The Green Rain

THE FIRST CASE It began to rain halfway through the parade. Two hours later, soaked to the skin but still smiling photogenically, Madge McMamie, the Sugar Cane Queen, retired to her suite to dress for the Grand Ball. Her sitting room was jammed with men. The bedroom door flung open and Madge emerged, without a stitch on, screaming at the top of her lungs. This didn't shock the men at all for there was something else that froze them, eyes agape and open-mouthed, where they stood. Madge was a bright, sparkling emerald green from the top of her shapely head to the soles of her even shapelier feet. Her words were right on target: "I'm going to sue for a million bucks…" Then, of course, she fainted.

THE GREEN RAIN BY PAUL TABORI

Copyright, © 1961 by Pyramid Book # G624

1 SOMETHING WENT WRONG. Something always does, as Professor Pelargus used to say, smacking his lips. It was his pet opinion that humanity consisted entirely of bunglers — two and a half billion men, women, and children going industriously about their idiot affairs, creating — all unaware — monstrous linked chains of circumstance and consequence, and settling — still unaware — their own and everybody else's hash. And a pretty plate of kottmos it was, as the Professor, who was loosely attached to the University of Upsala, saw it. He detested his fellow-beings, his colleagues, — even those closest to him, the members of the F. F. Club, whose motto, "Face Facts," was the only thing on the entire globe that struck him as close to rational. His closest friend, Professor Simka, the neurologist, he also detested — Pelargus, as a dermatologist, was inordinately sensitive to Simka's taunts about his science being only "skin-deep." He had rather liked his son, once, but the dreadful young man became a Vice-President in Charge of Research for an American firm and earned $100,000 a year — which put him definitely beyond the pale. Pelargus took a grim pleasure in the idiocy of his fellow-tenants on our rolling globe, or hash-platter. "For," as he said, "if they had any idea whatever of what may come of taking a particular train, or a woman's hitching up her girdle at a particular time, or of begetting a particular child — then none of them would ever do anything. And that, of course, would have the most striking consequences of all. This is a joke that makes me laugh very hard." And he would then croak and wheeze in a very distressing manner, which sorted oddly with his generally' stork-like appearance — for Professor Pelargus, long-legged, balding, red-eyed and beaky, resembled curiously the bird to whom the Greeks had, with unconscious prescient malice, applied his name in antiquity. "But it is no joke," he would go on — the Members of the F. F. Club could predict the Professor's routine quite accurately — "that some day all these chains will clash very noisily indeed. Something Will Go Wrong." He was right, as professors will be. Something went wrong.

2

THE JOURNALIST SAT WITH HIS notebook open on his left knee; but for the last forty minutes he hadn't made a single note. In his high-pitched voice, with a thick Polish accent, Dr. Zbigniew Lukachevski was talking about his neighbors. "There's that man next door," he said. "A drunkard. A sot. He qualified for euthanasia, I should think, a good fifteen years ago. He starts drinking at nine o'clock in the morning, goes on all day and half the night. In summer and spring he drinks gin, vodka, aquavit, white wine, ouzo, calvados… I can't remember it all. In winter he gets stinking on vermouth, brandy, cinzano, a variety of red Burgundies and Bordeaux, not to mention mulled wine and whisky. Every night he rolls drunkenly down the lane at the bottom of my garden; he is sick on my doorstep and tramples over my flowerbeds. He had the D.T.'s four times and once he almost drowned in a ditch. I wish he had…" "Dr. Lukachevski…" the journalist tried to interrupt for the sixth time, "I understand that the basic principle of the C-rocket…" "But the fellow on the other side of the road," the high voice shrilled on like a persistent telephone bell, "he's even worse. He's a sex maniac, a satyr, a priapic obsessive. He goes about with his fly half-open and not a woman between twelve and sixty is safe from him. He's been horse-whipped half a dozen times, he's said to have fathered over a hundred bastards and — heaven knows why for he isn't much to look at — women are fighting for him like bitches over a bone. The man's a menace, a walking penis, a whole fertility rite in himself. A couple of years ago he painted the front of his house with twice life-size murals — more fit for clandestine viewing than for a public exhibition — and it took three court orders to get it whitewashed…" "Must have been most distressing for you," said the reporter who had considerable experience with elusive subjects. But this was entirely new to even his vast, broadminded background; an eminent scientist, a giant whose ideas were about to transform the life of humanity, pushing the frontiers of mankind far beyond the globe, talking about — what? A drunkard and an obvious case of satyriasis. He gazed at Dr. Lukachevski who was dressed in a pair of riding breeches whose inside legs were shiny like well-polished wood, a green waistcoat and a grey tweed jacket, looking like a seedy country squire of a century ago. He noticed that two of his upper front teeth were missing and that his nicotine-stained moustache had been trained to hang wiltingly in order to hide the gap. The moustache was like a toothbrush that had begun to sprout, with its grey single hairs thick and stiff. Furthermore his spectacles were attached to a long black ribbon which, when he clamped them over the bridge of his bulbous nose

gave the impression of the black border of an obituary notice, half-framed. "You'd think two of such horrors quite sufficient… But there's the third — at the bottom of the hill. His misfortune is that he once spent a day in Monte Carlo and won a few thousand at the tables. But he happened to be on a tour and they were sailing the next morning for Alexandria. My neighbor, who hadn't a syllable of French, didn't dare to stay behind and, his heart aching, followed meekly in the wake of the others. Twenty years later he's still blaming that tour because it wrecked his luck. In his imagination he's richer than all the millionaires in Greece and America — he only has to stretch out his hand. He's been bargaining for a big estate, picked himself a house in Rio, a beach in the Bahamas. When he's made a prisoner by the mud and rain of the autumn, he spits through the window, certain that he won't be stuck here in twelve months' time; when he's racked by his bad cough at nights, he refuses to worry because soon he can consult the most celebrated specialists; if he's insulted by his colleagues, he rubs his hands in anticipation of the revenge he can take in due course… All he has to do is to set out and garner the rich harvest awaiting him at the tables. Yet he's never had enough money for the fare — even though he's worked out a system, an infallible system with which he could break the bank in a mere three weeks… Now he's old and decrepit — yet he's still hoping to win that fortune. Can you have anything to do with such an idiot?" And Dr. Lukachevski gave the reporter an indignant, appealing look. "But why don't you move?" the visitor asked. "Oh, I tried — but the place is so convenient, quiet and secluded… I've done my best work here…" "If you don't mind — you were going to tell me about the basic idea… I understand that some of the details are still official secrets — but as the rocket is to be launched next week…" The little man with the drooping moustache had evidently lost interest. He got up, pulling at his breeches as if they were tight in the crotch. "You must excuse me… I have work to do… You'll get all you want from the C-R office. They prepared a very fair statement and I have really nothing to add…" The journalist swallowed his annoyance over the wasted day. He had spent seven hours the night before trying to find this isolated house on the mountaintop. And now he had to leave with empty hands. But Dr. Lukachevski was a very important man — even if he was obviously an eccentric maybe more than slightly mad. He tried one last attempt to make the eminent chemist talk but without success. And so he left. His host did not see him out.

It was a cold, windless day. The house seemed to be deserted, no servants about. The reporter took the wrong turning and found himself in the kitchen. There was a sink, a stove, a cupboard; but most of the space was taken up with empty bottles. Some of the labels were still intact. Gin, vodka, aquavit, Chablis and hock, arrak and Calvados heaped six feet high on one side. Henessey, Cinzano, Chateau-Neuf-du-Pape, Medoc and an odd bottle or two of champagne on the other. For a long moment the journalist paused between the two middens of glass, each holding the slightly sour ghost of the aroma and flavor it had contained. With a hesitant forefinger he touched a bottle or two; then he walked through the back door into an unkempt yard. The land fell away abruptly at the bottom of it. He could see right to the horizon as the slope stretched down to the pasture and the ploughed fields. Not a house in sight. Beyond the road that snaked, ankle-deep in fallen leaves, between the nearest hedge and the far end of the yard there wasn't a single building. Once again the reporter stood still for a second or two. Something uneasy and unpleasant was whirling around him, rolling like smog though it was invisible, without shape or smell. He shook his head to clear his brain. Then he crossed the yard briskly, turned to the left and made his way to the front of the house. It had a sloping roof coming to a peak in the middle. Under it there was a large expanse of wall like the forehead of a man going rapidly bald. It had been crudely whitewashed but here and there rufous patches of color, a smothered line, a bulging shape were still visible. He swung around, the queasy feeling growing into nausea. He hadn't eaten since last night, for the famous doctor hadn't even offered him a cigarette let alone food. But it wasn't his empty stomach or the burning feeling behind his eyeballs that made him pause. He reached into his pocket and took out the map sketched for him by the P.R.O. of the C-Rocket Station. Suddenly the thought hit him that he had called at the wrong house, had seen somebody who had simply masqueraded as Dr. Lukachevski. But as he tried to relate the map to the landmarks, it became clear that it was the right place and that he hadn't been taken in by any impostor. Dejected, he began to walk downhill. It was quite evident that the discoverer of the C-Rocket had no neighbors — not a single human being lived within a mile of him. And now the reporter came upon a small summer house which jutted out at the lower boundary of the garden. Its weather-beaten clapboard had once been painted in two colors and though these had faded he could still make out the black and red stripes which, crisscrossing each other, formed a kind of circular pattern. He stepped up to the window. The glass was filthy but a pane had been broken and

he could see into the dim interior. He vaulted over the low hedge and found the door on the other side. It yielded to his push. The walls were covered from ceiling to floor with a tangled maze of scribblings. A thick black crayon must have been used. They were figures — ranging from zero to thirty-five — and the two capital letters 'R' and 'S' occurred again and again. These were not mathematical formulae, no equations or chemical symbols figured among the pattern of graffiti. Puzzled, the journalist circled the small room. Dr. Lukachevski's high-pitched voice echoed in his memory: "…even though he's worked out a system, an infallible system with which he could break the bank in a mere three weeks…" Yes, that was it… someone had spent months or years here, scrawling on the walls the thirty-five numbers of the roulette wheel. 'R' would stand for 'red' or 'rot' — for the Polish biochemist's most fluent language was German — and 'S' must be schwarz or black. The bottles, the whitewashed mural on the front of the house — and now this. Dr. Lukachevski's neighbors were all in his mind… if he was a schizophrenic he must have split not into two but three. Four if you counted his normal, brilliant, scientist-self. The journalist shivered though it wasn't from the cold that seemed to seep through the warped floor, the cracked walls of the summer house. It was as if he had stumbled onto something obscene and squirmingly alive — as if he had stared into the grey, convoluted mass of a brain pulsating in a skull the surgeon's saw had neatly opened. He ran from the flimsy building and sprinted down the lane as if a farmer's pitchfork speeded him on the way.

3 CHLOROPHYLL, AS ANY BOTANIST will tell you, is a mixture of two green and two yellow pigments. The greens predominate; one is called Chlorophyll A and its chemical formula is C55 H72 O5 N4 Mg, while Chlorophyll B has been determined as C55 H70 O6 N4 Mg. The yellow pigments are carotin (C40 H56) and xanthophyll (C40 H56 O2) — if you insist. Now chlorophyll is present in the chloroplasts of all plants which are capable to synthesize carbohydrates from carbon dioxide and water. (I am not trying to confuse anybody. Chloroplast is a plastid which contains chlorophyll, with or without any other pigments, embedded singly or in considerable numbers in the cytoplasm of a plant cell.) I agree that this doesn't get you very much further. Let's try again. A plastid is a small, dense protoplasmic inclusion in a cell. Plastids are probably (damn you, I can't be

more definite) special centers of chemical activity. Many of them, when exposed to light, become pigmented and become chloroplasts. The cytoplasm is the protoplasm of a cell, apart from that of the nucleus. You follow me? This business of synthesizing carbohydrates from carbon dioxide and water means that the plants are able to utilize energy derived from light in the synthesis of material. It goes on all the time, too, all over the world and probably on a good many planets in all the galaxies. However complex and messy it sounds, without it we would all starve to death. When there is sunlight, wheat or broccoli and an apple tree or a water melon use chlorophyll together with carbon dioxide and water — producing starch and oxygen. This is called photosynthesis and it is the ultimate source from which all the food consumed by everything and everybody, vegetable and animal, is produced. No chlorophyll, no food. No chlorophyll, no air to breathe. There are some plants that have no chlorophyll — fungi and a few flowering plants, among them the Indian pipe. They can't create their own food so they must be parasites, living on the others or saprophytes, battening on dead organisms. Animals also lack it — except when it occurs in the minute plants living with them — and that's why they must exist on plants or other animals. That goes for human beings, too. End of Lesson One. And it's no use thinking of toothpaste. It took a mere twenty years for the leaders of both East and West to realize that the Cold War was a natural condition of mankind. Perhaps they remembered the careful calculations of the German historian who asserted there had been only thirty-four years from the birth of Christ to the end of the nineteenth century when men were not trying to kill each other with stone axes or high explosives — and generally succeeding somewhere on this globe. At the same time a faint glimmer of intelligence illuminated their brains with the thought that bluff was a time bomb; if it did not go off within a set time, it ceased to be both effective and frightening. Already in the nineteen-fifties the opposing camps had reached the enviable state of being able to blow up the world with ridiculous ease, just by a few forefingers exerting a slight pressure on a few buttons. Careful calculations had established the number of H bombs needed to wipe out the USSR and the USA, not to mention such minor targets as Britain, France or the International Court of Justice. There was, of course, no possible defense against atomic weapons though generals argued until they were even more purple in the face than usual whether a warning system would give twenty minutes or

twenty seconds for the other side to retaliate. In the meantime strontium and other gifts from heaven steadily and invisibly contaminated the cows and the cauliflowers. There was no agreement, no dramatic assembly or summit conference that ended the atomic race. Slowly and reluctantly the dictators became aware that it was no great fun to have absolute power a hundred and fifty feet underground, encased in a lead chamber; and democracy, as presidents and prime ministers discovered, could hardly work if candidates and voters alike were massacred in a holocaust that would make Hiroshima look like one burning log. Takeovers were futile if there were only contaminated ruins to take over. A free economy and enlightened self-interest would be of little use if the economy ceased to exist and man disintegrated in a flash of fission. It would be no use to remember that you never had it so good if you wouldn't be there to recall it. Nobody lost face because nobody gave in; the tests petered out. Then the manufacture of the bombs ceased (even France found that her national pride would be well satisfied with oil and wine) and though the stockpiles remained, nobody expected them to be used. In 1934 a sensitive, articulate and highly civilized writer named Aldous Huxley visited Guatemala. This visit set him to think about nationalism, war and hate. He decided that the three were more or less parts of the same whole; facets of the same horror. He quoted, with approval, Dr. F. Vergin's 'Subconscious Europe' in which the doctor contended that war was an escape from the restraints of civilization and that hate paid a higher psychological dividend than could be obtained from international amity, sympathy and cooperation. Perhaps those who decided to abandon the atomic race remembered these wise words. More likely they did not; but they were true enough to seep into the minds of even the New Stupid, as Mr. Huxley called the products of universal education. Men still wanted to escape from the restraints of civilization — and for war they substituted the exploration of space, something which neither Huxley nor Dr. Vergin had dreamt of in 1934. But this did not make Communists more loving towards capitalism; even though state capitalism only existed in Communist countries. At the same time the trio of income taxes, death duties and bureaucracy — known as the Three Blighters, from the verb 'to blight' — had established the welfare state throughout the non-Communist world in which free enterprise was just as much an illusion as was the power of the trade unions, undermined by universal automation. Of course, the differences still existed — yes, indeed. The free world was still able to choose television channels, the holiday spot and the candidate if not always the party for which to vote. Above all, comparatively few people were afraid outside the Communist orbit. That is, they were afraid of losing

their jobs, becoming impotent or getting cancer. But a knock on the door, in the vast majority of cases, did not mean a slave labor camp or a brainwashing. And that was a difference, believe you me. It had been easy to hit the moon and, later, to land instruments and even human beings. It was a different matter to colonize that much overrated celestial body. As the Russians had discovered, the moon had no magnetic field, no radiation belt and, of course, no atmosphere. That was where Dr. Lukachevski and his chlorophylogen came in. A few decades hadn't changed the human race. But hate and its most popular expression, war, had been sublimated and transformed into something that was practically harmless — a competition to climb from the bottom of the infinite hole in which humanity lived to the stars or, failing in that, at least a few rungs higher up. Of course, it cost lives but only a tiny percentage of the great number killed on the roads every holiday. Dr. Lukachevski read his paper on chlorophylogen at the meeting of the Section for Biochemistry of the International Space Society which had been inaugurated under the auspices of UNESCO soon after the third Russian and first American rocket had landed on the moon. The paper attracted remarkably little attention. It was not only dull but the doctor, adopting the number one personality of his schizophrenic trio, was drunk and almost inaudible. But the papers were printed in due course and a copy of the proceedings landed on the desk of Dr. Milliner, the Deputy Director of the I.S.S. Suffering from insomnia, the Deputy Director actually read it. Chlorophylogen was a chemical substance that did not exist. At least no one had ever seen, touched or tasted it. It was a scientific figment, a hypothetical forerunner of chlorophyll (and I am not going into all that again) — a chemical agent that was formed independently of light and created chlorophyll when exposed to it. A mythical, fabulous and ancient Ur-chlorophyll that had to be presupposed in order to explain the existence of chlorophyll itself. And now the Polish biochemist, between his bouts of summer and winter drinking, chasing women and working at his infallible roulette system, had actually developed chlorophylogen, made the intangible real, the invisible visible. At least so he claimed in his paper in which he referred to himself as 'the brilliant genius.' But Dr. Milliner was used to geniuses, dim or dazzling. And he saw the possibilities of a substance that, once exposed to light, could produce chlorophyll which, in turn, meant vegetation and an

atmosphere comparable to the Earth's. It took three years hard work (and the hardest task was to keep Lukachevski's three other selves under control) before chlorophylogen was produced in sufficient quantities and in a sufficient concentration. Though the I.S.S. was a supra-national agency, the project was kept a secret — which was one of Lukachevski's conditions. He had demonstrated to Milliner and the Board under simulated lunar conditions that with the help of chlorophylogen the process that had taken billions of years on earth could be telescoped by modern biochemistry into a few months. If six C-rockets could be launched to hit the moon, an almost tropica] vegetation would spread over its surface and the terrestrial cycle of growth and decay, of condensation and rainfall, could be established. In other words, in less than a year the moon would become a habitable place where men no longer had to crawl about in space helmets or live under plastic domes (most of which had been destroyed by meteorites within a few days, causing considerable loss of life). And now the first C-rocket was ready for launching. 4 MOONLIFTS HAD BECOME COMMON-place; there were about a dozen every month and they no longer made the front pages. The beeps and bleeps, the mutters and shrieks of the artificial satellites had blended into the music of the spheres. The I.S.S. had decided not to make a special announcement about the C-Rocket. Dr. Milliner had learned by bitter experience not to anticipate success. Some details had leaked to the press but they were played down; the journalist who had tried to interview Dr. Lukachevski was a lone wolf, following a conventional hunch; the press releases of the C.R. office had been couched in vague terms. After the first rocket had landed and its effect had been observed, a full press campaign was planned. Also, the rockets were aimed at the territories reasonably close to the stations established by the Western Powers. In due course the Russians and Chinese would naturally find out about them — but there was no harm in getting a little advantage. The insufferable conceit of those early lunik and sputnik days still rankled in the minds of some American scientists — Dr. Milliner was one. So there was only a small group present in the California desert, not far from Palm Springs, on an April morning that promised to be clear and later, rather hot. Dr. Milliner and four of his colleagues from the Board of I.S.S, two representatives of the C.R. organization which had been set up to handle the whole project, Dr. Lukachevski (in a thoroughly foul mood) and an odd general or two. It was routine — such three-stage rockets had been fired thousands of times and the countdown had become a boring litany. "Ten… nine… eight… seven…" the dispatcher murmured into the microphone.

Dr. Milliner turned to the biochemist who had exchanged his riding breeches for a pair of white trousers that had seen better days and a shirt which would have blinded any Hawaiian. He was also wearing a broad-brimmed Panama hat and, for some mysterious reason, black patent leather shoes. "This is a great moment for you, Zbigniew," the Deputy Director said. "The beginning of a wonderful adventure…" "I want a drink," muttered Dr. Lukachevski. "Six… five… four… three…" intoned the dispatcher. "We'll be driving back to Palm Springs in half an hour," Dr. Milliner reassured him. "Do you think that within two weeks we might have observable results?" "I want a drink now," Dr. Lukachevski repeated with childish petulance. "Two… one… zero!" the dispatcher continued, raising his voice slightly on the final word. There was no flame; only a dull roar which rapidly diminished. Liquid and solid rocket fuels had long ago been replaced by built-in atomic propellants with the launching sites heavily shielded to contain radiation. The rocket rose vertically and the two observers in their helicopters five miles away reported that it was on course, climbing at the expected speed. Dr. Milliner turned away from the window. "Well, that's that," he said. "We'd better get back to Palm Springs… I've arranged for the reports to be transmitted by the tele-circuit…" "And I can have my drink?" "Several drinks," grinned the Deputy Director. "You deserve them, my dear Zbigniew…" "I never thought I'd have to deserve liquor." The gap-toothed man remained grumpy. The hovercars got them to town in fifteen minutes. The party was staying at the Rocket Inn, air-conditioned, built of glass, with six swimming pools and a gambling casino with three floor shows a day. Dr. Lukachevski had his several drinks, refused lunch and wandered up to his room. The night before — they had arrived rather late — his somewhat bleary eye had noticed a row of buttons near the bed. They started with

the conventional ones — waiter, chambermaid, valet, pilot and hovercar chauffeur — but there was an extra one which intrigued him. Now, as he padded from the shower, he bent close to the wall and examined it shortsightedly. He had spent almost his entire life in Europe, a good deal of it in Norway to which his family had fled in the long-distant days of Hitler. And Norway was still behind the times. In the United States great progress had been made in various ways of which even his morose mind approved. The button had a little plastic plaque set against it, just like the others. But while the rest showed a waiter carrying a well-laden tray, a valet with a pair of trousers obviously freshly pressed, a pilot at the controls of a helicopter — and so on — the last one revealed a feminine silhouette which was all curves. And the print proclaimed discreetly: 'C.G.' Dr. Lukachevski, being alone, smiled broadly, baring his incomplete upper row of teeth and pressed the button. He didn't know it but he was enjoying (or about to enjoy) the blessings of local option. After many decades of legalized adultery with the help of Reno and other divorce factories, the American people had revolted against the high cost of fornication. Not to mention blackmail, police raids, suicides and white slaving which were all part of the system. And so, not without many a last stand by the forces of Boston, the method of local options was introduced under which each county in the United States could decide whether to legalize call girls or not. There were still a dozen or so holding out in New England but all the others had enthusiastically adopted it. Since antibiotics had practically exterminated venereal diseases and the female population outnumbered the males by two to one, this was not only harmless but sound economics, too. Within five minutes the door opened and a tall blonde appeared. "Did you ring, sir?" she asked with a pleasant smile. Dr. Lukachevski was too overcome to speak. Three hours later when Dr. Milliner burst into the room, he found his colleague in bed. The blonde was asleep — a flattering testimony to the biochemist's amorous prowess. But she sat up suddenly, her shapely breasts quivering with startled indignation, as Dr. Milliner, ignoring her presence, cried: "It's coming back, Zbigniew! It's coming back!" "Who?"

