section 13 of 20 short science fiction stories by various authors. This LibreBox recording is in the public domain. A World by the Tale by Seton McKettrick. This is about the best-hated author on earth, who was necessarily pampered and petted because of his crime against humanity. Exactly three minutes after the galactic left the New York apartment of Professor John Hamish McLeod, PhD, SCD, a squad of UBI men pushed their way into it. McLeod heard the door chime, opened the door, and had to back up as eight men crowded in. The one in the lead flashed a fensely engraved ID card and said, Union Bureau of Investigation, your Professor McLeod. It was a statement, not a question. No, McLeod, said flatly, I am not. I've never heard of such a name. He waited while the UBI man blinked once, then added, if you're looking for Professor McLeod, I'm he. It always irritated him when people mispronounced his name, and in this case there was no excuse for it. All right, Professor McLeod, said the UBI agent, pronouncing it properly this time. However you wanted. Mind if we ask you a few questions? McLeod stared at him for half a second. Eight men, all of them under thirty-five, in top physical condition. He was fifteen years older and the oldest and had confined his exercise, in the words of Chauncey Depew, to acting as a pallbearer for my friends who take exercise. Not that he was really in poor shape, but he certainly couldn't have argued with eight men like these. Come in, he said calmly, waving them into the apartment. Six of them entered, the other two stayed outside in the hall. Five of the six remained standing. The leader took the chair that McLeod offered him. What are your questions, Mr. Jackson? McLeod asked. Jackson looked very slightly surprised, as if he were not used to having people read the name on his card during the short time he allowed them to see it. The expression vanished almost instantaneously. Professor, he said, we'd like to know what subjects you discussed with the galactic who just left. McLeod allowed himself to relax back in his chair. Let me ask you two questions, Mr. Jackson.  Two, why do you ask me when you already know? Again, there was only a flicker of expression over Jackson's face. Professor McLeod, we are concerned about the welfare of the human race. Your, uh, cooperation is requested. You don't have to come barging in here with an armed squad just to ask my cooperation, McLeod said. What do you want to know? Jackson took a notebook out of his jacket pocket. We'll just get a few facts straight first, Professor, he said, leafing through the notebook. You were first approached by a galactic four years ago, on January 12, 1990. Is that right? McLeod, who had taken a cigarette from his pack and started to light it, stopped suddenly and looked at Jackson as though the UBI man were a two-headed embryo. Yes, Mr. Jackson, that is right, he said slowly, as though he were speaking to a low-grade moron. And the capital of California is Sacramento. Are there any further matters of public knowledge you would like to ask me about? Would you like to know when the War of 1812 started, or who was buried in Grant's Tomb? Jackson's jaw muscles tightened, then relaxed. There's no need to get sarcastic, Professor, just answer the questions. He looked back at the notebook. According to the record, you, as a zoologist, were asked to accompany a shipment of animals to a planet named, uh, Galakhan. You did so. You returned after eighteen months. Is that correct? To the best of my knowledge, yes, McLeod said, with heavy biting sarcasm. And the date of the Norman Conquest was A.D. 1066. Jackson bawled his fist suddenly and closed his eyes. McLeod, stop it! He was obviously holding himself under rigorous restraint. He opened his eyes. There are reasons for asking these questions, Professor. Very good reasons. Will you let me finish? McLeod had finished lighting his cigarette. He snapped his lighter off and replaced it in his pocket. Perhaps, he said mildly, may I make a statement first? Jackson took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then exhaled slowly. Go ahead. Thank you. There was no sarcasm in McLeod's voice now, only patience. First, for the record, I'll say that I consider it impertinent of you to come in here, demanding information without explanation. No, Jackson, don't say anything. You said I could make a statement. Thank you. Second, I will state that I'm perfectly aware of why the questions are being asked. No reaction, Mr. Jackson? You don't believe that? Very well, let me continue. On January 12, 1990, I was offered a job by certain citizens of the Galactic Civilization. These citizens of the Galactic Civilization wanted to take a shipload of terrestrial animals to their own planet, Galakyn. They knew almost nothing about the care and feeding of terrestrial animals. They needed an expert. They should have taken a real expert, one of the men from the Bronx Zoo, for instance. They didn't. They requested a zoologist. Because the request was made here in America, I was the one who was picked. Any one of seven other men could have handled the job, but I was picked. So I went, thus becoming the first Earthman ever to leave the solar system. I took care of the animals. I taught the Galactics who were with me to handle and feed them. I did what I was paid to do, and it was a hard job. None of them knew anything about the care and feeding of elephants, horses, giraffes, cats, dogs, eagles, or any one of the other hundred of terrestrial life-forms that went aboard that ship. All of this was done with the express permission of the Terrestrial Union Government. I was returned to Earth on July 17, 1991. I was immediately taken to UBI headquarters and subjected to rigorous questioning. Then I was subjected to further questioning while connected to a polyelectroencephalograph. Then I was subjected to hearing the same questions over again, while under the influence of various drugs, in sequence and in combination. The consensus at that time was that I was not lying, nor had I been subjected to what is commonly known as brainwashing. My memories were accurate and complete. I did not know then, nor do I know now, the location of the planet Galactin. This information was not denied me by the Galactics. I simply could not understand the terms they used. All I can say now, and all I could say then, is that Galactin is some 3.5 kiloparsecs from Sol in the general direction of Sagittarius. You don't know any more about that now than you did then, Jackson interrupted, suddenly and quickly. That's what I said, McLeod snapped, and that's what I mean. Let me finish. I was handsomely paid for my work in Galactic money. They used the English word credit, but I'm not sure the English word has exactly the same meaning as the Galactic term. At any rate, my wages, if such I may call them, were confiscated by the Earth Government. I was given the equivalent in American dollars after 80% income tax had been deducted. I ended up with just about what I would have made if I had stayed home and drawn my salary from Columbia University and the American Museum of Natural History. Please, Mr. Jackson, I only have a little more to say. I decided to write a book in order to make the trip pay off. Interstellar arc was a popularized account of the trip that may be quite a nice piece of change because every literate and half-literate person on Earth is curious about the Galactics. The book tells everything I know about the trip and the people. It is a matter of public record. Since that is so, I refuse to answer a lot of darnful questions, by which I mean that I refuse to answer any more questions that you already know the answers to. I'm not being stubborn. I'm just sick and tired of the whole thing. Actually, the notoriety that had resulted from the trip and the book had not pleased McLeod particularly. He had never had any strong desire for fame, but if it had come as a result of his work in zoology and the related sciences, he would have accepted the burden. If his, the ecology of Martian polar regions had attracted a hundredth of the publicity and sold a hundredth of the number of copies that interstellar arc had sold, he would have been gratified indeed. But the way things stood, he found the whole affair irksome. Jackson looked at his notebook as if he expected to see answers written there instead of questions. He looked back up at McLeod. All right, then, Professor, what about this afternoon's conference? That isn't a matter of public record. And technically it isn't any of your business, either, McLeod said tiredly. But since you have the whole conversation down on tape, I don't see why you bother asking me. I'm well aware that you can pick up conversations in my apartment. Jackson pursed his lips and glanced at another of the agents who raised his eyebrows slightly. McLeod got it in spite of the fact that they didn't intend him to. His place was bugged, all right, but somehow the galactic had managed to nullify their instruments. No wonder they were in such a tizzy. McLeod smiled, pleased with himself and with the world for the first time that afternoon. He decided, however, that he'd better volunteer the information before they threatened him with the Planetary Security Act. That threat would make him angry, he knew, and he might say something that would get him in real trouble. It was all right to badger Jackson up to a certain point, but it would be foolish to go beyond that. However, he went on with hardly a break. Since, as you say, it is not a matter of public record, I'm perfectly willing to answer any questions you care to ask. Just give us a general rundown of the conversation, Jackson said. If I have any questions, I'll, uh, ask them at the proper time. McLeod did the best he could to give a clear picture of what the galactic had wanted. There was really very little to it. The galactic was a member of a race that McLeod had never seen before, a humanoid with red skin, fire engine, not a merry-end in, and rather a pleasant-looking face, in contrast to the rather crocodilian features of the galactic resident. He had introduced himself by an unpronounceable name, and then had explained that since the name meant Mild or Merciful in one of the ancient tongues of his planet, it would be perfectly all right if McLeod called him Clemat. Within minutes it had been Clem and Mac. McLeod could see that Jackson didn't quite believe that. Galactics of whatever race were aloof, polite, reserved, and sometimes irritatingly patronizing. Never buddy-buddy. McLeod couldn't help what Jackson might think. What was important was that it was true. What Clem wanted was very simple. Clem was, after manner of speaking, a literary agent. Apparently the galactic system of book publishing didn't quite work the way the terrestrial system did. Clem took his commission from the publisher instead of the author, but was considered a representative of the author, not the publisher. McLeod hadn't quite understood how that sort of thing would work out, but he let it pass. There were a lot of things he didn't understand about galactics. All Clem wanted was to act as McLeod's