Author: Isaac Asimov
Date: 2025-10-05T16:47:09+00:00
Keywords: Science fiction; Short stories
Description: A collection of short science fiction by Isaac Asimov, ordered by date of original publication.
Publisher: Standard Ebooks

Short Science Fiction

By Isaac Asimov.

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The Magnificent Possession

Walter Sills reflected now, as he had reflected often before, that life was hard and joyless. He surveyed his dingy chemical laboratory and grinned cynically—working in a dirty hole of a place, living on occasional ore analyses that barely paid for absolutely indispensable equipment, while others, not half his worth perhaps, were working for big industrial concerns and taking life easy.

He looked out the window at the Hudson River, ruddied in the flame of the dying sun, and wondered moodily whether these last experiments would finally bring him the fame and success he was after, or if they were merely some more false alarms.

The unlocked door creaked open a crack and the cheerful face of Eugene Taylor burst into view. Sills waved and Taylor’s body followed his head and entered the laboratory.

“Hello, old soak,” came the loud and carefree hail. “How go things?”

Sills shook his head at the other’s exuberance. “I wish I had your foolish outlook on life, Gene. For your information, things are bad. I need money, and the more I need it, the less I have.”

“Well, I haven’t any money either, have I?” demanded Taylor. “But why worry about it? You’re fifty, and worry hasn’t got you anything except a bald head. I’m thirty, and I want to keep my beautiful brown hair.”

The chemist grinned. “I’ll get my money, yet, Gene. Just leave it to me.”

“Your new ideas shaping out well?”

“Are they? I haven’t told you much about it, have I? Well, come here and I’ll show you what progress I’ve made.”

Taylor followed Sills to a small table, on which stood a rack of test-tubes, in one of which was about half an inch of a shiny metallic substance.

“Sodium-mercury mixture, or sodium amalgam, as it is called,” explained Sills, pointing to it.

He took a bottle labeled “Ammonium Chloride Sol.” from the shelf and poured a little into the tube. Immediately the sodium amalgam began changing into a loosely-packed, spongy substance.

“That,” observed Sills, “is ammonium amalgam. The ammonium radical (NH_4) acts as a metal here and combines with mercury.” He waited for the action to go to completion and then poured off the supernatant liquid.

“Ammonium amalgam isn’t very stable,” he informed Taylor, “so I’ll have to work fast.” He grasped a flask of straw-colored, pleasant-smelling liquid and filled the test-tube with it. Upon shaking, the loosely-packed ammonium amalgam vanished and in its stead a small drop of metallic liquid rolled about the bottom.

Taylor gazed at the test-tube, open-mouthed. “What happened?”

“This liquid is a complex derivative of Hydrazine which I’ve discovered and named Ammonaline. I haven’t worked out its formula yet, but that doesn’t matter. The point about it is that it has the property of dissolving the ammonium out of the amalgam. Those few drops at the bottom are pure mercury; the ammonium is in solution.”

Taylor remained unresponsive and Sills waxed enthusiastic. “Don’t you see the implications? I’ve gone halfway towards isolating pure ammonium, a thing which has never been done before! Once accomplished it means fame, success, the Nobel Prize, and who knows what else.”

“Wow!” Taylor’s gaze became more respectful. “That yellow stuff doesn’t look so important to me.” He snatched for it, but Sills withheld it.

“I haven’t finished by any means, Gene. I’ve got to get it in its free metallic state, and I can’t do that so far. Every time I try to evaporate the Ammonaline, the ammonium breaks down to everlasting ammonia and hydrogen. … But I’ll get it—I’ll get it!”

Two weeks later, the epilogue to the previous scene was enacted. Taylor received a hurried and emphatic call from his chemist friend and appeared at the laboratory in a flurry of anticipation.

“You’ve got it?”

“I’ve got it—and it’s bigger than I thought! There’s millions in it, really,” Sills’ eyes shone with rapture.

“I’ve been working from the wrong angle up to now,” he explained. “Heating the solvent always broke down the dissolved ammonium, so I separated it out by freezing. It works the same way as brine, which, when frozen slowly, freezes into fresh ice, the salt crystallizing out. Luckily, the Ammonaline freezes at 18 degrees Centigrade and doesn’t require much cooling.”

He pointed dramatically to a small beaker, inside a glass-walled case. The beaker contained pale, straw-colored, needle-like crystals and covering the top of this, a thin layer of a dullish, yellow substance.

“Why the case?” asked Taylor.

“I’ve got it filled with argon to keep the ammonium (which is the yellow substance on top of the Ammonaline) pure. It is so active that it will react with anything else but a helium-type gas.”

Taylor marveled and pounded his complacently-smiling friend on the back.

“Wait, Gene, the best is yet to come.”

Taylor was led to the other end of the room and Sills’ trembling finger pointed out another airtight case containing a lump of metal of a gleaming yellow that sparkled and glistened.

“That, my friend, is ammonium oxide (NH4_2O), formed by passing absolutely dry air over free ammonium metal. It is perfectly inert (the sealed case contains quite a bit of chlorine, for instance, and yet there is no reaction). It can be made as cheaply as aluminum, if not more so, and yet it looks more like gold than gold does itself. Do you see the possibilities?”

“Do I?” exploded Taylor. “It will sweep the country. You can have ammonium jewelry, and ammonium-plated tableware, and a million other things. Then again, who knows how many countless industrial applications it may have? You’re rich, Walt—you’re rich!”

“We’re rich,” corrected Sills gently. He moved towards the telephone. “The newspapers are going to hear of this. I’m going to begin to cash in on fame right now.”

Taylor frowned, “Maybe you’d better keep it a secret, Walt.”

“Oh, I’m not breathing a hint as to the process. I’ll just give them the general idea. Besides, we’re safe; the patent application is in Washington right now.”

But Sills was wrong! The article in the paper ushered in a very, very hectic two days for the two of them.

J. Throgmorton Bankhead is what is commonly known as a “captain of industry.” As head of the Acme Chromium and Silver Plating Corporation, he no doubt deserved the title; but to his patient and long-suffering wife, he was merely a dyspeptic and grouchy husband, especially at the breakfast table … and he was at the breakfast table now.

Rustling his morning paper angrily, he sputtered between bites of buttered toast, “This man is ruining the country.” He pointed aghast at big, black headlines. “I said before and I’ll say again that the man is as crazy as a bedbug. He won’t be satisfied. …”

“Joseph, please,” pleaded his wife, “you’re getting purple in the face. Remember your high blood pressure. You know the doctor told you to stop reading the news from Washington if it annoys you so. Now, listen dear, about the cook. She’s. …”

“The doctor’s a damn fool, and so are you,” shouted J. Throgmorton Bankhead. “I’ll read all the news I please and get purple in the face too, if I want to.”

He raised the cup of coffee to his mouth and took a critical sip. While he did so, his eyes fell upon a more insignificant headline towards the bottom of the page: “Savant Discovers Gold Substitute.”

The coffee cup remained in the air while he scanned the article quickly. “This new metal,” it ran in part, “is claimed by its discoverer to be far superior to chromium, nickel, or silver for plating purposes, besides being ideal material for cheap and beautiful jewelry. ‘The twenty-dollar-a-week clerk,’ said Professor Sills, ‘will eat off ammonium plate more impressive in appearance than the gold plate of the Indian Nabob.’ There is no. …”

But J. Throgmorton Bankhead had stopped reading. Visions of a ruined Acme Chromium and Silver Plating Corporation danced before his eyes; and as they danced, the cup of coffee dropped from his hand, and splashed hot liquid over his trousers.

His wife rose to her feet in alarm, “What is it, Joseph; what is it?”

“Nothing,” Bankhead shouted. “Nothing. For God’s sake, go away, will you?”

He strode angrily out of the room, leaving his wife to search the paper in vain for anything that could have disturbed him.

“Bob’s Tavern” on Fifteenth Street is usually pretty well filled at all times, but on the morning we are speaking of, it was empty except for four or five rather poorly-dressed men, who clustered about the portly and dignified form of Peter Q. Hornswoggle, eminent ex-Congressman.

Peter Q. Hornswoggle was, as usual, speaking fluently. His subject, again, as usual, concerned the life of a Congressman.

“I remember a case in point,” he was saying, “when that same argument was brought up in the house, and which I answered as follows: ‘The eminent gentleman from Nevada in his statements overlooks one very important aspect of the problem. He does not realize that it is to the interest of the entire nation that the apple-parers of this country be attended to promptly; for, gentlemen, on the welfare of the apple-parers depends the future of the entire fruit industry and on the fruit-industry is based the entire economy of this great and glorious nation, the United States of America.’ ”

Hornswoggle paused, swallowed half a pint of beer at once, and then smiled in triumph, “I have no hesitation in saying, gentlemen, that at that statement, the entire House burst into wild and tumultuous applause.”

One of the assembled listeners shook his head slowly and marveled. “It must be great to be able to spiel like that, Senator. You musta been a sensation.”

“Yeah,” agreed the bartender, “it’s a dirty shame you were beat last election.”

The ex-Congressman winced and in a very dignified tone began, “I have been reliably informed that the use of bribery in that campaign reached unprecedented prop. …” His voice died away suddenly as he caught sight of a certain article in the newspaper of one of his listeners. He snatched at it and read it through in silence and thereupon his eyes gleamed with a sudden idea.

“My friends,” he said turning to them again, “I find I must leave you. There is pressing work that must be done immediately at City Hall.” He leant over to whisper to the barkeeper, “You haven’t got twenty-five cents, have you? I find I left my wallet in the Mayor’s office by mistake. I will surely repay you tomorrow.”

Clutching the quarter, reluctantly given, Peter Q. Hornswoggle left.

In a small and dimly lit room somewhere in the lower reaches of First Avenue, Michael Maguire, known to the police by the far more euphonious name of Mike the Slug, cleaned his trusty revolver and hummed a tuneless song. The door opened a crack and Mike looked up.

“That you, Slappy?”

“Yeh,” a short, wizened person sidled in, “I brung ya de evenin’ sheet. De cops are still tinkin’ Bragoni pulled de job.”

“Yeh? That’s good.” He bent unconcernedly over the revolver. “Anything else doing?”

“Naw! Some dippy dame killed herself, but dat’s all.”

He tossed the newspaper to Mike and left. Mike leaned back and flipped the pages in a bored manner.

A headline attracted his eye and he read the short article that followed. Having finished, he threw aside the paper, lit a cigarette, and did some heavy thinking. Then he opened the door.

“Hey, Slappy, c’mere. There’s a job that’s got to be done.”

A Night of Trouble

Walter Sills was happy, deliriously so. He walked about his laboratory king of all he surveyed, strutting like a peacock, basking in his newfound glory. Eugene Taylor sat and watched him, scarcely less happy himself.

“How does it feel to be famous?” Taylor wanted to know.

“Like a million dollars; and that’s what I’m going to sell the secret of ammonium metal for. It’s the fat of the land for me from now on.”

“You leave the practical details to me, Walt. I’m getting in touch with Staples of Eagle Steel today. You’ll get a decent price from him.”

The bell rang, and Sills jumped. He ran to open the door.

“Is this the home of Walter Sills?” The large, scowling visitor gazed about him superciliously.

“Yes, I’m Sills. Do you wish to see me?”

“Yes. My name is J. Throgmorton Bankhead and I represent the Acme Chromium and Silver Plating Corporation. I would like to have a moment’s discussion with you.”

“Come right in. Come right in! This is Eugene Taylor, my associate. You may speak freely before him.”

“Very well,” Bankhead seated himself heavily. “I suppose you surmise the reason for my visit.”

“I take it that you have read of the new ammonium metal in the papers.”

“That’s right. I have come to see whether there is any truth in the story and to buy your process if there is.”

“You can see for yourself, sir,” Sills led the magnate to where the argon-filled container of the few grams of pure ammonium were. “That is the metal. Over here to the right, I’ve got the oxide, an oxide which is more metallic than the metal itself, strangely enough. It is the oxide that is what the papers call ‘substitute gold.’ ”

Bankhead’s face showed not an atom of the sinking feeling within him as he viewed the oxide with dismay. “Take it out in the open,” he said, “and let’s see it.”

Sills shook his head. “I can’t, Mr. Bankhead. Those are the first samples of ammonium and ammonium oxide that ever existed. They’re museum pieces. I can easily make more for you, if you wish.”

“You’ll have to, if you expect me to sink my money in it. You satisfy me and I’ll be willing to buy your patent for as much as—oh, say a thousand dollars.”

“A thousand dollars!” exclaimed Sills and Taylor together.

“A very fair price, gentlemen.”

“A million would be more like it,” shouted Taylor in an outraged tone. “This discovery is a goldmine.”

“A million, indeed! You are dreaming, gentlemen. The fact of the matter is that my company has been on the track of ammonium for years now, and we are just at the point of solving the problem. Unfortunately you beat us by a week or so, and so I wish to buy up your patent in order to save my company a great deal of annoyance. You realize, of course, that if you refuse my price, I could just go ahead and manufacture the metal, using my own process.”

“We’ll sue if you do,” said Taylor.

“Have you got the money for a long, protracted—and expensive—lawsuit?” Bankhead smiled nastily. “I have, you know. To prove, however, that I am not unreasonable, I will make the price two thousand.”

“You’ve heard our price,” answered Taylor stonily, “and we have nothing further to say.”

“All right, gentlemen,” Bankhead walked towards the door, “think it over. You’ll see it my way, I’m sure.”

He opened the door and revealed the symmetrical form of Peter Q. Hornswoggle bent in rapt concentration at the keyhole. Bankhead sneered audibly and the ex-Congressman jumped to his feet in consternation, bowing rapidly two or three times, for want of anything better to do.

The financier passed by disdainfully and Hornswoggle entered, slammed the door behind him, and faced the two bewildered friends.

“That man, my dear sirs, is a malefactor of great wealth, an economic royalist. He is the type of predatory interest that is the ruination of this country. You did quite right in refusing his offer.” He placed his hand on his ample chest and smiled at them benignantly.

“Who the devil are you?” rasped Taylor, suddenly recovering from his initial surprise.

“I?” Hornswoggle was taken aback. “Why—er—I am Peter Quintus Hornswoggle. Surely, you know me. I was in the House of Representatives last year.”