"The C-Rocket. The third stage didn't fire. They think it must be some minor fault — but it'll never hit the moon…" Dr. Lukachevski absent-mindedly started to stroke the blonde. "Oh well," he said, "we can always send up another. We stay here and wait for the next, eh? I like this place very much."

5 THE MEETING WAS HELD IN Victoria Park. A vast throng covered every inch of ground for it had been well advertised. India was still sitting on the fence, still playing the game of neutrality which had paid off more often than not and the good people of Calcutta never tired of listening to both sides and embracing neither. Perhaps they hoped that one day the ultimate argument for democracy, the clinching truth about MarxistLeninist-Khrushchevism would emerge from the mouth of a speaker, issuing thence like Minerva from Jupiter's forehead. It never did — and maybe they would have been disappointed if it had. It was the monsoon season and the huge crowd that had gathered was well-equipped with umbrellas. Children and dogs played underfoot, the vendors of indigestible food and gaseous drink were doing a roaring trade. For this was a double bill, a special attraction — not one speaker but two, a public debate, a regular circus. On two platforms erected at opposite ends of the park, well-supplied with microphones and amplifiers, Andor Gosma, the famous Political Prisoner was measuring his wits against Michael Plainkop, the celebrated Peace-Fighter. Gosma was a small, plump man with the face of an Alsatian dog and the tonsured head of a monk. He had been, of course, a Communist at an early stage of his career for no martyr was genuine unless he had started as a martyr-maker; no one was accepted as the real McCoy unless he had done a little work on the thumbscrews and rubber hoses himself. But then he fell out with the current Party Boss in his country (this, too, was mandatory for his profession) and had spent four uncomfortable years in prison where he was beaten less for his personal convictions than for his unpleasant personal qualities. He escaped during a brief flurry of civil war when the two deviationist wings of the Party revolted against the orthodox Center. In prison he had seen the light and now he was a profitable professional anti-Communist who spent his life touring the world and testifying to the Failure of his God — as an old-fashioned revivalist would to the existence of his. He spoke English fluently but with an atrocious accent; but as most of his listeners spoke the same way this meant no handicap. Plainkop was also short but

thin and delicate. Slightly deaf, his large and protuberant eyes seemed to be extra ears, looking and listening at the same time with a naive intensity. His lips were constantly pursed and he made up for his weak chin by a silky beard which he loved to caress with . his long, delicate white fingers; it was the only part of his anatomy of which he could be justly proud. Spindly and narrow-chested, he had survived forty years of party line changes, of thaws and frosts, of intrigues and purges. He had betrayed more people than he could remember; he had sung the praises — in melodious and meaningless verse — of commissars and first secretaries, never involving his own conscience or heart. Despite his robust past he was a remarkably frail creature but everybody expected him to live to a hundred. Long ago he had been given a nickname that stuck to him with the persistence of glue. He was called 'Mimosa' by his friends and enemies alike. True, they had added one letter to this fragrant word — a letter which stood for the four-letter word for human excrement. 'Smimosa' it was wherever Plainkop went — and he went to plenty of places. In the peoples' democracies he always stayed at the best governmentowned hotels, dachas or holiday homes. From the Caspian to the North Sea, from the Adriatic to the coasts of China he systematically grazed off the lush pastures of Communist propaganda. He had been a member of more fraternal missions than any human being alive; he had marched in more processions, spoken at more protest meetings, had signed more petitions and proclamations than anybody else. His voice, usually soft and indistinct, acquired a sonority and a carrying power whenever he spoke publicly which would have done honor to a hog-caller, or a tobacco auctioneer. "My friends," he was saying now, gazing down at the ocean of upturned faces whose color varied from near-black to the palest cafe-au-lait, "my friends and comrades — yes, I call you comrades for if you aren't my comrades now you shall be before I end — comrades, I am a Peace-Fighter. -Why should peace have to be fought for? Because it is a good thing, it is the supreme good of human life and all good things must be fought for. Didn't Lenin say that there are no short cuts nor miracles on the road to socialism? And as for Marx, may I remind you…" The voice went on, pouring out of loudspeakers set in trees and on telegraph poles, pouring a rich treacle of words over the multitude which seemed to stick to them invisibly. The organizers had allotted turns of ten minutes each to the two speakers but Smimosa had to be warned twice before he stopped after seventeen and a half. The heavily-accented, supercilious voice of Gosma took up the challenge. "That was a good question Mr. Plainkop posed. Why fight for peace? Did you notice that the so-called Peace-Fighters are the most intolerant, bellicose, insufferably smug people in the world? What they say to the world is equal to the old, long-forgotten

German song: 'And if you won't be my brother, I'll break your head, I'll do…' In their mouths peace has became an obscene word, cheapened for secret and ominous ends. I know for I was one of them. Believe me, Peace-Fighters are let loose on unsuspecting people of good will like yourselves — not to recruit you for peace but for slavery. As for Lenin, didn't he…" He didn't go on for quite as long as Smimosa — because it started to rain. At the first distant rumble in the heavens, a hundred thousand umbrellas opened with a series of reverberating clicks. Black, white, red, multi-colored they mushroomed under the lowering sky. The rain was early by several days — but it was the more welcome. Everybody sheltered under the umbrellas — except the two speakers. They stood erect, letting themselves be pelted by the thickening downpour, still bellowing and screaming into the microphones without waiting their turn. Their voices mingled with the whiplash sounds of the rain, echoed and re-echoed endlessly and uselessly as the crowd, convinced of the seriousness of the cloudburst, began sluggishly to disperse, undulating towards the edges of the park. 6 TWENTY-TWO HOURS AFTER ITS launching, the first C-Rocket re-entered the atmosphere of the earth. The special braking apparatus was still partially working so that it wasn't burnt up but began to disintegrate just above the stratosphere. It contained a ton and a half of synthetic chlorophylogen which, as Dr. Lukachevski had demonstrated, was a perfectly harmless substance. There had been freakish weather over most of the world that spring. Sunspots were more active than usual, electric storms, tidal waves, earthquakes and floods filled the front pages. It was a distinctly irregular season which gave meteorologists and the prophets of the 'end-of-the-world-is-nigh' variety plenty of scope. The English, of course, were delighted for their main topic of conversation was provided with inexhaustible material. Snow fell in the Sahara. There was a heatwave in Lapland. All the stars in heaven seemed to reverse their magnetic fields. As nobody could do anything about it, governments sighed in relief; this was something for which they couldn't be blamed, though, of course, in some countries they were. On that night when the C-Rocket burst into fragments and the pieces re-entered the atmosphere, a broad belt of rain circled the globe. It was raining in Tangier and Tel Aviv, in Calcutta and Copenhagen, in Moscow, Munich and Melbourne. It was pelting down in Washington and Wellington, London and Leghorn. The gutters ran in Peking and Palermo, in Tokyo and Teheran. The reservoirs filled to overflowing, children launched paper boats and farmers ceased to grumble or grumbled with doubled energy.

Professor Pelargus was on holiday — spending ten hours a day in the laboratories of the Karolinska Institutet in Stockholm which had an interesting line in cancer of the skin. Through the streaming windows he glanced briefly at the rain and then returned to the electronic miscroscope which had just disclosed something unexpected. His long nose seemed to sniff at it in approval; there was just a faint possibility that Dr. Klein, the brilliant head of the tumor department had stumbled upon a new enzyme which in turn would… The telephone rang; a moment later an assistant came into the laboratory and said: "It's for you, Professor…" But Pelargus refused to take the call. At The Rocket Inn, Dr. Lukachevski was asleep with his sixth blonde snoring delicately beside him. (They were all blondes, a specialite de la maison. At the Beverley Splendide in Los Angeles they were all red heads which suited the hotel's color scheme. Interior decorators were regularly consulted when the C. G. staff was recruited. Of course, the proper rinse always helped.) Though Dr. Milliner had made several tactful attempts to move him to the Washington headquarters of the I.S.S., the biochemist had firmly refused. (There was no local option in the District of Columbia. Probably there was no need for it.) The second C-Rocket was to be launched at the end of May and Dr. Lukachevski was determined not to budge from Palm Springs before then. The phone gave a melodious tinkle. He turned over, grunted and reached for it across the recumbent body of the girl. She giggled in her sleep. This pleased the doctor considerably but the phone was insistent and, after all, there was plenty of time. "Yes?" he said noncommittally. An excited voice poured out a long string of words. Dr. Lukachevski listened. Then: "I don't believe it!" he declared and put down the receiver. As an afterthought, he pulled the phone out of its socket and turned to the blonde who was now awake. Andor Gosma was having breakfast in his suite at the Hotel Mahatma. He had had a bad night and his doggy face was a little drawn. And now his appetite was gone. The fifth cup of coffee, the third mango, the seventh piece of buttered toast no longer tempted him. He felt the stubble on his yellow face and scratched his bald pate. He had been itching most of the night. The rain had soaked him through; he was probably developing a cold. There was a limit to martyrdom, he decided. He would insist on a proper, covered platform when he moved on to Bombay. He was a better speaker dry than wet. The itch started again — it was his left calf. He pulled up the leg of his pyjamas. There was a slight discoloration the size of a penny. It was a pale yellow-green. Gosma, a born hypochondriac, wondered whether he was developing leprosy or elephantiasis. Nothing less would do. But it couldn't be leprosy; the skin felt tender. And there was

practically no swelling. He sighed. Maybe he'd better see a doctor. In the mornings he couldn't bear looking at himself; but now he padded into the bathroom and switched on the light. There was another spot on his left cheek — more green than yellow. This was serious. He stripped and inspected his potbellied, knock-kneed body. He found two more spots, both a deeper green than the others — one on his left buttock which he traced by some violent contortions and with the aid of a hand mirror and another on his right hip. The doctor came within half an hour, a Central European as Gosma had specified. He was quite reassuring. "A heat rash," he declared. "But… it hasn't been very hot…" protested the anti-Communist prophet. "This has nothing to do with temperature," smiled the doctor. "Probably something you ate. In the Far East we all eat more than the peck of dirt we're supposed to consume in our lifetime. I'll give you some pills and an ointment. You'll be all right in a day or two. Try to stick to grilled meat and tinned fruit. No alcohol." "I'm going on to Bombay tomorrow — that is, I planned to fly in the morning. D'you think it's safe for me to travel?" "Perfectly safe." Then they started to talk politics which interested the doctor far more than Gosma's spots. He dismissed his visitor rather abruptly and went back to bed to write his weekly article for the Liberty News Agency which syndicated them in sixty-two countries, including South VietNam and South Korea. Late that afternoon the same doctor had another call. This time it was Mr. Plainkop at the Hotel Pandit, opposite the Hotel Mahatma. The celebrated Peace-Fighter was in a terrible state. His face was swollen and had gone a yellowish-green with a few blue patches. "I'm due on TV tonight," he cried. "You must do something, doctor — quick." It couldn't be called a heat rash by any stretch of imagination. "Must be a skin infection," the doctor said. "I'd better give you a streptomycin injection which will clear it up…" "By tonight?" "I hope so… but if it doesn't, the make-up people will take care of it. Not too many

close-ups, maybe." "But I'm always in close-up…" protested Smimosa. "That's the only way I permit them to telecast my face…" The doctor shrugged. "This time you'll have to make an exception. After all, peace is worth any sacrifice…" Plainkop winced as the needle pricked him but he said nothing. It was uneconomical to waste his breath on an audience of one. 7 GREEN IS ONE OF THE THREE PRIMARY colors. A green house is a house painted green but a greenhouse is a glasshouse for the growing and preservation of especially rare and delicate plants. Greengages are yellow-green plums which Sir Henry Gage made popular in England; he wasn't so successful with purple or blue gages. It isn't true that blue and yellow make green — not if you're thinking of colors. If you mix blue and yellow pigments, the result is green; but it's no use trying the same with a blue and a yellow light, the two will simply produce a bluish-gray. Pigments — as the world learned partly to its grief and partly to its joy — are not monochromatic though if you look at a red rose this isn't easy to believe. To Shakespeare, melancholy is green and yellow; but there is no proof supplied by natural science that a Welsh valley is any greener than a Greek or Spanish one. The Psalmist sang of green pastures and of the green bay tree; the poet wished his friend a soft cover of green turf over the grave; the minstrel was a little more ambitious and added grass to it. In our salad days our judgment was green; and Pope's Iliad spoke of the race of man as green in youth. There were tears for the leaf that perished in the green; but old age could be of the same color if the hair was just grizzled. Macbeth would turn the green sea red with blood; gentler dreamers wished for green thoughts in a green shade provided possibly by tall oaks called 'green-robed senators of mighty woods'. Greenbacks were dollars in America; but a greenback was a nineteenth-century text book of mathematics written by the learned Dr. Todhunter. The Greener was a field in Oxford which rowing blues knew well. There are six Greens in Chambers's Biographical Dictionary, all male; Webster, far more generous, provides twenty-nine, of which five are ladies. And there are Greenaways, Grenbies, Greenes, Greenhills, Greenleafs, Greenocks, Greenoughs, Greenslades, Greenwells, Greenwiches and Greenwoods to

gladden the heart. No mention of James Greenacre, though, who was hanged for murder in 1837 and for whom London stevedores named that annoying incident when a set of goods falls out of the slings, loading or unloading. Game keepers, of course, always wore green in the Middle Ages which is why so many public houses are still called 'The Green Man'. If melancholy was green and yellow to Shakespeare, jealousy, as we know, was just a green-eyed monster, mocking the meal it fed on. Where did he get the idea? Perhaps from cats, so often green-eyed. For the French, a green answer is a sharp one and if you tell greens you're relating spicy stories. A green correction is a sound thrashing and a flight of green wood is a hail of blows. The man who makes another see the greens and not the ripe ones, worries his opponent and partner unbearably. You put a horse out to the green, not to grass, in France; and if you do it to yourself, you go off to vegetate in the country. If you are taken without the green, you are caught napping; the fly ones are, of course, never taken without it so there are no flies on them. George-a-Green was the penner or pinner of Wakefield — it was his duty to keep stray animals secure. The Green Bag belonged to Prinny, the Prince Regent who put it before parliament; it was a most important bag, allegedly containing seditious papers about the state of the country. Several secret committees spent long hours examining the Green Bag; the Habeas Corpus was suspended and arrests were made because of its contents. What happened to the Bag and why, nobody cared about. There was a time when Americans called the ignorant 'green as grass', when a lawyer was a 'green bag' (no acknowledgments to Prinny) and green pups were cream puffs. A green cloth was a billiard table and a greens topnotcher a golf expert. Green pastures, to a college boy, was a greenhorn or a stupid person and a green pea was a freshman. Green goods were counterfeit money and the Green Mountain boys all came from Vermont. But that was long, long ago. You might also remember Mr. Verdant Green who, in his infinite simplicity, had such a rough time at college until, having bought his knowledge by his harrowing experiences, he turned the tables and became a 'biter' instead one of the 'bitten'. Or the Green Birds of whom Jallaloddin sang, promising martyrs that after their death they would 'partake of the delights of bliss in the crops of green birds who feed on the fruits of paradise'. There was a particularly wise one who answered every question it was asked — if you knew the right questions to ask. There were soldiers called Green Horses, Green Howards and even Green Linnets. And wasn't Sir Partolope the Green Knight whom Tennyson called 'Hesperus' or the 'Evening Star' and who with his brothers guarded Castle Perilous until he was overthrown by Sir Gareth? Green cheese (of which the moon is made), green geese and a green gown (if you gave a girl one it meant a romp with her in the fields, staining her dress and being a thorough cad), green hands (inferior

sailors), green rooms and green wax (a seal under which demands for levies were delivered) — what would the world be without green? On the other hand, you can have too much of a good thing. 8 IT WOULD BE NICELY SYMBOLIC TO report that Gosma and Plainkop were the first recorded victims of the Green Rain. But it wouldn't be historically correct and, however flippant this account may seem, we are trying to be as severely factual as possible. Apart from the two-volume book of Professor Pelargus on the subject — which, though it is uncompromisingly technical, is considered the standard work — there exists a whole library describing the origins, effects and aftermath of this peculiar plague. Actually the first clinically established case was that of Miss Madge McMamie (a name evolved with infinite pains by her studio's publicity department), an up-andcoming starlet who had been elected Sydney's Sugar Cane Queen the day before the abortive launching of the C-Rocket. She was appearing in a television show and it had taken her press agent many weeks of careful plotting to win this signal honor for her. Once crowned, she rode in state through the city. Halfway through the triumphal procession it began to rain. Miss McMamie sat high up on her float, clad in very little more but a few pieces of imitation sugar cane. She felt that she owed it to her public to give them their money's worth and laughingly refused a parasol. It had been very hot and the lukewarm rain was pleasantly refreshing. Her make-up, of course, was absolutely waterproof. It was almost two hours before the procession ended and the Sugar Cane Queen, soaked but still smiling photogenically, retired to her hotel suite to dress for the Grand Ball of the evening. Her sitting room was crowded with people: photographers, official escorts, TV cameramen and producers, press agents and an odd boy friend or two. There was a bar in the corner and nobody was in any particular hurry. One thing they were certainly not prepared for — a scream of terror which would have immediately won Miss McMamie a part in any horror film. As they all turned towards the bedroom door, it was flung open and Miss McMamie emerged. Indeed, the shock must have temporarily deranged her for she was completely nude. This would have jolted the largely male company — though pleasurably, one would guess — but as the Sugar Cane Queen stumbled across the room, screaming her head off, it was something additional that froze everybody, goggle-eyed and open-mouthed. Miss Madge McMamie was a bright, sparkling emerald green from the top of her

shapely head to the soles of her even shapelier feet. A sparkling, verdant green without any shadings as if she had been plunked into a vat of green paint or had had a roller passed over her from her toes to her tresses. Then, of course, she fainted. One of her publicity agents quickly whipped the tablecloth from the bar — glasses and bottles went flying in a tinkling heap — and wrapped her in it. But by that time the photographers had started to flash their bulbs, the portable TV cameras had begun to grind and all hell had broken loose. Two gossip columnists were fighting for the telephone, a somewhat sensitive TV writer had gone queer — a not unnatural state for him — and Miss McMamie had recovered consciousness. Her first words were firmly to the point: "I'm going to sue for a million bucks…"

9

IN THE SHADOW OF THE GREAT Table Mountain the Trial of the Century entered its forty-first year. There were only sixteen defendants left; the others had died of old age or various ailments and of the original two hundred and thirteen twenty-two had actually been discharged for the lack of a true bill. The trial had used up over a dozen prosecuting attorneys and — because they were more advanced in age — over twenty judges. The indictment had been changed every four or five years and the main reason why the trial continued was that nobody had yet thought of a way of stopping it. Besides, this was a trial to establish once and for all the superiority of the white race. (The term 'Caucasian' had been dropped when somebody actually discovered that the Caucasus was in Communist Russia.) The record of the trial occupied two floors in the State Library though most of it had

been microfilmed. For the participants, whether in the dock or out of it, the whole thing had become a way of life. The defendants were all on bail which meant that they were able to take part-time jobs, get married, beget children and even go on occasional holidays in the recesses. However, five times a week, for five or six hours, they had to report to the courtroom and sit in the iron cage which was now much too capacious for them so that they seemed to rattle in it like a handful of dried peas in a very large drum. The cost of the trial, it was calculated, would have paid for seven nuclear power stations, fifteen housing projects and any number of schools. The National Debt of the All-White Cape Republic had increased by more than three hundred per cent. It was confidently forecast, however, that the trial would continue until all the defendants were deceased or the End of the World came. (Some people believed that the second eventuality was nearer.) One or two legal historians remembered that the original charge had been of conspiracy against the Republic with intent to overthrow the legal authority of the Government. This indictment, however, had been modified, added to and subtracted from, rephrased and reaffirmed so many times that practically nobody could remember — the accused least of all — what the real issue was. Everybody agreed, however, that it was a very serious one, that the very existence of the All-White Republic depended on the outcome and that an example had to be set which would have world-wide repercussions. On this warm April morning, the presiding judge entered and the court was called to order. There were about a hundred spectators who were drafted for weekly duty much as the jury would have been impanelled — except that juries had long ago been abolished in the Republic. Justice Niklaas Preuger looked at the audience with a jaundiced eye. It was getting to be more and more difficult to conscript them especially since the daily pay was much lower than a factory worker's average wages. This was a scruffy lot and the Judge liked to get at least a titter for his jokes. He was most conscientious about them; he always provided himself with a new supply, culled from various funny papers, at the first of the month and they usually lasted him until the next lot was available. As he settled himself, just at the right distance from the air-conditioner and adjusted the rubber cushion under his judicial buttocks, a junior counsel for the defense rose: "M'Lud," he said in a nervous, high-pitched voice, "The defense regrets that eight of the defendants are unable to be present in court…". "This is intolerable!" the Judge rapped out. "I shall have to fine them for contempt…" Hastily the young barrister produced a small sheaf of papers. "I have medical certificates here that will justify their absence, M'Lud. Also, for the

two Senior Counsels, my principals." The Clerk of the Court took the documents and offered them to the Judge who cast a sceptical eye over them. "What is this? some epidemic? they are all from the same physician…" "The defendants and my learned colleagues, M'Lud, have all been taken to the same hospital — though of course they are in separate wings…" "I should hope so," Niklaas Preuger said. If he had been a Catholic, he'd have crossed himself. But, of course, he was a Calvinist. "But what does this mean, Mr. Baasler? Suspected case of chlorosis, acute and advanced. Observation and final diagnosis may take considerable time…" The young man looked flustered. "I regret M'Lud that I do not know. Chlorosis, as I took the liberty to establish, is a disease caused by the lack of hemoglobin…" "Do you intend to add a riddle to an enigma, Mr. Baasler?" snapped the Judge. "Can't you speak plainly?" "Hemoglobin, M'Lud, is the red coloring matter of the blood." "You mean, they have anemia?" "It is more serious than that, M'Lud. Also, there is a certain doubt. Chlorosis is a disease most common in young women…" The Judge exploded. "This is ridiculous! Neither the defendants nor senior counsel are young women. Therefore they cannot possibly have this… whatever you call it. I won't have the court's authority flouted by such a frivolous rigmarole… What has the prosecution to say about it?" The clerk of the court had been studying a slip of paper which had been passed on to him by an usher. Now he rose. "M'Lud, the prosecution is not represented in court today…"

"And why not, may I ask?" "Because both the Prosecuting Attorney and his deputy are indisposed. They are also in the Kruger Hospital, apparently under observation…" The Judge rose in righteous wrath. "I refuse to continue this session until all participants are present or proper substitutes are appointed…" With a swirl of his scarlet robes, Mr. Justice Preuger swept through the mahogany door. The Clerk hastily declared the court to be in recess. The single sleepy reporter whose turn it was to cover the proceedings, sauntered up to Mr. Baasler who was gathering his papers, evidently unhappy. "What is the matter with all those characters?" he demanded. "Didn't you hear? Chlorosis." "Is it contagious?" "I wouldn't know." "Listen, my crowd always played this trial straight. We never once called the accused 'apes' or 'niggers'. Not in forty-three years. Don't you think you ought to give me a break…?" "I told you all I know. All the doctors would disclose." "But what are the symptoms of this chloro… whatever you call it?" "Why don't you ask a doctor?" The reporter turned away in disgust. As he was about to leave, the door to the Judge's chamber opened and an usher rushed out. "A doctor!" he shouted. "Is there a doctor in the building?" There was no answer; the courtroom was almost empty. The reporter stepped forward. "Can't I help?"

