THE GAME OF RAT AND DRAGON by CORDWEENER SMITH This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. READING by Gregg Marguerite THE GAME OF RAT AND DRAGON by CORDWEENER SMITH Only partners could fight this deadliest of wars, and the one way to dissolve the partnership was to be personally dissolved. THE TABLE Pin lighting is a hell of a way to earn a living. Underhill was furious as he closed the door behind himself. It didn't make much sense to wear a uniform and look like a soldier if people didn't appreciate what you did. He sat down in his chair, laid his head back in the headrest, and pulled the helmet down over his forehead. As he waited for the pin set to warm up, he remembered the girl in the outer corridor. She had looked at it, then looked at him scornfully. Meow! That was all she had said, yet it had cut him like a knife. What did she think he was? A fool? A loafer? A uniformed non-entity? Didn't she know that for every half hour of pin lighting he got a minimum of two months' recuperation in the hospital? By now the set was warm. He felt the squares of space around him, sensed himself at the middle of an immense grid, a cubic grid, full of nothing. Out in that nothingness he could sense the hollow, aching horror of space itself and could feel the terrible anxiety which his mind encountered whenever it met the faintest trace of inert dust. As he relaxed the comforting solidity of the sun, the clockwork of the familiar planets and the moon rang in on him. Our own solar system was as charming and as simple as an ancient cuckoo clock filled with familiar ticking and with reassuring noises. The odd little moons of Mars swung around their planet like frantic mice, yet their regularity was itself an assurance that all was well. Far above the plane of the elliptic he could feel half a ton of dust more or less drifting outside the lanes of human travel. Here there was nothing to fight, nothing to challenge the mind, to tear the living soul out of a body with its roots dripping in a fluvium as tangible as blood. Nothing ever moved in on the solar system. He could wear the pin set forever and be nothing more than a sort of telepathic astronomer, a man who could feel the hot, warm protection of the sun throbbing and burning against his living mind. Woodley came in. Same old ticking world, said Underhill, nothing to report, no wonder they didn't develop the pin set until they began to planoform. Down here with the hot sun around us it feels so good and so quiet you can feel everything spinning and turning. It's nice and sharp and compact. It's sort of like sitting around home. Woodley grunted. He was not much given to flights of fantasy. Undeterred, Underhill went on. It must have been pretty good to have been an ancient man. I wonder why they burned up their world with war. They didn't have to planoform, they didn't have to go out to earn their livings among the stars. They didn't have to dodge the rats or play the game. They couldn't have invented pin lighting because they didn't have any need of it, did they, Woodley? Woodley grunted. Uh-huh. Woodley was 26 years old and due to retire in one more year. He already had a farm picked out. He had gotten through ten years of hard work pin lighting with the best of them. He had to keep his sanity by not thinking very much about his job, meeting the strains of the task whenever he had to meet them and thinking nothing more about his duties until the next emergency arose. Woodley never made a point of getting popular among the partners. None of the partners liked him very much. Some of them even resented him. He was suspected of thinking ugly thoughts of the partners on occasion, but since none of the partners ever thought a complaint in articulate form the other pin lighters and the chiefs of the instrumentality left him alone.  Happily he babbled on. What does happen to us when we play no form? Do you think it's sort of like dying? Did you ever see anybody who had his soul pulled out? Pulling souls is just a way of talking about it, said Woodley. After all these years nobody knows whether we have souls or not. But I saw one once. I saw what Dogwood looked like when he came apart. There was something funny. It looked wet and sort of sticky as if it were bleeding, and it went out of him. And you know what they did to Dogwood. They took him away, up in that part of the hospital where you and I never go. Way up at the top part where the others are, where the others always have to go if they are alive after the rats of the up and out have gotten them. Woodley sat down and lit an ancient pipe. He was burning something called tobacco in it. It was a dirty sort of habit, but it made him look very dashing and adventurous. Look here, youngster. You don't have to worry about that stuff. Pin lighting is getting better all the time. The partners are getting better. I've seen them pin light two rats 46 million miles apart in one and a half milliseconds. As long as people had to try to work the pin sets themselves, there was always the chance that with a minimum of 400 milliseconds for the human mind to set a pin light, we wouldn't light the rats up fast enough to protect our planiforming ships. The partners have changed all that. Once they get going, they're faster than rats, and they always will be. I know it's not easy letting a partner share your mind. It's not easy for them either, said Underhill. Don't worry about them. They're not human. Let them take care of themselves.  How many do you actually know of them that got grabbed by rats? Underhill looked down at his fingers, which shown green and purple in the vivid light thrown by the tuned-in pin set, and counted ships. The thumb for the Andromeda, lost with crew and passengers.  The ring finger, the little finger, and the thumb of the other hand were the first three battleships to be lost to the rats. Lost as people realized that there was something out there, underneath space itself, which was alive, capricious, and malevolent. Planiforming was sort of funny.  Yet in that time a 40,000-ton ship lifting free above Earth disappeared somehow or other into two dimensions and appeared half a light-year or 50 light-years off. At one moment he would be sitting in the fighting room, the pin set ready, and the familiar solar system ticking around inside his head. For a second or a year he could never tell how long it really was subjectively. The funny little flash went through him, and then he was loose in the up and out, the terrible open spaces between the stars, where the stars themselves felt like pimples on his telepathic mind, and the planets were too far away to be sensed or read. Somewhere in this outer space a gruesome death awaited, death and horror of a kind which man had never encountered until he reached out for interstellar space itself. Apparently the light of the suns kept the dragons away. Dragons. That was what people called them. To ordinary people there was nothing, nothing except the shiver of plano-forming and the hammer blow of sudden death, or the dark spastic note of lunacy descending into their minds. But to the telepaths they were dragons. In the fraction of a second between the telepath's awareness of a hostile something out in the black hollow nothingness of space and the impact of a ferocious, ruinous psychic blow against all living things within a ship, the telepaths had sensed entities, something like the dragons of ancient human lore, beasts more clever than beasts, demons more tangible than demons, hungry vortices of aliveness and hate compounded by unknown means out in the thin tenuous matter between the stars. It took a surviving ship to bring back the news, a ship in which by sheer chance a telepath had a light beam ready, turning it out at the innocent dust so that within the panorama of his mind the dragon dissolved into nothing at all, and the other passengers themselves non-telepathic went about their way, not realizing that their own immediate deaths had been averted. From then on it was easy. Almost. Plano-forming ships always carried telepaths. Telepaths had their sensitiveness enlarged to an immense range by the pin sets which were telepathic amplifiers adapted to the mammal mind. The pin sets in turn were electronically geared into small dirigible light bombs. Light did it. Light broke up the dragons, allowed the ships to reform three dimensionally, skip, skip, skip, as they moved from star to star. The odds suddenly moved down from a hundred to one against mankind to 60 to 40 in mankind's favor. This was not enough. The telepaths were trained to become ultra-sensitive, trained to become aware of the dragons in less than a millisecond. But it was found that the dragons could move a million miles in just under two milliseconds, and that this was not enough for the human mind to activate the light beams. Attempts had been made to sheath the ships in light at all times. This defense wore out. As mankind learned about the dragons, so too apparently the dragons learned about mankind. Somehow they flattened their own bulk and came in on extremely flat trajectories very quickly. Intense light was needed, light of sunlight intensity. This could be provided only by light bombs. Pin lighting came into existence. Pin lighting consisted of the detonation of ultra-vivid miniature photonuclear bombs which converted a few ounces of magnesium isotope into pure visible radiance. The odds kept coming down in mankind's favor, yet ships were being lost. It became so bad that people didn't even want to find the ships because the rescuers knew what they would see. It was sad to bring back to Earth three hundred bodies ready for burial and two hundred or three hundred lunatics, damaged beyond repair. To be wakened and fed and cleaned and put to sleep, wakened and fed again until their lives were ended. Telepaths tried to reach into the minds of the psychotics who had been damaged by the dragons, but they found nothing there beyond vivid spouting columns of fiery terror bursting from the primordial it itself. The volcanic source of life. Then came the partners. Man and partner could do together what man could not do alone. Men had the intellect, partners had the speed. The partners rode their tiny craft no larger than footballs outside the spaceships. They plano-formed with the ships. They rode beside them in their six-pound craft ready to attack. The tiny ships of the partners were swift. Each carried a dozen pinlights, bombs no bigger than thimbles. The pinlighters threw the partners, quite literally through, by means of mind to firing relays direct at the dragons. What seemed to be dragons to the human mind appeared in the form of gigantic rats in the minds of the partners. Out in the pitiless nothingness of space the partners' minds responded to an instinct