“Never heard of you. What do you want?”

“Why, bless me! I read in the papers of your wonderful discovery and have come to place my services at your feet.”

“What services?”

“Well, after all, you two are not men of the world. With your new invention, you are prey for every self-seeking unscrupulous person that comes along—like Bankhead, for instance. Now, a practical man of affairs, such as I, one with experience of the world, would be of inestimable use to you. I could handle your affairs, attend to details, see that—”

“All for nothing, of course, eh?” Taylor asked, sardonically.

Hornswoggle coughed convulsively. “Well, naturally, I thought that a small interest in your discovery might fittingly be assigned to me.”

Sills, who had remained silent during all this, rose to his feet suddenly. “Get out of here! Did you hear me? Get out, before I call the police.”

“Now, Professor Sills, pray don’t get excited,” Hornswoggle retreated uneasily towards the door which Taylor held open for him. He passed out still protesting, and swore softly to himself when the door slammed in his face.

Sills sank wearily into the nearest chair. “What are we to do, Gene? He offers only two thousand. A week ago that would have been beyond anything I could have hoped for, but now—”

“Forget it. The fellow was only bluffing. Listen, I’m going right now to call on Staples. We’ll sell to him for what we can get (it ought to be plenty) and then if there’s any trouble with Bankhead—well, that’s Staples’ worry.” He patted the other on the shoulder. “Our troubles are practically over.”

Unfortunately, however, Taylor was wrong; their troubles were only beginning.

Across the street, a furtive figure, with beady eyes peering from upturned coat collar, surveyed the house carefully. A curious policeman might have identified him as “Slappy” Egan, if he had bothered to look, but no one did and “Slappy” remained unmolested.

“Cripes,” he muttered to himself, “dis is gonna be a cinch. De whole woiks on the bottom floor, back window can be jimmied wid a toot’pick, no alarms, no nuttin.” He chuckled and walked away.

Nor was “Slappy” alone with his ideas. Peter Q. Hornswoggle, as he walked away, found strange thoughts wandering through his massive cranium—thoughts which involved a certain amount of unorthodox action.

And J. Throgmorton Bankhead was likewise active. Belonging to that virile class known as “go-getters” and being not at all scrupulous as to how he “go-got,” and certainly not intending to pay a million dollars for the secret of ammonium, he found it necessary to call on a certain one of his acquaintances.

This acquaintance, while a very useful one, was a bit unsavory, and Bankhead found it advisable to be very careful and cautious while visiting him. However, the conversation that ensued ended in a pleasing manner for both of them.

Walter Sills snapped out of an uneasy sleep with startled suddenness. He listened anxiously for a while and then leaned over and nudged Taylor. He was rewarded by a few incoherent snuffles.

“Gene, Gene, wake up! Come on, get up!”

“Eh? What is it? What are you bothering—”

“Shut up! Listen, do you hear it?”

“I don’t hear anything. Leave me alone, will you?”

Sills put his finger on his lips, and the other quieted. There was a distinct shuffling noise down below, in the laboratory.

Taylor’s eyes widened and sleep left them entirely. “Burglars!” he whispered.

The two crept out of bed, donned bathrobe and slippers, and tiptoed to the door. Taylor had a revolver and took the lead in descending the stairs.

They had traversed perhaps half the flight, when there was a sudden, surprised shout from below, followed by a series of loud, threshing noises. This continued for a few moments and then there was a loud crash of glassware.

“My ammonium!” cried Sills in a stricken voice and rushed headlong down the stairs, evading Taylor’s clutching arms.

The chemist burst into the laboratory, followed closely by his cursing associate, and clicked the lights on. Two struggling figures blinked owlishly in the sudden illumination, and separated.

Taylor’s gun covered them. “Well, isn’t this nice,” he said.

One of the two lurched to his feet from amid a tangle of broken beakers and flasks, and, nursing a cut on his wrist, bent his portly body in a still dignified bow. It was Peter Q. Hornswoggle.

“No doubt,” he said, eyeing the unwavering firearm nervously, “the circumstances seem suspicious, but I can explain very easily. You see, in spite of the very rough treatment I received after having made my reasonable proposal, I still felt a great deal of kindly interest in you two.

“Therefore, being a man of the world, and knowing the iniquities of mankind, I just decided to keep an eye on your house tonight, for I saw you had neglected to take precautions against housebreakers. Judge my surprise to see this dastardly creature,” he pointed to the flat-nosed, plug-ugly, who still remained on the floor in a daze, “creeping in at the back window.

“Immediately, I risked life and limb in following the criminal, attempting desperately to save your great discovery. I really feel I deserve great credit for what I have done. I’m sure you will feel that I am a valuable person to deal with and reconsider your answers to my earlier proposals.”

Taylor listened to all this with a cynical smile. “You can certainly lie fluently, can’t you, P. Q.?”

He would have continued at greater length and with greater forcefulness had not the other burglar suddenly raised his voice in loud protest. “Cripes, boss, dis fat slob here is only tryin’ to get me in bad. I’m just followin’ orders, boss. A fellow hired me to come in here and rifle the safe and I’m just oinin’ a bit o’ honest money. Just plain safe-crackin’, boss, I ain’t out to hurt no one.

“Den, just as I was gettin’ down to de job—warmin’ up, so to say—in crawls dis little guy wid a chisel and blowtorch and makes for de safe. Well, natur’lly, I don’t like no competition, so I lays for him and then—”

But Hornswoggle had drawn himself up in icy hauteur. “It remains to be seen whether the word of a gangster is to be taken before the word of one, who, I may truthfully say, was, in his time, one of the most eminent members of the great—”

“Quiet, both of you,” shouted Taylor, waving the gun threateningly. “I’m calling the police and you can annoy them with your stories. Say, Walt, is everything all right?”

“I think so!” Sills returned from his inspection of the laboratory. “They only knocked over empty glassware. Everything else is unharmed.”

“That’s good,” Taylor began, and then choked in dismay.

From the hallway, a cool individual, hat drawn well over his eyes, entered. A revolver, expertly handled, changed the situation considerably.

“OK,” he grunted at Taylor, “drop the gat!” The other’s weapon slipped from reluctant fingers and hit the floor with a clank.

The new menace surveyed the four others with a sardonic glance. “Well! So there were two others trying to beat me to it. This seems to be a very popular place.”

Sills and Taylor stared stupidly, while Hornswoggle’s teeth chattered energetically. The first mobster moved back uneasily, muttering as he did so, “For Pete’s sake, it’s Mike the Slug.”

“Yeah,” Mike rasped, “Mike the Slug. There’s lots of guys who know me and who know I ain’t afraid to pull the trigger anytime I feel like. Come on, Baldy, hand over the works. You know—the stuff about your fake gold. Come on, before I count five.”

Sills moved slowly toward the old safe in the corner. Mike stepped back carelessly to give him room, and in so doing, his coat sleeve brushed against a shelf. A small vial of sodium sulphate solution tottered and fell.

With sudden inspiration, Sills yelled, “My God, watch out! It’s nitroglycerine!”

The vial hit the floor with the smashing tinkle of broken glass, and involuntarily, Mike yelled and jumped in wild dismay. And as he did so, Taylor crashed into him with a beautiful flying tackle. At the same time, Sills lunged for Taylor’s fallen weapon to cover the other two. For this, however, there was no longer need. At the very beginning of the confusion, both had faded hurriedly into the night from whence they came.

Taylor and Mike the Slug rolled round and round the laboratory floor, locked in desperate struggle while Sills hopped over and about them, praying for a moment of comparative quiet that he might bring the revolver into sharp and sudden contact with the gangster’s skull.

But no such moment came. Suddenly Mike lunged, caught Taylor stunningly under the chin, and jerked free. Sills yelled in consternation and pulled the trigger at the fleeing figure. The shot was wild and Mike escaped unharmed. Sills made no attempt to follow.

A sluicing stream of cold water brought Taylor back to his senses. He shook his head dazedly as he surveyed the surrounding shambles.

“Whew!” he said, “What a night!”

Sills groaned, “What are we going to do now, Gene? Our very lives are in danger. I never thought of the possibility of thieves, or I would never have told of the discovery to the newspapers.”

“Oh well, the harm’s done; no use weeping over it. Now listen, the first thing we have to do now is to get back to sleep. They won’t bother us again tonight. Tomorrow, you’ll go to the bank and put the papers outlining the details of the process in the vault (which you should have done long ago). Staples will be here at 3 p.m.; we’ll close the deal, and then, at last, we’ll live happily ever after.”

The chemist shook his head dolefully. “Ammonium has certainly proved to be very upsetting so far. I almost wish I had never heard of it. I’d almost rather be back doing ore analysis.”

An Unexpected Surprise!

As Walter Sills rattled crosstown towards his bank, he found no reason to change his wish. Even the comforting and homely jiggling of his ancient and battered automobile failed to cheer him. From a life characterized by peaceful monotony, he had entered a period of bedlam, and he was not at all satisfied with the change.

“Riches, like poverty, has its own peculiar problems,” he remarked sententiously to himself as he braked the car before the two-story, marble edifice that was the bank. He stepped out carefully, stretched his cramped legs, and headed for the revolving door.

He didn’t get there right away, though. Two husky specimens of the human race stepped up, one at each side, and Sills felt a very hard object pressing with painful intensity against his ribs. He opened his mouth involuntarily, and was rewarded by an icy voice in his ears, “Quiet, Baldy, or you’ll get what you deserve for the damn trick you pulled on me last night.”

Sills shivered and subsided. He recognized Mike the Slug’s voice very easily.

“Where’s the details?” asked Mike, “and make it quick.”

“Inside jacket pocket,” croaked Sills tremulously.

Mike’s companion passed his hand dexterously into the indicated pocket and flicked out three or four folded sheets of foolscap.

“Dat it, Mike?”

A hasty appraisal and a nod, “Yeh, we got it. All right. Baldy, on your way!” A sudden shove and the two gangsters jumped into their car and drove away rapidly, while the chemist sprawled on the sidewalk. Kindly hands raised him up.

“It’s all right,” he managed to gasp. “I just tripped, that’s all. I’m not hurt.” He found himself alone again, passed into the bank, and dropped into the nearest bench, in near-collapse. There was no doubt about it; the new life was not for him.

But he should have been prepared for it. Taylor had foreseen a possibility of this sort of thing happening. He, himself, had thought a car had been trailing him. Yet, in his surprise and fright, he had almost ruined everything.

He shrugged his thin shoulders and, taking off his hat, abstracted a few folded sheets of paper from the sweatband. It was the work of five minutes to deposit them in a vault, and see the immensely strong steel door swing shut. He felt relieved.

“I wonder what they’ll do,” he muttered to himself on the way home, “when they try to follow the instructions on the paper they did get.” He pursed his lips and shook his head. “If they do, there’s going to be one heck of an explosion.”

Sills arrived home to find three policemen pacing leisurely up and down the sidewalk in front of the house.

“Police guard,” explained Taylor shortly, “so that we have no more trouble like last night.”

The chemist related the events at the bank and Taylor nodded grimly. “Well, it’s checkmate for them now. Staples will be here in two hours and until then, the police will take care of things. Afterwards,” he shrugged, “it will be Staples’ affair.”

“Listen, Gene,” the chemist put in suddenly, “I’m worried about the ammonium. I haven’t tested its plating abilities and those are the most important things, you know. What if Staples comes, and we find that all we have is pigeon milk.”

“Hmm,” Taylor stroked his chin, “you’re right there. But I’ll tell you what we can do. Before Staples comes, let’s plate something—a spoon, suppose—for our own satisfaction.”

“It’s really very annoying,” Sills complained fretfully. “If it weren’t for these troublesome hooligans, we wouldn’t have to proceed in this slipshod and unscientific manner.”

“Well, let’s eat dinner first.”

After the midday meal, they began. The apparatus was set up in feverish haste. In a cubic vat, a foot each way, a saturated solution of Ammonaline was poured. An old, battered spoon was the cathode and a mass of ammonium amalgam (separated from the rest of the solution by a perforated glass partition) was the anode. Three batteries in series provided the current.

Sills explained animatedly, “It works on the same principle as ordinary copper plating. The ammonium ion, once the electric current is run through, is attracted to the cathode, which is the spoon. Ordinarily it would break up, being unstable, but this is not the case when it is dissolved in Ammonaline. This Ammonaline is itself very slightly ionized and oxygen is given off at the anode.

“This much I know from theory. Let us see what happens in practice.”

He closed the key while Taylor watched with breathless interest. For a moment, no effect was visible. Taylor looked disappointed.

Then Sills grasped his sleeve. “See!” he hissed. “Watch the anode!”

Sure enough, bubbles of gas were slowly forming upon the spongy ammonium amalgam. They shifted their attention to the spoon.

Gradually, they noticed a change. The metallic appearance became dulled, the silver color slowly losing its whiteness. A layer of distinct, if dull, yellow was being built up. For fifteen minutes, the current ran and then Sills broke the circuit with a contented sigh.

“It plates perfectly,” he said.

“Good! Take it out! Let’s see it!”

“What?” Sills was aghast. “Take it out! Why, that’s pure ammonium. If I were to expose it to ordinary air, the water vapor would dissolve it to NH_4OH in no time. We can’t do that.”

He dragged a rather bulky piece of apparatus to the table. “This,” he said, “is a compressed-air container. I run it through calcium chloride dryers and then bubble the perfectly dry oxygen (safely diluted with four times its own volume of nitrogen) directly into the solvent.”

He introduced the nozzle into the solution just beneath the spoon and turned on a slow stream of air. It worked like magic. With almost lightning speed, the yellow coating began to glitter and gleam, to shine with almost ethereal beauty.

The two men watched it with beating heart and panting breath. Sills shut the air off, and for a while they watched the wonderful spoon and said nothing.

Then Taylor whispered hoarsely, “Take it out. Let me feel it! My God!—it’s beautiful!”

With reverent awe, Sills approached the spoon, grasped it with forceps, and withdrew it from the surrounding liquid.

What followed immediately after that can never be fully described. Later on, when excited newspaper reporters pressed them unmercifully, neither Taylor nor Sills had the least recollection of the happenings of the next few minutes.