"Are you a doctor?" "No, but I could get one. What's the matter with Judge Preuger?" "He…" the usher took a deep breath as if he needed extra strength for the enormity of his news, "he… he's started to turn green… I" He pushed the journalist aside but the two of them reached the exit at the same time. The reporter sprinted for the telecommunications room, pondering how he could get this dispatch through the ever-vigilant All-White censorship. For at last, he was certain, he had a story — a better one than any of his predecessors had had for forty years or more while covering the trial. He needn't have hurried. He couldn't get a single word through. When he insisted, he was arrested for contempt of court (even though the court was not in session) and left to ponder the hazards of his profession in a cell that was neither clean nor air-conditioned. An hour later the cabinet of the All-White Republic had met in emergency session. They listened in stony silence to the report made by the Minister of Health. "This is ridiculous," said the Minister for Native Affairs when his colleague's precise, dry voice had stopped. "Ridiculous, maybe. But true," the Minister of Health replied. "If you wish to study the medical reports…" "Gentlemen," interposed the Prime Minister, "we shall gain nothing by indulging in personal recrimination. We must face facts. Dr. Vyselaar," he addressed the Minister of Health, "have you any information as to the nature of this… this epidemic?" "Not much. It isn't chlorosis, of that the Medical Board is certain. The blood count of the… the patients is quite normal. So is their blood pressure, their temperature, their metabolism, their pulse, their…" "In other words, they are completely normal — except for…" the Prime Minister could not bring himself to put it into words. "Except that' they've turned green," the Minister of Public Works, a crusty and foulmouthed old man interrupted him. "Green like a frog. Green like…" "There is no need to be vulgar," the Premier admonished him.

"Excuse me," the Minister of Foreign Affairs interposed, "but… and to me, this seems to be the moot point… are they… well… are they equally green? All of them?" "I am afraid so," the Minister of Health replied lugubriously. "But this… this strikes at the very foundations of our Republic!" exclaimed the Minister for Native Affairs. "Two thirds of those… those affected are under my department, and are subject to the restrictions and disqualifications which are the fundamental tenets of our constitution…" "Oh, stow it!" grunted the Minister of Public Works. "Why beat around the bush? Is a nigger a nigger when he has turned green? That's what I want to know!" "Precisely," the Foreign Minister was unsquelchable. "Or you may put it the other way round. Is a white man a…" "Don't say it!" the Prime Minister intervened hastily. "Don't even think of it!" "Nevertheless," the Foreign Minister insisted, "we must face facts… Is this… this plague likely to spread?" he demanded from the Minister of Health. A secretary hurried in with a folder which he placed in front of the Minister who glanced at it, then waved him out. "There have been over sixty new cases in the last three hours," the Minister announced. "Two thirds of them are colored people…" The Prime Minister rose. "Gentlemen, this is no time for half-measures. It is obvious that under our Constitution any person who is not white, must be considered colored. Therefore I propose that we immediately place an Emergency Bill in front of…" "But Mr. Prime Minister," wailed the Minister of Health, "what of Judge Preuger? what of the Attorney General? What…" his voice sank to a whisper, "what if it happens to one of us?"

10

PROFESSOR PELARGUS WAS IN A thoroughly unpleasant temper. The small conference room on the eleventh floor of the Karolinska Institutet was heavily guarded by police; the six V.I.P.'s facing the great dermatologist were taking no risks. "This is sheer lunacy," the Professor boomed. "How can I give you any halfway sensible advice if you haven't got the facts for me?" "But we have them, Professor," protested Carl Drossels, the Secretary General of the World Health Organization, a small, sparrow-bright man. "Here is an up-to-date report of the established cases as of midnight yesterday. Do you want the figures? Afghanistan, seventy-two, all in Kabul — no report from the outlying districts, of course. Albania — none reported until now but several suspected. Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Oman and Masquot, Qafar, the Sheikdoms of the Trucial Coast and Yemen… a total of a hundred and three. Argentine…" Pelargus snatched the folder from him. "I can read it for myself, man…" and he proceeded to do so. The list continued through Austria to Burma, including tallies from Greece and Panama, from Siam and Switzerland right down to Yugoslavia. The grand total was well over a hundred thousand. "Statistics!" Pelargus said in disgust. "This is no bloody use!" "It shows the wide distribution of the epidemic," said another man whose careful enunciation and well-bred pomposity were the trademarks of the high-ranking civil servant. "It appears to be practically simultaneous and parthenc-genetic…" "Balls," Pelargus almost spat at him. "If this is some pathological infection, how do you know what incubation period it has? how it is transmitted?" "It does not appear to be contagious," Drossels interposed suavely. "Thousands of people have been exposed to contact with the… the patients without developing the same symptoms." "Have you any idea where the first case was recorded?" the dermatologist asked.

"As far as we can ascertain," Malcolm, the imperturbable bureaucrat replied, "it was in Australia. That is why we arranged for the lady to be flown over." He glanced at his watch. "She should be here by now… We have also made arrangements for a representative group to be collected from seven other countries. They should be available for clinical examination by tomorrow afternoon. Of course, Professor, it would have been far more convenient and less expensive if you had agreed to…" "I haven't agreed to anything," snapped Pelargus. "I'm not at all sure that I can help — but I'll be damned if I'll go traipsing all over the world just to look at some people who've suddenly turned green… You're sure it isn't some cosmetic, put out by one of those money-mad crooks…" "More than half of the affected persons are male," Drossels pointed out. "And it is most unlikely that any cosmetic preparation would have such a world-wide distribution. Those cases in Arabia — several dozen in Burma — no, I don't think that theory will hold. Would you have a look at the young lady from Australia, Professor?" "Might as well," grunted Pelargus. "Send her up to my office." He rose abruptly and stalked out without a word. The six men watched him go with sour faces. Miss McMamie was furious and a little frightened. Her agent had already signed a most lucrative contract for a world tour and had decided to bill her as 'the Emerald Venus.' She was, as he explained to her and as she was only too ready to believe, unique, a smasheroo, a super-colossal sensation and she would be boffola in any boite, casino, night club, not to mention Technicolor television. (The agent was an old man who loved to use the slang of his childhood. What he meant was that both Miss McMamie and he could make a lot of money — but there was no time to be lost.) Instead the 'Emerald Venus' found herself practically a prisoner. The stories of her remarkable change of pigmentation were all killed by censorship, hastily but efficiently imposed. The World Health Organization whisked her away to a private sanatorium in Darwin and two days later she was flown to Stockholm. Her agent wasn't allowed to accompany her; she was alone and helpless. This was, she pointed out bitterly, sheer green slavery. And it was practiced by the very organization that was supposed to have closed the road to Buenos Aires and all similar destinations more than forty years before! Now, as she was shown into the office of the stork-like professor, she was seething with indignation.

"Take off your clothes," Pelargus said, without looking at her. Miss McMamie screamed. Mildly surprised, the Professor raised his head. "What is it, woman?" he demanded. "Have you gone mad?" "Why, you dirty old man!" and the Emerald Venus clutched her dress as if Pelargus were about to tear it off. "I'd rather die…" Pelargus smiled. It was a very rare facial exercise and evidently it cost him considerable effort. "You really flatter me," he said. "I have no designs on your probably non-existent virtue. I'm Professor Pelargus. I must find out what turned you green. I may be able to help you." "But I don't want any help." Miss McMamie had recovered some of her poise. "You mean — you want to stay green?" "And why not?" she asked indignantly. "Haven't the slightest idea. Personally I don't care if you shine in all the colors of the rainbow, striped or checkered. Still, you were the first… Come over here… please!" Reluctantly but somewhat reassured, Madge approached. "You really mean it — you want to remain like this?" Pelargus asked, putting on his heavy tortoise-shell spectacles which made him look like a cross between a stork and an owl. "Well, it's kinda different… and in my profession you need a gimmick," murmured Miss McMamie. Pelargus rose and towered over her. She wore a dress with a plunging neckline and her color was richly verdant. The tiny veins under the skin pulsed with an emerald fluid. The Professor's bulging eyes inspected her with a close and purely dermatological interest. "I really ought to see more of the epidermis," he murmured.

This time Madge overcame her modesty. He was a funny old bird, she thought, but he looked quite harmless. And he made her feel sort of important. Pelargus blinked. Miss McMamie's strip was fast and efficient; and she was very close to him. "Err… if you would just stand on that metal plate…" he pointed to the floor. "Don't worry… this is not going to hurt. You won't feel anything… Just stand still…" Madge obeyed, adopting a very becoming pose. If she thought she was going to be photographed, she was doomed to disappointment. Pelargus adjusted a couple of switches. A soft white light diffused the room. He peered through the spectroscope, then changed the intensity and color of the light. Madge began to feel cold and bored. But at last Pelargus said "Thank you, my dear. You can dress now." "Is… is it serious?" she asked, as she slipped on her girdle and panties. The nipples of her breasts were a pale, tender green. "Serious?" The Professor looked up from a chart he had been studying. "Good gracious, I'm not concerned with your health — only your color. It's true, primary green, all right." "Is that bad?" "It's neither good nor bad. But certainly it's remarkable." "Why?" "There are no absolute colors in pigmentation," he explained. "There is no human being completely white—not even an albino — or completely black. There are shades, nuances and gradations which appear absolute to our imperfect vision. However, Miss What'syourname, I'm glad to say that your greenness is as perfect and complete as it exists anywhere in nature." "Why, thank you, Professor," dimpled Madge. "I assume that you have had a thorough medical checkup?" "Oh, I'm fit as a fiddle. Never felt better in my life. The doctors couldn't find a thing wrong with me." "Neither can I. But that leaves still one question unanswered. The most important one. How did you become green?"

"Does it matter?" "Does it matter!" bellowed Pelargus who had kept his temper for an unnaturally long time. "If we don't know, how can we tell whether you'll stay green? how can we make other people green, if they so desire — or stop them from becoming green if they do not fancy your color?" "I ... I can see your point." "You amaze me, Miss…" "McMamie. Call me Madge." "I'll do no such thing. So — we must find out. If you have no objection, I would like to remove a very small segment of your epidermis…" "My what?" "Your skin. Don't worry, it won't hurt and it won't show… Say, at the base of the spinal column…" "But… Professor… do you have to?" He looked at her and she knew that she had no choice. But there was a reprieve. "Wait. First tell me everything that happened before you changed color. What you ate, what you wore, where you went, whom you met. Come on — don't be afraid, you won't bore me." Miss McMamie sighed. But her favorite topic had always been herself and it was no great hardship to discuss it, even though she did not have total recall. And so she told of her arrival in Australia, the TV show — which puzzled the Professor who did not understand a single of the technical terms of show business — her election as Sugar Cane Queen, the parade… right to the moment when in the intimacy of her bathtub she had discovered that, like the old grey mare, she 'ain't what she used to be…' Apart from an occasional grunt and a brief query, the Professor had listened with flattering attention. "I wanted to sue for a million," Madge ended. "But my lawyer said they could claim an act of God — and there were all those offers…" She giggled. "A cable came from California… they wanted me to become their goddess … some crackpot religion… the First Church of Ver… Verdi…"

"Verdigris?" suggested Pelargus. "Maybe that was it, Prof. Ron, that's my agent, he said they had lots of dough — but they wanted to lock me up in a temple or some other dump… And then I was simply kidnapped by those eggheads and flown over here…" "Thank you, Miss McMamie. You've been very helpful. Now — if I could have that little sample…" His gnarled hands were surprisingly gentle, resting at the back of her hips. He wasn't trying any funny business either, Madge thought, not without regret. There was no pain, just a slight tingling feeling as Pelargus dabbed a bit of disinfectant at the spot where he had peeled off a tiny segment with the electronic gadget he called his scalping machine. "What now?" the girl asked when he had carefully put away the slide holding the epidermic sample. "I'd be grateful if you could stay on another day," Pelargus told her. "But after that you're free to go anywhere you like. Of course, your fare and expenses will be paid." Madge shrugged. "Another day won't make much difference. But what can you tell from that bit of skin?" "I hope a great deal. I'd better get on with it, if you don't mind." He was already adjusting the electronic microscope and had forgotten her presence. She pouted and left. Still, he had told her that she was 'true-green', 'perfect and complete'. That was a nice compliment, she thought. A girl could be proud of it. Six hours later Pelargus descended to the conference room. His face, as usual, was impassive; but there was a slight sardonic twinkle in his red-rimmed eyes. "Well, Professor?" asked Drossels and the other five heads swivelled towards him. "Gentlemen, you have no cause for alarm. This is definitely not an epidemic, neither is it contagious. At the same time, it is incurable." "You must have a peculiar sense of humor," protested Malcolm. "Whoever heard of…" "I could make a series of clinical tests," Pelargus continued, ignoring the interruption, "but I doubt whether they would change the final result. This young lady you brought all the way from Australia has changed her pigmentation because she was

exposed to a biochemical process which is extremely common in our world. It goes on all the time and there is nothing that can stop it…" "What process?" demanded a third member of the committee. "The process that turns grass green, that makes the foliage of trees the same color. This young woman's skin has gone through exactly the same process that is repeated every springtime all over the globe. It seems to have affected nothing but her epidermis and I found no trace of it in the deeper tissues. You will find the process is more rapid with females than with males; it has been hastened by metabolic efficiency — which appears to have been extremely high in the female specimen you produced — but the difference can only be measured in a few hours or perhaps days." "B-but what caused it?" asked Drossels whose scientific poise was visibly disintegrating. "I would say — and this is only a guess — that it was some chemical agent contained in an atmospheric discharge. In other words, rain." "You… you mean anybody who would be exposed to rain at the same time…" "Not necessarily the same time. The chemical agent must be present in the atmosphere — and it appears to be an extremely persistent one. Probably a very brief or even partial exposure to it is sufficient to start this photo-synthetic process…" There was deep silence in the conference room. Only half of those present knew what Pelargus was talking about and even they weren't quite sure they knew. "Of course, there's the hair, too," the Professor added reflectively. "The follicles must have been affected. But if there are any neurological or anatomical changes, they're certainly not evident. In any case, only autopsy would show them…" At last Malcolm rallied enough to ask: "And can you suggest anything to… to reverse this process?" "You mean, produce the original pigmentation?" Pelargus stared at the international civil servant with a malevolent expression. "You might try whitewash, of course," he chuckled. "But I don't think it will stick."

11

WITHIN A WEEK THE RECORDED cases of the 'green sickness' — for it was still considered an epidemic — reached half a million and covered practically every country in the world except Outer Mongolia where it hadn't rained for six months and, perversely enough, Greenland. It was impossible to keep the matter a secret any longer. Especially when such great international figures as the First Secretary of the Union of Progressive and Peace-Loving Republics, the President of the United States, the Second Caudillo of Spain and three key cabinet ministers of Great Britain had all become suddenly 'indisposed' and cancelled their public appointments. The headlines screamed traditionally across the front pages of the world. "GERM WARFARE BY PLUTO-CAPITALISTIC-LIBERAL FORCES…" was the best Pravda could offer. "CHINA'S SECRET WEAPON AGAINST THE WHITE RACE", was typical in the Deep South. "GRINGOS GO GREEN — AND SO DO OTHERS," was used by several Latin American papers. "ALLEGED PIGMENTATION CHANGES," the London Times's heading (two columns, Page 5) alleged cautiously. Two groups of newspapers, however, threw all caution to the winds. "EMERALD ISLE COMES INTO ITS OWN." One Dublin daily set the pace, followed by many others. "IRELAND'S GLORIOUS GREEN IS SPREADING." And Moslem journals from Casablanca to Karachi, from Cairo to Singapore burst forth: "THE PROPHET'S GREEN FLAG COVERS MANKIND." The plague was ascribed to the high divorce rate, to cigarette smoking, to chlorinated water, frozen foods, atomic fallout and nudism. Everybody, crank or not, had a hobbyhorse to ride and this was a good opportunity to trot it out. French wine growers issued a statement that this 'maladie impitoyable' was the effect of the campaign to drink more milk. "Milk comes from cows, cows eat grass, grass is green," they pointed out with that brilliant French logic which claims Descartes for its distant ancestor and which has a superb contempt for facts. "No one has turned green from drinking wine!" the statement continued. "Even white wine builds red corpuscles. Defend the traditional drink of la belle France!" The appeal was somewhat weakened in its effect by the

unfortunate circumstances that the President and half the Council of the Chevaliers du Tasevin had also fallen victims to what the French dubbed 'vertification spontanee.' One famous dress designer committed suicide. He had declared, in the high-handed dictatorial manner of his profession, that the Color of the Year was to be green. As, of course, fashions are like Christmas cards, being designed at least six months in advance, he had done this long before the C-Rocket was fired. His entire summer and autumn collection had been prepared in the infinite shades of green — emerald and jasper, beryl and aquamarine, pea-green, grass-green, apple-green, sea-green, turquoise, olive- and bottle-green to mention only a few of the possible nuances. But half his models had acquired the same complexion which made Miss Madge McMamie so proud. They were practically invisible in their green clothes — or if they weren't, the clash was unbearable to the great couturier's sensitive nerves. He hanged himself with a gold-embroidered brocade sash. As usual, only the best was good enough for him. "Is Green a British Color?" a popular columnist asked in a syndicated article. A somewhat suspect historian declared that the woad of ancient Britons must have been green, not blue; but he hastened to add that this had a purely theoretical importance and that he, personally, was color-blind. A large meeting at Caxton Hall passed a resolution calling on the government not to discriminate against 'our weaker, greener brethren.' Morgan Oswald, Jr., the leader of the 'Clean Britain' movement gathered his followers in the murky confines of one of the quaintly-named New Towns and delivered a passionate speech demanding that anybody who wasn't white should be classified black, whatever color he had been born with or had acquired. "Let us take warning!" he cried, his baritone voice quavering with emotion. "The enemy is within us! If we accept these Greens as human beings, before we know it, they will claim the very heart of England! Think of what would happen if we lost Parsons Green and Greenwich, Shepherd's Bush and Greenford! Why, even Green Park wouldn't be safe from the invader. We would be ejected from Greenhithe and our brother Scots would have to yield Greenlaw and Greenock! And if the Greens, why not the Blacks? Are you prepared to see Blackburn and Black-heath, Blackpool and the two Blackwaters under an alien rule? I tell you, we must nip this in the bud, stop it before it's too late! England shall never never be green! Up the Whites! Down with color!" Much to his disgust the police did not even bother to caution him and the procession he led to Whitehall — so aptly named for the purposes of his movement — melted away in the rain before he got to Hyde Park Corner. In the Arab countries — especially in the Lebanon — there was universal jubilation as the news spread though one or two diehards thought they smelled a Jewish conspiracy behind it. However, the Grand Mufti declared that green had always been the inspiration

of Islam while the Lebanese pointed proudly to their flag with the green cedar boldly displayed in its center. In Cairo it was demanded that Jews should be forbidden by international law to turn green and if they did, they should wear a yellow star outside their own country; this was somewhat hastily dropped when a prominent member of the Supreme Arab Council, who was one of the first to change from yellowish-brown to aquamarine, was taken for a Jew masquerading as a true-green Arab and was nearly beaten to death. The Sheriff of Mecca sent a mission to W.H.O. asking whether it would be possible for him and his ulemas to become green collectively; when he received a negative answer, he demanded that the international organization should immediately budget a large research grant that would lead to the 'discovery and development of an artificial greenifying substance' to be placed at the disposal of those who wish to avail themselves of it. This, too, was turned down as unnecessary; whereupon the high Moslem dignitary unleashed his 'Great Curse and Damnation' upon all members of the W.H.O., including typists and janitors. It was in Germany, of course — in Augsburg, to be precise — that the first philosophical examination of the Green Rain was published, less than six months after the failure of the C-Rocket. The learned author of 'Greenness-in-Itself, a Neo-Kantian Approach to Pigmentation Changes in the Late Twentieth Century' needed a little time for analysis and reflection. The 622 pages of Dr. Heinrich Hosselson's interesting opus were intended only as an interim introduction to the subject; but a brief quote must show what Tiefsinn and originality the great Neo-Kantian philosopher possessed: "More and more in our modern times," Dr. Hosselson wrote, "we have come to judge by appearances, to remain on the surface without taking the trouble to delve into the essential qualities of subjective and objective phenomena; whereas it is the nature of things, the very Categorical Imperative of our being (and non-being) that not all is gold that glitters, that forming an opinion on the basis of insufficient data and criteria can only lead to unsatisfactory results which in turn can only end in emotional and mental disaster — such disasters being a recurrent caesura in the history of mankind. If thinking men had needed any proof, it was provided amply by the mass versicoloration that spontaneously and simultaneously affected almost one quarter of our humanity; the almost universal reaction to this unforeseen event was strictly superficial; for no one asked 'what is green?' but was content to ask simply: 'why am I green?' or 'why is he (or she) green?' It must be evident to even a modestly intelligent person that the essence of green is far more important than the person or thing that bears this color; nor is it of primary importance why anything is green until we have established what is the nature of greenness. Indeed, how can we make a moral, philosophical or political judgment until we know what we are to judge? The associations of greenness are connected with the collective subconscious of mankind for there cannot be any doubt that in the course of evolution, during the struggle-for-life period which the often-mistaken-butfundamentally-right Charles Darwin established, green played a dominant part. The

primeval memories of green are also indubitably connected with the longing for the return-to-the-womb which has dominated both infant and adult psychology according to the teachings of the regrettably Jewish but undeniably Germanic Professor Freud. Therefore, in the preliminary formulation of our judgment as to the desirability or reprehensibleness of green, we must remember the dual origins of our reaction to color in general and green in particular and must not shrink from a philosophical and scientific detachment which few of our present fellow-beings have been able to achieve…" And so on. There is no reliable record as to how many people actually bought and read Dr. Hosselson's monumental work; but we know of one person upon whom it had a most important effect; and this, in turn, affected the life of millions. Whether Gloriana Greenwood was capable of understanding even a fraction of the German philosopher's elephantine sentences and turgid prose, was most unlikely. But she read the American edition which was published shortly after the German original and was deeply impressed by the idea of "Greenness-in-Itself". It became her Bible — or rather, the Old Testament upon which she based her Gospel of Greenness. Gloriana was forty-five, she lived in California and she had been casting around for a long time for the basis of a new religion. It had always been her ambition to found one; besides, she needed money. Her fourth husband had decamped with all her jewelry and ready cash; she was too lazy to work and not young enough to pick up a handy millionaire. She also thought very highly of herself and was convinced that the time had come when others should share this view. She started modestly enough at a hastily converted Atomic Hot-Dog Stand but within six months she had her own Temple and several thousand followers or 'disciplesin-green' as she called them. The Gospel of Greenness was simple but effective. Green was the color of Life. Life was good; it had to be lived to the fullest, the 'Greenness' had to be freed from all incrustations of culture and civilization. Green must triumph over the Evil of White, Black and Red. Gloriana's Sermon on the Mount (delivered from a jasper-green plastic altar) was somewhat derivative but, as she would have said if she had known what the word meant, all new religions were bound to be eclectic.