as old as life. The partners attacked, striking with a speed faster than man's, going from attack to attack until the rats or themselves were destroyed. Almost all the time it was the partners who won. With the safety of the interstellar skip-skip-skip of the ships, commerce increased immensely. The population of all the colonies went up and the demand for trained partners was increased. Underhill and Woodley were part of the third generation of pinlighters, and yet to them it seemed as though their craft had endured forever. Gearing space into minds by means of the pin set, adding the partners to those minds, keying up the minds for the tension of a fight on which all depended. This was more than human synapses could stand for long. Underhill needed his two months' rest after half an hour of fighting. Woodley needed his retirement after ten years of service. They were young, they were good, but they had limitations. So much depended on the choice of partners, so much on the sheer luck of who drew whom. The Shuffle Father Moontree and the little girl named West entered the room. They were the other two pinlighters. The human complement of the fighting room was now complete. Father Moontree was a red-faced man of forty-five who had lived the peaceful life of a farmer until he reached his fortieth year. Only then belatedly did the authorities find he was telepathic and agree to let him late in life enter upon the career of a pinlighter. He did well at it, but he was fantastically old for this kind of business. Father Moontree looked at the glum Woodley and the musing Underhill. How are the youngsters today? Ready for a good fight? Father always once a fight giggled the little girl named West. She was such a little girl. Her giggle was high and childish. She looked like the last person in the world one would expect to find in the rough, sharp dueling of pin-fighting. Underhill had been amused one time when he found one of the most sluggish of the partners coming away happy from contact with the mind of the girl named West. Usually the partners didn't care much about the human minds with which they were paired for the journey. The partners seemed to take the attitude that human minds were complex and fouled up beyond belief anyhow. No partner ever questioned the superiority of the human mind, though very few of the partners were much impressed by that superiority. The partners liked people. They were willing to fight with them. They were even willing to die for them. But when a partner liked an individual the way, for example, that Captain WoW, or Lady May, liked Underhill, the liking had nothing to do with intellect. It was a matter of temperament, of feel. Underhill knew perfectly well that Captain WoW regarded his Underhill's brains as silly. What Captain WoW liked was Underhill's friendly emotional structure, the cheerfulness and glint of wicked amusement that shot through Underhill's unconscious thought patterns, and the gaiety with which Underhill faced danger. The words, the history books, the ideas, the science, Underhill could sense all that in his own mind reflected back from Captain WoW's mind as so much rubbish. Miss West looked at Underhill. I bet you've put Stickham on the stones. I did not. Underhill felt his ears grow red with embarrassment. During his novitiate he had tried to cheat in the lottery because he got particularly fond of a special partner, a lovely young mother named Myr. It was so much easier to operate with Myr, and she was so affectionate toward him that he forgot pinlighting was hard work and that he was not instructed to have a good time with his partner. They were both designed and prepared to go into deadly battle together. One cheating had been enough. They had found him out and he had been laughed at for years. Father Moontree picked up the imitation leather cup and shook the stone dice which assigned them partners for the trip. By senior rites he took first draw. He grimaced.  Father Moontree had once said that he burped cod liver oil for weeks after drawing that particular glutton, so strongly had the telepathic image of fish impressed itself upon his mind. Yet the glutton was a glutton for danger as well as for fish. He had killed sixty-three dragons, more than any other partner in the service, and was quite literally worth his weight in gold. The little girl West came next. She drew Captain Wow. When she saw who it was, she smiled. I like him, she said. He's such fun to fight with. He feels so nice and cuddly in my mind. Cuddly hell, said Woodley. I've been in his mind, too. It's the most leering mind in the ship, bar none. Nasty man, said the little girl. She said it declaratively without reproach. Underhill, looking at her, shivered. He didn't see how she could take Captain Wow so calmly. Captain Wow's mind did leer. When Captain Wow got excited in the middle of a battle, confused images of dragons, deadly rats, luscious beds, the smell of fish, and the shock of space all scrambled together in his mind as he and Captain Wow, their consciousnesses linked together through the pin set, became a fantastic composite of human being and Persian cat. That's the trouble with working with cats, thought Underhill. It's a pity that nothing else anywhere will serve as partner. Cats were all right once you got in touch with them telepathically. They were smart enough to meet the needs of the fight, but their motives and desires were certainly different from those of humans. They were companionable enough as long as you thought tangible images at them. But their minds just closed up and went to sleep when you recited Shakespeare or Coal Grove, or if you tried to tell them what space was. It was sort of funny realizing that the partners who were so grim and mature out here in space were the same cute little animals that people had used as pets for thousands of years back on earth. He had embarrassed himself more than once while on the ground saluting perfectly ordinary non-telepathic cats because he had forgotten for the moment that they were not partners. He picked up the cup and shook out his stone dice. He was lucky. He drew Lady May. The Lady May was the most thoughtful partner he had ever met. In her, the finely bred pedigree mind of a Persian cat had reached one of its highest peaks of development. She was more complex than any human woman, but the complexity was all one of emotions, memory, hope, and discriminated experience—experience sorted through without the benefit of words. When he had first come into contact with her mind he was astonished at its clarity. With her he remembered her kittenhood, he remembered every mating experience she had ever had. He saw in a half-recognizable gallery all the other pin-fighters with whom she had been paired for the fight, and he saw himself radiant, cheerful, and desirable. He even thought he caught the edge of a longing, a very flattering and yearning thought.  Woodley picked up the last stone. He drew what he deserved, a sullen, scarred old Tomcat with none of the verve of Captain Wow. Woodley's partner was the most animal of all the cats on the ship, a low, brutish type with a dull mind. Even telepathy had not refined his character. His ears were half chewed off from the first fights in which he had engaged. He was a serviceable fighter, nothing more. Woodley grunted. Underhill glanced at him oddly. Didn't Woodley ever do anything but grunt? Father Moontree looked at the other three. You might as well get your partners now. I'll let the skinner know we're ready to go into the up-and-out. The deal. Underhill spun the combination lock on the Lady May's cage. He woke her gently and took her into his arms. She humped her back luxuriously, stretched her claws, started to purr, thought better of it, and licked him on the wrist instead. He did not have the pin set on, so their minds were closed to each other. But in the angle of her moustache and in the movement of her ears he caught some sense of gratification she experienced in finding him as her partner. He talked to her in human speech, even though speech meant nothing to a cat when the pin set was not on.  You didn't ask for this kind of fight, did you?   Human eyes and cat eyes looked across an immensity which no words could meet, but which affection spanned in a single glance. Time to get in, he said. She walked docilely into her spheroid carrier. She climbed in. He saw to it that her miniature pin set rested firmly and comfortably against the base of her brain. He made sure that her claws were padded so that she could not tear herself in the excitement of battle. Softly he said to her, Ready? For answers she preened her back as much as her harness would permit and purred softly within the confines of the frame that held her. He slapped down the lid and watched the seal and ooze around the seam. For a few hours she was welded into her projectile until a workman with a short cutting arc would remove her after she had done her duty. He picked up the entire projectile and slipped it into the ejection tube. He closed the door of the tube, spun the lock, seated himself in his chair and put on his own pin set. Once again he flung the switch. He sat in a small room, small, small, warm, warm. The bodies of the other three people moving close around him, the tangible lights in the ceiling bright and heavy against his closed eyelids. As the pin set warmed the room fell away. The other people ceased to be people and became small glowing heaps of fire, embers, dark red fire with the consciousness of life burning like old red coals in a country fireplace. As the pin set warmed a little more he felt earth just below him, felt the ship slipping away, felt the turning moon as it swung on the far side of the world, felt the planets and the hot, clear goodness of the sun which kept the dragon so far from mankind's native ground. Finally he reached complete awareness. He was telepathically alive to a range of millions of miles. He felt the dust which he had noticed earlier high above the elliptic. With a thrill of warmth and tenderness he felt the consciousness of the Lady May pouring over into his own. Her consciousness was as gentle and clear and yet sharp to the taste of his mind as if it were scented with oil. It felt relaxing and reassuring. He could sense her welcome of him. It was scarcely a thought, just a raw emotion of greeting. At last they were one again. In a tiny remote corner of his mind, as tiny as the smallest toy he had ever seen in his childhood, he was still aware of the room and the ship and of Father Moontree picking up a telephone and speaking to the scanner captain in charge of the ship. His telepathic mind caught the idea long before his ears could frame the words. The actual sound followed the idea the way that thunder on an ocean beach follows the lightning inward from far out over the seas. The fighting room is ready, clear to Planoform, sir. The play. Underhill was always a little exasperated the way that Lady May experienced things before he did. He was braced for the quick vinegar thrill of Planoforming, but he caught her report of it before his own nerves could register what happened. Earth had fallen so far away that he groped for several milliseconds before he found the sun in the upper rear right-hand corner of his telepathic mind. That was a good jump, he thought. This way we'll get there in four or five skips. A few hundred miles outside the ship, the Lady May thought back at him.  