What happened was that the moment the ammonium-plated spoon was exposed to open air, the most horrible odor ever conceived assailed their nostrils!—an odor that cannot be described, a terrible broth of Hell that plunged the room into sheer, horrible nightmare.

With one strangled gasp, Sills dropped the spoon. Both were coughing and retching, tearing wildly at their throats and mouths, yelling, weeping, sneezing!

Taylor pounced upon the spoon and looked about wildly. The odor grew steadily more powerful and their wild exertions to escape it had already succeeded in wrecking the laboratory and had upset the vat of Ammonaline. There was only one thing to do, and Sills did it. The spoon went flying out the open window into the middle of Twelfth Avenue. It hit the sidewalk right at the feet of one of the policemen, but Taylor didn’t care.

“Take off your clothes. We’ll have to burn them,” Sills was gasping. “Then spray something over the laboratory—anything with a strong smell. Burn sulphur. Get some liquid bromine.”

Both were tearing at their clothes in distraction when they realized that someone had walked in through the unlocked door. The bell had rung, but neither had heard it. It was Staples, six-foot, lion-maned Steel King.

One step into the hall ruined his dignity utterly. He collapsed in one tearing sob and Twelfth Avenue was treated to the spectacle of an elderly, richly-dressed gentleman tearing uptown as fast as his feet would carry him, shedding as much of his clothes as he dared while doing so.

The spoon continued its deadly work. The three policemen had long since retired in abject rout, and now to the numbed and tortured senses of the two innocent and suffering causes of the entire mess came a roaring and confused shouting from the street.

Men and women were pouring out of the neighboring houses, horses were bolting. Fire engines clanged down the street, only to be abandoned by their riders. Squadrons of police came—and left.

Sills and Taylor finally gave up, and clad only in trousers, ran pell-mell for the Hudson. They did not stop until they found themselves neck-deep in water, with blessed, pure air above them.

Taylor turned bewildered eyes to Sills. “But how could it emit that horrible odor? You said it was stable and stable solids have no odors. It takes vapor for that, doesn’t it?”

“Have you ever smelled musk?” groaned Sills. “It will give off an aroma for an indefinite period without losing any appreciable weight. We’ve come up against something like that.”

The two ruminated in silence for a while, wincing whenever the wind brought a vagrant waft of ammonium vapor to them, and then Taylor said in a low voice, “When they finally trace the trouble to the spoon, and find out who made it, I’m afraid we’ll be sued—or maybe thrown in jail.”

Sills’ face lengthened. “I wish I’d never seen the damned stuff! It’s brought nothing but trouble.” His tortured spirit gave way and he sobbed loudly.

Taylor patted him on the back mournfully. “It’s not as bad as all that, of course. The discovery will make you famous and you’ll be able to demand your own price, working at any industrial lab in the country. Then, too, you’re a cinch to win the Nobel Prize.”

“That’s right,” Sills smiled again, “and I may find a way to counteract the odor, too. I hope so.”

“I hope so, too,” said Taylor feelingly. “Let’s go back. I think they’ve managed to remove the spoon by now.”

Youth

I

There was a spatter of pebbles against the window and the youngster stirred in his sleep. Another, and he was awake.

He sat up stiffly in bed. Seconds passed while he interpreted his strange surroundings. He wasn’t in his own home, of course. This was out in the country. It was colder than it should be and there was green at the window.

“Slim!”

The call was a hoarse, urgent whisper, and the youngster bounded to the open window.

Slim wasn’t his real name, but the new friend he had met the day before had needed only one look at his slight figure to say, “You’re Slim.” He added, “I’m Red.”

Red wasn’t his real name, either, but its appropriateness was obvious. They were friends instantly with the quick unquestioning friendship of young ones not yet quite in adolescence, before even the first stains of adulthood began to make their appearance.

Slim cried, “Hi, Red!” and waved cheerfully, still blinking the sleep out of himself.

Red kept to his croaking whisper, “Quiet! You want to wake somebody?”

Slim noticed all at once that the sun scarcely topped the low hills in the east, that the shadows were long and soft, and that the grass was wet.

Slim said, more softly, “What’s the matter?”

Red only waved for him to come out.

Slim dressed quickly, gladly confining his morning wash to the momentary sprinkle of a little lukewarm water. He let the air dry the exposed portions of his body as he ran out, while bare skin grew wet against the dewy grass.

Red said, “You’ve got to be quiet. If Mom wakes up or Dad or your Dad or even any of the hands then it’ll be ‘Come on in or you’ll catch your death of cold.’ ”

He mimicked voice and tone faithfully, so that Slim laughed and thought that there had never been so funny a fellow as Red.

Slim said, eagerly, “Do you come out here every day like this, Red? Real early? It’s like the whole world is just yours, isn’t it, Red? No one else around and all like that.” He felt proud at being allowed entrance into this private world.

Red stared at him sidelong. He said carelessly, “I’ve been up for hours. Didn’t you hear it last night?”

“Hear what?”

“Thunder.”

“Was there a thunderstorm?” Slim never slept through a thunderstorm.

“I guess not. But there was thunder. I heard it, and then I went to the window and it wasn’t raining. It was all stars and the sky was just getting sort of almost gray. You know what I mean?”

Slim had never seen it so, but he nodded.

“So I just thought I’d go out,” said Red.

They walked along the grassy side of the concrete road that split the panorama right down the middle all the way down to where it vanished among the hills. It was so old that Red’s father couldn’t tell Red when it had been built. It didn’t have a crack or a rough spot in it.

Red said, “Can you keep a secret?”

“Sure, Red. What kind of a secret?”

“Just a secret. Maybe I’ll tell you and maybe I won’t. I don’t know yet.” Red broke a long, supple stem from a fern they passed, methodically stripped it of its leaflets and swung what was left whip-fashion. For a moment, he was on a wild charger, which reared and champed under his iron control. Then he got tired, tossed the whip aside and stowed the charger away in a corner of his imagination for future use.

He said, “There’ll be a circus around.”

Slim said, “That’s no secret. I knew that. My Dad told me even before we came here—”

“That’s not the secret. Fine secret! Ever see a circus?”

“Oh, sure. You bet.”

“Like it?”

“Say, there isn’t anything I like better.”

Red was watching out of the corner of his eyes again. “Ever think you would like to be with a circus? I mean, for good?”

Slim considered, “I guess not. I think I’ll be an astronomer like my Dad. I think he wants me to be.”

“Huh! Astronomer!” said Red.

Slim felt the doors of the new, private world closing on him and astronomy became a thing of dead stars and black, empty space.

He said, placatingly, “A circus would be more fun.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“No, I’m not. I mean it.”

Red grew argumentative. “Suppose you had a chance to join the circus right now. What would you do?”

“I—I—”

“See!” Red affected scornful laughter.

Slim was stung. “I’d join up.”

“Go on.”

“Try me.”

Red whirled at him, strange and intense. “You meant that? You want to go in with me?”

“What do you mean?” Slim stepped back a bit, surprised by the unexpected challenge.

“I got something that can get us into the circus. Maybe someday we can even have a circus of our own. We could be the biggest circus-fellows in the world. That’s if you want to go in with me. Otherwise—Well, I guess I can do it on my own. I just thought: Let’s give good old Slim a chance.”

The world was strange and glamorous, and Slim said, “Sure thing, Red. I’m in! What is it, huh, Red? Tell me what it is.”

“Figure it out. What’s the most important thing in circuses?”

Slim thought desperately. He wanted to give the right answer. Finally, he said, “Acrobats?”

“Holy Smokes! I wouldn’t go five steps to look at acrobats.”

“I don’t know then.”

“Animals, that’s what! What’s the best sideshow? Where are the biggest crowds? Even in the main rings the best acts are animal acts.” There was no doubt in Red’s voice.

“Do you think so?”

“Everyone thinks so. You ask anyone. Anyway, I found animals this morning. Two of them.”

“And you’ve got them?”

“Sure. That’s the secret. Are you telling?”

“Of course not.”

“Okay. I’ve got them in the barn. Do you want to see them?”

They were almost at the barn; its huge open door black. Too black. They had been heading there all the time. Slim stopped in his tracks.

He tried to make his words casual. “Are they big?”

“Would I fool with them if they were big? They can’t hurt you. They’re only about so long. I’ve got them in a cage.”

They were in the barn now and Slim saw the large cage suspended from a hook in the roof. It was covered with stiff canvas.

Red said, “We used to have some bird there or something. Anyway, they can’t get away from there. Come on, let’s go up to the loft.”

They clambered up the wooden stairs and Red hooked the cage toward them.

Slim pointed and said, “There’s sort of a hole in the canvas.”

Red frowned. “How’d that get there?” He lifted the canvas, looked in, and said, with relief, “They’re still there.”

“The canvas appeared to be burned,” worried Slim.

“You want to look, or don’t you?”

Slim nodded slowly. He wasn’t sure he wanted to, after all. They might be—

But the canvas had been jerked off and there they were. Two of them, the way Red said. They were small, and sort of disgusting-looking. The animals moved quickly as the canvas lifted and were on the side toward the youngsters. Red poked a cautious finger at them.

“Watch out,” said Slim, in agony.

“They don’t hurt you,” said Red. “Ever see anything like them?”

“No.”

“Can’t you see how a circus would jump at a chance to have these?”

“Maybe they’re too small for a circus.”

Red looked annoyed. He let go the cage which swung back and forth pendulum-fashion. “You’re just trying to back out, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not. It’s just—”

“They’re not too small, don’t worry. Right now, I’ve only got one worry.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, I’ve got to keep them till the circus comes, don’t I? I’ve got to figure out what to feed them meanwhile.”

The cage swung and the little trapped creatures clung to its bars, gesturing at the youngsters with queer, quick motions—almost as though they were intelligent.

II

The Astronomer entered the dining room with decorum. He felt very much the guest.

He said, “Where are the youngsters? My son isn’t in his room.”

The Industrialist smiled. “They’ve been out for hours. However, breakfast was forced into them among the women some time ago, so there is nothing to worry about. Youth, Doctor, youth!”

“Youth!” The word seemed to depress the Astronomer.

They ate breakfast in silence. The Industrialist said once, “You really think they’ll come. The day looks so—normal.”

The Astronomer said, “They’ll come.”

That was all.

Afterward the Industrialist said, “You’ll pardon me. I can’t conceive your playing so elaborate a hoax. You really spoke to them?”

“As I speak to you. At least, in a sense. They can project thoughts.”

“I gathered that must be so from your letter. How, I wonder.”

“I could not say. I asked them and, of course, they were vague. Or perhaps it was just that I could not understand. It involves a projector for the focusing of thought and, even more than that, conscious attention on the part of both projector and receptor. It was quite a while before I realized they were trying to think at me. Such thought-projectors may be part of the science they will give us.”

“Perhaps,” said the Industrialist. “Yet think of the changes it would bring to society. A thought-projector!”

“Why not? Change would be good for us.”

“I don’t think so.”

“It is only in old age that change is unwelcome,” said the Astronomer, “and races can be old as well as individuals.”

The Industrialist pointed out the window. “You see that road. It was built Beforethewars. I don’t know exactly when. It is as good now as the day it was built. We couldn’t possibly duplicate it now. The race was young when that was built, eh?”

“Then? Yes! At least they weren’t afraid of new things.”

“No. I wish they had been. Where is the society of Beforethewars? Destroyed, Doctor! What good were youth and new things? We are better off now. The world is peaceful and jogs along. The race goes nowhere but after all, there is nowhere to go. They proved that. The men who built the road. I will speak with your visitors as I agreed, if they come. But I think I will only ask them to go.”

“The race is not going nowhere,” said the Astronomer, earnestly. “It is going toward final destruction. My university has a smaller student body each year. Fewer books are written. Less work is done. An old man sleeps in the sun and his days are peaceful and unchanging, but each day finds him nearer death all the same.”

“Well, well,” said the Industrialist.

“No, don’t dismiss it. Listen. Before I wrote you, I investigated your position in the planetary economy.”

“And you found me solvent?” interrupted the Industrialist, smiling.

“Why, yes. Oh, I see, you are joking. And yet—perhaps the joke is not far off. You are less solvent than your father and he was less solvent than his father. Perhaps your son will no longer be solvent. It becomes too troublesome for the planet to support even the industries that still exist, though they are toothpicks to the oak trees of Beforethewars. We will be back to village economy and then to what? The caves?”

“And the infusion of fresh technological knowledge will be the changing of all that?”

“Not just the new knowledge. Rather the whole effect of change, of a broadening of horizons. Look, sir, I chose you to approach in this matter not only because you were rich and influential with government officials, but because you had an unusual reputation, for these days, of daring to break with tradition. Our people will resist change and you would know how to handle them, how to see to it that—that—”

“That the youth of the race is revived?”

“Yes.”

“With its atomic bombs?”

“The atomic bombs,” returned the Astronomer, “need not be the end of civilization. These visitors of mine had their atomic bomb, or whatever their equivalent was on their own worlds, and survived it, because they didn’t give up. Don’t you see? It wasn’t the bomb that defeated us, but our own shell shock. This may be the last chance to reverse the process.”

“Tell me,” said the Industrialist, “what do these friends from space want in return?”

The Astronomer hesitated. He said, “I will be truthful with you. They come from a denser planet. Ours is richer in the lighter atoms.”

“They want magnesium? Aluminum?”

“No, sir. Carbon and hydrogen. They want coal and oil.”

“Really?”

The Astronomer said, quickly, “You are going to ask why creatures who have mastered space travel, and therefore atomic power, would want coal and oil. I can’t answer that.”

The Industrialist smiled. “But I can. This is the best evidence yet of the truth of your story. Superficially, atomic power would seem to preclude the use of coal and oil. However, quite apart from the energy gained by their combustion they remain, and always will remain, the basic raw material for all organic chemistry. Plastics, dyes, pharmaceuticals, solvents. Industry could not exist without them, even in an atomic age. Still, if coal and oil are the low price for which they would sell us the troubles and tortures of racial youth, my answer is that the commodity would be dear if offered gratis.”

The Astronomer sighed and said, “There are the boys!”

They were visible through the open window, standing together in the grassy field and lost in animated conversation. The Industrialist’s son pointed imperiously and the Astronomer’s son nodded and made off at a run toward the house.

