fumbling for words. After my death, Benson finished politely. Go on, even with a changed charter, how did one man get all the powers into his hands? By sorcery, black coat and white bands fairly shouted by the help of his master Satan. You know there are times when such theory tempts me, Paula said.

He was a big money-backs, Carl said. He bribed his way in. See, New York was bombed flat, where the old UN buildings were. It's still hot. So the guide donated a big track. of land outside St. Louis, built these buildings. We're in the basement of one of them right now. If you want a good laugh, and before long he had the whole organization eating out of his hand. He just voted him into power, and the world into slavery. Benson looked around at the others,

who were nodding in varying degrees of agreement. "'Sometimesually, that's it. He managed to convince everybody of his altruism, integrity, and wisdom,' wealthier said. It was almost blasphemous to say anything against him. I really don't understand how it happened. well what's been doing with his power benson asked wise things or stupid ones i could be general and say that he has deprived all of us of our political and other liberties it is best to be specific anthony said gregory my own field dimension or physics hasn't been interfered with much yet it's different in other fields for instance all research in sonics has been arbitrarily stopped so is a great deal of work and organic and synthetic chemistry psychology is a madhouse of blood-house of blood-werell What was the old word? Licentiousness? No.

Licincoism. Medicine and surgery. Well, there's a huge program of compulsory sterilization. Another one of eugenic marriage control. And infants who don't conform to certain physical standards don't survive, neither to people who are disfiguring accidents beyond the power of plastic surgery. Powler spoke next.

My field is child welfare. Well, I'm going to show you an audiovisual of an interesting ceremony in a Hindu village, derived from the ancient custom of the Sutih. It is the Hindu method of conforming to the guide's demand that only beautiful children be allowed to grow to maturity. The film was mercifully brief. Even in spite of the drums and gongs and the chanting of the crowd, Benson found out how loudly a newborn infant can scream in a fire.

The others looked as though they were going to be sick. He doubted if he looked much better. Of course we are more practical and mechanical-minded people here, and in Europe, Pala said, holding down her gorge by main strength. We have lethal gas chambers that even Hitler would have envied. I am a musician, Anthony said, a composer. If Gregory thinks that the sciences are controlled, he should try to write even the simplest piece of music.

The extent of censorship and control of all the arts, and especially music, is incredible. He coughed slightly. And I have another motive, a more selfish one. I am approaching a compulsory retirement age. I will soon be invited to go to one of the haven. If I know these havens are located in the most barren places, they are beauty spots, verdant beyond belief. It is of only passing interest that, while large numbers of the age are to go there yearly,

their populations remain consistent, and to judge from the quantities of supplies shipped to them, extremely small. They call me Samuel in this organisation. The man in long black coat said, "'Whoever gave me that alias must have chosen it "'because I am here in an effort to live up to it. "'But though I am ordained by no church, "'I fight for all of them.

"'The plain fact is that this man recalled "'the guide is really the Antiquist. "'Well, I haven't quite so lofty emotive, "'but it's good enough to make me willing to finance this project,' "'althy said. "'It's very simple. "'The guide wants to let people make money, "'and if they do, he takes it away from them,

"'and he has laws to prohibit inheritance. "'But little you can accumulate, "'you can't pass on to your children.' I bet up a lot of money, too, don't forget, Carl told him. I'm a poor man, myself. He was smoking an excellent cigar for a poor man, and his clothes could have come from the same tailor as wealthers. Look, we've got a real union, the union of all unions.

Every working man in North America, Europe, Australia, and South Africa belongs to it, and the guide has us all hug-tied. You won't let you strike, Benson chuckled. That's right. And what can we do? Why we can't even make our close shop contract stick? as far as getting anything like a pay raise. Good thing. Another pay raise in some of my company would bankrupt him. The way the guide hires under his thumb, Walter began, but he was cut off.

Well, it seems as though this guide has done some good if it's made you two realize that you're both from the same side, and that what hurts one hurts both, Benson said. When I shipped out for Turkey in 77, neither labor nor management had learned that. He looked from one to another with him. The guide must have a really good bodyguard with all the enemies he's made. Gregory shook his head. He lives virtually alone, and a very small house on the UN Capitol grounds. In fact, except for a small police force armed only with non-lethal stun guns, your profession of arms is nonexistent.

I've been guessing what you want me to do, Benson said. You want this guy bumped off. But why can't any of you do it? Or if it's too risky, at least somebody from your own time, why me? You can't. Everybody in the world today is conditioned against violence, especially the taking of human life, Anthony told him. Now, wait a moment.

In this time he was using the voice he would have employed in chiding a couple of Anatolian peasant partisans who were filled stripping a machine gun the wrong way. Those babies in that film you showed me weren't dying of old age. That is not violence, Paola said bitterly. That is human beneficence. Ugly people would be unhappy, and would make others unhappy,

in a world where everybody else is beautiful. And all these oppressive and tyrannical laws, Benson continued. How does he enforce them without violence, actual or threatened? Samuel started to say something about the power of the evil one. Paola ignored him, said, I really don't know, he just does it. Mass hypnotism of some sort. I know music has something to do with it,

because there is always music everywhere. This laboratory, for instance, we secretly sound-proofed. We couldn't have worked here otherwise. All right, I can see that you need somebody from the past, preferably a soldier, whose conditioning has been in favour rather than against violence. But I'm not the only one you snatched, I take it. No, we've been using that machine to pick up men from battlefields all over the world and all over history, Gregory said.

Until now, none of them could adjust. Ach, he shuddered, looking even sicker when the film was being shown. Who's thinking, Walter said, about a French officer from Waterloo, who blew out his brains with a pocket pistol on that table, and an English archer from Achencore who ran a mock with a dagger in hair and our trooper of the Southern Cavalry from the custom massacre. Gregory managed to overcome his revulsion.

You see, we were forced to take our subjects largely at random with regard to individual characteristics, mental attitudes, adaptability, etc. As long as he stuck to high-order abstraction, he could control himself. Aside from their professional lack of repugnance, violence, we took soldiers from battlefields because we could select men facing immediate death,

whose removal from the past would not have effect upon the causal chain of events affecting the present. The warning buzzer rasped in Benson's brain. He nodded, poker-faced. I can see that, he agreed. You wouldn't dare do anything to change the past. That was always one of the favorite paradoxes in time-travel fiction. Well, I think I have the general picture. You have a dictator who is tyrannizing you.

You want to get rid of him. You can't kill him yourselves. I'm opposed to dictators myself. That, in the selective service law, of course, was why I was a soldier. I have no moral or psychological taboos about killing dictators or anybody else. Suppose I cooperate with you what's in it for me. It was a long silence. Walter and Carl looked at one another inquiringly.

The others dithered helplessly. It was Carl, who answered. You return to your own time and place. And if I don't cooperate with you, guess where and where else we could send you? Walter said. Benson dropped his cigarette and tramped it. Exactly the same time and place, he asked. Well, the structure of space-time demands, Powell began.

The spatial temporal displacement field is capable of identifying that spot. Gregory pointed to a ten-foot circle in front of a bank of sleek, cabineted, dialed, studded machines, with any set of space-time coordinates in the universe. However, to avoid disruption of the structure of spacetime, we must return you to approximately the same point in spacetime. Benson nodded again, this time at the confirmation of his earlier suspicion. Well, while he was still alive, he still had a chance. Oh, I'd tell me what exactly you want me to do.

A third outbreak of Bedlam, this time of relief and frantic explanation. Shut up all of you, for so thin a man Carl had an astonishing voice. I worked this out, so let me tell it, he turned to Benson. Maybe I'm tougher than the rest of them, maybe I'm not as deeply conditioned, but one thing I'm tone deaf. Well, here's the way it is. where he can set the machine to function automatically. You stand where he shows you, press the button he shows you,

and 15 seconds later it will take you forward in time five seconds, and about a kilometer in space to the guide's office. There'll be at his desk now. You'll have 45 seconds to do the job from the time the field collapses around you till it rebuilds. Then you'll be taken back to your own time again. The whole thing's automatic. Can do, Benson agreed. How do I kill him?

I'm getting sick, Paola murmured weekly. Her face was whiter than her gown. Take care of her, Samuel. Both of you better get out of her, Gregory said. The Lord of Host is my strength, he will... Samuel gasped. Conditioning's getting him, too. We've got to be quick, Carl said.

Here, this is what you'll use. He handed Benson a two-inch globe with black plastic. Take the damn thing quick. Little button on the side, press it, and get it out of your hand fast. He reached. Limited effect bomb. Everything within two meter circle burned to nothing.

Outside that, great, but not unendurable heat. Shut your eyes when you thwart, flash almost blinding. He dropped his cigar and turned almost green in the face. Walter had a drink poured and handed it to him. Oh, thanks Walter, he downed it. Peculiar sort of a thing for a non-violent people to manufacture, Benson said, looking at the bomb and then putting it into his jacket pocket. It isn't a weapon. Industrial.

Use it in mining. I used plenty of them in Walter's iron mine. He nodded again. Where do I stand now, he asked. Right over here. Gregory placed him in front of a small panel with three buttons. Press the middle one and step back into the small red circle and stand perfectly still, while the field builds up and collapses.

Face that way. Benson drew his pistol and checked it. Magazine full, around in the chamber. Safety yarn. But that horrid thing out of sight, Anthony gasped. The other thing is what you want to use. The bomb won't be any good if some of his guards. "'Bed's come in before the field rebuilds,' Benson said.

"'He has no guards. "'He lives absolutely alone, we told you. "'I know you did. "'You probably believed it, too. "'I don't. "'And by the way, you're sending me forward. "'What do you want to do about the fact "'that a time jump seems to make me pass out?'

"'Here, before you press the button, swallow it,' "'Gregory gave him a small blue pill. "'Well, I guess that's all there is,' "'Gregory continued. "'I help,' his face twitched, "'and he dropped to the floor with a thud. Carl and Walter came forward, dragged him away from the machine. Conditioning got him.

Getting me, too, Walter said. Hurry up, man. Benson swallowed the pill, pressed the button, and stepped back into the red circle, drawing his pistol and snapping off the safety. The blue mist closed in on him. This time, however, he did not thicken into blackness, became luminous, brightening to a dazzle and dimming again to a colored mist, and then it cleared, while Benson stood at Ways' pistol, as though

in a target range. He was facing a big desk at twenty feet across a thick-piled blue rug, and was a man seated at the desk, a white-haired man with a moustache, and a small beard who wore a loose coat of some glossy plum-brown fabric and a vividly blue neckscarf. The pistol centered on the V-shaped blue under his chin. deliberately Benson squeezed, recovered from the recoil, aimed, fired, recovered, aimed, fired, five seconds, gum. The old man slumped across the desk, his arms extended. Better make a good job of it. Six, seven, eight seconds. He stepped forward to the edge of the desk, call out 15 seconds,

and put the muzzle to the top of the man's head, firing again and snapping on the safety. There had been something familiar about the guide's face, but it was too late to check on that now. there wasn't any face left, not even much head. A box on the desk caught Benson's eye, a cardboard box with an envelope stamped, Top secret, for the guide only, taped to it. He husted his pistol and caught that up, stuffing it into his pocket,

in obedience to an instinct to grab anything that looked like intelligent matter while in the enemy's country. Then he stepped back to the spot with the filled that deposited him. He had ten seconds to spare. Somebody was banging on a door when the blue mist began, began together around him. It was crouching, the spherical plastic object in his right hand, his thumb over the button when the field collapsed.

Sure enough, right in front of him, so close that he could smell the very heat of it, was the big tank with a red star in its turret. Cursed the sextet of sanctimonious double-crosses eight thousand miles and fifty years away in space-time. The machine guns had stopped, probably because they couldn't be depressed far enough to aim at him now. That was a notorious fault of some of the newer pan-Soviet tanks, and he rocked back on his heels, pressed the button and heaved, closing his eyes. As the thing left his fingers, he knew that he had thrown too hard. His muscles accustomed to the heavier cast-iron grenades

of his experience and betrayed him. For a moment, it was closer to despair than at any other time in the whole phantasmagoric adventure. Then he was hit, with physical violence by a wave of almost solid heat. It didn't smell like the heat of the tank's engines. It smelled like molten metal, with undertones of burned flesh. Immediately there was a multiple explosion that threw him flat. As the tank's ammunition went up, there were no screams. It was too fast for that. He opened his eyes. The turret and top bomber at the tank had vanished. The two massive treads had been toppled over, one to either side. The body had collapsed between them, and it was running, sticky, trickles of molten metal. He blinked, rubbed his eyes on the back of his hand and looked again.

Of all the many blasted and burned out tanks, Soviet and UN that he had seen, this was the most completely wrecked thing in his experience, and he had done that with one grenade. At that moment there was a sudden rushing overhead, and an instant later the barrage began falling beyond the crest of the ridge. He looked at his watch, blinked and looked again. That barrage was due at 0.5.50, according to the watch, it was all 726.

He was sure that ten minutes ago, when he looked at it, up there at the head of the ravine, it had been twenty minutes to six. He puzzled about that for a moment, and decided that he must have caught the stem on something, he pulled it out, and then twisted it a little, setting the watch ahead, and somehow the stem had got and pushed back in, starting it at the new setting. That was a pretty far-fetched explanation,

but it was the only one he could think of. But about this tank now, he was positive that he could remember throwing a good yet he used his last grenade back there at the supply dump. He saw his carbine and picked it up. The silly blackout it had for a second. There he must have dropped it. Action was open, empty magazine on the ground where he had dropped it. He wondered, stupidly, if one of his bullets couldn't have gone down the muzzle of the tank's

gun and exploded the shell in the chamber. Oh, the hell with it. The tank might have been hit by a premature shot from the barrage, which was raiding against the far slope of the ridge. He reseted his watch by guests and looked down in the valley. The big attack would be starting any minute now, and they'll be fleeing, commies coming up the valley ahead of the UN advance. He better get himself placed before they started coming in on him. He stopped thinking about the mystery of the blown-up tank,

a solution to which seemed to dance maddeningly just out of his mental reach and found himself a place among the rocks to wait. Down the valley, he could hear everything from pistols to mortars going off and shouting at three or four racial intonations. After a while, fugitive communists began coming. many of them without their equipment, stumbling in their haste and looking back over their shoulders. Most of them avoided the mouth of the ravine and hurried by to the left or right, but one little clump, eight or ten, came up the dry steam bed and stopped 150 yards from his hiding place to make a stand.

They were Hindus, with outsized helmets over their turbans. Two of them came ahead, carrying a machine gun, followed by a third with a flamethrower. The others retreated more slowly, firing their rifles to delay pursuit. Cuddling the stock of his carbine to his cheek, he divided a ten-shot burst between the two machine-gunners. Then, as a matter of principle, he shot the man with a flamethrower. He had a dislike for flamethrowers. He killed every enemy he found with one.

The others dropped with their rifles and raised their hand, screaming, Hey, Joe! Hey, Joe! You no shoot! Me no shoot! A dozen men in UN battle-dress came up and took them prisoner. Benson shouted to them, and then rose and came down to join him. They were British, Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders. advertising the fact by inconspicuous bits of tartan on their uniforms. The subaltern in command looked at him and nodded. "'Captain Benson, we'll want to be on watch for your patrol,' he said.

"'Any of the rest of you, lads, get out.' Benson shrugged. We split up after the attack. You may run into a couple of them. Some are locals and don't speak very good English. I've got to get back to division myself. What's the best way? Doing that way.

