PREVIEW — When artist Ed Valigursky introduced his spherical moon shuttle-ships in the May (1954) issue, one of the scenes offered such unusual possibilities as a cover we asked him to do it in full color. The scene is that of a shuttle-ship discharging its cargo on the moon and it will appear on the next (October) Issue of IF. It Is reproduced here in black on a blue tint — but you should see it in full color! It's the most colorful and effective moon action illustration we've seen in a long, long time. Don't miss it!

WORLDS of SCIENCE FICTION

AUGUST 1955 All Stories New and Complete

Editor: JAMES L. QUINN

Assist. Editors: EVE WULFF, ROBERT W. GREENE Art Editor: ED VALIGURSKY

I SHORT NOVEL

s

I BIRTHRIGHT by April Smith 16

i NOVELETTES

s

I BLEEDBACK by Winston Marks 60

I THE MOLD OF YANCY by Philip K. Dick 7B

I

I SHORT STORIES

I FRANCHISE by Isaac Asimov 2

I THE ETHICATORS by Willard Marsh 55

I THE PATRIOT by Chorles L. Fontenoy 96

I ECOLOGY ON ROLLINS ISLAND by Varley Lang 106

3

S

1 FEATURES

I WORTH CITING 54

I WHAT IS YOUR SCIENCE I.Q.? 77

I SCIENCE BRIEFS 118

I COVER: I

I By Kenneth Rossi, illustrating "Bleedback" |

3 E

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiMiiiiiiiimii

IF is published bi-monthly by Quinn Publishing Company, Inc. Volume 5, No. 5. Copyr»ht 1955 by Quinn Publishing Co., Inc. Office of publication, 8 Lord Street, Buffalo, New York. Entered as Second Class Matter at Post Office, Buffalo, New York. Subscription $3.50 for 12 issues in U.S. and Possessions; Canada $4 for 12 issues; elsewhere ^.50. Allow four weeks for change of address. All stories appear^ ing in this marazine are fiction; any similarity to actual persons is coincidentaL Not responsible tor unsolicited artwork or manuscripts. 35c a copy. Printed in U.S. A.

EDITORIAL AND BUSINESS OFFICES, KINGSTON, NEW YORK

Next issue on sale August I2th

BY ISAAC ASIMOV

FRANCHISE

It was a frightening thing to happen to a person; the responsi- bility was just too great. But Norman Muller couldn’t back out. Multivac had chosen him, and the entire nation waited . . .

2

Ififiiliiinil

Illustrated by Paul Orban

Linda, aged lO, was the only ^one of the family who seemed to enjoy being awake.

Norman Muller could hear her now through his own drugged, un- healthy coma. (He had finally managed to fall asleep an hour earlier but even then it was more like exhaustion than sleep.)

She was at his bedside now, shaking him. “Daddy, Daddy, wake up. Wake up!”

He suppressed a groan. “All right, Linda.”

“But, Daddy, there’s more policemen around than any time! Police cars and everything!”

Norman Muller gave up and rose blearily to his elbows. The day was beginning. It was faintly stirring toward dawn outside, the germ of a miserable gray that looked about as miserably gray as he felt. He could hear Sarah, his wife, shuf- fling about breakfast duties in the kitchen. His father-in-law, Mat- thew, was hawking strenuously in the bathroom. No doubt Agent Handley was ready and waiting for him.

This was the day.

Election day!

To begin with, it had been like

3

every other year. Maybe a little worse, because it was a Presiden- tial year, but no worse than other Presidential years if it came to that.

The politicians spoke about the guh-reat electorate and the vast electuh-ronic intelligence that was its servant. The press analyzed the situation with industrial computers (the New York Times and the St. Louis Post-Dispatch had their own computers) and were full of little hints as to what would be forth- coming. Commentators and col- umnists pin-pointed the crucial state and county in happy contra- diction to one another.

The first hint that it would not be like every other year, was when Sarah Muller said to her husband on the evening of October 4 (with Election Day exactly a month off), “Cantwell Johnson says that In- diana will be the state this year. He’s the fourth one. Just think, our state this time.”

Matthew Hortenweiler took his fleshy face from behind the paper, stared dourly at his daughter and growled, “Those fellows are paid to tell lies. Don’t listen to them.” “Four of them, Father,” said Sarah, mildly. “Tliey all say In- diana.”

“Indiana is a key state, Mat- thew,” said Norman, just as mildly, “on account of the Hawkins-Smith Act and this mess in Indianapolis. It—”

Matthew twisted his old face alarmingly and rasped out, “No one says Bloomington or Monroe County, do they?”

“Well — ” said Norman.

Linda, whose little point-chin

4

face had been shifting from one speaker to the next, said pipingly, “You going to be voting this year. Daddy?”

Norman smiled gently and said, “I don’t think so, dear.”

But this was in the gradually growing excitement of an October in a Presidential Election Year and Sarah had led a quiet life with dreams for her companions. She said, longingly, “Wouldn’t that be wonderful, though?”

“If I voted?” Norman Muller had a small, blonde mustache that had given him a debonair quality in the young Sarah’s eyes, but which, with gradual graying, had declined merely to lack of dis- tinction. His forehead bore deepen- ing lines bom of uncertainty and, in general, he had never seduced his clerkly soul with the thought that he was either born great or would under any circumstances achieve greatness. He had a wife, a job and a little girl and except under extraordinary conditions of elation or depression was inclined to consider that to be an adequate bargain struck with life.

So he was a little embarrassed and more than a little uneasy at the direction his wife’s thoughts were taking. “Actually, my dear,” he said, “there are two hundred million people in the country, and with odds like that, I don’t think we ought to waste our time won- dering about it.”

His wife said, “Why, Norman, it’s no such thing like two hundred million and you know it. In the first place, only people between 20 and 60 are eligible and it’s always

ISAAC ASIMOV

men, so that puts it down to may- be fifty million to one. Then, if it’s really Indiana — ”

“Then it’s about one and a quar- ter million to one. You wouldn’t want me to bet in a horse race against those odds, now, would you? Let’s have supper.”

Matthew muttered from behind his newspaper, “Damned foolish- ness.”

Linda asked again, “You going to be voting this year, Daddy?” Norman shook his head and they all adjourned to the dining room.

By OCTOBER 20, Sarah’s ex- citement was rising rapidly. Over the coffee, she announced that Mrs. Schultz, having a cousin who was the secretary of an As- semblyman, said that all the “smart money” was on Indiana.

“She says President Villers is even going to make a speech at Indianapolis.”

Norman Muller, who had had a hard day at the store, nudged the statement with a raising of eye- brows and let it go at that.

Matthew Hortenweiler, who was chronically dissatisfied with Wash- ington, said, “If Villers makes a speech in Indiana, that means he thinks Multivac will pick Arizona. He wouldn’t have the guts to go closer, the mushhead.”

Sarah, who ignored her father whenever she could decently do so, said, “I don’t know why they don’t announce the state as soon as they can, and then the county and so on. Then the people who were eliminated could relax.”

“If they did anything like that,” pointed out Norman, “the politi- cians would follow the announce- ments like vultures. By the time it was narrowed down to a township, you’d have a Congressman or two at every street-comer.”

Matthew narrowed his eyes and brushed angrily at his sparse, gray hair, “They’re vultures, anyhow. Listen — ”

Sarah murmured, “Now, Fa- ther— ”

Matthew’s voice rumbled over her protest without as much as a stumble or hitch. “Listen, I was around when they set up Multivac. It would end partisan politics, they said. No more voter’s money wasted on campaigns. No more grinning nobodies high-pressured and ad- vertising-campaigned into Con- gress or the White House. So what happens? More campaigning than ever, only now they do it blind. They’ll send guys to Indiana on account of the Hawkins-Smith Act and other guys to California in case it’s the Joe Hammer situation that turns crucial. I say, wipe out all that nonsense. Back to the good, old—”

Linda asked, suddenly, “Don’t you want Daddy to vote this year, Grandpa?”

Matthew glared at the young girl. “Never you mind now.” He turned back to Norman and Sarah. “There was a time I voted. Marched right up to the polling booth, stuck my fist on the levers and voted. There was nothing to it. I just said: This fellow’s my man and I’m voting for him. That's the way it should be.”

FRANCHISE

5

Linda said excitedly, “You voted, Grandpa? You really did?”

Sarah leaned forw^ird quickly to quiet what might easily become an incongruous story drifting about the neighborhood. “It’s nothing, Linda. Grandpa doesn’t really mean voted. When he was a little boy, they had something they called voting. Everyone did that kind of voting, Grandpa, too, but it wasn’t really voting.”

Matthew roared, “It wasn’t when I was a little boy. I was 22 and I voted for Langley and it was real voting. My vote didn’t count for much, maybe, but it was as good as anyone else’s. Anyone else’s. And no Multi vac to — ”

Norman interposed. “All right, Linda, time for bed. And stop ask- ing questions about voting. When you grow up, you’ll understand all about it.”

He kissed her with antiseptic gentleness and she moved reluc- tantly out of range under maternal prodding and a promise that she might watch the bedside video till 9:15, if she was prompt about the bathing ritual.

Linda said, “Grandpa,” and stood with her chin down and her hands behind her back until his newspaper lowered itself to the point where shaggy eyebrows and eyes, nested in fine wrinkles, showed themselves. It was Friday, October 31.

He said, “Yes?”

Linda came closer and put both her forearms on one of the old man’s knees so that he had to dis- card his newspaper altogether.

6

She said, “Grandpa, did you really once vote?”

He said, “You heard me say I did, didn’t you? Do you think I tell fibs?”

“N — no, but Mamma says every- body voted then.”

“So they did.”

“But how could they? How could everybody vote?”

Matthew stared at her solemnly, then lifted her and put her on his knee.

He even moderated the tonal qualities of his voice. He said, “You see, Linda, till about forty years ago, everybody always voted. Say we wanted to decide who was to be the new President of the United States. The Democrats and Repub- licans would both nominate some- one and everybody would say who they wanted. When Election Day was over, they would count how many people wanted the Democrat and how many wanted the Repub- lican. Whoever had more votes was elected. You see?”

Linda nodded and said, “How did all the people know who to vote for? Did Multivac tell them?” Matthew’s eyebrows hunched down and he looked severe. “They just used their own judgment, girl.” She edged away from him and he lowered his voice again, “I’m not angry at you, Linda. But, you see, sometimes it took all night to count what everyone said and peo- ple were impatient. So they in- vented special machines which could look at the first few votes and compare them with the votes from the same places in previous years. That way the machine could

ISAAC ASIMOV

compute how the total vote would be and who would be elected. You see?”

She nodded. “Like Multivac.” “The first computers were much smaller than Multivac. But the machines grew bigger and they could tell how the election would go from fewer and fewer votes. Then, at last, they built Multivac and it can tell from just one voter.” Linda smiled at having reached a familiar part of the story and said, “That’s nice.”

Matthew frowned and said, “No, it’s not nice. I don’t want a ma- chine telling me how I would have voted just because some joker in Milwaukee says he’s against higher tariffs. Maybe I want to vote cockeyed just for the pleasure of it. Maybe I don’t want to vote. Maybe — ”

But Linda had wriggled from his knee and was beating a retreat.

She met her mother at the door. Her mother, who was still wearing her coat and had not even had time to remove her hat, said breathlessly, “Run along, Linda. Don’t get in mother’s way.”

Then she said to Matthew as she lifted her hat from her head and patted her hair back into place, “I’ve been at Agatha’s.” Matthew stared at her censo- riously and did not even dignify that piece of information with a grunt as he groped for his news- paper.

Sarah said, as she unbuttoned her coat, “Guess what she said?” Matthew flattened out his news- paper for reading purposes with a sharp crackle and said, “Don’t

FRANCHISE

much care.”

Sarah said, “Now, Father — ” But she had no time for anger. The news had to be told and Mat- thew was the only recipient handy. So she went on, “Agatha’s Joe is a policeman, you know, and he says a whole truckload of secret service men came into Blooming- ton last night.”

“They’re not after me.”

“Don’t you see. Father? Secret service agents, and it’s almost elec- tion time. In Bloomington!’^

“Maybe they’re after a bank robber.”

“There hasn’t been a bank rob- bery in town in ages . . . Father, you’re hopeless.”

She stalked away.

Nor did Norman Muller receive the news with noticeably greater excitement.

“Now, Sarah, how did Agatha’s Joe know they were secret service agents,” he asked, calmly. “They wouldn’t go around with identi- fication cards pasted on their fore- heads.”

But by next evening, with No- vember a day old, she could say triumphantly, “It’s just everyone in Bloomington that’s waiting for someone local to be the voter. The Bloomington News as much as said so on video.”

Norman stirred uneasily. He couldn’t deny it, and his heart was sinking. If Bloomington was really to be hit by Multivac’s lightning, it would mean newspapermen, video shows, tourists, all sorts of — strange upset. Norman liked the quiet rou- tine of his life and the distant stir

7

of politics was getting uncomfort- ably close.

He said, “It*s all rumor. Nothing more.”

“You wait and see, then. You just wait and see.”

As things turned out, there was very little time to wait, for the door-bell rang insistently, and when Norman Muller opened it and said, “Yes?” a tall, grave-faced man said, “Are you Norman Mul- ler?”

Norman said, “Yes” again, but in a strange dying voice. It was not difficult to see from the stran- ger’s bearing that he was one car- rying authority and the nature of his errand suddenly became as in- evitably obvious as it had, until the moment before, been unthinkably impossible.

The man presented credentials, stepped into the house, closed the door behind him and said ritualis- tically, “Mr. Norman Muller, it is necessary for me to inform you on the behalf of the President of the United States that you have been chosen to represent the American electorate on Tuesday, November 4, 2008.”

Norman MULLER managed, with difficulty, to walk un- aided to his chair. He sat there, white-faced and almost insensible, while Sarah brought water, slapped his hands in panic and moaned to her husband between clenched teeth, “Don’t be sick, Norman. DonH be sick. They’ll pick some- one else.”

When Norman could manage to

8

talk, he whispered, “I’m sorry, sir.

The secret service agent had re- moved his coat, unbuttoned his jacket and was sitting at esise on the couch.

“It’s all right,” he said, and the mark of officialdom seemed to have vanished with the formal an- nouncement and leave him simply a large and rather friendly man. “This is the sixth time I’ve made the announcement and I’ve seen all kinds of reactions. Not one of them was the kind you see on the video. You know what I mean? A holy, dedicated look, and a charac- ter who says: Tt will be a great privilege to serve my country.’ That sort of stuff.” The agent laughed comfortingly.

Sarah’s accompanying laugh held a trace of shrill hysteria.

The agent said, “Now you’re go- ing to have me with you for a while. My name is Phil Handley. I’d appreciate it if you call me Phil. Mr. Muller can’t leave the house any more till Election Day. You’ll have to inform the depart- ment store that he’s sick, Mrs. Mul- ler. You can go about your busi- ness for a while but you’ll have to agree not to say a word about this. Right, Mrs. Muller?”

Sarah nodded vigorously. “No, sir. Not a word.”

“All right. But, Mrs. Muller,” Handley looked grave, “we’re not kidding now. Go out only if you must and you’ll be followed when you do. I’m sorry but that’s the way we must operate.”

“Followed?”

“It won’t be obvious. Don’t wor- ISAAC ASIMOV

ry. And it’s only for two days till the formal announcement to the nation is made. Your daughter — ”

“She’s in bed,” said Sarah, hastily.

“Good. She’ll have to be told I’m a relative or friend staying with the family. If she does find out the truth, she’ll have to be kept in the house. Your father had better stay in tlfe house in any case.”

“He won’t like that,” said Sarah.

“Can’t be helped. Now, since you have no odiers living with you — ”

“You know all about us, ap- parently,” whispered Norman.

“Quite a bit,” agreed Handley. “In any case, those are all my in- structions to you for the moment. I’ll try to co-operate as much as I can and be as little of a nuisance as possible. The government will pay for my maintenance so I won’t be an expense to you. I’ll be re- lieved each night by someone who will sit up in this room, so there will be no problem about sleeping accommodations. Now, Mr. Mul- ler—”

“Sir?”

“You can call me Phil,” said the agent again. “The purpose of the two days preliminary to formal announcement is to get you used to your position. We prefer to have you face Multivac in as normal a state of mind as possible. Just re- lax and try to feel this is all in a day’s work. Okay?”

“Okay,” said Norman, and then shook his head violently. “But I don’t want the responsibility. Why me?”

“All right,” said Handley, “let’s FRANCHISE

get that straight to begin with. Multivac weighs all sorts of known factors, billions of them. One factor isn’t known, though, and won’t be known for a long time. That’s the reaction pattern of the human mind. All Americans are subjected to molding pressure of what other Americans do and say, to the things that are done to him and the things he does to others. Any American can be brought to Multivac to have the bent of his mind surveyed. From that the bent of all other minds in the country can be esti- mated. Some Americans are better for the purpose than others at some given time, depending upon the happenings of diat year. Multivac picked you as most representative this year. Not the smartest, or the strongest, or the luckiest, but just the most representative. Now we don’t question Multivac, do we?”

“Couldn’t it make a mistake?” asked Norman.

Sarah, who listened impatiently, interrupted to say, “Don’t listen to him, sir. He’s just nervous, you know. Actually, he’s very well-read and he always follows politics very closely.”

Handley said, “Multivac makes the decisions, Mrs. Muller. It picked your husband.”

“But does it know everything?” insisted Norman, wildly. “Can’t it have made a mistake?”

“Yes, it can. There’s no point in not being frank. In 1993, a selected Voter died of a stroke two hours before it was time for him to be notified. Multivac didn’t predict that; it couldn’t. A Voter might be mentally unstable, morally un-

9

suitable, or, for that matter, dis- loyal. Multivac can’t know every- thing about everybody until he’s fed all the data there is. That’s why alternate selections are always held in readiness. I don’t think we’ll be using one this time. You’re in good health, Mr. Muller, and you’ve been carefully* investigated. You qualify.”

Norman buried his face in his hands and sat motionless,

“By tomorrow morning, sir,” said Sarah, “he’ll be perfectly all right. He just has to get used to it, that’s all.”

“Of course,” said Handley.

In the privacy of their bed- chamber, Sarah Muller expressed herself in stronger fashion. The burden of her lecture was, “So get hold of yourself, Norman. You’re trying to throw away the chance of a lifetime.”

Norman whispered, desperately, “It frightens me, Sarah. The whole thing.”

“For goodness sake, why? What’s there to it but answering a question or two?”

“The responsibility is too great. I couldn’t face it.”

“What responsibility? There isn’t any. Multivac picked you. It’s Multivac’s responsibility. Everyone knows that.”

Norman sat up in bed in a sud- den access of rebellion and anguish. “Everyone is supposed to know that. But they don’t. They — ”

“Lower your voice,” hissed Sarah, icily. “They’ll hear you downtown.”

“They don’t,” said Norman, de-

clining quickly to a whisper. “ When they talk about the Ridgely ad- ministration of 1988, do they say that Ridgely was corrupt and the nation was foolish to elect him? Do they say he won them over with pie-in-the-sky promises and racist baloney? No! They talk about the ‘goddam MacComber vote’ as though Humphrey MacComber was the only man who had any- thing to do with it because he faced Multivac. I’ve said it my- self— only now I think, the poor guy was just a truck-farmer who didn’t ask to be picked. Why was it his fault more than anyone else’s. Now his name is a curse.”