agent for the publication of Interstellar Arc. And what did you tell him? Jackson asked. I told him I'd think it over. Jackson leaned forward. How much money did he offer? He asked eagerly. Not much, McLeod said. That's why I told him I'd think it over. He said that, considering the high cost of transportation, relaying, translation, and so on, he couldn't offer me more than one-thousandth of the one-percent royalties. Jackson blinked. One what? One-thousandth of one-percent. If the book sells a hundred thousand copies as a credit copy, they will send me a nice, juicy check for one lousy credit. Jackson scowled. They're cheating you. Clem said it was the standard rate for a first book. Jackson shook his head. Just because we don't have interstellar ships and are confined to our own solar system, they treat us as though we were ignorant savages. They're cheating you high, wide, and handsome. Maybe, said McLeod, but if they really wanted to cheat me, they could just pirate the book. There wouldn't be a thing I could do about it. Yeah, but to keep up their façade of high ethics, they toss us a sob. And we have to take whatever they hand out. You will take it, of course. It was more of an order than a question. I told him I might think it over, McLeod said. Jackson stood up. Professor McLeod, the human race needs every galactic credit it can lay its hands on. It's your duty to accept the offer, no matter how lousy it is. We have no choice in the matter. And a galactic credit is worth ten dollars American, four pounds UK, or forty rubles Soviet. If you sell a hundred thousand copies of your book, you can get yourself a meal in a fairly good restaurant, and Earth will have one more galactic credit stashed away. If you don't sell that many, you aren't out anything. I suppose not, McLeod said slowly. He knew that the government could force him to take the offer. Under the Planetary Security Act, the government had broad powers, very broad. Well, that isn't my business right now, Jackson said. I just wanted to find out what this was all about. You'll hear from us, Professor McLeod. I don't doubt it, said McLeod. The six men filed out the door. Alone McLeod stared at the wall and thought. Earth needed every galactic credit it could get, that was certain. The trouble came in getting them. The Earth had absolutely nothing that the galactics wanted. Well, not absolutely maybe, but so near as made no difference. Certainly there was no basis for trade. As far as the galactics were concerned, the Earth was a little backwater planet that was of no importance. Nothing manufactured on the planet was of any use to galactics. Nothing grown on Earth was of any commercial importance. They had sampled the animals and plants for scientific purposes, but there was no real commercial value in them. The government had added a few credits to its meager collection when the animals had been taken, but the amount was small. McLeod thought about the nades of New Guinea, and decided that on the galactic scale, Earth was about in the same position. Except that there had at least been gold in New Guinea. The galactics didn't have any interest in Earth's minerals. The elements were much more easily available in the asteroid belts that nearly every planetary system seemed to have. The galactics were by no means interested in bringing civilization to the barbarians of Earth either. They had no missionaries to bring new religion, no do-gooders to elevate the cultural level of the natives. They had no free handouts for anyone. If Earthmen wanted anything from them, the terms were cash on the barrelhead. Earth's credit rating in the galactic equivalent of Dun and Bradstreet was ZZZ, zero. A galactic Earthship had, so to speak, stumbled over Earth fifteen years before. Like the English explorers of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the galactics seemed to feel that it was necessary to install one of their own people on a newfound planet, but they were not in the least interested in colonization, nor in taking over Earth's government. The galactic resident was not in any case a royal governor, and could hardly even be called an ambassador. He and his staff, a small one, kept more for a company than for any necessary work, lived quietly by themselves in a house they'd built in Hawaii. Nobody knew what they did, and it didn't seem wise to ask. The first galactic resident had been shot and killed by some religious nut. Less than twenty-four hours later the galactic space navy, if that was the proper term, had come to claim the body. They came in a spaceship that was easily visible to the naked eye long before it hit the atmosphere, a sphere three kilometers in diameter. The missiles with the thermonuclear warheads that were sent up to intercept the ship were detonated long before they touched the ship, and neither galactics nor Earthmen ever mentioned them again. It had been the most frightening display of power ever seen on Earth, and the galactics hadn't even threatened any one. They just came to get a body. Needless to say, there was little danger that they would ever have to repeat the performance. The national governments of Earth had organized themselves hurriedly into the terrestrial union. Shaky at first it had gained stability and power over the years. The first thing the union government had wanted to do was to send an ambassador to the galactic government. The galactic resident had politely explained that their concept of government was different from ours, that ambassadors had no place in that concept, and anyway, there was no capital to send one to. However, if Earth wanted to send an observer of some kind, Earth did. Fine. A statement of passenger fares was forthcoming, naturally. There was no regular passenger ship stopping at Earth, and there would not be in the foreseeable future. But doubtless arrangements could be made to charter a vessel. It would be expensive, but if a New Guinea savage wants to take a passage aboard a Qantas airliner, what is the fare in calorie shells? As far as McLeod knew, his book was the first thing ever produced on Earth that the galactics were even remotely interested in. He had a higher opinion of the ethics of the galactics than Jackson did, but a thousandth of a percent seemed like pretty small royalties. And he couldn't for the life of him see why this book would interest a galactic. Clem had explained that it gave galactics a chance to see what they looked like through the eyes of an Earthman, but that seemed rather weak to McLeod. Nevertheless, he knew he would take Clem's offer. Eight months later a shipload of galactic tourists arrived. For a while it looked as though Earth's credit problem might be solved. Tourism has always been a fine method for getting money from other countries, especially if one's own country is properly picturesque. Tourists always had money, didn't they? And they spent it freely, didn't they? No, not in this case. Earth had nothing to sell to the tourists. Ever hear of baylets? The Malaysians of the South Pacific consider it a very fine delicacy. You take a fertilized duck egg and you bury it in the warm Earth. Six months later, when it's nice and over-ripe, you dig it up again, knock off the top of the shell the way you would a soft-boiled egg and eat it. Then you pick the pin feathers out of your teeth. Baylets. Now you know how the greatest delicacies of Earth's restaurants affected the galactics. Earth was just a little too picturesque. The tourists enjoyed the sights, but they aid aboard their ship, which was evidently somewhat like a Caribbean cruise ship. And they bought nothing, they just looked. And laughed. And of course they all wanted to meet Professor John Hemish MacLeod. When the news leaked out and was thoroughly understood by Earth's population, there was an immediate reaction. Editorial in Pravda.  His inability to comprehend the finer nuances of galactic socialism has made all Earthmen look foolish. It is too bad that a competent Russian zoologist was not chosen for the trip that MacLeod made.  The petty bourgeois mind of MacLeod has made it impossible for any Earthman to hold up his head in the free, socialist society of the galaxy. Until this matter is corrected. Professor James H. MacLeod. The American zoologist whose book has apparently aroused a great deal of hilarity in galactic circles. Admitted to-day that both Columbia University and the American Museum of Natural History have accepted his resignation. The recent statement by a university spokesman that Professor MacLeod had besmirched the honor of Earthmen everywhere was considered at least partially responsible for the resignations. See Editorial. Editorial Manchester Guardian. It is a truism that an accepted wit has only to say, pass the butter, and everyone will laugh. Professor MacLeod, however, far from being an accepted wit, seems rather to be in the position of a medieval courtful, who was laughed at rather than with. As a consequence, all Earthmen have been branded as fools. Statement made by the American senator from Alabama. He has made us all look like jackasses in the eyes of the galactics, and at this precarious time in human history it is my considered opinion that such actions are treasonous to the human race and to Earth, and should be treated and considered as such. Book Review. Literary Checklist. Helvar III. Borneas Cluster. Dear Stellar Ark, an Earthmen's view of the galaxy, translated from the original tongue by Vonus Delph, Circa 5.00. This inexpensive little book is one of the most highly entertainingly funny publications in current print. The author, one John MacLeod, is a member of a Type 3-7b race inhabiting a planet in the outer fringes. As an example of the unwitting humor of the book, we have only to quote the following. I was shown to my quarter shortly before take-off. Captain Benarly had assigned me a spacious cabin which was almost luxurious in its furnishings. The bed was one of the most comfortable I have ever slept in. Or the following. I found the members of the crew to be friendly and cooperative, especially Nern Kronzel, the ship's physician. It is our prediction that this little jam will be enjoyed for a long time to come, and will be a real money-maker for its publishers. They haven't hanged me yet, MacLeod thought. He sat in his apartment alone and realized that it would take very little effort to get him hanged. How could one book have aroused such wrath? Even as he thought it, MacLeod knew the answer to that question. It wasn't the book. No one who had read it in two and a half years before had said anything against it. No, it wasn't the book. It was the galactic reaction to the book. Already feeling inferior because of the stand-offish attitude of the beings from the stars, the Homeric laughter of those same beings had been too much. It would have been bad enough if that laughter had been generated by one of the galactics. To have it generated by an earthman made it that much worse. Against an earthman their rage was far from impotent. Nobody understood why the book was funny, of course. The joke was over their heads, and that made human beings even angrier. He remembered a quotation from a book he had read once. A member of some tribal taboo culture, African or South Pacific, he forgot which, had been treated at a missionary hospital for something or other, and had described his experience.  