You'll over take a couple of our walking wounded. If you don't mind going slowly, they'll show you the way to advance dressing station, and then you can hit your ride in an ambulance from there. Benson nodded. Off on the left, there was a flurry of small arms fire, ending in yells of, EJU! EJU! The World War IV version of Camerod! His company was a non-TIO outfit. He came directly under Division Command, and he didn't have to bother reporting to any regimento or brigade commanders. He walked for an hour with half a dozen lightly wounded Scots, rolled for another hour on a big cat

truck, loaded with casualties of six regiments and four races, and finally reached Division rare, where both the division and corps commanders took a time to compliment him on a part his last hunter patrol had played in the now complete breakthrough. His replacement, an equine-faced Spaniard with an imposing display of fruit salad was there, too. He solemnly took off the bracelet, a refugee Caucasian goldsmith had made for his predecessor's predecessor, and gave it to the new commander what had formerly been Benson's Butchers. As he had expected, there was also another medal waiting for him. A medical check at Task Force Centre got him a warning, his last patrol had brought him

dangerously close to the edge of combat fatigue. Remembering the incidents of the tank and the unaccountably fast watch and the mysterious box and envelope which he had found in his coat pocket, he agreed, saying nothing about the questions that were puzzling him. The psychological department was never too busy to refuse another case. He hunted patience gleefully, each psych shock seeking in everyone, proof of his own particular theory. It was with relief that he watched them fill out the red tag which gave him a priority and jet transports for home. Ankara to Alexandria, Alexandria to Dakar,

Dakar to Bellum, to the shattered skyline of New York, the hurry and weight procedures of Fort Carlisle, and after the usual separation promotion, Major Fred Benson, late of Benson's butchers, was back at teaching high school juniors the difference between H-2O and H-S-O-4. There were two high schools in the city, McKinley High on the East Side, and Dwight Eisenhower High on the West. A few blocks from McKinley was the Tulip Tavern, where the Eisenhower teachers came in the late afternoons. The McKinley faculty crossed town to do their after-school drinking on the west side.

When Benson entered the Tulip Tavern on a warm September afternoon, he found Bill Myers, the school psychologist, at one of the tables, smoking his pipe, checking over a stack of aptitude test forms and drinking in drinking, He got a highball at the bar and carried it over to Bill's table. Oh, wife, Fred! The psychologist separated the finished from the unfinished work with a sheet of yellow paper and crammed the whole business into his briefcase.

I was hoping somebody'd show up. Benson lit a cigarette sipped his eyeball. He talked at random. School talk, the progress of the war, now in its twelfth year, personal reminiscences of the Turkish theatre where Benson had served and the Madras beachhead where Myers had been. Bring home any souvenirs, Myers asked.

Not much, a couple of pistols, a couple of knives, some pictures. I haven't gone around to unpacking them yet. I have a sixth of rye and some beer at my rooms. Let's go around and see what I did bring home. They finished their drinks and went out. What the devil's that?

Maya said, pointing to the cardboard box with the envelope taped to it, when Benson lifted it out of the grey-green locker. Bear ladenna, Benson said. I found it in the pocket of my coat. On my way back for my last hunter patrol, I've never told anybody about this before. That's a damnedest story I've ever heard,

and in my racket you hear some honeies, Maya said when he had finished. He couldn't have picked that thing up in some other way, deliberately forgotten the circumstances and fabricated this story about the tank and the grenade and the discrepancy in your watch subconsciously is an explanation. My subconscious is a better liar than that, Vincent replied.

It would have cobbled up some kind of a story that would stand up. This business. Top secret for the guide only. Ayas frowned. That isn't one of our marks, and if it was Soviet it would be twilingual, Russian, Hindi, and Chinese. Well, let's see what's in it. I want this thing cleared up.

I've been having some of the nastiest dreams lately. But be careful. It might be booby-treatped, Maya said urgently. Don't worry, I will. I used a knife to slice the envelope open without untapping it from the box, and exposed five sheets of typewritten onion-skin paper. There was no letterhead. No salutation or a dress line, just a mass of chemical formulae and a concise report on tests.

It seemed to be a report and improved syrup for carbonated soft drink. There were a few cryptic cautionary references to heightened physical psychological effects. The box was opened with the same caution, but it proved as innocent of dangers as the envelope. It contained only a half-liter bottle, wax sealed, containing a dark reddish-brown syrup. a lot of this stuff I don't dig, Benson said, tapping the sheets of onion skin. I don't even scratch the surface of this rigmarole about the guide. I'm going to get to work on this sample in the lab. School, though.

Maybe we have something here. At 8.30 the next evening, after four and a half hours' work, he stopped to check what he had found out. The school's x-ray, an excellent one, had given him a complete picture of the molecular structure of the syrup. There were a couple of long-chain molecules that he could only believe after two re-examinations and a careful check of the machine, but with the help of the notes he could deduce how they had been put together. They would be the ingredient alpha and ingredient beta referred to in the notes. The components of the syrup were all simple and easily procurable with those two exceptions,

as were the basic components from which these were made. The mechanical guinea pig demonstrated that the syrup contained nothing harmful to human tissue. Of course, there were the warnings about heightened psychophysological effects. He stuck a poison label on the bottle, locked it up and went home. The next day he and Bill Myers got a bottle of carbonated water and mixed themselves a couple of drinks of it. It was delicious, sweet, dry, tart, sour, all of these and alternating waves of pleasure. If to do something, Bill, he said. If something that's going to give our egg on tax experts headaches, you have, Myers corrected. Where'd you start

fitting me into it? A good team, Bill. I'm a chemist. I don't know a thing about people. Who are a psychologist? A real one. Not one of those night school boys. A juvenile psychologist, too. And what age group spends the most money in this country for soft drinks? Knowing the names of the syrup's ingredients and what their molecular structure was like was only the beginning.

Gallon after gallon of the school board's chemicals went down the laboratory sink. Fred Benson and Bill Myers almost. lived in the fourth-floor lab. Once or twice, there were head-shaking warnings from the principal about the dangers of overwork. The watchmen at all hours would hear the occasional twanging of Benson's guitar in the laboratory

and know that she had come to a dead end on something I was trying to think. Football season came and went. Basketball season. The inevitable riot between McKinley and Eisenhower routers, the spring concerts. The term-end exams were only a month away when Benson and Myers finally did it.

I stood solemnly, ate with a beaker in either hand, and took out in the sips of the original, and the drink mixed in the syrup they made. "'What a bit of difference, Fred,' Myis said. "'We have it.' Benson picked up the guitar and began plunking on it. "'Hey,' Myers exclaimed, "'have you been finding time to take lessons or not thing? I never heard you play as well as that.'

He decided to go into business in St. Louis. It was centrally located, and being behind more concentric circles of radar and counter-rocket defenses, it was in better shape than any other city in the country, and most likely to stay that way. Getting started wasn't hard. The first banker who tasted the new drink named Every Flav, admire's suggestion, didn't dig up the necessary money fast enough. Every Flav hit the market with a bang, and became an instant success.

Soon the rainbow-tinted vending machines were everywhere, dispensing the slender, slightly flattened bottles and devouring quarters voraciously. In spite of high taxes and the difficulties of doing business in a consumer's economy upon which a wartime economy had been superimposed, both Myers and Benson were rapidly becoming wealthy. The Gagarius Myers installed himself in a luxurious apartment in the city. Benson bought a large tract of land down the river toward Corundalay, and started building a home and landscaping the grounds. The dreams began bothering him again, now that the urgency of getting every flay of ink started

had eased. There were not dreams of the men he had killed in battle, or except to one about a huge, hot-smelling tank with a red star in the turret, about the war. Generally, they were about a strange, beautiful office room, in which a young man in uniform killed an older man in a plum-brown coat and a vivid blue-neck scarf. Sometimes Benson identified himself with a killer, sometimes with the old man who was killed.

He talked to Mize about these dreams, but beyond generalities about delayed effects of cancer, combat fatigue and vague advice to relax, the psychologist, now head of sales and promotion of every Flav Inc, could give him no help. The war ended three years after the new company was launched. There was a momentary faltering of the economy, and then the work of reconstruction was crying hungrily for all the labour and capital that had been idled by the end of destruction and more.

There was a new flood tide of prosperity, and every Flav rode the crest. The estate at Carondolae was finished. a beautiful place, surrounded with gardens, fragrant with flowers, full of the songs of birds and soft music from conserved record players. It made him forget the ugliness of the war, and kept the dreams from returning so frequently. All the world ought to be like that, he thought, beautiful and quiet and peaceful. People surrounded with such beauty, couldn't think about war. All the world could be like that. If only, the UN chose sense. St. Louis for its new headquarters, many of its officers had been moved there after the second

and most destructive bombing of New York, and when the city by the Mississippi began growing into a real-world capital, the flow of money into it almost squared overnight. Benson began to take an active part in politics in the New World Sovereignty Party. He did not, however, allow his political activities to distract him from the work of expanding the company to which he owed his wealth and position. There were always things to worry about. I don't know, Meyer said to him one evening, as they sat over a bottle of rye in the psychologist's apartment. I could make almost as much money practising as a psychiatrist these days. The whole world seems to be going pure unadulterated nuts,

at Affair in Munich, for instance. Yes, Benson grimaced as he thought of the affair in Munich, a Vagnarian concert, which had terminated in an insane orgy of mass suicide, just a week after we started our free sample campaign in South Germany, too. He stopped short, downing his drink and coughing over it. Bill, you remember those sheets of onion skin in that envelope? Foundation of our fortunes. I wonder where you really did get that, Fred, his eye widened in horror,

that caution about heightened psychophysiological effects that we were never able to understand. Benson nodded grimly. And think of all the crazy cases of mass hysteria, that baseball game riot in Baltimore. The time everybody started tearing off each other's clothes in Milwaukee, the sexology in New Orleans, and the sharp uptrend in individual with psychoneurotic and society. psychotic behaviour, all in connection with music, too, and all after every flave got on the market. We'll have to stop it, pull every flave off the market, Myers said. We can't be responsible for letting us go on.

We can't stop, either. There's at least a two-month supply out in the hands of jabbas and distributors over whom we have no control, and we have all these contractual obligations to buy the entire output of the companies that make the syrup for us. If we stop buying, they can sell it in competition with us, as long as they don't infringe our trade name, and we can't prevent pirating. You know how easily we're able to duplicate that sample I brought back from Turkey, why our legal departments kept busy all the time, prosecuting unlicensed manufacturers as it is. We've got to do something, Fred. There's almost a whiff of hysteria in Myers' voice. We will. We'll start, first thing tomorrow on a series of tests, just do an eye like the old times

at Eisenhower High. First, we want to be sure that every flay really is responsible. It'd be a hell of a thing if we started a public panic against our own product for nothing, and then... It took just two weeks, in a sound proof from a guarded laboratory on Benson's Corandale estate, to convict their delicious drink of responsibility for that Munich State Opera House horror, and everything else. Reports from confidential investigators in Munich confirmed this. It had, of course, been impossible to interview the 2,000 men and women, who had turned the Opera House into a pyre for their own immolation. but none of the tiny minority who had kept their sanity and saved their lives had tasted every flay.

It took another month to find out exactly how the stuff affected the human nervous system, and they almost wrecked their own nervous systems in the process. The real villain, they discovered, was the incredible-looking lung-chain compound alluded to in the original notes as ingredient data. Its principal physiological effect was to greatly increase the sensitivity of the oral nerves. Not only was the hearing range widened. After consuming 30 cc of beta, they could say the sound of an ultrasonic dog whistle quite plainly, but the very quality of all audible sounds was curiously enhanced and altered.

Myers, the psychologist, who was also well-grounded in neurology, explained how the chemical produced this effect. It meant about as much to Benson as some of the chemistry did to Bill Myers. It was also a secondary, purely psychological effect. Certain musical chords had definite effects on the emotions of the hearer and the subject, beside being directly influenced by the music, was rendered extremely open to verbal suggestions accompanied by a suitable musical background. Benson transferred the final results of this stage of the research to the black notebook and burned the scratch sheets. That's how'd happen then, he said.

The Munich thing was the result of all that Gertedemarang music. There was a band of the baseball park in Baltimore. The New Orleans Orgy started while a local radio station was broadcasting some of this new dance music. Look, these tone clusters here have a definite sex excitation effect. The series of six chords which occur in some of the Vognarian stuff affect a combined feeling of godlike isolation and despair. On these consecutive fifths, a sense of danger, anger, combativeness. You know, we could work out a whole range of emotional stimuli to fit the effects of ingredient beta. We don't want to, Maya said. We want to work out a substitute for beta that will keep the flavor with a drink without the psychophysiological effects.

Yeah, sure. I'm some of the boys at the plan lab working on that. Gain the lot of syrup without bait and told him to work out cheap additives to restore the regular, every-flav taste, told them it was an effort to find a cheap substitute from an expensive ingredient. But look, Bill, you and I both see, for instance, that a powerful worldwide supranational sovereignty is the only guarantee of world peace if we could use something like this to help overcome antiquated verbal prejudices and nationalistic emotional attachments. No, Maya said, I won't ever consider to anything like that.

Fred, not even in a cause like wild peace. Use a thing like this for good, almost wholly cause now, and tomorrow we or those who would come after us will be using it to create a tyranny. You know what the other this is, Bill? Why, 1984, Benson said. Yes. Remember that old political novel of Orwell's written about 40 years ago? Well, that's a picture of the kind of world you'd have.

Eventually, no matter what kind of world you started out to make. Fred, don't ever think of using this stuff for a purpose like that. If you try it, I'll fight you with every resource I have. There was from an article, almost murderous look in Bulmire's eyes. Benson put the notebook in his pocket, then laughed and threw up his hands. "'Hey Joe! Hey Joe!' he cried. "'You write, of course, Bill. We can't even trust the UN with a thing like this. It makes the H-bomb look like a stone-hatted.

Well, I'll call Grant at the plant lab, and see how his boys are coming along with a substitute. As soon as we get it, we can put out a confidential letter to all our distributors and syrup manufacturers. He walked alone in the garden at Carondolae. watching the color fade out of the sky, and the twilight seep in among the clipped ewes, all the world could be like this garden, a place of peace and beauty and quiet. If only, all the world would be a beautiful and peaceful garden in his own lifetime. He had the means of making it so. Three weeks later, he murdered his friend and partner Bill Myers.

It was a suicide. Nobody but Fred Benson knew that he had taken 50cc of pure. ingredient beta in a couple of cocktails, while listening to the queer phonograph record that he had played half an hour before blowing his brains out. The decision had caused Benson a battle with his conscience from which he had emerged the sole survivor. The conscience was buried, along with Beaumeyes, and all that remained was a purpose. Every slave stayed in the market, Arnolded.

The night before the national election, the World's sovereignty party distributed thousands of gallons of every slave, as speakers on every slave. radio and television network were backgrounded by soft music. The next day when the vault was counted, it was found that the American nationalists had carried a few backwards precincts in the Rockies and the Southern Appalachians in one county in Alaska where there had been no distribution of every flave. The dreams came back more often now that Bill Myers was gone. Benson was only beginning to realize with a large fact in his life, the companionship of

the young psychologist had been. while a world of peace and beauty was an omit worth the breaking of many eggs. He purchased another great tract of land near the city and donated it to the UN for their new headquarters buildings. The same architects and landscapists who created the estate of Corandale were put to work on it. In the middle of what was to become World City, they erected a small home for Fred Benson. Benson was often invited to address the delegates to the UN, always, though soft, piped in music behind his words. He sought to it that every slave was available free to all UN personnel.

The Senate of the United States elected him as perpetual U.S. Delegate and Chief to the UN. Not long after, the Security Council elected him their perpetual chairman. In keeping with his new dignities, and to ameliorate his youthful appearance, he grew a mustache and eventually a small beard. The black notebook in which he kept the records of his experiments was always with him, page after page, was filled with notes. experiments in sonics, like the one which had produced the ultrasonic stun gun, which rendered lethal weapons unnecessary for police and defence purposes, are the new musical combinations with which he was able to play upon every emotion and instinct. But he still dreamed, the same recurring dream of the young soldier and the old man in the office. By now he was consistently identifying himself with the latter. He took to carrying one of the thick bowed stun pistols always now. Alone he practiced constantly with it, drawing, breaking soap bubbles with the concentrated sound waves projected.

It was silly, perhaps, but it helped him in his dreams. Now the old man with whom he identified himself would draw a stun pistol occasionally to defend himself. The years drained one by one to the hourglass of time. Year after year the world grew more peaceful, all beautiful. There were no more incidents like the mass suicide of Munich, or the mass perversions of New Orleans. The playing and even a composing of music was strictly control. No dangerous notes or chords could be played in a world,

drenched with ingredient beta. Steadily, the idea grew that peace and beauty were supremely good, violence and ugliness was supremely evil, even competitive sports which simulated violence, even children born ugly and misshapen. He finished the breakfast which he prepared for himself, He trusted no food that another had touched, and knotted the vivid blue scarf about his neck before slipping into the loose coat of glossy plum-brown, had checked the stun pistol,

and pocketed the black notebook, its plaster leather cover, glossy from long use. He stood in front of the mirror, brushing his beard, now snow-white. Two years now, and he'll be eighty. Had he been anyone but the guide, he would have long ago retired to the absolute peace and repose of one of the elder's havens. Peace and repose, however, were not for the guide. It would take another twenty years to finish his task of remaking the world, and he would need every day of it that his medical staff could borrow or steal from him.