Now to fight, now to go, good with you. He knew that she was not thinking words, that his mind took the clear amiable babble of her cat intellect and translated it into images which his own thinking could record and understand. Neither one of them was absorbed in the game of mutual greetings. He reached out far beyond her range of perception to see if there was anything near the ship. It was funny how it was possible to do two things at once. He could scan space with his pin-set mind, and yet at the same time catch a vagrant thought of hers.  While he was still searching he caught the warning from her. We jump again. And so they had. The ship had moved to a second plano form. The stars were different. The sun was immeasurably far behind. Even the nearest stars were barely in contact. This was good dragon-country. This open, nasty, hollow kind of space. He reached farther, faster, sensing and looking for danger, ready to fling the Lady May at danger wherever he found it. Terror blazed up in his mind, so sharp, so clear that it came through as a physical wrench. The little girl named West had found something, something immense, long, black, sharp, greedy, horrific. She flung Captain Wowl at it. Underhill tried to keep his own mind clear. Watch out! he shouted telepathically at the others trying to move the Lady May around. At one corner of the battle he felt the lustful rage of Captain Wowl as the big Persian Tomcat detonated lights while he approached the streak of dust which threatened the ship and the people within. The lights scored near misses. The dust flattened itself, changing from the shape of a stingray into the shape of a spear. Not three milliseconds had elapsed. Father Moontree was talking human words and was saying in a voice that moved like cold molasses out of a heavy jar, Captain. Underhill knew that the sentence was going to be Captain, Move Fast. The battle would be fought and finished before Father Moontree got through talking. Now, fractions of a millisecond later the Lady May was directly in line. Here was where the skill and speed of the partners came in. She could react faster than he. She could see the threat as an immense rat coming direct at her. She could fire the light bombs with a discrimination which he might miss. He was connected with her mind, but he could not follow it. His consciousness absorbed the tearing wound inflicted by the alien enemy. It was like no wound on earth.  He began to writhe in his chair. Actually he had not yet had time to move a muscle when the Lady May struck back at their enemy. Five evenly spaced photonuclear bombs blazed out across a hundred thousand miles. The pain in his mind and body vanished. He felt a moment of fierce, terrible, feral elation running through the mind of the Lady May as she finished her kill. It was always disappointing to the cats to find out that their enemies whom they sensed as gigantic space rats disappeared at the moment of destruction. Then he felt her hurt. The pain and the fear that swept over both of them as the battle, quicker than the movement of an eyelid, had come and gone. In the same instant there came the sharp and acid twinge of planoform. Once more the ship went skip. He could hear Woodley thinking at him. You don't have to bother much. This old son of a gun and I will take over for a while. Twice again the twinge, the skip. He had no idea where he was until the lights of the Caledonia Space Board shone below. With a weariness that lay almost beyond the limits of thought he threw his mind back into rapport with the pin set, fixing the Lady May's projectile gently and neatly into its launching tube. She was half dead with fatigue but he could feel the beat of her heart, could listen to her panting, and he grasped the grateful edge of a thanks reaching from her mind to his. The Score They put him in the hospital at Caledonia. The doctor was friendly but firm. You actually got touched by that dragon. That's as close a shave as I've ever seen. It's also quick that it'll be a long time before we know what happened scientifically. But I suppose you'd be ready for the insane asylum now if the contact had lasted several tenths of a millisecond longer. What kind of cat did you have out in front of you? Underhill felt the words coming out of him slowly. Words were such a lot of trouble compared with the speed and joy of thinking fast and sharp and clear, mind to mind. But words were all that could reach ordinary people like this doctor. His mouth moved heavily as he articulated words. Don't call our partners cats. The right thing to call them is partners. They fight for us, in a team. You ought to know we call them partners, not cats. How is mine? I don't know, said the doctor contritely. We'll find out for you. Meanwhile, old man, you take it easy. There's nothing but rest that can help you.  I can sleep, said Underhill. I just want to know about the Lady May. The nurse joined in. She was a little antagonistic. Don't you want to know about the other people? They're okay, said Underhill. I knew that before I came in here. He stretched his arms and sighed and grinned at them. He could see they were relaxing and were beginning to treat him as a person instead of a patient. I'm all right, he said. Just let me know when I can go see my partner. A new thought struck him. He looked wildly at the doctor. They didn't send her off with a ship, did they? I'll find out right away, said the doctor. He gave Underhill a reassuring squeeze of the shoulder and left the room. The nurse took a napkin off a goblet of chilled fruit juice. Underhill tried to smile at her. There seemed to be something wrong with the girl. He wished she would go away. First she had started to be friendly, and now she was distant again. It's a nuisance being telepathic, he thought. You keep trying to reach even when you're not making contact. Suddenly she swung around on him.  Just as she stamped out, he burst into her mind. He saw himself a radiant hero, clad in his smooth suede uniform. The pin set crown shining like ancient royal jewels around his head. He saw his own face handsome and masculine shining out of her mind. He saw himself very far away, and he saw himself as she hated him. She hated him in the secrecy of her own mind. She hated him because he was, she thought, proud, and strange, and rich, better and more beautiful than people like her. He cut off the sight of her mind, and as he buried his face in the pillow he caught an image of the Lady May. She is a cat, he thought. That's all she is. A cat. But that was not how his mind saw her. Quick beyond all dreams of speed, sharp, clever, unbelievably graceful, beautiful, wordless, and undemanding. Where would he ever find a woman who could compare with her? End of The Game of Rat and Dragon by Cordwayner Smith Hall of Mirrors by Frederick Brown This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Greg Marguerite Hall of Mirrors by Frederick Brown It is a tough decision to make, whether to give up your life so you can live it over again. For an instant you think it is temporary blindness, this sudden dark that comes in the middle of a bright afternoon. It must be blindness, you think.  The nerves of your body tell you that you are standing. Whereas only a second ago you were sitting comfortably, almost reclining in a canvas chair in the patio of a friend's house in Beverly Hills, talking to Barbara, your fiance, looking at Barbara. Barbara in a swimsuit, her skin golden tan in the brilliant sunshine. Beautiful. You wore swimming trunks. Now you do not feel them on you. The slightest pressure of the elastic waistband is no longer there against your waist. You touch your hands to your hips.  Whatever has happened to you is more than a change to sudden darkness or to sudden blindness.  They touch a plain smooth surface, a wall. You spread them apart and each hand reaches a corner.  You are in a closet about four feet square. Your hand finds the knob of the door. It turns and you push the door open. There is light now. The door has opened to a lighted room, a room that you have never seen before. It is not large but it is pleasantly furnished, although the furniture is of a style that is strange to you. Modesty makes you open the door cautiously the rest of the way but the room is empty of people. You step into the room, turning to look behind you into the closet which is now illuminated by light from the room. The closet is and is not a closet. It is the size and shape of one but it contains nothing, not a single hook, no rod for hanging clothes, no shelf. It is an empty blank walled four by four foot space. You close the door to it and stand looking around the room. It is about twelve by sixteen feet. There is one door but it is closed. There are no windows, five pieces of furniture. Four of them you recognize more or less. One looks like a very functional desk. One is obviously a chair, a comfortable looking one. There is a table although its top is on several levels instead of only one. Another is a bed or couch. Something shimmering is lying across it and you walk over and pick the shimmering something up and examine it. It is a garment. You are naked so you put it on. Slippers are part way under the bed or couch and you slide your feet into them.  You are dressed now. You look at the door. The only door in the room except that of the closet. Closet? From which you entered it. You walk to the door and before you try the knob you see the small typewritten sign pasted just above it that reads, This door has a time lock set to open in one hour. For reasons you will soon understand it is better that you do not leave this room before then. There is a letter for you on the desk. Please read it. It is not signed. You look at the desk and see that there is an envelope lying on it. You do not yet go to take that envelope from the desk and read the letter that must be in it. Why not? Because you are frightened. You see other things about the room. The lighting has no source that you can discover. It comes from nowhere. It is not indirect lighting. The ceiling and the walls are not reflecting it at all. They didn't have lighting like that back where you came from. What did you mean by back where you came from?  