"Blessed are the Green for they shall inherit the earth; Blessed are those who have a Green Thumb for they shall make things grow;

Blessed are the green in heart; for they shall remain eternally young; Blessed are they who are persecuted for being green; for their's is the kingdom of heaven; Blessed is Gloriana, the Greenest of All, the Verdant Green of the Children of Greenness, the prophetess and leader."

It was difficult for Gloriana to fulfill the requirements of her own religion — for, unfortunately, she had remained a slightly freckled white herself. But no one ever saw her naked and she always appeared in public with a perfect green make-up, clad in skintight green garments covering every inch of her body. She had adopted as the hymns of the Gospel of Greenness those ancient religious songs: "Green Grow the Rushes, O", "Greensleeves" and "Hey, Ho, To The Greenwood", changing the words to fit her purpose though the last one barely needed any adjustment. And she flourished like the green bay tree.

12

DR. MILLINER HAD TO RESORT TO desperate measures; he cut off Lukachevski's allowance, closed his charge accounts and arranged with the management of the Rocket Inn to supply him neither with blondes nor liquor. This worked like magic; nursing a colossal hangover and temporarily impotent, the inventor of the C-Rocket allowed himself to be transported to Washington. The figures were becoming alarming. An average of three hundred thousand people were turning green every day. There seemed to be no end to it and a special session of the United Nations had been called to discuss the problem. Almost at once an acrimonious dispute arose as some members of the Security Council demanded that the delegates should be all white; others championed an all-green representation while the British Foreign Secretary, with his genius for compromise proposed that the ratio should

be fifty-fifty or, alternately, the percentage should be based on the proportion of greens and whites in the population of each country. This solution was rejected by the brown, black and yellow nations. The session was therefore postponed. The W.H.O. and I.S.S. delegates met in joint committee. Dr. Lukachevski faced them in a mood of irritation; in spite of Milliner's careful briefing he still couldn't understand what all this had to do with him. The launching of the second C-Rocket had been cancelled, which added to his bad temper. "But gentlemen," he said, "I certainly refuse to accept the blame…" "It isn't a question of blaming anybody," Malcolm, fresh from the frustrating encounter with Pelargus, snapped at the biochemist. "Though it is quite likely that you would be lynched if your part in this… this outrageous experiment became known…" Dr. Lukachevski grew a little paler. "You… you are not going to publicize it?" "We'll do what we can to keep it secret," Dr. Milliner reassured him. "Provided, of course, that you cooperate with us — fully…" "But what can I do?" wailed Lukachevski. "If the rocket had been properly launched and had reached its target, none of this would have happened. I didn't build the rocket. I only provided its pay load…" "We know that," Drossels intervened. "But the harm is done — tremendous, perhaps irreparable harm — and the question is what we do about it… We're putting a laboratory at your disposal, doctor. We must know — and within the shortest possible time — whether it is possible to reproduce the effect of your chlorophylogen artificially…" "Why would you want to do that?" the Polish scientist's high-pitched voice was puzzled. There was a little silence. Then Malcolm sighed. "Because we may face a situation where there will be a general demand for… for some preparation which… which is controllable and…" "You mean — people will want to become green — not by accident but deliberately?" the biochemist was genuinely surprised. "Yes."

"But that's… that's against nature. And the Divine Will. If God wanted Man to be green, He would have created him green." "My dear Zbygniew," Milliner protested, "this is no time for theological arguments. Of course, if you are unwilling to cooperate, we could always announce your refusal. That might have — rather unfortunate consequences…" "Oh, I'll try to help," Dr. Lukachevski said hastily. "But mind you, I can't promise anything… and I'll need a lot of equipment and… and other things…" "No liquor. No women," Drossels warned him. "Just do your job — and quickly." The man with the gap-toothed mouth and the wispy moustache 'drew himself up in outraged dignity. "My dear man…" But it was a wasted effort. Within ten minutes he was hustled downstairs, bundled into a waiting car and driven to the outskirts where a fully-equipped laboratory had been prepared for him. All his staff was male and a special security guard kept out visitors, alcohol and any other temptations. Dr. Lukachevski went to work. It was easy enough to produce the necessary amount of chlorophylogen — a certain reserve had already been put aside for the second CRocket — and three convicts had volunteered as guinea pigs, having been promised pardons if they submitted to the experiment. Lukachevski and his aides tried injecting the liquified chlorophylogen. Apart from causing acute indigestion it hadn't the slightest effect. They tried to apply it in a vaseline solution as an ointment; it didn't even cause a rash. They tried a photosynthetic radiation method — this, to their excited and hopeful reaction, produced a very pale green discoloration. But it wasn't permanent, fading after a few hours and no matter how they tried to intensify it, no lasting greenness resulted. After two months' intense work during which Dr. Lukachevski lost weight and, in final desperation, shaved off his moustache, he had to admit failure. Or rather his sponsors and employers admitted it for the Polish biochemist had never believed in the possibility of success. "I told you so," he couldn't resist saying at the final meeting. "I told you that it wasn't chlorophylogen which caused it. At least, it couldn't have been chlorophylogen alone. It must have picked up something somewhere on the way down — some reagent, some chemical element in the atmosphere or above it…" "What reagent? what element?" demanded Drossels. Dr. Lukachevski grinned. "You tell me. I haven't the faintest idea. And I want to go

home."

13

THE SECURITY COUNCIL OF THE United Nations Organization met on June 4th. The problem of color had been solved by the compromise suggestion of the permanent delegate of the Philippines who proposed that each national delegation should decide within its own competence what representatives to send. This resulted in about twenty per cent of the delegates being 'greenbods', the general slang term which an American magazine had coined and which became universal within a few weeks. Some, of course, objected to this term, saying that it was just as bad as 'Chink', 'nigger' or 'wog'; a spirited correspondence in the columns of the Times (of London and New York) put forward as more dignified and democratic the alternative terms of 'our verdant brothers', 'virescent', 'Men of Grass' and 'All-Greens'. But none of these caught on. 'Greenbod' was incorporated into all Western languages with minor phonetic variations and spellings. Comrade Zelonnee, the chief delegate of the Union of Progressive and Peace-Loving Republics (UPPR) opened the debate by referring to a statement delivered by Mr. Verdure, the British Foreign Secretary in the House of Commons the week before. "Mr. Verdure," he said, "has a very careless way of dealing with facts". Whatever crisis the population of the world faced, it was none of the UPPR's making. True, they had been represented on the board of the I.S.S., but repeatedly their delegates were voted down or willfully kept in ignorance of the facts. If the UPPR had been consulted, the C-Rocket would have never been fired or if it had been fired, it would have not used the antiquated and inefficient Anglo-American firing mechanism. Now, of course, the harm was done — if, indeed, it can be considered harmful that a certain percentage of the world's population had changed color. After all, it wasn't the color of a man's skin that mattered but what was in his heart and in his brain. Every peace-loving citizen of the Union of Progressive and Peace-Loving Republics carried the color of red indelibly imprinted in his mind and other organs. The citizens of the UPPR were all equal and racial discrimination was punishable by law under the constitution. He proposed that the

Security Council should take action against any country, whether a member or not of UN, which persecuted the non-white population and that such action should be primarily taken against the pluto-capitalistic so-called democracy of the United States. Mr. Verdure yielded to Elmer Gruenbaum, the principal U.S. delegate who took up Mr. Zelonnee's points one by one. He read extracts from the minutes of the I.S.S. board to prove that every decision taken by that body was unanimous and that the three UPPR representatives had voted for the development and launching of the C-Rocket. "Does it not rankle Mr. Zelonnee's mind, that this time it was impossible to claim that the idea of C-R was first mooted within the frontiers of the UPPR? Mr. Zelonnee's fellowcountrymen have claimed the invention of practically everything that ever worked, however absurd such a claim appeared. Now they wish to disassociate themselves from a great scientific discovery just because the first attempt to carry it into effect did not succeed. Nor has it yet been proved to the satisfaction of the experts that the mass change in human pigmentation was caused by the C-Rocket or by chlorophylogen. Experiments carried out at the I.S.S. laboratories seem to point to the contrary. It has not been found possible to reproduce the same effect artificially though chlorophylogen has been tested in every possible combination. Therefore it was just as premature to blame the I.S.S. as it was wrong for Mr. Zelonnee to disclaim any part in the international problems created by the 'greenbods', if he was allowed to use a colloquialism. Did Mr. Zelonnee believe that the United States deliberately caused this effect? The intention had been to land the C-Rocket on the surface of the moon for the benefit of all mankind — no nation would have been excluded from the most desirable results such a successful experiment would have brought about. The United States was just as anxious to serve the cause of peace and progress but his Government did not think that mutual recrimination and untrue accusations would promote this cause." Mr. Viridis, the Greek delegate said that he was overwhelmed and puzzled by Mr. Zelonnee's speech. It was well known that all modern science was rooted in the discoveries of ancient Greece and that while his country, because of lack of financial means, had to yield to bigger and more prosperous nations in the field of mechanical invention, where would the UPPR and USA scientists be without Thales, Archimedes and Euclid? The problem was a simple one. Mr. Zelonnee had said that the color of a man's skin did not matter — only his mind and his heart did. Nevertheless, a man's color determined his position in life, his possibilities of employment and social progress. Therefore the Security Council had to decide what steps to take to insure that, a new color having been added to the existing pigmentations of mankind, a way be found to integrate the greens with the whites, blacks, browns, yellows and reds. Color cut across national boundaries and therefore this was a clear case for international action. Mr. Zelonnee replied that as far as the UPPR was concerned, no problem existed.

M. Vertbois, the French delegate asked what the attitude of the UPPR was to the alleged revival of the Green International? There had been reliable reports that several thousand members of this organization had been executed and over a hundred thousand had been deported to Siberia. Was this discrimination or not? Mr. Zelonnee declared that this was a typical slander by the capitalist press; that the Green International, if it existed, was a counter-revolutionary organization of Fascist hyenas, the descendants of kulaks and murderers. The UPPR was entitled to take any steps necessary against those who threatened her internal security. He would also like to remind M. Vertbois of the millions of oppressed colonial subjects who were still groaning under the yoke of French imperialism. He, Mr. Zelonnee, had no wish to acerbate the discussion but perhaps he might quote a Russian proverb: "An owl should not tell a sparrow that its head is too big!" The Chairman, speaking for the All-White Republic of South Africa, pointed out that if only the internal peace and security of any country was endangered the Council would not be required to concern itself with the matter. Mr. Zelonnee had himself stated that internal disorder in the UPPR was a matter for the UPPR herself. The change in the color of a great many citizens of the All-White Republic was also of grave concern to his own government but they did not propose to ask the Security Council or any other international organization to deal with this — they were perfectly capable of dealing with it themselves. The whole matter was not of a character to endanger the peace of other countries, and he therefore supported the American proposal that no further action be taken. The Polish delegate, Pan Zakope said he agreed with Mr. Gruenbaum that the existence of 'greenbods' to use a typically degenerate and plutocratic term for want of something better, was not a threat to the peace of the world, but this privilege, enjoyed by the great Powers, of interfering with the color of a man's skin, nay with millions of men's skins, did raise grave problems which must be discussed. This was not a unique case, but a precedent — a precedent for other countries which might not be in quite the same position but, now or later, in a similar position. They must therefore pronounce themselves quite clearly as to whether 'greenbods' were to be treated as international or national concerns. M. Zelonnee would not modify the UPPR attitude but, to insure full cooperation, his delegation would agree to the discussion being closed by a declaration from the President, without any resolution, to the effect that, in view of the declaration of the U.S. Government that the C-Rocket's firing was in no way intended to change the pigmentation of any UPPR citizen, the Council was of the opinion that the question had been exhausted.

Mr. Verdure said that left the United Kingdom exactly where it had been before and that he could not accept a declaration that would not establish clearly that no blame was to be attached either to his country or to its ally, the United States. It was childish to equivocate in this manner. The President then asked the Council to vote on a resolution submitted by the Indian delegate stating that the Council noted with satisfaction the spirit of frankness and sincerity which animated the delegates and, "while considering that the existence of human beings whose skin has become green does not constitute a menace to international peace or security, takes note of the declaration by the delegate of the U.S. that his country will do everything in its power to insure that such involuntary changes in pigmentation should not reoccur." M. Zelonnee maintained that the problem was a matter of substance and not a matter of procedure, and therefore required unanimity among the five permanent members, and that the UPPR objected to it. Mr. Verdure said that he was ready to accept the Egyptian proposal that the Council should take no further action, provided there were added the words "In view of the fact that the existence of green-pigmented citizens of any country does not constitute a situation which endangers international peace and security." The Council then adjourned.

14

CLIMB DOWN, BROTHER. GET DOWN to the grass tacks, bud. Abu Iqlal, in the fourteenth century, wrote wisely and with foresight: "Nothing is ever decided in the council chamber." Let them talk away in their all-glass treadmill, pass resolutions and repeat the old stale arguments which serve to convince no one but those already convinced — and even they are tired of them. "You cannot argue with a gramophone,"

Don Salvador, another wise man, said. Kick the general in the bottom and embrace the particular. This is a story about human beings — remember? — and how some of them, many of them, turned green. Not with envy or jealousy, not temporarily but permanently and all over. Skin and hair, public and pubic, the mother-of-pearl of women's toenails and the beards of hoboes. Moss-green, sea-green, the green of young acacia trees or of many-faceted emeralds. Professor Pelargus and his facts — how many did he have? Could he eat them or string them up like beads? The human skin is the organ of cold and warmth, of touch and pain. It has a quarter of a million minute spots which telegraph the brain when you start to freeze, each 'cold spot' connected to a nerve fibre, a line to the brain or the spinal cord. And more than 30,000 respond to heat. Could the Professor tell you why cold needed more than four times as many as heat? And what is 'hot' and what is 'cold'? And why if you dip the whole hand into hot water it feels warmer than if you dip in a single finger even if the water is seven degrees hotter? Then there are half-a-million spots on the skin which give us the sensation of touch and pressure. Prick yourself with a pin; even with your eyes closed you can tell exactly where you have been pricked. Why? Because of the half-a-million spots? And what causes paresthesia when you feel that your skin is swarming with insects — there is a nice second word for it, 'formication' — when not even a single fly is buzzing near you? And why does a certain spot on your scalp or the region around your ear feel excruciatingly tender to the lightest touch when you have an inflammation of the throat, your sinuses or your upper teeth? Oh yes, Pelargus can tell you about the corium, the papillae and the epithelial layer. There is nothing he doesn't know about keratin which provides you with the outer layer of your epidermis, your hair, your nails — and the horns and hoofs of all animals. Skin is elastic and waterproof; and without the papillae you would have no fingerprints. There are more secrets and mysteries about it than a dozen lifetimes could explore. But Pelargus knows it all. The greatest expert in the world — which nobody can deny. He sat in the F.F. club, at his usual place. He was eating duck with a cucumber salad. He was very fond of both. A youngish man, tall, good looking and only slightly beak-nosed, entered the dining room and stopped at the Pelargus table. He cleared his throat. The old man looked up. "Go away," he said amiably. "No."

"Haven't I told you I never want to see you again?" "Oh yes, Papa. You told me." "Have you ever known me to say anything I didn't mean?" "No." "That's all, then." And Pelargus returned to his duck. But the younger man, his face set, drew up a chair and sat down. "I haven't bothered you for fifteen years, Papa. But now you've got to help me." Pelargus, chewing on a wing, raised an eyebrow. "You're using the categorical imperative very familiarly," he said. "There's nothing in the world I've got to do — except die, much to your relief. But not yet, my dear son, not yet." "Papa, I didn't come all this way to argue with you. Just because sixteen years ago I chose a profession you didn't like. "Didn't like?" screamed the Professor, shaking the duck into his son's face. "If you'd become a pimp, a drug peddler or a hired assassin, I'd have been a little surprised at your choice — but I'd have made allowances. But to disgrace my name and my reputation, to prostitute your brains — which you certainly owe to me — it was a matter of loathing, of utter detastation and therefore of a complete and final breach. Go away, Marius, before I have you thrown out. You aren't even a member — and I have certain privileges…" "Edna has turned green, Papa. So has Andy — but not Gracie or the baby. Nor I, as you can see." "And who the hell are all these people?" "You know very well that Edna's my wife and that we have three children. We sent you photographs every Christmas — and a couple of telerecordings…" "I can smell your communications even if they're addressed by typewriter. I never open them. Anyhow, what do I care who turned green and who didn't?"

"Papa — you can hate me to your heart's content. But your grandchildren and daughter-in-law have done you no harm. Don't behave like a Victorian heavy, father — whatever that is, I got it out of a book. Please, help me…" Pelargus called to the waiter — he wanted some cheese. When it was brought and he had criticized its ripeness or the lack of it, had chosen the proper kind of cracker to go with it and poured himself another glass of wine, he deigned to speak again. "And how do you think I can help you?" Marius, his son, took a deep breath. "Come to New York." "I'm not a lunatic. I wouldn't set foot in that ghastly place if you…" "When were you there last, Papa?" "Thirty-five years ago. Twice — for the first and the last time." "But we live outside the city — it's like your home in Upsala. And I'd drive you every day to the laboratory…" "What laboratory?" "Mine. I think I ... I may be on the right track." Pelargus wiped his thin lips, drained his glass and called for coffee and a cigar. "What are you working on now, Marius? A new phoney cure for wrinkles? A way to make women's bosoms bigger or smaller? Or some poisonous concoction to ruin the complexion of a few millions?" "No, Papa. I think I've almost found something that would make people white again — or whatever their original color was. But it doesn't quite work. You could make it work." "I'll be damned and triple-damned if I do anything of the sort." "Papa, Edna wants to leave me. And she says she's taking Andy. Also, my firm's going to be ruined and I'll lose my job — unless I produce something to…" "I suppose you think you love your wife?"

"I know I do." "A half-sensible man once said that love was the illusion there was any difference between women. Let her go — and take up some honest trade — like selling dope or card-sharping…" Marius gave his father a long look. They were alike in some ways and very different in others; but the son had a good idea how his father's mind worked. "I'm a fool," he murmured. "I should've known. They told me you'd be afraid…" "Afraid?" roared Pelargus instantly. He reacted to a conditioned reflex like any of Pavlov's dogs. "How dare you!" "I can understand," the younger man continued undisturbed. "After all, with your reputation, you couldn't risk failure. And it is possible that I'm on the wrong track — that it is impossible to produce a de-greening compound…" "Impossible? Nothing's impossible if you tackle it the right way and have a little brains. God knows, you always pretended that you were clever…" "But not as clever as you, Papa." He started to get up. "Forget it. Other marriages have broken up, other men have lost their jobs — I'll survive. And I just have to tell my people that Professor Pelargus isn't interested. He has plenty of laurels to rest upon and why should he…" "Sit down," the old man yelled at him. "I know very well what you're up to. The trick is silly — but you might as well tell me what idiotic ideas you have in that peasized mind of yours…" Marius didn't grin; that would have spoiled everything. Instead he began: "They are quite sure now that it was all due to chlorophylogen and atomic radiation. I assumed that if we reproduced the exact conditions chemically…" "Just a minute," Pelargus interrupted him. "What do you know about cholorophylogen? Why do you assume that it ever existed?"

At the same moment Dr. Lukachevski asked himself a similar question. Not that he had any doubt about the existence of chlorophylogen — even with a bottle of brandy

under his belt, he was quite certain that he had discovered the blasted thing. The question he was asking himself in a mood of recrimination was why he had ever bothered to do so? Apart from the pleasant interlude at the Rocket Inn it had brought him nothing but trouble. He still remembered the albino laboratory worker who had suddenly and without any provocation attacked him, screaming at the top of his voice: "Why didn't it happen to me? you bastard, why couldn't it happen to me — I'd rather be green than this!" and then had to be restrained by two strong men from stabbing him, the innocent cause of the albino's rage, with a scalpel. He remembered the questions each of which carried a veiled reproach; and, of course, the press got hold of it and the television and radio and he was hounded day and night. What could he say? Chlorophylogen would work on the moon — it was never meant to be used on earth, not diluted by rain and strengthened by radiation… Dr. Lukachevski poured out another glass of brandy and wiped across his nose with the back of his hand. He was back in his isolated cottage, with his imaginary neighbors; they had given him a little money and had told him that the C-Rocket project was dead. If he had any urge to discover anything else, he would have smothered it at birth. Maybe he could write his memoirs, he thought — the trouble was he couldn't remember anything that would be fit to print. There was a distant knock on the front door and he muttered: "Go away. Oh, go away." But the knock was repeated; somebody tried the handle and of course he never locked it — there wasn't anything worth stealing and when he came in himself, fuddled with drink, he hated to fight with keys and locks. He thought of retreating into the back yard but it was raining and he felt fragile. So he just sat, nursing the brandy glass, feeling very sorry for himself. "Zbygniew," a soft voice said. He looked up. He had to shake his head to chase away what was obviously a hallucination. A tall, slender blonde with her bosom straining at the leash stood over him. She crooked a pink, slim forefinger. "Zbygniew," she said again, "come here!" St. Anthony was never tempted so deliciously, thought Dr. Lukachevski as he moved towards the beckoning blonde. She looked familiar — but then, all blondes did, to him. If he hadn't met them he had dreamt about them. "Yes, my dear?" he said. There were all kinds of delightful possibilities, whatever she answered.