Could that savage have possibly understood what was humorous about that remark? No. Not even if you explain to him why the doctor used the mirror that way. Now what, thought MacLeod? He was out of a job and his bank account was running low. His credit rating had dropped to zero. MacLeod heard a key turn in the lock. The door swung open and Jackson entered with his squad of UBI men. Hey! said MacLeod, jumping to his feet. What do you think this is?  Jackson growled. Get your coat. You're wanted at headquarters. MacLeod started to say something, then thought better of it. There was nothing he could say. Nobody would care if the UBI manhandled him. Nobody would protest that his rights were being ignored. If MacLeod got his teeth knocked in, Jackson would probably be voted a medal. MacLeod didn't say another word. He followed orders. He got his coat and was taken down to the big building on the East River which had begun its career as the United Nations building. He was bundled up to an office and shoved into a chair. Somebody shoved a paper at him. Sign this. What is it? MacLeod asked, finding his voice. A receipt. For two thousand dollars. Sign it. MacLeod looked the paper over, then looked up at the burly man who had shoved it at him. Fifty thousand galactic credits? What's this for? The royally check for your unprintably qualified book has come in, funny man. The government is taking ninety-eight percent for income taxes. Sign. MacLeod pushed the paper back across the desk. No, I won't. You can confiscate my money. I can't stop that, I guess. But I won't give it legal sanction by signing anything. I don't even see the two thousand dollars this is supposed to be a receipt for. Jackson, who was standing behind MacLeod, grabbed his arm and twisted. Sign. His voice was a snarl in MacLeod's ear. Eventually, of course, he signed. No beer, Mac? Ask the bartender with a friendly smile. Yeah, Leo. Thanks. MacLeod pushed his quarter across the bar with one hand and scratched negligently at his beard with the fingers of the other. Nobody questioned him in this neighborhood. The beard, which had taken two months to grow, disguised his face, and he had given his name as MacAfrey, allowing his landlord and others who heard it to make the natural assumption that he was a virus descent. He was waiting. He had been forced to move from his apartment. Nobody wanted that dirty, so-and-so Professor MacLeod around. Besides, his money was running short. He had never seen the two thousand. You'll get that when the Galactic Bank caches your royalty check, he had been told. He was waiting. Not hiding? No. That was impossible. The UBI could find him easily when they wanted him. There was no place he could have hidden from them for very long. A man needs friends to stay hidden from an efficient police organization for very long, and John Hamish MacLeod had no friends. Jack MacAfrey had, since he was a pleasant kind of fellow who made friends easily when he wanted them. But he had no illusions about his new friends. Let them once suspect, however faintly, that good old Jack MacAfrey was really the Professor MacLeod, and the game would be up. The UBI would find him again all right whenever it wanted him. And MacLeod hoped it would be soon because he was down to his last hundred bucks. So he waited and thought about fifty thousand Galactic credits. The mathematics was simple, but it conveyed an awful lot of information. To make fifty thousand credits from one thousandth of one percent royalties on a book selling at five credits the copy, one must need sell a billion copies. Nothing to it. Five times minus ten to the minus fifth power equals five point ten to the fourth power. Ergo, X equals ten to the ninth power. MacLeod drew the equation on the bar with the tip of a wet forefinger, then rubbed them out quickly. A billion copies in the first year. He should have seen it. He should have understood. How many planets were there in the galaxy? How many people on each planet? Communication, even at ultralight velocities, would be necessarily slow. The galaxy was just too big to be compassed by the human mind, or even by the mind of a Galactic, MacLeod suspected. How do you publish a book for Galactic for galaxy-wide consumption? How long does it take to saturate the market on each planet? How long does it take to spread the book from planet to planet? How many people were there on each planet who would buy a good book? Or at least an entertaining one? MacLeod didn't know, but he suspected that the number was huge. MacLeod was a zoologist, not an astronomer. But he had read enough on astronomy to know that the estimated number of Earth-type planets alone, according to the latest theory, ran into the tens of millions or hundreds of millions. The man sat down on the stool next to MacLeod and said something loud enough and foul enough to break the zoologist train of thought. Give me a shot, Leo, he added in an angry voice. Sure, Pete, the bartender said. What's the trouble? Taurus, Pete said with a snarl. Laughin' at us all the time, like we was monkeys in a zoo. Bunch'em come in to-day. He downed his whisky with a practice flip of the rest and slammed it down on the bar. Leo refilled it immediately. I shouldn't gripe, I guess. Got a half a credit off him. He slapped down a five-dollar bill as though it had somehow been contaminated. The bar became oddly quiet. Everyone had heard Pete. Further, everyone had heard another shipload of galactics had landed and were at the moment enjoying the sights of New York. A few of them knew that Pete was the bell-captain in one of the big midtown hotels. MacLeod listened while Pete expounded on the shame he had to undergo to earn half a credit, a lousy five bucks. MacLeod did some estimating. Taurus, the word had acquired an even more pejorative sense than it had before, and now applied only two galactics, bought nothing, but they tipped for services, unless the services weren't wanted or needed. Pete had given them information that they hadn't had before, where to find a particular place. All in all, the group of 15 galactics had given out five or six credits in such tips. Say half a credit apiece. There were, perhaps, a hundred galactics in this shipload. That meant fifty credits. Hmm. They didn't need any one to carry their bags. They didn't need any one to register them in hotels. They didn't need personal service of that kind. All they wanted to do was look. But they wouldn't pay for looking. They had no interest in Broadway plays or the acts in the nightclubs. At least not enough to induce them to pay to see them. This particular group had wanted to see a hotel. They had wandered through it, looking at everything and laughing to fit to kill at the carpets on the floor, and the electric lighting and such. But when the management had handed the payment for such services as letting them look should be forthcoming, they had handed half a credit to someone and walked out. Then they had gone to the corner of fifty first in Madison and looked for nothing. Fifty credits for a shipload. Three shiploads per year. Hell, give them the benefit of the doubt and say ten shiploads a year. In a hundred years they'd add another fifty thousand to Earth's resources. McLeod grinned. And waited. They came for him eventually, as McLeod had always known they would. But they came long before he had expected. He had given them six months, at the least. They came for him at the end of the third month. It was Jackson, of course. It would have to be Jackson. He walked into the cheap little room McLeod had rented, followed by his squad of men. He tossed a peculiar envelope on the bed next to McLeod. A letter came for you, humorist. Open it. McLeod sat on the edge of the bed and read the letter. The envelope had already been opened, which surprised him none. It looked very much like an ordinary business letter, except that whatever they used for paper was wider and tougher than the paper he used. He was reminded of the time he had seen a reproduction of a thirteenth-century manuscript alongside the original. The copy had been set up in a specially designed type and printed on fine paper. The original had been handwritten on vellum. McLeod had the feeling that if he used a microscope on this letter, the lines and edges would be just as precise and clear as they appeared to the naked eye, instead of the fuzziness that ordinary print would show. The way you could tell a synthetic ruby from a natural ruby is to look for flaws. The synthetic doesn't have any. This letter was a galactic imitation of a Terran business letter. It's said, Dear Mac, I am happy to report that your book, Interstellar Arc, is a smash hit. It looks as though it is on its way to becoming a bestseller. As you already know by your royalty statement, over a billion copies were sold the first year. That indicates even better sales over the years to come, as the reputation of the book spreads. Naturally, our advertising campaign will remain behind it all the way. Congratulations! Speaking of royalty checks, there seems to be some sort of irregularity about yours. I am sorry, but according to regulations the check must be validated in the presence of your galactic resident before it can be cashed. Your signature across the back of it doesn't mean anything to our bankers. Just go to your galactic resident and he'll be happy to take care of the matter for you. That's what he's there for. The next check should come through very shortly. All the best, Clem. Better and better, MacLeod thought. He hadn't expected to be able to do anything until his next royalty check arrived. But now, he looked up at Jackson. All right, what's next? Come with us. We're flying to Hawaii. Get your hat and coat. MacLeod obeyed silently. At the moment there was nothing else he could do. As a matter of fact, there was nothing he wanted to do more. It was no trouble at all for Professor MacLeod to get an audience with the galactic resident. But when he was escorted in by Jackson and his squad, the whole group was halted inside the front door. The resident, a tall, lean being with a leathery gray face that somehow managed to look crocodilian in spite of the fact that his head was definitely humanoid in shape, peered at them from beneath pronounced supraorbital ridges. Is this man under arrest? He asked in a gravelly baritone. Er, no, said Jackson. No, he's merely in protective custody. He has not been convicted of any crime. No, sir, Jackson said. His voice sounded as though it were unsure of himself. That is well, said the resident. A convicted criminal cannot, of course, use the credits of society until he has become rehabilitated. He paused. But why protective custody? There are those, said Jackson, choosing his words with care, who feel that Professor MacLeod has brought disgrace upon the human race, or the terrestrial race. There is reason to believe that his life may be in danger. MacLeod smiled riley. What