The Industrialist said, “There is the Youth you speak of. Our race has as much of it as it ever had.”

“Yes, but we age them quickly and pour them into the mold.”

Slim scuttled into the room, the door banging behind him.

The Astronomer said, in mild disapproval, “What’s this?”

Slim looked up in surprise and came to a halt. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t know anyone was here. I am sorry to have interrupted.” His enunciation was almost painfully precise.

The Industrialist said, “It’s all right, youngster.”

But the Astronomer said, “Even if you had been entering an empty room, son, there would be no cause for slamming a door.”

“Nonsense,” insisted the Industrialist. “The youngster has done no harm. You simply scold him for being young. You, with your views!”

He said to Slim, “Come here, lad.”

Slim advanced slowly.

“How do you like the country, eh?”

“Very much, sir, thank you.”

“My son has been showing you about the place, has he?”

“Yes, sir. Red—I mean—”

“No, no. Call him Red. I call him that myself. Now tell me, what are you two up to, eh?”

Slim looked away. “Why—just exploring, sir.”

The Industrialist turned to the Astronomer. “There you are, youthful curiosity and adventure-lust. The race has not yet lost it.”

Slim said, “Sir?”

“Yes, lad.”

The youngster took a long time in getting on with it. He said, “Red sent me in for something good to eat, but I don’t exactly know what he meant. I didn’t like to say so.”

“Why, just ask cook. She’ll have something good for young’uns to eat.”

“Oh, no, sir. I mean for animals.”

“For animals?”

“Yes, sir. What do animals eat?”

The Astronomer said, “I am afraid my son is city-bred.”

“Well,” said the Industrialist, “there’s no harm in that. What kind of an animal, lad?”

“A small one, sir.”

“Then try grass or leaves, and if they don’t want that, nuts or berries would probably do the trick.”

“Thank you, sir.” Slim ran out again, closing the door gently behind him.

The Astronomer said, “Do you suppose they’ve trapped an animal alive?” He was obviously perturbed.

“That’s common enough. There’s no shooting on my estate and it’s tame country, full of rodents and small creatures. Red is always coming home with pets of one sort or another. They rarely maintain his interest for long.”

He looked at the wall clock. “Your friends should have been here by now, shouldn’t they?”

III

The swaying had come to a halt and it was dark. The Explorer was not comfortable in the alien air. It felt as thick as soup and he had to breathe shallowly. Even so—

He reached out in a sudden need for company. The Merchant was warm to the touch. His breathing was rough, he moved in an occasional spasm, and was obviously asleep. The Explorer hesitated and decided not to wake him. It would serve no real purpose.

There would be no rescue, of course. That was the penalty paid for the high profits which unrestrained competition could lead to. The Merchant who opened a new planet could have a ten year monopoly of its trade, which he might hug to himself or, more likely, rent out to all comers at a stiff price. It followed that planets were searched for in secrecy and, preferably, away from the usual trade routes. In a case such as theirs, then, there was little or no chance that another ship would come within range of their subetherics except for the most improbable of coincidences. Even if they were in their ship, that is, rather than in this—this—cage.

The Explorer grasped the thick bars. Even if they blasted those away, as they could, they would be stuck too high in open air for leaping.

It was too bad. They had landed twice before in the scout-ship. They had established contact with the natives who were grotesquely huge, but mild and unaggressive. It was obvious that they had once owned a flourishing technology, but hadn’t faced up to the consequences of such a technology. It would have been a wonderful market.

And it was a tremendous world. The Merchant, especially, had been taken aback. He had known the figures that expressed the planet’s diameter, but from a distance of two light-seconds, he had stood at the visi-plate and muttered, “Unbelievable!”

“Oh, there are larger worlds,” the Explorer said. It wouldn’t do for an Explorer to be too easily impressed.

“Inhabited?”

“Well, no.”

“Why, you could drop your planet into that large ocean and drown it.”

The Explorer smiled. It was a gentle dig at his Arcturian homeland, which was smaller than most planets. He said, “Not quite.”

The Merchant followed along the line of his thoughts. “And the inhabitants are large in proportion to their world?” He sounded as though the news struck him less favorably now.

“Nearly ten times our height.”

“Are you sure they are friendly?”

“That is hard to say. Friendship between alien intelligences is an imponderable. They are not dangerous, I think. We’ve come across other groups that could not maintain equilibrium after the atomic war stage and you know the results. Introversion. Retreat. Gradual decadence and increasing gentleness.”

“Even if they are such monsters?”

“The principle remains.”

It was about then that the Explorer felt the heavy throbbing of the engines.

He frowned and said, “We are descending a bit too quickly.”

There had been some speculation on the dangers of landing some hours before. The planetary target was a huge one for an oxygen-water world. Though it lacked the size of the uninhabitable hydrogen-ammonia planets and its low density made its surface gravity fairly normal, its gravitational forces fell off but slowly with distance. In short, its gravitational potential was high and the ship’s Calculator was a run-of-the-mill model not designed to plot landing trajectories at that potential range. That meant the Pilot would have to use manual controls.

It would have been wiser to install a more high-powered model, but that would have meant a trip to some outpost of civilization; lost time; perhaps a lost secret. The Merchant demanded an immediate landing.

The Merchant felt it necessary to defend his position now. He said angrily to the Explorer, “Don’t you think the Pilot knows his job? He landed you safely twice before.”

Yes, thought the Explorer, in a scout-ship, not in this unmaneuverable freighter. Aloud, he said nothing.

He kept his eye on the visi-plate. They were descending too quickly. There was no room for doubt. Much too quickly.

The Merchant said, peevishly, “Why do you keep silence?”

“Well, then, if you wish me to speak, I would suggest that you strap on your Floater and help me prepare the Ejector.”

The Pilot fought a noble fight. He was no beginner. The atmosphere, abnormally high and thick in the gravitational potential of this world whipped and burned about the ship, but to the very last it looked as though he might bring it under control despite that.

He even maintained course, following the extrapolated line to the point on the northern continent toward which they were headed. Under other circumstances, with a shade more luck, the story would eventually have been told and retold as a heroic and masterly reversal of a lost situation. But within sight of victory, tired body and tired nerves clamped a control bar with a shade too much pressure. The ship, which had almost levelled off, dipped down again.

There was no room to retrieve the final error. There was only a mile left to fall. The Pilot remained at his post to the actual landing, his only thought that of breaking the force of the crash, of maintaining the spaceworthiness of the vessel. He did not survive. With the ship bucking madly in a soupy atmosphere, few Ejectors could be mobilized and only one of them in time.

When afterwards, the Explorer lifted out of unconsciousness and rose to his feet, he had the definite feeling that but for himself and the Merchant, there were no survivors. And perhaps that was an over-calculation. His Floater had burnt out while still sufficiently distant from surface to have the fall stun him. The Merchant might have had less luck, even, than that.

He was surrounded by a world of thick, ropy stalks of grass, and in the distance were trees that reminded him vaguely of similar structures on his native Arcturian world except that their lowest branches were high above what he would consider normal treetops.

He called, his voice sounding basso in the thick air and the Merchant answered. The Explorer made his way toward him, thrusting violently at the coarse stalks that barred his path.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

The Merchant grimaced. “I’ve sprained something. It hurts to walk.”

The Explorer probed gently. “I don’t think anything is broken. You’ll have to walk despite the pain.”

“Can’t we rest first?”

“It’s important to try to find the ship. If it is spaceworthy or if it can be repaired, we may live. Otherwise, we won’t.”

“Just a few minutes. Let me catch my breath.”

The Explorer was glad enough for those few minutes. The Merchant’s eyes were already closed. He allowed his to do the same.

He heard the trampling and his eyes snapped open. Never sleep on a strange planet, he told himself futilely.

The Merchant was awake too and his steady screaming was a rumble of terror.

The Explorer called, “It’s only a native of this planet. It won’t harm you.”

But even as he spoke, the giant had swooped down and in a moment they were in its grasp being lifted closer to its monstrous ugliness.

The Merchant struggled violently and, of course, quite futilely. “Can’t you talk to it?” he yelled.

The Explorer could only shake his head. “I can’t reach it with the Projector. It won’t be listening.”

“Then blast it. Blast it down.”

“We can’t do that.” The phrase “you fool” had almost been added. The Explorer struggled to keep his self-control. They were swallowing space as the monster moved purposefully away.

“Why not?” cried the Merchant. “You can reach your blaster. I see it in plain sight. Don’t be afraid of falling.”

“It’s simpler than that. If this monster is killed, you’ll never trade with this planet. You’ll never even leave it. You probably won’t live the day out.”

“Why? Why?”

“Because this is one of the young of the species. You should know what happens when a trader kills a native young, even accidentally. What’s more, if this is the target-point, then we are on the estate of a powerful native. This might be one of his brood.”

That was how they entered their present prison. They had carefully burnt away a portion of the thick, stiff covering and it was obvious that the height from which they were suspended was a killing one.

Now, once again, the prison-cage shuddered and lifted in an upward arc. The Merchant rolled to the lower rim and startled awake. The cover lifted and light flooded in. As was the case the time before, there were two specimens of the young. They were not very different in appearance from adults of the species, reflected the Explorer, though, of course, they were considerably smaller.

A handful of reedy green stalks was stuffed between the bars. Its odor was not unpleasant but it carried clods of soil at its ends.

The Merchant drew away and said, huskily, “What are they doing?”

The Explorer said, “Trying to feed us, I should judge. At least this seems to be the native equivalent of grass.”

The cover was replaced and they were set swinging again, alone with their fodder.

IV

Slim started at the sound of footsteps and brightened when it turned out to be only Red.

He said, “No one’s around. I had my eye peeled, you bet.”

Red said, “Ssh. Look. You take this stuff and stick it in the cage. I’ve got to scoot back to the house.”

“What is it?” Slim reached reluctantly.

“Ground meat. Holy Smokes, haven’t you ever seen ground meat? That’s what you should’ve got when I sent you to the house instead of coming back with that stupid grass.”

Slim was hurt. “How’d I know they don’t eat grass. Besides, ground meat doesn’t come loose like that. It comes in cellophane and it isn’t that color.”

“Sure—in the city. Out here we grind our own and it’s always this color till it’s cooked.”

“You mean it isn’t cooked?” Slim drew away quickly.

Red looked disgusted. “Do you think animals eat cooked food. Come on, take it. It won’t hurt you. I tell you there isn’t much time.”

“Why? What’s doing back at the house?”

“I don’t know. Dad and your father are walking around. I think maybe they’re looking for me. Maybe the cook told them I took the meat. Anyway, we don’t want them coming here after me.”

“Didn’t you ask the cook before you took this stuff?”

“Who? That crab? Shouldn’t wonder if she only let me have a drink of water because Dad makes her. Come on. Take it.”

Slim took the large glob of meat though his skin crawled at the touch. He turned toward the barn and Red sped away in the direction from which he had come.

He slowed when he approached the two adults, took a few deep breaths to bring himself back to normal, and then carefully and nonchalantly sauntered past. (They were walking in the general direction of the barn, he noticed, but not dead on.)

He said, “Hi, Dad. Hello, sir.”

The Industrialist said, “Just a moment, Red. I have a question to ask you?”

Red turned a carefully blank face to his father. “Yes, Dad?”

“Mother tells me you were out early this morning.”

“Not real early, Dad. Just a little before breakfast.”

“She said you told her it was because you had been awakened during the night and didn’t go back to sleep.”

Red waited before answering. Should he have told Mom that?

Then he said, “Yes, sir.”

“What was it that awakened you?”

Red saw no harm in it. He said, “I don’t know, Dad. It sounded like thunder, sort of, and like a collision, sort of.”

“Could you tell where it came from?”

“It sounded like it was out by the hill.” That was truthful, and useful as well, since the direction was almost opposite that in which the barn lay.

The Industrialist looked at his guest. “I suppose it would do no harm to walk toward the hill.”

The Astronomer said, “I am ready.”

Red watched them walk away and when he turned he saw Slim peering cautiously out from among the briars of a hedge.

Red waved at him. “Come on.”

Slim stepped out and approached. “Did they say anything about the meat?”

“No. I guess they don’t know about that. They went down to the hill.”

“What for?”

“Search me. They kept asking about the noise I heard. Listen, did the animals eat the meat?”

“Well,” said Slim, cautiously, “they were sort of looking at it and smelling it or something.”

“Okay,” Red said, “I guess they’ll eat it. Holy Smokes, they’ve got to eat something. Let’s walk along toward the hill and see what Dad and your father are going to do.”

“What about the animals?”

“They’ll be all right. A fellow can’t spend all his time on them. Did you give them water?”

“Sure. They drank that.”

“See. Come on. We’ll look at them after lunch. I tell you what. We’ll bring them fruit. Anything’ll eat fruit.”

Together they trotted up the rise, Red, as usual, in the lead.

V

The Astronomer said, “You think the noise was their ship landing?”

“Don’t you think it could be?”

“If it were, they may all be dead.”

“Perhaps not.” The Industrialist frowned.

“If they have landed, and are still alive, where are they?”

“Think about that for a while.” He was still frowning.

The Astronomer said, “I don’t understand you.”

“They may not be friendly.”

“Oh, no. I’ve spoken with them. They’ve—”

“You’ve spoken with them. Call that reconnaissance. What would their next step be? Invasion?”

“But they only have one ship, sir.”

“You know that only because they say so. They might have a fleet.”

“I’ve told you about their size. They—”

“Their size would not matter, if they have handweapons that may well be superior to our artillery.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“I had this partly in mind from the first.” The Industrialist went on. “It is for that reason I agreed to see them after I received your letter. Not to agree to an unsettling and impossible trade, but to judge their real purposes. I did not count on their evading the meeting.”

He sighed. “I suppose it isn’t our fault. You are right in one thing, at any rate. The world has been at peace too long. We are losing a healthy sense of suspicion.”

The Astronomer’s mild voice rose to an unusual pitch and he said, “I will speak. I tell you that there is no reason to suppose they can possibly be hostile. They are small, yes, but that is only important because it is a reflection of the fact that their native worlds are small. Our world has what is for them a normal gravity, but because of our much higher gravitational potential, our atmosphere is too dense to support them comfortably over sustained periods. For a similar reason the use of the world as a base for interstellar travel, except for trade in certain items, is uneconomical. And there are important differences in chemistry of life due to the basic differences in soils. They couldn’t eat our food or we theirs.”