He made an eye-baffling practice drawl with the stun pistol, unhusted it, and started down the spiral stairway to the office below. There was the usual mass of papers on his desk. A corps of secretaries should screen out everything but what required his own personal and immediate attention, but the business of guiding a world could only be reduced to a certain point. On top was the Digest of the World's News for the past 24 hours,

and below that was the agenda of the afternoon's meeting at the Council. He laid both in front of him, reading over the former, and occasionally making a note on the latter. Once his glance strayed to the cardboard box in front of him with the envelope taped to it, the latest improvement on the every-flavs syrup with a report from all his own chemists,

all conditioned to obedience, loyalty, and secrecy, if they thought he was going to try that damn stuff on himself. There was a sudden gleam of light in the middle of the room in front of his desk. No, a mist through which a blue light seemed to shine. The stunned pistol was in his hand, his instinctive reaction to anything unusual, and pointed into the shining mist when it vanished. And a man appeared in front of him, a man in the baggy green combat uniform that he himself had worn fifty years before.

a man with a heavy automatic pistol in his hand. The gun was pointed directly at him. The guide aimed quickly and pressed the trigger of the ultrasonic stunner. A pistol dropped soundlessly in a thick-piled rug. The man in uniform slumped in an inert heap. The guide sprang to his feet and rounded the desk, crossing to and bending over the intruder. Why this was the dream that had plagued him through the years, but it was ending differently. The young man, his face, was startingly familiar somehow.

was not killing the old man. Those years of practice with a stun pistol. He stooped and picked the automatic up. The young man was unconscious, and the guide had his pistol now. He slipped the automatic into his pocket, and straightened beside his inert, would-be slayer. A shimmering globe of blue mist appeared around them, brightened to a dazzle, dimmed again to a coloured mist before it vanished, and when it cleared away he was standing beside the man in uniform,

in the sandy bed of a dry stream at the mouth of a little ravine, and directly in front of him, swimming above him, was a thing that had not been seen in the world for close to half a century. A big, hot-smelling tank with a red star on its turret. He might have screamed.

The din of its treads and engines deafened him, and in panic he turned and ran, his old legs racing, his old heart, pumping madly. The noise of the tank increased as machine guns joined the uproar. He felt the first bullet strike him just above the hips. No pain, just a tremendous impact. He might have felt the second bullet, too, as the ground tilted and rushed up at his face, then he was diving into a tunnel of blackness that had no end.

Captain Fred Benson of Benson's butchers had been jerked back into consciousness, when the field began to build around him, was struggling to rise, fumbling the grenade out of his pocket when it collapsed. Sure enough right in front of him, so close that he could smell the very heat of it was the big tank with a red star in its turret. He cursed the sextet of sanctimonious double-quart. it's 8,000 miles and 50 years away in space-time. The machine-guns had stopped, probably because they couldn't be depressed far enough to aim at him now.

That was a notorious fault of some of the newer Pan-Soviet tanks. He had the bomb out of his pocket, and the machine-guns began firing again. This time it's something on his left. Wondering what it created the diversion, he rocked back on his heels, pressed the button and heaved, closing his eyes. As the thing left his fingers he knew that he had thrown too hard, his muscles, accustomed to the heavier cast-iron grenades, to betray him.

For a moment he was closer to despair than at any other time in a whole phantasmagoric adventure. Then he was hit with physical force by a wave of almost solid heat. It didn't smell like the heat of the tank's engines. It smelled like molten metal, with undertones of burned flesh.

Immediately there was a multiple explosion that threw him flat as the tank's ammunition went up. There were no screams. It was too fast for that. He opened his eyes. The torrent and top armour of the tank had vanished. The two massive treads had been toppled over, one to either side. The body had collapsed between them.

It was running sticky trickles of molten metal. He blinked, rubbed his eyes in the back of his hand and looked again. Of all the many blasted and burned out tanks, Soviet and Yuan that he had seen, this was the most completely wrecked thing in his experience. They'd done that with one grenade. Remembering the curious manner in which at the last, the tank had begun firing at something to the side, who looked around to see the crumpled body in the pale, violet-gray trousers and the plum-brown coat.

Finding his carbine and reloading it, he went over to the dead man, turning the body over. There was an old man with a white moustache and a small white beard. Why, if the moustache was smaller and there were no beard, to pass for Benson's own father, who had died in 1962. The clothes weren't Turkish or Armenian or Persian or anything one would expect in this country. A man had a pistol in his coat pocket and Benson pulled it out and looked at it, then did a double take and grabbed for his own holster to find it empty. The pistol was his own 9.5 coat automatic.

He looked at the dead man with the white beard and the vivid blue neckscarf, and he was sure that he had never seen him before. It had that pistol when he'd come down the ravine. There was another pistol under the dead man's coat in a shoulder holster a queer thing with a thick round barrel, like an old percussion pepper-pucks, and a diaphragm instead of a muzzle. Probably projected ultrasonic raves. He hosted his own coat and pocketed the unknown weapon. It was a black plaster-leather-bound notebook. It was full of notes, chemical formulae, yes, and some stuff on sonics. That tied in with a queer pistol. He pocketed that. They looked both over

when he had time and piracy, two scarce commodities in the army. At that moment there was a sudden rushing overhead, and an instant later the barrage began falling beyond the crest of the ridge. He looked at his watch, blinked and looked again. That barrage was done at 0.5.50. According to his watch, it was all 726. That was another mystery, to go the question of who the dead man was, where he'd come from, and how it'd gotten hold of Benson's pistol. Yes, and how that tank had gotten blown up. Benson was sure he'd used his last grenade back at the supply dump. The hell with it! You'd worry about all that later, and there'd be fleeing commies coming up the valley ahead of the UN advance,

better get himself placed before they started coming in on him. He stopped thinking about the multiple mystery, a solution to which seemed to dance maddeningly just out of his mental reach and found himself in a place among the rocks to wait. And while he waited, he looked over the plaster-leather-bound notebook. In civil life he had been a high school chemistry teacher, but the stuff in this book was utterly new to him.

Some of it he could understand readily enough. The rest of it he could dig out for himself, stuff about some kind of carbonated soft, and about a couple of unbelievable-looking lung-chain molecules. After a while, fugitive communists began coming up the valley to make their stand. Benson put away their notebook, picked up his carbine, and cuddled the stock to his cheek. End of Story 9. Story 10 of Battles for the Stars.

In Space Edweds short sci-fi, Volume 3. This Leibovox recording is in the public domain. Bridge crossing by Dave Dreyfus In 1849 The mist that sometimes rolled through the golden gate Was known as fog In 2149

It became far more frequent And was known as smog By 2349 it was fog again But tonight there was smoke Mixed with the fog Ruddy could smell it Somewhere in the forested ruins Fire was burning

He wasn't worried The small blaze that smouldered behind him on the cracked concrete floor had consumed everything burnable within blocks. What remained of the gutted concrete office building from which he peered was fireproof. But Roddy was himself aflame with anger. As always, when invaders broke in from the north, he'd been left behind with his nurse Molly, while the soldiers went out to fight.

And nowadays, Molly's presence wasn't the comfort it used to be. He felt almost ready to jump up. out of his skin the way she rocked and knitted in that grating ruined chair, saying over and over again, "'The soldiers don't want little boys. The soldiers don't want little boys. The soldiers don't—I'm not a little boy!' Wadi suddenly shouted.

"'I'm full grown. I've never even seen an invader. Why won't you let me go and fight?' Firstly he crossed the bare gritty floor and shook Molly's shoulder. rattled under his jarring hand and abruptly changed the subject. "'A's for atom, bees for bomb, C's for corpse,' she chanted. Roddy reached into her shapeless dress and pinched, lately that had helped her over these spells.

But this time, it stopped the kindergarten son, the treatment only started something worse. "'Wusons hungry,' Molly cooed, still rocking. Utterly disgusted, Roddy ripped. her head off her neck. It was a completely futile gesture, a complicated mind that had cared for him and taught him speech in the alphabet hadn't made him a mechanic, and his only tool was a broken-handled screwdriver. He was still tinkering when the soldiers came in. When they lined up along the wall, he put Molly's head back on her neck. She gaped coyly at the new arrivals. Hello, boys, she simpered, looking for a good time. Roddy slapped her to silence.

Reflecting briefly that there were many things he didn't know about money, but those work to be done. Carefully he framed the ritual words she taught him. Soldiers come to attention and report. There were eleven of them, six feet tall, four limbs, and eight extremities. They stood uniformly. The thumbs on each pair of hands touching along the center line of the legs. Front feet turned out at an angle of forty-five degrees.

Rear feet turned inward at thirty degrees. "'Sir,' they coursed, "'we've met the enemy in his ours.' He inspected them. All was scratched and dented, but one in particular seemed badly damaged. His left arm was almost severed at the shoulder. "'Come here, fellow,' Roddy said.

"'Let's see if I can fix that.' The soldier took a step forward, lurched suddenly, stopped, and whipped out a bayonet. "'Deft to invaders,' he yelled, and charged crazily. Mully stepped in front of him. "'You aren't being very nice to my baby,' she murmured, and thrust her knitting needles into his eyes. Ruddy jumped behind him, knocked off his helmet,

and pressed a soft spot on his conical skull. The soldier collapsed to the floor. Roddy salvaged and returned Molly's needles. Then he examined the patient, tearing him apart as a boy dismember as an alarm clock. It was lucky he did. The left arm's pair of hands suddenly writhed off the floor in an effort to choke him. Because the arm was detached at the shoulder and therefore blind,

He escaped the clutching onslaught, and could goad the reflexing hands into assaulting one another harmlessly. Meanwhile, the other soldiers left, except for one, apparently another casualty, who stumbled on his way and fell into the fire. By the time Roddy had hauled him clear, damage was beyond repair. But he swore, then decided to try combining parts of this casualty with pieces of the other to make a whole one. To get more light for the operation, he poked up the fire.

Roddy was new at his work and took it seriously. It alarmed him to watch the soldiers melt away, gradually succumbing to battle damage, shamed him to see the empty ruins burn section by section as the invaders repeatedly broke through and had to be burned out. Soon there would be nothing left of the private property keep out that, according to Mully's bedtime story, the owners had entrusted to them when driven away by radioactivity.

Soon the soldiers themselves would be gone. None would remain to guard the city, but a few strayed servants like Mali, an occasional civil defender, and himself, Ruddy reflected, spitting savagely into the fire. He might remain, but how he fitted into the picture he didn't know, and Mali claimed to have found him in the ruins after a fight with invaders twenty years before, couldn't or wouldn't say. Well, for as long as possible Ruddy decided is do his duty as the others did theirs, single-mindedly. Eventually the soldiers might accept him as one of themselves.

Meanwhile, his newly attempted first aid was useful to them. He gave the fire a final poke, and then paused, wondering if, when heated, his screwdriver could make an unfastened end of wire stick on the grayish spot where it seemed to belong. Stretching prone to blow the embers hut so he could try out his new idea, Radi got too close to the flames. Instantly the room filled with a stench of singed hair. Roddy drew angrily back, beating out the sparks in his uncut, blonde mane.

As he stood slapping his head and muttering, a deranged civil-defence firefighter popped into the doorway and covered him with carbon dioxide foam. Ruddy fled. His lifelong friends were not merely wearing out. They were unbearably wearing. In the street, even before he'd wiped off the foam, he regretted his flight. Fire was back home, and here in the cold of this fog-shrouded canyon. a mere trail between heaped up walls of rubble, the diaper he wore felt inadequate against the pre-dawn cold. His cherished weapon, a magnetic tack hammer, was chill beneath the diaper's top and the broken radium-dialed wristwatch suspended from a string around his neck, hung clammy against his chest. He stood irretolute on numbing bare feet and considered returning to the more

familiar bedlam. But colder than cold was his shame at being cold. Mollie never was. was, though she knew how to keep him warm, nor were the others. Hunger, thirst, pain, and coldness with sensations never experienced by his friends. Like the growth had been undergoing so recently, these were things of ignominy to be hidden as far as possible from inquiring eyes. For old as it was, it had after high. Temporarily the darkness concealed him, though it was not quite complete. From above the fog, the moon played vaguely deceptive light on the splinters of architecture looming toward it. Some distance off, an owl hooted, but here nocturnal rodents felt free to squeak and rustle as they scampered. The world seemed ghostly, yet it wasn't dead, it merely lurk. And as in a repressible

yawn reminded Roddy of his absurd need for sleep, even in the midst of danger, he concluded for the thousandth time that the one who'd built him must have been an apprentice. For just such reasons it developed the hideout toward which he now walked. It had been the haven of his adolescence, when the discovery of how much he differed from his friends had been a shock, and the shack itself a difference to be hidden. His hiding-place was a manhole, dead centre in the dead street. A weathered bronze bar, carefully placed in the cover's slotted rim, was the levering key that opened its door.

Everything was wrong to-night. He couldn't even find the bar. Of course that spoiled things because the bar was a roller in which to move the heavy cover from below and a support that held us a jar for ventilation. But the example of his friends had taught him above all else to carry out every purpose. Mally was a nurse. She had raised him despite all obstacles. The soldiers were guards.

They protected the ruins against everything larger than a rat. The firefighter had put even him out when he was aflame. Anyhow, the manhole cover had been loosened. by his frequent handling. He lifted aside by main strength and flattened himself to the street and felt with his feet for the top rung. Halfway down the iron ladder

something made him pause. He looked but saw only blackness. He listened, sniffed, found nothing, what could have entered to the iron cover. He sneered at his own timidity and jumped to the bottom. It was warm. The dry bottom of the hole at the temperature of body heat,

as if a large animal had recently rested that. Quickly, Roddy drew the hammer from his waist. Then, with weapon ready for an instantaneous blow, he stretched his left hand through the darkness. He touched something warm, softish. Generally, he felt over that curving surface for identifying features. While Roddy investigated by touch, his long fingers were suddenly seized and bitten. At the same time, his right shin received a savage kick, and his own retaliatory blow was checked in mid-swing by an unexpected voice. "'Get your filthy hands off me!' it whispered angrily. Who do you think you are?

Startled, he dropped his hammer. I'm Ruddy, he said, squatting to fumble for it. Who do you think you are? I'm hired, naturally. Just how many girls are there in this raiding party? His first invader, and he had dropped his weapon. Scrabbling fearfully in the dust for his hammer, Ruddy paused suddenly.

This girl, whatever that was, seemed to think of him as one of her own kind. There was a chance, not much, but worth taking to turn delay to advantage. Maybe he could learn something of value before he could. killed her. That would make the soldiers accept him. He stalled, seeking a gambit. How would I know how many girls are wrong? Half expecting a blow he got instead an apology. I'm sorry, the girl said. I should have known. Never even heard your name before either. Roddy. Whose boats did you come in, Roddy?

Boat? What was a boat? How would I know? he repeated, voice tight with fear of discovery. If she noticed the tension she didn't show it. Certainly her wish. whisper was friendly enough. Oh, you're one of the fellows from Bodega, then. They shoved a boy into a boat at the last minute, too. Tough, wasn't it? Getting separated in the fog and tired like that. If only we didn't have to use boats.

But say, how are we going to get away from here? I wouldn't know, Raddy said, closing his fingers on the hammer and rising. How did you get in? Followed your footprints. It was sundown, and I saw human tracks in the dust, and they led me here. Where were you? Scatting around? Ruddy said.

How did you know I was a man when I came back?" Because he couldn't see me, silly. You know, perfect a well these end-wise are heat-sensitive, and can locate us in the dark. Indeed he did know. Many times it felt ashamed that Mali could find him whenever she wanted to, even here in the man-hole. But perhaps the man-hole would help him now to redeem himself. "'I'd like to get a look at you,' he said.

The girl laughed self-consciously. It's getting grey out. You'll see me soon enough. And she'd see him, ruddy, really. light. He had to talk fast. What'll we do when it's light? he asked. Well, I guess the boats have gone, I'd have said. You could swim the gate. I guess you could seem tall and strong enough, but I can, you'll think it's crazy, but I've given this some thought. I even looked at it from the other side. I expect to try the Golden Gate Bridge. Now he was getting somewhere.