Jackson said was true, but it was carefully calculated to mislead. I see, said the resident. It would appear to me that it would be simpler to inform the people that he has done no such thing. That indeed, his work has conferred immense benefits upon your race. But that is your own affair. At any rate, he is in no danger here. He didn't need to say anything else. Jackson knew the hint was in order and that he wouldn't get any farther with his squad. MacLeod spoke up. Subject to your permission, sir, I would like to have Mr. Jackson with me. The galactic resident smiled. Of course, Professor. Come in, both of you. He turned and led the way through the inner door. Nobody bothered to search either of them. Not even though they must know that Jackson was carrying a gun. MacLeod was fairly certain that the gun would be useless to Jackson if he tried to assert his authority with it. If Clem had been able to render the UBI's eavesdropping apparatus inoperable, it was highly probable that the galactic resident would have some means of taking care of weapons. There are only a few formalities to go through, the resident said pleasantly, indicating chairs with a gesture. The room he had led them to didn't look much different from that which would be expected in any tastefully furnished apartment in New York or Honolulu. MacLeod and Jackson sat down in a couple of comfortable, easy chairs while the resident went around a large desk and sat down in a swivel chair behind it. He smiled a little and looked at MacLeod. Hmm. Ah yes. Very good. It was as though he had received information of some kind on an unknown subject through an unknown channel, MacLeod thought. Evidently that was true, for his next words were, You are not under the influence of drugs or hypnotic compulsion I see. Excellent Professor, is it your desire that this check be converted to cash? He made a small gesture. You have only to express it, you see. It would be difficult to explain it to you, but rest assured that such an expression of will, while you are seated in that chair, is impressed upon the structure of the check itself and is the equivalent of a signature. Except, of course, that it is unforgeable. May I ask a few questions first, MacLeod said? Certainly, Professor, I am here to answer your questions. The money, is it free and clear, or are there galactic taxes to pay? If the galactic residents had had eyebrows, it is likely that they would have lifted in surprise. My dear Professor, aside from the fact that we run our government in an entirely different manner, we would consider it quite immoral to take what a man earns without giving services of an exact kind. I will charge you five credits for this validation, since I am rendering a service. The bank will take a full tenth of a percent in this case, because of the inconvenience of shipping cash over that long distance. The rest is yours to do with, as you see fit. Fifty-five credits out of fifty-five thousand, MacLeod thought, not bad at all. Allowed, he asked. Could I, for instance, open a bank account or buy a ticket on a starship? Why not? As I said, it's your money. You have earned it honestly. You may spend it honestly. Jackson was staring at MacLeod, but he said nothing. Tell me, sir, MacLeod said. How does the success of my book compare with the successes of most books in the galaxy? Quite favorably, I understand, said the resident. The usual income from a successful book is about five thousand credits a year. Some run even less than that. I'm not too familiar with the publishing business, you understand, but that is my impression. You are, by galactic standards, a very wealthy man, Professor. Fifty thousand a year is by no means a median income. Fifty thousand a year? Yes, about that. I understand that in the publishing business one can depend on a life income that does not very much from the initial period. If a book is successful in one area of the galaxy, it will be equally successful in others. How long does it take to saturate the market, MacLeod asked, with a touch of awe? Saturate the—oh, I see. Yes, well let's see. Most publishing houses can't handle the advertising and marketing on more than a thousand planets at once. The job becomes too unwieldy. That would indicate that you sold an average of a million copies per planet, which is unusual, but not, uh, miraculous. That is why you can depend on future sales, you see. Over a thousand planets the differences in planetary tastes averages out. Now if your publishers continue to expand the publication at the rate of a thousand planets a year, your book should easily last for another century. They can't really expand that rapidly, of course. Since the sales on the planets they have already covered will continue with diminishing success over the next several years. Actually, your publishers will continue to put a billion books a year on the market and expand to new planets at a rate that will balance the loss of sales on the planets where it has already run its course. Yes, Professor, you will have good income for life. What about my heirs? Heirs? The Galactic Resident blink. I'm afraid I don't quite follow you. My relatives—anyone who will inherit my property after my death. The residents still look puzzled. What about them? How long can they go on collecting? When does the copyright run out? The Galactic Resident's puzzlement vanished. Oh, my dear Professor, surely you see that it is impossible to—or inherit money one hasn't earned. The income stops with your death. Your children or your wife have done nothing to earn the money. Why should it continue to be paid out after the earner has died? If you wish to make provisions for such persons during your lifetime, that is your business, but the provisions must be made out of money you have already earned. Who does get the income then? MacLeod asked. The Galactic Resident looked thoughtful. Well, the best I can explain to you without going into arduous detail is to say that our—government gets it. Government is not really the proper word in this context, since we have no government as you think of it. Let us merely say that such monies pass into a common exchequer from which, or public servants like myself are paid. MacLeod had a vision of a British Crown Officer trying to explain to a New Guinea tribesman what he meant when he said that taxes go to the Crown. The tribesman would probably wonder why the Chief of the English Tribe kept cowrie shells under his hat. I see, and if I'm imprisoned for crime, he asked. The payments are suspended until the re-habilitation is complete. That is, until you are legally released. Is there anything else that can stop the payments? Not unless the publishing company fails, which is highly unlikely. Of course, a man under hypnotic compulsion or drugs is not considered legally responsible, so he cannot transact any legal business while he is in that state, but the checks are merely held for him until that impediment is removed. I see, MacLeod nodded. He knew perfectly well that he no more understood the entire workings of the galactic civilization than that New Guinea tribesman understood the civilization of Great Britain, but he also knew that he understood more of it than Jackson, for instance, did. MacLeod had been able to foresee a little of what the resident had said. Would you do me the service, sir, MacLeod said, of opening a bank account for me in some local bank? Yes, of course. As resident, I am empowered to transact business for you at your request. My fees are quite reasonable. All checks will have to go through me, of course. But, um, I think in this case a twentieth of a percent would be appropriate. You'll be handling fairly large amounts. If that is your wish, I shall so arrange it. Hey! Jackson found his tongue. The Earth Union Government has a claim on that. MacLeod owes forty-nine thousand galactic credits in income taxes. If the galactic resident was shocked at the intimation that the galactic Government would take earn money from a man, the announcement that Earth's Government did so was no surprise to him at all. If that is so, I am certain that Professor MacLeod will behave as a law-abiding citizen. He can authorize a check for that amount, and it will be honored by his bank. We have no desire to interfere with local customs. I am certain that I can come to an equitable arrangement with the Earth authorities, said MacLeod, rising from his chair. Is there anything I have to sign, or— No, no. You have expressed your will. Thank you, Professor MacLeod. It is a pleasure to do business with you. Thank you. The pleasure is mutual. Come on, Jackson. We don't need to bother the resident any more just now. But, come on, I said. I want a few words with you. MacLeod insisted. Jackson sensed that there would be no point in arguing any further with the resident, but he followed MacLeod out into the bright Hawaiian sunshine, with a dull glow of anger burning his cheeks. Accompanied by the squad, they climbed into the car and left. As soon as they were well away from the residence, Jackson grabbed MacLeod by the lapel of his jacket. All right, humorist, what was the idea of that? Are you trying to make things hard for yourself? No, but you are, MacLeod said, in a cold voice.  I may get you fired anyway, just because you're a louse, but if you keep acting like this, I'll see that they toss you into solitary and toss the key away. What are you talking about, but he released his hold? Just think about it, Jackson. The government can't get its hands on that money unless I permit it.  If you refuse to pay, will—he stopped suddenly. Throw me in jail? MacLeod shook his head. You can't get money while I'm in jail. We'll wait, said Jackson firmly. After a little while in a cell, you'll listen to reason and will sign those checks. You don't think very well, do you, Jackson? To sign a check, I have to go to the galactic resident. As soon as you take me to him, I authorize a check to buy me a ticket for some nice planet where there are no income taxes.  Think about it, Jackson. MacLeod continued. Nobody can get that money from me without my consent. Now it so happens that I want to help Earth. I have a certain perverse fondness for the human race, even though it is inconceivably backward by galactic standards. We have about as much chance of ever becoming of any importance on a galactic scale as the Australian aborigine has of becoming important in world politics, but a few thousand years of evolution may bring out a few individuals who have the ability to do something. I'm not sure, but I'm damned if I let the boneheads run all over me while they take my money. I happen to be, at the moment, and through sheer luck, Earth's only natural resources as far as the galaxy is concerned. Sure, you can put me in jail.  I am the goose that lays the golden eggs.  Earth has no other source of income, none. Tourists are few and far between, and they spend almost nothing. As long as I'm alive, and in good health and out of prison, Earth will have a nice steady income of fifty thousand galactic credits a year. Earth, I said, not the government, except indirectly. I intend to see that my money isn't confiscated. He had a few other plans, too, but he saw no necessity of mentioning them to Jackson.  