“You’re just being childish,” said Sarah.

“I’m being sensible. I tell you, Sarah, I won’t accept. They can’t make me vote if I don’t want to. I’ll say I’m sick. I’ll say—”

But Sarah had had enough. “Now you listen to me,” she whis- pered in a cold fury. “You don’t have only yourself to think about. You know what it means to be Voter of the Year. A Presidential year at that. It means publicity and fame and, maybe, buckets of money — ”

“And then I go back to being a clerk.”

“You will not. You’ll have a branch managership at the least if you have any brains at all, and you will have, because I’ll tell you what to do. You control the kind of publicity if you play your cards right, and you can force Kennell Stores, Inc. into a tight contract and an escalator clause in connec- tion with your salary and z, decent

10

ISAAC ASIMOV

pension plan.”

“That’s not the point in being Voter, Sarah.”

“That will be your point. If you don’t owe anything to yourself or to me — I’m not asking for myself — ^you owe something to Linda.”

Norman groaned.

“Well, don’t you?” snapped Sarah.

“Yes, dear,” murmured Norman.

On November 3, the official an- nouncement was made and it was too late for Norman to back out even if he had been able to find the courage to make the attempt.

Their house was sealed off. Se- cret service agents made their ap- pearance in the open, blocking off all approach.

At first the telephone rang in- cessantly, but Philip Handley with an engagingly apologetic smile took all calls. Eventually, the exchange shunted all calls directly to the po- lice station.

Noiman imagined that in that way, he was spared not only the bubbling (and envious?) congratu- lations of friends, but also the egre- gious pressure of salesmen scenting a prospect and the designing smoothness of politicians from all over the nation. Perhaps even death threats from the inevitable cranks.

Newspapers were forbidden to the house now in order to keep out weighted pressure and television was gently but firmly disconnected, over Linda’s loud protests.

Matthew growled and stayed in his room; Linda, after the first flurry of excitement, sulked and

FRANCHISE

whined because she could not leave the house; Sarah divided her time between preparation of meals for the present and plans for the fu- ture; and Norman’s depression lived and fed upon itself.

And the morning of Tuesday, November 4, 2008, came at last and it was Election Day.

rr WAS EARLY breakfast, but only Norman Muller ate, and that mechanically. Even a shower and shave had not succeeded in either restoring him to reality or removing his own conviction that he was as grimy without as he felt grimy within.

Handley’s friendly voice did its best to shed some normality over the gray and unfriendly dawn. (The weather prediction had been for a cloudy day with prospects of rain before noon.)

Handley said, “We’ll keep this house insulated till Mr. Muller is back, but after that we’ll be off your necks.” The secret service agent was in full uniform now, in- cluding side-aums in heavily- brassed holsters.

“You’ve been no trouble at all, Mr. Handley,” simpered Sarah.

Norman drank through two cups of black coffee, wiped his lips with a napkin, stood up and said, hag- gardly, “I’m ready.”

Handley stood up, too, “Very well, sir. And thank you, Mrs. Muller, for your very kind hos- pitality.”

The armored car purred down empty streets. They were empty

n

even for that hour of the morning.

Handley indicated that and said, “They always shift traffic away from the line of drive ever since the attempted bombing that nearly ruined the Leverett election of ’92.”

When the car stopped, Norman was helped oiit by the always polite Handley into an under- ground drive whose walls were lined with soldiers at attention.

He was led into a brightly lit room, in which three white-uni- formed men greeted him smilingly.

Norman said, sharply, “But this is the hospital?”

“There’s no significance to that,” said Handley, at once. “It’s just that the hospital has the necessary facilities.”

“Well, what do I do?”

Handley nodded. One of the three men in white advanced and said, “I’ll take over now, agent.”

Handley saluted in an ofT-hand manner and left the room.

The man in white said, “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Muller? I’m John Paulson, Senior Computer. These are Samson Levine and Peter Dorogobuzh, my assistants.”

Norman numbly shook hands all around. Paulson was a man of mid- dle height with a soft face that seemed used to smiling and a very obvious toupee. He wore plastic- rimmed glasses of an old-fashioned cut, and he lit a cigarette as he talked. (Norman refused his offer of one.)

Paulson said, “In the first place, Mr. Muller, I want you to know we are in no hurry. We want you to stay with us all day if necessary,

12

just so that you get used to your surroundings and get over any thought you might have that there is anything unusual in this, any- thing clinical, if you know what I mean.”

“It’s all right,” said Norman. “I’d just as soon this were over.”

“I understand your feelings. Still, we want you to know exactly what’s going on. In the first place, Mul- tivac isn’t here.”

“It isn’t?” Somehow through all his depression, he had still looked forward to seeing Multivac. They said it was half a mile long and three stories high, that fifty tech- nicians walked the corridors within its structure continuously. It was one of the wonders of the world.

Paulson smiled. “No. It’s not portable, you know. It’s located un- derground, in fact, and very few people know exactly where. You can understand that, since it is our greatest natural resource. Believe me, elections aren’t the only thing it’s used for.”

Norman thought he was being deliberately chatty, but found him- self intrigued all the same. “I thought I’d see it. I’d like to.”

“I’m sure of that. But it takes a Presidential order and even then it has to be countersigned by Se- curity. However, we are plugged into Multivac right here by beam transmission. What Multivac says can be interpreted here and what we say is beamed directly to Mul- tivac, so in a sense we’re in its presence.”

Norman looked about. The ma- chines within the room were all meaningless to him.

ISAAC ASIMOV

“Now let me explain, Mr. Mul- ler,” Paulson went on. “Multivac already has most of the information it needs to decide all the elections, national, state and local. It needs only to check certain imponderable attitudes of mind and it will use you for that. We can’t predict what questions it will ask, but they may not make much sense to you, or even to us. It may ask you how you feel about garbage-disposal in your town; whether you favor central incinerators. It might ask you whether you have a doctor of your own or whether you make use of National Medicine, Inc. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Whatever it asks, you answer in your own words in any way you please. If you feel you must explain quite a bit, do so. Talk an hour, if necessary.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, one more thing. We will have to make use of some simple devices which will automatically record your blood pressure, heart beat, slan conductivity and brain wave pattern while you speak. The machinery will seem formidable, but it’s all absolutely painless. You won’t even know it’s going on. So don’t worry about it.”

The other two technicians were already busying themselves with smooth-gleaming apparatus on oiled wheels.

Norman said, “Is that to check on whether I’m lying or not?”

“Not at all, Mr. Muller. There’s no question of lying. It’s only a matter of emotional intensity. If the machine asks you your opinion

FRANCHISE

of your child’s school, you may say, T think it is overcrowded.’ Those are only words. From the way your brain and heart and hormones and sweat glands work, Multivac can judge exactly how intensely you feel about the matter. It will un- derstand your feelings better than you yourself.”

“I never heard of this,” said Norman.

“No, I’m sure you didn’t. Most of the details of Multivac’s work- ings are top secret. For instance, when you leave, you will be asked to sign a paper swearing that you will never reveal the nature of the questions you were asked, the na- ture of your responses, what was done, or how it was done. The less is known about the Multivac, the less chance of attempted outside pressures upon the men who serv- ice it.” He smiled, grimly, “Our lives are hard enough as it is.” Norman nodded. “I under- stand.”

“And now would you like any- thing to eat or drink?”

“No. Nothing right now.”

“Do you have any questions?” Norman shook his head.

“Then you tell us when you’re ready.”

“I’m ready right now.”

“You’re certain there’s nothing else you want to ask?”

“Quite.”

Paulson nodded, and raised his hand in a gesture to the others.

They advanced with their fright- ening equipment and Norman Muller felt his breath come a little more quickly and his heart beat more rapidly as he watched.

13

The ordeal lasted nearly three hours, with one short break for coffee and an embarrass- ing session with a chamber-pot. During all this time, Norman Mul- ler remained encased in machinery. He was bone- weary at the close.

He thought sardonically that his promise to reveal nothing of what had passed would be an easy one to keep. Already the questions were a hazy mish-mash in his mind.

Somehow he had thought Mul- tivac would speak in a sepulchral, superhuman voice, resonant and echoing, but that, he now decided, was just an idea he had from see- ing too many television shows. The truth was distressingly undramatic. The questions were slips of a kind of metallic foil patterned with nu- merous punctures. A second ma- chine converted the pattern into words and Paulson read the words to Norman, then gave him the question and let him read it for himself.

Norman’s answers were taken down by a recording machine, played back to Norman for con- firmation, with emendations and added remarks also taken down. All that was fed into a pattern- making instrument and that, in turn, was radiated to Multivac.

The one question Norman could remember at the moment was an incongruously gossipy: “What do you think of the price of eggs?” He had answered, blankly, “I don’t know the price of eggs.” Now it was over, and gently they removed the electrodes from vari- ous portions of his body, un- wrapped the pulsating band from

14

his upper arm, moved the machin- ery away.

He stood up, drew a deep, shud- dering breath and said, “Is that all? Am I through?”

“Not quite,” Paulson hurried to him, smiling in reassuring fashion. “We’ll have to ask you to stay another hour.”

“Why?” asked Norman, sharply. “It will take that long for Mul- tivac to weave the new data into the trillions of items it has. Thou- sands of elections are concerned, you know. It’s very complicated. And it may be that an odd contest here or there, a comptrollership in Phoenix, Arizona, or some council seat in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, may be in doubt. In that case, Multivac may be compelled to ask you a deciding question or two.” “No,” said Norman. “I won’t go through this again.”

“It probably won’t happen,” Paulson said, soothingly. “It rarely does. But just in case, you’ll have to stay.” A touch of steel, just a touch, entered his voice. “You have no choice, you know. You must.” Norman sat down wearily. He shrugged.

Paulson said, “We can’t let you read a newspaper, but if you’d care for a murder mystery, or if you’d like to play chess, or if there’s any- thing we can do for you to help pass the time, I wish you’d men- tion it.”

“It’s all right. I’ll just wait.” They ushered him into a small room just next to the one in which he had been questioned. He let himself sink into a plastic covered armchair and closed his eyes.

ISAAC ASIMOV

As well as he could, he must wait out this final hour.

He sat perfectly still and slowly the tension left him. His breathing grew less ragged and he could clasp his hands without being quite so conscious of the trembling of his fingers.

Maybe there would be no ques- tions. Maybe it was all over.

If it were over, then the next thing would be torchlight proces- sions and invitations to speak at all sorts of functions. The Voter of the Year!

He, Norman Muller, ordinary clerk of a small department store in Bloomington, Indiana, who had neither been bom great nor achieved greatness would be in the extraordinary position of hav- ing had greatness thrust upon him.

The historians would speak soberly of the Muller Election of 2008. That would be its name, the Muller Election!

The publicity, the better job, the flash flood of money that in- terested Sarah so much, occupied only a corner of his mind. It would all be welcome, of course. He couldn’t refuse it. But at the mo- ment something else was begin- ning to concern him.

A latent patriotism was stirring. After all, he was representing the entire electorate. He was the focal

point for them. He was, in his own person, for this one day, all of America!

The door opened, snapping him to open-eyed attention. For a mo- ment, his stomach constricted. Not more questions!

But Paulson was smiling. “That will be all, Mr. Muller.”

“No more questions, sir?”

“None needed. Everything was quite clearcut. You will be es- corted back to your home and then you will be a private citizen once more. Or as much so as the public will allow.”

“Thank you. Thank you.” Nor- man flushed and said, “I wonder — Who was elected?”

Paulson shook his head. “That will have to wait for the official announcement. The rules are quite strict. We can’t even tell you. You understand.”

“Of course. Yes.” Norman felt embarrassed.

“Secret Service will have the necessary papers for you to sign.”

“Yes.” Suddenly, Norman Mul- ler felt proud. It was on him now in full strength. He was proud.

In this imperfect world, the sovereign citizens of the first and greatest Electronic Democracy had, through Norman Muller (through him! ) exercised once again its free, untrammeled franchise. • • •

A new moral outlook is called for in which submission to the powers of nature is replaced by respect for what is best in man. It is where this respect is lacking that scientific technique is dangerous. — Bertrand Russell

FRANCHISE 15

BIRTHRIGHT

Why was Cyril Kirk, highest man in his class, assigned to such an enigmatic place as Nemar? Of what value was it — if any-

thing? No one could tell him believed them . . .

BY APRI

CYRIL KIRK’S first sight of the planet from the spaceship did nothing to abate the anger seething within him. He stared at it in dis- gust, glad there were no other pas- sengers left to witness his arrival.

All during the long trip, he had felt their curious stares and excited whispers everywhere he passed, and he had felt a small wave of relief whenever a large batch of them

the answer. He wouldnt have

L SMITH

had been unloaded on some planet along the way. None of them had come this far — which was hardly surprising, he thought; the last of them had been taken off two-thirds of the way to Nemar. He was very glad to see them go, though by that time they had stopped making their cautious, deferential attempts to draw him into conversation and elicit some clue about his mission

16

Illustrated by Kelly Preas

and destination.

He had let them wonder. He knew that his aloofness was being taken as snobbishness, but he was past caring. They all recognized that he was a Planetary Adminis- trator by the blazing gold insignia on the dark uniform, insignia call- ing for awe and respect all over the galaxy. They guessed that this was his first appointment, but the thing that really aroused their curiosity was the bitter, angry look that went with what they considered his ar- rogant reserve.

Since polite efforts at conversa- tion by the braver or more confi- dent among the company were met with icy monosyllables that cut off further attempts, they were left with a wide range of controversy. Some of them held, though they had never actually seen a Planetary Administrator before in the flesh, that all PA’s were like this. They argued that the long, grueling years of study, the ascetic,- disciplined life from childhood, and the constant pressure of competition, knowing that only a small percentage would finally make the grade, made them kind of inhuman by the time they finished. Besides, they were near- geniuses or they wouldn’t have been selected in the first place — and everybody knows geniuses are sort of peculiar.

One of the bolder and more beautiful girls on board had been argued into making a carefully planned attempt to draw informa- tion out of him, and bets had been placed on the results. She was eager enough to try her hand at this rich prize, and her self-confidence was

18

justified by a long trail of broken hearts in high places, but the at- tempt came to nothing. Kirk was aware of her efforts and aware that in another mood he would have appreciated her charm, but he felt too sick and miserable to respond.

Remembering her piquant, laughing face later in his cabin, Kirk thought morosely of the long train of girls he had known in the past. Many of them had been love- ly— a fledgling PA was considered a highly desirable date, even though the chances were always that he wouldn’t make it in the end. But Kirk had always been filled with an iron determination that he was going to make it in the end, and this meant no distractions. If he began to feel he might get really emotionally entangled with a girl, he stopped seeing her at once. He saw them seldom enough, any- way. The regulations of the PA In- stitute gave him a fair amount of free time, but the study require- ments made the apparent freedom meaningless.

How hard he’d worked for the day he’d be wearing this uniform, he thought bitterly. How proud and happy he’d thought he’d feel wearing it! And now, instead, here he was, practically hiding in his cabin, hoping nobody would dis- cover the name of his destination and guess the reason for the humil- iated rage that was still coursing through him.

He’d gone over the interview with Carlin Ross a hundred times since the trip started, and he wasn’t any nearer to making sense out of it than when he began . . .

APRIL SMITH

He’d entered Ross’s office for the interview in which he would be awarded his post, full of confidence and pride. The final examination results posted in the main lobby were headed by his name. He knew that, because of his good record and general popularity, he had been watched with special interest by the teachers and staff for some time; and he looked forward to being awarded a particularly desirable planet, in spite of its being his first post.

Technical ability and sound training in administration had long ago been decided upon as more im- portant than practical experience, as mankind began to sicken of the bungling of political appointees. The far-flung planets that had been colonized or held an intelligent, humanoid population were so nu- merous that even an experienced Planetary Administrator could know very little about each one. Only someone brought up on a planet could have a detailed knowl- edge of it, and it was a basic prem- ise of the Galactic Union that governors with a common upbring- ing and training on Terra were necessary to keep the varied parts of the empire from splitting off and becoming alienated from the rest.

Ross was one of the half-dozen men in the top echelon governing the galaxy and its warring com- ponents. His official title was Ga- lactic Coordinator, and one of his minor duties was the supervision of the Institute of Training for Planetary Administration, which had been home to Kirk for so long. Although he was the Institute’s

BIRTHRIGHT

official head, he was too busy to be seen in its halls more than rarely, but Kirk had had several brief talks with him and one long one. He had the feeling that Ross had a special interest in him, and this had added to his anticipation on the fatal day.

As he entered the room, Ross looked up, his blue eyes friendly and alert in the weathered, tanned face. “Hello, Kirk,” he said. As al- ways, the simple warmth of his smile threw Kirk off guard. It had never failed to surprise him the few times he had seen Ross. In this place of dedicated, serious men, of military crispness of speech, of stiff- ly erect carriage, Ross’s relaxed body and quiet, open expression seemed startlingly out of place. Ex- cept for the alertness and intelli- gence of the eyes, he looked like a country farmer who had wandered in by mistake. Kirk, and his friends, had more than once wondered how such an anomaly had risen to the high position of Galactic Coordi- nator.

However, if his manner left you puzzled, it also made you feel sur- prisingly comfortable, and Kirk had felt relaxed and happy as Ross mo- tioned him to a chair. Nothing pre- pared him for the shock that was to come.

He remembered the apparent casualness with which Ross had spoken. “I’m sending you to Ne- mar.”

For a moment Kirk felt blank. The name did not register. His private speculations had centered on the question of whether he would be sent to a thriving, pleas- ant, habitable planet or to one of

19

those whose bleak surface contained some newly discovered, highly val- uable mineral and whose struggling colonists lived under pressurized domes. Either type could have held the chance to work up to the ga- lactic eminence and power he had set his heart on. He had been over and over the list of planets that were due to receive new PA’s (there was a rotational system of five years, with an additional five years made optional), and he had a private list of those which, as the star graduate of his class, he hoped he might draw. Nemar was not among them.

His face stayed blank for a min- ute as he searched his memory for the name, and as vague bits of in- formation filtered through to him, his eyes widened in disbelief. “But, sir — ” He fumbled for words. “That’s on the very edge of the galaxy.”

Ross’s voice was quiet. “Yes, it’s a long way.”

“But there’s nothing on it!”

Ross sounded a little amused. “There are some very nice people on it — the natives are of the same species as we are, though they look a little different. That means the air is breathable without aids. It’s quite a pleasant planet.”

“That’s not what I mean, sir. I mean there’s nothing of any value — no minerals, no artifacts, no val- uable plant or animal products.” He searched his memory for what little he could remember about Ne- mar from classes. He recalled that the planet had been discovered only forty years ago by a Survey ship that had gone off course far toward

the outer rim of the galaxy. It had been incorporated into the Galactic Union because it was considered dangerous to leave any inhabited planet free of control; but it had not been considered a valuable ad- dition. It was far off the established trade routes, and seemed to contain nothing worth the expense of trans- porting it. “The culture is very primitive, isn’t it?” Kirk asked, half thinking aloud.