"You like travel?" This was unexpected but still promising. "Yes — in the right company…" "Then you and I will go places." "I'd love to — but why don't we stay first a little and…" "No, no!" cried the blonde in evident distress. "My husband — he might find me any moment and then you'd have to fight him. He's terribly old-fashioned — he uses his fists. And his boots. Nailed ones." This was a prospect that didn't appeal to Dr. Lukachevski at all. "Quick — pack a few things and write a note," the blonde said, casting a glance over her shoulder as if the hobnailed boots were within kicking distance. "A note — to whom?" "Anybody — that you've gone away for a few days and that you're not to be disturbed…" "Yes, yes, of course." Hastily the biochemist scribbled a few lines which for the want of any better idea he addressed to Dr. Milliner though it was most unlikely that the I.S.S. director would ever visit him. He left it on the desk, threw a few things into a handbag — including a magnum of brandy — and was at the side of his unexpected travelling companion within ten minutes. As he re-entered the room he found her at the window, signalling to somebody. She turned hastily. "The driver — I told him we were coming. He's reliable…" She was already at the door. "But tell me — how did you find me?" Lukachevski asked. "Have we met before?" "Oh, you never noticed me. But I followed you about — ever since I saw your photograph… I must make a confession… I'm mad about you." Her lips were parted and glistened with the permanent superplastic lipstick (one of

the recent achievements of the century); her bosom heaved and the discoverer of chlorophylogen hadn't the slightest difficulty in believing the unbelievable. He clasped the blonde in his arms — he was a couple of inches shorter but he stood on tiptoes — and felt her expensive perfume, her warmth and her roundness which was firm without being unyielding. He was about to kiss her but she gently freed herself: "No, Zbygniew! You must be patient, lover!" she whispered, drawing him through the door. Outside, the closed hovercar's door was open; a chauffeur in a dark uniform stood, cap in hand, waiting. Not only beautiful and crazy about me but rich too, thought Dr. Lukachevski. He entered the car. The door closed; blinds slid down the same moment, enveloping him in a cozy darkness. The next moment the car set out at top speed, the air vents hissing gently, moving without a jolt just a foot above the ground. "What's your name?" asked the biochemist as he fumbled for the blonde's hand. "Tatiana Ivanovna," the answer came in a clear, metallic voice which had completely lost its throaty sexiness. "Take your paws off me…" A dazzling light was shining in his eyes; he blinked and swallowed hard. The blonde was sitting in the far corner of the spacious car and she no longer looked lovelorn or inviting. "But…" "It is so much simpler if you do not make any disturbance," Tatiana Ivanovna said. "I am taking you to our headquarters…" "Wha-what headquarters?" "It is time that you ceased to work for the warmongering, imperialistic forces and made your contribution to the building of socialism, Comrade Lukachevski," she said crisply, the polysyllables rolling off her tongue with the ease of practice. "Do not fear for your comfort or safety — as long as you do as you are told…" Dr. Lukachevski decided it was no good screaming for help. All he could do was to make the best of it. "I… I'm not at all afraid," he declared gamely. "And work will be delightful — if you will be near me…" "That's impossible. I have at least four more people to kidnap this month." The victim sighed.

"Dear, dear, I hope your friends are not going to be unreasonable." "They only believe in reason, comrade. After all, you were also born in a Progressive and Peace-Loving Republic — even if you deserted it for the fleshpots of the decadent democracies…" There was nothing the disappointed Pole could answer to such a statement. He sucked at his teeth, furiously desiring a drink and the shapely body at his side. But both, of these seemed to be a very long way away. In due course the hovercar stopped and Dr. Lukachevski was transferred to a plane which took off vertically. The blonde was still with him and he was served vodka and a meal which reassured him. The flight was short but at great height and he saw nothing of the landscape. Another airfield where a car met the plane and he was driven, with the blinds drawn, for half an hour to his destination. He entered a building through a back door, was whisked into a lift and ended in a room which was lit by a single dark-shaded lamp. "Now," a voice said, a little hoarse but still pleasant, "you can put an end to this idiotic joke…" Shortsightedly, Dr. Lukachevski peered at the plump, short man sitting behind the lamp. "And don't start telling me you do not understand," the voice continued. "If I didn't believe there was a chance, you'd have been dead long ago." No blonde, the vodka wearing off, alone with a madman — for that was the only possibility he could imagine — the biochemist prayed to the Life Force or the Primary Molecule or whatever God (perhaps the one with the long white beard of childhood) he believed in. He didn't have much time for prayer. "Come here!" the voice commanded. And for a few moments the lights went on. The plump, short man was famous enough for even Dr. Lukachevski to recognize at sight; though he had changed a little since his photographs last filled the front pages. He was a fat green Frog with a fringe of moss-green hair around his large bald pate; the eyes were a startling light-grey in the green mask. "Take a good look, Comrade," the pleasant voice continued. "You're only the third human being to get a chance — and the other two are dead already." Dr. Lukachevski licked his lips and still didn't find anything to say.

"You'll be given everything you need," his host went on. "Within reason you only have to ask for whatever else you want. And you have a month to make me white again — or produce something that will turn everybody green… everybody I want to be green." "But… Your Excellency… Your Highness… Comrade…" the biochemist was sorely perplexed as to the form of address he should use, "…that is quite impossible…" "The Americans are working on it. They don't think it's impossible. Whatever they can do, you can do — and quicker, too." The lights went out; only the single, dimmed lamp remained. The pleasant voice wasn't pleasant now. "You have a month. Don't waste time. It'll take you longer than that to die if you fail — I'll see to that…" There was no buzz, no signal — but Dr. Lukachevski found himself flanked by two very big men who turned him round and marched him from the room. He needed their support; he felt like fainting.

15 ANDOR GOSMA SCRATCHED HIS GREEN head with his green nail. His pointed nose, the Alsatian-like muzzle, quivered as if he had just smelled grouse. But there was no joy in his eyes. The letter was short and to the point: "…You will understand, my dear Andor," wrote the General Secretary of the Freedom Front, "that we cannot continue sponsoring your lecture tour. You are too much in the public eye — the change in your persona! appearance is bound to be highlighted. I enclose a final check and wish to thank you for the great services you rendered to the cause of freedom. Drop in and see me some time if you happen to be passing this way." The sack. Fired — for what? Because he was one of the millions who had changed color. He had done it before, of course — but then it was a professional, deliberate switchover. Could he help being green? He inspected his face in the mirror; his tongue, still pink with a heavy white fur of too many cigarettes, too many gins, flicked mockingly at his reflection. Well, it had been nice while it lasted. The Freedom Front was a highly efficient organization; no sentimentality. He had served his purpose; now, efficiently and firmly, they were getting rid of him. He would have to find something else. Something equally lucrative; something that meant just as little exertion as his

lecturing, his occasional articles and protest telegrams to which there was never any answer. He still had enough money — the check was a handsome 'separation gift' — to live on for a month or two. Of course, he would leave India immediately. He'd never have set foot in a country where they had prohibition, curry and such a haphazard airconditioning — except in the line of duty. In the meantime, he ordered breakfast. Across the road Michael Plainkop was just finishing his. A cable was in front of him and he glanced at it again, though he knew it by heart. 'RETURN IMMEDIATELY — ASSIGNMENT TERMINATED' it said. The signature was that of the chief of International Agitprop. Plainkop had been crying; now his tears welled up again. He knew what it meant. He'd be sent to some dreary cooperative and set to create positive heroes. He hated positive heroes. He was a sensitive man who needed sunshine, good food, all the creature comforts or he couldn't function. The green hairs in his nostrils quivered with distaste. He wiped his green nose with the back of a green hand. As a matter of fact, he rather liked green. It was an aesthetic color, though he wished his own had been a more delicate, tender shade. Why couldn't one fight for Peace even if one had become green? he thought. But Smirkov, the head of Agitprop was a man of no sensibility, no finer feelings. As long as he, Plainkop, had delivered the goods, it was all right. The moment there was the slightest doubt about his ability… And then a sudden, delightful thought struck him. Why should he return? True, he had a wife and two children; but they could get along without him. They usually did; he was almost constantly travelling and when at home, worked at the Agitprop office on the night shift. One of his sons had once asked his mother: "Maminka, who's this angry man who's lunching with us on Sunday?" There was, of course, the question of money. It was a pity that the state hadn't withered away sufficiently so that men could do without it. To each according to his need… but he, Michael Plainkop, needed rather a lot. Monogrammed shirts and specially made cigarettes. And he had that interesting collection of erotica to which he was constantly adding at enormous expense… Money was the root of all evil, the Americans said and they should know — they had the most of it. Agitprop didn't pay too big a salary but there were breaks — a peace-fighter had opportunities which no ordinary citizen of the UPPR possessed and after all, a little civilized smuggling was breaking down the capitalistic survival of customs and excise taxes, another part of the all-too-slowly withering state. So if he didn't go back… He needed advice. And there was one man who could provide it. That hireling of imperialism, that loathsome hyena, that traitor to the working classes — his erstwhile friend and comrade across the road. He, too, had turned green,

so Smimosa's spies had reported — for he had his sources of information whether he was on the banks of the Hoogly or of the Danube — and might be amenable to a truce — or even a non-aggression pact. And why not? There had been precedents — at the time when Stalin so brilliantly outwitted the Western pluto-democracies by letting himself be fooled by the unlamented Adolf Hitler or when Comrade Khrushchev had discovered that the President of the United States hadn't got a cloven hoof… He was only following the glorious examples in the pantheon of the UPPR. He reached for the telephone — but before he could pick it up, it rang. "Michael?" a cautious voice said. "Andor?" "No names. Are you alone?" "Yes. Are you?" "Turn off your tape recorder." "I haven't got it running… I haven't even got one…" "Why, you must be slipping, Mimosa… I remember…" "Did you call me for auto-criticism or for something important?" "I want to see you." "Wouldn't that be — unwise? Your American friends might object…" "Not as much as your friends — if you have any. I'll take the risk." "Very well. Where?" "You come to my hotel. Now." "Oh no." "Still suspicious?" "Just sensible. Why don't you come over?" "Same here."

There seemed to be a deadlock. Then Andor Gosma had an idea: "You know that Jain temple… all that awful marble and Venetian glass? In Nehru Road?" "Yeah. I was dragged all over it — same as you, I suppose." "There's nobody there in the early afternoon. I'll meet you in an hour. O.K.?" "O.K., tovarish." In the early afternoon heat the marble burned through the soles of their sandals as Gosma and Plainkop emerged from their taxis. There was some shade along the ornamental pools in which no water remained but which were fringed by trees. They walked towards the middle one, stepping on tiptoes to minimize the white heat of the marble flagstones. As they met in the shade, they looked at each other and both grinned. Both had donned dark glasses and beards. The beards were red and had a Bakst-like effect against their green skins. Near the broad staircase leading to the temple, a lethargic caretaker was cleaning one of the ferocious lion-gods guarding the entrance. If he had noticed them, he would have probably dropped in a faint at their frightening appearance. But he never glanced over his shoulder. Plainkop lowered himself gingerly on a stone bench which was writhing with carvings. "You don't look too well, Andor," he remarked while he stared at a fearsome figure with an enormous head, curved tusks and protuberant majolica eyes. "It must be the strain of lying…" "I thought we'd suspended the slanging-match. Remember, no one's paying us for this." "Well — what's on your mind?" "You've been fired, haven't you?" "If you have — I may admit it." "All right, we both got the sack. Are you going back?" "My dear Andor, what a question. Of course…" "…of course you are not. Even though it's rumored that your beloved First Secretary

has the same color as we, that doesn't necessarily mean you're safe, Mimosa…" "Stop calling me… Never mind. Suppose I'm not going back—" "I'd have a proposition. You choose freedom and I'll tell them that I persuaded you — to see the light…" "You? you couldn't persuade a… a vegetarian that carrots are good for him! What cheek!" "But don't you see — if I sponsor you…" "You've been fired yourself — you're finished. So am I. Maybe you could produce me as a prize exhibit but that won't change their minds. And how do I know you wouldn't doublecross me? No, Mr. Gosma, I won't buy that one." "A pity. At the worst we could have both become professors in some college — say, Montana, it has a nice climate. Or would you prefer Arizona?" "Neither, thank you. I don't even want to write my memoirs." They were both silent, bitterly reflecting upon their situation. Then Gosma exclaimed: "I've got it! It's no use my joining your side — and my side wouldn't touch you, anyhow. Let's join the Greens." "The Greens?" "The Third Way. The Great New Force. The millions in-between Red and White. Down with the Browns, Blacks and all other reactionary colors! Long live the new, the world-embracing Greens!" "B-but…" Plainkop was way behind his long-time adversary, "they're scattered all over the world… they're not organized… or…" "Michael," said Gosma solemnly, "you and I ... we can organize them! That's all they need — some bright men with the proper know-how. Engineers of the soul. Stakhanovites of the spirit. Why, we can snowball this into something bigger than Marxism-Leninism!" "How? I'll be damned if I sit down and write a…" "Oh no. Books are getting obsolete anyhow. It's so simple. Green is good — and white is bad. Green is beautiful — black and brown are ugly. Green is for the rulers —

red is for the weaker brethren. Green is perfection. Green is love. Why, think of color television! Think of mass meetings with a basic motif of green! Every blade of grass, every tree, every mountain lake will be working for us!" Plainkop stared at Gosma. Then he took off his own beard, removed Andor's and kissed him on the left and the right cheek. "Andor!" he said, his voice shaking with emotion, "you are a genius!"

16 "THIS, MY FRIENDS," SAID THE MINISTER for Inferior Races, his voice halfchoked with emotion, "this is the moment of danger, the most terrible test of our great All-White Republic! It is for us to fight for our sacred principle — that blood is more important than color, that race is rooted not in surface pigmentation but in the ancestry and blood line of any human being. Unless we find an immediate solution to our problem — to differentiate clearly and swiftly between a green-white and a green-black — our heritage will be destroyed, our country driven into anarchy, our very name wiped from the earth. How can we call ourselves the All-White Republic when one third of our citizens are no longer white? But I ask you, ARE THEY NOT? Has the unfortunate change in their color made them different men? Do they deserve to be degraded to the level of the inferior races?" "Mr. Speaker," an Opposition member jumped to his feet, "does the Right Honorable Minister for Inferior Races propose that all green men should be classified white or all blacks should be classified green or the former whites who are now greens should be reclassified as whites and the former blacks who are now greens…" "The Honorable Member for Witwater must not play parlor games in this House," the Speaker interrupted with a frown. "This is sheer frivolity…" "Thank you, Mr. Speaker," the Minister said. "Certainly the situation is grave enough without splitting hairs, whatever color they may be. We have consulted a sufficient number of experts through the Race Preservation Board. They have recommended that there should be a registration of all citizens of our Republic, that each of them shall produce his birth certificate or a document signed by two of his relatives or close friends testifying to his original pigmentation. Thus we shall be able to establish a complete and reliable record of the essential whiteness or otherwise of each individual…" "Mr. Speaker," another member of the Opposition was on his feet, "is it proposed

that where no birth certificate exists — as it well may be in the majority of our Inferior Races — we rely on a simple declaration by members of the same race? This is opening the gates to trickery, abuse, falsehood. According to the newspaper reports thousands of former blacks are 'passing over.' Why, only the other day a fellow was ejected from my own club having been recognized by a senior member as an ex-mulatto… I move…" "The Honorable Member for Okfontein will kindly refrain from making a speech, instead of asking a question…" Again the Minister for Inferior Races nodded gratefully to the Chair. "It is not my intention to deal with the carping criticism of the unscrupulous Opposition," he continued. "We have considered all these difficulties and found them negligible. We propose to introduce a Bill that would authorize my department to identify each individual, permanently and indelibly, according to his race. This will put an end once and for all to any such unfortunate incident as the Member for Okfontein mentioned…" "You want to brand us like cattle?" cried an indignant voice. "Shame! Withdraw! Little Hitlers!" other voices rose. The Speaker managed to restore order after five confused minutes by threatening to suspend the session and expel the unruly members. The Registration (Marking of Origins) Bill was passed by a comfortable majority. Then, to bear out the law of Professor Pelargus (not to be confused with Parkinson's Law) the trouble started. Something went wrong. Something, as we said before, always does. There was a series of raids on registries, archives and other official buildings in which birth records were kept. In every case the raid was successful and the records — microfilmed' to save space — were destroyed. In most cases no duplicates existed. Tens of thousands burned their birth certificates; in some districts there were communal bonfires and the occasion was turned into a gay little street party with beer and dancing. Most of the 'Inferior Races' had no such papers in any case; it had been the All-White Republic's long-standing policy not to issue them except at great cost and with every possible delay. This was easy to understand — the black-skinned citizens who had suddenly become 'greenbods' did not want to revert to their inferior status. Many of them had moved and were already established in residential districts from which they had been banned before. Quite a few thousand emigrated to countries which had in the past banned all colored

immigration. Still, tens of thousands were rounded up and the 'indelible, permanent' marking — a plastic 'IR' monogram stamped painlessly and mechanically into the inside of the left forearm — was about to start. But once again organized resistance broke out; the machinery was wrecked, the 'registration' booths pulled down. Several hundred people were killed but the police were greatly handicapped by not knowing whether they were whacking white-greens or black-greens over the head — not to mention the intermediary shades. For — and this was the most distressing thing — the greens who had been originally full-blooded whites, the Master Race, the privileged millions in the All-White Republic were just as reluctant to submit to the marking — their monogram was simply 'W' — as the former blacks and browns. Mr. Justice Preuger, most regrettably, became one of the leaders of this recalcitrant group. "We are Greens. We do not want to become Whites again!" summed up his attitude and that of his followers. Even worse, the ex-whites began to fraternize shamelessly and treacherously with the ex-blacks. "This is more than skin-deep," wrote the Reverend Christopher Cornish, long banned from the All-White Republic but now, having turned green, illegally resident once more in his native country. "We defy the temporal authorities to prove that a man is less green because he used to be black or brown! We challenge the government to show that it is possible to discriminate between God's children whom he has made the color of His green pastures!" This was rank sedition and the Race Defense League acted immediately. Several exblacks were arrested and submitted to thorough tests. The six eminent and still white doctors conducting the tests emerged sharply divided. Three of them maintained that it was completely impossible to establish traces of racial characteristics in the 'greenbods' — the other three maintained the opposite opinion with equal vigor. The branding was suspended. Racial chaos reigned. Parliament was dissolved. Immediately the Greens proclaimed the formation of a new party and chose candidates to stand for every constituency. As the ex-blacks had been denied both passive and active franchise — they could neither vote nor be elected — the Government banned the candidates and declared the Party illegal. That was how the Green Revolution in Africa began. The Governors of Upper Louisiana and Lower Arkansas had met in the hunting lodge of the former, a luxurious hideaway in the Ozarks. They were the only two Southern Governors who had preserved their lily-white skins — the others had fallen by the wayside, victims of the 'vertification spontanee'.

"We must make a stand, Hew," the Governor of Upper Louisiana said, easing his oozing bulk into a cane chair. "Otherwise the niggers and this new poor green trash will combine — and where the hell does that leave us?" "No use asking Washington for help," agreed the Governor of Lower Arkansas gloomily. "They have their hands full. If we get into trouble, that guy in the White House won't lift a finger…" "Why should he? He's turned green himself. Never trusted the fella. Hew, this we must handle ourselves. Question is, how?" "Segregate, Sid. Segregate like hell. I don't care if someone's skin is black, brown, red or green — he ain't gonna be integrated. Not while I'm in the Mansion." "And how long d'you think you'd be if they get the upper hand? With the niggers the greenbods already got a majority in my state…" "We could issue a joint proclamation…" "I've issued three already. Nobody took no notice of them. I called out the militia. Only half of them turned up — the others were either 'greenbods' or somebody in their families was. That's the trouble, Hew. If a man's born black, he accepts it. But if something makes him black — or green — he kinda lacks humility. And there's nothin' as dangerous as an uppity nigger full of his own importance and Lincoln's speeches…" "I still got the legislature sewn up. Only three greenbods among them and they've all been given leave of absence." "I've got about twenty per cent — mine are more the outdoor type. You don't suppose the thing's catching, by the way?" "Naw, the doctors say you couldn't turn green if you wanted to — you had to be out in that rain…" "I feel kinda glad, Hew, I wasn't playin' golf that day. Matter of fact, I was playin' an indoor game with… no names, no pack-drill, eh? Went straight home and to bed — well, another bed. The fool girl — she's high yeller — went out into the garden and got caught in it. She's now green like grass and proud of it. Wouldn't have anything to do with me no more…" "So the greenbods, like mules, have no posterity. Leastways I hope so…" "How d'you know? There hasn't been time to find out how they're breeding. ..."

"Just about — with an eight months' baby. Fact is…" They had been sitting on the porch, companionable mint juleps within easy reach, a rugged and grandiose panorama of mountains spreading around them. Now a tall girl secretary came through the screen door, expertly wiggling her hips. But she was quite good at shorthand too. She carried a cablegram which she deposited in front of the Honorable Sidney Short. Then, as an afterthought, she picked up one of the frosted glasses and took a sip. "Thank you, Gloria," the Governor of Upper Louisiana said. "That will be all." The girl, a silver-blonde, pouted and left. She took the glass with her. Sid opened the cablegram languidly. But then his already purplish face turned beet red. "Why, I'll be buggered!" "Bad news?" asked his colleague. "You remember — I was just telling you — about Belle, my li'l piece of fluff? She's just had a baby boy — he's kinda small but he'll live…" "So? You must've sired a few bastards in your time, Sid. So did I. You can always get someone to father them — for an assistant postmaster's job or something cheap…" "But it says here…" The Honorable Sidney Short choked over it, "it says here… the brat's green. Same as his mother. But not the same as me." "Are you sure it's yours?" "Sure as hell. Belle was a good girl — after her fashion. Besides I'd two maids keeping tabs on her — they watched her day and night. I don't like anybody else sleeping in my bed — so I made certain she was exclusive…" "Well, so he's green and what does it prove?" "Don't be a fool, Hew. It proves that the doctors are wrong. It proves — for all I know this must be the first baby born since they fooled about with that C-Rocket — why it proves that a white man and a green woman produce green babies." "Sterilize them," said the Governor of Lower Arkansas without a moment's hesitation. "It's bad enough to have millions of greenbods for one generation. But if they breed…". "Sure, that would go down great with the parsons and the State Department. You and I would be impeached before we could say Fifth Amendment. I tell you, I've a good

mind to resign and take that job with the Ninth Mutual. They'd pay me twice my salary and I wouldn't have to work harder than I do now…" "You ain't gonna give in without a fight, Sid?" cried the Honorable Hew. "It ain't like you at all. You and me we gotta stick together and lick this thing…" "How?" There was a deep silence, deeper than the whole South. Then Sid sighed. "I suppose we could start a campaign — you know, declare that green is unAmerican, get a congressional committee to hold hearings — a little smear, a few TV talkathons — it worked before…" "Yeah, when a few thousand people were involved. Even if Joe what'shisname were alive… But now it's millions! And they're everywhere! The greenbods aren't a menace — they're a disaster!"

"As for this new species called greenbods," cried Aganawabe Makru, Supremo of the Silver Coast, "I refuse to consider them as human beings. If God Almighty had intended Man to be green, He would have made him green. But He didn't. This is a conspiracy of the so-called master race, the white folks, against the colored people, to confuse, discourage and finally, to oppress us. We, in this happy new state of the Silver Coast — Silver, my friends, not Green or White — will resist this wicked plot!" He stared down at the sea of upturned faces, all gratifyingly black, all shining with sweat. He held them in his coffee-colored palm and he gloried in his power. He hadn't the faintest idea what he was going to say next but he was pretty sure he'd find something to say. "Did they give us our independence?" he continued, now on familiar ground. "No — we had to wrest it from them, like pulling a wisdom tooth, inch by inch. When we had our. own country, did they help us to achieve all they had possessed for centuries? No, they bargained and haggled and we are still poorer than we ought to be. And now, this — this white man's juju, this evil attack on the one thing that unites us — our blackness. In their wicked white hearts there is nothing but envy and hate — because we've made a success of our glorious country. Does a white man change because his skin turns green? Does a black man become different because his skin is a new color? The answer to the first question is no — to the second it is yes!"