You tell yourself, I am Norman Hastings. I am an associate professor of mathematics at the University of Southern California. I am twenty-five years old and this is the year nineteen hundred and fifty-four. You open your eyes and look again. They didn't use that style of furniture in Los Angeles or anywhere else that you know of in nineteen fifty-four. That thing over in the corner. You can't even guess what it is. So might your grandfather at your age having looked at a television set. You look down at yourself at the shimmering garment that you found waiting for you. With thumb and forefinger you feel its texture.  I am Norman Hastings. This is nineteen hundred and fifty-four. Suddenly you must know, and at once.  Your name is typed on the outside, Norman Hastings. Your hands shake a little as you open it. Do you blame them? There are several pages type written. Dear Norman, it starts. You turn quickly to the end to look for the signature. It is unsigned. You turn back and start reading. Do not be afraid. There is nothing to fear but much to explain. Much that you must understand before the time lock opens that door. Much you must accept and obey. You have already guessed that you are in the future. In what to use seems to be the future. The clothes and room must have told you that. I planned it that way so the shock would not be too sudden. So you would realize it over the course of several minutes rather than read it here and quite probably disbelieve what you read. The closet from which you have just stepped is as you have by now realized a time machine. From it you stepped into the world of two thousand and four. The date is April seventh. Just fifty years from the time you last remember. You cannot return.  I do not know. That is up to you to decide. But it does not matter. What does matter and not to you alone is another decision which you must make. I am incapable of making it. Who is writing this to you? I would rather not tell you just yet. By the time you have finished reading this, even though it is not signed, for I knew you would look first for a signature, I will not need to tell you who I am. You will know. I am seventy-five years of age. I have in this year, two thousand and four, been studying time for thirty of those years. I have completed the first time machine ever built and thus far its construction, even the fact that it has been constructed, is my own secret. You have just participated in the first major experiment. It will be your responsibility to decide whether there shall ever be any more experiments with it, whether it should be given to the world or whether it should be destroyed and never used again. End of First Page. You look up for a moment, hesitating to turn the next page. Already you suspect what is coming. You turn the page. I constructed the first time machine a week ago. My calculations had told me that it would work, but not how it would work. I had expected it to send an object back in time. It works backwards in time only, not forward. Physically unchanged and intact. My first experiment showed me my error. I placed a cube of metal in the machine. It was a miniature of the one you just walked out of and set the machine to go backward ten years. I flicked the switch and opened the door expecting to find the cube vanished. Instead, I found it had crumbled to powder. I put in another cube and sent it two years back. The second cube came back unchanged except that it was newer, shinier. That gave me the answer. I had been expecting the cubes to go back in time and they had done so, but not in the sense I had expected them to. Those metal cubes had been fabricated about three years previously. I had sent the first one back years before it had existed in its fabricated form. Ten years ago it had been or the machine returned it to that state. Do you see how our previous theories of time travel have been wrong? We expected to be able to step into a time machine in, say, 2004, set it for fifty years back and then step out in the year 1954. But it does not work that way. The machine does not move in time. Only whatever is within the machine is affected and then just with relation to itself and not to the rest of the universe. I confirmed this with guinea pigs by sending one six weeks old five weeks back and it came out a baby. I need not outline all of my experiments here. You will find a record of them in the desk and you can study it later. Do you understand now what has happened to you, Norman? You begin to understand and you begin to sweat. The I who wrote that letter you are now reading is you yourself at the age of seventy-five in this year of 2004. You are that seventy-five-year-old man with your body returned to what it had been fifty years ago with all the memories of fifty years of living wiped out.  You wrote yourself the letter which you are now reading. But if those fifty years are to you gone, what of all your friends, those you loved, what of your parents, what of the girl you are going, were going to marry? You read on. Yes, you will want to know what has happened. Mom died in nineteen sixty-three. Dad in nineteen sixty-eight. You married Barbara in nineteen fifty-six. I'm sorry to tell you that she died only three years later in a plane crash. You have one son. He is still living. His name is Walter. He is now forty-six years old and is an accountant in Kansas City. Tears come into your eyes and for a moment you can no longer read. Barbara dead. Dead for forty-five years and only minutes ago in subjective time you were sitting next to her, sitting in the bright sun in a Beverly Hills patio. You forced yourself to read again. But back to the discovery. You begin to see some of its implications. You will need time to think to see all of them. It does not permit time travel as we have thought of time travel, but it gives us immortality of a sort. Immortality of the kind I have temporarily given us. Is it good? Is it worthwhile to lose the memory of fifty years of one's life in order to return one's body to its relative youth? The only way I can find out is to try. As soon as I have finished writing this and made my other preparations, you will know the answer. But before you decide, remember that there is another problem, more important than the psychological one. I mean overpopulation. If our discovery is given to the world, if all who are old or dying can make themselves young again, the population will almost double every generation. Nor would the world, not even our own relatively enlightened country, be willing to accept compulsory birth control as a solution. Give this to the world as the world is today in 2004 and within a generation there will be famine, suffering, war, perhaps a complete collapse of civilization. Yes, we have reached other planets, but they are not suitable for colonizing. The stars may be our answer, but we are a long way from reaching them. When we do someday, the billions of habitable planets that must be out there will be our answer, our living room. But until then, what is the answer? Destroy the machine. But think of the countless lives it can save, the suffering it can prevent. Think of what it would mean to a man dying of cancer. Think. Think. You finished the letter and put it down.  Fifty years lost.  Bitterly you know what the decision must be. You think that he knew too and realize that he could safely leave it in your hands. Damn him. He should have known. Too valuable to destroy, too dangerous to give. The other answer is painfully obvious. You must be custodian of this discovery and keep it secret until it is safe to give, until mankind has expanded to the stars and has new worlds to populate, or until, even without that, he has reached a state of civilization where he can avoid overpopulation by rationing births through the number of accidental or voluntary deaths. If neither of those things has happened in another fifty years, and are they likely too soon, then you at seventy-five will be writing another letter like this one. You will be undergoing another experience similar to the one you're going through now, and making the same decision, of course. Why not? You'll be the same person again, time and again, to preserve this secret until man is ready for it. How often will you again sit at a desk like this one thinking the thoughts you are thinking now, feeling the grief you now feel? There is a click at the door and you know that the time lock has opened, that you are now free to leave this room, free to start a new life for yourself in place of the one you have already lived and lost. But you are in no hurry now to walk directly through that door. You sit there, staring straight ahead of you blindly, seeing in your mind's eye the vista of a set of facing mirrors like those in an old fashioned barbershop, reflecting the same thing over and over again, diminishing into far distance. End of All of Mirrors by Frederick Brown. The Huffer by Walter M. Miller Jr. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Greg Marguerite. The Huffer by Walter M. Miller Jr. A space rover has no business with a family. But what can a man in the full vigor of youth do if his heart cries out for a home? They all knew he was a spacer because of the white goggle marks on his sunscorched face, and so they tolerated him and helped him. They even made allowances for him when he staggered and fell in the aisle of the bus while pursuing the harassed little housewife from seat to seat and cajoling her to sit and talk with him. Having fallen, he decided to sleep in the aisle. Two men helped him to the back of the bus, dumped him on the rear seat, and tucked his gin bottle safely out of sight. After all, he had not seen earth for nine months, and judging by the crusted matter above his eyelids, he couldn't have seen it too well now, even if he had been sober. Glare blindness, gravity legs, and agoraphobia were excuses for a lot of things when a man was just back from big bottomless. And who could blame a man for acting strangely? Minutes later, he was back up the aisle and swaying giddily over the little housewife. How, he said, me chief broken wing, you wanna Indian wrestle? The girl who sat nervously staring at him smiled wainly and shook her head. Quiet little pigeon, aren't ya? He burbled affectionately, crashing into the seat beside her. The two men slid out of their seats and a hand clamped his shoulder. Come on, broken wing, let's go back to bed. My name's Hogi, he said. Big Hogi Parker. I was just kidding about being an Indian. Yeah.  They got him on his feet and led him stumbling back down the aisle. My ma was half Cherokee, see? That's how come I said it. You wanna hear a war-woop? Real stuff? Never mind.  