“It is so considered,” Ross an- swered.

The reply struck Kirk as odd. A sudden hope filled him. Maybe something new had been discov- ered about the place, possibly some- thing that only Ross and a few of the top command knew about. He threw a sharp glance at Ross’s face, but it told him nothing. “I don’t remember too much about the place from class,” he ventured.

Ross rose, and with his incon- gruously quick, lazy grace strode to the filing cabinet along the wall, pulling out documents and pam- phlets. He plumped them in a pile in front of Kirk. “Most of the factual information we have is in these. You can try the library, too, but I doubt if you’ll find anything more.” He added a book to the pile. “This covers their language. You’ll have two months of intensive instruction in it before you go. You were always good in your language structure courses, so I doubt that you’ll have any trouble with it. You’ll have another two weeks to learn the stuff in these documents, and two more weeks to rest or do whatever you like before you leave.” He resumed his chair. “You’re luck-

20

APRIL SMITH

ier than some of the others. The boy who got Proserpine will have a stack of books up to there to absorb.” He gestured toward the ceiling.

At the mention of Proserpine, Kirk’s brown eyes darkened. Proser- pine had been recently discovered, too, but that was all it had in com- mon with Nemar. Its inhospitable surface held vast amounts of a highly valuable fuel ore, and it had been one of the places on his list. He wondered who was going there, his insides suddenly twisting with envy. He tried to keep his voice even. “I don’t understand why I’m being sent to Nemar.” He searched for words. After all, he couldn’t exactly mention his graduating first and his record. “Is there something I don’t know about? Has some- thing valuable been discovered that hasn’t been publicized, or — ” He waited hopefully.

Ross’s answer was flat. “No, there’s nothing there that can be transported that’s worth transport- ing.”

Kirk felt despair surging through him, then suddenly changing to sharp anger. “I’ve worked hard. I have a good record. Why are you giving me this — this lemon? Why don’t you give it to whoever gradu- ated lowest, or better still to some older PA who bungled things some- where, but not quite enough to be retired!” His face was burning with rage. Somewhere inside he felt shocked at himself for speaking to a Coordinator this way ; at the same time he felt a violent urge to carry it farther and sock Ross in the nose. His body was shaking . . .

birthright

Remembering the scene now as he watched Nemar swing closer, Kirk felt the anger again, time hadn’t dimmed it at all. Ross must have perceived his fury, but he had shown no signs of it. Looking as friendly as ever, he had told him mildly that he did not consider Nemar a “lemon”, that he had ex- cellent reasons for sending him there, but he preferred not to tell him what they were. He wanted him to discover them for himself after he arrived. The rest of the interview had concerned itself mainly with practical information, most of which Kirk had scarcely heard through his fog of emotion.

His endless speculations since then had gotten him nowhere. He had dredged out of his memory every incident that might reveal some trait for which he was being discreetly given a back seat. He re- called a roommate who had said he was going to become a living ma- chine if he kept it up, and no machine had the right to have ju- risdiction over people. But Jere had flunked out along the way, like most candidates who had an atti- tude like that. He went over the time he had been called to Ross’s office and gently rebuked for work- ing men under him on a project too hard. “I don’t ask anything from them I don’t ask of myself,” he had protested.

“I know,” Ross had answered, “and I respect that. But you work that hard from choice.” Then he had nodded in dismissal.

Kirk had puzzled over these and other incidents, searching for a clue, but found nothing. All his probing

21

in a more optimistic direction led to blind alleys also. The documents on Nemar, all the information he could dig up, confirmed Ross’s statement that the planet held nothing of commercial value.

The planet, to judge by what he had read, was a pleasant place, ap- parently very pretty, with heavy vegetation and a warm, temperate climate, and the natives were hos- pitable and friendly. But all this held very little comfort for him and did little to assuage the sense of angry humiliation that had made him seek isolation from the other passengers.

He could see the planet more clearly now as the ship began to angle into an orbit, preparatory to sending out the smaller landing ship which would take him down. Hastily he reviewed in his mind once more the few facts he knew about the place, and shaped his tongue to the unfamiliar sounds of the native language. He fought down the feeling of humiliation, and straightened his shoulders. Aft- er all, to these people, he would he the most important person on the planet. If he was to be a big frog in a small puddle, he was still su- preme administrator here, and he had no intention of letting them know his arrival signified a disgrace to him.

ROM THE airlock of the land- ing ship, Kirk looked out on a cleared plain. In the foreground a group of natives were gathered to greet him, and a scattering of dark uniforms among them indi-

cated the officials who would make up the Terran part of his staff. As the natives approached him, he noted the green-gold hair and the slightly greenish tinge to their skin, for which his studies had prepared him.

Nothing in his studies, however, had prepared him for the extraor- dinary grace and beauty of these people.

They were dressed, men and women alike, in a simple fold of bright-colored cloth circling their body from the waist and reaching a third of the way to their knees. Kirk noted, with a slight sense of shock, that the women wore noth- ing above the waist except for a strand of woven reeds, interlaced with shells and flowers, which fell loosely to their breasts. In these brief and primitive garments, the natives bore themselves with such imperious grace and assurance that for a moment Kirk felt as if his role had been abruptly reversed — as if instead of being the powerful representative of a great civilization to a backward people, he were the humble primitive waiting for their acceptance.

One of the older natives stepped forward from the rest, his palm outstretched, shoulder high, in greeting. “Welcome to Nemar,” he said, his glance steady and gracious on Kirk’s face.

Kirk recognized the words of the native language with surprise. The clear, musical quality of the native’s speech made his own words, harsh and grating by comparison, sound like a different language, as he re- plied. “Thank you. I am very

22

APRIL SMITH

happy to be here.”

As he spoke, he realized that the lie had for a moment felt almost like truth. For a moment he won- dered if the planet’s apparent prim- itiveness was deceptive and if its simplicity concealed a highly de- veloped culture. But even as the hope surged through him, he re- membered Ross’s clear and definite statement to the contrary. Besides, there would be no point in keeping a thing like that secret from the rest of the galaxy, even if it could be done. Such a culture, moreover, would certainly have things of value to trade.

As these thoughts coursed through his mind, one of the Ter- rans stepped forward from the crowd. The insignia on his uniform were the same as his own, and he realized, with a surge of curiosity, that this must be his predecessor.

The man reached forward to shake his hand. “Hello. The name’s Jerwyn.” His tanned face was open and friendly, and reminded Kirk curiously of someone; he couldn’t remember who. “Glad to see you.”

I’ll bet you are, Kirk thought: your gain, my loss. “Greetings from Terra,” he replied, somewhat stiff- ly. “Cyril Kirk.” He tried to keep his vague disapproval of Jerwyn’s breezy informality out of his voice. It was hard to realize this man was also a Planetary Administrator. He seemed to have lost completely the look of authority that was the life- long mark of the PA graduate.

After the various introductions and a short period of conversation, Kirk found himself seated beside

birthright

Jerwyn in the small ground vehicle which was to take him to his head- quarters. Jerwyn immediately re- sumed the standard Galactic-Ter- ran language, which he had dropped during the introductions. “As soon as I show you around a bit. I’ll be off on the landing ship you came in. I wonder how Terra will seem after all this time.”

“Five years is a long time,” Kirk ventured.

“Ten.”

Kirk stared at him in astonish- ment. “You took the optional five years! Why in heaven would any- one— ” He broke off suddenly. The question might be one Jerwyn would not care to answer. He threw him a speculative glance, wonder- ing why he had been sent here and whether he, too, was bitter. Maybe a poor record, or something in his past he didn’t care to go back to . . . ? That didn’t fit in his own case — but then there was no know- ing what did fit in his own case. Jerwyn had an alert, perceptive look that indicated considerable in- telligence, but still he somehow looked inadequate. Some quality an Administrator should have was lacking . . . dignity? drive?

Jerwyn’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

The groundcar had left the plain and was entering a heavily wooded section. For the first time, Kirk took a good look at his surroundings. Some of the trees and plants were very like those he had seen in parks at home. Still, there was a definitely alien feel to it all. The trees were low and wide and had peculiar contours, different from

23

those of trees on Terra, and their flowering foliage came in odd sizes and colors. The sky wasn’t quite the blue he was used to, and the shapes of the clouds were different. He noticed for the first time a heady, pungent perfume carried on the breeze, that was both pleasant and stimulating. It came, perhaps, from the wide-petaled flowers in oddly shimmering colors that clustered thickly everywhere.

“Yes, it’s beautiful,” he agreed, “but — ” The feeling of despair and frustration welled up in him again. The warmth he sensed in Jerwyn made him suddenly long to blurt out the whole story. He controlled himself with difficulty, as he turned toward him. “It’s pretty enough. It might make a good vacation resort if it weren’t on the edge of no- where.” His pent-up emotion ex- ploded as he spoke. “But five years in this hole! I’d feel a hell of a lot better if I were looking at some rocky, barren landscape with some mines on it — with something of value on it — ^with a name some- body’d heard of, where you could hope to get somewhere. I don’t want to waste five years here!” He paused for breath, staring angrily at the lush landscape. “And for that matter, life on one of those planets where you live under domes, with a sealed-in atmosphere, is probably a lot more civilized and convenient than in this primitive jungle.”

Jerwyn nodded slowly, an un- spoken compassion in his face. “I know how you’re feeling.” He paused. “And it does seem pretty primitive here at first — no auto-

24

matic precipitrons for cleaning your clothes, natural foods instead of synthetics, no aircars, no automatic dispensers for food or drinks or clothes; none of a hundred things you take for granted till you don’t have them. But you get used to it. There are things to make up — ” He broke off as the car began to descend into a valley. “Look!” His voice held an odd tone of affection. “There’s your new home.”

Kirk gazed downward at the set- tlement nested in the valley below them. He fished in his pocket for a magnascope to bring the view nearer and stared curiously, as the lens adjusted to the distance. He picked out groups of buildings, low units of some coarse, natural ma- terial, widely spaced. This was the largest city on the planet, he knew, but it seemed to be little more than a village. It was undoubtedly primitive — ^very primitive. Remem- bering the magnificent high build- ings of Terra, he was filled with sudden homesickness for the speed- ing sidewalks crowded with people, the skylanes humming with aircars.

Turning the magnascope here and there, he kept his gaze trained on the town beneath him, studying it now in more detail. Slowly, some of his depression began to leave him, and he felt a strange sense of warmth begin to take its place. He stepped up the power of the glass till he could see the inhabi- tants walking in the streets. Like the natives who had met him at the landing ship, they walked with a beautiful, easy grace, a sumptuous ease that seemed somehow almost a rebuke of his own stiffly correct

APRIL SMITH

military posture. They gave an im- pression of combined leisure and vitality.

Gradually, as he watched, an odd feeling of nostalgia began to stir in him, an old, childish longing. He remembered suddenly a dream he had had years ago, in which he had run laughing through green mead- ows with a lovely girl. He had fought against waking from it and returning to his desk piled high with books and his ascetically fur- nished room.

He blinked his eyes and put down the magnascope. “Rather at- tractive, in a way,” he said grudg- ingly to Jerwyn. He settled back slowly into his seat.

“Just the same,” he added, an- noyed at himself for his sentimental lapse, “how have you managed to stand it all this time? I still can’t figure how I came to get it in the neck like this.” Abruptly, he plunged into the words he had been holding back, telling the whole story of his confusion to Jerwyn.

He rationalized to himself that perhaps Jerwyn could help him solve the mystery. At least he might tell him how he himself came to be sent to Nemar, without his having to ask directly; and this might give him a clue.

“I’ve been over the whole busi- ness a million times, trying to figure it out,” he concluded. “Someb^ody with pull must have had it in for me. But who? And why? I never had any real run-ins with Ross. In fact. I’d always thought he liked me.” He scowled. “Of course, he gives practically everybody that im- pression. Maybe he’s just a profes-

BIRTHRIGHT

sional glad-hander, though he cer- tainly doesn’t seem like it.” He shook his head. “Maybe that’s the secret of his success; I never could figure out how he got where he is. He certainly doesn’t seem typical of the command. Oh, he’s brilliant enough, but there’s a quality about him I’d almost call — weak, I guess. Unsuitable for his post, anyway. He treats the janitor the same as — ”

Kirk stopped abruptly. He sud- denly had the answer to the ques- tion that had been nagging at the edge of his mind: it was Ross that Jerwyn reminded him of.

Trying to cover up his confusion, he went on rapidly, hoping Jerwyn would not notice. “Anyway, what- ever his reasons were, he’s played me a dirty trick, and if there’s ever any way I can pay him back for it. I’ll do it. I’ll have five years to think about it. Me ! The fair-haired boy of the Institute! On my way to the top!” His face flushed with re- sentment. “Sent to sweat out five years in this Godforsaken place with a bunch of savages hardly evolved out of the jungle!” He passed his hand over his forehead, wiping off sweat, feeling the full force of his pent-up anguish and rage flood through him.

Jerwyn spoke very quickly. “I felt pretty much the same way when I was sent here. But I feel differently now. I could try to ex- plain. But I don’t think it’s a good idea. I don’t think anyone could have explained to me. This is a place you’ve got to live in; you can’t be told about it.” He shifted in his seat as a small group of

25

buildings came into view. “As for Ross — well, he was responsible for my being sent here, too, and I spent some time when I first came, think- ing of ways to cut his body in little pieces and throw them in a gar- bage pulverizer — but I wouldn’t waste my time if I were you. I know now he had his reasons.” As he spoke the car pulled to a stop. “Well, here we are. This is where you’ll be living and working.”

Jerwyn stayed with Kirk while he was shown through various buildings. He found most of the office buildings full of bright murals and little watered patios, but lack- ing the simplest devices for working efficiency. He was introduced to various officials, Terran and Ne- marian. Some of the latter, to his surprise, were women — a rare phenomenon for a primitive planet, he remembered from his classes.

By the time the touring was over and he had said goodbye to Jerwyn, he was too tired to do more than glance briefly at the quarters to which he was shown. Left alone in his rooms, he took a quick, awk- ward bath, too weary to feel more than a brief annoyance at the lack of automatic buttons for tempera- ture controls, soaping, and drying, and fell exhausted on the low bed.

For a moment, as he woke, Kirk could not remember where he was. Drowsiness mingled with a sense of eeriness at the sound of long bird-calls unlike any on Terra and the unfamiliar rustling of leaves ; the rays from the late iter- noon sun seemed too crimson.

Then, as sleep fell from his eyes, he remembered. He glanced at the window above his bed from which the orange light filtered into the room and saw it was completely open to the outside air. Something would have to done about that, he thought grimly, or he’d never be able to sleep with an easy mind. There were always people, sooner or later, who hated you if you had power; or if they didn’t hate you, they at least wanted you out of commission for one reason or another.

He sat up to take a better look at the room he had been too tired to investigate before. There were mats of woven reeds, and low carved chests, and flowers ; the walls were clean and glimmering, and bare except for a single picture of two young native children. He got up and walked over to look at it more closely. A boy of about seven was holding his arm out to a girl, slightly younger, to help her on to the low, swaying branch on which he was sitting. The picture was full of sunshine and green leaves and happiness, and you could feel the trusting softness of her arms reaching up to him. An odd picture, Kirk thought. The children looked childlike enough, but the emotions looked adult.

As he looked at it, he heard a soft, swishing sound in the next room, and stiffened. There was no lock on the door, he noticed. Well, it was time to get up, anyway. He dressed hurriedly, trying to remem- ber the layout of his rooms. Except for the bathroom, he recalled only one other room, a sort of arbored

26

APRIL SMITH

porch, one side completely open to the air, with a low table and some cooking equipment at one end.

As he opened the door, a faint whisk of something made of reeds went out of sight. A primitive broom, he thought, with a faint sense of relief. Some servant was tidying the house. He opened the door further — and stared,

A native girl was standing before him. She was extraordinarily love- ly. The gold-green hair of her race rippled and flowed in waves over her bare back and shoulders down to the circlet of vermilion cloth girdling her thighs. The band of small shells that circled her throat was netted with wide orange and red flowers that half -hid, half -dis- closed the firm naked breasts. The light brown, gold-flecked eyes be- neath the gold-green eyebrows were soft ; so was the tender mouth, rose- colored against the flawless skin, with its undertones of faint green. Her body, too, looked soft and yielding, but was borne with im- perious grace that somehow dig- nified even the broom held loosely now in one delicate hand.

Kirk stared at this vision of beauty, taken by surprise, and found himself caught up in sudden desire. She was like something out of a dream. He tried to get hold of himself.

You’re just not used to half-nude women, he told himself. You’re used to girls in uniforms, crisp, businesslike uniforms. A wild sus- picion caught at the edge of his mind. He didn’t know anything about this planet, really — except that there was something he didn’t

birthright

know. Maybe they made a practice of diverting their rulers with beau- tiful women. She certainly didn’t look like a servant. He smiled at the thought that came to him : this servant was the first indication of the luxury befitting a Planetary Administrator. The thought en- abled him to gain control of him- self again. He regained a semblance of his customary reserved look.

“Good afternoon,” he said, in the native language.

She smiled and held out her hand.

He hesitated, then held out his own awkwardly. Did one shake hands with one’s servants here? He wished he’d asked Jerwyn for more advice about protocol.

She took his hand and pressed it lightly for a moment. “I am Nanae.” Her voice was low and musical. “I am going to clean and take care of your house.”

She turned and with exquisite precision gestured toward the low table and cooking equipment at the end of the room. “I thought you would be waking soon. I have pre- pared some jen for you.”

Jen? he thought. Oh, yes, a. very light stimulant — the local variety of tea. He walked over to the low table and sat down, fighting the impulse to enter into conversation with her. He watched her as she poured the hot liquid into wide cups of polished gourd, her hair radiant about her shoulders. A stab of longing shot through him. The long years of training in the In- stitute paraded through his mind, the years of strict routine, hard work, ascetic, bare rooms, with

27

women considered playthings that took too much time from needed study; the only beauty was the dream of power among the glitter- ing stars.

Well, he wasn’t going to give up and forget the dream, he told him- self— and he wasn’t going to be led astray by any pretty girls, particu- larly a maid. Hell, he thought sud- denly, maybe Ross is testing me. Maybe he picked the worst planet in the whole damn galaxy to find out if I could do something with it. It’s obvious if I can get this place on the trademaps, I can handle anything.

He looked speculatively at the girl as she pushed the cup toward him. He wondered how she came by her job. Did they hold beauty contests here for the honor of be- ing cleaning woman in the PA’s household? He realized he was feel- ing more cheerful. The jen and the soothing quietness of the girl’s pres- ence were doing him good. He felt a resurgence of his old energy and ambition that the interview with Ross had quelled for so long.

“Did you work for Jerwyn, too?” he asked. Yes, his voice was just right, courteous, but not too friend- ly, he thought.

“No, but I knew him.” She looked at him with an odd smile. “He became one of our best danc- ers.”