“Surely all this can be overcome. They can bring their own food, build domed stations of lowered air pressure, devise specially designed ships.”

“They can. And how glibly you can describe feats that are easy to a race in its youth. It is simply that they don’t have to do any of that. There are millions of worlds suitable for them in the Galaxy. They don’t need this one which isn’t.”

“How do you know? All this is their information again.”

“This I was able to check independently. I am an astronomer, after all.”

“That is true. Let me hear what you have to say then, while we walk.”

“Then, sir, consider that for a long time our astronomers have believed that two general classes of planetary bodies existed. First, the planets which formed at distances far enough from their stellar nucleus to become cool enough to capture hydrogen. These would be large planets rich in hydrogen, ammonia and methane. We have examples of these in the giant outer planets. The second class would include those planets formed so near the stellar center that the high temperature would make it impossible to capture much hydrogen. These would be smaller planets, comparatively poorer in hydrogen and richer in oxygen. We know that type very well since we live on one. Ours is the only solar system we know in detail, however, and it has been reasonable for us to assume that these were the only two planetary classes.”

“I take it then that there is another.”

“Yes. There is a super-dense class, still smaller, poorer in hydrogen, than the inner planets of the solar system. The ratio of occurrence of hydrogen-ammonia planets and these super-dense water-oxygen worlds of theirs over the entire Galaxy—and remember that they have actually conducted a survey of significant sample volumes of the Galaxy which we, without interstellar travel, cannot do—is about three to one. This leaves them seven million super-dense worlds for exploration and colonization.”

The Industrialist looked at the blue sky and the green-covered trees among which they were making their way. He said, “And worlds like ours?”

The Astronomer said, softly, “Ours is the first solar system they have found which contains them. Apparently the development of our solar system was unique and did not follow the ordinary rules.”

The Industrialist considered that. “What it amounts to is that these creatures from space are asteroid-dwellers.”

“No, no. The asteroids are something else again. They occur, I was told, in one out of eight stellar systems, but they’re completely different from what we’ve been discussing.”

“And how does your being an astronomer change the fact that you are still only quoting their unsupported statements?”

“But they did not restrict themselves to bald items of information. They presented me with a theory of stellar evolution which I had to accept and which is more nearly valid than anything our own astronomy has ever been able to devise, if we except possible lost theories dating from Beforethewars. Mind you, their theory had a rigidly mathematical development and it predicted just such a Galaxy as they describe. So you see, they have all the worlds they wish. They are not land-hungry. Certainly not for our land.”

“Reason would say so, if what you say is true. But creatures may be intelligent and not reasonable. Our forefathers were presumably intelligent, yet they were certainly not reasonable. Was it reasonable to destroy almost all their tremendous civilization in atomic warfare over causes our historians can no longer accurately determine?” The Industrialist brooded over it. “From the dropping of the first atom bomb over those islands—I forget the ancient name—there was only one end in sight, and in plain sight. Yet events were allowed to proceed to that end.”

He looked up, said briskly, “Well, where are we? I wonder if we are not on a fool’s errand after all.”

But the Astronomer was a little in advance and his voice came thickly. “No fool’s errand, sir. Look there.”

VI

Red and Slim had trailed their elders with the experience of youth, aided by the absorption and anxiety of their fathers. Their view of the final object of the search was somewhat obscured by the underbrush behind which they remained.

Red said, “Holy Smokes. Look at that. It’s all shiny silver or something.”

But it was Slim who was really excited. He caught at the other. “I know what this is. It’s a spaceship. That must be why my father came here. He’s one of the biggest astronomers in the world and your father would have to call him if a spaceship landed on his estate.”

“What are you talking about? Dad didn’t even know that thing was there. He only came here because I told him I heard the thunder from here. Besides, there isn’t any such thing as a spaceship.”

“Sure, there is. Look at it. See those round things. They are ports. And you can see the rocket tubes.”

“How do you know so much?”

Slim was flushed. He said, “I read about them. My father has books about them. Old books. From Beforethewars.”

“Huh. Now I know you’re making it up. Books from Beforethewars!”

“My father has to have them. He teaches at the University. It’s his job.”

His voice had risen and Red had to pull at him. “You want them to hear us?” he whispered indignantly.

“Well, it is, too, a spaceship.”

“Look here, Slim, you mean that’s a ship from another world.”

“It’s got to be. Look at my father going round and round it. He wouldn’t be so interested if it was anything else.”

“Other worlds! Where are there other worlds?”

“Everywhere. How about the planets? They’re worlds just like ours, some of them. And other stars probably have planets. There’s probably zillions of planets.”

Red felt outweighed and outnumbered. He muttered, “You’re crazy!”

“All right, then. I’ll show you.”

“Hey! Where are you going?”

“Down there. I’m going to ask my father. I suppose you’ll believe it if he tells you. I suppose you’ll believe a Professor of Astronomy knows what—”

He had scrambled upright.

Red said, “Hey. You don’t want them to see us. We’re not supposed to be here. Do you want them to start asking questions and find out about our animals?”

“I don’t care. You said I was crazy.”

“Snitcher! You promised you wouldn’t tell.”

“I’m not going to tell. But if they find out themselves, it’s your fault, for starting an argument and saying I was crazy.”

“I take it back, then,” grumbled Red.

“Well, all right. You better.”

In a way, Slim was disappointed. He wanted to see the spaceship at closer quarters. Still, he could not break his vow of secrecy even in spirit without at least the excuse of personal insult.

Red said, “It’s awfully small for a spaceship.”

“Sure, because it’s probably a scout-ship.”

“I’ll bet Dad couldn’t even get into the old thing.”

So much Slim realized to be true. It was a weak point in his argument and he made no answer. His interest was absorbed by the adults.

Red rose to his feet; an elaborate attitude of boredom all about him. “Well, I guess we better be going. There’s business to do and I can’t spend all day here looking at some old spaceship or whatever it is. We’ve got to take care of the animals if we’re going to be circus-folks. That’s the first rule with circus-folks. They’ve got to take care of the animals. And,” he finished virtuously, “that’s what I aim to do, anyway.”

Slim said, “What for, Red? They’ve got plenty of meat. Let’s watch.”

“There’s no fun in watching. Besides Dad and your father are going away and I guess it’s about lunch time.”

Red became argumentative. “Look, Slim, we can’t start acting suspicious or they’re going to start investigating. Holy Smokes, don’t you ever read any detective stories? When you’re trying to work a big deal without being caught, it’s practically the main thing to keep on acting just like always. Then they don’t suspect anything. That’s the first law—”

“Oh, all right.”

Slim rose resentfully. At the moment, the circus appeared to him a rather tawdry and shoddy substitute for the glories of astronomy, and he wondered how he had come to fall in with Red’s silly scheme.

Down the slope they went, Slim, as usual, in the rear.

VII

The Industrialist said, “It’s the workmanship that gets me. I never saw such construction.”

“What good is it now?” said the Astronomer, bitterly. “There’s nothing left. There’ll be no second landing. This ship detected life on our planet through accident. Other exploring parties would come no closer than necessary to establish the fact that there were no super-dense worlds existing in our solar system.”

“Well, there’s no quarreling with a crash landing.”

“The ship hardly seems damaged. If only some had survived, the ship might have been repaired.”

“If they had survived, there would be no trade in any case. They’re too different. Too disturbing. In any case—it’s over.”

They entered the house and the Industrialist greeted his wife calmly. “Lunch about ready, dear.”

“I’m afraid not. You see—” She looked hesitantly at the Astronomer.

“Is anything wrong?” asked the Industrialist. “Why not tell me? I’m sure our guest won’t mind a little family discussion.”

“Pray don’t pay any attention whatever to me,” muttered the Astronomer. He moved miserably to the other end of the living room.

The woman said, in low, hurried tones, “Really, dear, cook’s that upset. I’ve been soothing her for hours and honestly, I don’t know why Red should have done it.”

“Done what?” The Industrialist was more amused than otherwise. It had taken the united efforts of himself and his son months to argue his wife into using the name “Red” rather than the perfectly ridiculous (viewed youngster fashion) name which was his real one.

She said, “He’s taken most of the chopped meat.”

“He’s eaten it?”

“Well, I hope not. It was raw.”

“Then what would he want it for?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea. I haven’t seen him since breakfast. Meanwhile cook’s just furious. She caught him vanishing out the kitchen door and there was the bowl of chopped meat just about empty and she was going to use it for lunch. Well, you know cook. She had to change the lunch menu and that means she won’t be worth living with for a week. You’ll just have to speak to Red, dear, and make him promise not to do things in the kitchen any more. And it wouldn’t hurt to have him apologize to cook.”

“Oh, come. She works for us. If we don’t complain about a change in lunch menu, why should she?”

“Because she’s the one who has double-work made for her, and she’s talking about quitting. Good cooks aren’t easy to get. Do you remember the one before her?”

It was a strong argument.

The Industrialist looked about vaguely. He said, “I suppose you’re right. He isn’t here, I suppose. When he comes in, I’ll talk to him.”

“You’d better start. Here he comes.”

Red walked into the house and said cheerfully, “Time for lunch, I guess.” He looked from one parent to the other in quick speculation at their fixed stares and said, “Got to clean up first, though,” and made for the other door.

The Industrialist said, “One moment, son.”

“Sir?”

“Where’s your little friend?”

Red said, carelessly, “He’s around somewhere. We were just sort of walking and I looked around and he wasn’t there.” This was perfectly true, and Red felt on safe ground. “I told him it was lunch time. I said, ‘I suppose it’s about lunch time.’ I said, ‘We got to be getting back to the house.’ And he said, ‘Yes.’ And I just went on and then when I was about at the creek I looked around and—”

The Astronomer interrupted the voluble story, looking up from a magazine he had been sightlessly rummaging through. “I wouldn’t worry about my youngster. He is quite self-reliant. Don’t wait lunch for him.”

“Lunch isn’t ready in any case, Doctor.” The Industrialist turned once more to his son. “And talking about that, son, the reason for it is that something happened to the ingredients. Do you have anything to say?”

“Sir?”

“I hate to feel that I have to explain myself more fully. Why did you take the chopped meat?”

“The chopped meat?”

“The chopped meat.” He waited patiently.

Red said, “Well, I was sort of—”

“Hungry?” prompted his father. “For raw meat?”

“No, sir. I just sort of needed it.”

“For what exactly?”

Red looked miserable and remained silent.

The Astronomer broke in again. “If you don’t mind my putting in a few words—You’ll remember that just after breakfast my son came in to ask what animals ate.”

“Oh, you’re right. How stupid of me to forget. Look here, Red, did you take it for an animal pet you’ve got?”

Red recovered indignant breath. He said, “You mean Slim came in here and said I had an animal? He came in here and said that? He said I had an animal?”

“No, he didn’t. He simply asked what animals ate. That’s all. Now if he promised he wouldn’t tell on you, he didn’t. It’s your own foolishness in trying to take something without permission that gave you away. That happened to be stealing. Now have you an animal? I ask you a direct question.”

“Yes, sir.” It was a whisper so low as hardly to be heard.

“All right, you’ll have to get rid of it. Do you understand?”

Red’s mother intervened. “Do you mean to say you’re keeping a meat-eating animal, Red? It might bite you and give you blood-poison.”

“They’re only small ones,” quavered Red. “They hardly budge if you touch them.”

“They? How many do you have?”

“Two.”

“Where are they?”

The Industrialist touched her arm. “Don’t chivvy the child any further,” he said, in a low voice. “If he says he’ll get rid of them, he will, and that’s punishment enough.”

He dismissed the matter from his mind.

VIII

Lunch was half over when Slim dashed into the dining room. For a moment, he stood abashed, and then he said in what was almost hysteria, “I’ve got to speak to Red. I’ve got to say something.”

Red looked up in fright, but the Astronomer said, “I don’t think, son, you’re being very polite. You’ve kept lunch waiting.”

“I’m sorry, Father.”

“Oh, don’t rate the lad,” said the Industrialist’s wife. “He can speak to Red if he wants to, and there was no damage done to the lunch.”

“I’ve got to speak to Red alone,” Slim insisted.

“Now that’s enough,” said the Astronomer with a kind of gentleness that was obviously manufactured for the benefit of strangers and which had beneath it an easily-recognized edge. “Take your seat.”

Slim did so, but he ate only when someone looked directly upon him. Even then he was not very successful.

Red caught his eyes. He made soundless words, “Did the animals get loose?”

Slim shook his head slightly. He whispered, “No, it’s—”

The Astronomer looked at him hard and Slim faltered to a stop.

With lunch over, Red slipped out of the room, with a microscopic motion at Slim to follow.

They walked in silence to the creek.

Then Red turned fiercely upon his companion. “Look here, what’s the idea of telling my Dad we were feeding animals?”

Slim said, “I didn’t. I asked what you feed animals. That’s not the same as saying we were doing it. Besides, it’s something else, Red.”

But Red had not used up his grievances. “And where did you go anyway? I thought you were coming to the house. They acted like it was my fault you weren’t there.”

“But I’m trying to tell you about that, if you’d only shut up a second and let me talk. You don’t give a fellow a chance.”

“Well, go on and tell me if you’ve got so much to say.”

“I’m trying to. I went back to the spaceship. The folks weren’t there anymore and I wanted to see what it was like.”

“It isn’t a spaceship,” said Red, sullenly. He had nothing to lose.

“It is, too. I looked inside. You could look through the ports and I looked inside and they were dead.” He looked sick. “They were dead.”

“Who were dead.”

Slim screeched, “Animals! like our animals! Only they aren’t animals. They’re people-things from other planets.”

For a moment Red might have been turned to stone. It didn’t occur to him to disbelieve Slim at this point. Slim looked too genuinely the bearer of just such tidings. He said, finally, “Oh, my.”

“Well, what are we going to do? Golly, will we get a whopping if they find out?” He was shivering.

“We better turn them loose,” said Red.

“They’ll tell on us.”

“They can’t talk our language. Not if they’re from another planet.”