The driver stopped the bus and went back to warn him against any further display. The driver flashed a deputies badge and threatened to turn him over to a constable. I gotta get home, Big Hogi told him. I got me a son now.  Haven't seen him yet.  Big Hogi nodded emphatically. Shari officer, I didn't mean to make any trouble. When the bus started again, he fell on his side and lay still. He made retching sounds for a time, then rested, snoring softly. The bus driver woke him again at Cain's Junction, retrieved his gin bottle from behind the seat, and helped him down the aisle and out of the bus. Big Hogi stumbled about for a moment, then sat down hard in the gravel at the shoulder of the road. The driver paused with one foot on the step, looking around. There was not even a store at the road junction, but only a freight building next to the railroad track, a couple of farmhouses at the edge of a side road, and just across the way a deserted filling station with a sagging roof. The land was great plains country, treeless, barren, and rolling. Big Hogi got up and staggered around in front of the bus, clutching at it for support, losing his duffel bag. Hey, watch the traffic, the driver warned. With a surge of unwelcome compassion, he trotted around after his troublesome passenger, taking his arm as he sagged again. You crossing? Yeah, Hogi muttered. Let me alone. I'm okay. The driver started across the highway with him. The traffic was sparse, but fast and dangerous in the central ninety-mile lane. I'm okay. Hogi kept protesting. I'm a tumbler, you know? Gravity's got me. Damn gravity. I'm not used to gravity, you know? I used to be a tumbler. Only, now I got to be a hoofer. Count a little Hogi. You know, about little Hogi? Yeah, your son. Come on. Say, you got a son? I bet you got a son. Two kids, said the driver, catching Hogi's bag as it slipped from his shoulder. Both girls.  Man ought to stick with his family. You ought to get another job. Hogi eyed him allishly, waggled a moralistic finger, skidded on the gravel as they stepped onto the opposite shoulder and sprawled again. The driver blew a weary breath, looked down at him and shook his head. Maybe it'd be kinder to find a constable after all. This guy could get himself killed wandering around loose. Somebody's supposed to meet you, he asked, squinting around at the dusty hills. Who? Me? Hogi giggled, belched, and shook his head. Nope. Nobody knows I'm coming. Surprise! I'm supposed to be here a week ago. He looked up at the driver with a pained expression. Week late, you know? Marie's gonna be sore. Woo-hoo! Is she gonna be sore? He waggled his head severely at the ground. Which way are you going, the driver grunted impatiently. Hogi pointed down the side road that led back into the hills. Marie's pops place. You know where? About three miles from here. Gotta walk, I guess.  Hogi nodded forlornly. Now stay out of the road, the driver warned, then hurried back across the highway. Moments later, the atomic battery-driven motors droned mournfully, and the bus pulled away. Big Hogi blinked after it, rubbing the back of his neck. Nice people, he said. Nice bunch of people. All hooffers. With a grunt and a lurch, he got to his feet, but his legs wouldn't work right. With his tumblers' reflexes, he fought to right himself with frantic arm motions, but gravity claimed him, and he went stumbling into the ditch.  The bottom of the ditch was wet, and he crawled up the impanement with mud-soaked knees and sat on the shoulder again. The gin-bottle was still intact. He had himself a long, fiery drink, and it warmed him deep down. He blinked around at the gaunt and treeless land. The sun was almost down, forge red on a dusty horizon. The bloodstreet sky faded into sulfurous yellow toward the zenith and the very air that hung over the land seemed full of yellow smoke, the omnipresent dust of the plains. A farm-truck turned onto the side road and moaned away, its driver hardly glancing at the dark young man who sat swaying on his duffel-bag near the culvert. Hogi scarcely noticed the vehicle. He just kept staring at the crazy sun. He shook his head. It wasn't really the sun. The sun, the real sun, was a hateful, eye-sizzling horror in the dead-black pit. It painted everything with pure white pain and you saw things by the reflected pain-light.  He hated it for what he knew it was behind the gory mask and for what it had done to his eyes. With a grunty got to his feet, managed to shoulder the duffel-bag and started off down the middle of the farm road, lurching from side to side and keeping his eyes on the rolling distances. Another car turned onto the side road honking angrily. Hogi tried to turn around to look at it but he forgot to shift his footing. He staggered and went down on the pavement. The car's tires screeched on the hot asphalt. Hogi lay there for a moment groaning. That one had hurt his hip.   He drawled. You soused? Man, you've really got a load. Hogi got up doggedly, shaking his head to clear it. Space legs, he prevaricated. Got space legs, can't stand the gravity. The burly farmer retrieved his gin bottle for him, still miraculously unbroken. Here's your gravity, he grunted. Listen, fella, you better get home pronto. Pronto? Hey, I'm no mex. Honest. I'm just space-burned, you know? Yeah. Say, who are you anyway? Do you live around here? It was obvious that the big man had taken him for a hobo or a tramp. Hogi pulled himself together. Go into the Hoppedman place. Marie, you know Marie? The farmer's eyebrows went up. Marie Hoppedman? Sure, I know her. Only she's Marie Parker now has been nigh on six years. Say. He paused, then gaped. You ain't her husband by any chance. Hogi, that's me, big Hogi Parker. Well, I'll be. Get in the car. I'm going right past John Hoppedman's place. Boy, you're in no shape to walk it.  A woman with sun-wrinkled necks sat rigidly beside the farmer in the front, and she neither greeted the passenger nor looked around. They don't make cars like this anymore, the farmer called over the growl of the ancient gasoline engine and the grind of gears. You can have them new atomics with their loads of hot isotopes under the seat. Ain't safe, I say. Eh, Martha? The woman with the sun-baked neck quivered her head slightly. A car like this was good enough for Pa, and I reckon it's good enough for us. She drawled mournfully. Five minutes later the car drew into the side of the road. Wrecking you can walk it from here, the farmer said, that's Hoppedman's road just up ahead. He helped Hogi out of the car and drove away without looking back to see if Hogi stayed on his feet. The woman with the sun-baked neck was suddenly talking garulously in his direction. It was twilight, the sun had set, and the yellow sky was turning gray. Hogi was too tired to go on, and his legs would no longer hold him. He blinked around at the land, got his eyes focused, and found what looked like Hoppedman's place on a distant hillside. It was a big frame house, surrounded by a wheat field and a few scrawny trees. Having located it, he stretched out in the tall grass beyond the ditch to take a little rest. Somewhere dogs were barking, and a cricket sang creaking monotony in the grass. Once there was the distant thunder of a rocket blast from the launching station six miles to the west, but it faded quickly. An A-motored convertible whined past on the road, but Hogi went unseen. When he awoke it was night and he was shivering, his stomach was screeching and his nerves dancing with high voltages. He sat up and groped for his watch, then remembered he had pawned it after the poker game. Remembering the game and the results of the game made him wince and bite his lip and groped for the bottle again. He sat breathing heavily for a moment after the stiff drink, equating time to position had become of second nature with him, but he had to think for a moment because his defective vision prevented him from seeing the earth crescent. Vega was almost straight above him in the late August sky, so he knew it wasn't much after sundown, probably about eight o'clock. He braced himself with another swallow of gin, picked himself up, and got back to the road, feeling a little sobered after the nap. He limped up on the pavement and turned left at the narrow drive that led between barbed wire fences toward the Hauptmann Farmhouse, five hundred yards or so from the farm road. The fields on his left belonged to Marie's father he knew. He was getting close, close to home, and woman, and child. He dropped the bag suddenly and leaned against a fence post, rolling his head on his forearms and choking in spasms of air. He was shaking all over and his belly writhed. He wanted to turn and run. He wanted to crawl out in the grass and hide. What were they going to say? And Marie, Marie most of all, how was he going to tell her about the money? Six hitches in space, and every time the promise had been the same. One more tour, baby, and we'll have enough dough and then I'll quit for good. One more time and we'll have our stake enough to open a little business or buy a house with a mortgage and get a job. And she had waited, but the money had never been quite enough until this time. This time the tour had lasted nine months and he had signed on for every run from station to moon base to pick up the bonuses. And this time he'd made it. Two weeks ago there had been forty-eight hundred in the bank. And now. Why? He groaned, striking his far head against his forearms. His arms slipped and his head hit the top of the fence post and the pain blinded him for a moment. He staggered back into the road with a low roar, wiped blood from his far head, and savagely kicked his bag. It rolled a couple of yards up the road. He leaped after it and kicked it again. When he had finished with it he stood panting and angry, but feeling better. He shouldered the bag and hiked on toward the farmhouse. There, hooffers. That's all. Just an earth-chained bunch of hooffers, even Marie. And I'm a tumbler. A born tumbler. Know what that means? It means God. What does it mean?  That's all you are. Just mold. A dog barked and he wondered if he had been muttering aloud. He came to a fence gap and paused in the darkness. The road wound around and came up the hill in front of the house. Maybe they were sitting on the porch. Maybe they'd already heard him coming. Maybe. He was trembling again. He fished the fifth of gin out of his coat pocket and sloshed it. Still over half a pint. He decided to kill it. It wouldn't do to go home with a bottle sticking out of his pocket. He stood there in the night wind sipping at it and watching the reddish moon come up in the east. The moon looked as phony as the setting sun. He straightened in sudden determination. It had to be some time.  