The bridge was ruined, impassable. Even her own people had crossed the street by other means. But if there were a way of the bridge, it's broken. He said. How in the world can we cross it? Oh, you'll find out. If you take me up there, I... I don't want to be alone, Roddy. Will you go with me? Now? Well, she could be made to point out the route before he killed her, if nothing happened when she saw him. Uneasy, Roddy hefted the hammer in his hand. A giggle broke the pause.

It's nice of you to wait and let me go first up the ladder, the girl said. But where the heck is the rusty old thing? I'll go first, said Roddy. He might need the advantage. The ladder's right behind me. He climbed with hammering teeth, and stretched his left hand from street-level to grasp and neutralized the girl's right. Then, nervously fingering his weapon, he stared at her in a thin gray dawn. She was short and lean, except for Rannis's here and there.

From her shapeless, do-skin dress, stretched slender legs, the tapered to feet that were bare, tiny, and like her hands, only two in number. Roddy was pleased. They were evenly matched as to members. an at would make things easy when the time came he looked into her face it smiled at him tanned and ruddy with a full mouth and bright dark eyes that hid under long luscious when he looked too long startling old swearing eye Concealing. For a moment he felt a rush of fear, but she gave his hand a squeeze before twisting loose and burst into sudden laughter. Dippers, she chortled, struggling to keep her voice low. My big, strong, blonde and blue-eyed hero goes into battle wearing diapers and carrying only a hammer

to fight with. You're the most unforgettable character ever known. It passed inspection then, so far. He expelled his worth-held breath and said, I think you'll find me a little ard in some ways. Oh, not at all, I had a replied quickly. Different, yes, but I wouldn't say art. When he started down the street, she was nervous despite Raddy's assertion

that he knew where the soldiers were posted. He wondered if she felt some of the doubt to try to conceal, shared his visions of what the soldiers might do if they found him brazenly strolling with an invader. They might not believe he was only questioning a prisoner. Every day, his friends were becoming more unpredictable. For that very reason, because he didn't know what precautions would do any good, he took a chance and walked openly to the bridge by the most direct route.

In time, this apparent assurance, still lied as fears, he began to talk. Many of the things she said were beyond his experience and meaningless to him, but he did not with interest how effective the soldiers had been. It's awful, Ida said. So few young men are left, so many casualties. But why do you, we keep up the fight? "'Ruddy asked. "'I mean the soldiers will never leave the city.

"'The purpose is to guard it, and they can't leave, "'so they won't attack. "'Let them alone, and there'll be plenty of young men.' "'Well,' said Ida sharply, "'you need indoctination. "'Didn't they ever tell you that the city is our home, "'even if the stupid Androids do keep us out? "'Don't you know how dependent we are on these raids

"'for all our tools and things?' "'She sounded suspicious. "'Raddy shot her a furtive, startled glance, "'but she wasn't standing off to fight him. On the contrary, she was too close for both comfort and combat. She bumped his hip and shoulder every few steps, and if he edged away, she followed. He went on with his questioning. Why are you here?

I mean, sure, the others are after tools and things, but what's your purpose? I dis shrugged. I'll admit no girl has ever done it before, she said, but I thought I could help with the wounded. That's why I have no weapon. She hesitated, glanced covertly up at him, and went on with a rush of words. It's the lack of men, I guess. or the girls are kind of bored and hopeless. So I got this bright idea and stowed away in one of the boats when it was dark,

and the fog had settled down. Do you think I was being silly? No, but you do seem a little purposeless. In silence they trudged through a vast area of charred wood and concrete foundations on the northern end of the city. Thick fog over the water had Alcatraz, but I didn't sure visibility was better, and they could see the beginning of the bridge approach.

A stone rattled nearby. There was a clink of metal. Ida gasped and clung to Roddy's arm. Behind me, he whispered urgently. Get behind me and hold on. He felt Ida's arms encircling his waist, a chin digging into his back below the left shoulder, facing them, a hundred feet away stood a soldier.

He looked a contemptuous, hostile. It's all right, Roddy said, his voice breaking. There was a long, solemn, hard-stopping stare. Then the soldier turned and walked away. Ida's grip loosened and he could feel her sag behind him. Roddy turned and out her. With eyes closed, she pressed cold blue lips to his. He grimaced and turned away his head.

Ida's response was quick. Forgive me, she breathed and slipped from his arms, but she held herself erect. I was so scared, and then we've had no sleep, no food or water. Roddy was familiar with these signs of weakness, proud of appearing to deny his own humiliating needs. I guess you're not as strong as me, he said smugly. I'll take care of you.

Of course we can't sleep now, but I'll get food and water. Leaving her to follow, he turned left to the ruins of a supermarket he had previously visited, demonstrating his superior strength by setting a pace Ida couldn't match. By the time she caught up with him, he had grubbed out a few cans of the special size that Mali always chose. Picking two that were neither dented, swollen nor rusted, he smashed an end of each with his hammer and gave Ida her choice of strange spinach or squash.

Baby food, she muttered. Maybe it's just what we need, but to eat baby food with a man wearing a diaper, tell me, Roddy, how did you happen to know where to find it? Well, this is the northern end of the city, he answered, shrugging. I've been here before. Why did the soldier let us go? It's watch, he said, touching the radium down. It's a talisman.

But Ida's eyes had widened, and the colour was gone from her face. She was silent, too, except when asking him to fill his fast-emptied can. with rainwater. She didn't finish her own portion, but lay back in the rubble with feet higher than her head, obviously trying to renew her strength, and when they resumed their walk, her sullen, fear-clouded face showed plainly that he'd given himself away. But to kill her now, before learning how she planned to cross the supposedly impassable bridge, seemed as purposeless and impulsive as Ida herself. Ruddy didn't think, in any case, that her death would satisfy the soldiers. The new and useful information to offer he might join them as an equal at last.

But if his dalliance with this enemy seemed pointless, not even Molly's knitting needles could protect him. He was sure the soldiers must be tracking the mysterious emanations of his watch-dow and had trouble to keep from glancing over his shoulder at every step. But arrival at the bridge approach ended the need for this self-restraint. Here, difficult going demanded full attention. It never gone as far as the bridge before, not having wanted to to look as if he might be leaving the city. The approach was a jungle of concrete with an underbrush of reinforcing steel that reached for the unwary with rusted spines. Frequently, they had to balance on cracked girders and inch over roadless spots high off the ground. Here Ida took the lead.

When I got to where three approach roads made a clover leaf, she led him down a side road and into a forest. But he stopped and seized her arm. What are you trying to do, he demanded. I'm taking you with me, Ida said firm. family, taking you where you belong. No, he blurted, drawing his hammer. I can't go, nor let you go. I belong here. Ida gasped, pristed loose, and ran.

Raddy went after her. She wasn't so easily caught. Like a frightened doe she dashed in and out among the trees, leaped to the bridge's underpinnings with a thrust rustedly from a cliff, and scrambled up the ramp. Raddy sighed and slowed down. The pavement ended just beyond the cable anchors.

From there to the south tower, Only an occasional dangling support wire showed where the actual bridge had been suspended. Ida was trapped. He could take his time. Let the soldiers come up, as they undoubtedly would, to finish the job. But Ida didn't seem to realize she was trapped. Without hesitation, she dashed up the main left-down suspension cable and ran along its curved steel surface. For a moment who already thought of letting her go, letting her run up the ever-steakening catenary,

until, because there were no guardropes or hand-grips, she simply fell. That would solve his problem. Except it wouldn't be his solution. Her death wouldn't prove him to his friends. He set out quickly before Ida was lost to sight in a thick fog that billowed in straight from the ocean. At first he ran erect along the top of the yard-wide cylinder of twisted metal, but soon the curve steepened.

He had to go on all fours, clinging palm and soul. Blood was on the cable where she had passed. More blood stained it when he'd followed. But because his friends knew neither pain nor fatigue, Roddy would admit none either. Nor would he give in to the fear that dizzied him at every downward look. He scrambled on like an automaton, watching only his holds, till he rammed Ida's rear with his head.

She had stopped, trembling and gasping. Roddy clung just below her and looked dazedly around. There was nothing in sight but fog, pierced by the rapier of rusted wire supporting them. Either end of it was in sight. Upward lay success, if death were not nearer on the cable. No soldier had ever come even this far For soldiers, as he told Ida

Never left the city, were not built to do so But he was here With luck, he could capitalize on the differences That had plagued them so long Go on, he ordered hoarsely Move! There was neither answer nor result He broke off an end of loosened wire

And jabbed her rear, Ida gasped and crawled on Up and up they went, chilled, wet Bleeding, pain-wrecked, exhausted Never had Roddy felt so thoroughly the defects of his peculiar non-mechanical construction. Without realizing it, he acquired a new purpose. A duty as compelling as that of any soldier or fire-watcher. He had to keep that trembling body of his alive, mount to the tall rust tower overhead.

He climbed and he made either climb till at nightmare's end the fog thinned, and they came into clear, wind-swept air and clawed up the last hundred feet to sanctuary. They were completely spent. Without word or thought, they crept within tower, huddled together for warmth on its dank, stale deck, and slept for several hours. Ruddy awoke as Ida finished struggling free of his unconscious grip. Limping, he joined her painful walk around the tower. From its openings they looked out on a strange and isolated world.

To the north, where Ida seemed drawn as though by instinct, Mount Tamalpais, reared its brushy head, A looming island above a billowy white sea of fog. To the south of the Twin Peaks, a pair of buttons on a cotton sheet. Eastward lay Mount Diablo, bald and brooding, tallest of the peaks and most forbidding. But westward over the ocean lay the land of gold. Of all the kinds of gold there are, from brightest yellow to deepest orange. Only a small portion of the setting sun glared above the fog-bank. The rest seemed to have been broken off and smeared around by a child in love with its colour.

Fascinated, Roddy stared from minutes, but turned when Ida showed no interest. She was intent on the tower itself. Following her eyes, Radi saw his duty made suddenly clear. Easy to make out in a fading light was the route by which invaders could cross to the foot of this tower on the remaining ruins of the road, climbed to where he now stood, and then descend the cable over the bridge's gap and catch the city unaware. Easy to estimate was the advantage of even this perilous route over things that scattered on the water. and prevented landing and strength. Easy to see was the need to kill Ida before she carried home this knowledge.

Roddy took the hammer from his waist. Don't! Oh, don't! Ida screamed. She burst into tears and covered her face with scratched and bloodied hands. Surprised Roddy withheld a blow. He had wept as a child, and weeping had for the first time learned he differed from his friends. Ida's tears disturbed him, bringing unhappy memories. Why should you cry?" he asked, confidently.

You know your people will come back to avenge you, and will destroy my friends. But my people are your people, too!" Ida wailed. It's so senseless now, after all our struggle to escape. Don't you see? Your friends are only machines built by our ancestors. We are men, and the city is ours, not theirs. It can't be," Ruddy objected.

The city surely belongs to those who are superior, and my friends are superior to your people, even to me. Each of us has a purpose, though, while you invaders seem to be aimless. Each of us helps preserve the city. You only try to rob and end it by destroying it. My people must be the true men, because they're so much more rational than yours, and it isn't rational to let you escape. Ida had turned up a tear-streaked face to stare at him. Rational? What's rational about murdering a defenseless girl and cold blood? "'Don't you realize we're the same sort of being we two? "'Don't you remember how we're being with each other all day?'

"'She paused. "'Raddy noticed that her eyes were dark and frightened, "'yet somehow soft over scarlet cheeks. "'He had to look away, but he said nothing. "'Never mind,' Ida said viciously. "'You can't make me beg. "'Go ahead and kill. "'See if it proves your superior.

"'My people will take over the city, "'regardless of you and me, "'and regardless of your jumping-japped friends, too. "'Men can accomplish anything.' Scornfully, she turned and looked toward the Western twilight. It was Raddy's turn to stand and stare. Purpose, Ada flung at him over her shoulder. Logic!

Women hear so much of that from men. You're a man, all right? Men always call it logic when they want to destroy, loyalty to your own sort, kindness, affection, all emotional, aren't they? Not a bit logical. Emotion is for creating, and so much more logical to destroy, isn't it? She whirled back toward him, advancing as if she wanted to sink her teeth and his teeth.

his throat. Go ahead, get it over with, if you have the courage. It was hard for Raleigh to look away from that, wrath-grimsoned face, but it was even harder to keep staring into the blaze of her eyes. He compromised by gazing out an opening at the gathering dusk. He thought for a long time, before he decided to tuck his hammer away. It isn't reasonable to kill you now, he said. Too dark. You can't possibly get down and have ruined Manway tonight. So let's see how I feel in the morning. Ida began to weep again, and Roddy found it necessary to comfort her. And by morning, he knew he was a man. End of Story 10. Story 11 of Battles for the Stars in Space. Ed Reed short sci-fi volume three. This Leibervox recording is in the public to me. Keep your shape,

by Robert Shackley. Pid the pilot slowed the ship almost to a standstill, and paid a anxiously at the green planet below. Even without instruments, there was no mistaking it. Third from its sun, it was the only planet in this system capable of sustaining life. Peacefully, it swam beneath its gauze of clouds. It looked very innocent, and yet 20 previous Guam expeditions had set out to prepare this planet for invasion, and vanished utterly, without a word. Pid hesitated only a moment before starting irrevocably down. There was no point in the world. There was no hovering and worrying. He and his two Quimmon were as ready now as they would ever be. Their compact displaces were stored in body pouches, inactive but ready. Pid wanted to say something

to his crew, but wasn't sure how to put it. The crew waited. Ilk, the radio man, had sent the final message to the grand planet. Gere, the detector, read sixteen diles at once and reported, no sign of alien activity. His body surfaces flowed carelessly. Noticing the flow, Pid knew what to say it is crew. Ever since they'd left Grom, shape discipline had been disgustingly lax. The invasion chief had warned him, but still he had to do something about it. It was his duty, since lower casts, such as radio men and detectors, were notoriously prone to shapelessness. A lot of hopes are resting on this expedition, he began slowly. We're a long way from home now. Gere, the detector, nodded. Ilk, the radio man, flowed out of his prescribed shape, and mordered himself

comfortably to a wall. However, Pid said Stanley, distance is no excuse for promiscuous shapelessness. Ilg flowed hastily back into proper radio man's shape. Exotic forms will undoubtedly be called for, Pid went on, and for that we have a special dispensation. But remember, any shape not assumed strictly in the line of duty is a foul, lawless device of the shapeless one. Gers' body surfaces abruptly stopped flowing. That's all, Pid said. and flowed into his controls. The ship started down, so smoothly coordinated, that Pid felt a glow of pride.

There were good workers, he decided. He just couldn't expect them to be a ship-conscious as a high-cast pilot. Even the invasion chief had told him that. Pid, the invasion chief had said at their last interview, We need this planet desperately. Yes, sir, Pitt had said, standing at full attention, never quivering from optimum pilot's shape.

"'One of you,' the chief said heavily, "'must get through and set up a displacer "'near an atomic power source. "'The army will be standing by at this end, "'ready to step through. "'We'll do it, sir,' Pitt said. "'This expedition has to succeed,' the chief said, "'and his features blurred momentarily from sheer fatigue.

"'In strict his confidence, "'there's considerable unrest on grum. "'The minor cast is on strike, for instance. "'They want a new digging shape, "'so the old one is inefficient. Pid looked properly indignant. The mining shape had been set down by the ancients 50,000 years ago, together with the rest of the basic shapes,

and now these upstarts wanted to change it. That's not all, the chief told him. We have uncovered a new cult of shapelessness, picked up almost 8,000 gram, and I don't know how many more we missed. Pid knew that shapelessness was a lure of the shapeless one, the greatest evil that the grum mind could conceive of. But why, he wondered, did so many Grum fall for his liars? The chief guessed his question.

Pid, he said, I suppose it's difficult for you to understand. Do you enjoy piloting? Yes, sir, Pid said simply. Enjoy piloting. It was his entire life. Without a ship, he was nothing. Not all Grum fell that way, the chief said. I don't understand it either.

Oh, my ancestors have been invasion chiefs. Back to the beginning of time. So, of course, I want to be an invasion chief. It's only natural, as well as lawful. But the lower casts don't feel that way. The chief shook his body, sadly. I've told you this for a reason. We grum need more room.