“Yes, they can. Because I remember my father talking about some stuff like that to my mother when he didn’t know I was in the room. He was talking about visitors who could talk with the mind. Telepathery or something. I thought he was making it up.”

“Well, Holy Smokes. I mean—Holy Smokes.” Red looked up. “I tell you. My Dad said to get rid of them. Let’s sort of bury them somewhere or throw them in the creek.”

“He told you to do that.”

“He made me say I had animals and then he said, ‘Get rid of them.’ I got to do what he says. Holy Smokes, he’s my Dad.”

Some of the panic left Slim’s heart. It was a thoroughly legalistic way out. “Well, let’s do it right now, then, before they find out. Oh, golly, if they find out, will we be in trouble!”

They broke into a run toward the barn, unspeakable visions in their minds.

IX

It was different, looking at them as though they were “people.” As animals, they had been interesting; as “people,” horrible. Their eyes, which were neutral little objects before, now seemed to watch them with active malevolence.

“They’re making noises,” said Slim, in a whisper which was barely audible.

“I guess they’re talking or something,” said Red. Funny that those noises which they had heard before had not had significance earlier. He was making no move toward them. Neither was Slim.

The canvas was off but they were just watching. The ground meat, Slim noticed, hadn’t been touched.

Slim said, “Aren’t you going to do something?”

“Aren’t you?”

“You found them.”

“It’s your turn, now.”

“No, it isn’t. You found them. It’s your fault, the whole thing. I was watching.”

“You joined in, Slim. You know you did.”

“I don’t care. You found them and that’s what I’ll say when they come here looking for us.”

Red said, “All right for you.” But the thought of the consequences inspired him anyway, and he reached for the cage door.

Slim said, “Wait!”

Red was glad to. He said, “Now what’s biting you?”

“One of them’s got something on him that looks like it might be iron or something.”

“Where?”

“Right there. I saw it before but I thought it was just part of him. But if he’s ‘people,’ maybe it’s a disintegrator gun.”

“What’s that?”

“I read about it in the books from Beforethewars. Mostly people with spaceships have disintegrator guns. They point them at you and you get disintegratored.”

“They didn’t point it at us till now,” pointed out Red with his heart not quite in it.

“I don’t care. I’m not hanging around here and getting disintegratored. I’m getting my father.”

“Cowardy-cat. Yellow cowardy-cat.”

“I don’t care. You can call all the names you want, but if you bother them now you’ll get disintegratored. You wait and see, and it’ll be all your fault.”

He made for the narrow spiral stairs that led to the main floor of the barn, stopped at its head, then backed away.

Red’s mother was moving up, panting a little with the exertion and smiling a tight smile for the benefit of Slim in his capacity as guest.

“Red! You, Red! Are you up there? Now don’t try to hide. I know this is where you’re keeping them. Cook saw where you ran with the meat.”

Red quavered, “Hello, ma!”

“Now show me those nasty animals? I’m going to see to it that you get rid of them right away.”

It was over! And despite the imminent corporal punishment, Red felt something like a load fall from him. At least the decision was out of his hands.

“Right there, ma. I didn’t do anything to them, ma. I didn’t know. They just looked like little animals and I thought you’d let me keep them, ma. I wouldn’t have taken the meat only they wouldn’t eat grass or leaves and we couldn’t find good nuts or berries and cook never lets me have anything or I would have asked her and I didn’t know it was for lunch and—”

He was speaking on the sheer momentum of terror and did not realize that his mother did not hear him but, with eyes frozen and popping at the cage, was screaming in thin, piercing tones.

X

The Astronomer was saying, “A quiet burial is all we can do. There is no point in any publicity now,” when they heard the screams.

She had not entirely recovered by the time she reached them, running and running. It was minutes before her husband could extract sense from her.

She was saying, finally, “I tell you they’re in the barn. I don’t know what they are. No, no—”

She barred the Industrialist’s quick movement in that direction. She said, “Don’t you go. Send one of the hands with a shotgun. I tell you I never saw anything like it. Little horrible beasts with—with—I can’t describe it. To think that Red was touching them and trying to feed them. He was holding them, and feeding them meat.”

Red began, “I only—”

And Slim said, “It was not—”

The Industrialist said, quickly, “Now you boys have done enough harm today. March! Into the house! And not a word; not one word! I’m not interested in anything you have to say. After this is all over, I’ll hear you out and as for you, Red, I’ll see that you’re properly punished.”

He turned to his wife. “Now whatever the animals are, we’ll have them killed.” He added quietly once the youngsters were out of hearing, “Come, come. The children aren’t hurt and, after all, they haven’t done anything really terrible. They’ve just found a new pet.”

The Astronomer spoke with difficulty. “Pardon me, ma’am, but can you describe these animals?”

She shook her head. She was quite beyond words.

“Can you just tell me if they—”

“I’m sorry,” said the Industrialist, apologetically, “but I think I had better take care of her. Will you excuse me?”

“A moment. Please. One moment. She said she had never seen such animals before. Surely it is not usual to find animals that are completely unique on an estate such as this.”

“I’m sorry. Let’s not discuss that now.”

“Except that unique animals might have landed during the night.”

The Industrialist stepped away from his wife. “What are you implying?”

“I think we had better go to the barn, sir!”

The Industrialist stared a moment, turned and suddenly and quite uncharacteristically began running. The Astronomer followed and the woman’s wail rose unheeded behind them.

XI

The Industrialist stared, looked at the Astronomer, turned to stare again.

“Those?”

“Those,” said the Astronomer. “I have no doubt we appear strange and repulsive to them.”

“What do they say?”

“Why, that they are uncomfortable and tired and even a little sick, but that they are not seriously damaged, and that the youngsters treated them well.”

“Treated them well! Scooping them up, keeping them in a cage, giving them grass and raw meat to eat? Tell me how to speak to them.”

“It may take a little time. Think at them. Try to listen. It will come to you, but perhaps not right away.”

The Industrialist tried. He grimaced with the effort of it, thinking over and over again, “The youngsters were ignorant of your identity.”

And the thought was suddenly in his mind: “We were quite aware of it and because we knew they meant well by us according to their own view of the matter, we did not attempt to attack them.”

“Attack them?” thought the Industrialist, and said it aloud in his concentration.

“Why, yes,” came the answering thought. “We are armed.”

One of the revolting little creatures in the cage lifted a metal object and there was a sudden hole in the top of the cage and another in the roof of the barn, each hole rimmed with charred wood.

“We hope,” the creatures thought, “it will not be too difficult to make repairs.”

The Industrialist found it impossible to organize himself to the point of directed thought. He turned to the Astronomer. “And with that weapon in their possession they let themselves be handled and caged? I don’t understand it.”

But the calm thought came, “We would not harm the young of an intelligent species.”

XII

It was twilight. The Industrialist had entirely missed the evening meal and remained unaware of the fact.

He said, “Do you really think the ship will fly?”

“If they say so,” said the Astronomer, “I’m sure it will. They’ll be back, I hope, before too long.”

“And when they do,” said the Industrialist, energetically, “I will keep my part of the agreement. What is more I will move sky and earth to have the world accept them. I was entirely wrong, Doctor. Creatures that would refuse to harm children, under such provocation as they received, are admirable. But you know—I almost hate to say this—”

“Say what?”

“The kids. Yours and mine. I’m almost proud of them. Imagine seizing these creatures, feeding them or trying to, and keeping them hidden. The amazing gall of it. Red told me it was his idea to get a job in a circus on the strength of them. Imagine!”

The Astronomer said, “Youth!”

XIII

The Merchant said, “Will we be taking off soon?”

“Half an hour,” said the Explorer.

It was going to be a lonely trip back. All the remaining seventeen of the crew were dead and their ashes were to be left on a strange planet. Back they would go with a limping ship and the burden of the controls entirely on himself.

The Merchant said, “It was a good business stroke, not harming the young ones. We will get very good terms; very good terms.”

The Explorer thought: Business!

The Merchant then said, “They’ve lined up to see us off. All of them. You don’t think they’re too close, do you? It would be bad to burn any of them with the rocket blast at this stage of the game.”

“They’re safe.”

“Horrible-looking things, aren’t they?”

“Pleasant enough, inside. Their thoughts are perfectly friendly.”

“You wouldn’t believe it of them. That immature one, the one that first picked us up—”

“They call him Red,” provided the Explorer.

“That’s a queer name for a monster. Makes me laugh. He actually feels bad that we’re leaving. Only I can’t make out exactly why. The nearest I can come to it is something about a lost opportunity with some organization or other that I can’t quite interpret.”

“A circus,” said the Explorer, briefly.

“What? Why, the impertinent monstrosity.”

“Why not? What would you have done if you had found him wandering on your native world; found him sleeping on a field on Earth, red tentacles, six legs, pseudopods and all?”

XIV

Red watched the ship leave. His red tentacles, which gave him his nickname, quivered their regret at lost opportunity to the very last, and the eyes at their tips filled with drifting yellowish crystals that were the equivalent of Earthly tears.

Everest

In 1952 they were about ready to give up trying to climb Mt. Everest. It was the photographs that kept them going.

As photographs go, they weren’t much; fuzzy, streaked and with just dark blobs against the white to be interested in. But those dark blobs were living creatures. The men swore to it.

I said, “What the hell, they’ve been talking about creatures skidding along the Everest glaciers for forty years. It’s about time we did something about it.”

Jimmy Robbons (pardon me, James Abram Robbons) was the one who pushed me into that position. He was always nuts on mountain climbing, you see. He was the one who knew all about how the Tibetans wouldn’t go near Everest because it was the mountain of the gods, he could quote me every mysterious manlike footprint ever reported in the ice 25,000 feet up, he knew by heart every tall story about the spindly white creatures, speeding along the crags just over the last heartbreaking camp which the climbers had managed to establish.

It’s good to have one enthusiastic creature of the sort at Planetary Survey headquarters.

The last photographs put bite into his words, though. After all, you might just barely think they were men.

Jimmy said, “Look, boss, the point isn’t that they’re there, the point is that they move fast. Look at that figure. It’s blurred.”

“The camera might have moved.”

“The crag here is sharp enough. And the men swear it was running. Imagine the metabolism it must have to run at that oxygen pressure. Look, boss, would you have believed in deep-sea fish if you’d never heard of them? You have fish which are looking for new niches in environment which they can exploit, so they go deeper and deeper into the abyss until one day they find they can’t return. They’ve adapted so thoroughly they can live only under tons of pressure.”

“Well—”

“Damn it, can’t you reverse the picture? Creatures can be forced up a mountain can’t they? They can learn to stick it out in thinner air and colder temperatures. They can live on moss or on occasional birds, just as the deep-sea fish in the last analysis live on the upper fauna that slowly go filtering down. Then, someday, they find they can’t go down again. I don’t even say they’re men. They can be chamois or mountain goats or badgers or anything.”

I said stubbornly, “The witnesses said they were vaguely manlike, and the reported footprints are certainly manlike.”

“Or bearlike,” said Jimmy. “You can’t tell.”

So that’s when I said, “It’s about time we did something about it.”

Jimmy shrugged and said, “They’ve been trying to climb Mt. Everest for forty years.” And he shook his head.

“For gossake,” I said. “All you mountain climbers are nuts. That’s for sure. You’re not interested in getting to the top. You’re just interested in getting to the top in a certain way. It’s about time we stopped fooling around with picks, ropes, camps and all the paraphernalia of the Gentlemen’s Club that sends suckers up the slopes every five years or so.”

“What are you getting at?”

“They invented the airplane in 1903, you know?”

“You mean fly over Mt. Everest!” He said it the way an English lord would say “Shoot a fox!” or an angler would say, “Use worms!”

“Yes,” I said, “fly over Mt. Everest and let someone down on the top. Why not?”

“He won’t live long. The fellow you let down, I mean.”

“Why not?” I asked again. “You drop supplies and oxygen tanks, and the fellow wears a spacesuit. Naturally.”

It took time to get the Air Force to listen and to agree to send a plane and by that time Jimmy Robbons had swivelled his mind to the point where he volunteered to be the one to land on Everest’s peak. “After all,” he said in half a whisper, “I’d be the first man ever to stand there.”

That’s the beginning of the story. The story itself can be told very simply, and in far fewer words.

The plane waited two weeks during the best part of the year (as far as Everest was concerned, that is) for a siege of only moderately nasty flying weather, then took off.

They made it. The pilot reported by radio to a listening group exactly what the top of Mt. Everest looked like when seen from above and then he described exactly how Jimmy Robbons looked as his parachute got smaller and smaller.

Then another blizzard broke and the plane barely made it back to base and it was another two weeks before the weather was bearable again.

And all that time Jimmy was on the roof of the world by himself and I hated myself for a murderer.

The plane went back up two weeks later to see if they could spot his body. I don’t know what good it would have done if they had, but that’s the human race for you. How many dead in the last war? Who can count that high? But money or anything else is no object to the saving of one life, or even the recovering of one body.

They didn’t find his body, but they did find a smoke signal; curling up in the thin air and whipping away in the gusts. They let down a grapple and Jimmy came up, still in his spacesuit, looking like hell, but definitely alive.

The P.S. to the story involves my visit to the hospital last week to see him. He was recovering very slowly. The doctors said shock, they said exhaustion, but Jimmy’s eyes said a lot more.

I said. “How about it, Jimmy, you haven’t talked to the reporters, you haven’t talked to the government. All right. How about talking to me?”

“I’ve got nothing to say,” he whispered.

“Sure you have,” I said. “You lived on top of Mt. Everest during a two-week blizzard. You didn’t do that by yourself, not with all the supplies we dumped along with you. Who helped you, Jimmie boy?”

I guess he knew there was no use trying to bluff. Or maybe he was anxious to get it off his mind. He said, “They’re intelligent, boss. They compressed air for me. They set up a little power pack to keep me warm. They set up the smoke signal when they spotted the airplane coming back.”

“I see.” I didn’t want to rush him. “It’s like we thought. They’re adapted to Everest life. They can’t come down the slopes.”

“No, they can’t. And we can’t go up the slopes. Even if the weather didn’t stop us, they would!”

“They sound like kindly creatures, so why should they object? They helped you.”

“They have nothing against us. They spoke to me, you know. Telepathy.”

I frowned. “Well, then.”