"Why?" cried a voice at the back of the crowd. "Why, Supremo?" Makru frowned. "Because I say so," he bellowed. "Because it is the truth." "But if a white man stays white with a green skin why doesn't a black one do the same?" the voice came again, a little closer. "Who are you?" demanded the Supremo, shading his eyes for the glare was too fierce to see beyond the first few rows. "What is your color?" "I have no color," the answer rolled back. "Sometimes I am white and sometimes I am black. And sometimes I might be green." "If you try your cheap witch doctor's tricks… you know very well we've nationalized all juju and no one without a license is allowed to…" "I'm not a witch doctor, Supremo. I'm just a man like any other. And you haven't answered my question!" But the bodyguards of the Supremo, in their silver uniforms, were already moving through the crowd, their batons swinging, their eyes swivelling watchfully. "I don't have to answer questions!" cried Makru. "I'm your Supremo! I speak for all of you — for you have chosen me!" "You don't speak for me. Not when you…" The voice died in a gurgle, followed by a brief yelp. Then there was silence. Makru nodded with satisfaction; the Silver Guards were very efficient. "And now, free and fraternal citizens of the Silver Coast," he continued, "let us ignore the carping ignorance of an imperialist agent. Our country shall not make common cause with the Greens. We will not give up our black heritage! Let the white and the no-longer-black fraternize — we must remain the bastion of the true Africa!" The dutiful applause rose in waves; Makru beamed. Then, with a little cough, he pitched forward on his face as silent bullets coming from the darkness behind him cut grooves into his ceremonial robes and his spotlessly black flesh.

17

BUBBLE, BUBBLE, TOIL AND TROUBLE — lights burning in secluded laboratories, liquids rising in test tubes and solids dissolving in the electronic ovens. The alchemists, the boffins, the High Wizards of science were at work turning night into day or day into night, spending money like water. In Moscow and on Long Island, Lukachevski and Pelargus, father and son, were getting deeper and deeper into chlorophyll and chlorophylogen. Lukachevski discovered quite a serviceable chemical compound to make trees grow leaves in the autumn and shed them in the spring — but this did not make the First Secretary of the UPPR one shade less green. Pelargus found a dermatological formula which, if applied to the skin in a solution of the oil of cloves, would remove the green pigmentation. Unfortunately it also produced a beautiful tint of blue — and even the misanthropic professor shrank from adding yet another color to the existing human ones. They were getting nowhere as fast as they could. The 'greenbods' — except in the All-White Republic and one or two smaller European countries — were still disorganized, bewildered and slightly ashamed of their color. (Not, of course, splendid extroverts like Miss Madge McMamie who was making two thousand dollars a week in Las Vegas billed as the 'Foam-born Venus, the Goddess of Green.') The birth of the Governor's bastard in Upper Louisiana was kept a secret — the Honorable Sid soon saw to that. But now, as the ninth month since the unfortunate launching of the C-Rocket began to draw to its close, there were other births. Soon the pattern emerged — and Pelargus couldn't discard his life-long habit of facing facts. Wherever the mother was a 'greenbod,' her child was born the same color. Wherever the father had been green, the infant came into the world with his mother's existing pigmentation. Where two greenbods mated, the result was a slightly darker but still unmistakably verdant skin. Something had happened that rattled Pelargus badly — something that had no place in dermatology or any other medical science. As if the genes and chromosomes had revolted against all the rules established laboriously since

Hippocrates. As if Nature had suddenly turned into a practical joker, tripping up greybeards and making mares' nests of the beds of virgins. For a man of science, especially of such eminence as the stork-like Professor, it is possible to say: "I do not know" — though it isn't easy. But it is a thousand times harder to admit, humbly: "I thought this was impossible. And yet it has happened." Pelargus grew haggard under the load so that his son, desperately eager, took pity on him. Edna hadn't left her husband, after all, for just before she was to depart, she had discovered that she was pregnant. That meant, as they knew, another green baby — and perhaps she was reassured by an unquestioned majority within the family. She and Marius did everything to distract Pelargus; but neither chess nor the abuse of his colleagues, especially of Simka, helped. The eminent neurologist was talking of a 'neuro-biological evolution' which had been latently present but was triggered off by the C-Rocket. Pelargus, injecting guinea pigs with his latest formula, cursed Simka and cursed the world that was never satisfied with what it had got. Why did Negroes try to straighten their kinky hair and small-bosomed women yearn, vainly, for fabulous vital statistics? Why couldn't the greenbods be satisfied with being green? According to Marius — for Pelargus never read the papers — the suicide rate rose steeply, especially in countries where the whites were in a minority. No wonder the Professor grew thin and listless and had to be persuaded afresh every day not to chuck the whole futile thing. Pelargus lost weight: Lukachevski gained fourteen pounds. He was as well-fed as a spare missionary fattened for the cannibal pot. And while he was kept at his task twelve hours a day (in flagrant breach of UPPR labor laws which decreed that seven hours' toil was the maximum) the rest of the time he spent pleasantly if unprofitably with somewhat overplump blondes and vodka. He even got a private roulette game going but as his partners never had much money it wasn't really fun. He, too, read about the green births and it distressed him considerably. Whatever universal panacea he was supposed to find for the 'green sickness' — and what kind of disease was this which left those stricken just as healthy as they had been before? — he saw no prospect of its being applied to the embryo. He had not seen his 'client' again; but now and then men of craggy exteriors and fish-cold eyes came to visit him in his laboratory. He quailed at their questions which were always to the point. The days passed and he made no progress. Just like Pelargus, thousands of miles away, he was sidetracked into unprofitable dead ends. Unlike Pelargus, he did not believe or even hope for success. But like the medieval alchemist, imprisoned in a gold-greedy prince's dungeons, he had little choice but to go on. Sometimes he felt like smashing his apparatus and screaming down the corridors: "Get it over! Shoot me, hang me, but make an end!" But the scream only echoed inside his brain. Sometimes he toyed with the idea of suicide; but he was too much of a coward and he was watched day and night by his assistants, several of whom were secret policemen.

Then, after getting a couple of brief extensions to the deadline set by the pudgy man in that dimly-lit office, one morning four of the rock-faced, bemedalled men marched into his room. Lukachevski was nursing a glass of vodka and longing for unconsciousness; he slept little these days. "Get up!" one of the man commanded him. Quaking, Lukachevski obeyed. "You… you're not…" he faltered. They forced him into his overcoat, put a hat on his perspiring head and marched him out into the corridor. "A week… three days only…" he pleaded, "I'm sure I can find it… only a day or two…" There was no answer. Outside, the usual closed car, the blinds drawn. At least they were taking him to execution in comfort. It was a long drive — surprisingly, he dozed off, as if in a deeply subconscious protest against the fear of death. The car stopped. He was pushed outside. He found himself on the apron of an airport. Maybe they'll drop me from a plane, without a parachute he thought and he already felt in his imagination, the sickening, disintegrating impact. There was a plane and it took off. But though he gripped the seat and glanced nervously towards the pilot's cabin, no one made a move to harm him. He was the only passenger. The plane landed after forty minutes. It was the same airfield from which he and the busy blonde had taken off. It seemed a long way to bring him just for execution. His hopes revived. The pilot, a young man, stopped at his seat. "You'll find a hovercar waiting for you, Comrade Lukachevski," he said. "It'll take you home. I hope you had a pleasant trip." "B-but…" "I've orders to take off immediately. If you don't mind…" The biochemist rose, hope and relief surging through him.

"You don't know…" he began. "I know nothing, Comrade. Nothing except how to fly a plane." It wasn't until he had been back for an hour in his dusty and cluttered cottage that Lukachevski switched on the rather old-fashioned TV set and heard of the sudden disaster that had overtaken the Union of Progressive and Peace-Loving Republics. The death of Comrade Kolia Nikoshin, First Secretary of the Union, fearless hero of the revolution, leader in peace and war, had shaken all peace- and progress-loving citizens to the core. He was to be buried in the Mausoleum next to Lenin and Stalin. The Old Party Guard would stand watch at his coffin for a week in suitable relays. Condolences were pouring in, already three memorial prizes had been established and there was to be a special competition to overfulfill work-norms by at least two hundred per cent throughout the Union to honor Comrade Nikoshin's immortal achievements. Not a word about color. Not a word about the manner of his death. But Lukachevski wasn't particularly interested in such minor details. His taskmaster was dead. For the moment no one wanted him to do any work — and he still had enough money for a couple of months to live on. By that time, he was sure, this whole business would be forgotten — or the world would get used to the greenbods. He was alive and Comrade Nikoshin was dead. It was both surprising and gratifying. And now he could get down to some serious drinking with a clear conscience.

18

MIMOSA WAS SHIVERING. THEY had landed at the Global Skyport of New York in a blizzard and during the brief walk to immigration and customs his delicate green skin was beginning to turn blue with cold. He was still shivering when the sudden heat struck him inside the building. He had never been to America before and though Andor, his new ally and associate, had prepared the way, smoothing all the obvious obstacles, he felt bewildered and doubtful. Peace he knew all about — but to be an ex-Communist was a new career. Besides, he wasn't allowed to practice his new profession. Firmly and with finality Gosma had told him that he would have to remain incognito for the time

being — no press conferences, no television interviews, no appearances in front of Congressional Committees. The market had been shrinking steadily for books and articles, revealing the evils of totalitarian regimes; only a few dozen were published each year and though Plainkop had his title ready — 'The Peace Racket' — his companion explained that they had to save all their efforts and energies for the new cause. "We won't be antis," he declared. "We'll be pros — in both senses of the word. For heaven's sake, Mimosa, let's do this thing right." "But if I had some advance publicity, it would be easier…" "Not if it's the wrong kind of publicity. They're sick and tired of prodigal sons, my friend, and of black sheep that have seen the light. You'd be twenty years behind the Times, both in London and New York." Mimosa swallowed his disappointment. They only stayed one day in Manhattan and took off next day for Washington where Andor had some back expenses to collect. Again Mimosa was kept in his hotel room where he began to write poetry, always a bad sign. They reached Los Angeles, the biggest city on the American continent — its merger with San Francisco was to be decided by a referendum in a few weeks' time as the suburbs of the two metropolises were now only a few miles apart — on a bright Monday morning. Gosma, who had been a frequent visitor to the City of Angels, chose a small apartment house off Sunrise Boulevard (its name had been changed from Sunset as this was considered to be unsuited to the biggest and most optimistic city in the world) and installed his friend with a supply of food and liquor, a TV set and a flock of magazines while he proposed to go off and make 'certain inquiries'. "But why can't I come with you?" demanded Plainkop petulantly. "I want to see things, I want to talk to people…" "Not yet, Michael. Not for a day or two…" "Say," Mimosa brightened, "why don't we try to sell my story to the pictures?" He caressed his silky green beard. "I bet we could get a million. And I could play myself…" Gosma gave him a pitying look. "Wouldn't touch it." "Why not?" Plainkop was truly indignant. "You must be twenty years out of date, Mickey. Don't you know that all studios are

run now by the advertising agencies? They only make pictures which the sponsors approve — and the sponsors won't touch anything controversial — and every feature film these days is just a few spectacular shots between commercials. Twice a year they make a 'public service' film without ads — but those are always remakes of 'Ben Hur', 'The Ten Commandments' or something Biblical…" Deflated, the spindly little man submitted. "Still, I'd like to try," he muttered in sullenly weak revolt. "You never can tell." "We've got more important things to do. Tonight, if all goes well, I'll take you to the Verdigris Temple. Maybe we'll even meet the great Gloriana herself…" "Who's she?" "Our way to the stars. Our 'Open Sesame'. I've thought it all out, Mickey. We need a cadre, a basis of operations. We can't have an army or a news agency. The next best thing is a religion. You and I are going into the prophet business. Maybe we'll even end up as Great Green Gods…" He left before Plainkop could ask any more questions. Mimosa sighed; then he switched on the 3-D color TV and began to watch a super-Western in which the horse psychoanalyzed the cowboy and the heavy turned out to be an unfortunate juvenile delinquent who had been frightened, in his infancy, by Buffalo Bill. Andor Gosma came back two hours later, grinning with self-satisfaction. "I've had a look at the place. She's good, that woman, she must be grossing a couple of a million a year. But she needs internationalization. She has no idea of world-wide dialectics and the delegation of responsibility. She needs us, Mickey, she needs us badly." "You said you'd take me with you!" complained Mimosa. "There was an afternoon service — I couldn't miss the opportunity. But the big show's always in the evening. We'll go together." They did. Gloriana was preaching from her jasper-green plastic altar, encased in a glittering emerald dress, long green gloves and with green pancake make-up on. She was "Greeness-in-Itself" personified. The sermon she preached was a farrago of ill-digested Dr. Hosselson, spiced with some faint echoes of Aimee Semple McPherson and diluted with an ounce or two of Billy Graham. Plainkop and Gosma, veterans of a thousand speeches and rallies, listened with a critical ear but the "disciples-in-green" received it with thunderous applause and appreciative howls. They bellowed 'Green Grow the

Rushes, O' while the electronic organ thundered and green doves descended from the ceiling carrying olive branches dyed apple-green for better effect. After the meeting the two men went round to Gloriana's office. They never got inside. Promptly and firmly her two bodyguards, recruited from Muscle Beach, ejected them. Gloriana wasn't interested in assistants, collaborators or deputies. She was running the show alone and, though she paid generous salaries, she didn't intend to share the net with anybody. "So it wasn't such a good idea," snivelled Mimosa, his sensitive dignity hurt far more than his body. Andor was quite unabashed. "It was the wrong approach. But she always goes off to her beach house Sunday night. It's empty during the week — so we'll get in there on Saturday. I think I know how to bring down Miss Gloriana Greenwood — right down to earth. Leave it to me, Mimosa…"

19

THAT NIGHT IN APRIL FOLLOWING the C-Rocket's failure the Watussis were dancing in the Mountains of the Moon, dancing the immemorial Rain Dance. Nature's perfect aristocrats, they contorted and shook their seven-foot frames with perfect abandon. Not one of them ever did a stroke of work in his life; but no other aristocracy, not even the French of the eighteenth century, worked so hard at its pleasures as the master-race of Africa. With them their serfs and laborers danced, their pigmy warriors; while their womenfolk sat on the sidelines, clapping in the wild rhythm, grinned in anticipation of the drinking and love-making that would end the dance. The rain came, the gentle green rain and they danced on, soaked and whipped by the

thick rods of water, exulting that for once their danced prayers had been answered promptly. Within two days they were all a gleaming, beautiful green. It was lucky that it had happened to them at the same time; for they had the habit of killing anyone who was different from their kind, killing swiftly and mercifully, for any difference was alien and therefore evil. But overnight green became the universal, the ruling color. They gloried in it. They had little traffic with other tribes and even less with the white folk; they believed that, as usual, they had been the Chosen People, selected for a special bounty of the gods. They dyed their weapons and cooking pots green, their houses and even the nests in which the pigmies slept; and the few old people who had stayed in the huts and had therefore missed the Green Rain, were put out of their misery gently and swiftly. To the Watussis came two messengers, journeying for months to avoid the white man's attention and the curiosity of the authorities. One came from the Cape, telling how the black that had become green were persecuted and oppressed by their white masters, how they had risen at long last but were without leaders. The other came from the Silver Coast where the assassination of Makru had started a civil war between the Greens and the Blacks, which the Blacks were winning. The Watussis listened to the messengers who were green like themselves. The only things the giant tribe liked were war and feasts; and war had been a rare pastime since the coming of the whites and their enforced peace. But now this peace was shattered; and there were only a few marginal strips of Africa where the white man still ruled. So they decided to send help — both to the Cape and the Silver Coast. There were only a few thousand of them left for they had inbred for centuries and the noble strain was running thin. For many years now their actual fighting had been done by others; it was beneath their dignity to kill except to do justice and exercise their feudal power. This, however, was different. They had believed themselves to be the only Chosen Green People; now they heard that they had millions of allies, brothers-ingreenness. And so they divided and set out in two large columns with their cattle, their women, their mercenaries and their pigmies. One column made for the Silver Coast, the other for the Cape. Their arms were primitive — a few old machine guns, a bazooka or two, the flotsam and jetsam of an ancient war that had never touched their homeland — but they had the strength of the belief in their invincibility and a powerful ally in surprise. Like lemmings running blindly towards a lake, river or sea, they plunged through the forests,

the mountains and the deserts. Their slogan was simple enough: "Kill All Who Are Not Green! Green Rules, all Other Colors Are Slaves." They were in no hurry but travelled in leisurely stages, on foot and in battered jeeps, some riding on the few horses and donkeys still left in Africa. No one stopped them; though as the news of their coming spread, tens of thousands of trembling and confused whites and blacks who hadn't the luck to have acquired a green skin hid in the bush. Some pleaded for mercy and were graciously spared to swell the army of slaves and servants the Watussis trailed behind them like a comet's tenuous tail. They reached the frontiers of the All-White Republic and the Democratic Federation of the Silver Coast at the same time. They camped in dense jungle on both borders and sent some of their scouts ahead. Scouts and agents, messengers and seditious agitators, they mingled with the people, infiltrated the cities and the reservations, penetrated the prisons and concentration camps. Soon some of them began to drift back to the Watussi camp. They brought news of confusion and desultory fighting, of divided councils and many outrages. The AllWhite Republic had been split into four factions. There were the Whites who clung to their tattered beliefs of superiority. They controlled the arsenals, the newspapers, television and most of the public transport. There were the Greens who had been Whites and who still felt themselves to be white — most of them carried a badge which proclaimed proudly: 'I AM WHITE' — in spite of the incontrovertible fact of their color. There were also a few thousand former blacks who had embraced the dead Makru's creed and wanted to remain black in their actions and beliefs even though their pigmentation had changed. And finally, making up about one third of the population, there were the greenbods, ex-whites and ex-blacks and ex-browns who felt that they were different and somehow superior to all others. The Whites were wary of allying themselves with the ex-White Greens while the greenbods were more or less united; between the two main opposing camps the ex-blacks still insisting on their blackness were the weakest and most bewildered. The Watussis offered the greenbods an alliance and this was accepted, with some reservations. There was to be no killing of whites or blacks unless the greenbods and their allies were attacked first. The Watussis were to leave the Cape once victory had been achieved; their fighting forces were to be placed under Cape greenbod command. There was a week's furious bargaining for the Watussis did not take kindly to subordination; but during this week the greenbods had captured half a dozen arsenals and the All-White administration was disintegrating in most places. So in the end the invaders accepted the terms with the mental reservation that agreements had been broken before. When G-Day came, the first thing the greenbods did was to cut all telephone cables,

destroy all electronic communications so that the All-White Republic was suddenly isolated from the rest of the world. The Whites had been frantically appealing for aid — to Washington, to London, to Moscow — but had only vague and dilatory replies. Every single country had a large minority of greenbods and white supremacy, while desirable, was threatened by innumerable Fifth Columns. Greenness declared itself but no witch hunt could establish which greenbod had a white soul — if he had one at all. It was a short war and neither side used atomic weapons. The All-Whites didn't dare; the greenbods didn't know how.

20

ON SATURDAY ANDOR GOSMA AND his unwilling accomplice broke into Gloriana's beach house. Mimosa's teeth were chattering; he was a man of peace basically because he was a coward. But Andor's enthusiasm nothing could damp. They only found a deaf old housekeeper in the basement; they tied him up, not too uncomfortably and locked him in the play room which was large and filled with some peculiar apparatus no child (or adult) would ever dream of playing with. Gloriana arrived at midnight on Sunday. The two housebreakers were well out of sight. Their only danger was that the Prophetess of Green would decide to have a late night workout; but she went straight to her bedroom which occupied the entire first floor of the split-level house. Her bodyguards slept partly in the annex, partly on the floor above. They made a routine check of the grounds and then retired. Silence wrapped the house and the garden in a cosy cocoon. As the head of the First Church of Verdigris emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in an emerald-green robe, she found herself face to face with Gosma while Mimosa was strategically placed at the only other door. "Don't scream," the ex-Freedom Fighter said. "It wouldn't help!"

"What d'you want?" demanded Gloriana, not showing the slightest inclination to scream. "I don't keep any money out here — and you couldn't get away with it, anyway…" "Oh, it isn't money we want," grinned Gosma. "Look, boys, the last time I was raped, I enjoyed it. So don't try to threaten me…" "Nobody's threatening you, Gloriana. All we'd like is a deal. We want to suggest a partnership…" She sat back on her haunches, looking at them and laughing her head off. "Partners? I need no partner except the Lord. He's a sleeping partner too and don't take a cent from the net … Now, get out." Andor didn't mind her derision; Mimosa winced. He was sick of this whole crazy scheme. Maybe, he thought, if he pretended that he'd forsaken the Cause of Peace merely to discover what the pluto-democratic hyenas were up to… maybe he'd only be sent to a fertilizer factory for a few months and gradually he could work his way back into Party favor. Maybe— "Go on," Gosma said. "Call your thugs. I dare you." Gloriana stopped laughing. She suddenly clutched the robe around her neck. "Now, listen…" "Why don't you call them?" Andor taunted her. "If you're that hard up, kids, I could help you out with a couple of grand. And a oneway ticket to wherever you want to go…" With a sudden, snake-like movement, the plump, bald little man struck. He tore the robe from her throat, forcing it down until her breasts in their green brassiere were free. "Your white's showing, Miss Greenwood," Gosma grinned. "I thought so. If your skin were green, you'd have shown more of it at the Temple. And your pancake — it was just a bit too perfect." "You… you little rat…" "You can't call your boys, can you, Gloriana?" Andor continued, rocking on his

heels, enjoying himself more and more. "The High Priestess of Greenness — who's really off-white! You wouldn't care for them to see you — and I'd make sure that you hadn't time to look greenly decent…" Gloriana's face crumpled. She had been so certain of herself, she'd got away with it for months and months — this was an unexpected blow below the garter belt. "You… you wouldn't," she bawled. "You wouldn't tell?" "With pleasure and conviction," Gosma assured her. "Unless we make a deal. Now." "What kind of a deal? My overheads are killing me and . . ." "Oh, we don't want money," the bald little man reassured her. "At least, not from you. There're others— millions of them—who'll supply it. And you'll get your cut, don't worry . . ." The High Priestess of Greenness-in-Itself readjusted her robe. She lit a cigarette— Mimosa, for want of having anything to contribute, supplied the light—and sat down, crossing her legs which were still slim and shapely. "Well, what's on your mind, boys?" They told her. Andor Gosma and Michael Plainkop had one thing in common: they both believed that one should only steal from the best sources. Nothing but genius was a fit victim for plagiarism. They had practised this principle for many years by the clever use of paraphrase and quotation. It worked every time. Mimosa had even developed the counter-plagiarism or 'theft-by-attribution' — he would trot out one of his dreary and shabby clichés and make it decisive, important and brand new by ascribing it to Lenin, Aragon or any other approved Communist deity. (He was always well-up in the partyline situation, so that he knew who was in and who was out of favor.) They used this time-tested method when they drew up the basic principles of the Green Supremacy Campaign. It was way above Gloriana's head. But that night in the beach house had ended with perfect understanding. Andor who would sleep with any woman on the right side of sixty — though he really preferred what had been quaintly called 'nymphets' in the middle of the century — sealed the compact by giving Gloriana a pleasant tumble in the hay. She had been living a dedicated, virginal life ever since she had founded her religion — for she liked to make love in a blaze of light and how could she have betrayed her lack of greenness to a lover? Now the need for discretion was over — at least as far as her new associates were concerned and both had a pleasant time.