This unrest is caused purely by crowding. All our psychologists say so. Another planet to expand into will cure everything. So we're counting on you, Pid. Yes, sir, Pitt said, with a glow of pride. The chief rose to end the interview. Then he changed his mind and sat down again. We'll have to watch your crew, he said.

They're loyal, no doubt, but low caste, and you know the lower castes. Pitt did indeed. Gour, your detector, is suspected of harboring alterationists' tendencies. He was once fine for assuming a quasi-hunter's shape. Ilg has never had any definite charge brought against him, but I hear that he remains immobile for suspiciously long periods of time. Possibly he fancies himself a thinker. But, sir, Pitt protested,

if they were even slightly tainted with alterationism or shapelessness, Why send them on this expedition? The chief hesitated before answering. There are plenty of grom I could trust, he said slowly. But those two of certain qualities of resourcefulness and imagination that will be needed on this expedition. He sighed. I really don't understand why those qualities are usually linked with shapelessness.

Yes, sir, Pitt said. Just watch them. Yes, sir, Pitt said again, and saluted, realizing that the interview was at an end. In his buddy pouch he felt the dormant displacer, ready to transform the enemy's power source into a bridge across space with the Grom Hordes. Good luck, the chief said. I'm sure you'll need it.

The ship dropped silently toward the surface of the enemy planet. Ger the detector analyzed the clouds below and fed data into the camouflage unit. The unit went to work. Soon the ship looked to all outward appearances like a Cirrus formation. Pid allowed the ship to drift slowly toward the surface of the mystery planet. He was in optimum pilot's shape now, the most efficient of the four shapes allotted to the pilot cast. Blind, deaf and dumb, an extension of his controls. All his attention was directed toward matching the velocities of the high-flying clouds,

staying among them, becoming a part of them. Goer remained rigidly in one of the two shapes allotted to detectors. He fed data into the camouflage unit, and the descending ship slowly altered, into an alto cumulus. There was no sign of activity from the enemy planet. Ilg located an atomic power source and fed the data to Pid. The pilot ought to course. He had reached the lowest level of clouds, barely a mile above the surface of the planet. Now his ship looked like a fat, fleecy cumulus. And still there was no sign of alarm. The unknown fate that had overtaken 20 previous expeditions still had not showed itself.

Dusk crept across the face of the planet as Pid maneuvered near the atomic power installation. He avoided the surrounding homes and hovered over a clump of woods. Darkness fell in the green planet's lone moon was veiled in clouds. One cloud floated lower and landed. Quick, everyone out, Pid shouted, detaching himself from the ship's controls. He assumed the pilot shape best suited for running and raced out of the hatch.

Gere and Ilg hurried after him. They stopped fifty yards from the ship and waited. Inside the ship a little-used circuit closed. There was a silent shudder, and the ship began to melt. Plastic dissolved, metal crumpled. Soon the ship was a great pile of junk, and still the process went on. Big fragments broke into smaller fragments and split and split again. Pid felt suddenly helpless, watching his ship scuttled itself.

He was a pilot of the pilot. cast. His father had been a pilot, and his father before him, stretching back to the hazy past when the Grom had first constructed ships. He had spent his entire childhood around ships, his entire manhood flying them. Now shipless, he was naked in an alien world. In a few minutes there was only a mound of dust to show where the ship had been. The night wind scattered it to the forest, and then there was nothing at all. They waited. Nothing happened. The wind sighed and the trees creaked. Squirrels chirped and birds stirred in their nests.

An acorn fell to the ground. Pid heaved a sigh of relief and sat down. The twenty-first Grom expedition had landed safely. There was nothing to be done until morning, so Pid began to make plans. They had landed as close to the atomic power installations as they dared. Now they would have to get closer. Somehow, one of them had to get very near the reactor room in order to activate the displacer. Difficult, but Pid felt certain of success.

After all, the Grum was strong on ingenuity. Strong on ingenuity, he thought bitterly, but terribly short of radioactives. That was another reason why this expedition was so important. There was little radioactive fuel left on any of the Grom worlds. Ages ago, the Grum had spent their store of radioactives in spreading throughout their neighboring worlds, occupying the ones that they could live on. Now, colonization barely kept up with a mounting birth rate. New worlds were constantly needed.

This particular world, discovered in a scouting expedition, was needed. It suited the Guam perfectly, but it was too far away. They didn't have enough fuel to mount a conquering space fleet. Luckily, that was another way, a better way. Over the centuries the Guam scientists had developed the Displacer, a triumph of identity engineering, the displacer allowed mass to be moved instantaneously between any two linked points. One end was set up at Guam's sole atomic energy plant.

The other end had to be placed in proximity to another atomic power source and activated. Diverted power then flowed through both ends, was modified and modified again. Then, through the miracle of identity engineering, the Guam could step through from planet to planet, or pour through in a great, overwhelming wave. It was quite simple, but twenty expeditions had failed to set up the earth-end displacer. What had happened to them was not known, for no ground ship had ever returned to tell. Before dawn they crept through the woods, taking on the coloration of the plants around them. Their displaces pulsed feebly, sensing the nearness of atomic energy.

A tiny four-legged creature darted in front of them. Instantly, Gur grew four legs and a long streamlined by. body and gave chase. Gour, come back here, Pidd held at the detector, throwing caution to the winds. GERr overtook the animal and knocked it down. He tried to bite it, but he neglected to grow teeth. The animal jumped free and vanished into the underbrush. Gur thrust out a set of teeth and bunched his muscles for another leap.

Gur! reluctantly the detector turned away. He loped silently back to Pid. I was hungry, he said. You were not, Pid said, Sturon. was, GER mumbled, writhing with embarrassment. Pid remembered what the chief had told him. Gur certainly did have hundred tendencies.

He would have to watch him more closely. We'll have no more of that, Pid said. Remember, the lure of exotic shapes is not sanctioned. Be content with the shape you were born to. Gur nodded and knotted back into the underbrush. They moved on. At the extreme edge of the woods they could observe the atomic energy installation. disguised himself as a clump of shrubbery, and GUR formed himself into an old log.

Ilg, after a moment's thought, became a young oak. The installation was in the form of a long low building, surrounded by a metal fence. There was a gate and guards in front of it. The first job, Pitt thought, was to get past the gate. He began to consider ways and means. From the fragmentary reports of the survey parties, Pidd knew that in some ways this race of men were like the Guam. They had pets, as the Guam did.

and homes and children, and a culture. The inhabitants were skilled mechanically, as were the Grom. But there were terrific differences also. The men were fixed in immutable form, like stones or trees, and to compensate their planet boasted a fantastic array of species, types, and kinds. This was completely unlike Guam, which had only eight distinct forms of animal life. And evidently, the men were skilled at detecting invaders pit-thor. He wished he knew how the other expeditions had failed.

It would make his job much easier. A man lurched past them on two incredibly stiff legs. Rigidity was evident in his every move. Without looking, he hurried past. I know, Gere said after the creature had moved away. I'll disguise myself as a man, walk through the gate to the reactor room and activate my displacer. You can't speak their language, Pid pointed out. I won't speak at all.

I'll ignore them. look, quickly, GER shipped us off into a man. That's not bad, Pid said. Gir tried a few practice steps, copying a bumpy walk of the man. But I'm afraid it won't work, Pid said. It's perfectly logical, GER pointed out. I know, therefore the other expeditions must have tried it, and none of them came back. There was no arguing that.

GER flowed back into the shape of a log. What then, he asked. Let me think, Pid said. Another creature lurched, passed on forelegs instead of two. Pidd recognized it as a dog, a pet of man. He watched it carefully. The dog, ambled to the gate, head down, in no particular hurry. It walked through, unchallenged, and lay down in the grass.

Hmm, Pid said. They watched. One of the men walked past, and touched the dog on the head. The dog stuck out its tongue and rolled over on its side. "'I can do that,' Gere said exactlyly. He started to flow into the shape of a dog. "'No wait,' Pid said. "'We'll spend the rest of the day thinking it over.

"'This is too important to rush into.' "'Gir subsided sockly. "'Come on, let's move back,' Pid said. "'He and Gur started into the woods. "'Then he remembered Elg,' he called softly. "'There was no answer. "'Ildg.' "'What? Oh, yes,' an oak tree said, and melted into a bush.

"'Sorry, what were you saying?' We're moving back, Pidd said. Were you by any chance thinking? Oh no, Elgeshireton. Just resting. Pid let it go at that. There's too much else to worry about. They discussed it for the rest of the day, hidden in the deepest part of the words.

The only alternatives seemed to be man or dog. A tree couldn't walk past the gates, since that was not in the nature of trees. Nor could anything else, and escape notice. Going as a man seemed too risky. They decided that GER would sally out in the morning as a dog. Now get some sleep, Pid said. Abidiently, his two women flattened out, going immediately shapeless. But Pid had a more difficult time.

Everything looked too easy. Why wasn't the atomic installation better guarded? Certainly the men must have learned something from the expeditions had captaged in the past. Or had they killed them without asking any questions? You couldn't tell what an alien would do. Was that open gate a trap? Wearily, he flowed into a comfortable position on the lumpy ground. Then he pulled himself together hastily.

He'd gone shapeless. Comfort was not in the line of duty, he reminded himself, and firmly took a pilot's shape. But a pilot's shape wasn't constructed for sleeping on damp, bumpy ground. Pid spent a restless night, thinking of ships, and wishing he were flying one. He awoke in the morning, tired and ill-tempered. He nudged GER. Let's get this over with, he said.

Gurg flowed gaily to his feet. Come on, Ilg, Pid said, angry, looking around. Wake up! There was no reply. Elg, he called. Still, there was no reply. Help me look for him, Pid said to Gur. He must be around her somewhere.

Together they tested every bush, tree, log and shrub in a vicinity, but none of them was ill. Pid began to feel a cold panic run through him. What could have happened to the radio man? Perhaps he decided to go through the gate on his own, Gyrr suggested. Pid considered the possibility. It seemed unlikely. Elg had never shown much initiative. It had always been content to follow orders.

They waited, but midday came and there was still no sign of Elg. We can't wait any longer, Pitt said, and they started through the woods. Pid wondered if Elk had tried to get through the gates on his own. Those quiet types often concealed a foolhardy streak. There was nothing to show that Il could have been successful. would have to assume that the radio man was dead or captured by the men, that left two of them to activate a displacer, and he still didn't know what had happened to the other expeditions. At the edge of the woods, Goer turned himself into a facsimile of a dog. Pidd inspected him

carefully. A little less tail, he said. Goer shortened his tail. More ears. Goer lengthened his days. Now we've in them up. They became even. Pid inspected the finished product. As far as he could tell, GER was perfect from the tip of his tail to his wet black nose. Good luck, Pid said. Thanks. Cautiously, Ger moved out of the woods, walking in the lurching style of dogs and men. At the gate, the guard called to him. Pid held his breath. Gur walked past the man, ignoring him. started to walk over, Gur broke into a run. Pid shaped a pair of strong legs for himself, ready to dash if GER was caught. But the guard turned back to his gate.

GER stopped running immediately, and strode quietly toward the main door of the building. Pid dissolved his legs with a sigh of relief, and then tensed again. The main door was closed. Pid hoped the radio man wouldn't try to open it. That was not in the nature of dogs. As he watched, another dog came running toward Gour. GER backed away from him. The dog approached and sniffed.

Gur sniffed back. Then both of them ran around the building. That was clever, Pid thought. There was bound to be a door in the rear. He glanced up at the afternoon sun. As soon as the displacer was activated, the grum armies would begin to pour through. By the time the men recovered from the shock,

a million or more grom troops would be here, weapons and all. with more following. The day passed slowly, and nothing happened. Nervously had watched the front of the plant. He shouldn't be taking so long if Goer was successful. Late into the night he waited. Men walked in and out of the installation,

and dogs barked around the gates, but Gur did not appear. Ger had failed. Ilk was gone. Only he was left, and still he didn't know what had happened. By morning, Pidd was in complete despair. He knew that the 21st Grum expedition to this planet was near the point of complete failure.

Now it was all up to him. He saw that workers were arriving in great numbers, rushing through the gates. He decided to take advantage of the apparent confusion and started to shape himself into a man. A dog walked past the woods where he was hiding. Hello? The dog said. It was good. What happened?

Pid asked, with a sigh of relief. Why were you so long? Could you get in? I don't know, Gers said, wagging his tail. I didn't try. Pid was speechless. I went hunting, GER said complacently. This form is ideal for hunting, you know. I went out to regate with another dog.

But the expedition, your duty. I changed my mind, GER told him. You know, pilot, I never wanted to be a detector. But you were born a detector. That's true, Gers said. But it doesn't help. I always wanted to be a detector. the hunter.

Pid shook his entire body in annoyance. You can't, he said, very slowly, as one would explain to a grumbling. The hunter's shape is forbidden to you. Not here, it isn't, Gers said, still wagging his tail. Let's have no more of this, Pid said angrily. Get into that installation and set up your displacer. I'll try to overlook this heresy. No, Gers said.

I don't want to grumb hair. They'd ruin it for the rest of us. He's right, a nearby oak tree said. Il! Pid gasped. Where are you? Branch is stirred. I'm right here, Ilk said.

I've been thinking. But you're cursed. Pilot, Gers said sadly. Why don't you wake up? Most of the people on Grum are miserable. Only custom makes us take the caste shape of our ancestors. Pilot, Ilk said. All grum are born shapeless.

And being born shapeless, all grum should have freedom of sheep, Gerr said. Exactly, Elg said, but I'll never understand. Now, excuse me, I want to think. And the oak tree was silent.

Pid laughed humorously. The men will kill you off, he said, just as they killed off all the other expeditions. No one from Grum has been killed, Gerr told him. The other expeditions are right here. Alive?

Certainly. The men don't even know we exist. That dog I was hunting with is a grum from the 12th expedition. Listen, there were huddles of a fair, pilot. We like it. Pid tried to absorb it all. He had always known that the lower castes were lax in caste consciousness,

but this was preposterous. This planet's secret menace was, Freedom. Drown us, pilot, Gers said. We've got a paradise, sir. Do you know how many species there are on this planet? An uncountable number. There's a shape to suit every need.

Pid ignored them. Traitors! They do the job all by himself. So men were unaware of the presence of the Guam. Getting near the reactor might be not so difficult after all. The others had failed in their duty because they were of the lower casts, weak and irresponsible. Even the pilots among them must have been secretly sympathetic to the cult of shapelessness the chief had mentioned, or the alien planet could never have swayed them.

What sheep to assume for his attempt? Pid considered. A dog might be best. Evidently, dogs could wander pretty much where they wished, If something went wrong, Pidd could change his shape to meet the occasion. The Supreme Council will take care of all of you, he snarled and shaped himself into a small brown dog. I'm going to sit up at the space of myself. He studied himself for a moment, bared his teeth at GER, and loped toward the gate.

He loped for about ten feet, and stopped in utter horror. The smells rushed at him from all directions. Smells in a profusion and variety he never dreamed existed. smells that were harsh, sweet, sharp, heavy, mysterious, overpowering. Smells that terrified, alien and repulsive and inescapable, the odors of Earth struck him like a blow. He curled his lips and held his breath. He ran on for a few steps and had to breathe again. He almost choked.

He tried to remold his dog nostrils to be less sensitive. It didn't work. It wouldn't, so long as he kept the dog's shape. An attempt to modify his metabolism didn't work either. Now this, in the space of two or three seconds, he was rooted in his tracks, fighting the smells, wondering what to do. Then the noises hit him. They were a constant and staggering roar, through which every tiniest whisper of sounds

stood out clearly and distinctly, sounds upon sounds, more noise than he had ever heard before at one time in his life. The woods behind him had suddenly become a madhouse. Utterly confused, he lost control and became shapeless. half ran, half-flood into a nearby bush. There he reshaped, obliterating the offending dog-ears and nostrils, vicious strokes of his thoughts. The dog-shape was out, absolutely. Such appalling sharpness of senses might be fine for a hunter such as gur. He probably gloried in them, but another moment of such impressions would have driven Pid the pilot mad. What now? He

lay in the bush and thought about it, while gradually his mind threw off the last effects of the dizzying sensory assault. He looked at the gate. The men standing there evidently had noticed his fiasco. They were looking in another direction. A man? Well, it was worth a try. Studying the men at the gate, the Pid carefully shaped himself into a facsimile, a synthesis, actually, embodying one characteristic of that, another of this. He emerged from the side of the bush opposite the gate and his hands and knees. He sniffed the air, noting that the smells the men nostrils picked up weren't unpleasant at all. In fact, some of them were decidedly otherwise.