Understand, Jackson? Mm-hmm, said Jackson. He understood. He didn't like it, and he didn't know what to do about it. One of the first things we're going to do is start a little information flowing, MacLeod said. I don't care to live on a planet where everybody hates my guts, so, as the residents suggested, we're going to have to start a propaganda campaign to counteract the one that denounced me. For that, I'll want to talk to someone a little higher in the government. You'd better take me to the head of the UBI. He'll know who I should speak to for that purpose. Jackson still looked dazed, but it had evidently penetrated that MacLeod had the upper hand. What a—what did you say, sir? he asked, partially out of coming out of his days. MacLeod sighed. Take me to your leader, he said patiently. And of Section 13. Section 14 of 20 short science fiction stories by various authors. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Helpful Hand of God by Tom Godwin God can be very helpful indeed, but, of course, it's long been known that God helps those who wisely help themselves. From Volgarian Revised Encyclopedia Saints, Golden Saints, Properly Yellow Saints, a term of contempt applied by the Volgarian State Press to members of the Church of the Golden Rule because of their opposition to the war then being planned against Alcoria. See Churches. Church, Golden Rule, of the. A group of reactionary fanatics who resisted state control and advocated social chaos through individual freedom. They were liquidated in the unity purge but for two thousand of the more able-bodied, who were sentenced to the moon mines of Bell and Nine. The prison ship never arrived there, and it is assumed that the condemned saints somehow overpowered the guards and escaped to some remote section of the galaxy. Cain had observed Commander Yenor's bird of prey profile with detached interest as Yenor jerked his head around to glare again at the chronometer on the farther wall of the cruiser's command room. What's keeping Dailing? Yenor demanded, transferring his glare to Cain. Did you assure him that I have all day to waste? He should be here any minute, sir, Cain answered. I didn't find the saints after others had failed for sixty years, then to sit and wait. The situation on Bogar was already very critical when we left. Yenor scowled at the chronometer again. Every hour we waste waiting here will delay a return to Bogar by an hour. I presume you realize that. It does sound like logical theory, Cain agreed. Yenor's face darkened dangerously. You will. Quick, hard-heeled footsteps sounded in the corridor outside. The guard officer, Dailing, stepped through the doorway and saluted. His eyes like ice under his pale brows and his uniform seeming to bristle with weapons. The native is here, sir, he said to Yenor. He turned and made a commanding gesture. The leader of the saints appeared, the man whose resistance Yenor would have to break. A frail, white-bearded old man scuffled uncertainly into the room in straw sandals, his faded blue eyes parrying nearsightedly toward Yenor. Go to the commander's desk, Dailing ordered in his metallic tones. The old man obeyed and stopped before Yenor's desk, his hands clasped together as though to hide their trembling. You are Brinn, Yenor said, and you hold, I believe, the impressive titles of Chief Executive of the Council of Provinces and Supreme Elder of the Churches of the Golden Rule? Yes, sir. There was a faint quaver in the old Brinn's voice. I welcome you to our world, sir, and offer you our friendship. I understand you can produce a Lucium ex-fuel. Yes, sir, our Dr. LaRue told me the process is within our ability. We, he hesitated. We know you haven't enough fuel to return to Bogar. Yenor stiffened in his chair. What makes you think that? It requires a great deal of fuel to get through the Whirlpool Star Cluster, and even sixty years ago the Lucium ores of Bogar were almost exhausted. Yenor smiled thinly. That reminds me, you would be one of the Saints who murdered their guards and stole a ship to get here. We killed no guards, sir. In fact, all of them eventually joined our church. We had to cut it up for our start in mechanization. I presume you know you will pay for it. It was taking us to our deaths in the radium mines, but we will pay whatever you ask. The first installment will be one thousand units of fuel to be produced with the greatest speed possible. Yes, sir, but in return the old man stood a little straighter, and an underline resolve was suddenly revealed. You must recognize us as a free race. Free? A colony founded by escaped criminals? That's not true. We committed no crime, harming no living thing. The hard cold words of Yenor cut off his protest. This world is now a Bogarian possession. Every man, woman, and child upon it is a prisoner of the Bogarian state. There will be no resistance. This cruiser's disintegrators can destroy a town within seconds, your race within hours. Do you understand what I mean? The visible portion of old Brent's face turned pale. He spoke at last in the bitter tones of frightened, stubborn determination. I offered you our friendship. I hope you would accept, for we are a peaceful race. I should have known that you came only to persecute and enslave us, but the hand of God will reach down and help us, and, Yenor laughed, a raucous sound like the harsh caw of the Bulgarian vulture, and held up a hairy fist. This, old man, is the hand for you to center your prayers around. I want full-scale fuel production commenced within 24 hours. If this is done, and if you continue to unquestionably obey all my commands, I will, for that long, defer your punishment as an escaped criminal. If it is not done, I will destroy a town exactly 25 hours from now, and as many more as may be necessary. And you will be publicly executed as a condemned criminal and an enemy of the Bulgarian state. Yenor turned to Dalin, take him away. Scared sheep, Yenor said when Bren was gone. Tomorrow he'll say that he prayed and his God told him what to do, which will be to save his neck by doing as I command. I don't know, Cain said doubtfully. I think you're wrong about his conscience folding so easily. You think? Yenor asked. Perhaps I should remind you that the ability to think is usually characteristic of commanders, rather than sub-ensons. You will not be asked to try to think beyond the small extent required to comprehend simple commands. Cain sighed with weary resignation. An unexpected encounter with an Alcorian battleship had sent the Bulgarian cruiser fleeing through the unexplored Whirlpool star cluster. Yenor and Cain, the two surviving commissioned officers, with results of negative value to those most affected, the world of the saint had been accidentally discovered, and he, Cain, had risen from sub-enson to the shakily temporary position of second in command. Yenor spoke again. Since Bulgarian commanders do not go out and mingle with the natives of the subject world, you will act as my representative. I'll let Brinn sweat until tomorrow, then you will go see him. In that, and in all subsequent contacts with the natives, you'll keep in mind the fact that I shall hold you personally responsible for any failure of my program. The next afternoon, two hours before the deadline, Cain went out into the sweet spring air of the world the saints had named Sanctuary. It was a virgin world, rich in resources needed by Vogar, with twenty thousand saints as the primary labor supply. It was also, he thought, a green and beautiful world, almost a familiar world. The cruiser stood at the upper edge of the town, and in the late afternoon, soon the little white and brown houses were touched with gold, half hidden in deep azure shadows of the tall trees and flowering vines that bordered the gently curving streets. Restlessness stirred within him as he looked at them. It was like going back in time to the Lost Islands, that isolated little region of Vogar that had eluded collectivization until the year he was sixteen. It had been, at the same time of year, in the spring, that the State Unity forces had landed. The Lost Island villages had been drowsing in the sun that afternoon, as this town was drowsing now. He forced the memories from his mind, and the feudal restlessness they brought, and went on past a golden-spired church to a small cottage that was almost hidden in a garden of flowers and giant silver ferns. Bran met him at the door, his manner very courteous, his eyes dark-shadowed with weariness as though he had not slept for many hours, and invited him inside. When they were seated in the simply furnished room, Bran said, You came for my decision, sir. The commander sent me for it. Bran folded his thin hands, which seemed to have the trembling sometimes characteristic of the aged. Yesterday evening, when I came from the ship, I prayed for guidance, and I saw that I could only abide by the golden rule, due unto others as you would have them do unto you. Which means, Cain asked, that you will do what? Should we of the church be stranded upon an alien world, our fuel supply almost gone, we would ask for help. By our golden rule we can do no less than give it. Eighteen hours ago I issued the order for full-scale, all-out fuel production. I've been up all night and day checking the operation. Cain stared, surprised that Yenor should have so correctly predicted Bran's reaction. He tried to see some change in the old man, some evidence of the personal fear that must have broken him so quickly, but there was only weariness and a gentleness. So much fuel, Branon said. Is Volgar still at war with Alcoria? Cain nodded. Once I saw some Alcorian prisoners of war on Volgar, Branon said. They are a peaceful dog-like race. They never wanted to go to war with Volgar. Well, they still didn't want war, but on Alcoria were Alusium ores and other resources that the Volgarian state had to have before it could carry out its long frustrated ambition of galactic conquest. I'll go now, Cain said, getting out of his chair, and see what you're having done. The commander doesn't take anybody's word for anything. Bran called a turbo-car and driver to take him to the multi-purpose factory, which was located a short distance beyond the other side of town. The driver stopped before the factory's main office, where a plump bald man was waiting, his scalp and glasses gleaming in the sunshine. I'm Dr. LaRusseur, he greeted Cain. He had a face that under normal circumstance would have been genial. Father Bran said you were coming. I am at your service, to show you what we're doing. They went inside the factory, where the rush of activity was like a beehive. Machines and installations not needed for fuel production were being torn out as quickly as possible, others taking their place. The workers he craned his neck to verify his astonished first impression. All of them were women. Father Bran's suggestion, LaRusseur said. These girls are as competent as men for this kind of work, and their use here permits the release of men to the outer provinces to procure the