Get it over with now. He opened the fence gap, slipped through and closed it firmly behind him. He retrieved his bag and waited quietly through the tall grass until he reached the hedge which divided an area of sickly peach trees from the field. He got over the hedge somehow and started through the trees toward the house. He stumbled over some old boards and they clattered. Sh! He hissed and moved on. The dogs were barking angrily and he heard a screen door slam. He stopped. Ho there! A male voice called experimentally from the house. One of Marie's brothers. Hoge stood frozen in the shadow of a peach tree waiting. Anybody out there? The man called again. Hoge waited, then heard the man muttering. Sick'em, boy, sick'em! The hounds bark became eager. The animal came chasing down the slope and stopped ten feet away to crouch and bark frantically at the shadow in the gloom. He knew the dog. Hoge! He whispered. Hoge, boy, hear! The dog stopped barking, sniffed, trotted closer and went BOOF! Then he started sniffing suspiciously again. Easy, Hoge, hear, boy! He whispered. The dog came forward slimely, sniffed his hand and whined in recognition. Then he trotted around Hoge, panting doggy affection and dancing an invitation to romp. The man whistled from the porch. The dog froze. Then trotted quickly back up the slope. Nothing, eh, Hoge? The man on the porch said. Chasing armadillos again, eh? The screen door slammed again and the porch light went out. Hoge stood there, staring, unable to think. Somewhere beyond the window lights were his woman, his son.  After perhaps a minute he stepped forward again. He tripped over a shovel and his foot plunged into something that went squelch and swallowed the foot past the ankle. He fell forward into a heap of sand and his foot went deeper into the sloppy wetness. He lay there with his stinging forehead on his arms, cursing softly and crying. Finally he rolled over, pulled his foot out of the mess and took off his shoes.  The dark world was reeling about him and the wind was dragging at his breath. He fell back against the sandpile and let his feet sink in the mud-hole and wriggled his toes. He was laughing soundlessly and his face was wet in the wind. He couldn't think, he couldn't remember where he was and why, and he stopped caring, and after a while he felt better. The stars were swimming over him, dancing crazily and the mud cooled his feet and the sand was soft behind him. He saw a rocket go up on a tail of flame from the station and waited for the sound of its blast, but he was already asleep when it came. It was far past midnight when he became conscious of the dog licking wetly at his ear and cheek. He pushed the animal away with a low curse and mopped at the side of his face. He stirred and groaned. His feet were burning up. He tried to pull them toward him but they wouldn't budge. There was something wrong with his legs. For an instant he stared wildly around in the night. Then he remembered where he was, closed his eyes, and shuddered. When he opened them again the moon had emerged from behind a cloud and he could see clearly the cruel trap into which he had accidentally stumbled. A pile of old boards, a careful stack of new lumber, a pick and shovel, a sandpile, heaps of fresh turned earth, and a concrete mixer. Well, it added up. He gripped his ankles and pulled but his feet wouldn't budge. In sudden terror he tried to stand up but his ankles were clutched by the concrete too and he fell back in the sand with a low moan. He lay still for several minutes considering carefully. He pulled at his left foot. It was locked in a vice. He tugged even more desperately at his right foot. It was equally immovable. He sat up with a whimper and clawed at the rough concrete until his nails tore and his fingertips bled. The surface still felt damp but it had hardened while he slept. He sat there stunned until Hookie began licking at his scuffed fingers. He shouldered the dog away and dug his hands into the sandpile to stop the bleeding. Hookie licked at his face, panting love. Get away! he croaked savagely. The dog whined softly, trotted a short distance away, circled, and came back to a crouch down in the sand directly before Hogi, inching forward experimentally. Hogi gripped fistfuls of the dry sand and cursed between his teeth while his eyes wandered over the sky. They came to rest on the sliver of light, the space station rising in the west, floating out in big bottomless where the gang was, Nichols and Guerrera and Leverenti and Fats, and he wasn't forgetting Keesey, the rookie who'd replaced him. Keesey would have a rough time for a while, rough as a cob. The pit was no playground. The first time you went out of the station in a suit, the pit got you. Everything was falling and you fell with it. Everything, the skeletons of steel, the tire-shaped station, the spheres and docks and nightmare shapes, all tied together by umbilical cables and flexible tubes. Like some crazy sea thing they seemed floating in a black ocean with its tentacles bound together by drifting strands in the dark tide that bore it. Everything was pain bright or dead black and it wheeled around you and you went nuts trying to figure which way was down. In fact, it took you months to teach your body that all ways were down and that the pit was bottomless. He became conscious of a plaintive sound in the wind and froze to listen. It was a baby crying. It was nearly a minute before he got the significance of it. It hit him where he lived and he began jerking frantically at his encased feet and sobbing low in his throat. They'd hear him if he kept that up. He stopped and covered his ears to close out the cry of his first born. The light went on in the house and when it went off again the infant's cry had ceased. Another rocket went up from the station and he cursed it. Space was a disease and he had it. Help! he cried out suddenly. I'm stuck. Help me! Help me! He knew he was yelling hysterically at the sky and fighting the relentless concrete that clutched his feet and after a moment he stopped. The light was on in the house again and he heard faint sounds. The stirring about woke the baby again and once more the infant's wail came on the breeze.   But that was no good. It wasn't the kid's fault. It wasn't Marie's fault. No fathers allowed in space, they said, but it wasn't their fault either. They were right and he had only himself to blame. The kid was an accident, but that didn't change anything. Not a thing in the world. It remained a tragedy. A tumbler had no business with a family. But what was a man going to do? Take a skinning knife, boy, and make yourself a eunuch. But that was no good either. They needed bulls out there in the pit, not steers. And when a man came down from a year's hitch, what was he going to do? Live in a lonely shack and read books for kicks?  And because she was a woman, she got a kid. And that was the end of it. It was nobody's fault. Nobody's at all. He stared at the red eye of Marslow in the southwest. They were running out there now. And next year he would have been on the long, long run. But there was no use thinking about it. Next year and the years after belonged to Little Hoagie. He sat there with his feet locked in the solid concrete of the footing, staring out into big bottomless while his son's cry came from the house and the hoppedman menfolk came wading through the tall grass in search of someone who had cried out. His feet were stuck tight and he wouldn't ever get them out. He was sobbing softly when they found him. End of The Huffer by Walter M. Miller Jr. Martians Never Die. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Barry Eads. Martians Never Die by Lucius Daniel. It was a wonderful bodyguard. No bark, no bite, no sting. Just conversion of the enemy. At three fifteen a young man walked into the circular brick building and took a flattened pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. Mr. Stern, he asked, throwing away the empty package. Stern looked with hard eyes at the youthful reporter. He recognized the type. So they're sending around cubs now, he said. I'm no cub. I've been on the paper a whole year the reporter protested and then stopped, realizing his annoyance had betrayed him. Only a year, the first time they sent their best man. This ain't the first time, said the young man, assuming a bored look. It's the fourth time, and next year I don't think anybody will come at all. Why should they? Why? Because they might be able to make it, Burl spoke up. Something must have happened before. Stern watched the reporter drink in Burl's loveliness. Well, Mrs. Curtis, the young man said, everyone has it figured out that Dr. Curtis got stuck in the fourth dimension, or else lost, or died maybe. Even Einstein can't work out the stellar currents your husband was depending on. It's very simple, replied Burl, but I can't explain it intelligibly. I wish you could have talked to Dr. Curtis. Why is it that we have to come out here just once a year to wait for him? Is that how the fourth dimension works? It's the only time when the stellar currents permit the trip back to Earth, and it's not the fourth dimension. Fide was always irritated when anyone would talk about his traveling to Mars in the fourth dimension. It's interdimensional, Stern put in. And you're his broker, asked the reporter, throwing his cigarette down on the brick floor and stepping on it. You're his old friend from college days, handled his financial affairs, and helped him raise enough money to build his machine? Yes, Stern replied a little pompously. It was through my efforts that several wealthy men took an interest in the machine, so that Dr. Curtis did not have to bear the entire expense himself. Yeah, yeah, the reporter sighed. I read an old story on it before I came here. Now I'm out of cigarettes. He looked hopefully at Stern. Stern returned the look coldly. There's a store where you can buy some about three blocks down the road. Is that the room where he's expected to materialize with his machine, the reporter pointed to an inner door? Yes, Dr. Curtis wanted to be sure no one would be injured. This inner circular room was built first. Then he had the outer wall put up as an added precaution. The circular passageway we're in leads all around the old room, but this doorway is the only entrance. And what are those holes in the top of the door for? If he returns, we can tell by the displaced air rushing out, then the door will open automatically. And when is the return scheduled for? Asked the reporter. 