“Dancers!” Kirk stared at her in amazement. He started to open his mouth, then stopped. He’d better not ask any more questions till he’d had a chance to talk to some Ter- rans. Apparently, Jerwyn had gone native. Maybe it was his way of re-

28

belling against being sent here in the first place — and he’d let him- self go so far that he’d skipped his chance of reassignment at the end of the first five years, afraid of the problems of a new post after be- ing a beachcomber for so long. That would account for the curious lack of deference he’d found in all these people. They were friendly enough, but they lacked proper re- spect for his position. You weren’t supposed to be friendly to a PA; you were supposed to be humbly polite. He recalled the respect and awe he’d received on the ship.

As he finished his cup, he real- ized he was very hungry. He looked around instinctively for food. He had enough synthetics in his bags to do him for awhile, but he might as well make the plunge and start eating the native foods right away. No use coddling himself.

The girl noticed the look. “I didn’t prepare food for you because dinner will be served in just a little while. We eat all together, down by the river. You will hear drums to announce when the meal is ready, and you get there by walking to the end of that path.” She pointed a delicate finger at a small foot-path winding by a few yards from where he sat.

OMING OUT of the little for- est at the end of the path, Kirk paused to take in the scene. Between him and the river was a wild jumble of men and women, laughing and talking, children run- ning and stumbling over small pet animals, piles of nuts and fruits

APRIL SMITH

and hot foods heaped together be- side small fires. Some of the people sat on straw mats, but most, simply on the ground. There were neither tables nor chairs. To Kirk it looked like utter confusion.

With a sense of gratitude, he saw a tall, uniformed figure com- ing up to him, with a brisk, definite stride. The Terran’s face was lined and firm, the kind of face Kirk was familiar with. The man with this face would be a man who stood for no nonsense, a man who was a little tough, but also fair and capable. He recognized him as he came closer.

“Hello, sir. I’m Matt Cortland, your second in command,” he said brusquely. “I met you this after- noon, but you met so many people then it must have been just a blur of names and faces.”

Kirk greeted him, feeling a sense of satisfaction that this man would be his chief assistant. He looked efficient; he should be able to help him learn the ropes and get a pro- gram of action started.

“No chairs,” Cortland said la- conically, as they walked toward the gathering. He chose a soft spot of lavender-tinted moss near a pile of hot food and sat down, cross- legged. Awkwardly, Kirk sat down beside him, folding his legs under him stiffly. “You can be served in your rooms, of course, if you like,” Cortland went on, turning to him. “These people are very obliging. Very obliging.” He reached for two of the leaf-wrapped, steaming objects, handing one to Kirk. “But you probably have a better chance of influencing them if you eat

birthright

among them. If they can be in- fluenced.” He opened the leaf and bit into the yellow vegetable inside.

Kirk looked dubiously at the ob- ject in his hand. He hoped it wouldn’t make him sick. Pushing back his sense of disgust, he bit into it carefully. The Wand, sweetish flavor filled him with delightful surprise. It was rather like a mix- ture of sweet potato, carrot, and peach synthetics — but the texture and flavor were new and wonder- ful. Maybe civilization had lost something good when it gave up natural foods. Though, of course, their preparation was time-wasting and inefficient, he reminded him- self; and swallowing synthetics re- quired only a momentary break in your work when you were pressed for time. He looked up and found Cortland watching him.

“Pretty different from the food at home, eh?” He had slipped into the Terran language. “Good food and pretty girls.” He gestured to- ward the graceful, half -nude wom- en scattered along the mossy bank. “Everything for the lotus-eaters.” The phrase meant nothing to Kirk.

One of the girls came over to them with a large gourd full of fruit and nuts, and another on which she heaped hot foods from the piles on the ground as she passed. She placed them on the ground beside the two men.

“Yes, everything for the lotus- eaters,” Cortland repeated. “In- cidentally, I hope you’re not under the impression that that girl is naked from the waist up.”

Kirk looked at him questioningly.

29

“Oh, no. She’s completely cov- ered. They have taboos about naked breasts, just like we do.” He laughed at Kirk’s look of mystifica- tion. “You notice those strands of shells or woven reeds they wear around their necks?”

Kirk looked around. They all wore them.

“Well, that signifies they are dressed. If you ever see a native girl without one, she’ll be terribly embarrassed.” He stuck his hand out toward the bowl of hot food. “After you’ve been here long enough you’ll think they’re dressed, too.”

He laughed, then looked more serious.

“I’ve been here a long time, get- ting nowhere,” he said, in a differ- ent tone. “There are a lot of things that could be done here. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about it. But Jerwyn — ” He hesitated. “I hope you intend to make the name of the Galactic Union mean some- thing here.”

Kirk nodded, and Cortland went on. “Jerwyn tried when he first came. But after awhile he seemed to just give up. I couldn’t do any- thing without him backing me, I don’t have enough authority.” He looked grim as he spoke. “And be- sides that, it takes more than one good man. Oh, the other GU men here are capable enough — ” He glanced toward a group of Ter- rans sitting nearby. “They’ll be over in a little while to speak to you, incidentally; I asked them to hold off for a litde, while I briefed you a bit — no sense deluging you with new people while you’re try-

30

ing to eat.”

“But to get back,” he went on, “they’re capable enough, or they were once, anyway, but none of them has the drive and brains it takes to push through a project to develop this planet. They’ve pretty well given up. Some of them like it here and some of them don’t, but they’ve all stopped trying.” A look of contempt crossed his face. “They go through the motions of doing some work to earn their salaries, knock off at noon, and spend their time lying around on the beaches with Nemarian girls. I’ve done what I could to keep a semblance of discipline, but it’s uphill work.”

Kirk looked at him steadily. “All that’s going to be changed.”

Cortland smiled. “Good.” Their eyes met, with understanding.

“And I’m very happy to have a man of your caliber with me,” Kirk said quietly.

Cortland gave him a long look. “Maybe you’ve got what it takes. Maybe you have.” He nodded slow- ly. “I should have told you I don’t entirely blame the men. This plan- et’s a tough nut to crack.” His voice was grim.

Kirk felt a vague uneasiness, but his look stayed determined. “We’ll crack it.”

“We’ve been here forty years, and we haven’t made a dent. They’re funny people, these Ne- marians. They’re really alien. I’ve been here fifteen years, and I don’t understand them any better than when I came.”

“That’s quite a statement.”

“They’re very appealing. Naive.

APRIL SMITH

Childlike. The soul of courtesy — on the surface. But it’s deceptive. And you could spend a lifetime try- ing to find out what’s underneath.”

A young boy of about twelve came up as he spoke, setting a large gourd full of steaming liquid down beside them with lithe grace, filling smaller cups from it as he did so. Cortland nodded at him, turning again to Kirk as the boy walked away. “Even their children aren’t really childlike. Did you see his eyes — makes you damned uncom- fortable.”

As Kirk started to answer, drum- beats began to fill the air, first soft- ly, then louder. Strange sounds from unfamiliar instruments began to mingle with them, and a clear, high instrument added a melody. The whole effect had an alien, dis- cordant quality for Kirk, but as he listened further he grew intrigued and began to enjoy it; a mood — happy and romantic and energetic, all at once — came through to him from the music.

“The dancing’s beginning,” Cort- land informed him.

Kirk saw young men and women rise by ones and two’s and begin swaying and turning their bodies to the music. They all seemed to be doing different things, and yet somehow it made an integrated pattern. To his surprise older peo- ple and even young children grad- ually joined in, and managed not to look inappropriate, although the dance movements were rapid and strenuous.

He noticed a sweet, pungent odor filling his nostrils and realized it came from the steaming bowl be-

BIRTHRIGHT

side them. He picked up one of the filled cups and tried it cautiously. It was delightful. He emptied it and poured another.

He felt Cortland’s hand on his arm, and looked up to find him grinning at him. “Hey, take it easy with that stuff. That’s fer- mented kara root — the local variety of booze. They can drink quarts of the stuff and be all right; I’ve never seen one of them really drunk. But you’d better not try it.”

Kirk frowned. “Something dif- ferent in our metabolism? I thought — ”

“No, they’re quite human,” Cort- land broke in. “And it’s not a mat- ter of immunity. I wondered about it for a long time — and got quite disgracefully drunk a couple of times, keeping up with them, before I figured it out.” He sipped at his own cup. “No, the secret of their success is the dancing.”

Kirk looked at the light, whirl- ing figures, puzzled.

Cortland smiled at his bewilder- ment. “It’s the exercise. It bums up the alcohol as fast as they drink it. When they’re having a real feast, they dance and drink all night, till they collapse from pure exhaustion. They wake up feeling fine — not a sign of a hangover. Of course, to- night they’ll only dance for a little while, so they’ll only drink a little . . .”

“Sensible, aren’t they?” The voice came out of the air behind them, sardonic, feminine. The lan- guage was Terran.

Kirk whirled and peered through the dusk, which was gathering

31

rapidly. He saw a slightly amused pair of brown eyes, brunette hair, and a trim body dressed in chic good taste in expensive Terran clothes.

Cortland stood up. “Mrs. Sherrin . . . our new Planetary Administra- tor, Cyril Kirk.”

She lowered herself to the ground, spreading out a small mat under her as she did so. “Jeannette, if you don’t mind.” She folded her legs under her carefully. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful. But there’s such a small number of us here, we need to be friends and stick together.”

Cortland, who had been looking away for a moment turned to them. “If you’ll excuse me, someone wants to talk to me.” Kirk nodded.

“Did I meet your husband this afternoon?” he inquired politely, as Cortland strode off.

“No; I’m a widow.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“Don’t be. Not for me, I mean. We’d been coming to a parting of the ways for a long time. But let’s not talk about that. How do you like the dancing?”

He looked at the firelit figures, whirling in the growing dusk. “I don’t know. I’m sort of over- whelmed by everything. It’s all so new. I’ve heard so many confusing things — ”

She nodded. “If you manage to make sense out of the Nemar- ians, you’ll make history. It’s better not to worry about it too much. Im- merse yourself in their gay, happy life.”

“What do you mean?”

She gave him a sharp look.

“You’ll find out what I mean. Didn’t Cortland tell you?”

“What are you talking about?” “Well, you might as well go in cold at that. Form your own con- clusions as you go along. No use giving you prejudices before you start. Maybe you’re the man who’ll cut the Gordian knot. No use tell- ing you it can’t be done.”

“What can’t be done?”

“We’ll all be rooting for you.” She poured herself a drink and downed it quickly. “Great stuff, this. Makes you forget the petty annoyances of the garden-spot of the galaxy.” She poured another. “To Nemar,” she said, lifting it. “Now tell me about Terra. What’s been happening back home?”

He coidd get nothing more out of her.

Kirk struggled to control

his irritation as the last Ne- marian on his list walked in, poised and self-confident, casually uncon- cerned about his lateness. Some- thing would have to be done about their sloppiness and lack of dis- cipline, but now wasn’t the time. It wouldn’t do to lose his temper at the first official meeting he called.

First he needed to stir some am- bition in them, prod them out of their lethargy.

He looked around at the assem- bled members of his joint Terran- Nemarian staff. The Terran mem- bers were making an attempt to stand stiffly at attention, some- what awkwardly as though they were out of practice. They threw rather disconcerted looks at his

32

APRIL SMITH

stern, impassive young face. The Nemarians stood casually erect or lounged against the wall.

Once more, he found himself troubled by a faint sense of incon- gruity. Something about these na- tives was not primitive. Without saying a word, just by standing and looking at him, they made him feel awkward and insecure.

He straightened his shoulders and tried to make his expression even more stem. He wished he looked older.

A sense of the power of his posi- tion overwhelmed him for a mo- ment.

He glanced at the speech he’d prepared, then at the faces before him. Slowly he pushed it aside. Somehow he couldn’t use those formal sentences with these people. Diplomatic phrases didn’t sound right in Nemarian.

“Good morning,” he said abrupt- ly. “I won’t waste time on prelimi- naries.” He paused. “I’ve only been here a day, but so far I’ve seen very few signs of Terran influence — a more or less obsolete type of ground transportation, a few tools and household conveniences, some art objects. Very little else. I don’t fully understand why conditions are so backward here on Nemar when it has been part of the Galactic Union for forty years.”

The Terrans in the group stirred uneasily.

“The important thing, however, is that the situation be changed so that Nemar may be given the bene- fits of galactic culture.”

He paused and looked around. The natives were listening cour-

BIRTHRIGHT

teously and looking slightly bored. The Terrans looked uneasy or em- barrassed.

“What prevents this change,” he went on, “is the fact that there is nothing of value to export.” He leaned forward. “But I don’t be- lieve that this or any planet can possess nothing of value. It’s sim- ply a matter of finding it. It’s a matter of looking into new places, with new techniques, or for new things. If a sufficiently thorough search is made, something will turn up.” He tried to ignore the signs of restlessness in his audience.

“I’m going to organize research groups for thus purpose immediate- ly. Each of you will head a commit- tee to investigate the possibilities in a particular field — ^fuels, plants, animal products, etc. You will bring the reports to me, and I will check them and indicate further directions of search.”

He continued, outlining his plans in detail, stressing the great advan- tages to be gained, the wonderful things galactic culture had to offer them — the marvelous machines and labor-saving devices, the rich fab- rics and jewels, the vidar entertain- ments, the whole fabulous tech- nology of a great, advanced civiliza- tion. He spoke with enthusiasm, but as he continued, a growing sense of apprehension began to creep into his energetic, determined mood.

Something was wrong with their reactions.

He puzzled over it as he watched them file out of the room after he finished. The voice of one of his younger subordinates drifted back

33

to him from the hall outside: “Made me homesick for good old Terra. I’d give a lot to see a good vidar-show right now ...” Cort- land pressed his arm lightly as he passed, nodding his approval of the proceedings.

One of the Terrans lingered a moment as the last of the group left. His expression was serious. “I’d like you to know that I’m all for you, sir, and I’m glad to see a man of your stature in the PA’s office,” he said nervously. “I hope we’ll see some changes in the attitude of these Nemarians. I’ve never liked their attitude.” He ran a hand through his sandy-colored hair. “They’re funny people, sir. You’ve only been here a day, and nobody may have warned you yet. They’re very courteous, but don’t let it fool you. You’re going to have trouble with them.”

Kirk looked after him as he fol- lowed the others out, a sense of confusion and discouragement be- ginning to settle over him. He wandered slowly into the flowered patio adjoining the office.

The reaction of the Nemarian officials was the strangest. They had shown no open opposition. On the other hand, there had certainly been no cheering. Their attitude had been one of courteous interest, plus some quality he couldn’t quite define. He searched for the right word . . . something almost like compassion, as if they were humor- ing a child’s enthusiasm for a naive, impractical project.

He sat down by a clump of blue- green flowers. Maybe he was just nervous because of his inexperi-

34

ence, he thought. He’d had plenty of practice experience (supervised, of course), but it was a different matter managing an isolated plan- et, completely on his own. And he’d had the bad luck to come after a guy who’d apparently let discipline go to pieces. Maybe it was just the newness of the whole thing. Maybe —

But he knew better.

He had given them a good, ef- ficient, well-organized plan of ac- tion. They should have been im- pressed— impressed and respectful. They should have been grateful he was plunging so enthusiastically into an effort to improve their situation. They should have been excited and hopeful.

There was something strange here, something he didn’t under- stand.

He knew so little about Nemar.

The Terrans in the group had not reacted as they should have, either, he thought. Some of them had shown the sort of reaction he expected, but most of them had re- mained quiet, too quiet, with a peculiar, tolerant look. As if they knew something he didn’t.

There was something disturbing about their whole manner. They were respectful and deferential, but not quite respectful enough. Their attitude was just a shade too casual. Something was wrong.

They even looked different, somehow, from the usual Terran on space duty. The dedicated look was gone and a softness had crept in.

Somehow, the planet had in- fected them.

APRIL SMITH

The clear-eyed old Ne-

marian he’d been talking to had just turned away when she came up.

“Good evening. How do you like bird’s eggs a la Nemar?” Jeannette pointed to the shells beside him.

“Hello. They’re very good.” He motioned her to sit down.

“The youngsters here gather them out of the trees. They make a sport of it.” She reached for one from the pile near them and tapped it open. “Sentimental creatures — they always leave one or two so the mother bird won’t be unhappy.” Kirk was trying to draw his eyes away from the young Nemarian mother in the group near him who was complacently nursing her baby in full view of everyone. Jeannette stared in the direction of his look.

“Oh, you’ll get used to that soon enough.”

He wondered if he would. They made a rather touching picture, though, he realized through his embarrassment. There was a lot of tenderness in the woman’s gestures.

“They spoil their children rot- ten.”

Kirk looked surprised. “The ones I’ve seen have been very courte- ous.”

She shrugged. “Oh, they’re po- lite enough. But just try and make them do something they don’t want to! They’re completely undis- ciplined— they’re fed when they please, they sleep when they please, they do whatever they like. They have schools for them, but it’s completely up to the children whether they want to go or not. The parents haven’t a thing to say

birthright

about it. No one ever lays a hand to them, no matter what they do.” “I haven’t noticed any quarrel- ing,” he said, surprised at his own observation. It was true. He hadn’t seen a sign of it, even between the children themselves, though they made enough noise yelling and romping.

“Oh, those tactics fit them per- fectly for this society,” she said in- differently. “The adults here are just like the children. Nobody ever does any work.”

“But that’s impossible. The food, the houses, the — ”

“Well, I suppose I exaggerated. They do things they don’t like once in awhile, if they want the end product enough. But mostly, if they can’t make a big game of it, they don’t do it. Tomorrow’s nut-gath- ering day,” she added irrelevantly. “Nut-gathering day?”

“Yes. Everybody frolics off into the hills to pick nuts. Like a picnic. That’s what I mean — if they didn’t consider it a pleasure outing, the nuts could hit them on the head, and they’d never bother to pick them up.” She cocked her head at him. “Want to go?”

“Go where? Nut-gathering, you mean?” He laughed. “No, thanks.” “Thought you might like to study the natives in their day-to-day ac- tivities, get the real local flavor. You might learn something, at that. Though I guess you’d have a rough time climbing the trees.”

“I’ve had an hour a day at gym- nastics for the past three years.” “Yes, you look in good shape.” Her glance swept over him ap- provingly. “But gymnastics and

35

those trees are two different things. The edible nuts grow on the tall trees, not the short ones, and they sway in the wind. The young men do most of the climbing. They’re pretty wonderful physical speci- mens, I’ll say that.” She glanced at one of them near by, who was whispering in the ear of a Nemar- ian girl.

Kirk felt oddly annoyed. They were magnificent physical speci- mens, he thought. But then so were the women and children. He realized that he hadn’t seen a sick- ly or weak-looking native since he arrived. Even the old people kept their magnificent posture, and managed to make age seem a mat- ter of gathering wisdom instead of collecting infirmities. Weren’t they ever sick, he wondered.

“The girls are lovely, too,” he re- minded her.

“Yes, but try to get near one of them,” she flashed back. “They prefer their own.” Her eyes nar- rowed. “They’re pleasant people, but they’re not pleasant to live with. It gets on your nerves after awhile.”

“Why didn’t you leave, Jean- nette?”

“On the spaceship you came on?”

“Yes. There may not be another for five years.”

“That’s the big question,” she said slowly. “I’m not sure I know the answer. I half intended to leave on the ship when it came. But when it came down to it, I didn’t leave.” She stared ahead of her. “Something about the place gets you. Maybe it’s the lif^. Maybe you

36

get used to lying around in the sun, and you feel kind of frightened at returning to all the hustle and bustle of Terra. And then, you keep waiting, hoping that — ”

“Hoping what?”