raw materials. As you know, our population is small and widely scattered. A crash sounded as a huge object nearby, toppled and fell. Cain took an instinctive, backward step and bumped into something soft. Oh, excuse me, sir. He turned, and had a confused vision of an apologetic smile in a pretty young face, of red curls knocked into disarray, and of amazingly short shorts and a tantalizing wispy halter. She recovered the notebook she had dropped and hurried on, leaving a faint cloud of perfume in her wake, and a disturbing memory of curving, golden tan legs, and a flat little stomach that had been exposed both north and south through the extreme limits of modesty. A personal supervisor from Beechville, LaRusseur said. She was sunbathing when the plane arrived to pick her up, and had no time to obtain her clothing. Father Bran firmly insisted upon not losing one minute of time during this emergency. A crane rumbled into view, and its grapple seized the huge object that had fallen. Our Central Air Conditioning Unit, LaRusseur said, it had to go. You're putting something else in his place, of course. Oh yes, we must have more space, but Father Bran opposed the plan of building an annex as too dangerously time-consuming. The only alternative is to tear out everything not absolutely essential. Kane left shortly afterward, satisfied that the Saints were doing as Bran had said. He went back out in the spring sunshine where the turbo car was still waiting for him, debated briefly with himself and dismissed the driver. After so many weeks in the prison-like ship, it would be pleasant to walk again. A grassy, tree-covered ridge ran like the swell of a green sea between the plant and the town. He stopped on top of it, where the town was almost hidden from view, and looked out across the white valley. Shadows moved lazily across it as cotton-puff clouds drifted down the blue dome of the sky. Great white birds like swans were soaring overhead, calling to one another in voices like the singing of violins, bringing again the memories of the lost islands. And the Vogueurian Lord gazed upon his world and found it good. He swung around, his hand-dropping to his holstered blaster, and looked into the green, mocking eyes of a tawny-haired girl. She was beautiful, in the savage way that the hill-leopards of Vogueur were beautiful, and her hand was on a pistol in her belt. Her eyes flickered from his blaster up to his face, bright with challenge. Want to try it? she asked. She wore a short skirt with some rough material, and her knees were dusty, as though she had walked for a long way. These things he noticed only absently, his eyes going back to the bold, beautiful face. For twenty years he had been accustomed to the women of Vogueur, colorless in their party uniforms and men's haircuts, made even more drab by the masculine mannerisms they affected. Not since the spring the lost island died had he seen a girl like this one before him. Well, she asked, do you think you'll know me next time? He walked to her, while she watched him with cat-like wearingness. Hand me that pistol, he ordered. Try to take it, you Vogueurian ape. He moved, and a moment later she was sitting on the ground, her eyes wide with dismayed surprise as he shoved the pistol in his own belt. Resisting the Vogueurian with a deadly weapon calls for the death penalty, he said. I suppose you know what I can do? She got up, defiance like a blaze about her. I'll tell you what you can do.  The thought came to him that there might be considerable pleasure in laying her over his knee and raising some blisters where they would do her the most good. He regretfully dismissed the idea as too undignified for even a sub-ensin and asked, Who are you, and what are you doing here with that pistol? She hesitated, then answered with insolent coolness. My name is Barbara Loring. I heard that you Vogueurians had demanded that we agree to surrender. I came down from the hills to disagree. Is a resistance force meeting here? Do you think you could make me tell you? There are ways, but I'm not here to use them. I am not your enemy. A little of the hostility faded from her face, and she asked, How could a Vogueurian ever not be our enemy? He could find no satisfactory answer to the question. I can tell you this, she said. I know of no resistance organization. I can also tell you that we are not the race of coward you think, and will fight the instant Father Bren gives the word. For one who speaks respectfully of Bren, he said, Your recent words and actions weren't very religious and refined. Fire flashed in the green eyes again. Up in the Azur Mountains, where I come from, we're not very refined, and we like being that way. And why do you carry guns? he asked. Because all along our frontier lines are rhino stags, cliff bears, thunder hawks, and a lot of other overgrown carnivora that don't like us, that's why. I see. He took the pistol from his belt and held it out to her.  Yinor, waiting impatiently in the ship, was grimly pleased by the news of Bren's change of attitude. Exactly what I predicted, as you no doubt recall, how long until they can have a thousand units of fuel produced? Leroux estimated fourteen days at best. Yinor tapped his thick fingers on the desk, scowling thoughtfully. As little as seven extra days might force Volgar to accept the Alcorian peace terms because of lack of fuel, the Natives can work twice as hard as they expected to. Tell ol' Bren they will be given exactly seven days from sunrise to-morrow. And summon Daelyn and Graever. I want them to make use of every man on the ship for a twenty-four hour guard and inspection system in the plant. The Natives will get no opportunities for stalling or sabotage. Brennan was writing at his book, Leroux. He laid in table when Cain went into his cottage the next morning. These are called edicts, Brenn said, after greeting him. But I possess no law-making powers, and they are really only suggestions. Brenn shoved the paper to one side. The script was somewhat different from that of Volgar. The Volgarian inspection and guard system is no more than an expected precaution against sabotage. The Volgarians must be regarded as potential friends who now treat us with suspicion and arrogance, only because they do not yet realize the sincerity of our desire to help them, to any extent short of surrender. Cain looked up from the uncompleted, surprisingly humble edict, and Brennan asked, Your commander, sir, he is now pleased with our actions? Not exactly. He will disintegrate a town seven days from sunrise this morning if all the fuel isn't produced by then. Seven? Only seven days? There was a startled disbelief on Brenn's face. But how can he expect us to produce so much fuel in so short a time? I don't know. I'm sorry. It's something I would have argued against if I hadn't had too much sense to try. Seven days, Brenn said again, We can only pray that God will let it be time enough. Cain walked on to the plant. The hilltop where he had met the girl was deserted, and he felt a vague disappointment. The plant was hot without the air conditioner, especially in the vicinity of the electronic roasters. The girls looked flushed and uncomfortable, but for the red head who still wore her scanty sun suit. The armed Volgarians looked incongruously out of place among the girls and were sweating profusely. Cain made a mental note to have them ordered into tropical uniforms. He found Daelyn prowling like a wolf among his guards. It's inconceivable that these women could ever be a menace, Daelyn said, but I'm taking no chances. He saw Graver, the cruiser's chief technician, a thin, dry man who seemed to be as emotionless as the machines and electronic circuits that were his life. They're doing everything with astonishing competence, Graver said. My technicians are watching like hawks, though. LaRue was not in his office. His secretary, a brown-eyed woman of strikingly intelligent appearance, said, I'm sorry, sir. Dr. LaRue had to go back to town for a few minutes. May I give him your message? No thanks, he said. Father Bran is probably performing that unpleasant chore right now. Since Daelyn and Graver seemed to have the situation at the plant well in hand, Cain decided to make a tour of the outer provinces where the oars were being mined. An efficient plant would be worthless if it did not receive sufficient ore. He spent four days on the inspection tour, much longer than he had expected to be gone, but made necessary by the fact that the small elusium mines were widely scattered in rugged, roadless areas and he had to walk most of the distance. The single helicopter on Sanctuary was being used to fly the ore out, but it was operating on a schedule that caused him to miss it each time. Each mine was being worked by full day and night crews, in fact, by more men than necessary. The reason for that, and for the way the men silently withheld their hostility, was made apparent in a bit of conversation between two miners that he overheard one day. So why all of us here when not this many are needed? They say Father Brand wanted to get all the men out of town, away from the cruiser, so there would be no trouble, and you know there would have been if we had stayed. He wants to get the cruiser on its way back to Volgar, they say, so we can get busy producing weapons to fight the occupation force. He returned on the fifth evening of the allotted seven days, and stopped by Brand's cottage before going on to the ship. The old man was working in his garden, his trembling hands trying to tie up a red-flowered vine. Cain tied it for him, and he said, Thank you, sir, did you find the mining to be as I had said? I found more than that. You know, don't you, that Yenor will return with the occupation force a hundred days after leaving here. Yes, I know that is his intention. I understand that you're going to try to build weapons while he's gone. Don't, if you think anything of your people, let them do it. Nothing you could build in a hundred days would last a minute against a cruiser's disintegrators. I know, Brand said. We're supposed to choose between bloody, hopeless resistance and eternal slavery, aren't we? But why should either fate befall a peaceful race? Cain asked the logical question. Why shouldn't it? The laws of God have always been laws of justice and mercy. Not even the Bulgarian state can change them. He thought of the way the state had changed the lost islands in one bloody, violent afternoon. Brand, watching his face, said, You are sceptical and bitter, my son, but you will learn that a harmless old man can speak with wisdom. No, he said. There's neither justice nor mercy in the universe. I know from experience. A man can only choose between the lesser of two evils, and almost anything is less evil than you knower when he's mad. He went to the plant the next morning. Inside, wherever he looked, he saw girls in shorts and halters. The place seemed to be alive with partially clad women. He went to the nearest bulletin board and read Bryn's edict of four days before. Since the excessively warm temperature of the plant causes much discomfort and thereby impairs the efficiency of