It had just been the acuity of the dog nostrils, the number of smells they had detected, and the neb brilliance with which they had done so that had shocked him. Also, the sounds weren't half so devastating. Only relatively close sounds stood out. All else was an undetailed whispering. Evidently, Pitt thought,

it had been a long time since men had been hunters. He tested his legs, standing up and taking a few clumsy steps, Stud, a foot on ground, dragged the other leg forward in a heavy arc, thud. Rocking from side to side, he marched back and forth behind the bush. His arms flapped as he sought balance. His head wabbled on his neck, until he remembered to hold it up. Head up, plays down.

He missed seeing a small rock. His heel turned on it. He sat down hard. The ankle hurt. The pidd curled his man lips and crawled back into the bush. The man-shape was too unspeakably clumsy. It was offensive to plot one step at a time. Body held rigidly upright, arms wobbling.

I'd been a deluge of sense impressions in the dog-shape. There was dull, stiff, half-alive inadequacy to the man's shape. Besides, it was dangerous, now that Pid thought it over as well as distasteful. He couldn't control it properly. It wouldn't look right. Someone might question him. It was too much about men he didn't. Couldn't, no.

The planting of the displacer was too important. a thing for him to fumble again. Only luck had kept him from being seen during the sensory onslaught. The displacer in his buddy pouch pulsed and tugged, urging him to be on his way toward the distant reactor room. Grimly, Pid let out the last breath he had taken with his man-lungs, and dissolved the lungs. What shape to take? Again he studied the gate, the men standing beside it, the building beyond it, which was the all-important reactor. A small shape was needed, a fast one, an unobtrusive one, he lay and thought. The bush whistled above him.

A small brown shape had fluttered down to light on a twig. It hopped to another twig, twittering. Then it fluttered off in a flash and was gone. That, pit thought, was it. A sparrow that was not a sparrow rose from the bush a few moments later. An observer would have seen it circle the bush, diving, hedge-hopping, even looping, as if practicing all maneuvers possible to sparrows.

Pid tensed his shoulder muscles and climbed his wings. He slipped off to the right, approached the bush at what seemed to breakneck speed, though he knew this was only because of his small size. At the last second he lifted his tail, not quite quickly enough. He swooped up and over the top of the bush, but his legs brushed the top leaves. His beak went down, and he stumbled in air for a few feet back forward. He blinked, beady eyes as if at a challenge, back toward the bush at a fine clip again, up and over this time cleanly.

He chose a tree, zoomed into its network of branches, wove a web of flight, working his way around and around the trunk over and under brushes that flashed before him, threw crutches with no more than a feather's breath to spare. At last he rested on a low branch and found himself chirping in delight. The tree extruded a feeler from the branch he sat on and touched his wings and tail. "'Interesting,' said the tree. "'I'll have to try that shape sometime.' "'I'll g.'

"'Tuit on,' hissed Pidd, growing a mouth in his chest to hiss it. Then he did something that caused Ilk to exclaim an outrage. Pid flew out of the woods, over the underbrush and across the open space toward the gate. This body would do the trick. This body would do anything. He rose in a matter of a few sparrow heartbeats to an altitude of a hundred feet. From here the gate, the men, the building were small, sharp shapes against a green-brown mat. Pid found that he could see not only with unaccustomed clarity, but with a range of vision that astonished him. To right and to left he could see far into the hazy blue of the sky,

and the higher he rose the farther he could see. He rose higher. The displacer pulsed, reminding him of the job he had to do. He stiffened his wings and glided, regretfully putting aside his desires to experiment with this wonderful shape, at least for the present. After he planted the displacer, he would go off by himself for a while and do it just a little more, somewhere where Ilg and Goer wouldn't see him. Before the Grom army arrived, the invasion began. He felt a tiny twinge of the guilt, as he circled. It was evil to want to keep this alien flying shape any longer than was absolutely necessary to the performance of his duty. It was a device of the shapeless one. But what had Ilk said? Are Grom are born shapeless? It was true.

Some children were amorphous until old enough to be instructed in the cast shape of their ancestors. Maybe it wasn't too great a sin to author your shape then, just once in a long while. After all, one must be fully aware of the nature of evil in order to meaningfully reject it. He had fallen lower and circling. The displasive pulse had strengthened. For some reason it irritated him. He drove higher on strong wings, circled again. Air rushed past him, a smooth whispering flow, pierced by his beak.

streaming invisibly past his sharp eyes, moving along his body in tiny turbulences that moved his feathers against his skin. It occurred to him, or rather struck him with considerable force, that he was satisfying a longing of his pilot cast that went far deeper than piloting. He drove powerfully with his wings, felt tones across his back, shot forward and up. He thought of the control of his ship. He imagined flowing into them, becoming part of them, as he had so often done, and for the first time in his life, the thought failed to excite him. No machine could compare with this. What he would give to have wings of his own?

Get from my side, shapeless one! The displacer must be planted, activated, all grum depended on him. He eyed the building far below. It would pass over it. The displacer would tell him which window to enter, which window was so near the reactor that he could do his job before the men even knew he was about. He started to drop lower, and the hawk struck. It had been above him.

His first inkling of danger was the sharp pain of talons in his back, and the stunning blow of a beak across his head. Dazed he let his back go, shapeless. His body substance flowed from the grasp of the talons. He dropped a dozen feet and resumed sparrow-shape, hearing an astonished squawk from the attacker. He banked and looked up. The hawk was eyeing him. Talon spread again.

The sharp beak gaped. The hawk swooped. Pid had to fight as a bird, naturally. He was four hundred feet above the ground. So he became an impossibly deadly bird. He grew to twice the size of the hawk. He grew a foot-long beak with a double razor's edge. He grew talons like six-inch scimitares.

His eyes gleamed a red challenge. The hawk broke flight, squalling an alarm. Frantically, tailed down and widespread, it thundered its wings and came to a dead stop six feet from Pid. Looking thoughtfully at Pid, it allowed itself to plummet. It fell a hundred feet spread its wings. stretched its neck and flew off so hastily that its wings became blurs. Pid saw no reason to pursue it.

Then after a moment he did, he glided, keeping the hawk in sight, thoughts racing, failing the newness, the power, the wonder of freedom of shape. Freedom! He didn't want to give it up. The bird shape was wondrous. He would experiment with it. Later he might tire of it for a time and assume another, crawling or running shape, or even a swimming one.

The possibilities for excitement, for adventure, for fulfilment and simple sensual pleasure were endless. Freedom of shape was. Obviously, now you thought in it, the Grum birthright and the caste system was artificial. Obviously. The device for political and priestly benefit. Obviously. Oh way, shape, one, this does not concern you.

He rose to a thousand feet, two thousand three. The displaces pulse grew feebler and finally vanished. At four thousand feet he released it. it and watched it spin downward, vanish into a cloud. Then he set out after the hawk, which was now only a dust on the horizon. He would find out how the hawk had broken flight as it had skidded on air. He wanted to do that, too. There were so many things he wanted to learn about flying.

In a week he thought he should be able to duplicate all the skill that millennia had evolved into birds. Then his new life would really begin. He became a torpedo-shaped with huge wings and sped after the hawk. End of story 11. Story 12 of Battles for the Stars. In Space. Ed Reed short sci-fi, volume 3.

This Leibovoc's recording is in the public domain. By Dirtash, by William 10. I guess I'm just a stickler, a perfectionist, but if you do a thing, I always say you might as well do it right. Everything satisfied me about the security measures on our assignment, except one, the official army designation, Project Hush. I don't know who thought it up and I certainly would never ask, but whoever it was, he should have known better. Damn it, when you want a project kept secret, you don't give it a designation like that. You give it something neutral, some name like the Manhattan and Overlord they used in World War II, which won't excite anybody's curiosity.

But we were stuck with Project Hush, and we had to take extra measures to ensure secrecy. A couple of of times a week, everyone on the project had to report to SACO for DD and HA, dream detailing and hypnoanalysis, instead of the usual monthly visit. Naturally, the commanding general of the heavily fortified research post to which we were attached could not ask what we were doing, under penalty of court martial, but he had to be given further instructions to shut off his imagination like a faucet every time he heard an explosion. Some idiot in Washington was actually going to list Project Hush and a militant budget by name.

It took fast action, I can tell you, to have it entered under Miscellinus X research. Well, we'd covered the unforgivable blunder, though not easily, and now we could get down to the real business of the project. You know, of course, about the A-bomb, H-bomb and C-bomb, because information that they existed had been declassified. You don't know about the other weapons being devised,

and neither did we, reasonably enough, since they weren't our business, but we had been given properly gut and notification that they were in the works. Project Hirsch was set up to counter the new weapons. Our goal was not just to reach the moon. We had done that on 24th of June 1967, with an unmanned ship that carried instruments to report back data on soil, temperature, cosmic rays and so on.

Unfortunately, it was put out of commission by a rock slide. An unmanned rocket would be useless against the new weapons. We had to get to the moon before any other country, did and set up a permanent station, an armed one, and do it without anybody else doing about it. I guess you see now why we on, damn, the name, Project Hirsch, were so concerned about security, but we felt pretty sure before we took off that we had plugged every possible leak. We had all right. Nobody even knew we had raised ship. We landed at the northern tip of Marinoobium, just off Reggio Montanus,

and after planting the flag with appropriate throat-catching ceremony, had swung into the realities of the tasks we have practiced on so many dry runs back on Earth. Major Monroe Gridley prepared the big rocket, with its tiny cubicle of living space for the return journey to Earth, which he alone would make. Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Harthorne painstakingly examined our provisions and portable quarters for any damage that might have been incurred in landing. And I, Colonel Benjamin Rass, first commanding officer of Army Base No. 1 on the Moon,

dragged crate after enormous crate out of the ship on my aching academic back and piled them in the spot 200 feet away where the plastic dome would be built. We all finished at just about the same time as per schedule and went into phase two. Monroe and I started working building the dome. It was a simple prefab affair but big enough to require an awful lot of assembling. Then after it was built we faced the real problem, getting all the complex internal machinery in place. and in operating order.

Meanwhile, Tom Hawthorne took his plumped self off in the single-seater rocket, which up to then had doubled as a lifeboat. The schedule called for him to make a rough three-hour scalpen survey in an ever-widening spiral from our dome. This had been regarded as a probable waste of time, rocket fuel and manpower, but a necessary precaution.

He was supposed to watch for such things as bug-eyed monsters out for a stroll on the lunar landscape. Basically, however, Tom served, was intended to supply extra geological and astronomical meat for the report which Monroe was to carry back to Army H.Q. on Earth. Tom was back in forty minutes, his round face inside its transparent bubble helmet, his fish-belly white, and so were ours, once he told us what he'd seen. He had seen another dome. "'The other side of Morinubium! And the Riffian Mountains!' He babbled excitedly. "'It's a little bigger than ours, and it's a little flatter on top,

and it's not translucent either, with splotches of different colours here and there. It's a dull, dark, heavy grey, but that's all there is to see. No markings on the dome? I asked wordly. No signs of anyone or anything around it? Neither, Colonel. I noticed he was calling me by my rank for the first time since the trip started, which meant he was saying, in effect, men, have you got a decision to make?

Hey, Tom, Monroe put it. Couldn't be just a regularly shaped bump in the ground, could it? I'm a geologist, Monroe. I can distinguish artificial from natural topography. Besides, he looked up. I just remembered something I left out. There's a brand new, tiny crater near the dome, the kind usually left by a rocket exhaust.

Rocket exhaust, I seized on that. Rockets, eh? Tom grinned a little sympathetically. Spaceship exhaust, I should have said. You can't tell from the crater what kind of propulsive device he's characters are using. It's not the same kind of crater where jet's leave, if that helps any.

Of course it didn't, so he went into our ship and had a council of war, and I do mean war. Both Tom and Monroe were calling me Colonel in every other sentence. I used their first names every chance I got. Still, no one but me could reach a decision about what to do, I mean. Look, I said at last, here are the possibilities. They know we are here, either from watching us land a couple of hours ago or from observing Tom's scout ship, or they do not know we are here. They are either humans from Earth, in which case they are, in all probability, enemy nationals,

or they are alien creatures from another planet, in which case they may be friends, enemies, or what have you. I think common sense and standard military procedure demand that we consider them hostile, until we have evidence to the contrary. Meanwhile, we proceed with extreme caution, so as not to precipitate an interplanetary war with potentially friendly Martians, or whatever they are. Oh, right.

It's vitally important that Army headquarters be informed of this immediately, but since Moon to Earth radio is still on the drawing board, the only way we can get through is to send Monroe back with the ship. If we do, we run the risk of having our garrison force, Tom and me, captured whilst he's making a return trip. In that case, their side winds up in possession of important information concerning our personnel and equipment, while our side is only the bare knowledge that somebody or something else has a base on the moon.

So our primary need is more information. Therefore I suggest that I sit in the dome on one end of a telephone hookup with Tom, who will sit in the ship, his hand over the firing button, ready to blast off Earth the moment he gets the order from me. Monroe will take the single-seater down to the Riffian Mountains, landing as close to the other dome as he thinks safe. He will then proceed the rest of the way on foot, doing the best scouting job he can in a space suit.

He will not use his radio, except for agreed upon nonsense syllables, to designate landing the single-seater, coming upon the dome by foot, and warning me to tell Tom to take off. If he is captured, remembering that the first purpose of a scout is acquiring and transmitting knowledge of the enemy, he will snap his suit radio on full volume and pass on as much data as time and the enemy's reflexes permit. How does that sound to you? I both nodded. As far as I was able concerned, the command decision had been made, but I was sitting under two

inches of sweat. One question, Tom said. Why did you pick Monroe for the scout? I was afraid you'd asked Dad, I told him. We're three extremely unathletic PhDs who have been in the army since we finished our schooling. There isn't too much choice. But I remembered that Monroe is half Indian.

Arapaho, isn't it, Monroe? And I'm hoping blood will tell. Only trouble, Colonel, Monroe said slowly as he rose. He said I'm one-fourth Indian, and even that, didn't I ever tell you that my Greek grandfather was the only Arapahoe scout who was with Custer at the little big horn? He'd been positive sitting bulls miles away. Oh well, I'll do my best.

And if I heroically don't come back, would you please persuade the security officer of our section to clear my name for use in the history books? Under the circumstances, I think it's the least he could do. I promised to do my best, of course. After he took off, I sat in the dome over the telephone connection to Tom and hated myself for picking Monroe to do the job, but I'd have hated myself just as much for picking Tom.

And if anything happened, and I had to tell Tom to blast off. I'd probably be sitting here in the dome all by myself after that, waiting. "'Bwas Nagel!' came over the radio in Monroe's resonant voice. He had landed the single-seater. I didn't dare use the telephone to chat with Tom in the ship, for fear I might miss an important word or phrase from my scout.

So I sat and sat and strained my ears. After a while I heard, "'Mesh guasch' which told me that Monroe was in the neighbourhood of the other dome and was creeping toward it under cover of whatever boulders were around. And then abruptly I had Monroe yell my name, and there was a terrific clattering in my headphones, radio interference. He'd been caught, and whoever had caught him had simultaneously jammed his suit transmitter with a large transmitter from the alien dome.

Then there was silence. After a while I told Tom what had happened. He just said, poor Monroe. I had a good idea what his expression was like. Look, Tom, I said. If you take off an hour, you're sorry. still won't have anything important to tell. After capturing Monroe, whatever is in that other dome will come looking for us, I think. I'll let them get close enough for us to learn something

of their appearance. At least if they're human or non-human, any bit of information about them is important. I'll shout it up to you, and you'll still be able to take off from plenty of time, all right? You're the boss, Colonel, he said in a mournful voice. Lots of luck. But then there was nothing to do, but wait. There was no oxygen system in the dome yet, so I had to squeeze up a sandwich from the food compartment in my suit. I sat there thinking about the expedition, nine years and all that careful secrecy, all that expenditure of money and mind-cracking research, and it had come to this, waiting to be wiped out, in a blast from some unimaginable weapon. I understood Monroe's last request. We often felt we were so secret that our immediate superiors

didn't even want us to know what we were working on. Scientists are people. They wish for recognition, too. I was hoping the whole expedition would be written up in the history books, but it looked I'm promising. Two hours later the scout ship landed near the dome. The lock opened, and from where I stood in the open door of our dome, I saw Monroe come out and walk toward me. I alerted Tom and told him to listen carefully. It may be a trick, he might be drugged. He didn't act drugged, though, not exactly. He pushed his way past me and sat down on a box to one side of the dome. He put his booted feet up. up on another smaller box.