For a moment, she looked de- fenseless and a little hurt. Then the cynical smile came back. “You don’t even know what you’re hop- ing for, really,” she said lightly.

He knew she was evading him.

He lay in bed later, wondering what Jeannette could have meant, what could accoimt for that brief hurt look.

She was an attractive girl, he thought idly. He wondered why he felt nothing for her, when the na- tive girl aroused in him such an unreasonable longing. It would be a good deal more convenient to fall for Jeannette.

He couldn’t afford to get mixed up with his maid.

Remembering her, he suddenly felt his body trembling.

All right, he told himself, so she’s an ignorant, backward native on a planet nobody ever heard of. Prac- tically a savage. And even here, she’s just a maid, a cleaning wom- an. Nobody a Planetary Adminis- trator could think about getting mixed up with. But how do they turn them out like that?

How do they turn them out like that, he thought — every movement fluid, every position graceful, every gesture exquisite? How does this nonentity of a planet turn out a girl with the kind of walk the video- stars back home practice and work years to approach? With a voice

APRIL SMITH

with that indescribable music and precision? With a flawless skin, ra- diant hair, a serenity auid self-con- fidence that would make the great- est beauties on Terra envious? With a quiet, careless pride that made him, the new ruler of her planet, awkward and insecure in the pres- ence of his own servant?

Jeannette had been jealous, he realized suddenly. She was jealous of these girls, of their grace, of their radiance. Her cynicism cov- ered a bitter envy.

For a long time he lay there, trying to sleep, haunted by Nanae’s luminous eyes.

He started working the next morning.

There was no use putting it off, he thought. Nemar seemed to act like a drug, gradually depriving you of your drive and ambition. He wasn’t going to give it a chance to let its poison seep into him.

He flung himself into his duties as Planetary Administrator with a grim determination. He struggled to organize the affairs of the planet on a more efficient basis. He intro- duced new methods and tech- niques. He worked tirelessly, relent- lessly, hardly noticing their passage as one day followed another. And every moment he could spare, he devoted to the project for finding something of value to export.

He was going to put this planet on the map. He didn’t know how yet, but he was going to do it.

He was going to turn his misfor- tune into a triumph.

Every hint of a possibility was

birthright

followed up with eagerness. Every lead, every clue, was the subject of exhaustive study and investigation. His days were a succession of guarded hopes and disappoint- ments, of surges of optimism and long stretches of discouragement. He pushed his wearied body into greater and greater efforts, working unflaggingly through the day and most of the night, spurred by the anger that still burned in him.

The natives, he knew, looked at the light burning late into the night and thought he was a little crazy. He gave up eating with them. It was too easy, there by the river, to drift into staying later and later, drinking their hot wine, chatting, watching the dancing. It was too hard to resist tihe tempta- tion of midnight swimming later with the young men and women at the nearby beach, with revels and bonfires on the lavender sands aft- erward.

At the end of two weeks, he sat on his bed, taking stock of what he had accomplished.

It was very little.

And he was very tired.

The tiredness was familiar. It was just like school all over again, he thought, the same long exhaust- ing hours of driving oneself relent- lessly. He wondered when he’d be able to relax. He didn’t dare relax now. When he had a lead, a defi- nite hope of some kind, he could begin to let up. But not till then. It would be too easy to give up and let go altogether, go the way Jer- wyn had gone.

He was beginning to understand

37

why Jerwyn had given up.

He was beginning to understand a lot of things — the odd, cryptic remarks he had heard about the natives when he first arrived, the mixed admiration and exasperation they seemed to arouse.

He remembered a man named Gandhi from ancient Indian his- tory.

The Nemarians could have given Gandhi lessons.

Working with them was like working with an invisible wall of resistance that weakened here and strengthened there, gave in un- expectedly at one place and resisted implacably at another.

At times his plans were praised; then they were put into eflfect with an efficiency that astonished him. At other times they were criticized, in a casual, friendly manner that enraged him. Then they were not put into effect at all. When he in- sisted on obedience, the natives reacted with an attitude of patient tolerance, and did nothing. Most of the time, his orders were received indifferently and carried out with an agonizing slowness.

He pushed and prodded them. He reasoned with them. He shouted at them.

He reaped nothing but frustra- tion.

They didn’t hate him. He knew that. He had never seen a trace of malice in their expressions. People smiled at him when he passed, and children came up to tug at his hand and ask him to come to visit their house. There was none of the stony hatred here he knew existed in many places for the all-

38

powerful Galactic Union.

They simply seemed to lack all appreciation of the importance of his position.

Yet they knew, he thought. They knew he had what amounted to al- most unlimited power over their planet. They knew a space-fleet that had burned life off the face of entire planets lay at his disposal. They knew he could crush any re- bellion instantly.

But, of course, they weren’t re- belling, he thought. They weren’t even openly uncooperative. There it was again : they weren’t even un- friendly; they deluged him with constant invitations.

They knew of his power, but they acted as if it didn’t exist.

And he wasn’t sure they weren’t going to win with him, as they had with Jerwyn. The Galactic Union did not look with approval on any call for aid except in a military crisis; such a request was in effect an affidavit of failure. Besides, he didn’t want to complain. He didn’t want to set himself against them. He was working for them, not just for himself.

He sighed and began to get ready for bed.

Primitive people had always fought progress and change. They had always clung to old, outworn methods. But there was more to it than that, he thought. Primitive people were usually full of super- stitious fear of change, but the Ne- marians were not afraid. You couldn’t think of them as fearful. They knew the danger — they knew the strength and power that faced them — but they were not afraid.

APRIL SMITH

They didn’t even “handle with care”.

Where did their courage come from?

Or was it just blind stupidity, he thought, a refusal to look facts in the face, to admit that they were the helpless, backward subjects of an immensely more powerful and more advanced civilization?

He pulled off a shoe absently, and he thought of all the docu- ments and reports he had read about Nemar. Ross had given them to him, and he had searched in them for a clue to help him under- stand why Ross was sending him here. He had read and reread them, and they had told him little more than Ross himself about Ne- mar.

There was something peculiar about all those documents, he thought, something odd about the way they were written. They de- scribed an undeveloped planet without valuable resources or any kind of technology, in no way out of the ordinary. But between the lines was something that said this planet was out of the ordinary, in spite of the apparent facts. There was the unavoidable feeling that something was left unsaid.

What were they trying to hide? Why hadn’t they let him know what he was in for?

Terrans had been coming for forty years. In forty years, they must have learned something. They must have found out something about what made these people the way they were, and about how to deal with them. There should have been warnings and suggestions and

birthright

at least, if nothing else, descriptions of methods that had been tried and failed. It should all have been there, out in the open; it should have been down in black and white: this is the situation, so far as we know it; these are the problems.

Instead, there had been only routine description, and veiled hints and allusions.

He hadn’t been here long, he thought. There was a lot to learn here yet. The other Terrans, the ones who had been here a long time, knew something he didn’t know. He could tell from their faces, from their attitude toward him. Cortland didn’t know, or he would have told him, and some of the others didn’t either, but most of them did. They knew something, but whether it was pleasant or un- pleasant knowledge, he couldn’t tell. Whatever it was, it affected them. They neglected their work, and they had a different look from the Terrans back home.

Jerwyn had known, and he hadn’t told him. He’d said he’d have to live here to find out.

He lay down and stretched out wearily on the bed.

Well, the answers here exist, he thought. Somehow, when he had all the pieces, the jigsaw would have to fit together and make a coherent picture.

Maybe he was looking in the wrong direction.

But he didn’t know where to look.

He thought of the day he had just been through, remembering incident after incident when he had had all he could do to keep

39

his temper under control. Annoy- ance welled up in him again, as he recalled the series of frustrations, the useless arguments.

His mind was still revolving in 2in upheaval of confusion and an- ger as he fell asleep.

IT WAS BARELY past dawn when he awoke. He tried to fall asleep again and failed. Giving up, he dressed and wandered into the other room and the garden beyond. He felt the early morning coolness slipping over his shoulders like a garment, and a sense of the futility of all his struggling filled him. He felt a sudden longing to rest, bask in the sun, live as the natives did in sunny, amiable unconcern.

He stiffened, annoyed at him- self. That would mean giving up everything he had worked so hard for all his life, ending up as a lazy failure. He felt a surge of anger inside him toward something he could hardly name.

As he stood there, he saw two Nemarian children, a boy and a girl about five years old, emerge from the trees and begin to pick the shimmering flowers in the gar- den. Irritation rose hotly in him. He knew that it was out of propor- tion, built out of a hundred frus- trating incidents, but he found he didn’t want to control it. He wanted to lash out at somebody.

“Stop stealing my flowers!” he yelled. He was surprised at the harshness of his own voice.

The children did not start fear- fully or run, as he expected. They turned and stared at him in an un-

concerned manner. “You can’t steal flowers,” the boy said matter- of-factly. “They don’t belong to anybody.” He looked at Kirk ques- tioningly. “You didn’t plant them, did you?”

Kirk stared at him, speechless.

The boy went on, his tone slight- ly indignant. “Anyway, it’s very rude of you to speak to us like that!”

“They are quite right,” an an- gry voice cut in. !l^rk whirled around to find Nanae standing be- side him, a basket in her hand. Her hair, radiant in the sunlight, was caught back from her face with a green ribbon, and the brown, gold-flecked eyes, for once, were not soft, but sparkling with anger. “These are my sister’s children,” she said icily. “They help me gather flowers for your table. Do you think just because they are young you have the right to treat them without respect?”

Staring at her angry face, Kirk felt his own anger ebbing. Into his mind a forgotten incident flashed back from his childhood. Through a door left ajar in a neighboring apartment he had seen a ripe purple fruit imported from a newly discovered planet, and had taken it, curious to find out what unsyn- thetic food might taste like. He had been discovered, and angrily whipped and locked in his room. He remembered wiping away the tears, alone in his room, smarting with humiliation, and vowing he would show them, he would show them all; he would grow up to be so powerful he could have anything he wanted, and everybody would

40

be afraid of him.

He looked now at Nanae, who had put an arm around each of the children, cradling them to her. His anger left him completely. Re- membering the hurt child he had once been, he foimd himself long- ing for the touch of softness and kindness that had never come to him, wishing that even now for a moment he could take the chil- dren’s place — lay his head against her breast, and feel her fold him in and brush her hand through his hair. He felt something melting in- side of him. He could feel the lines of his face softening as he looked at them.

The words stuck, but he forced them out. “Fm sorry.”

“It’s all right,” said the boy.

Leaning down, Kirk put an arm tentatively around each of the chil- dren, half-surprised at himself for the gesture. As he felt their small bodies relax against his, it seemed as though some deep inner tension began to flow out of him. He straightened up to find Nanae’s glance on him surprisingly warm, almost tender. The approval in her eyes filled him with an unfamiliar kind of happiness.

“You mean Ross spent five years here!” Kirk stared in amazement at Cortland, sitting beside him.

The older officer turned toward him, shifting his position on the grassy ledge to which they had climbed for a look at the surround- ing countryside. “Yes, that’s right. Ross was straight out of the Insti- tute then, had an A-1 record, and this place had just been discovered.

42

They thought then it might have all sorts of valuable minerals and things. It seemed like a great chance.” He shrugged. “As it turned out, of course, there was nothing, but nobody could have known then.”

“They know now,” Kirk said shortly. He sat looking over the valleys beneath them, silent for a moment. It was discouraging to learn Ross had been here and had not turned up anything: Ross was capable, whatever else he might be, and it would take luck as well as work to succeed where he had failed. And his luck didn’t seem to be working out too well, he thought, unhappily.

But this might throw some new light on why he’d been sent here. Maybe Ross’s reason for sending the Institute’s star pupil had been one he could never have guessed at the time — a gesture of sentimen- tality. Maybe he wanted to help these people with whom he had spent his first years as an Adminis- trator. Maybe he wanted to make up for his own failure to help lift their living standairds.

He turned toward the other man. “Cortland, you say you’ve done a lot of traveling here. How about the rest of the planet? Are any of the other villages more advanced; are the people any dififerent?”

Cortland laughed shortly. “Thinking of hiring yourself a new native staff? Your impatience about worn out bucking this one? Can’t say I blame you, but it’s no go. All these villages are the same. One outfit’s as bad as the next. Oh, they go in for different things —

APRIL SMITH

one will go all out for sculptures, one will be great on weaving, and another one maybe will grow a special kind of fruit. But the people are all alike — all equally charming and equally impossible. All sweet and friendly on the surface and stubborn as mules underneath. All acting like they know something they’re not talking about, like they’ve got some secret hidden be- hind those clear, guileless eyes of theirs, some source of strength that makes them able to tell us to go to hell — figuratively, of course — when they don’t like our orders.” He leaned forward, intently. “I’d give a lot to find out what makes them tick.” A look of inseciurity, almost of anxiety filled his eyes.

A sudden gust of wind blew a flurry of leaves against Kirk’s face. He brushed them away, feeling chilled.

Cortland blinked his eyes, and his face resumed its customary firm look. “But to get back to your ques- tion— this village here is supposed to be a center of government. When the Nemarians have to decide on anything that affects the whole planet, the Council in this village does it. The Council has nothing to do with the Galactic Union set- up, of course. It’s strictly local, was here before GU discovered this place. You probably studied up on it before you came here.”

Kirk nodded. Every planet with an indigenous population had its own political set-up. It was GU policy not to interfere with them, unless their interests clashed in some way.

Cortland went on. “Anyone who

birthright

likes being in on that sort of thing packs up and emigrates to this vil- lage. I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, but these people are pretty casual about moving from one town to another. Anyway, when your would-be politician gets here, the people take him in and watch him awhile, and then, if they like him all right, he’s put on the Council. What a system! The truth is, most of the Nemarians consider political work something of a nuisance and would just as soon somebody else did it. They don’t care for power the way we do. They look on it as just a heavy responsibility and a burden.”

Kirk shifted his leg uncomforta- bly, feeling a bit self-conscious.

“By the way,” Cortland added casually, “how are you getting on with that girl?”

“What girl?”

“That beautiful creature who keeps house for you.”

“Nanae?”

“Yes, Nanae. The beauty of the village, the girl who cooks break- fast for you, the head of the Coun- cil—”

“What did you say? What was that about the Council?”

“She’s head of the Council. Didn’t you know?”

“How can she be? She’s a maid, she—”

“They don’t have maids here. She’s being neighborly. And they have sort of a “power corrupts” philosophy here. If you’re in a posi- tion of authority, you’re sort of ex- pected to go out and do humble tasks for people once in awhile, so you won’t get to feeling above them.

43

These people like to keep everyone on the same low — ”

“But head of the Council !’* Kirk broke in. “She’s just a young girl!” “So what? You’re just a young man.”

“But—”

“Sorry for the levity. But they let women do everything here. They’ve got equality of the sexes, old man. They — ”

We’d better be starting back,” Kirk broke in. He rose to his feet.

He walked silently down the hill beside Cortland, his head whirling.

WHEN THEY reached the vil- lage, he left Cortland as quickly as he could and hurried in the direction of his house, incoher- ent thoughts tumbling over each other in his mind. His face burned as he remembered his condescen- sion, the way he had fought his de- sire for her by holding her off with curt remarks, indicating with raised eyebrows that he wished no person- al conversation. He thought of the occasional glint of amusement he had seen breaking through her serene courtesy.

Why had she kept coming, he wondered.

He saw, with a start, that he was nearly to his house, and he realized he had been hoping Nanae would be there. He had to talk to her, though he had no idea what he would say. As he drew closer, he saw a flicker of motion inside the porch.

He walked forward quietly, and then stood a moment watching her, silently. She had her back to him

44

and was sweeping, as she had been that first time he saw her. Her thighs were wrapped in soft, violet cloth, and a cascade of violet flow- ers jeweled the lovely hair which rippled and swirled down her back and shoulders. Not a wasted mo- tion, he thought, not a gesture that isn’t beautififl. He wondered why he had ever felt sweeping a floor was a menial task. She moved like a great dancer.

She turned as he watched and saw him. “Hello.” She smiled, and he felt himself tremble a little.

“I just heard about you — about your being head of die Council,” he blurted out. “I want to apolo- gize; I didn’t know, I — ”

“What difference does it make?” She looked genuinely puzzled.

“I thought you were a maid, a ... a sort of person who waits on other people, on Terra,” he tried to explain. “I didn’t know you were just doing this to be kind. I’ve been very rude. I — I hardly know what to say . . .”

Her eyes widened. “Do you treat p>eople who clean your houses on Terra one way and officials anoth- er? You are funny, you Terrans.”

“Yes, I guess we are funny.” He searched for words. “This is the first time I’ve really talked to you, isn’t it?”

She smiled. “We’ve just been people in the same room.” She spoke gently. “I’ve seen you were unhappy and confused under that roud manner. I wanted to help, ut you weren’t ready to let anyone help.”

“Why did you keep coming?” He waited anxiously for her answer.

APRIL SMITH

“I liked you.” Her glance was half-tender and a little amused. “And I knew you wanted me here, even though you tried not to show it.” She paused. “There was anoth- er reason, too.”

“What was it?”

“You know Marlin Ross lived here once?” He nodded. “Well, there was a note from him on the spaceship you came on. It was ad- dressed to my father, asking him to take care of you. He and Ross were good friends. But my father is dead now, and so the letter was given to me.”

“And so you’ve been taking care of me.”

“Yes.”

“But I’m sure he didn’t mean it literally — taking care of my house and fixing my food and — ”

“No, of course not. He just meant to take care of you, give you what you needed. But you needed this. You needed to be waited on a lit- tle.”

“I guess I did.” He could find nothing adequate to say, “Thank you.”

There was a moment of silence.

She put aside the broom, which was still poised in one hand. “Let me make you some jen. You look tired.”

“Thank you.” Kirk sat down, with a deep sigh, and leaned back, watching her precise, exquisite movements, as she prepared the hot liquid. He found himself long- ing to touch her, to reach out and feel the soft, supple flesh, the rip- pling hair. The sight of her beauti- ful, firm breasts moving as she worked tortured him. The low

birthright

necklace that signified they were covered didn’t work very well for him, he thought. The flowers twined into it kept falling aside as she bent and turned, tantalizing him more. He pulled his eyes away, and forced himself to think of other things.

She had been very kind, he realized.

She hadn’t made him feel like a fool.

He stood waiting for the last of the staff to assemble, letting the feel of triumph course through his body. He felt heady, exultant, a little drunk with joy. This was his moment. This made it all worth while — the long hours, the sleep- less nights, the relentless work, the struggle. They would see. They would see he hadn’t been driving himself and them for nothing.

He stared down for a moment at the piece of ore which he had brought to show them. It contained unpolished zenites.

Nemar possessed zenites, the fab- ulous gems valued all over the gal- axy for their shimmering, glowing beauty of changing color. Infinitely more precious and rare than dia- monds, they served often as a ga- lactic medium of exchange, where weight was important. A handful of them could be worth the whole cargo of a trading ship.