all workers, and since maximum efficiency will be required to produce the fuel in the extremely short time permitted us, it is suggested that the cool sunsuits of the beach-filled girls become the standard work uniform until further notice. These may be obtained for the asking in Department 5A. The next day's edict read, Some have hesitated to follow yesterday's edict through a sense of modesty. This is most commendable. However, the situation is very critical. Our lives depend upon the highest degree of efficiency we can attain, and a hot, miserable worker is not efficient. Your bodies are God's handwork. Do not be ashamed of them. The edict for the next day read simply, Warningly, Thou shalt not commit adultery. The vulgarian guards and inspectors, now in tropical uniforms, still looked out of place with their holstered weapons, but their former cold arrogance was gone, and the attitude of the girls had changed from polite reserve to laughing, chattering friendliness. He found Daelyn in a far corner, cornered literally by the red-haired personnel supervisor who was spitting like a cat, as she said. Then tell your commander how one of your men tried to make one of my girls and got hit with a wrench for it. Ask him whether he wants us to produce fuel or make love. Go ahead, ask him, or let me, I'll ask him. You'll have to see to it that your girls don't lead my men on. Daelyn ran his finger around his collar, worry on his face. Florence, are you trying to get me ruined? Then inform your men that there is a certain commandment we all believe in, and anything beyond our willingness to be friends calls for marriage first. Marriage? Daelyn sputtered the word, recovered his poise with an effort, and said stiffly, My men are soldiers, not suitors. I want them respected as such. He strode away without seeing Cain. The girls stared after him, fuming, and Cain went in search of Graver. Graver and the brown-eyed secretary were in LaRue's office, their heads together over a flow sheet of some kind. The secretary excused herself, and when she was gone, Cain asked, Where's LaRue? Checking the catalytic processors, I think, sir, Graver answered almost vaguely. Marr, his secretary, was just showing me how they improvised so much of their equipment so quickly. There was a strange light in Graver's usually expressionless eyes. It's incredible. Well, the commander gave them no time to waste, you know. Sir, oh, I was referring to her intelligence, sir. It is amazing that a woman should have such a thorough knowledge of such a complex process. Cain felt the birth pains of the first dark premonition. If you don't want to throw knowledge of the interior of State prison, he said in grim warning, you'd better get that silly look off your face and concentrate on your duties. Tell Daelyn the same order applies to him, and tell LaRue that the commander reminds him they now have less than forty hours to finish the job. He decided, again, to walk back to the ship. There was now a multitude of paths through the grass where the girls had been walking to and from work. Two groups from the last shift change were a short distance ahead of him, several of Daelyn's guards and Graver's technicians among them, all of them talking and laughing. In that area they could not be spied upon by Yenoar with the ship's view-screen scanners, and even as he watched, a tall, dark, young guard put his arm around the girl walking close beside him. She twisted away from him and ran on to the next group, there to look back with a teasing toss of her head. Cain watched both groups disappear over the hill, then followed, muttering thoughtfully. He felt he could safely assume, if anything could be said to be safe about the situation, that the lack of discipline he had just witnessed was typical of all the men. They were all young and healthy, and for sixteen hours out of each day they were side by side with the almost nude, provocatively feminine, sanctuary girls. Their weakness was understandable. It was also very dangerous. Heads would roll if Yenoar ever learned what was going on, and it required no psychic ability to guess whose head would roll the fastest and farthest. He would have to have it stopped at once. He took a shortcut to Brent's Cottage. By a sleepy, shady street he had never been down before. Halfway along it was an open-air eating-place of some kind, with tables placed about under the trees. There seemed to be no customers at the moment, but he stopped anyway, to take a closer look for errant guards. A tawny head lifted at a table half hidden by a nearby tree, and he looked into the surprised face of the mountain girl Barbara. Well, she said, come on over and let me offer you a glass of cyanide. He walked over to her table. She was wearing a blouse and skirt similar to that of the day he had met her, but the pistol was gone. I thought I told you to go back to your hills, he said. I decided it would be more fun to work in the plant and sabotage things. Let Yenoar learn you said that, and you'll be in a fix I can't help you out of. Should a Bulgarian care? But the durian was gone, as she said. When you gave my pistol back to me, I thought it was a trick of some kind. I told you I wasn't your enemy. I know, but it's hard for a saint to believe any Bulgarian could ever be anything else. It doesn't seem to be very hard for the girls in the plant, he observed, glumly. Oh, that's different. She made a gesture of light dismissal.  That's interesting to know, I'm sure. I suppose. He stopped as a grey-haired woman came and sat down a tray containing a sandwich and a mug. From the foamy top of the mug came the unmistakable aroma of beer. Do you saints drink? He asked incredulously. Sure, why? But your church. Earth Church is used to ban alcohol as sinful because it would cause a mean person to show his true character. My church is more sensible and works to change the person's character instead. She took a bite of the sandwich, cliff-bear steak, and beer go perfectly together. Shall I order you some? No, he said thinking of Yinor's fury. If Yinor should learn he had had a friendly lunch with a native girl. About your church, what kind of church is it anyway? What its name implies. Heaven isn't for sale at the pulpit. Everybody has to qualify for it by his own actions. We have to practice our belief. Just looking pious and saying that we believe doesn't count. He revised his opinion of the saints, then asked.  For Bulgarians we have a special golden rule that reads, Do unto Bulgarians as they have come to do unto you.  It could not be denied. When he did not answer she smiled at him. A smile surprisingly gentle and understanding. You honestly would like to be our friend, wouldn't you? The state psychiatrist didn't do a good job of brainwashing you after all. It was the first time since he was sixteen that anyone had spoken to him with genuine kindness. It gave him a strange feeling. A lonely sense of something rising up out of the past to mock him, and he changed the subject. Are the azure mountains the edge of your frontier? She nodded. Beyond is the emerald plain, a great wide plain, and beyond it are mountain ranges that have never been named or explored. I am going into them some day, and... Time passed with astonishing speed as he talked with the girl, and it was late in the afternoon when he continued on to Brinn's cottage. He put the thoughts of her from his mind and told Brinn of the too-warm association between the girls and the Bulgarians. But it is only friendship, Brinn said soothingly. I can assure your commander that nothing immoral is being done. If he knew what was going on it would be my neck. It has to be stopped. Write an edict. Do anything that will stop it at once. Brinn stroked his white beard thoughtfully. I'm sorry this unforeseen situation has occurred, sir. Will you have strict orders to the same effect given your men? There's a severe penalty for unauthorized fraternization. I'll see that they're well reminded of it. I'll write another edict at once, forbidding the girls to speak to your men, sir.  Have you been blind? he demanded. Cain tried to swallow a sinking feeling, wondering just how much Yinor had seen and said, Sir? My guards, my so-called guards, how long have they been strolling back from the plant in company with the native women? Oh, he said, feeling a great relief that Yinor had not seen the true situation. It's only that some of the outgoing shifts coincide, sir, and— You know, don't you, that military men march to and from duty in military formation. You are aware of the importance of discipline. Yes, sir. You are further aware of the fact that you, Dalen and Graver, will be guilty of treason if this lack of discipline imperils my plans in any way. Yes, sir. You have heard of the punishment for treason? Yes, sir. He went below when the unpleasant business with Yinor was finally over. It was the beginning of the eight-hour sleep period for Dalen and Graver, but they were still up, sitting on their bunks and staring dreamily into space. It was only belatedly, almost fuzzily, that they became aware of his glowering presence in the doorway. I bring you glad tidings, he said, from the commander's own lips. The multiple gallows at State Prison is still in perfect working order, especially the first three trap doors. The last day dawned, bright and sunny, and he went to see Brinn. I had the new edict posted immediately, Brinn said. I hope it will undo the damage. Let's see it, Cain requested, and Brinn handed him the handwritten original. It was. Despite our affection for the Volgarians among us, we must not endanger them by any longer talking to them. A Volgarian military rule is now being enforced which forbids Volgarians to speak to sanctuary girls except in the line of duty. There is a severe penalty for those who disobey this rule. It must also be pointed out, sternly to the sanctuary girls and respectfully to the Volgarians, that flight into the uninhabited sanctuary mountains would result in execution for the fleeing couples if Commander Yinor should ever find them. What's this, Cain demanded, pointing to the last paragraph. Why, a warning, sir. Warning, it's a suggestion. A suggestion? Brinn lifted his hands in shocked protest. But, sir, how could anyone think? I personally wouldn't give a damn if the entire crew was too lovesick to eat. But the Commander does, and my future welfare, including the privilege of breathing, depends upon my retaining what passes for his good will. Good heavens, I shall have this edict removed from the bulletin boards at once. A great idea, it should fix up everything to lock the stable door now that the horse is stolen. He went to the plant and felt the air of resentment as soon as he stepped inside. Dalen was patrolling among his men.  