How are you, Ben? he asked. How's every little thing? I granted. Well, I know my voice skittered a bit. He pretended puzzlement. Well, what? Oh, I see what you mean. The other dome.

You want to know who's in it. You have a right to be curious, Ben. Certainly. The leader of a top-secret expedition like this. Project Hush, they call us, huh, Ben? Finds another dome on the moon. He thinks he's been the forest to land on it,

so naturally he wants to. to Major Monroe Gridley, I rapped out. You will come to attention and deliver your report now. Honestly, I felt my neck swelling up inside my helmet. Monroe just leaned back against the side of the dome. That's the Army way of doing things, he commented admiringly. Like the recruits say there's a right way, a wrong way, and an Army way. Only there are other ways, too.

He chuckled. Lots of other ways. He's off. I heard Tom whisper over the telephone. Ben, Monroe's gone and blown his stack. They aren't extradials in the other dome, Ben. Monroe volunteered in a sudden burst of sanity. Know their humans all right, and from Earth.

Guess where? I'll kill you, I warned him. I swear, I'll kill you, Monroe. Where are they from? Russia, China, Argentina. He grimaced. What's so secret about those places? Go on, guess again.

I stared at him long and hard. The only place else? Sure, he said. You got it, Coinal. The other dome is owned and operated by the Navy. The goddamn United States Navy. End of Story 12. Story 13 of Battles for the Stars.

In Space! Edwitch short sci-fi, volume 3. This Leibovox recording is in the public domain. Diplomatic Immunity by Robert Shackley. Come right in, gentlemen. The ambassador waved them into the very special suite the State Department had given him.

Please be seated. Colonel Searcy accepted a chair, trying to size up the individual who had all Washington chewing its fingernails. The ambassador hardly looked like a menace. He was a medium height and slight build, dressed in a conservative brown tweed suit that the State Department had given him. His face was intelligent, finely molded, and aloof.

As human as a human, Circe thought, studying the alien with bleak impersonal eyes. "'How may I serve you?' the ambassador asked, smiling. "'The president has put me in charge of your case,' Cersie said. "'I've studied Professor Darrick's reports. He nodded at the scientist beside him, but I'd like to hear the whole thing for myself.' "'Of course,' the alien said, lighting a cigarette. He seemed genuinely pleased to be asked, which was interesting, so he thought.

In the week since he had landed, every important scientist in the country had been at him. I have come, the alien said, as an ambassador at large, representing an empire that stretches halfway across the galaxy. They wish to extend the welcome of my people and to invite you to join our organization. I see, Circe replied. Some of the scientists got the impression that participation was compulsory. You will join, the ambassador said, blowing smoke through his nostrils. Circe could see Darrague stiffen in his chair and bite his lip.

"'Cercy moved the automatic to a position where he could draw it easily. "'How did you find us?' he asked. "'We ambassadors at large who each assigned an unexplored section of space,' the alien said. "'We examine each star system in that region for planets, "'and each planet for intelligent life. "'Inteligent life is rare in the galaxy, you know.' "'Cercy nodded, although we hadn't been aware of the fact. "'When we find such a planet we land, as I did,

"'and prepare the inhabitants for their part in our organization, How will your people know that you've found intelligent life? Sirce he asked. There is a sending mechanism that is part of our structure, the ambassador answered. It is triggered when we reach an inhabited planet. The signal is beamed continually into space, to an effective range of several thousand light years. Follow-up crew is continually sweeping through the limits of the reception area of each ambassador, listening for such messages.

Detecting one, a colonizing team follows it to the planet. He tapped his cigarette delicately on the edge of an ashtray. This method is definite advantages over sending combined colonization and exploration teams, obviously. It avoids the necessity of equipping large forces for what may be decades of searching. Sure, Sussie's face was expressionless. Do you mind telling me about this message? There isn't much more you need know. The beam is not detectable by your methods and therefore cannot be jammed.

The message continues as long as I am alive. Darrague in his breath sharply, glancing at Circe. He stopped broadcasting, Circe said casually. Her planet would never be found. Not until this section of space was we surveyed, the diplomat agreed. Very well. As a truly appointed representative of the President of the United States, I ask you to stop transmitting.

We don't choose to become part of your empire. I'm sorry, Ambassador said. He shrugged his shoulders easily. "'Cercy wondered how many times he had played this scene on how many other planets.' "'There's really nothing I can do,' he stood up. "'And you won't stop?' "'I can't. I have no control over this ending once it's activated.' The diplomat turned and walked to the window.

"'However, I have prepared a philosophy for you. It is my duty, as your ambassador, to ease the shock of transition as much as possible. This philosophy will make it instantly apparent that, as the ambassador reached to the window, So Circe's gun was out of his pocket and roaring. He squeezed six rounds in almost a single explosion, aiming at the ambassador's head and back. Then an uncontrollable shudder ran through him. The ambassador was no longer there. Searcy and Darrag steadied each other.

Darrag muttered something about ghosts. Then just as suddenly the ambassador was back. You didn't think, he said, that it would be as easy as all that, did you? The ambassadors have necessarily a certain diplomatic immunity. He fingered one of the bullet holes in his wall. In case you don't understand, let me put it this way. It is not in your power to kill me. You couldn't even understand the nature of my defense.

He looked at them, and in that moment, Searcy felt the ambassador's complete alienness. Good day, gentlemen, he said. Darryg and Searcy walked silently back to the control room. Neither had really expected that the ambassador would be killed so easily, but it'd still been a shock when the slugs had failed. "'I suppose you saw it all, Malley,' "'surcy asked when he reached the control room. The thin, bawling psychiatrist nodded sadly.

"'Got it on film, too. "'I wonder what his philosophy is,' Derek mused after himself. "'It was illogical to expect it would work. "'No race would send an ambassador with a message like that "'and expect him to lift through it unless—unless what?' "'Unless he had a pretty effective defense,' "'the psychiatrist finished unhappily. Circe walked across the room and looked at the video panel.

The Ambassador's suite was very special. It had been hurriedly constructed two days after he had landed and delivered his message. The suite was steel and there'd lined, filled with video and movie cameras, recorders and a variety of other things. It was the last word in elaborate death cells. In the screen, Circe could see the ambassador sitting at a table. He was typing on a little portable the government had given him. Hey, Harrison, Circe called.

might as well go ahead with plan two. Harrison came out of a side room who had been examining the circuits leading to the ambassador's suite. Methodically, he checked his pressure gauges, set the controls and looked at Circe. Now? he asked. Now? Circe watched the screen.

The ambassador was still typing. Suddenly, as Harrison sent home the switch, the room was engulfed in flames. Fire blasted out of concealed holes in the walls, poured from the ceiling and floor. In a moment the room was like the inside of a blast furnace. Sisy let it burn for two minutes, then motioned Harrison to cut the switch. They stared at the roasted room.

They were looking, hopefully, for a charred corpse. But the ambassador reappeared beside his desk, looking ruefully at the charred typewriter. He was completely unsinged. Could you give me another typewriter? he asked, looking directly at one of the hidden projectors. I'm sitting down a philosophy for you ungrateful wretches. He seated himself in the wreckage of an armchair. In a moment he was apparently asleep.

All right, everyone grab a seat, Circe said. Time for a council of war. Malley straddled a chair backward. Allison lighted a pipe as he sat down, slowly puffing it into life. Now then, Circe said, the government has dropped this squarely in our laps. We have to kill the ambassador, obviously. I've been put in charge, Circe grinned with regret, probably because no one hire up wants the responsibility of failure,

and I've selected you three as my seat. staff. We can have anything we want, any assistance or advice we need. All right. Any ideas? How about plan three? Harrison asked. We'll get to that, sir she said. But I don't believe it's going to work. I don't either, Darrague agreed. We don't even know the nature of his defense. That's the first order of business. Malley, take all our data so far and get someone to feed it into the Derrickman analyzer. You know the stuff we want. What properties has X if X can do thus and thus? Right, Mally said. He left, muttering something about the ascendancy of the physical sciences.

Harrison, Circe asked. His plan three set up. Sure, give it a try. While Harrison was making his last adjustments, Sircy watched Darrague. The plump little physicist was staring thoughtfully into space, muttering to himself. Circe hoped he would come up with something,

as expecting great things of Darrag. Knowing the impossibility of working with great numbers of people, Circe had picked his staff with care. Quality was what he wanted. With that in mind, he had chosen Harrison first. The stocky, sour-faced engineer, had a reputation for being able to build anything, gave half an idea of how it worked. Circe had selected Malley, the psychiatrist,

because he wasn't sure that killing the ambassador was going to be a purely physical problem. Darryg was a mathematical physicist, but his restless, curious mind had come up with some interesting theories in other fields. It was the only one of the four who was really interested in the ambassador as an intellectual problem. He's like metal old man, Derek said finally. What's that? Haven't you ever read the story of metal old man? Well, he was a monster covered with black metal armour.

He was met by Monster Slayer, an Apache culture hero. Monster Slayer, after many attempts, finally killed metal old man. How did he do it? Shut him in the armpit. You didn't have any armor that. "'Fine,' Circe grinned. "'Ask her ambassador to raise his arm.' "'All set,' Harrison called.

"'Fine, go.' In the ambassador's room, an invisible spray of gamma-ray silently began to flood the room with deadly radiation. But there was no ambassador to receive them. "'That's enough,' So she said after a while. "'That'll kill a herd of elephants.' But the ambassador stayed invisible for five hours, until some of the radioactivity had abated.

Then he appeared again. "'I'm still waiting for that typewriter,' he said. "'There's the analyser's report,' Mally handed Circe a sheaf of papers. "'This is the final formulation, boiled down.' "'Sirce read it aloud. "'A simplest defence against any and all weapons is to become each particular weapon.' "'Great,' Harrison said. "'What does he mean?'

"'It means,' Derrick explained, "'that when we attack the ambassador with fire, "'he turns into a fire, short at him and he turns into a bullet, until the menace is gone, and then he changes back again. He took the papers out of Circe's hand and riffled through them. Hmm. Wonder this is any historical parallel. Don't suppose so.

He raised his head. Although this isn't conclusive, it seems logical enough. Any other defence would involve recognition of the weapon first, then an appraisal, then a counter move predicated on the potentialities of the weapon. The ambassador's defence would be a lot faster and safer. We wouldn't have to recognise the weapon. I suppose his body simply identifies in some way was the menace at hand. Did the analyser say there was any way of breaking this defence?

Cursie asked. The analyser stated definitely that there was no way if the premise were true. Mally answered gloomily. We can discard that judgment, Daryk said. The machine is limited. But we still haven't got any way of stopping him, Mali pointed out. And I'm still broadcasting that beam. Sircey thought for a moment.

Call in every expert you can find. We're going to throw the book at the ambassador. I know, he said, looking at Darrague's dubious expression. But we have to try. During the next few days, every combination and permutation of death was thrown at the ambassador. He was showered with weapons, ranging from Stone Age axes to modern high-powered rifles, peppered with hand grenades, drowned in acid, suffocated in poison gas. He kept shrugging his shoulders philosophically and continued to work on the new typewriter they had given him.

Bacteria was piped in. First, the known germ diseases, then mutated species. The diplomat didn't even sneeze. He was showered with electricity, radiation, wooden weapons, iron weapons, copper weapons, brass weapons, uranium weapons, anything and everything, just to cover all possibilities. He didn't suffer a scratch, but his room looked as though ball and ball to be going on in it continually for 50 years. Malley was working on an idea of his own, as was Darryg. The physicist interrupted himself long enough to remind Circe of the Balder myth.

Balder had been showered with every kind of weapon and remained unscathed, because everything on earth had promised to love him, everything except the mistletoe. When a little twigarette was shot at him, he died. Searcy turned away impatiently, but had an order of mistletoe sent up just in case. It was at least no less effective than the explosive shells. or the bow and arrow. It did nothing except lend an oddly festive air to the battered room. After a week of this, they moved to the unprotesting ambassador into a newer, bigger, stronger, death cell. They were unable to venture into his old one because of the radioactivity and microorganisms.

The ambassador went back to work at his typewriter. His previous attempts had been burned, torn, or eaten away. Let's go talk to him, Derek suggested. After another day he'd pass. asked. Circe agreed. For the moment, they were out of ideas. "'Come right in, gentlemen,' the ambassador said, "'so cheerfully that Circe felt sick. I'm sorry I can't offer you anything. Through an oversight, I haven't been given any food or water for about ten days. Not that it matters, of course.' "'Glad to hear it,' Circe said. The ambassador hardly looked as if he had been facing all the violence Earth had to offer. In the contrary,

Circe and his man looked as though they had been under bombardment. You've got quite a defense there, Mally said conversationally. Glad you like it. Would you mind tilling us how it works? Darragh asked innocently. Don't you know? You think so. You become what is attacking you.

Is that right? Certainly, the ambassador said. You see, I have no secrets from you. Is there anything we can give you? Sircy asked. To get you to turn off that signal. The bribe? "'Sure,' so she said.

"'Anything you—' "'The ambassador replied. "'Luck, be reasonable,' Harrison said. "'You don't want to cause a war, do you? "'Earth is united now, we're arming. "'Atham bombs?' "'Mere,' merely answered him. "'Hydrogen bombs?

"'Where? Drop one on me,' the ambassador said. "'It wouldn't kill me. "'What makes you think it will have any effect of my people?' "'The four men were silent. "'Somehow they hadn't thought of that. "'A people's ability to make war,' "'the ambassador stated. As a measure of the status of their civilization,

State one is the use of simple physical extensions. Stage two is control at the molecular level. You're on the threshold of stage three, although still far from ministry of atomic and subatomic forces. He smiled ingratiatingly. My people are reaching the limits of stage five. What would that be, Darragasked? You'll find out, the ambassador said,

but perhaps you've wondered if my powers are typical. I don't mind telling you that they're not. In order for me to do my job and nothing more, I have certain built-in restrictions, making me capable only of passive action. Why? Darrague asked. Obvious reasons. If I were to take positive action and a moment of anger,

I might destroy your entire planet. Do you expect us to believe that? Cersie asked. Why not? Is it so hard to understand? Can't you believe that there were forces you know nothing about? And there was another reason for my passiveness. Certainly by this time you've deduced it.

To break our spirit, I suppose, Sirce said. Exactly. My telling you won't make any difference either. The pattern is always the same. An ambassador lands and delivers his message to a high-spirited, wild young race like yours. There's frenzied resistance against him,

spasmodic attempts to kill him. After all these fail, the people are usually quite crestfallen. When the colonization team arrives, their indoctrination goes along just that much faster. He paused, then said. Most planets are more interested in the philosophy I have to offer. I assure you it will make the transition far easier. He held out a sheaf of typewritten pages.

Won't you at least look through it? Darrague accepted the paper and put them in his pocket. When I get time, the suggest you'll give it a try, the ambassador said. You must be near the crisis point now. Why don't give it up? "'Not yet,' Circe replied tonelessly. "'Don't forget to read the philosophy,' the ambassador urged them.

The men hurried from the room. "'Now look,' Mally said once we were back in a control. "'There are a few things we haven't tried. How about utilising psychology?' "'Anything you like,' Circe agreed. "'Including black magic. What did you have in mind?' "'The way I see it,' Malley answered.

"'The ambassador is geared to respond instantaneously to any threat. He must have an all-or-nothing defensive reflex. I suggest first that we try something that won't trigger that reflex. Like what? Sesey asked. Hypnotism. Perhaps you can find out something. Sure, Sissy said.