“But they don’t intend to be interfered with. They’re watching us, boss. They’ve got to. We’ve got atomic power. We’re about to have rocket ships. They’re worried about us. And Everest is the only place they can watch us from!”

I frowned deeper. He was sweating and his hands were shaking.

I said, “Easy, boy. Take it easy. What on Earth are these creatures?”

And he said, “What do you suppose would be so adapted to thin air and subzero cold that Everest would be the only livable place on Earth to them? That’s the whole point. They’re nothing at all on Earth. They’re Martians.”

And that’s it.

Let’s Get Together

A kind of peace had endured for a century and people had forgotten what anything else was like. They would scarcely have known how to react had they discovered that a kind of war had finally come.

Certainly, Elias Lynn, Chief of the Bureau of Robotics, wasn’t sure how he ought to react when he finally found out. The Bureau of Robotics was headquartered in Cheyenne, in line with the century-old trend toward decentralization, and Lynn stared dubiously at the young Security officer from Washington who had brought the news.

Elias Lynn was a large man, almost charmingly homely, with pale blue eyes that bulged a bit. Men weren’t usually comfortable under the stare of those eyes, but the Security officer remained calm.

Lynn decided that his first reaction ought to be incredulity. Hell, it was incredulity! He just didn’t believe it!

He eased himself back in his chair and said, “How certain is the information?”

The Security officer, who had introduced himself as Ralph G. Breckenridge and had presented credentials to match, had the softness of youth about him; full lips, plump cheeks that flushed easily, and guileless eyes. His clothing was out of line with Cheyenne but it suited a universally air-conditioned Washington, where Security, despite everything, was still centered.

Breckenridge flushed and said, “There’s no doubt about it.”

“You people know all about Them, I suppose,” said Lynn and was unable to keep a trace of sarcasm out of his tone. He was not particularly aware of his use of a slightly-stressed pronoun in his reference to the enemy, the equivalent of capitalization in print. It was a cultural habit of this generation and the one preceding. No one said the “East,” or the “Reds” or the “Soviets” or the “Russians” any more. That would have been too confusing, since some of Them weren’t of the East, weren’t Reds, Soviets, and especially not Russians. It was much simpler to say We and They, and much more precise.

Travelers had frequently reported that They did the same in reverse. Over there, They were “We” (in the appropriate language) and We were “They.”

Scarcely anyone gave thought to such things any more. It was all quite comfortable and casual. There was no hatred, even. At the beginning, it had been called a Cold War. Now it was only a game, almost a good-natured game, with unspoken rules and a kind of decency about it.

Lynn said, abruptly, “Why should They want to disturb the situation?”

He rose and stood staring at a wall-map of the world, split into two regions with faint edgings of color. An irregular portion on the left of the map was edged in a mild green. A smaller, but just as irregular, portion on the right of the map was bordered in a washed-out pink. We and They.

The map hadn’t changed much in a century. The loss of Formosa and the gain of East Germany some eighty years before had been the last territorial switch of importance.

There had been another change, though, that was significant enough and that was in the colors. Two generations before, Their territory had been a brooding, bloody red, Ours a pure and undefiled white. Now there was a neutrality about the colors. Lynn had seen Their maps and it was the same on Their side.

“They wouldn’t do it,” he said.

“They are doing it,” said Breckenridge, “and you had better accustom yourself to the fact. Of course, sir, I realize that it isn’t pleasant to think that they may be that far ahead of us in robotics.”

His eyes remained as guileless as ever, but the hidden knife-edges of the words plunged deep, and Lynn quivered at the impact.

Of course, that would account for why the Chief of Robotics learned of this so late and through a Security officer at that. He had lost caste in the eyes of the Government; if Robotics had really failed in the struggle, Lynn could expect no political mercy.

Lynn said wearily, “Even if what you say is true, they’re not far ahead of us. We could build humanoid robots.”

“Have we, sir?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact, we have built a few models for experimental purposes.”

“They were doing so ten years ago. They’ve made ten years’ progress since.”

Lynn was disturbed. He wondered if his incredulity concerning the whole business were really the result of wounded pride and fear for his job and reputation. He was embarrassed by the possibility that this might be so, and yet he was forced into defense.

He said, “Look, young man, the stalemate between Them and Us was never perfect in every detail, you know. They have always been ahead in one facet or another and We in some other facet or another. If They’re ahead of us right now in robotics, it’s because They’ve placed a greater proportion of Their effort into robotics than We have. And that means that some other branch of endeavor has received a greater share of Our efforts than it has of Theirs. It would mean We’re ahead in force-field research or in hyper-atomics, perhaps.”

Lynn felt distressed at his own statement that the stalemate wasn’t perfect. It was true enough, but that was the one great danger threatening the world. The world depended on the stalemate being as perfect as possible. If the small unevennesses that always existed overbalanced too far in one direction or the other—

Almost at the beginning of what had been the Cold War, both sides had developed thermonuclear weapons, and war became unthinkable. Competition switched from the military to the economic and psychological and had stayed there ever since.

But always there was the driving effort on each side to break the stalemate, to develop a parry for every possible thrust, to develop a thrust that could not be parried in time—something that would make war possible again. And that was not because either side wanted war so desperately, but because both were afraid that the other side would make the crucial discovery first.

For a hundred years each side had kept the struggle even. And in the process, peace had been maintained for a hundred years while, as byproducts of the continuously intensive research, force-fields had been produced and solar energy and insect control and robots. Each side was making a beginning in the understanding of mentalics, which was the name given to the biochemistry and biophysics of thought. Each side had its outposts on the Moon and on Mars. Mankind was advancing in giant strides under forced draft.

It was even necessary for both sides to be as decent and humane as possible among themselves, lest through cruelty and tyranny, friends be made for the other side.

It couldn’t be that the stalemate would now be broken and that there would be war.

Lynn said, “I want to consult one of my men. I want his opinion.”

“Is he trustworthy?”

Lynn looked disgusted. “Good Lord, what man in Robotics has not been investigated and cleared to death by your people? Yes, I vouch for him. If you can’t trust a man like Humphrey Carl Laszlo, then we’re in no position to face the kind of attack you say They are launching, no matter what else we do.”

“I’ve heard of Laszlo,” said Breckenridge.

“Good. Does he pass?”

“Yes.”

“Then, I’ll have him in and we’ll find out what he thinks about the possibility that robots could invade the U.S.A.”

“Not exactly,” said Breckenridge, softly. “You still don’t accept the full truth. Find out what he thinks about the fact that robots have already invaded the U.S.A.”

Laszlo was the grandson of a Hungarian who had broken through what had then been called the Iron Curtain, and he had a comfortable above-suspicion feeling about himself because of it. He was thickset and balding with a pugnacious look graven forever on his snub face, but his accent was clear Harvard and he was almost excessively soft-spoken.

To Lynn, who was conscious that after years of administration he was no longer expert in the various phases of modern robotics, Laszlo was a comforting receptacle for complete knowledge. Lynn felt better because of the man’s mere presence.

Lynn said, “What do you think?”

A scowl twisted Laszlo’s face ferociously. “That They’re that far ahead of us. Completely incredible. It would mean They’ve produced humanoids that could not be told from humans at close quarters. It would mean a considerable advance in robo-mentalics.”

“You’re personally involved,” said Breckenridge, coldly. “Leaving professional pride out of account, exactly why is it impossible that They be ahead of Us?”

Laszlo shrugged. “I assure you that I’m well acquainted with Their literature on robotics. I know approximately where They are.”

“You know approximately where They want you to think They are, is what you really mean,” corrected Breckenridge. “Have you ever visited the other side?”

“I haven’t,” said Laszlo, shortly.

“Nor you, Dr. Lynn?”

Lynn said, “No, I haven’t, either.”

Breckenridge said, “Has any robotics man visited the other side in twenty-five years?” He asked the question with a kind of confidence that indicated he knew the answer.

For a matter of seconds, the atmosphere was heavy with thought. Discomfort crossed Laszlo’s broad face. He said, “As a matter of fact, They haven’t held any conferences on robotics in a long time.”

“In twenty-five years,” said Breckenridge. “Isn’t that significant?”

“Maybe,” said Laszlo, reluctantly. “Something else bothers me, though. None of Them have ever come to Our conferences on robotics. None that I can remember.”

“Were They invited?” asked Breckenridge.

Lynn, staring and worried, interposed quickly, “Of course.”

Breckenridge said, “Do They refuse attendance to any other types of scientific conferences We hold?”

“I don’t know,” said Laszlo. He was pacing the floor now. “I haven’t heard of any cases. Have you, Chief?”

“No,” said Lynn.

Breckenridge said, “Wouldn’t you say it was as though They didn’t want to be put in the position of having to return any such invitation? Or as though They were afraid one of Their men might talk too much?”

That was exactly how it seemed, and Lynn felt a helpless conviction that Security’s story was true after all steal over him.

Why else had there been no contact between sides on robotics? There had been a cross-fertilizing trickle of researchers moving in both directions on a strictly one-for-one basis for years, dating back to the days of Eisenhower and Khrushchev. There were a great many good motives for that: an honest appreciation of the supranational character of science; impulses of friendliness that are hard to wipe out completely in the individual human being; the desire to be exposed to a fresh and interesting outlook and to have your own slightly-stale notions greeted by others as fresh and interesting.

The governments themselves were anxious that this continue. There was always the obvious thought that by learning all you could and telling as little as you could, your own side would gain by the exchange.

But not in the case of robotics. Not there.

Such a little thing to carry conviction. And a thing, moreover, they had known all along. Lynn thought, darkly: We’ve taken the complacent way out.

Because the other side had done nothing publicly on robotics, it had been tempting to sit back smugly and be comfortable in the assurance of superiority. Why hadn’t it seemed possible, even likely, that They were hiding superior cards, a trump hand, for the proper time?

Laszlo said, shakenly, “What do we do?” It was obvious that the same line of thought had carried the same conviction to him.

“Do?” parroted Lynn. It was hard to think right now of anything but of the complete horror that came with conviction. There were ten humanoid robots somewhere in the United States, each one carrying a fragment of a T.C. bomb.

T.C.! The race for sheer horror in bomb-ery had ended there. T.C.! Total Conversion! The sun was no longer a synonym one could use. Total conversion made the sun a penny candle.

Ten humanoids, each completely harmless in separation, could, by the simple act of coming together, exceed critical mass and—

Lynn rose to his feet heavily, the dark pouches under his eyes, which ordinarily lent his ugly face a look of savage foreboding, more prominent than ever. “It’s going to be up to us to figure out ways and means of telling a humanoid from a human and then finding the humanoids.”

“How quickly?” muttered Laszlo.

“Not later than five minutes before they get together,” barked Lynn, “and I don’t know when that will be.”

Breckenridge nodded. “I’m glad you’re with us now, sir. I’m to bring you back to Washington for conference, you know.”

Lynn raised his eyebrows. “All right.”

He wondered if, had he delayed longer in being convinced, he might not have been replaced forthwith—if some other Chief of the Bureau of Robotics might not be conferring in Washington. He suddenly wished earnestly that exactly that had come to pass.

The First Presidential Assistant was there, the Secretary of Science, the Secretary of Security, Lynn himself, and Breckenridge. Five of them sitting about a table in the dungeons of an underground fortress near Washington.

Presidential Assistant Jeffreys was an impressive man, handsome in a white-haired and just-a-trifle-jowly fashion, solid, thoughtful and as unobtrusive, politically, as a Presidential Assistant ought to be.

He spoke incisively. “There are three questions that face us as I see it. First, when are the humanoids going to get together? Second, where are they going to get together? Third, how do we stop them before they get together?”

Secretary of Science Amberley nodded convulsively at that. He had been Dean of Northwestern Engineering before his appointment. He was thin, sharp-featured and noticeably edgy. His forefinger traced slow circles on the table.

“As far as when they’ll get together,” he said. “I suppose it’s definite that it won’t be for some time.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Lynn, sharply.

“They’ve been in the U.S. at least a month already. So Security says.”

Lynn turned automatically to look at Breckenridge, and Secretary of Security Macalaster intercepted the glance. Macalaster said, “The information is reliable. Don’t let Breckenridge’s apparent youth fool you, Dr. Lynn. That’s part of his value to us. Actually, he’s 34 and has been with the department for ten years. He has been in Moscow for nearly a year and without him, none of this terrible danger would be known to us. As it is, we have most of the details.”

“Not the crucial ones,” said Lynn.

Macalaster of Security smiled frostily. His heavy chin and close-set eyes were well-known to the public but almost nothing else about him was. He said, “We are all finitely human, Dr. Lynn. Agent Breckenridge has done a great deal.”

Presidential Assistant Jeffreys cut in. “Let us say we have a certain amount of time. If action at the instant were necessary, it would have happened before this. It seems likely that they are waiting for a specific time. If we knew the place, perhaps the time would become self-evident.

“If they are going to T.C. a target, they will want to cripple us as much as possible, so it would seem that a major city would have to be it. In any case, a major metropolis is the only target worth a T.C. bomb. I think there are four possibilities: Washington, as the administrative center; New York, as the financial center; and Detroit and Pittsburgh as the two chief industrial centers.”

Macalaster of Security said, “I vote for New York. Administration and industry have both been decentralized to the point where the destruction of any one particular city won’t prevent instant retaliation.”

“Then why New York?” asked Amberly of Science, perhaps more sharply than he intended. “Finance has been decentralized as well.”

“A question of morale. It may be they intend to destroy our will to resist, to induce surrender by the sheer horror of the first blow. The greatest destruction of human life would be in the New York Metropolitan area—”

“Pretty cold-blooded,” muttered Lynn.

“I know,” said Macalaster of Security, “but they’re capable of it, if they thought it would mean final victory at a stroke. Wouldn’t we—”

Presidential Assistant Jeffreys brushed back his white hair. “Let’s assume the worst. Let’s assume that New York will be destroyed some time during the winter, preferably immediately after a serious blizzard when communications are at their worst and the disruption of utilities and food supplies in fringe areas will be most serious in their effect. Now, how do we stop them?”

Amberley of Science could only say, “Finding ten men in two hundred and twenty million is an awfully small needle in an awfully large haystack.”

Jeffreys shook his head. “You have it wrong. Ten humanoids among two hundred twenty million humans.”