Mimosa, somewhat sulky, retired to a lonely bed and dreams of profitable greatness. The two new brainstrusters of the 'Greenness-in-Itself movement had an easier task than in their previous line of business. They were not restricted by Agitprop or any other propaganda organization; they were their own masters and this was an intoxicating, heady experience for them. They could roam over the entire field of human thought, picking flowers as they listed, gathering what served their purpose best. The result was a peculiar mishmash of old and new, of obviously stolen and cleverly adapted. Their first victim was that misanthropic analyst of the human and sub-human mind, the late George Orwell:

"GREEN IS GOOD. GREENNESS IS ALL. ALL BROTHERS AND SISTERS OF OUR FAITH ARE GREEN. BUT SOME ARE GREENER THAN OTHERS. IF YOUR HEART IS GREEN YOU WILL NEVER GROW OLD. THE WORLD BELONGS TO THE GREEN-MINDED. GREEN LOVES GREEN. GREENNESS RULES THE GLOBE. LIVE GREEN. FIGHT FOR GREENNESS. THINK GREEN."

These were the huge signs that first appeared within the Temple of Verdigris and then spread, on huge posters, all over the city, the state, the country. Donations were pouring in since Andor and Mimosa reorganized the Sanctuary of Greenness. Gloriana became a mere figurehead — and gradually not even that. For during a brief visit to Las Vegas, Mimosa discovered Madge McMamie. She was still appearing at the 'Green Flamingo' and was still rolling them in the aisles. She made a thousand dollars a day from the sale of her pictures — in becoming green nudity — alone. Mimosa came, saw and was conquered. The New Religion of Green needed a goddess. Male divinities were too austere. There had to be a symbol which was the fulfillment of a wishdream. "You, too, can become green like I!" — that's the feeling such a Goddess should give every follower of the New Faith. Gloriana was quite

unsuitable for this role. Her greenness had to be genuine; it had to stand up to the fiercest spotlight, the closest examination. Madge was more puzzled than attracted by the silky-bearded, soft-spoken man who came to her dressing room, preceded by a huge arrangement of green orchids and carnations. "You're fit to be a goddess," he told her without any preliminaries. She giggled. "That's a new gimmick. Who are you? Moses?" "Miss McMamie, I've a very simple proposition." Plainkop was deadly serious. "But first tell me — what d'you want? What d'you expect from life? What's your wildest, most extravagant dream?" "Why, I've got it, honey." Madge was quite amused by his intensity and boyish, naive charm. "Good health, all the money I can spend, any boy friend I care to pick … I'm getting three proposals a week, fifty-two weeks a year. What more can a girl want?" "Immortality." Now she laughed in his face. "Don't tell me you've found some miracle drug to make me live forever!" "Your name. Your beauty. You wouldn't like to live forever unless you stayed as young and beautiful as you are, would you?" "How should I know? You're a long time dead. And there's plenty of time to think about… about getting old…" "How would you like to own this place — this whole city — maybe a whole country?" "You are a little crazy, ain't you? What would I do — owning the United States? Or even Las Vegas?" "You would have one thing you lack — power. You could tell people what to do — and they'd have to obey…" "Aw, honey, I'm not cut out to be a dictator. Besides, I wouldn't even know what to

tell people. Live and let live, I always believed. And politics always bore me stiff." "This isn't politics, Madge… Of course we'd have to find you a different name — something solemn and yet glamorous. You'd have to be reborn…" "Look, you're very sweet and thanks for the bootiful flowers — but I've got a show to do and…" "You like giving a show? You enjoy it?" "Well, I've got something to sell and people love it. I love it, too, when they look at me — to make them kinda excited…" "But how'd you like to have the whole world look up to you — to become the most celebrated woman in the universe?" "Gee, I don't know… I'd like it fine, I guess." This was her first weakening and Mimosa pounced at once. He tempered his poetic imagination to Madge's simplicity; the scheme he unfolded was clear and breathtaking. She didn't believe a word of it but that didn't particularly matter. Andor Gosma had supplied his partner with sufficient cash to make even the eyes of the 'Green Venus' pop when he pulled out a wad. He counted out about half of it. A hundred thousand. "This is just a small advance… But money means nothing," he said, a slightly motheaten Mephistopheles tempting a none-too-virginal Gretchen. "You'll be richer than the Mint — and you'll have the power to make others as rich… or as poor… as you want." Madge's streak of meanness was a very narrow one. She was too indolent and easygoing to hate. But there were still one or two people in the world whom she would have 'liked to show where they got off.' So another hour — Mimosa waited until her show was over — and her weakening became a total collapse. She took the money, locking it in a small wall safe, her tongue peeping between her bright green lips as she tried to remember the combination and then gave Plainkop a big, hearty, sisterly kiss. "I'm your goddess, Moses," she laughed. "Just give me the low-down. When am I to be reborn?" "Next week. That'll be National Green Day. Maybe we can make it the start of the International Year of Greenness. Your plane will be waiting to take you to California. The rest is up to us…"

Half a dozen high-powered press agents were working overtime in the intervening nine days. Street corner orators, TV commentators, and gossip columnists all did their stuff. It was a big story — maybe bigger than proclaiming the End of the World. "GLORIANA TO RIVAL VENUS," the headlines proclaimed. "HIGH PRIESTESS OF CALIFORNIA SECT TO DIE AND BE RESURRECTED IN OCEAN," was a fuller one. "PUBLIC SUICIDE," was a sour note. "CAN POLICE STOP GLORIANA DROWNING HERSELF?" The police could but wouldn't. They were told that it was a publicity stunt and no one would come to any harm. And there were enough greenbods in the Mayor's and D.A.'s offices (even a few worshippers at the First Temple of Verdigris) to smooth away any difficulties. National Green Day dawned bright and warm. There was no more smog than usual and none down at the beach. The papers spoke of a million turnout; there must have been certainly a hundred thousand present. They blackened the shore, stood in serried rows on the piers, climbed on the top of beach houses, trespassing cheerfully. Hovercraft droned overhead. There was a stout fence protecting the section of the beach where the Great Sacrifice of Gloriana was to take place and it was also guarded by a hand-picked bodyguard of her disciples. Gosma and Plainkop were playing host in the large tent which had been set up for the press and which was lavishly stocked with drink and food but they said very little. "This is your story, boys," Andor said with the quite plausible American accent he had cultivated over the past months. "You figure out all your angles — we wouldn't dream of telling you what to write…" There were color TV cameras, the usual battery of photographers, a couple of newsreel cameramen and the full orchestra of the Temple, playing the 'theme-hymns' of the Cult of Greenness in a specially arranged medley. At twelve o'clock sharp Gloriana arrived in a transparent emerald-green car. Her make-up was perfect — Andor had taken special care that it should be — and she was encased from neck to sole in a skintight green dress, cunningly designed to hide all the sags and bulges. She emerged from the car and a green carpet was laid to the water's edge. She had a handmike and the amplifiers carried her throaty voice clearly to every member of the crowd: "This is not an end, my friends," she said. "This is a great, glorious, green beginning. Whatever I do, I do for the Good of Greenness which is All. Let us pray." Gloriana was great at praying. She prayed for the world, the United States, the State of California and the souls of all greenbods, whoever and wherever they may be. She

prayed for the Green Light that would triumph over the Red and the Amber. She expressed unexceptionable sentiments about the Deity, After-Life and Faith, Hope and Charity. She was blessed by an old man with a venerable green beard (an ex-Santa Claus, veteran of many a department store Christmas). Then, as the orchestra played a slow, solemn march, she started along the green carpet, walking slowly, in time with the music. The disciples raised their voices in a hymn:

"Life is green and Green is Life. Green conquers all hate and strife. Gloriana!"

Proud and erect, the High Priestess of the First Church of Verdigris stepped along the carpeted path to the water's edge. Her green face shone with mystic happiness. The choir continued:

"Life is green and Green is Life, Green makes soul and body thrive. Glory — Gloriana!"

The spectators, crowding forward, surging against the barriers, squealed and shouted in climactic excitement. Now her green toes touched the first wavelet, flicking lazily at the" sand. The choir was jubilant and in full cry:

"Life is Green and Green is Good We are Green in Brotherhood— Glory — Glory — Gloriana!"

Bubbles were bursting around her feet, the color of the breakers changed as carefully placed underwater pipes discharged their green dye. She was in this sparkling, corruscating, swirling greenness — up to her ankles… up to her knees. The sea bottom levelled out here so that for a hundred yards she moved ahead, in a straight line, as if on a pier or concrete path. (Indeed, there was a gently sloping underwater trail which she had to follow in order to reach the exact spot of submerging.) The multitude was cheering, booing, screaming, jumping and waving like mad. The choir started the hymn from the beginning, the orchestra was blowing and scraping away lustily. The hovercrafts whirled their blades, sirens sounded — it was a most satisfactory pandemonium with flash-bulbs popping, cameras grinding away. Andor and Mimosa, watching their work, had some trouble avoiding smug grins in place of becoming righteous and solemn expressions. She was up to her waist in water now. She stopped for a moment, turned towards the shore and waved. She faced the ocean again, took a dozen or so steps — and disappeared. Suddenly there was dead silence except for the planes and the soft whirr of the cameras. It seemed as if a hundred thousand people held their breath to escape drowning. For a long minute this silence lasted and sound returned gradually, as lungs released pent-up air. Women started to cry, there was laughter to relieve the nervous tension, a few children threw high-pitched questions at their parents and were hushed instead of answered. And now a green glow spread at the exact spot where Gloriana had disappeared. At first it was pale like the tender spring leaf of beech trees; slowly and with infinite shadings it deepened until it was the deep green of emeralds and the lushest of lush grass just before it begins to turn sere. And now the glow became fire; green flames burst from the sea, sparks and flashes erupted, casting a fiery and ominous yet somehow beautiful greenness over a large expanse of the water. It was now a fierce and almost unbearable glow that dazzled many so that thousands turned their heads, lowered their eyes. A soft, gentle, gradually rising sound spread with the green fire, music that was mysterious and magical, a slow rhythm with a subdued beat underneath. And even those who had been half-blinded had to look again. Slowly, with a measured, infinite slowness, something was rising from the waves. The green fire died down until it was only a tender background tint. Against it she rose, naked and green, green and naked, Venus, the Foam-Born Goddess. She seemed to float over the water as she approached the shore — or did the beach advance to meet her? it

was difficult to say — gleaming perfection from her flowing green hair to her small feet with the pearly green toes; for now she was complete, her birth accomplished. There was nothing obscene in her nakedness as she raised her arms and spread them, her delicately moulded breasts straining, her shapely thighs outlined as if by a sculptor's chisel on her living flesh instead of marble. The crowd went wild. Now the Goddess smiled, her teeth gleaming, her smile enveloping them all. Gloriana was dead. Gloriana was reborn — or rather, Madge McMamie had risen from the sea to reign over her world.

21

GET THEE BEHIND ME, WHIMSY — but to quote Horace Traubel: "Dear world, how are you this morning?" Dear, dear, green world, how's tricks? Pretty much the same, I guess — keeping up the good old average of having only one week's peace in forty years since Christ was born? Whirling with your Pelarguses and Lukachevskis, your Glorianas and Plainkops, your First Secretaries (deceased) and Governors, your civil servants and, let us delight in her, your Madge McMamies? Let's have a look at you — and don't put out your tongue. All the trouble is right on your skin, only a few miles deep and can be seen with the naked eye, no microscope nor even a magnifying glass needed. The insects that infest you and the parasites battening on your forests and oceans, mountains and meadows look very tiny from the top of a skyscraper. They could be brushed off so easily and killed without DDT. A few dozen degrees more heat or more cold will destroy them; a little more or less atmospheric pressure will burst or deflate them as if they were crushed bugs. There was a comparatively wise one among them who put it all into the mouth of a cockroach who could use a typewriter; it was all about a toad named warty bliggens:

a little more conversation revealed that warty bliggens considers himself to be the center of the said universe the earth exists to grow toadstools for him to sit under the sun to give him light by day and the moon and wheeling constellations to make beautiful the night for the sake of warty bliggens

The inquisitive cockroach asked warty just exactly what he had done to deserve all this from the Creator of the Universe.

ask rather said warty bliggens what the universe has done to deserve me

What indeed? Dear world, they are fighting in Africa — as if you didn't know. The Watussis and their allies have driven the All-Whites into a few cities and are busy massacring all those who haven't been quick enough. A thousand miles away, on the Silver Coast, the blacks are doing the same, with considerable relish, to the greenbods and the few whites who stayed behind believing in universal brotherhood. It is amazing how much damage you can do to the human body even without poison gas, forty-ton tanks or hydrogen bombs. Such killing is far more personal than the modern type; and therefore more enjoyable. It is somewhat more risky but not unduly so if you have numbers and the element of surprise on your side. And war is never as stubborn and vicious as it is in those cases when you haven't the faintest idea what you're fighting for. Peace aims are for the weaklings and the confused intellectuals; how much simpler to kill for the sake of killing, for the satisfaction that you are the killer and others the victims. The Watussis had the vague idea that they wanted to remain bosses as they had been for a thousand years and that, having changed color, it was necessary to exterminate all those who were of a different pigmentation. But their mercenaries and allies, their pigmies, Bantus and Basutos didn't really want to be bosses — they just wanted to be left alone, to have two square meals a day and occasionally spit in the. eyes of their white masters. Now the white masters had suddenly tumbled from their pedestals and they were just as vulnerable as the 'inferior races'. That was a discovery that had been made by the Yellow Men decades before; but the news travelled slowly and had never got to the All-White Republic. On the Silver Coast there had been at the start a slogan: 'Revenge Makru!' It was generally believed that the Dictator had been murdered by the greenbods though nobody had ever found any proof for this. The slogan had long been forgotten; but green was a red rag to the black bulls who gored all in their path. After a few weeks some news began to leak out in spite of the destruction of all communications. A plane had tried to land in Argenta, the capital of the Silver Coast, and had been attacked by half-naked men with clubs and spears. It took off hurriedly, cutting a bloody swathe through their ranks. A cruise liner, putting in at Cape Town, was about to dock when the sounds and smells of battle were wafted over the water; hastily the captain •reversed his engines and beat all hell out of the harbor. In the UPPR where the First Secretary's untimely and sudden death was mourned by three hundred million people — including those who had shot him in the back — the greenbods were gradually rounded up and transported to the Arctic Circle. Here the camps, some of which had been abandoned during the cycles of Thaw and Frost that marked the history of the Republic, were re-opened. Such upheavals had been fairly

common ever since the nineteen-twenties. To the efficient and large security forces it made little difference whether they had to jail or deport millions because they mistakenly clung to a few acres of private property or because they refused to believe that hell was paradise or because they had changed color. The mechanics were the same. True, the sudden changes in the fortunes of individuals were more striking and numerous than in the previous purges; many a veteran party member, survivor of a dozen shifts in eternal friendships and irrevocable treaties, found himself in the tundra just because he had been out in the rain when he should've taken shelter. At the same time the UPPR papers were expressing their full support for the 'war of liberation in Africa' and had offered the Watussis (and the revengers of Makru) arms and money. Unfortunately the mission which Moscow dispatched consisted entirely of white people and they were stabbed to death shortly after their arrival without having any opportunity to express their fraternal feelings for all downtrodden Africans. The UPPR considered, briefly, sending a punitive expedition but this would have been contrary to the current foreign policy; instead the Politburo decided to write off the seven members of the mission, give them a symbolic funeral (the bodies not being available) in Stalin Square and blame the pluto-democracies for the murders. The real fight was going on behind the closed doors of the committee rooms and in the dachas and offices of the hierarchy. The First Secretary had been replaced by an Acting Deputy but no one knew who would be his final and permanent successor. There were a dozen candidates for the post, most of them self-chosen. In the meantime the greenbods died like flies and the proletariat's dynamic revolution was building socialism like mad. The ideas of the Governors of Upper Louisiana and Lower Arkansas found surprisingly little support even in the Deepest South of the United States. It was a different matter to champion the segregation of recognizable blacks whose color, even with its infinite shadings, established their obvious inferiority — and quite another kettle of Mississippi catfish to apply the same measures to one's best friend who had become a greenbod through no fault of his own. There were a few old-time revivalist preachers who maintained that this was the Wrath of God singling out the proud, the sinful and the damned; but as there were two bishops, one descendant of General Lee and innumerable large and generous contributors to church funds among the 'New Green' this view did not find particular favor even among the diehards. As the months passed the greenbods, whether they had been black or white, acquired a sort of indeterminate position — not quite 'in', definitely not 'out'. Country clubs and similar institutions were split right down the middle — some of them admitting them, a few cancelling the memberships of the greenbods by various and generally transparent excuses. It was too early for Gloriana's sacrificial death and rebirth to spread east and south though the ripples were already casting wider and wider circles.

In Boston a museum curator of fossils arose and declared that in any case Man had been green in distant pre-historic times just after he had crawled ashore from the primeval ooze; so why fuss when we were simply reversing evolution — and that only skin-deep? This theory was immediately and furiously attacked by a dozen eminent scholars who had just as little proof for their arguments as the fossil expert had for his. Naturally it was always easier to quarrel about theories than about facts; provided, of course, there are any facts about which scientists agree. Election year was coming up and with it the usual male beauty contest during which candidates parade throughout the United States, displaying promises instead of ankles, principles instead of hips and beliefs instead of bosoms. And here Andor Gosma and Michael Plainkop came into their own. As for your Europe, dear world, she was just as delightfully disunited as ever. There was an unusually high proportion of debs and sub-debs and ex-debs among the British greenbods — the ancient tradition of outdoor dances ending in a soaking hadn't changed in these damp isles — and so green became madly, excitingly 'U'. A large cosmetics firm which had changed its name to Hermione Greenstein's had developed a new make-up called 'Green-leaf which transformed — alas, only temporarily — the palest white into dazzling verdancy. It also caused, if applied too frequently, dizziness and shingles; but these were small prices to pay for being in the swim. White became square; only green was hip. The U-set invaded bowling greens and no schoover (the latest combination of hover-car and scooter) was bought if it wasn't green. This was accompanied by an Irish revival that combined Yeats with Gaelic coffee, the hunt for leprechauns with Guinness; the Emerald Isle came into her own. The Irish were against it — they denied anybody except themselves the right to be green for their greenness, as they would explain musically and fluently, was inside them, invisible yet invincible, too. The crazes, fads and fashions passed; but the greenbods, like the poor, remained with you, dear world. We'll be back for another news roundup and panoramic inspection; in the interim, keep on turning. Nothing is final in the universe; you have survived other upheavals and plagues. But don't ask whether it was worth it.

22 WHEN GLORIANA STEPPED INTO the airlock of the small submarine, she just saw the nude figure of the new Goddess shooting past her. She was going down and Madge was going up — which was kinda symbolic. She had swallowed a little water on her way down and her eyes smarted so she wasn't concerned with abstract ideas; she was just angry. She cursed Gosma and Plainkop in quite unlady-like language. Then she was

inside the submarine, she was given a drink and a rubdown and she relaxed. Maybe it was better, she thought as she sipped the mulled wine, to quit before it was too late. She had been shown color films of the house in Curacao and it was quite a place. She wasn't too old to enjoy life and men were reported to be both handsome and athletic on the island. She shrugged as she began to peel off her green sheath. Madge was frightened to death as she manipulated the tiny buoyancy apparatus that propelled her towards the surface. But it only lasted a few seconds — and she emerged in the dazzling green fire which shone but did not generate heat. She blinked, then the burst of music and cheering enveloped her and she smiled, cupping her breasts for a moment before opening her arms wide as if to embrace the whole world. The small hover platform moved slowly and smoothly under her feet; it was much easier to ride than a surfboard. As she reached the shallows, she stepped from it with barely a jolt and it reversed itself, diving to disappear. Sixteen men, in emerald-green tights, their muscular bodies rippling with satin-smooth muscles, came forward as her escort. They formed a human litter and Madge gave a tiny shiver as her cool, wet skin touched the warm hard backs. They carried her in a triumphal procession to the hovercar — a huge one enclosed in light-green transparent plastic — which then rose to the height of ten feet or just high enough to clear the heads of the multitude. She floated over them as scores jumped up in a hopeless attempt to touch it, to reach her; Venus floating in her chariot, drawn by softly puffing jets instead of doves. The hovercraft began to rise very gradually so that she was still within the sight of the thousands; then it made a beeline for the flat roof of the Temple where it came to rest behind tall jasper screens. Andor and Mimosa were there to meet her. She had put on a light robe for the journey. "That was wonderful!" Plainkop told her, kissing her hand with old-fashioned delicacy. "Well done, Gloriana!" nodded Andor. He believed in keeping up the elaborate procedure even when they were alone. Madge stared at him, puzzled for a moment. Then she laughed. "I almost forgot." "You must never, never forget. Not even when you are by yourself, not even in your sleep… The speech — are you sure you don't need the 'tronic prompter?" "No, of course not. I've learned reams of speeches before. I won't fluff…"

"Then come on — you'd better get ready. The place's jammed. We had to open the two annexes…" The elevator whisked her to a dressing room where three maids took charge of her. This was delightful for even in her earlier best days she hadn't been able to afford more than a dresser. That the three maids were well-trained greenbod operators, each reporting daily to Gosma, didn't enter Madge's pretty head. When she was ready, her slim and shapely body sheathed to its best advantage, showing just as much as a newly-born Goddess could afford to show to her worshippers (for carnality had to be both aroused and controlled) she took her position under the stage. This was vast and circular for the first Gloriana had spent most of the true believers' tithes on this complex and fantastic apparatus. In its center there was a fountain or something that looked like a fountain though the sprays of water, rising in pearly strands and curving back again, were not liquid but light beams. As the vast electronic organ thundered out the All-Greenness hymn and the choir intoned: "Life is green and Green is Life!" the soundless elevator on which Madge stood began to rise. And she appeared to her worshippers who filled the vast hall to capacity as if once again she was rising from the emerald sea, herself a glittering creature of jasper and sapphire, flashing fire and the very essence of greenness. She stood there, straight and slim, her green eyebrows arching over the dark eyes which the cunning contact lenses turned an equally mysterious green. The hymn ended — the congregation roaring out the final words with a long orgiastic shout: "Glory! Glory! Gloriana!" She lifted her small hand and instantly there was silence. "I am Gloriana," she said. "I died and now I live again. I bring you great news from the distant country to which I went so that I could return bearing the message." At the far edge of the great stage, masked behind the luxurious greenery, Andor and Mimosa looked at each other. Andor formed a circle of his thumb and middle finger and held it up to signal satisfaction; Plainkop smiled his boyish, crooked smile in reply. It was all going well — without the slightest hesitation; not in vain had Madge McMamie studied elocution with some of the best masters. "This is the message," the clear, slightly metallic voice continued. "The Green shall rule the Earth. Greenness is All. I am part of All Greenness and you are all part of Me.