347 and 29 seconds. If it happens, the reporter added skeptically. And if it doesn't, we have to wait another year. Optimum conditions occur just once a year. Well, I'm going out to get some cigarettes. I've got time and probably nothing to wait for. I'll return though. He walked bristly through the outer door. This is the hardest part of the year, especially now. Suppose he did come back, Burl said plaintively. You don't have to worry Stern assured her. Clyde himself said that if he didn't come back the second year, he might not make it at all. Stern opened his gold case now and offered Burl a cigarette. She shook her head. But he made two trial runs in at first and came back. That was for a short distance only. That is, a short distance astronomically. Figuring for Mars was another story. Maybe he missed the planet and, oh, don't. It's just not knowing that I can't stand. Well, he said dryly. We'll know in. He stopped and looked at his wristwatch. And just about 15 minutes. I can't wait, Simone. He put his arm around her. Relax. Take it easy and stop worrying. It'll just be like last time. Not the last time at all. We hadn't. As soon as we are able to leave here, he said, drawing her close and squeezing her gently. I'll take steps to have him declared legally dead. Then we'll get married. That's not much of a proposal, she smiled. But I guess I'll have to accept you. You have Clyde's power of attorney. And we'll be rich, richer than ever. I'll be able to use some of my own ideas about the investments. As a matter of fact, I have already. And he frowned slightly. We have enough, Burl said quickly. Don't try to speculate. You know how Clyde felt about that.  Steps sounded outside and they drew apart. The reporter came in with a companion of about his own age.  It's almost time for something to happen.  At first the sound was so soft that it could hardly be heard. But soon a whistling grew until it became a threat to the eardrums. The reporters looked at each other with glad excited eyes. The whistling stopped abruptly and slowly the door opened. The reporters rushed in immediately. Burl gripped Stern's hand convulsively. He's come back. Yes, but that mustn't change our plans, Burl dear. But Al, oh, why were we so foolish? Not foolish, dear, not at all foolish. Now we have to go in. Inside the room was the large sphere of metaloy. It had lost its original gleam and was stained and battered, standing silent, closed, enigmatic. Where is the door called the first reporter? The sphere rested on a number of metal stilts, reaching out from the lower hemisphere, which held it about three feet from the floor like a great pincushion turned upside down. Slowly a round section of the sphere's wall swung outward and steps descended. As they touched the floor, both reporters, caught by the same idea, sprinted for it and fought to see which would climb it first. Wait, shouted Stern. The reporters stopped their scuffling and followed Stern's gaze. Something old and leathery and horrible was emerging from the circular doorway. Several tentacles, like so many snakes, slid around the handrail which ran down the steps. Then at the top it paused. Stern felt an immediate and unreasoning hate for the thing, whatever it was, a hate so strong that he forgot to feel fear. It seemed to him to combine the repulsive qualities of a spider and a toad. The body, fat and repugnant, was covered by a loose skin, dull and leathery, and the fatness seemed to be pulled downward below the lower tentacles, like an insect's body, until it was wider at the bottom than at the top. Like a salt shaker, Stern thought. It turned its head. It had no neck. The loose skin of the body just turned with it. And looked back inside the sphere. The head resembled a toad's, but a long trident tongue slid in and out quickly, changingly resemblance to that of a malformed snake. From the interior Dr. Curtis appeared beside the creature and stood there vaguely for a moment. Stern noticed that his clothes seemed just as new as when he had left, but he had grown a long, untrimmed beard and his face had a vacant expression, as if he were hypnotized. The creature looked upward at Curtis, who was head and shoulders taller and its resemblance changed again in Stern's mind, so that now it looked like a dog, at least in attitude. From its mouth came a low hissing noise.  The creature wiggled like a seal with a fish in sight, then slid and bumped down the steps, with Curtis following him. Clyde cried burl and rushed toward Curtis. The outstretched tentacles of the beast stopped her, but at a touch from Curtis they fell away and burl was in his arms. Stern watched the scene sourly and with rage in his heart. Why hadn't Clyde waited another year? Then nothing could have changed things. Now he would lose not only burl, but the management of the money that was left and the marketing of new patents on the machine. Curtis did not approve of speculation, especially when it lost money. You've changed, Clyde, burl was saying as she hugged him. What is the matter? Do you need a doctor? No, I don't want a doctor. But I have to get home, said Curtis.  Curtis was sick. The least he could have done was die. Well, maybe he still would. And if he didn't, he could be helped too. Stern saw the beast looking at him intently, malvolently. Its face might have looked almost human, not that it was so close, if it had possessed eyebrows and hair. As it was, its nose rose abruptly and flared into two really enormous nostrils, but its mouth looked small and wrinkled, like that of an old grandmother without any teeth. They turned to the doorway without noticing the absence of the reporters, who had long since run off to telephone and get photographers. Curtis walked slowly. He would stop for a moment, look about as if expecting something entirely different, and then he would move forward again. They all got into the car, Curtis and Burl on the front seat with Burl driving, and Stern and the creature in the rear. As Burl drove, Stern looked savagely at the back of Curtis's head, but he felt the beast staring at him balefully. Could it be a mind reader? That was ridiculous. How could anything that could speak read a person's mind? He turned to study it. The Martian, if that was what it was, had only six tentacles, three on each side. The lower ones were heavy and almost as thick as legs. The upper ones were small and were obviously used as hands, while it was possible that the middle ones could be used either way. A series of suction cups or sucking pads were at the end of each tentacle. With equipment like this, it could walk right up the side of a building, except perhaps for the higher gravity of earth. Stern could smell it now, a dry desert smell, and that made it more revolting than ever. They were born to hate each other. When they got home, Burl was all salaciousness. The way a woman is when she has a man to impress, Stern thought. Just sit right here in your old chair, she told Curtis, and I'll call a doctor. Then I'll put some water on to heat. But first she knelt by his side and laid her head on his breast. Oh, darling, she said with a sob, why did you wait so long? I've missed you so. A very good ax, Stern told himself bitterly, without believing it at all. She got up and turned towards Stern. Will you help me get some water on Al? She asked. I'm going to phone. He went into the kitchen. He knew where the kettle was, the refrigerator, the mixings. He could hear her dialing, and then, before he got the kettle on the burner, she came inside and closed the kitchen door. Clyde's sick, and I have to take care of him, she said anxiously. It wasn't entirely the money he confessed to himself now. He hated the situation, but he had to give in, on the surface anyway. Okay, let's forget the whole thing, he said. Oh, Al, dear, I knew you'd understand. I've got to go back now and try the phone again. I got a busy signal. Stern followed her, still rankling at the way Curtis had forced Burl to live, while he spent so generously on his own expensive interest. Shortly after their marriage, he had built a home for Burl and himself in an exclusive suburb, on a hilly bit of land with a deep ravine at the back. But it was small, and Burl had not even been allowed maids except when they entertained, which was seldom. Soon he would change all that, Stern told himself. They had not dared to while Clyde was away. In the modern living room, Curtis sprawled in his easy chair as though he hadn't moved since they had placed him there. But his air of abstraction seemed to have increased.  Its head wasn't cocked to one side, but that, less than its alien appearance, was the one thing to spoil the illusion. Tires screeched in the driveway while Burl was still at the telephone. Stern went to the front door, closed it, and put the chain bolt in place. The back door would still be locked, and they would hardly try to force the screen windows. Heavy steps pounded up the front walk. Did Dr. Curtis really get back? The first man shot out. The one who followed had a camera. Dr. Curtis has returned, Stern spoke, through the opening of the front door, which the chain permitted, but his physical condition won't permit questioning, at least until his doctor has seen him. Did he really bring back a Martian? We want to see the Martian anyway. We can't have Dr. Curtis disturbed in any way until after his physician has examined him, Stern said bluntly. Is he in there? We'll give you a report when we're ready.  When he came back, flashes from the window showed the cameraman was trying to take pictures through the glass. Stern drew the shades. Well, poor shot Al, so you had to come with me, Curtis was saying to the monster. The beast wiggled again as it had on the steps of the machine. A tailed wag wasn't really necessary, Stern decided, when there was so much body to wiggle. Shot Al, as Curtis addressed it, seemed to brighten in the darkened room. Poor dear shot Al, said Curtis gently. It was unmistakable now. The skin actually brightened and emitted a sort of eerie luminous glow. Curtis leaned over and put his hand on what would have been Shot Al's neck, the loose skin wreathed joyously, and snake-like, the whole body responded in rippling waves of emotion. Gull up, the monster said wasn't the right word, but it was not a bark, growl, mew, cheap, squawk, or snarl. Gulp was as close as Stern could come, a dry and almost painful gulping noise that expressed devotion in some totally foreign way that Stern found revolting. He realized that the phone had been ringing for some time. He disconnected it, and then heard loud knocking. It's Dr. Anderson, he heard a man's voice calling impatiently and angrily. Cautiously Stern opened the door, but his care was needless. With a few testy remarks, the doctor quickly cleared a space about the door and entered. He went at once to Curtis with only a single shocked glance at Shot Al.  