“No difference,” said Amberley of Science. “We don’t know that a humanoid can be differentiated from a human at sight. Probably not.” He looked at Lynn. They all did.

Lynn said heavily, “We in Cheyenne couldn’t make one that would pass as human in the daylight.”

“But They can,” said Macalaster of Security, “and not only physically. We’re sure of that. They’ve advanced mentalic procedures to the point where they can reel off the microelectronic pattern of the brain and focus it on the positronic pathways of the robot.”

Lynn stared. “Are you implying that they can create the replica of a human being complete with personality and memory?”

“I do.”

“Of specific human beings?”

“That’s right.”

“Is this also based on Agent Breckenridge’s findings?”

“Yes. The evidence can’t be disputed.”

Lynn bent his head in thought for a moment. Then he said, “Then ten men in the United States are not men but humanoids. But the originals would have had to be available to them. They couldn’t be Orientals, who would be too easy to spot, so they would have to be East Europeans. How would they be introduced into this country, then? With the radar network over the entire world border as tight as a drum, how could They introduce any individual, human or humanoid, without our knowing it?”

Macalaster of Security said, “It can be done. There are certain legitimate seepages across the border. Businessmen, pilots, even tourists. They’re watched, of course, on both sides. Still ten of them might have been kidnapped and used as models for humanoids. The humanoids would then be sent back in their place. Since we wouldn’t expect such a substitution, it would pass us by. If they were Americans to begin with, there would be no difficulty in their getting into this country. It’s as simple as that.”

“And even their friends and family could not tell the difference?”

“We must assume so. Believe me, we’ve been waiting for any report that might imply sudden attacks of amnesia or troublesome changes in personality. We’ve checked on thousands.”

Amberley of Science stared at his fingertips. “I think ordinary measures won’t work. The attack must come from the Bureau of Robotics and I depend on the chief of that bureau.”

Again eyes turned sharply, expectantly, on Lynn.

Lynn felt bitterness rise. It seemed to him that this was what the conference came to and was intended for. Nothing that had been said had not been said before. He was sure of that. There was no solution to the problem, no pregnant suggestion. It was a device for the record, a device on the part of men who gravely feared defeat and who wished the responsibility for it placed clearly and unequivocally on someone else.

And yet there was justice in it. It was in robotics that We had fallen short. And Lynn was not Lynn merely. He was Lynn of Robotics and the responsibility had to be his.

He said, “I will do what I can.”

He spent a wakeful night and there was a haggardness about both body and soul when he sought and attained another interview with Presidential Assistant Jeffreys the next morning. Breckenridge was there, and though Lynn would have preferred a private conference, he could see the justice in the situation. It was obvious that Breckenridge had attained enormous influence with the government as a result of his successful Intelligence work. Well, why not?

Lynn said, “Sir, I am considering the possibility that we are hopping uselessly to enemy piping.”

“In what way?”

“I’m sure that however impatient the public may grow at times, and however legislators sometimes find it expedient to talk, the government at least recognizes the world stalemate to be beneficial. They must recognize it also. Ten humanoids with one T.C. bomb is a trivial way of breaking the stalemate.”

“The destruction of fifteen million human beings is scarcely trivial.”

“It is from the world power standpoint. It would not so demoralize us as to make us surrender or so cripple us as to convince us we could not win. There would just be the same old planetary death-war that both sides have avoided so long and so successfully. And all They would have accomplished is to force us to fight minus one city. It’s not enough.”

“What do you suggest?” said Jeffreys, coldly. “That They do not have ten humanoids in our country? That there is not a T.C. bomb waiting to get together?”

“I’ll agree that those things are here, but perhaps for some reason greater than just midwinter bomb-madness.”

“Such as?”

“It may be that the physical destruction resulting from the humanoids getting together is not the worst thing that can happen to us. What about the moral and intellectual destruction that comes of their being here at all? With all due respect to Agent Breckenridge, what if They intended for us to find out about the humanoids; what if the humanoids are never supposed to get together, but merely to remain separate in order to give us something to worry about.”

“Why?”

“Tell me this. What measures have already been taken against the humanoids? I suppose that Security is going through the files of all citizens who have ever been across the border or close enough to it to make kidnapping possible. I know, since Macalaster mentioned it yesterday, that they are following up suspicious psychiatric cases. What else?”

Jeffreys said, “Small X-ray devices are being installed in key places in the large cities. In the mass arenas, for instance—”

“Where ten humanoids might slip in among a hundred thousand spectators of a football game or an air-polo match?”

“Exactly.”

“And concert halls and churches?”

“We must start somewhere. We can’t do it all at once.”

“Particularly when panic must be avoided?” said Lynn. “Isn’t that so? It wouldn’t do to have the public realize that at any unpredictable moment, some unpredictable city and its human contents would suddenly cease to exist.”

“I suppose that’s obvious. What are you driving at?”

Lynn said strenuously, “That a growing fraction of our national effort will be diverted entirely into the nasty problem of what Amberley called finding a very small needle in a very large haystack. We’ll be chasing our tails madly, while They increase their research lead to the point where we find we can no longer catch up; when we must surrender without the chance even of snapping our fingers in retaliation.

“Consider further that this news will leak out as more and more people become involved in our countermeasures and more and more people begin to guess what we’re doing. Then what? The panic might do us more harm than any one T.C. bomb.”

The Presidential Assistant said, irritably, “In Heaven’s name, man, what do you suggest we do, then?”

“Nothing,” said Lynn. “Call their bluff. Live as we have lived and gamble that They won’t dare break the stalemate for the sake of a one-bomb headstart.”

“Impossible!” said Jeffreys. “Completely impossible. The welfare of all of Us is very largely in my hands, and doing nothing is the one thing I cannot do. I agree with you, perhaps, that X-ray machines at sports arenas are a kind of skin-deep measure that won’t be effective, but it has to be done so that people, in the aftermath, do not come to the bitter conclusion that we tossed our country away for the sake of a subtle line of reasoning that encouraged do-nothingism. In fact, our counter-gambit will be active indeed.”

“In what way?”

Presidential Assistant Jeffreys looked at Breckenridge. The young Security officer, hitherto calmly silent, said, “It’s no use talking about a possible future break in the stalemate when the stalemate is broken now. It doesn’t matter whether these humanoids explode or do not. Maybe they are only a bait to divert us, as you say. But the fact remains that we are a quarter of a century behind in robotics, and that may be fatal. What other advances in robotics will there be to surprise us if war does start? The only answer is to divert our entire force immediately, now, into a crash program of robotics research, and the first problem is to find the humanoids. Call it an exercise in robotics, if you will, or call it the prevention of the death of fifteen million men, women and children.”

Lynn shook his head, helplessly, “You can’t. You’d be playing into their hands. They want us lured into the one blind alley while they’re free to advance in all other directions.”

Jeffreys said, impatiently, “That’s your guess. Breckenridge has made his suggestion through channels and the government has approved, and we will begin with an all-Science conference.”

“All-Science?”

Breckenridge said, “We have listed every important scientist of every branch of natural science. They’ll all be at Cheyenne. There will be only one point on the agenda: How to advance robotics. The major specific subheading under that will be: How to develop a receiving device for the electromagnetic fields of the cerebral cortex that will be sufficiently delicate to distinguish between a protoplasmic human brain and a positronic humanoid brain.”

Jeffreys said, “We had hoped you would be willing to be in charge of the conference.”

“I was not consulted in this.”

“Obviously time was short, sir. Do you agree to be in charge?”

Lynn smiled briefly. It was a matter of responsibility again. The responsibility must be clearly that of Lynn of Robotics. He had the feeling it would be Breckenridge who would really be in charge. But what could he do?

He said, “I agree.”

Breckenridge and Lynn returned together to Cheyenne, where that evening Laszlo listened with a sullen mistrust to Lynn’s description of coming events.

Laszlo said, “While you were gone, Chief, I’ve started putting five experimental models of humanoid structure through the testing procedures. Our men are on a twelve-hour day, with three shifts overlapping. If we’ve got to arrange a conference, we’re going to be crowded and red-taped out of everything. Work will come to a halt.”

Breckenridge said, “That will be only temporary. You will gain more than you lose.”

Laszlo scowled. “A bunch of astrophysicists and geochemists around won’t help a damn toward robotics.”

“Views from specialists of other fields may be helpful.”

“Are you sure? How do we know that there is any way of detecting brain waves or that, even if we can, there is a way of differentiating human and humanoid by wave pattern. Who set up the project, anyway?”

“I did,” said Breckenridge.

“You did? Are you a robotics man?”

The young Security agent said, calmly, “I have studied robotics.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“I’ve had access to text-material dealing with Russian robotics—in Russian. Top-secret material well in advance of anything you have here.”

Lynn said, ruefully, “He has us there, Laszlo.”

“It was on the basis of that material,” Breckenridge went on, “that I suggested this particular line of investigation. It is reasonably certain that in copying off the electromagnetic pattern of a specific human mind into a specific positronic brain, a perfectly exact duplicate cannot be made. For one thing, the most complicated positronic brain small enough to fit into a human-sized skull is hundreds of times less complex than the human brain. It can’t pick up all the overtones, therefore, and there must be some way to take advantage of that fact.”

Laszlo looked impressed despite himself and Lynn smiled grimly. It was easy to resent Breckenridge and the coming intrusion of several hundred scientists of non-robotics specialties, but the problem itself was an intriguing one. There was that consolation, at least.

It came to him quietly.

Lynn found he had nothing to do but sit in his office alone, with an executive position that had grown merely titular. Perhaps that helped. It gave him time to think, to picture the creative scientists of half the world converging on Cheyenne.

It was Breckenridge who, with cool efficiency, was handling the details of preparation. There had been a kind of confidence in the way he said, “Let’s get together and we’ll lick Them.”

Let’s get together.

It came to Lynn so quietly that anyone watching Lynn at that moment might have seen his eyes blink slowly twice—but surely nothing more.

He did what he had to do with a whirling detachment that kept him calm when he felt that, by all rights, he ought to be going mad.

He sought out Breckenridge in the other’s improvised quarters.

Breckenridge was alone and frowning. “Is anything wrong, sir?”

Lynn said, wearily, “Everything’s right, I think. I’ve invoked martial law.”

“What!”

“As chief of a division I can do so if I am of the opinion the situation warrants it. Over my division, I can then be dictator. Chalk up one for the beauties of decentralization.”

“You will rescind that order immediately.” Breckenridge took a step forward. “When Washington hears this, you will be ruined.”

“I’m ruined anyway. Do you think I don’t realize that I’ve been set up for the role of the greatest villain in American history: the man who let Them break the stalemate. I have nothing to lose—and perhaps a great deal to gain.”

He laughed a little wildly, “What a target the Division of Robotics will be, eh, Breckenridge? Only a few thousand men to be killed by a T.C. bomb capable of wiping out three hundred square miles in one microsecond. But five hundred of those men would be our greatest scientists. We would be in the peculiar position of having to fight a war with our brains shot out, or surrendering. I think we’d surrender.”

“But this is impossible. Lynn, do you hear me? Do you understand? How could the humanoids pass our security provisions? How could they get together?”

“But they are getting together! We’re helping them to do so. We’re ordering them to do so. Our scientists visit the other side, Breckenridge. They visit Them regularly. You made a point of how strange it was that no one in robotics did. Well, ten of those scientists are still there and in their place, ten humanoids are converging on Cheyenne.”

“That’s a ridiculous guess.”

“I think it’s a good one, Breckenridge. But it wouldn’t work unless we knew humanoids were in America so that we would call the conference in the first place. Quite a coincidence that you brought the news of the humanoids and suggested the conference and suggested the agenda and are running the show and know exactly which scientists were invited. Did you make sure the right ten were included?”

“Dr. Lynn!” cried Breckenridge in outrage. He poised to rush forward.

Lynn said, “Don’t move. I’ve got a blaster here. We’ll just wait for the scientists to get here one by one. One by one we’ll X-ray them. One by one, we’ll monitor them for radioactivity. No two will get together without being checked, and if all five hundred are clear, I’ll give you my blaster and surrender to you. Only I think we’ll find the ten humanoids. Sit down, Breckenridge.”

They both sat.

Lynn said, “We wait. When I’m tired, Laszlo will spell me. We wait.”

Professor Manuelo Jiminez of the Institute of Higher Studies of Buenos Aires exploded while the stratospheric jet on which he traveled was three miles above the Amazon Valley. It was a simple chemical explosion but it was enough to destroy the plane.

Dr. Herman Liebowitz of M.I.T. exploded in a monorail, killing twenty people and injuring a hundred others.

In similar manner, Dr. Auguste Marin of L’Institut Nucléonique of Montreal and seven others died at various stages of their journey to Cheyenne.

Laszlo hurtled in, pale-faced and stammering, with the first news of it. It had only been two hours that Lynn had sat there, facing Breckenridge, blaster in hand.

Laszlo said, “I thought you were nuts, Chief, but you were right. They were humanoids. They had to be.” He turned to stare with hate-filled eyes at Breckenridge. “Only they were warned. He warned them, and now there won’t be one left intact. Not one to study.”

“God!” cried Lynn and in a frenzy of haste thrust his blaster out toward Breckenridge and fired. The Security man’s neck vanished; the torso fell; the head dropped, thudded against the floor and rolled crookedly.

Lynn moaned, “I didn’t understand, I thought he was a traitor. Nothing more.”

And Laszlo stood immobile, mouth open, for the moment incapable of speech.

Lynn said, wildly. “Sure, he warned them. But how could he do so while sitting in that chair unless he were equipped with built-in radio transmission? Don’t you see it? Breckenridge had been in Moscow. The real Breckenridge is still there. Oh my God, there were eleven of them.”

Laszlo managed a hoarse squeak. “Why didn’t he explode?”

“He was hanging on, I suppose, to make sure the others had received his message and were safely destroyed. Lord, Lord, when you brought the news and I realized the truth, I couldn’t shoot fast enough. God knows by how few seconds I may have beaten him to it.”

Laszlo said, shakily, “At least, we’ll have one to study.” He bent and put his fingers on the sticky fluid trickling out of the mangled remains at the neck end of the headless body.

Not blood, but high-grade machine oil.

Colophon

Short Science Fiction
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