He was not surprised that no one had found the ore deposits before. They were the products of immense and peculiar pressures and no ap- preciable amount of the ore was ever found except very deep under-

45

ground. He was very glad now he had specialized in geology and minerology instead of social struc- ture and alien psychology. Other- wise, the geologic reports he had re- ceived of the area would have seemed perfectly routine and or- dinary. The nagging feeling that there was something a little unusual about the soil analysis would never have come into consciousness as a definite, tremulous hunch.

He could have sent Cortland or one of the others out there with the tools and instruments to dig and make test after test, searching sev- eral feet under the surface for the elusive end-trail of a lode. But he had wanted to go himself. He had packed and prepared for the two- day trip, steeling himself against the disappointment he was almost sure to receive.

He looked at the faces of his staff* members, all present now, thinking of that first meeting with them and the peculiar reception his plans had received. Now it would be different: now everything he had asked of them was justified.

Drawing a long breath, he began to tell them what had happened.

As he went on, his fiery enthu- siasm began to waver. His voice boomed too loudly in the quiet room. Once or twice his words fal- tered, as he glanced at the dispas- sionate face of a native. As he finished, he looked around, a sense of dismay and fear creeping into his feeling of triumph.

They had listened too quietly. Only Cortland and a few other Terrans had shown any indication of the excitement and jubilation he

46

expected. The others seemed un- impressed and imdistiurbed. With a sinldng feeling in the pit of his stomach, he called for discussion.

There was a pause. Finally, one of the older Nemarians spoke. “This is a very important matter. If these mines are put into operation, it will affect the lives of everyone on Ne- mar. I must ask that you give us a little time to tliink over the im- plications.”

He spoke courteously, but Kirk knew the request would have to be respected. He wanted to shout at them, to ask them to understand this wonderful thing that had hap- pened, to tell them they were going to be rich! But this was the way they did things, and tliis was the way it would have to be done. He pushed down the impatience burn- ing in him. “Will a day do?”

The Nemarian hesitated a mo- ment, then nodded. “Very well. A day should be enough.”

fCirk watched them file out a few minutes later. He wondered where his sense of elation had gone.

Apprehension filled him again as he watched the staff assemble die next morning. The faces of the Nemarian members increased his discomfort. Why didn’t they look happier, more excited? Why should they look at him with that un- spoken sympathy in their eyes. He was afraid to hear what they had to say.

The native who had spoken the day before moved forward a little. “We’re very sorry,” he said gently. Kirk felt his heart sinking. “We realize that you have worked very

APRIL SMITH

hard in what you consider to be our interests. We hoped you would come up with something more ac- ceptable than these mines. But we cannot put the plans for mining these gems of yours into operation. We are very sorry,” he said again, “but the Council has voted against it.”

“The Council!” Kirk stared at him. He fought to control his voice. “You know perfectly well that the power of my command is supreme over any local councils of whatever natime.” He stiffened. “But that isn’t the point. I guess I haven’t made things clear to you somehow. These gems — ^which you refer to as if they were a child’s baubles — can make this insignificant planet a power in the galaxy. They can make the name of Nemar respected throughout the whole Galactic Union. You can trade them.” He spoke each word slowly and care- fully as if he were explaining to a child. “I’m not haying expensive machinery constructed and sending you down hundreds of feet into the ground so that your women can wear these jewels. They’re extreme- ly pretty, but you probably feel the flowers the girls pluck and put in their hair do just as well for orna- ments, and perhaps you’re right.”

He paused, trying to hold on to his temper. “It will be dark and dusty and uncomfortable down in those mines, as I told you yesterday when you asked about it. It will be hard work, and I know you’re not fond of hard work.” He could not keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “But I assure you, it will be worth it. A really good specimen of one

BIRTHRIGHT

of these little gems (he underlined the word) can buy half the cargo of a spaceship. These jewels can make it worthwhile for the great trading ships to swarm through space out to this isolated fragment of the cosmos. You can acquire the technologies of other planets with them. The evolution of this planet can be speeded up a dozen times. You can become of importance in the scheme of things, leave this backward, primitive way of life be- hind you.”

As he paused for breath, one of the Nemarians spoke quietly. “We don’t want to push ahead that fast.” He looked at Kirk serenely. “We are interested in improving con- ditions here, of course. We want to acquire things that will make our lives more pleasant and luxurious. Some day we wish to become a highly developed society, techno- logically. We wish growth and change — but only very slowly, very carefully. We want to be very, very sure we do not bring in pain when we bring in new pleasures. We need to study each new change to see what it might mean.” He paused. “In this case, it took very little study. This mining project would mean the young men would be put to backbreaking labor in un- derground, unhealthy conditions. There might be circumstances which could justify such a thing. But not for jewels which are in- trinsically worthless.”

“Worthless! I just told you —

“I mean they are not valuable in themselves. You can make cheap, synthetic jewels that are almost as beautiful, can’t you?”

47

“YeSj of course, but — ”

“So they are only valuable be- cause they are rare, because you call them valuable, because they show the people who buy them have enough money to buy them. Wearing them is really a way of saying, Fm rich, to everyone who sees you.” He shrugged. “We don’t care about that sort of thing here.”

Kirk clenched his fists in frustra- tion. Maybe he should have special- ized in alien psychology. He made another try. “I know you don’t. That’s not the point. The point is that you can trade them for other things, for — ”

The older native who had an- nounced the Council decision broke in again. “As you said, the mining is very hard, disagreeable work. We feel that when you begin to do dis- agreeable things for an end that is not valuable in itself, you are be- ginning to tread a dangerous path. There is no telling where it will end. One such situation leads to another. We might end up cooped up in a room all day, shut away from the sun and air, turning bolts on an assembly line to make ma- chines, as we have heard often hap- pens on Terra.” He looked slightly shocked at the picture. “Being sur- rounded by technical conveniences isn’t worth that.” He looked at ELirk patiently, as though this should be self-evident. “On Terra and on most of the other planets we have had word of, people seem to spend their time making all kinds of things that have no value in themselves, because they can be sold or traded. Other people spend their time trying to persuade peo-

48

pie to buy these useless things. Still other people spend all day making records of how many of these thin^ have been sold. No! This path is not for us.” He shook his head. “We don’t know how it came about that all these people spend their time at these unpleasant, useless things. They can’t have wanted it that way. No human being could want to spend his time doing silly, pointless Aings. How could you be- lieve in yourself? How could you walk proudly? How could you ex- plain it to your children? We must be careful not to make the mistake of taking the first step in that di- rection.”

Kirk felt hopelessly confused. The reasoning was all wrong, but how coiJd he explain it to them?

He began slowly, from another angle . . .

He stood there for a long time after they had left, try- ing to control his rage. He had tried everything he could think of. He had argued, reasoned, pleaded with them. He had raged at them, threatened them. Nothing had worked.

The threats had not disturbed them.

He thought of sending out an emergency beam for help. But what would he say when the ship ar- rived : put these people under mar- tial law — ^force them to work — it’s for their own good? He’d like to see if they could do it, he thought. He’d be betting they couldn’t.

He paced up and down, clench- ing his fists.

APRIL SMITH

He could have all the council members jailed, he thought. Only there weren’t any jails on Nemar.

Resentment burned in him. They’d let him work and struggle and slave day and night — for this. He swung his fist into the wall sud- denly, with all his might. The pain stung, but he felt a little better.

He looked at the bruised hand, wondering what to do. He was too restless to go home and stay by him- self, burning up with unspent rage ; and he certainly couldn’t go and sit among the natives, listening to them chatter and laugh.

He decided to take a walk.

He heard a rustle of leaves after he had gone a little way and saw a pair of feminine legs through the underbrush. He tried to turn aside. He didn’t feel like talking to Jean- nette now.

But she had already seen him. “Hello, there,” she said, pushing aside a branch from where she was sitting. “Are you taking a walk, too? Thought you were always sticking to the old grindstone this time of day.”

“Hello, Jeannette.”

“Sit down and rest for a minute. I need some company.”

He hesitated, then sat down re- luctantly.

“You don’t look too cheerful,” she said, looking at him. “Some- thing eating you?”

“Just this place,” he said wearily. “And the people.”

“Yes, it gets you after a while, doesn’t it? It’s pretty hard to take.” He leaned against a tree and tried to relax.

“It’s hard to live with,” she went BIRTHRIGHT

on, “the constant sense of inferi- ority . . .”

He wondered if he had heard her correctly. “What did you say?”

“I said, it’s hard to live with.” “No, no. I meant the last part.” “The constant sense of inferi- ority. Is something the ma — ” “What are you talking about?” “I’m talking about the Nemar- ians, naturally.”

“You surely don’t consider them superior to us!” he said incred- ulously.

“Let’s not fool ourselves,” she said. “There isn’t one of them that isn’t superior to every Terran here.” He stared at her.

“Of course, we do fool ourselves. I’ve been doing it a long time. Or trying to, anyway. But I’ve been sitting here thinking. Among other things, about why I didn’t leave on that ship you came on, as I’d planned.”

“Why didn’t you?” he asked.

The same reason nobody else did, but Jerwyn; and he had to.” “Plenty of them don’t like it here,” he said. “There’s plenty of griping.”

“Not really,” she said. “It’s not really griping. It’s just a way of making yourself feel better. Only the ones who haven’t been here too long do it, and one or two others who are real old-line die-hards, like your Mr. Cortland.

“Why didn’t you leave?” “Because this is a good deal, of course. The climate’s lovely; the scenery’s beautiful; life is sort of a perpetual pleasure outing. The only trouble is, you’re always on the fringes- You’re the kid from across

49

the tracks.”

“I don’t understand.”

“That wasn’t the right phrase, because that implies snobbishness, and they’re not snobbish. But they don’t quite accept you. They let you hang around; they let you play with them. But you’re not really one of them.”

“Why on earth should you want to be one of them! They’re just a bunch of ignorant primitives, while we come from the highest center of culture civilization has ever attained.”

“Yes, yes, I know all that. We’re very good at pushing buttons and keeping in the right traffic lanes. But let’s look the facts in the face. I’ve been sitting here making my- self look the facts in the face. Have you ever seen one of them act mean?”

“Well, not mean exactly, but — ” “No, you haven’t. They can get plenty angry, but they don’t get mean. There’s a difference.”

He said nothing.

“Have you ever seen a child here tear the wings off an insect?” She went on, not waiting for his reply. “No, you haven’t. And you won’t. Have you ever seen a native with a hard, cruel face? No, again. Have you ever seen one that wasn’t gentle with children?”

“I guess not. I never thought about it.”

She turned to him with an odd tremulousness in her face, replacing her usual cynical look and slightly raised eyebrows. “They love their children here. They really love them.” She looked at him. “They don’t scey they love them and then

50

hit them and humiliate them be- cause they accidentally break the vase Aunt Matilda gave the family for Christmas. Their child’s happi- ness means more to them than any vase, than any material object. They never humiliate their chil- dren. That’s why they grow up to walk like kings and queens.

“They grow up being loved,” she said. “They all love each other. And it isn’t because they try. They don’t try to be good and nice and love their fellow-men, like we do. It’s just something that flows out of them. They’re full of wsirmth in- side, and it flows out.

“And something else — ” she went on. “Have you ever caught one in a lie?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean — ”

“People like your Mr. Cortland think they’re sly and deceptive be- cause they’re always courteous, and still you can’t push them around. But he’s wrong. They’re courteous because they’re sorry for us, not be- cause they’re afraid of us.”

“Sorry for us?”

“Yes, sorry for us. They’re sorry for us because we don’t know how to enjoy life, because we worry about all sorts of things that don’t matter, and knock ourselves out working, and need other people to reassure us of our own worth. Be- cause we have bad tempers and awkward bodies, and we don’t have that warmth inside of us flowing out toward other people.

“Even toward us,” she said. “They’re kind to us. They’re toler- ant. They want us to happy. And they do accept us eventually. If we stay here enough years. If we

APRIL SMITH

change. Maybe not quite as one of them, but silmost. Sometimes they even marry us.”

Kirk shook his head, trying to clear it. “I can’t think. I feel con- fused, I — ”

“Still thinking about our great technological achievements? We’re pretty cocky about them, aren’t we? We come here all set to spread enlightenment among the savages.” She shrugged. “They’re not im- pressed with our magic machines. They’re not selling their planet for a handful of beads. They took a good look at us and decided to try to keep what they had.”

She looked at him steadily. “Per- sonally, I’ve decided I can do with- out the vidar-shows. I’m going to stay and try to make the grade here. I’m going to work at be- coming a better human being. I’m tired of being flippant and smart and sophisticated. I’d like to be happy.” She paused. “Maybe a Nemarian will even fall in love with me eventually and marry me.”

“You want to marry one of them!”

“You catch on fast.” She blinked. “Sorry. That’s not a very good be- ginning. It’s going to take awhile to shake that flippancy.” She caught his eyes. “Wouldn’t you like to marry Nanae?”

He didn’t answer.

She smiled oddly. “Yes, I’d like to marry one of them and have children like theirs.” She hesitated. “I said once, they spoil their chil- dren rotten. I guess they do in a way, but the children turn out fine. We Terrans just aren’t used to chil- dren with a sense of their rights.

BIRTHRIGHT

These children overwhelm me.” She lowered her eyes. “You know how flippant I am — ^when I try it in their presence I feel terribly stupid. They make me aware of every affectation; their eyes are so clear — like a deer’s — I feel like a fool.” She looked at him tremulous- ly, defensively. “Anyway, I said that about their being spoiled, out of envy. When I first saw how their mothers held them — all that tender- ness, all that love, all that warmth — I envied them with a terrible bit- terness. It wasn’t that I had bad parents. Just ordinary ones, trying to do their best and all that.”

“Why do you keep talking about children all the time? After all, it’s the adults who run things.”

“The children are the adults of the future. It’s the way they’re brought up that makes these people what they are. You and I — all of us from Terra — we’ve been brought up on a limited, scientifically reg- imented, controlled amount of love. These natives have something we’ll never have. We’ve got to work and strive for what comes as naturally to them as breathing.”

As' she spoke, Kirk suddenly re- membered the close-packed faces of Terrans speeding by in the op- posite direction on the moving side- walks at home — tense faces, hard faces, resigned faces, sad faces, tim- id faces, worried faces. Maybe one in fifty serene and self-confident, maybe one in a hundred vibrantly, joyously alive. Maybe. Probably not that many.

He thought of the faces of the Nemarians.

Jeannette was still talking. “They

51

arc what human beings should be,” she said slowly. “Somehow theyVe kept their birthright — the ability to be full of the joy of living when- ever they’re not in real trouble or sorrow, the ability to be happy just because they’re alive. I haven’t un- derstood these people because I didn’t want to understand them. I didn’t want to see that they were better than I am. They’re very simple, really; it’s we who are com- plicated and devious.”

^‘Why hasn’t anybody ever heard of this place?” Kirk asked.

“It’s isolated,” she said, “and people don’t leave here, once they’ve seen what’s here. They don’t write too much, either, be- cause by the time the spaceship arrives again, they understand. They cooperate with the author- ities, who are trying to keep this place as much of a secret as pos- sible. Publicize it, and within ten years it would be swarming with wealthy businessmen on vacation and jaded neurotics trying to get away from it all. The Nemarians would be lost in the shuffle.”

She was still a moment. “My husband came here to get away from it all. He heard rumors of this place a long way off and traced them. I didn’t want to come. I liked cities and night-clubs; I liked being surrounded by amiable, promiscuous men. He dragged me here against my will. Now he’s dead, and I’m caught up in his dreams. These people are irresist- ible; they call out to something basic and deep in you, and you respond to it whether you want to or not. You can’t leave this place

— unless you have to. like you will.”

Kirk stood up abruptly. “Jean- nette, do you mind? I feel terribly confused. A lot has happened to me today. I want to walk alone awhile and think things out.”

She nodded, with a sudden look of compassion.

He walked away from her slowly, turning half uncon- sciously in the direction of his house. His mind was a swirl of con- fusion. He tried to think. He needed to get it all straightened out.

The sense of inferiority, she’d said, the constant sense of inferi- ority. Let’s not fool ourselves, she’d said. There isn’t one of them that isn’t superior to every Terran here.

And he’d just sat there, stupefied, not denying it.

Because once it was spoken, put into words, it had a certain right- ness. A certain obviousness. He’d known it all the time.

He hadn’t let himself know it, though. He’d struggled against it, choking it back when it started seeping up from his unconscious. He’d worked so hard and kept him- self so busy and exhausted he didn’t have time to think. He’d thought so hard about other things he didn’t have time to think about the truth.

He’d arrived here looking for the answer to a mystery. Thinking may- be the planet had a secret value, hoping maybe it held an explosive or new weapon that was classified as Super Top Secret, wondering if maybe it weren’t really primitive.

52

And nobody could have told him: it does have a secret value — secret because you’re too blind to see it. Nobody could have told him ; these people are more advanced than you are. Because advanced meant machines. Advanced didn’t mean happy, loving, graceful, cou- rageous, honest.

They couldn’t have told him with words if he couldn’t see it with his eyes — ^if he couldn’t see that the glowing faces of the na- tives held a secret worth learning.

The only secret that really mat- tered.

How to be happy.

Nanae was there waiting when he reached the house, as though she had been expecting him.

She looked at him silently, then smiled. “You’re not angry?”

“Angry?”

“About the Council decision.”

“Oh— oh, I was. I’m all mixed up now. I’ve been doing some thinking.”

She looked at him intently, then nodded slowly. “Do you know why you were sent here?” she asked.

“I’m just beginning to get a glim- mering of it.”

“Did you know we are the only planet yet discovered whose people have never known war?”

“No, I didn’t know.”

“Ross came to Nemar when the Galactic Union first discovered it. He didn’t find any of the things he was looking for, but he did dis- cover something else, a way of life.” She paused. “Have you ever gone over his record?”

“No.”

“You should, sometime. He’s done a great deal of good.” She looked at him steadily, her eyes clear and soft. “He keeps sending the very best of the Institute grad- uates here, hoping they’ll study our society and work out some theories about what makes us the way we are. He hopes some of the happi- ness here can be transplanted.

“We don’t know why we’re the way we are. We don’t even know how it’s possible to be any other way, and we don’t understand why anyone should be willing to fight wars, or why they should lie or hit their children or make long speeches that don’t say anything.”

Kirk was silent.

“We’re inside the problem,” she said. “We can’t see ourselves from the outside.”

Kirk spoke very slowly, thinking it out. “You mean, Ross sent me here to study you, to try to find out what factors are involved in —

“Yes. He sent you here to learn.”

He was quiet, digesting that.

“One day you’ll be in Ross’s place,” she said.

He accepted the words quietly, knowing it was true.

Yesterday, that would have seemed like the most desirable thing in the universe, the height of hap- piness.

It seemed like a long time ago.

It meant nothing now but a heavy burden.

He sat thinking of Nanae after she had gone, of how he had longed to put his arms around her and draw her to him, kiss the soft mouth, run his hands through the long, glowing strands of hair.