Since playing with his pet, Curtis seemed more awake. I went to Mars, he said. They're incredibly advanced in ways we hardly guess. We're entirely off the track. I just came back to explain how. Your friend doesn't look very intelligent, to Dr. answered, busy with his stethoscope. Animals like Shot Al are used for steeds or pets, said Curtis. The Landoni are pretty much like mankind, only smaller. Why did you stay so long? After I left, the Landoni told me they were going to shut off any possible communication with Earth until we advance more. They think we're at a very dangerous animal-like stage of development. Once I came home, I knew I couldn't go back, so I wanted to learn as much as I could before I left them. Stand up for a minute, ordered the doctor. Not right now, said Curtis. I'm too tired. You better get to bed, then. I think not. It's merely caused by the difference in gravity and heavier air. The Landoni told me to expect it, but not to lie down. After a while, I'll try to take a short walk. So Clyde wasn't going to die after all, Stern thought. He had come home with a message, and remembering the determination of the man, Stern knew he wouldn't die until he had given it.  He would die. And who was competent enough to know that it wasn't from the shock of having come home to denser air and a heavier gravity? There were ways, an oxygen tube, for example. Pure oxygen to be inhaled in his sleep by lungs accustomed to a rarefied atmosphere, or stimulants in his food so that it would look like a little too much exertion on a heart already overtaxed. There were ways. Stern's scalp tingled unpleasantly, and he saw the Martian looking at him intently, coldly. In that moment Stern knew without question that his mind was being read. Not his idea, perhaps, but his intent toward Curtis. The Martian would have to be attended to first. Is it true, Dr. Anderson? Will he be all right? Burl was sitting on the arm of the chair next to Shotow, and she was looking at Clyde almost as adorably as the Martian. A few hours had undone all that Stern had managed to do in four years. If Stern had been uncertain, that alone would have decided him. I think so, said the doctor. He seems to be uncomfortable rather than in pain. I'll send you a prescription for his heart if he breathes too heavily. Be sure, though, not to give him more than one pill in three hours. Of course. Burl was never that salacious towards Stern. And you'll be in quarantine here until the government decides what, if any, diseases he and the Martian may have brought back with them. None at all, doctor. Curtis's voice was markedly more slurred, and he stared intently with unblinking eyes at the blank wall. Well, that's something we can't tell yet. We'll have to keep out the press and television men anyway because of your health. If I'm not detained, I'll be back tomorrow morning. Call me if there's any change. On his way out, the physician was besieged by reporters and photographers, bulked of better subjects. Shortly after the doctor's departure, police sirens came screaming up. The men waiting around the house removed outside the gate, and a guard was set at every entrance. Later, a messenger came, was interrogated by the police sergeant who took a small package from him and brought it to the house. Medicine, the sergeant said, handing it gingerly to Stern. You can't leave here without permission. And he walked hurly away. This might be the answer. Stern had a good idea of what the doctor had prescribed. Something he said for the heart. It must have been pretty powerful, too, for the doctor to warn against an overdose. Two at once might do it. Or another two a little later. But there was shot Al. Al said, Burl, stay with Clyde while I fix something for him to eat. She was more beautiful than ever. Emotions, he thought, Riley, become a woman. They thrive on them. In a few minutes a woman could change like this. It was enough to make a man lose faith in the sex. Certainly, he said easily. Curtis seemed to sleep with wide open eyes, gazing blankly at the far wall. Shot Al sat motionless before him, watchful as a dog, yet still like a snake or spider, patiently waiting. Didn't the beast ever sleep? A drink was what Stern needed. He went to the closet and poured a double brandy. He sipped it slowly. As delicious fire ran down his gullet and warmed his stomach, he felt his tension ease and a sense of confidence pervade his mind. He didn't worry. He was always successful, except that once with the stocks. And he had calm nerves. There were guards out in front now in khaki uniform. The governor must have called out a company of the National Guard. Stern noticed some state police too. The house was well guarded on the three sides surrounded by a neat white picket fence. In the back, the severe drop into the ravine made guards there unnecessary. It was dark before Dr. Curtis moved. Burl was watching him. She had little to say to Stern now. How about some broth deer, she asked Curtis immediately. Slowly, Clyde's eyes focused on her. He smiled. Let's try it. He let Burl feed him, sitting on a stool beside his chair and being unnecessarily motherly and coddling about it. For a while after he had eaten, Clyde sat in his chair, looking at Burl with his new and oddly gentle smile. It seemed to activate some hidden response in her, for she glowed with tenderness. I suppose, Curtis slurred, I ought to try to walk now. Let me help. Stern rose and crossed the room. The Martian rustled like snakes in the weeds and hissed. Burl said without suspicion, Thank you, Al. I knew you'd do whatever you could for Clyde, and she rested her hand trustingly on his arm. What was passed was passed, not to be wept over, not to be regretted. Like to walk out in the back for the air, Stern asked. The breeze is coming from that direction. That will do very well, said Curtis, obviously not carrying a bit. Stern helped Curtis from his chair and supported him under the arm. They went out the back door, the Martian slithering after them. It was cooler in the garden. Stern felt a renewed surge of self-confidence. The stars, Curtis stopped to look upward. The night was almost cloudless and there was no moon. The house hid any view of the crowds and the guards holding them back. They were alone in the dark. Curtis started forward again, with the Martian scraping along behind. It would never let Curtis out of its sight as long as it lived. That much was clear to Stern. He guided Curtis to a seat close to the ravine, a favorite spot. Always the Martian was a step, or a slither, behind, and when Curtis sat down, Shot Al sat between his beloved master and the precipitous drop. Stern picked up a rock from the rock garden and tossed it into the ravine. The Martian did not take his eyes off Curtis. Stern picked up a larger rock, a sharp pointed one. He was behind the Martian and Curtis was looking away unseemly into the night. It was simple, really, and well executed. The beast's skull bashed in easily, being merely thin bones for a thin atmosphere and light gravitation. A push sent it over the edge of the ravine. Curtis sat unnoticing, and the traffic jam out front created more than enough confusion to drown out any noise from the creature's fall. Stern's palms stung. He realized that before the Martian had pitched over the ravine, a suction pad had for a moment caught at his hand. It had done the beast no good, though. Curiously, the Martian had not guarded itself, only Curtis. Sitting with its back to Stern had really invited attack. The mind-reading ability was just something Stern had nervously imagined. The police would not be able to tell his rock from any other. The heavy body, its ungainly movement, and thin bones would explain everything. Besides, there was no motive for killing the Martian and what penalty could there be? It couldn't be called murder. Stern looked at the palm of his right hand, the one that had held the rock. It stung a little, but in the darkness he couldn't see it. A stinger of some kind, like a bee, probably.  Couldn't be fatal, or Curtis would have warned them about it. The Martian had been walking by the ravine and had clumsily fallen in. He would report it after he got Curtis back into the house. Curtis was easy to arouse and didn't seem to miss shot out. Stern maneuvered him to the living room, where he sank into a chair and fell into his mood of abstraction. Burl must be in the kitchen cleaning up, Stern supposed. Perhaps he had better put some kind of germicide on his palm, just to ward off infection. He looked at Curtis relaxed in the chair. Clyde suddenly appeared oddly boyish to him. Hardly different than he had been in college days. For a moment Stern felt again the adolescent admiration and fellowship he had felt so strongly then.  This man had the money and the woman that had almost belonged to him. Moving slowly Stern deliciously savored the aroma of his triumph. On the table was the bottle. Clyde would be easy, unsuspecting, kindly. It wouldn't be safe to marry Burl right away, but there could never be any suspicion. No need to hurry. For a moment he wanted to watch Curtis. He wondered what kind of pictures Clyde was seeing on the blank wall. Martian landscapes? The strange Landoni? Too bad he hadn't stayed on Mars. Stern couldn't help having a friendly feeling for his old college chum. Pity too, for what must happen to him soon.  He was growing old and soft. Nevertheless, Curtis did have a noble and striking face. Funny he had never noticed it before, it seemed to glow with an uncanny peace. Unnoticed, the numbness crept from Stern's palm along his right arm, and a prickly sensation appeared in his right leg. It was funny to read a person's thoughts like this. Love flowed from Curtis like the warm blow of a burning candle. A sort of halo had formed from the light above his head. Symbolic. From Curtis came wave after wave of love. He could feel it pulsating toward him, and he felt his own heart turn over, answer it. Yes, Curtis was noble. Stern sank cross-legged on the floor beside Curtis and gazed at him. The prickly sensation had ascended from his leg up through his chest and to his neck. But it didn't matter. Now, for a last time, he could feel the spell of that perfect friendship before the end. What end? Why should there be any end to this eternal moment? Curtis noticed him now. Those half-closed eyes were strangely penetrating. They looked him through. Well, Al, he said.  Stern looked at the kindly godlike face and loved it. Killed whom? Poor Al, Curtis said. He leaned over and laid his hand on the back of Stern's neck, fondling it much as one would a dog. Poor old Al. Stern's heart leafed in joy. This was ecstasy. It must be expressed. It demanded expression. If he had possessed a tail, he would have wagged it. Perhaps there was a word for that bliss. There was, and with immense satisfaction he spoke it. Gull up, he said. End of Martians Never Die by Lucius Daniel