Try it. Try anything. Sissy, Malley and Daryg gathered around the video screen as an infinitesimal amount of light hypnotic gas was admitted into the ambassador's room. At the same time, a bolt of electricity lashed into the chair where the ambassador. was sitting. It was to distract him, Mali explained. The ambassador vanished before the

electricity struck him, and then appeared again curled up in his armchair. "'That's enough,' Mellie whispered, and shut the valve. They watched. After a while the ambassador put down his book and stared into the distance. "'How strange,' he said. "'Alphoran dead. Good friend. Just a freak accident. He ran into it out there. Didn't have a chance, but it doesn't happen often. He's thinking out loud, Malley whispered, although there was no possibility of the investors hearing them, vocalizing his thoughts. His friend must have been on his mind for some time. Of course, the ambassador went on. Alphen had to die some time. No mortality yet. But that way, no defense. But there in space

they just pop up. Always there, underneath, just waiting for a chance to boil out. he isn't reacting to the hypnotic as a menace yet, Cersie whispered. Well, the ambassador told himself, the regular rising principle has been doing pretty well, keeping it all down, smoothing out the inconsistencies. Suddenly he leaped to his feet,

his face pale for a moment, as he obviously tried to remember what he had said. Then he laughed. Clever! That's the first time that particular trick has been played on me, and the last time, but gentlemen didn't do you any good. And I know myself how to go about killing me.

He laughed at the blank walls. Besides, he continued. The colonizing team must have the direction now. I find you with or without me. He sat down again, smiling. Sir does it, Derek cried. He's not invulnerable. Something killed his friend Alfarn.

Something out. Sir, does it, Derek cried. He's not invulnerable. Something killed his friend Alfarn. Something out in space, Circe reminded him. I wonder what it was. Let me see, Darrague reflected aloud. The regularizing principle.

That must be a natural law we knew nothing about. And underneath. What would be underneath? He said the colonization team would find us anyhow. Raleigh reminded them. First things first, first. Cersie said. He might have been bluffing us.

No, I don't suppose so. We still have to get the ambassador out of the way. I think I know what is underneath, Derek exclaimed. This is wonderful. A new cosmology, perhaps. What is it? "'Surcy asked. "'Anything we can use?'

"'I think so. "'Well, let me work it out. "'I think I'll go back to my hotel. "'I have some books, sir, I want to check. "'I don't want to be disturbed for a few hours.' "'All right,' Circe agreed. "'But what?' "'No, no, I could be wrong,' Darig said.

"'Let me work it out.' "'You harrow it from the room.' "'Well, do you think he's driving it?' Mellie asked. "'Peat's me,' Circe shrugged. "'Come on, let's try some more of that psychological stuff.' "'First, they filled the ambassador's room with several feet of water, not enough to drown him, just enough to make him good and uncomfortable. To this they added the lights. For eight hours, lights flashed in the ambassador's room,

bright lights to pry under his eyelids, dull clashing ones to disturb him. Sound came next, screeches and screams and shrill grating noises, the sound of a man's fingernails being dragged across slate, amplified a thousand times, and strange sucking noises, and shouts and whispers. Then, the smells. Then everything else they could think of. That could drive a man insane. The ambassador slept peacefully through it all.

Now look, Circe said the following day. Let's start using our damned heads. His voice was hoarse and rough. Although the psychological torture hadn't bothered the ambassador, it seemed to have backfired on Circe and his men. Where and how does Derek? Still working on that idea of his, Mally said, rubbing his stubbled chin.

"'Sorsey is just about good at. "'We'll work on the assumption that he can't produce,' "'soce,' she said. Start thinking. "'For example, if the ambassador can turn into anything, "'what is that he can't turn into?' "'Gert Quastrum,' Harrison grunted. "'It's a pay-off question,' So she said. "'No use throwing a spare at a man who can turn into one.'

"'How about this?' Malley asked. "'Taking it for granted he can turn into anything. "'How about putting him in a situation "'where he'll be attacked even after he alters?' "'I'm listening,' Sirce said. "'So he's in danger. "'He turns into the thing threatening him. "'What if that thing were itself being threatened,

"'and in turn was in the act of threatening something else? "'What we'd you do then? "'How are you going to put that into action?' "'Sircy?' he asked. "'Like this,' Raleigh picked up his telephone. "'Hello, give me the Washington Zoo. "'This is urgent.' "'The ambassador turned as the door opened.

"'An unwilling, angry, hungry tiger was propelled then. "'The door slammed shut. The tiger looked at the ambassador. The ambassador looked at the tiger. Most ingenious, the ambassador said. At the sound of his voice, the tiger came unglued. He sprang like a steel spring uncoiling, landing on the floor where the ambassador had been. The door opened again.

Another tiger was pushed in. He snarled angrily and leapt at the first. They smashed together in mid-air. The ambassador appeared a few feet off, watching. He moved back when a lion entered the door, head up, alert. The lion sprang at him, almost going over on his head when he struck nothing. Not finding any human, the lion leaped on one of the tigers. The ambassador reappeared in his chair, where he sat smoking and watching the beasts kill each other. In ten minutes, the room looked

like Labitre. By then the ambassador had tired of the spectacle, and was reclining on his bed, reading. I give up, Malley said. That is my last burn he do. So she stared at the floor, not answering. Harrison was seated in the corner, getting quietly drunk. The telephone wang. Yeah, Circe said. I got it, Darrague's voice shouted over the line. I really think this is it.

Look, I'm taking a cab right down. Tell Harris to find some helpers. What is it? Cursy asked. It's a chaos underneath, Darrag replied and hung up. They paced the floor, waiting for him to show up. Half an hour passed. Then an hour.

Finally three hours after he had called, Derek strolled in. Hello, he said casually. Hello, hell, Susie growled. What kept you? That's a way over, Derek said. I've read the ambassador's philosophy. It's quite a work.

Is that what took you so long? Yes, I had a driver took me around the park a few times while I was reading it. Skip it, how about? I can't skip it. Derek said in a strange, tight voice. I'm afraid we were wrong. About the aliens, I mean. It's perfectly right some properties they should rule us.

As a matter of fact, I'd wish they'd hurry up and get here. But Derek didn't look certain. His voice shook and perspiration poured from his face. He twisted his hands together, as though in agony. It's hard to explain, he said. Everything became clear as soon as I started reading it. I saw how stupid we were, trying to be independent in this interdependent universe. I saw, oh, look, Circy, let's stop all this foolishness and accept the ambassador as our friend.

"'Come down!' "'Certie shouted at the perfectly calm physicist. "'You don't know what you're saying.' "'It's strange,' Darrague said. "'I know how I felt. "'I just don't feel that way anymore, I think. "'Anyhow, I know your trouble. "'You haven't read the philosophy.

"'You'll see what I mean, once you've read it.' "'He handed Circey the pile of papers. "'Sirce promptly ignited them with his cigarette lighter.' "'It doesn't matter,' Darig said. "'I've got it memorized. "'Just listen. "'Xium one. All peoples.

Sersie hit him, a short, clean blow, and Darrague slumped to the floor. His words must be semantically keyed, Malley said, and designed to sit off certain reactions in us, I suppose. All the ambassadors does is also the philosophy to suit the people's he's dealing with. Look, Malley, Sersie said. This is your job now. Derrick knows, I thought he knew the answer. You have to get that out of him.

It wouldn't be easy, Mally said. It'd feel that he was betraying everything he believes him. if he were to tell us, I don't care how you get it, Tracy said. Just get it. Even if it kills him? Mali asked. Even if it kills you.

Let me get him in my lab, Mally said. That night, Circe and Harrison kept watching the ambassador from the control room. Circe found his thoughts were racing in circles. What had killed Alphirn in space? Could it be duplicated on Earth? What was the regularizing principle? What was the chaos underneath? What are I doing here?

He asked himself. But he couldn't start that sort of thing. Where do you figure the ambassador is? He asked Harrison. Is he a man? Looks like one, Harrison said, drowsily. But he doesn't act like one. I wonder if this is his true shape.

Harrison shook his head and lighted his pipe. What is there off him? So he asked. He looks like a man, but he can change into anything else. You can't attack him. He adapts. He's like water, taking the shape of any vessel he's poured into. You can buy a water, Harrison yawned.

Sure, water hasn't any shape, has it, or has it? What's basic? With an effort, Harrison tried to focus on Circe's words. Molecular pattern, Matrix. Matrix, Circe repeated, yawning himself. Patton. Must be something like that. A pattern is abstract, isn't it? Sure, a pattern can be impressed on anything.

What did I say? Let's see, CERC-Sys said. Pattern, Matrix. Everything about the ambassador is capable of change. There must be some unifying force that retains his personality. Something that doesn't change, no matter what contortions he goes through. Like a piece of string, Hans murmured with his eyes closed. Sure, tied in nuts, we have a rope out of it, wide it around your finger, still string.

Yeah. But how'd you attack a pattern? Sirce he asked. Why couldn't you get some sleep? To hell the ambassador in his hordes of calliasts. He was going to close his eyes for a moment. Wake up, Colonel. Sersie pried his eyes open and looked up at Malley.

Besides him, Harrison was snoring deeply. Did he get anything? Nothing, Mally confessed. The philosophy must have had quite an effect on him, but it didn't work all the way. Derek knew that he had wanted to kill the ambassador, and for good and sufficient reasons. Although he felt differently now, he still out at the feeling that he was betraying us. On the one hand, he couldn't hurt the ambassador, and the other he wouldn't hurt us. Why'd he tell anything?

I'm afraid it's not that simple, Malley said. You know, if you have an insurmountable obstacle that must be surmounted, and also I think the philosophy had an injurious effect on his mind. What are you trying to say? Says he got to his feet. I'm sorry, Nellie apologised. There wasn't a damn thing I could do. Derek fought the whole thing out in his mind,

and when he couldn't fight any longer, he retreated. I'm afraid he's hopelessly insane. Let's see him. They walked down the corridor to Malley's laboratory. Derek was relaxed on the couch, his eyes glazed and staring. So any way of curing him, Sersie asked. Shock therapy, maybe. Mally was dubious.

It'll take a long time, and I'll probably block out everything that's had to do with producing this. Circe turned away, feeling sick. Even if Derek could be cured, it would be too late. The aliens must have picked up the ambassador's message by now, and were undoubtedly heading for Earth. What's this? Circe asked, picking up a piece of paper that lay by Derek's hand. Oh, he was doodling, Malley said. Is anything written on it?

Circe read aloud. Upon further consideration, they can see that chaos and the Gog and Medusa are closely related. What does that mean? Mali asked. I don't know, Circe puzzled. He was always interested in folklore. Sounds schizophrenic. the psychiatrist said.

Circe read it aloud. Upon further consideration, I can see that chaos and the garg and Medusa are closely related. He stared at it. Isn't it possible? He asked Malley, as he was trying to give us a clue,

trying to trick himself into giving and not giving at the same time. It's possible, Mali agreed. An unsuccessful compromise, but what could it mean? Chaos. Sertie remembered Darygg's mentioning that word in his telephone call.

That was the original state of the universe in Greek myth, wasn't it? The formlessness, out of which everything came. Something like that, Manny said. A Medusa was one of those three sisters with the horrible faces. Circe stood for a moment, staring at the paper. Chaos, Medusa, and the organizing principle. Of course.

I think! He turned and ran from the room. Mallet looked at him, then loaded a hypodermic and followed. In the control room, Sertie shouted Harrison into consciousness. "'Listen,' he said. "'I want you to build something quick. Do you hear me?' "'Sure,' Harrison blinked and sat up. "'What's the rush?'

"'I know what Darry wanted to tell us,' Circe said. "'Come on, I'll tell you what I want.' "'And Mali put down that hypodermic. "'I haven't cracked. "'I wanted to get me a book on Greek mythology and hurried up.' "'Finding a Greek mythology isn't an easy task at two o'clock in the morning. "'With the aid of FBI men, Mally routed a book-dealer out of bed. "'He got his book and hurried back.

"'Surcy was red-eyed and excited. and Harrison and his helpers were working away at three crazy-looking rigs. Circey snatched the book from Mally, looked up at one item and put it down. Great work, he said. We're all set now. Finished, Harrison? Just about. Harrison and ten helpers were screwing in the last parts.

They tell me what this is? Me too, Mally put in. I don't mean to be secretive, Cersie said. I'm just in a hurry. I'll explain as we go along. He stood up. Okay, let's wake up the ambassador. They watched the screen as a bolt of electricity leapt from the ceiling to the ambassador's bed.

Immediately the ambassador vanished. Now he's part of that stream of electrons, right? Sircy asked. Is that what he told us? But still keeping his pattern within the stream, Circe continued. He has to, in order to get back into his own shape. Now we start the first disruptor. Harrison hooked the machine into circuit and sent his helpers away.

Here's a running graph of the electron stream, Circe said. See the difference? On the graph, there wasn't a regular series of peaks and valleys, constantly shifting and leveling. Do you remember when you hypnotized the ambassador, he talked about his friend who had been killed in space. That's right, Mali nodded. His film had been killed by something that has just popped up. He said something else, Cersie went on. He told us that the basic organizing force of the universe usually stopped things like that.

What does that mean to you? The organizing force, Malley repeated slowly. Didn't Dering say that was a new natural law? He did, but think of the implications as Darryg did. If an organising principle is engaged in some work, there must be something that opposes it. That which opposes organization is chaos. That's what Darrag thought, and what we should have seen. The chaos is underlying, and out of it there arose in organizing principle.

The principle, if I got it right, sought to suppress the fundamental chaos, to make all things regular. But the chaos still boils out in spots, as a offer and found out, perhaps the organizational pattern is weaker in space. Anyhow, those spots are dangerous, until the organizing principle gets to work on them. He turned to the panel. Okay, Harrison, throw in the second disruptor. The peaks and valley is altered on the graph. They started to mount in crazy, meaningless configurations.

Take Darig's message in the light of that. Chaos we know is underlying. Everything was formed out of it. The Gog and Medusa was something that couldn't be looked upon. She turned men into stone, who were required. called destroyed them. So Derek found a relationship between chaos and that which can't be looked upon. Oh, with regard to the ambassador, of course. The ambassador can look upon chaos, Mali cried. That's it. The ambassador is capable of an infinite number of alterations and permutations,

but something, the matrix, can't change, because then there will be nothing left. To destroy something as abstract as a pattern, we need a state in which no pattern is possible, a state of chaos. The third disruptor was thrown into circuit. The graph looked as if a drunken caterpillar had been sketching on it. Those disruptors are Harrison's idea, so she said. I told him I wanted an electrical current with absolutely no coherent pattern. The disruptors on extension of radio jamming. The first otters the electrical pattern.

That's its purpose, to produce a state of patternlessness. The second tries to destroy the pattern left by the first. The third tries to destroy the pattern made by the first two. They're fed back then, and any remaining pattern is systematically destroyed in circuit. I hope. This is supposed to produce a state of chaos? Melly asked, looking into the screen. For a while there was only the whining of the machines, and the crazy doodling of the graph.

Then in the middle of the ambassador's room, a spot appeared. It wavered, shrunk, expanded. What happened was indescribable. All they knew was that everything within the spot had disappeared. Switch it off, so she shouted. it. Harrison cut the switch. The spot continued to grow. How was it if we were able to look at it, Melly asked, staring at the screen. The shield of Perseus, remember? Cursie said. Using it as a mirror, he could look at Medusa. It's still growing, Mali shouted. I was a calculated whisk in all

this, Cersie said. There's always a possibility that the chaos may go on, unchecked. If that happens, it won't matter much what. The spot stopped growing. Its edges wavered. and rippled, and then it started to shrink. The organising principle, Circe said, and collapsed into a chair. Any sign of the ambassador? He asked in a few minutes. The spot was still wavering. Then it was gone.

Instantly there was an explosion. The steel walls buckled inward but held. The screen went dead. The spat removed all the air from the room, Circe explained, as well as the furniture and the ambassador. He couldn't take it, Nellie said. No petting can go here in a state of the room. puddlessness. He's gone to join Alfurn. Nally started to giggle.

Circe felt like joining him, but pulled himself together. Take it easy, he said. We're not through yet. Sure we are. The ambassador is out of the way. But there's still an alien fleet homing in on this region of space. A fleet's so strong we couldn't scratch it with an H-bomb that we're looking for us. He stood up. Go home and get some sleep. Something tells me that tomorrow we're going to have to start figuring out some way of camouflaging a planet. End of Story 13. End of Battles for the Stars.

In Space. Ed Reed short sci-fi, volume three.