BIRTHRIGHT

53

He’d have to work first, work at He wondered whether she’d be changing himself, becoming the willing to go to Terra with him. kind of person she could love. She He got up and moved toward would love differently and more the bedroom. Tomorrow was going deeply than the girls he had known, to be a busy day — changing things. She would love with a passion and making apologies. Feasting. Danc- tenderness they’d never be capable ing. Going midnight swimming, of. That kind of love would have He realized suddenly that he was to be earned. very happy. • • •

WORTH CITING

RECENT STATISTICS compiled by the United States Depart- ment of Labor have shown that it costs American industry about $2,500,000,000 each year for research which enables it to give you deadlier insecticides, better weed killers, more efficient and smoother-riding cars, more rugged home appliances, better surgi- cal instruments, more sensitive radio and television sets and the host of other newer developments that are easing the burden of life for the men and women of today. Add to this another $1,250,000,000 for research in the development of better planes for your son in the Air Force, or warmer uniforms for the boys in the Army, or better life rafts for the sailor and his buddies, or safer landing craft for the Marines. The bill adds up to the staggering total of $3,750,000,000 a year just to keep American life improving!

It takes 96,000 research engineers and scientists laboring over test tubes and slide rules, blue prints and calculators, weather instruments and cyclotrons to produce these gimmicks and gadgets. And industry gets the utmost from these researchers by supplying them with a staff of technicians. About 143,000 supporting workers are busily engaged in twirling knobs, taking hourly readings and running series of long, routine tests. In short, research in this country is a big and costly business. And the organizational technique is such that it can help the country over industrial humps and bottlenecks created by war, famine, plague and cataclysm.

Our Citation this month goes to the researchers, those men and women of American industry, who conceive and make the ma- chines and instruments and products that make the standard of living in this country the finest in the world.

54

BY WILLARD MARSH

They were used to retarded life forms, but this was the worst.

Yet it is a missionary's duty to bring light where there is none.

for who can tell what deviotis forms evolution might take?

the ethicators

The missionaries came out

of the planetary system of a star they didn’t call Antares. They called it, naturally enough, The Sun — ^just as home was Earth, Ter- ra, or simply The World. And naturally enough, being the ascend- ant animal on Earth, they called themselves human beings. They were looking for extraterrestrial souls to save.

They had no real hope of find- ing humans like themselves in this wonderously diversified universe. But it wasn’t against all probability that, in their rumaging, there

might not be a humanoid species to whom they could reach down a helping paw; some emergent cous- in with at least a rudimentary sym- metry from snout to tail, and hence a rudimentary soul.

The ship they chose was a com- pact scout, vaguely resembling the outside of an orange crate — except that they had no concept of an orange crate and, being a tesseract, it had no particular outside. It was simply an expanding cube (and as such, quite roomy) whose “interi- or” was always paralleling its “ex- terior” (or attempting to), in ac-

55

cordance with all the well-known, basic and irrefutable laws on the subject.

A number of its sides occupied the same place at the same time, giving a hypothetical spectator the illusion of looking down merging sets of rsdlway tracks*. This, in fact, was its precise method of locomo- tion. The inner cube was always having to catch up, caboose-fash- ion, with the outer one in time (or space, depending on one’s perspec- tive) . And whenever it had done so, it would have arrived with it- self— at approximately wherever in the space-time continuum it had been pointed.

When they felt the jar of the settling geodesics, the crew crowded at the forward visiplate to see where they were. It was the outskirts of a G type star system. Silently they watched the innermost planet float past, scorched and craggy, its sun- ward side seeming about to relapse to a molten state.

The Bosun-Colonel turned to the Conductor. “A bit of a disappoint- ment I’m afraid, sir. Surely with all that heat . . .?”

“Steady, lad. The last wicket’s not been bowled.” The Conductor’s whiskers quivered in amusement at his next-in-command’s impetuosity. “You’ll notice that we’re dropping downward. If the temperature ac- cordingly continues dropping — ”

He couldn’t shrug, he wasn’t physiologically capable of it, but it was apparent that he felt they’d soon reach a planet whose climate could support intelligent life.

If the Bosun-Colonel had any ideas that such directions as up

56

and down were meaningless in space, he kept them to himself. As the second planet from its sun hove into view, he switched on the mag- niscan eagerly.

“I say, this is more like it. Clouds and all that sort of thing. Should we have a go at it, sir?”

The Conductor yawned. “Too bloody cloudy for my taste. Too equivocal. Let’s push on,” he said languidly. “I have a hunch the third planet might be just our dish of tea.”

Quelling his disappointment, the Bosun-Colonel waited for the third planet to swim into being. And when it did, blooming like an or- chid in all its greens and moist- nesses, he could scarcely contain his excitement.

“Why, it looks just like Earth,” he marveled. “Gad, sir, what a master stroke of navigation. How did you realize this would be it?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the Con- ductor said modestly. “Things usually have a habit of occurring in threes. I’m quite a student of nu- merology, you know.” Then he re- membered the Mission and drew himself erect on all his legs. “You may prepare for landing. Mister,” he ordered crisply.

The Bosun-Colonel shifted over to manual and busied himself at the helm, luffing the square craft down the troughs of air. Gliding over the vast tropical oceans, he put down at a large land mass above a shallow warm sea, twenty- five degrees below the northern pole.

Too numbed for comment, the crew stared out at the alien vista.

WILLARD MARSH

They’d heard of retarded life forms from other Missionary ex- peditions— of planets where the in- habitants, in extreme emergency, had been known to commit mur- der. But this was surely the worst, the most vicious imaginable in the galaxy.

Here, with life freshly up from the sea, freshly launched on the long climb to maturity and self- realization — was nothing but hor- ror. With so lush a vegetation, so easily capable of supporting them side by side in abundance, the monsters were actually feeding on each other. Great lumbering beasts they were with their bristling hides and huge tails, charging between the giant tree ferns; gouging living chunks from one another while razor-toothed birds with scaly wings flapped overhead, screaming for the remnants. As the sounds of carnage came through the audio ports, the youngest Oarsman keeled over in a faint.

Even the Conductor was visibly shaken. The Bosun-Colonel turned to him with a sick expression.

“Surely it’s a lost cause. Skipper. Life like this will never have a soul worth saving.”

“Not in its present stage,” the Old Man was forced to agree. “Still, one never knows the devious paths that evolution takes.” He considered the scene for a thought- ful, shuddering interval. “Perhaps in several thousand millen- niums . . .”

The Bosun-Colonel tried to vis- ualize the possibility of Ethical Life ever materializing through these swamp mists, but the logic against

THE ETHICATORS

it was too insurmoimtable for the imagination.

“Even so,” he conceded, “grant- ing the impossible — whatever shape it took, the only worthwhile species would still be . . .” He couldn’t bring himself to say it.

“Meat-eaters,” the Conductor supplied grimly.

C3n hearing this, the Oarsman who had just revived promptly fainted again.

“It’s too deep in the genes,” the Conductor continued, “too far ad- vanced for us to tamper with. All we can hope to do is modify their moral outlook. So that by the time they achieve star travel, they’ll at least have a basic sense of Fair Play.”

Sighing, bowed by responsibilities

NEVER, EVER BEFORE, ANYWHERE!

7000 fantasy and science- fiction books and back- issue magazines at 50% to 90% under what theyVe cost you before, here or anywhere, while they last! LIST FREE.

WEREWOLF BOOKSHOP

Shannon Rd., R.D. 2, Box 86K Verona, Pennsylvonia

57

incommensurate with his chrono- logical youth, he gave the order wearily. It was snapped down the chain of command to the Senior Yardbird:

“All paws stand by to lower the Ethics Ray! Step lively, lads — bug- ger off, now ...”

There was a din of activity as the outer locks were opened and the bulky mechanism was shipped over the side. It squatted on a cleared rise of ground in all its complex, softly ticking majesty, waiting for the First Human to pad within range of its shedding Grace and Uplift. The work party scram- bled back to the ship, anxious to be off this sinister terrain. Once more the crew gathered at the visiplate as the planet fell away beneath them, the Ethics Ray winking in the day’s last light like a corner- stone. Or perhaps a tambourine . . .

IGHT CLOSED down on the raw chaotic world, huge beasts closed in on the strange star-fallen souvenir. They snuffled over it; then enraged at discovering it was nothing they could fill their clam- oring mindless stomachs with, at- tempted to wreck it. They were un- successful, for the Machine had been given an extra heavy coat of shellac and things to withstand such monkeyshines. And the Ma- chine, in its own finely calibrated way, ignored its harassers, for they had no resemblance to the Life it had been tuned to influence.

Days lengthened into decades, eons. The seas came shouldering in to stand towers tall above the

58

Ethics Ray, lost in the far ooze below. Then even the seas receded, and the mountains buckled up- ward in their place, their arrogant stone faces staring changelessly across the epochs. Until they too were whittled down by erosion. The ice caps crept down, crackling and grinding the valleys. The groimd stretched and tossed like a restless sleeper, settled, and the Ethics Ray was brought to light once more.

As it always had, it continued beaming its particular signal, on a cosmic ray carrier modulated by a pulse a particular number of angstroms below infrared. The beasts that blundered within its field were entirely different now, but they still weren’t the Right Ones. Among them were some shambling pale bipeds, dressed in skins of other beasts, who clucked over its gleaming exterior and tried to chip it away for spearheads. In this of course they were unsuccess- ful.

And then one day the First Hu- man wandered by, paused square in the path of the beam. His phy- siology was only approximate, his I.Q. was regrettably low — but he was Pre-Moral Life, such as it was, on this planet.

The Ethics Ray made the neces- sary frequency adjustments, tripped on full force. The Primitive froze under the bombardment, its germ plasm shifting in the most minute and subtle dimensions. Then, its mission fulfilled, the Ethics Ray col- lapsed into heavy molecules and sank into the groimd. The first convert raced away in fright, having no idea what had hap-

WILLARD AAARSH

pened. Neither did his billion sons and daughters . . ,

Back on the home base, the Conductor reported in at the Ethication of Primitive Planets office. It was a magnificently im- posing building, as befitting the moral seat of the universe. And the Overseer was an equally imposing human with ears greyed by service. His congratulations were unre- served.

“A splendid mission, lad,” he said, “and I don’t mind suggesting — strictly entre nous — that it could jolly well result in a Fleet Con- ductorship for you.”

The Conductor was over- whelmed.

“Now just let me jot down the essentials while they’re still fresh in mind,” he continued, pawing through a desk drawer. “Bothera- tion! I seem to have traded the last of my styluses. Do you happen to have one on you?”

“With pleasure.” The Conductor handed over his monogrammed gold stylus, receiving in exchange a toy silencemaker.

“My youngster traded it to me this morning,” the Overseer chuck-

led.

He wrote rapidly for several mo- ments, then gave the stylus bacL The Conductor found a weathered paper-weight in his rear pocket, which he traded him for it. It looked like it might have come from this very desk at one time. Then with a smart salute, he about- faced.

On the way out, a pair of sec- retaries paused in their trading of a pelt brush for a tail-curler to watch him admiringly. As well they might. Fleet Conductor!

The future Fleet Conductor of a solar system he would never think of calling Antares paused at the door. In its polished panel he re- garded himself with due apprecia- tion. He had sown the seeds of civilization on a far-flimg planet where, countless light years from now, they would flower to maturity. Not among the strongest or clever- est species, to be sure, but among those most worthy of applying First Principles, the moral law of give and take.

Among those remote cousins of the Conductor himself — who under no circumstances would ever think of himself as resembling a rather oversized trader rat • • •

DON’T miss Irving E. Cox’s latest — THE ALMOST MEN — ^in the October issue. It’s a suspenseful short novel about a strange war in which one side is armed with the greatest weapons of the age, while the other side has nothing but a new way of life : science and mechanics notwithstanding, the mind is Man’s greatest potential . . . Also top-notch stories by Charles Beaumont, Robert F. Young, Edward W. Ludwig, Alan E. Nourse and others.

THE ETHICATORS

59

BLEEDBACK

BY WINSTON MARKS

It was just a harmless^ though amazing^ kid^s toy that sold for

less than a dollar. Yet it plunged the entire nation

into a nightmare of mystery and chaos . . .

The thing is over now, but I can’t see a Teddy bear or a set of blocks in a department store window without shuddering. I’m thankful I’m a bachelor and have no children around to remind me of the utterly insane nightmare that a child’s toy plunged our country into — the millions of people who died in agony — the total disruption and near dissolution of our nation.

And yet, as the United States tot- tered on the verge of complete

chaos, it was, ironically, another child’s toy that saved us. A simple, ordinary, every-day toy for tots stopped the “fever”, halted the carnage that was tearing our flesh and eyes and viscera into shreds. With most the scientists in the world working for an emergency solution, they could come up with no better answer than a toy that’d been around for generations before the “Mystery i-Gun” was even con- ceived.

60

Being a plain-clothesman, I have seen greed and impatience ruin many individual lives. If I could have guessed at the chain of events that would stem from my first tact with the younger Baxter er, I would have put a bullet through his head in cold blood and cheerfully faced the gas chamber.

Illustrated by Ed Emsh

Instead I took off my hat and fol- told, we would find a body, lowed him through the substantial Leo Baxter was a little guy about old house to a moderately large five-foot six, like me but with a

room in the rear where, I’d been better build. His size was important

61

for a couple of reasons, one being that it was startling to say the least, when he pointed to the giant on the floor and said, “My brother.”

He caught my look and shrugged impatiently. “I know, I know, but this is no time for Mutt and Jeff gags. Galvin has been murdered. Now get with it, Lieutenant!” If Galvin was his brother, Leo’s agita- tion was understandable, but his voice had a flat note of practicality in it that I didn’t like.

As I looked down at the sprawled length of the big man on the tiled floor, the Mutt and Jeff angle didn’t fit at all. David and Goliath was a better bet. This Goliath seemed also to have met his fate from a hole in the forehead. I say, “seemed,” because it developed that Galvin Baxter was not yet quite dead.

“There’s no pulse or breath,” his brother said when I mentioned this error in his assumption.

“You’re no doctor. Now call that ambulance like I told you. Jump!” I said.

He jumped. I made a quick ex- amination, meanwhile, and when Leo came back from the phone I pointed. “See, the blood. It’s still coming out.”

“Gorpses bleed, don’t they?”

“Not in spurts,” I said. “The hole’s tiny, but whatever’s in there touched an artery. See that?”

He looked and seemed convinced. “The ambulance will be here. Any- thing else I should do?”

“Yes. Nothing. Don’t touch a thing in this room ... or did you already?”

“Just Galvin. I heard him fall,

62

and when I came in he was on his face.”

“Why did you ask for homicide when you called the police? Or let’s put it this way: What makes you think it wasn’t an accident?”

“Two reasons. First, because I couldn’t see any cause of the acci- dent. When I turned him over the floor was smooth and clean under his forehead except for the smear of blood. Reason number two: Be- cause Galvin just doesn’t have ac- cidents. All his life he’s moved in slow motion. I’ve never known him to stumble, or cut himself, or drop anything or even bump into any- one.”

I was checking around the room myself, and I had to admit that both reasons might be valid. A man the size of Galvin wasn’t likely to be the skittish type. And by the time the ambulance arrived I was ready to admit that if the injury were an accident, Galvin Baxter had contrived to conceal its source.

It took several of us to load the unconscious man onto the stretcher. I told his cocky little brother to stay on ice, while I rode downtown in the ambulance.

Dr. Thorsen called me into the emergency ward. “How did this happen?” he wanted to know. Thorsen is a lean, learned old chap who normally gives more answers than he asks.

I said, “Don’t know. Doc. I found him in a sort of home work- shop. No power tools, nothing dan- gerous in sight. The bench at one end had a couple of little gadgets on it — looked sort of electrical. Some wire, soldering iron, books, a

WINSTON AAARKS

few rough circuit drawings.”

“The gadgets. What did they look like?”

1 thought back and realized that what I had to describe would sound a little peculiar. “Sort of like flash- lights with a pistol grip . . . and no lens where the light should come out. Just blunt, flat ends.

Thorsen shrugged. “Then I don’t know. I expected you to report some kind of a blast or explosion.” “No sign of one.”

“All right, then what else but a flying particle could drill a hole in a man’s forehead the diameter of a piece of 16-gauge wire?”

“What do the x-rays show?” “We’ll know in a minute. What about the murder-attempt angle?” I said that I had nothing to go on yet. That was the whole truth and the final truth!

When Doc’s x-rays revealed nothing but a blood clot deep in the brain at the end of the tiny tunnel piercing the skull, I was left with- out even a “modus operandi”, let alone a substantial suspect.

For two days I investigated brother Leo, and when I wasn’t investigating him I was question- ing him. The small town in Min- nesota where he claimed he and his brother were bom had been the county seat, and the whole shivaree had burned up in a prairie fire years ago, courthouse, birth rec- ords and all. With no other living relatives, I had to depend on peo- ple who had known both men. From those whom I questioned, I ascertained that they had been

passing for brothers, at least, for some time.

On the third day Leo’s patience began to crack. “You keep asking me the same, stupid questions over and over. I tell you, I’m a mechan- ical engineer. My brother was a mathematician. We’re both single. I make enough money in the con- struction game to support both of us. What’s so suspicious about hu- moring my brother’s research?”

“Among other things,” I said, “is your ignorance of what he was doing.”

“For the fiftieth time I tell you I didn^t know!” His exasperation was mounting to the pitch I had been awaiting.

“You used the past tense. You do know now?”

He wheeled and crosstd the living room, poured himself a drink of straight bourbon and downed it. “Yes, I have a notion now, but it’s none of your damned business. His ideas may be patentable.”

I said slowly and quietly, “Now I’ll tell you what I’ve been waiting for. I’ve been waiting for you to offer me information about the two little gadgets that you removed from your brother’s work-bench — against my explicit orders not to touch anything. Until you produce those items and explain your ac- tions I’ll be around here asking stupid questions. From now on, un- derstand?”

“Damn cops!” He threw the shot glass to the floor and glared at me for a long minute. “All right, come with me.”

We went into a little library. He took two volumes from a high shelf

BLEEDBACK

63

and from the recess snatched the two gadgets with the pistol ^ips.

From a table drawer, whicn he unlocked with a key from his pocket, he took some drawings that looked like the ones that had dis- appeared from his brother’s little work-shop.

“Calvin developed a new effect by applying one of his esoteric mathematical symbols to a simple electronic circuit,” Leo began, in his surly tone. He pointed at the margin of the circuit drawing. There were jottings of algebraic formulae in which the quantity “i” appeared prominently. He pointed this out to me and continued, “Being a cop you wouldn’t under- stand, but this symbol stands for an imaginary number, the square root of a minus one.”

This rang a bell from away back in my own college math. I said, “Yeah, I think I remember. It’s some sort of operational factor in polar coordinates. No real meaning in itself, but — ”

“Well! An educated cop! That’s right, except that Calvin managed to give this symbol an actual, func- tional application. I was telling the truth when I said I didn’t ^ow what he was doing. I still don’t un- derstand it, and I’ve been losing sleep over these formulae.”

“Then why not take it to the university and let the professors — ”

“Because,” he interrupted, “whether I understand it or not, Calvin’s gadget, happens to work. Watch this.”

He picked an ordinary paper clip from the debris of pencils, stamps and rubber bands from the top desk

drawers, touched it to the “muzzle” end of the gadget where it stuck as if magnetized. “Now keep your eyes on the paper clip,” he ordered.