The guards were pacing their beats in wordless quiet. Graver's technicians were speaking only in the line of duty. The girls were not talking even to one another, but in the soft, melting glances they gave the vulgarians, they said, We understand, in a manner, more eloquent than any words. In fact, far too eloquent. He considered the plan of having Bryn forbid the girls to look at the guards. Discard that as impractical. For a moment wildly considered ordering the guards not to look at the girls. Discard that as even more impractical. And went muttering to LaRue's office. LaRue was at his desk, his face lined with fatigue. It's been a difficult job, he said, but we'll meet the deadline. Good, Cain answered. Did Bryn phone you about having that edict removed? Ah, which one? Which one, you mean? He turned and ran from the office. A girl was removing the offending edict from the nearest bulletin board. Another, later one, proclaimed. We must abandon, as hopeless, the suggestion of some that if there must be an Occupation Force, we would like for it to be these men whom we have come to respect, and many of us to love. This can never be. Only Commander Yenor will leave the ship at Volgar, there to select his own Occupation Force, while the men now among us continue directly onto the Alcorian Moor from which many of them will never return. We must not resent the fact that on this, their last day among us, these men are forbidden to speak to us or to let us speak to them, nor say that this is unfair, when Commander Yenor's Occupation troops will be permitted to associate freely with us. These things are beyond our power to change. We must accept the inevitable, and show only by our silent conduct the love we have for these warriors whom we shall never see again. Cain Galt convulsively read it again, and hurried back to LaRue's office. How long has that last edict been up, he demanded? About twelve hours. Then every shift has seen it? Ah yes, why, is something wrong with it? That depends on the viewpoint. I want them removed at once, and tell that sanctified old weasel that if this last edict of his gets me hanged, which it probably will, I'll see to it that he gets the same medicine. He went back into the plant and made his way through the bare-legged, soft-eyed girls, looking for Daelyn. He overheard a guard say in low, bitter tones to another, maybe eight hours on Bogar, and we can't leave the ship. Then on to the battle-front for us, while Yenor and his home-guard favorites come back here and pick out their harems. He found Daelyn and said to him, Watch your men, they're resentful. Some of them might even desert. And Yenor wasn't joking about that gallows for us last night. I know, Daelyn ran his finger around the collar that seemed to be getting increasingly tighter for him. I've warned them that the occupation troops would get them in the end. He found Graver at a dial-covered panel. The brown-eyed secretary, her eyes darker and more appealing than ever, was just leaving, a notebook in her hand. Since when, Cain asked, has it been customary for technicians to need the assistance of secretaries to read a dial? But, sir, she is a very good technician herself. Her paperwork is now done and she was helping me trace a circuit that was fluctuating. Cain peered suspiciously into Graver's expressionless face. Are you sure that it was a circuit that was doing the fluctuating? Yes, sir. Did you know that half of Daelyn's guards seemed to be ready to jump ship? Yes, sir, but the resentment is not characteristic of my technicians. He realized, with surprise, that that was true. And Graver, in contrast to Daelyn's agitation, had the calm, purposeful air of a man who had pondered deeply upon an unpleasant future and had taken steps to prevent it. I have no desire to hang, sir, and I have convinced my men that it would be suicide for part of them to desert. I shall do my best to convince Daelyn's guards of the same thing. He went back through the plant, much of its confidence restored, and back to the ship. Yinor was pacing the floor again, his impatience keying him to a mood more vile than ever. This ship will leave at exactly 2315, vulgar time, Yinor said. Any man not on it then will be regarded as a deserter and executed as such when I return with the Occupation Force. He stopped his pacing to stare at Cain with the ominous anticipation of a spider surveying a captured fly. Although I can operate this ship with a minimum of two crewmen, I shall expect you to make certain that every man is on board. Cain went back out of the ship, his confidence shaken again, and back to the plant. Night came at last, and finally, the first shielded tank of fuel was delivered to the ship. Others followed, one by one, as the hours went by. It was almost morning when Graver came to him and said, My duties and those of my men are finished here, sir. Shall we go prepare the ship for flight? Yes, get busy at it, Cain answered. Don't give the commander any excuse to get any matter than he already is. An hour later the last of the fuel went into the last tank and was hauled away. Someone said, that's all, and a switch clicked. A machine rumbled off into silence, followed by others. Control panels went dark. Within a minute there was not a machine running, not a panel lighted. Dayland's whistle for guard assembly sounded high and shrill. A girl's voice called to one of the guards, hurry back to your ship, Billy, the Thunderhawks might get you if you stayed, and broke on a sob. Another girl said, Hush, Julia, it's not his fault. He went out of the plant and passed LaRue's office. He saw that the brown-eyed secretary was gone, her desk clean. LaRue was still there, looking very tired. He did not go in. The fuel had been produced, he would never see LaRue again. He took the path that led toward town. Part of the whirlpool star-cluster was still above the horizon, a white blaze of a thousand suns, and the eastern sky was lighting with the first rays of dawn. A dozen girls were ahead of him, their voices a low murmur as they hurried back toward town. There was an undertone of tension, all of the former gaiety gone. The brief week of make-believe was over, and the next Bulgarians to come would truly be their enemy. He came to the hill-top where he had met the mountain girl, thought of her with irrational longing, and suddenly she was there before him. The pistol was again in her belt. You came with all the stealth of a plain socks, she said. I could have shot you a dozen times over. Are we already at war, he asked.  First our penalty for being ethical. Listen to me, he said. We tried to fight the inevitable in the lost islands. When the sun went down that day, half of us were dead and the rest prisoners. And you rose from prisoner to officer, because you're too selfish to keep fighting for what was right. I saw them bury the ones who insisted on doing that. And you want us to meekly bow down here. I have no interest of any kind in this world. I'll never see it again. But I know from experience what will happen to you and your people if you try to fight. I don't want that to happen. Do you think that because a man isn't a blind chauvinist, he has to be a soulless monster? No, she said in a suddenly small voice. But I had hoped, we were talking that day of the mountains beyond the emerald plain and a frontier to last for centuries. It was just idle talk, but I thought maybe that when the showdown came you would be on our side, after all. She drew a deep breath that came a little raggedly and said with lightness that was too forced. You don't mind if I have a silly, sentimental fondness for my world, do you? It's the only world I have. Maybe you would understand if you could see the azure mountains in the spring, but you never will, will you? Because you lied when you said you weren't my enemy, and now I know you are, and I. The lightness faltered and broke.  She turned away and vanished among the trees like a shadow. He was unaware of the passage of time as he stood there on the hill that was silent with her going, and remembering the day he had met her, and the way the song swans had been calling. When he looked up at the sky it was bright gold in the east and the blazing stars of the whirlpool were fading into invisibility. He looked to the west, where the road wound its long way out of the valley, and he thought he could see her trudging up it, tiny and distant. He looked at his watch and saw he had just enough time to reach the ship before it left. Bren was standing by his gate, watching the dawn flame into incandescence and looking more frail and helpless than ever. The cruiser towered beyond, blotting out half the dawn sky like a sinister omen. A faint deep hum was coming from within it as the drive went into the preliminary phase that preceded takeoff. You have only seconds left to reach the ship, Bren said. You have already tarried almost too long. You're looking at a fool, he answered, who is going to tarry in the Azur Mountains and beyond the Emerald Plain for a hundred days, then the occupation men will kill him. There was no surprise on Bren's face, but it seemed to Cain that the old man smiled in his beard. For the second time since he was sixteen, Cain heard someone speak to him with gentle understanding. Although you have not been much help to my plans, your intentions were good. I was sure that in the end this would be your decision. I am well pleased with you, my son. A wine came back from the ship, and the boarding ramp flicked up like a disappearing tongue. The black opening of the airlock seemed to wink, then was solid, featureless metal as the doors slid shut. Bon voyage, you know, Cain said. We'll be waiting for you with our bows and arrows. There is no one on the ship but you know, Bren said. Graver saw to it that the ready lights were all going on the command room control board, then he and all the others followed my suggestion. Cain remembered Graver's calmness and his statement concerning his men. It would be suicide for part of them to desert. For part of them, if every last one deserted. The drives of the ship roared as Yinor pushed a control button, and the ship lifted slowly. The roaring faltered and died as Yinor pushed another button which called for a crewman who was not there. The ship dropped back with a ponderous thud, careening, and fell with a force that shook the ground. It made no further sound or movement. He stared at the silent, impotent ship, finding it hard to realize that there would be no hundred-day limit for him, that the New World, the boundless frontier, and Barbara would be his for as long as he lived. Poor Commander Yinor, Bren said. The airlock is now under the ship and we shall have to dig a tunnel to rescue him. Don't hurry about it, Cain advised. Let him sweat in the dark for a few days with his desk wrapped round his neck. It will do him good. We are a kind, harmless race. We could never do anything like that. Kind? I believe you, but harmless? You made monkeys out of Volgar's choicest fighting men. Please do not use such an uncouth expression. I was only the humble instrument of a greater power. I only, uh, encouraged the natural affection between man and maid, the love that God intended them to have. But did you practice your golden rule? You saw to it that fifty men were forced to associate day after day with hundreds of almost naked girls.  Would I? There was a gleam in the old eyes that did not seem to come from the brightness of the dawn. I, too, once was young, my son. What do you think? End of Section 14