His forefinger pressed a button in the pistol grip, and without click, snap, buzz or murmur, the paper clip disappeared.

Leo stared at me, as thoughts of “hyper-space”, fourth-dimension and space-warps flitted through my mind. It wasn’t a Buck Roger’s atomic disintegrator, because there was no heat, flash or sound. The clip was suddenly elsewhere.

“And I suppose the other gadget brings it back,” I said.

“That’s what I thought, but I can’t make it work. I suppose my brother could, if he were here.”

He tossed the thing to me, pointed at the little box of paper clips in the drawer and said, “Have fun.”

I did, for about five minutes. Eight paper clips later I was con- vinced that whatever else it might be, the gadget was no potential murder weapon. The clips dis- appeared, totally. You could pass your hand through the point of departure without a tingle of sensa- tion.

Leo briefed me further. The thing worked only on metallic con- ductors. It was harmless to human flesh and other organic matter. Then he removed the cover that ran the length of the rather crude, hand-carved, wooden barrel. From front to back, were: One pen-light cell, a lumpy-looking coil of wire hand-wound on a spindle-shaped iron core, and a short, cylindrical bar-magnet.

64

WINSTON MARKS

“In mass production,” he said, “About 40 cents worth of material and maybe 50 cents worth of labor! Do you see why I wanted to keep it a secret until I could patent it?”

“No!” I said flatly. “Unless you consider a paper-clip disposal unit an item of commerci^ impor- tance.”

“But it’s a whole new scientific principle — the rotation of matter completely out of our space-time continuum!”

“That much I grasp, but what good is it except as a demonstration of a piece of pure scientific re- search?”

“Good Lord, man, have you no imagination?”

“Okay, okay! Get rich,” I said and slammed the front door behind me as I stomped out. I had been so certain that the missing gadgets would give me a motive for the at- tack on Leo’s brother, or at least the method of inflicting the fan- tastic wound, that I was about ready to turn in my badge in frus- tration. All I could pin on Leo was a desire to cash in on his brother’s gimmick — ^which, presumably, he could have done whether Calvin lived or died.

Suppose, I mused on my way back to the station, that Calvin had refused to let Leo commercialize on his discovery? Perhaps Calvin was preparing a paper for publication in scientific circles. Maybe cool- headed little Leo tried to knock off his brother to keep the secret in the family until it could be turned to a selfish dollar.

All right, suppose a jury would accept such an impalpable theory

BLEEDBACK

as a motive, then what? No murder weapon. No witnesses. Not even a genuine murder yet, because Calvin was still alive.

Yes, old Doc Thorsen had kept the mathematician alive somehow. The elder Baxter lay on his back across two, white iron beds pushed together in the City Hospital, and Thorsen came in to report to me.

“The clot seems to be absorbing better than I expected, but it’s doubtful that we could operate to remove the paralyzing pressure. The puncture is deep into the brain tissue, and he’s too nearly gone to survive such an ordeal.”

“Any chance that he might re- cover consciousness?”

“Pretty remote,” Thorsen told me. “We’ll keep a special nurse with him as you ordered, just in case he does.”

I left Calvin Baxter pale and motionless as some great statue supine amid the tangle of plasma, glucose and saline hoses, under his transparent oxygen tent. The wound that had laid him low was no more than a dot of dried blood on his massive forehead.

Until his death, his file would re- main under unsolved crimes. In my own mind I was no longer sure of anything, except that if there was a nickel in Calvin Baxter’s dis- covery, his mercenary brother would wring it out.

And he did. Even before Calvin died.

Some seven weeks later Leo mar- keted the “MYSTERY i-GUN” as a combined, toy, trick and puzzle, and it set the whole damned world on its ear!

65

I located Leo Baxter in his new suite of offices on the 34th floor of the State Building. He peeled back his lips in a sneery grin. “I thought you’d be showing up.”

He waved away his male secre- tary who was still clinging to my arm trying to tow me back to the reception room. I said, “I kept your secret, then you pull an irre- sponsible thing like this! A kid’s toy! Good Lord, man, that device might be dangerous!”

“I appreciate your professional ethics, Lieutenant. I’ve applied for a patent, so you can tell all your friends now. And stop worrying. The “Mystery i-Gun” is quite harmless. I experimented a week before going into production.”

“A week?” I could scarcely be- lieve my ears. “What happens when some kid jams his gun against a light-pole or an automobile ... or the night lock on the First National Bank?”

“Nothing. It punches no holes. A large metallic object simply dis- sipates the field. The largest object it will handle is about a half -inch steel screw — ”

“Baxter, your brother’s accident is connected to that device — and you turn it loose as a novelty!” “Nonsense. It’s safe as a knot- hole. It simply makes things dis- appear. Little things, like tacks, ball bearing, old rusty nuts and bolts — ” “And dimes and mamma’s ear- rings and the front door key,” I snapped back. “Until you know how to bring those things back you had no right to market that rig.” He laid his small hands before him on the desk. “Lieutenant, I’m

66

sick of working for other people. This is my chance to get a bank- roll to back my own contracting firm. Yes, I financed Calvin’s re- search because he’s brilliant, and I knew he’d come up with something some day. Now he’s done it, and I’m merely protecting his interests and my investment in him. See here.” He shoved some documents at me. There was the patent ap- plication, a declaration of partner- ship for purposes of marketing the Mystery i-Gun, and the articles of incorporation of the Baxter Con- struction Company.

“Okay,” I said. “So you’ve cut your brother in on all this. Who’s his beneficiary when he dies?” “Still looking for a motive for murder, aren’t you. Lieutenant?”

I didn’t admit it to him, but he was right. Galvin’s “accident” seemed too convenient to the pur- poses of his practical little brother, Leo. What’s more, the lab and medical men on the force were just as mystified today as they were when we brought Calvin in with the needle-thin hole in his skull. Old Doc Thorsen had admitted to me that he could name no imple- ment— not even a surgical instru- ment— that could have inflicted such a narrow gauge hole. It had to be caused by a fragment, hut there was no fragment in the brain!

“Leo,” I said, “I know you con- sider this case closed, but I want you to do me a favor. I want to go over youf brother’s lab once more.” “But you’ve — ” He stopped, shrugged and nodded his head. “Okay. I’m interested in finding out what hurt Cal, as much as you

WINSTON MARKS

are. I’ll tell you, Fm busy the rest of this week, but Fll meet you at the old house next Monday evening at eight. You see, I closed up the place and moved downtown.”

I agreed, with the feeling that he was deliberately making me wait just to annoy me. Leo Baxter was an important man now, a man graciously willing to cooperate with the police — at his own convenience. I stood up. “Your brother has been calling your name. I suppose they told you that?”

“They phoned. Doctor said it was just mutterings.”

“You haven’t even been to see him?”

“What’s the use? He wouldn’t recognize me.”

Well, it wasn’t any of my busi- ness, really, but it’s funny how you get to hate a man for his attitude. I don’t know what I expected to find by going over that lab-work- shop again, but whatever it was, I hoped it would incriminate Leo. On the face of it he was guilty of nothing more than a premature marketing of a new device, but the way he was cashing in on Galvin’s genius certainly did the dying man no honor.

Cash in was right! The toys sold like bubble-gum. The papers, radio, and TV picked up the sensational gimmick and gave it a billion bucks worth of free advertising. And the profitable part of it was that the i-Gun was so simple to mass-pro- duce that Leo’s fifteen contracting manufacturers were almost able to keep up with the astronomical de- mand.

Before that week was up, the BLEEDBACK

Wall Street Journal estimated there were already more i-Guns in the hands of the juvenile public than all the yo-yos ever produced. They retailed at eighty-five cents, made of plastic with a hole in the back where you could change the pen- light battery. They sold, all right. They sold in drugstores and toy stores and dime stores and depart- ment stores. Toddler’s, tykes and teen-agers went for them. And adults. Maybe 30 million of them were in the hands of the public before I saw Leo Baxter next.

Which was almost two weeks in- stead of the one week he had prom- ised.

I finally got an appointment. “Sorry,” he said. “Fve been tied up with government people all week. The A. E. G. tried to get me in trouble.”

I said, “Skip it. You promised for tonight. Now let’s go.”

“I can’t possibly make it to- night.” He pointed at his desk. It was littered with correspondence, orders and contracts. “Give me one more week. Lieutenant.”

It was an order, not a request.

There was nothing to do but wait the third week. It was not, however, uneventful. It was the week the accidents began to hap- pen.

At 4: 14 of a Tuesday afternoon, a man was admitted to a local hospital with a perforated belly. Straight through, hide, guts and liver. A newsman got hold of it and wrote a scare story about an attack with a pellet gun that must shoot needles.

Before the edition was sold out

67

the hospitals were loaded with emergency cases. People with holes in them. Tiny little holes, mostly, but holes that went right through them. Then dogs. Then automo- biles, trucks and busses. Holes in their radiators. Holes in windshields that always went straight back, through seats and sometimes pas- sengers— ^right out through the rear end.

The city panicked. Then the county, state and nation. In two days, yes, the whole nation!

At first everyone thought we were being attacked by some secret weapon. By some miracle of states- manship, the President of the United States prevented a “massive retaliation” attack by the army up- on our most likely enemy — long enough for Intelligence to affirm that no enemy on Earth was that mad at us.

Then all thoughts turned to ex- tra-terrestrial space. A bombard- ment from the sky? It was ridicu- lous to even consider, because none of the holes that appeared in peo- ple and things came from above. The holes were almost entirely in the horizontal plane.

Strangely enough during those first two days, nobody thought of the Mystery i-Gun. No one but me.

Leo Baxter had disappeared into thin air, as completely as if he’d turned to metal and crawled into the muzzle of one of his own “toys”.

I had every known place he fre- quented staked out with a pair of plain-clothesmen, but it was the

68

morning of the second day of ac- cidents before I got a radio call from the squad car stationed near the old Baxter home.

Leo had come home at last. He was a sad looking midget when I got there. Obviously no sleep, un- shaven, deep hollows under his eyes.

“I figured you’d be waiting for me. Lieutenant, but you know what?” he demanded. “I don’t give a damn! I kept waiting for them to figure out the answer to these accidents and string me up. How come you didn’t tell any- body?”

I said, “Shut up and let’s go in- side.”

Sure, I figured the i-Gun was the cause, but the last thing I wanted was for Leo to get strung up before I laid my hands on that other de- vice— the one that wouldn’t work. I wanted that rig and all the plans and formulae, and Leo undoubted- ly had them hidden deeper than Fort Knox.

He unlocked the door, and I told the others to wait outside. We went into the hall and closed the door behind us. “So your little toy was harmless?” I said, grabbing him by his wrinkled lapels. “So it just shoots stuff off into another dimen- sion?”

He stared at me, his eyes half glazed. “I don’t — know. That’s what the notes said.” He sank into a chair. “I guess it doesn’t, though. It must ball up the metal object and shoot it out — ^infinite velocity — reduced in size — infinite mass- infinite inertia — keeps circling the globe like — like a satellite. Goes

WINSTON MARKS

right through anything it hits. Goes on and on. Forever. Little bullets. Right through steel. Right through flesh and bones — ”

“Simmer down,” I said. “You’ve been reading the papers. I’ve been checking the facts.”

“What do you mean?”

“That you were right the first time. It does shoot metal objects into another dimension. But they don^t stay there. They ooze back. Slowly. Real slow, so the first edge or comer that sticks back into our dimension is only a few millionths of an inch thick. Then a few ten- thousandths, then a few thou- sandths— and that’s about the time they start making holes in people and objects that run into them.'^ “Run into them?”

“Certainly. There are no holes in buildings or other stationary ob- jects. The holes are all horizontal. Now look, Baxter, our only chance is to work on that other device and your brother’s notes, and maybe we can develop an extractor of some kind.”

“No. No, you don’t understand,” he said shaking his head like a sleep-walker. “It balls up the metal. Shoots it out. Infinite mass. Infinite veloc — ”

“Knock off that nonsense, and tell me where those plans are.” “Trying to steal my brother’s other invention, are you? It’s not patented yet. You know that, don’t you? Couldn’t patent it because I can’t make it work yet. You’re smart, but you won’t get it from me — ”

I had a fair hold on him, but the pure insanity that flared in his

BLEEDBACK

eyes shocked me for just the instant it took him to wrench out of my hands. He stumbled to the door of the study and burst through it heading for the window. I didn’t hurry after him too fast, because I knew the boys outside would take him.

Leo Baxter was only three paces into the stale air of the unused library when he screamed, clasping his hands to his chest and dropped. A peculiar grating, plucking sound came faintly before he thudded to the carpet.

I stopped hard in my tracks and wiped the sweat from my face while Leo Baxter twitched almost at my feet, his heart shredded and bubbling its last in his perforated chest.

The paper clips. The ones 1 had propelled into nothingness weeks ago.

Hat in hand I advanced slowly, waving it before me chest high. Then it caught suddenly, grated for a split second and passed on in its arc. Now there were several tiny holes in it. I backed away a foot and brought my hat down slowly on the same lethal spot of air. Chest-high it caught and hung sus- pended.

Leaving it there as a marker I took off my suitcoat, held it before me and inched forward toward the desk. Something plucked at the dangling garment, and a chill froze my spine. Had I been walking forward normally, the tiny speck of metal that barely caught the glint of light from the window, would have pierced my skin at just about the site of my appendix. I

69

circled the spot continuing to feel forward with my coat. That was the paper clip Baxter had fired to demonstrate to me that first day.

At the phone I called headquar- ters and told the chief what to do.

“You’re so right,” he told me, his voice slurring strangely. “Only you’re a little late. The order went out to confiscate the i-Guns. They think the damned toys might have something to do with the accidents. And I bought one of the first ones for my little Jerry!” His voice sounded hollow.

So they were figuring it out! The next question was, how to ex- tract the deadly particles from the other dimension, or how to keep them from bleeding back slowly into ours.

I moved cautiously through the old house fanning every inch of air ahead of me with a phone book. When I got to Calvin Baxter’s workshop I was especially careful, but I needn’t have been. The only metal particles stuck into the thin air seemed to be over his work- bench where he had been experi- menting with his device. All but one.

It was right where I expected to find it — better than six feet in the air, just fore-head high for a mam tall as Calvin Baxter. He had fired his proto-type of the i-Gun just once into the middle of the room.

How long ago? Eight — ^ten weeks ago?

It seemed impossible that all this horror had occurred in such a short time.

But there it was, stuck in space, protruding about a hundredth of

70

an inch from nowhere into clear visibility. So little was showing that I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like the tip of an ordinary little nail or wo^-screw.

This was my “murder-weapon”, the cause of Calvin Baxter’s acci- dent, He’d run into it, jerked his head back, and the speck had come out the same hole it went in.

In twenty minutes by the clock I had the lab crew out from head- quarters, and had explained the whole business to them. First they measured the length of the pro- trusion, and my guess was about right. It measured .0095 inches on the micrometer caliper.

If it were a screw an inch long, at that rate of “bleedback” it would take another 98 weeks to come the rest of the way out. Almost two years!

Paul Riley, the lab chief, was sharp. He caught it about the same time I did and turned to look at me, “We’ve got to figure a way of getting those things out of the way.”

I nodded. “But quick.”

Collins, our print man, said, “Why not just shoot them back into wherever it is they go, with another i-Gun?”

“And have them come bleeding back after a few weeks?” Paid frowned him silent.

He picked up a hammer from the bench and tapped the tiny, glinting speck. The point flattened out a bit, but the thud of the ham- mer indicated how solidly it was stuck. Then he walked around be- hind the point and struck it a hard blow from the cross-section side.

WINSTON MARKS

The hammer shivered in his hand and he dropped it, rubbing his numbed fingers with his other hand.

“Lieutenant,” he said slowly, “we are up against something.”

We found we could file away the metal easily enough. Sure it filed away until the file cut into empty space. But cold comfort that was. In a few hours, we knew, molecule by molecule, the screw buried in the other dimension would come oozing back, a minute but lethal speck ready to ambush th^ first very tall man who walked toward it.

Tall man!

That’s why Leo Baxter and I had failed to find it in the first place. I had criss-crossed that room half a thousand times in my pre- vious examinations. If I had been taller, or the speck of metal lower —

“We’ve got to bring Calvin Bax- ter back to consciousness some- how,” I said. “We’ve got to find out how that extractor of his works.”

“Right!” Jerry said, dropping his hands in resignation. We’d run out of ideas at the same time, and the senior Baxter appeared to be our only hope.

WE FANNED our way out of there, into the squad car, and proceeded at a gingerly five miles per hour back to headquarters. On my insistence, Calvin Baxter had been set up in a private room at the jail with Doc Thorsen in attend- ance. The city hospitals were so jammed with accident victims and frantic relatives that it was no place to work with a man who was our

only salvation.

When I explained everything to Dr. Thorsen and told him how im- portant it was that we bring Calvin back to consciousness he shook his head. “It might be done, but it would probably kill him — ”

“But you said he’d never recover anyway,” I argued.

Thorsen seemed to be consider- ing that. “Yes,” he said at last. “That’s more apparent now than ever. He’s beginning to suffer the usual complications of immobility. Probably won’t last more than a few weeks anyway. But can’t you get the dope you want from his brother?” he stalled while he weighed his ethics against the ne- cessity of the moment.

“His brother,” I told him, “is dead. Paper clips. Right through the heart.”

“I see. Well, we could operate, but as I said, Calvin wouldn’t sur- vive for long. Maybe only hours or minutes. And maybe not even long enough to regain consciousness after we remove the clot.”

I said, “I’ve left a crew at the Baxter house to tear it apart, board by board, until we find this so- called extractor that Leo hid. But even after we find it, we need Cal- vin to tell us how to make it work. There must be a part missing.”

We had wandered into Calvin’s room and were talking over his great, supine body, covered to the chin with a white sheet. The speck of scalp on his forehead had dried up and dropped off leaving only a faint white spot.

As I mentioned the missing part, his lips began moving and a grunt

71

BLEEDBACK

issued from his throat. “Listen,” I said. “He hears me! He’s trying to talk!”

“No, Lieutenant.” Thorsen said, putting a hand to his eyes. “He’s been grunting like that for days. The only word that ever comes out is his brother’s name, Leo.”

The name struck anger and frustration in me. “Leo,” I half- shouted. “That stinking little — never even visited his brother!” “Relax, Gene. That won’t do any good. The man’s dead,” he re- minded me.

“Relax? When all over the coun- try people are tearing their bodies to pieces? Innocent people. Little kids—”

“I know, I know. I just spent nine hours in the emergency ward. Peritonitis. Cardiac injury. Lungs. Tom eye-balls. And it’s probably just the beginning.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” I demanded. “Our only chance is to bring Calvin Baxter to consciousness long enough to ex- plain how his extractor works.” Doc ran trembling hands through his fuzz of white hair. For the first time I noticed that the pupils of his eyes were moving back and forth in little quick, darting motions like a wild animal looking for escape. “I — don’t know. Gene. I suppose you are right. Only — ^we need permis- sion— ^we must — ^you see, he might die, and — ”

I took a good look at him and suddenly realized that despite his calm voice, the old man was going to pieces. I