This was the spice of mysticism, the soupcon of cribbed Zen and warmed-up Existentialism that was Smimosa's contribution. "But what does it mean?" the new Gloriana went on, now intimate and persuasive like a deodorant commercial on television. "First you must believe. Do you believe in Greenness?" The cheerleaders were perfectly trained; from all over the immense hall the roar rose, from the annexes and from the street it echoed and re-echoed: "We believe in Greenness!" She waited just long enough for the tumult to die down. "You must believe but you must also put your faith into effect. Here are my Commandments to the Faithful-in-Greenness…" A green spotlight stabbed just above her head. A green hand appeared, seemingly floating on nothing, holding a deep-green scroll which it dipped just low enough for her to reach. She took it, unrolled it and began to read. Andor sighed a barely audible sigh. This was the home-stretch.

"Thou shalt consider all green creatures your brothers — human, animal or vegetable.

"Thou shalt buy green, vote green, speak green and think green.

"Thou shalt not remember the time and condition before the coming of the Green Rain.

"Thou shalt worship, sanctify and obey Gloriana and all her commands and the commands of those who are the bearers of her will.

"Thou shalt fight for the liberation of our brothers-in-greenness by whoever enslaved.

"Thou shalt guard the new-born of Greenness from the perils of all others.

"Thou shalt pay a tithe of a tenth of your income for the work and growth of the Temple of Greenness.

"Thou shalt obey no laws, decrees, commands or temptations that are not hallowed by Gloriana.

"Thou shalt multiply in greenness and increase the ranks of those Chosen to be Green and shalt have no intercourse with any female who is not green.

"Thou shalt rejoice in your Greenness and cast off all shame and little-heartedness for Greenness is Good and Glorious and shall prevail over all."

Trumpets sounded and green flames flickered as if a thousand burning bushes on a hundred mountain tops had burst into fire. All around the stage, on the sides of the hall and outside it, the text of the Ten Commandments flashed in foot-high letters, projected from different angles so that the audience seemed to be surrounded by them. Through the loudspeakers the speaking choir's thunderous voices came, clearly enunciating, slowly repeating them, one by one. Three times they were heard; then ushers in grassgreen uniforms passed down the aisles, circled the annexes and systematically covered the ranks of the crowds outside, passing out copies of the same text with a striking picture of Gloriana on the green plastic cover. The organ thundered and the orchestra continued playing the Hymn of Greenness while this took place. When it was over the spotlights converged on the slim figure in the center of the stage. Gloriana the Reborn raised her arms.

"For the love of Greenness, for the love of yourselves, for the love of me," she demanded, "will you promise to keep my Commandments? Say 'Amen' to them!" And again the thousands roared out their 'Amen!' If there were any dissident, doubting voices, they were easily drowned. The High Priestess who was also a Goddess smiled her delighted and delightful smile. "Then, indeed, we shall prevail over the world, over life and death, brothers and sisters in greenness!" she cried. "Now go and live my Commandments!"

23

"WELL, I'VE GOT IT — BUT IT'S no bloody good," Pelargus told his son while he perched moodily on the edge of the laboratory table. Marius looked startled. "You never told me, Dad…" "Because I wasn't sure until this morning. Have a look." He led the younger man over to the cages in which the guinea pigs were scurrying about in happy proliferation. "That one — number six — I gave him the shot six hours ago. Look at his back…" The little animal's body was normal guinea pig color — except that along the spine there ran a broad luminous streak of bright green. As the two men watched it, the streak began to spread slowly, almost imperceptibly, down the flanks towards the tiny feet.

"What is it?" "The basic ingredient is phosphorus. I monkeyed about with various solvents and other bits and pieces. I think the pigmentation will be changed completely in less than eight hours from the time of injection…" "You mean — you can actually turn it green? But…" "I know. The process can be reversed; an artificial phosphorus deficiency can be created — and that will lead to blanching. I've tried it with another guinea pig. It works…" "But Dad, that's wonderful!" Marius was jubilant. "I knew you could do it! I knew…" "Yeah, I can do it all right. Watch…" The guinea pig was now a patchy green — its body pulsating as it moved restlessly in the cage. "What is it?" "The legs — watch the legs…" Marius obeyed. The pipe-stem legs began to jerk, pumping up and down. They seemed terribly thin and — it must have been a trick of the light — they appeared to become even thinner and more fragile before the watchers' eyes. It was a peculiar effect; as if the bone were gradually turning to something much softer… Suddenly a tremor passed through the entire body — and a moment or two later the guinea pig was stretched motionless on its back. Dead. "B-but… why?" "The phosphorus. Too much or too little — it not only affects the bone marrow but the brain and the nerves." "Surely we can find a safe dose…" "A safe dose won't work, Marius. And the dose that works also kills. With a human being it would probably take a week — maybe a month. Then he wouldn't have any bones left — just a piece of jelly…" "Are you sure… something could balance the toxicity…"

"Oh, it's easy to balance it. But then the animal will stay its original color…" "But if you have established the principle…" "Damn the principle. Don't be an arse. This isn't abstract science. It's certain and agonizing death or the risk of it — for what? To change the color of your skin. As if it mattered…" "It does, terribly. Yesterday, at the board meeting, B. B. said that unless I… that is, we… deliver the goods, he'll close down the lab, stop all research and…" the voice of Marius dropped to an awed whisper, "…and fire me…" "What d' you expect me to do? Weep because you can't keep up payments on that crazy, gadget-ridden house of yours, because Edna can't have her emerald mink or your brats might have to go to a P.S. instead of a snob academy?" The voice of Pelargus was scathing. He reached into the cage and picked up the dead guinea pig, dangling it from his long nicotine-stained fingers. It looked like a lump of shapeless and obscene jelly. "Do you have to tell them that your formula is toxic?" Pelargus stared at his son. "Get out,'.' he said, very quietly. "Get out before I break your head. I'm going back to Upsala tonight. And if you have any sense left you'll grab Edna and the kids and come with me. I've still got that small farm your mother left. You can settle down to honest work instead of playing the part of a whore. Not even that — a whore usually gives fair value for the money…" "Please, Dad…" "You heard me!" the old man roared in sudden violence. He dropped the dead guinea pig into the trash disposal unit. He swept a bundle of notes into the same receptacle. He picked up three test tubes and smashed them against the edge of the sink. Then he looked around with an expression of moderate satisfaction. "So — that's cleaned it up. No more of this foolishness." "Give me at least a day…" "No. I'm taking the ten o'clock plane. That gives you five hours to collect your family. Meet me at the terminal. If you don't…" he shrugged, peeling off his stained overalls, "well, it's your funeral." Marius flattened himself against the door barring his way.

"I won't let you go," he panted. "You've got to help me. My own father…" The bony hand of Pelargus shot out, grabbed his shoulder and jerked him from the door. "That was a biological accident," he said. "Don't trade on it. It doesn't entitle you to bully me — or think that I'll lie for the sake of your rotten job. Anyhow, I never lie unless there's a good chance of not being found out." Marius dissolved in tears. His quivering face resembled the jelly-like body of the guinea pig. Pelargus looked at him with disgust and a complete lack of interest. Then he picked up his coat, his hat and his battered leather bag and left. His son listened to his footsteps down the corridor, then he hurried to the telephone and called the janitor in the basement. "I want the garbage chute from Lab Number Three cleaned out," he snapped, his voice no longer tearful. "Put every bit you find into a sack and send it up. Hurry." He called the office of B.B., the Chairman. His secretary's voice was cool — news of failure travelled fast in this building — but finally she condescended to put Pelargus, Jr. through to the great man. "B.B.," Marius said, his voice oozing efficiency and keenness, "I think we've got it!" "What d'ya mean?" "There are one or two minor bugs to beat — but next month, I think we can make the announcement. And it'll be exclusive. Perhaps we could call a conference with the publicity side…" "But yesterday you said there was no progress?" "You know how it is, B.B. Sometimes you just need a lucky accident. This morning my father stumbled on the final ingredient. He's taking off for Upsala tonight — he feels he's done his work." "We can't let him go — not until the first commercial batch has been tested. Tell him —" "Oh, we won't need him," laughed Marius, quite convincingly. "You know what a lone wolf he is — not interested in money or prestige. I can deal with the final stages."

The rasping voice at the other end of the phone softened. "O.K., if you're sure. But there must be no snafu." "There won't be, B.B. I'll need a couple of rhesus monkeys and a dog or two for the final tests — just to establish the right dose — and then we can break the story." "When?" Marius was thinking furiously. He had to keep up the front of confidence. Even a few weeks… He closed his eyes and crossed his fingers. "Just before Christmas… kind of seasonable good news…" "You need all that time?" "The plant will need it. We must have adequate supplies of the serum." "I suppose so," the Chairman agreed reluctantly. "That would fit in with our Yuletide Spectacular. And Art Bosey can arrange one of his Mind-to-Mind programs. But there must be no hitch," he warned again. "There won't be," Marius said with a little laugh. "And in the meantime we leak a little advance publicity… just a hint or two…" "I'm not sure of that. Call me tomorrow afternoon. Better still — come down for the weekend. Bring your wife." "Y-yes, B.B. Thank you very much." This was the final accolade — to be invited to the Chairman's palatial home, the fabulous estate in the Green Mountains. Even if he lost his job, it was worth while to keep up the lie for a few weeks. Besides, why shouldn't he succeed where his father failed? Marius began to feel more and more confident. And when the janitor arrived with the bag he found that the notes had escaped mangling and he was able to decipher most of his father's peculiar shorthand. He blessed now the days he had spent helping old Pelargus before they had quarrelled and he had gone off to America on his own. There was nothing he could do about the smashed test tubes but that didn't matter. He called Edna and told her he wouldn't be home for dinner — nor for breakfast. She reminded him, querulously, that they had planned to go to a party; but when he explained about the weekend with B.B., she became wildly and enthusiastically excited and called him her

'Daddy Genius'. Pelargus waited at the jet terminal. It was nine-thirty. He hated rockets and wouldn't travel on any of the newfangled missile-planes, even though jets still took over three hours to cross the Atlantic. He hadn't really expected his son to accept his advice. Yet he couldn't help being a little disappointed when he and his fellow-passengers — practically all of them elderly people — were called to board the plane. He felt old and lonely. When the stewardess, treating him as if he were in his second childhood, switched on the TV set after take off, he glared at her angrily — but left it on. The news roundup was scrappy. The UPPR had asked for an emergency meeting of the Security Council — the fourth in six months — and there was a Mexican resolution to ban all further flights to the Moon. Unconfirmed messages spoke of the fall of Cape Town and a massacre of all non-greens in the All-White Republic where, very soon, there would be no whites left. The I.S.S. and the W.H.O. held another joint meeting at 'top level' and a statement on 're-pigmentation' was expected within a day or two. Pelargus made an unpleasant noise and switched off the set. Perhaps it would be best to resign his university chair, he thought, and retire to the farm. He would miss the enjoyable and noisy arguments at the F. F. Club and Simka's obstinate opposition — but a man could give up the minor pleasures of life. He felt that he wanted to wash his hands of the world, to resign from mankind. If only Marius had listened to reason — if he hadn't been caught in that idiotic rat race. But it was no use crying over spilled champagne which was what his son wanted even if it gave him a hangover. He nestled back in the armchair — one thing you could say for these old-fashioned supersonic planes, they were comfortable — and went to sleep. It was three o'clock in the morning when the monkeys arrived at Laboratory Number 3. Marius had made some progress though he was still only halfway to the preparation of the first batch of the serum. He'd done a good deal of work before his father had arrived in America — even though it hadn't led to any positive results. At ten A.M. he made the first injection in the thin, shivering arm of a female monkey. She chattered at him, terrified and outraged. Her color was a pinkish-grey and her eyes were enormous. And as the needle stabbed into the vein the eyes filled with tears. He withdrew the syringe and suddenly burning hate filled him, hate of B.B., of Edna, of the children and, most of all, of himself. He gave the monkey a couple of bananas and shut her into the large, airconditioned cage and setting the temperature at a comfortable level he settled down to watch. He thought of his father, now back in his cluttered, dusty, comfortably shabby rooms; he thought of success and failure. The monkey had finished munching the bananas and was lying on the cushioned floor of the cage, its hands crossed over its furry chest in a curious attitude of resignation. Everything was all right, Marius told himself. His father was a fool. He knew too much, that was the trouble — it made him

too cautious, too conservative. One had to take risks. For the good of the millions a few dozen or a few thousand might suffer. The pioneers had a tough time so that others might have a happy one. If B.B. raised his salary, he thought, they might buy that piece of land Edna was talking about — a good investment and they would need a bigger house when the kids started to grow up. It was funny to have a green wife and two green children. It made you feel — no, not inferior but something of a stranger. There was a little spot on the left hip of Edna which was just a shade lighter than the rest — with a dark emerald vein pulsing under it. He had touched it with his lips the last time they made love. The smoothness and the warmth… no, he couldn't bear losing her. Not if a thousand rhesus monkeys died.

24

THE GREEN GUARDS FIRST WENT into action during the primary elections. Andor Gosma had planned it carefully for this was a trial of strength; it would provide a pattern for the future and indicate where the weaknesses and advantages of the Greenness-is-All Movement lay. The greenbods were still a minority but they were organized. They bought and lived, they thought and acted green. Already they had control of three large West Coast unions and, by forming an alliance with some whites married to 'greenbods', were ruling six others. "Ask your candidate one simple question," Gosma advised the voters. "Ask them whether they consider any greenbod just as good as they are themselves — that is, if they are white. If they prevaricate — if they're trying to sit on the fence — don't vote for them." His advice was followed with remarkable success. Of course he made sure that there were always some Green Guards present who asked the right questions, who shouted down the opposition and used suitable strong-arm methods to eject and silence the dissidents. And he had the Irish on his side whether they were green or white. Who could wear the shamrock and deny the superiority of greenbods? "Sure, my skin is white," one of the old-time ward bosses declaimed. "But me heart is pure green and you know it, boys…"

Shopkeepers and factory managements were quickly brought to heel. There was no trouble whatsoever with the firms and enterprises owned by greenbods or having a majority of them on their boards. Where the whites predominated, they were tackled one by one and 'advised' to appoint a greenbod manager or chairman. Some of them refused. The consequences were prompt and unpleasant. After three plants had burned down and a 'crowd of indignant citizens' had wrecked a super market, two drug stores and half a dozen used hovercraft lots, there was surprisingly little opposition. And Gosma was clever enough to reduce the 'squeeze'; instead of the usual fifteen percent the various little and big businessmen had paid in graft, he was content with five percent. This made the Greenness-is-All Movement fabulously popular. Every candidate the Movement put up was elected with a comfortable majority. California went green. There were illuminations, dancing in the street, a torch-light procession. Gloriana the Second, resplendent in emeralds, kissed each newly-elected state senator, the new governor and the members of the legislature, bestowing on them the final accolade of success. Three months after the scene at Malibu and the proclamation of the Commandments of Greenness, Gosma and Smimosa had their first conference with their general staff — hand-picked men, all greenbods and all fanatical adherents of the Movement. It was held in a small lecture room of the Temple. The chairman was a burly, white-haired Irishman, the Hon. Michael Greenbod. (His real name was O'Kelly but he had changed it at Gosma's bidding.) Andor and Michael, the infernal twins, sat behind him, like unobtrusive Svengalis in their crisp green sharkskin suits, listening and occasionally making a suggestion in a soft undertone. "Well, boys," Greenbod began with a jovial grin, "we dood it. But we ain't gonna rest on our laurels or sit on our fannies. This is only the beginning." "You said it, Mike," an overeager ward boss piped up. The whitehaired Irishman gave him a withering look. "If I want any talk, I'll ask for it," he said. "Now — we got this state sewed up tight. What d'you think we're gonna shoot for next? The Yoonited States!" he answered his own question. "Wouldn't it be better," a small, foxy man raised his hand, "if we waited for the next election?" "No," said Andor Gosma. The little man, one of the State Supreme Court judges, collapsed, muttering an apology.

"You heard our Brother Gosma," Greenbod grinned. "We're gonna put up candidates for everything — from President down to D.A. and city manager. The All-Green ticket." "But half the primaries were held two months ago," another Irishman spoke up. "It's much too late…" "Not with our organization. All you gotta do is to obey orders — you'll get 'em clear and simple." "Who's our presidential timber?" asked the ward boss. There was a momentary hesitation; but Gosma leaned forward and the Hon. Michael spoke up bravely: "Who else? Gloriana." A confused babble of voices greeted this amazing announcement. The foxy little man's treble rose over it. "A woman! You've gone out of your mind, Mike?" "A dame!" "Not a hope!" "They'll laugh us off the hustings!" "You'll be left at the post!" Greenbod's huge fist crashed down on the table. "Silence!" he bellowed. One bass voice, however, got in a last shot: "She's too young!" "Now, listen, you guys," the white-haired Irishman's voice was very quiet, "Greenness-is-All is a new creed. The Green Rain was sumpthin' that had never happened before. Sure it only changed the color of your skins but we're aiming at changin' the minds of the people — makin' a whole new world. You can march with us or you can fall behind — and there's plenty of wolves and tigers to tear you to pieces. So

get it into your blockheads that a woman president is jest what we want." "So we want her," an old emaciated Jewish-looking man said. "But we're only a few thousand — and there's plenty more voters. You think those boys in the G.O.P. and the others are going to take it lying down? Once they start digging the whole caboodle will fall to pieces." Andor Gosma leant forward again. But this time he didn't whisper; he raised his throaty voice. There were so many accents in the gathering — his Central European blended quite well with them. "Do you know, Mr. Spitzer," he slightly underlined the name with a soupcon of distaste, "that eighty per cent of America's wealth is owned by women? Do you know that our poll has proved that the feminine vote has carried seventeen states in the last election?" "And d'you think any woman would vote for a dame? Females are the true antifeminists — they know their sex." "This is a new world as Mr. Greenbod said. And in a new world new thoughts and new attitudes are needed. Of course, Mr. Spitzer, you don't have to stay with us. You're up for re-election, I believe. So is your old opponent — Mr. Ganfield, I think…" "That shmoo? He couldn't carry a…" "All we'd have to do is to endorse him. He'd win, I assure you. And you'd be back peddling hovercars… if you didn't end in prison, Mr. Spitzer. There's quite an interesting story in your personal file — that business about the San Fernando sub-division…" Mr. Spitzer's mouth, already half-open, closed with an audible click. Andor Gosma smiled. Very early he had introduced the 'cadre' system into the Greenness-is-All Movement. He had the low-down on everybody — every Green Guard, every committee member, right up to the Hon. Michael Greenbod. "But I'm sure we don't want any unpleasantness. I think we've got the greatest team in history if we pull together — and the greatest presidential candidate since Abraham Lincoln!" "Who'll be her running mate?" asked the wardboss. Mike Greenbod fingered his shamrock tie. "I'm proud to say that the lady's chosen me humble self…"

"Now you're talking, Mike!" crowed the foxy little man. "That's a wonnerful combination — Beauty and the…" "Cut it out, Mat," growled the Hon. Michael. "Now, the next primary's in Wisconsin. We gotta play this close to the chest — but fast, real fast. The first thing we'll do is to organize the Green Graces for Gloriana. And a Special Branch." "Women's clubs and the D.A.R.?" asked the bass voice. "Sure, for the front. But for the real work — Mr. Gosma and Mr. Plainkop had a very striking idea. You know, there's still one group of workers that have no union. We're gonna organize them…" "I don't believe it…" Mr. Spitzer had recovered his oppositional mood. "Why, nobody can hit a nail these days without a union man standing by. Since they got that law banning all 'do-it-yourself stuff…" Plainkop lifted his pale green hand languidly. "Actually you're wrong, Brother," he said. "Nobody ever thought of setting up a union of the ladies who work under the local option scheme…" "Hey, you can't do that — you'll have all the gangs on your neck if you start to cut in on their racket. The C.G.'s are their private property…" "We have no intention of causing them any loss," Michael said primly. "Mr. Gosma and I already had several discussions with Mr. Postello…" "Postello? He talked to you?" Mr. Spitzer's voice held awe and incredulity. "Oh yes, indeed. He was most affable. He realized that our Movement can be wholly beneficial to his interests. Besides his wife and his two daughters are greenbods. That created a certain sympathy…" Plainkop explained smoothly. "So you squared Postello and you're gonna organize the whores," the bass voice spoke up. "But what are they gonna do?" "Never underestimate women," grinned Gosma. "You remember the old saying, my friend? It's a cliche — which makes it even truer. Never overestimate men, I would add. We'll explain our detailed plans when they're worked out. But we can't waste too much time talking, gentlemen. There's a lot of work to be done if we want Gloriana to be installed in the Green House — we're going to rename it, of course, and make this great country the citadel of All-Greenness…"

He rose and the Hon. Michael quickly followed suit. The Political Committee of the Movement filed out of the conference hall. But Andor plucked at the sleeve of the burly Irishman as he was about to follow them. "You handled that very well, Mike," he said softly. "But there're three or four of them we'd better get rid off. Gently, of course; no violence. You'll take care of that, won't you?" "Well, the Judge's an old friend of mine…" "But your new friends are more important, aren't they?" Plainkop intervened. "We can leave the details to you… And now we'd better tell Gloriana… that she's to be the next President of the United States." "Aren't we a mite over optimistic,?" the Irishman asked. "No, Mike. You are never overoptimistic if you build on the lowest common denominator. Besides, won't you make a fine Vice-President?"

When they told Gloriana — she had almost forgotten by now that she was once called Madge McMamie — she dissolved in helpless giggles. Gosma and Plainkop watched her with a pained expression. "What's so funny?" asked the bald ex-ex-Communist. "You're a scream, Andy," she roared with laughter. "Me, President! You might as well expect me to win the heavyweight boxing championship of the world. I haven't got the muscles for it — neither here…" and she flexed her slim, rounded arm, "nor here…" and she jabbed at her forehead. "You're a woman. You're beautiful. You're a goddess to three hundred and fifty thousand paid-up members of the Movement. That's all we need." "But look here… once they start to dig deep…" "…they won't find anything," Mimosa reassured her. "Not a thing. You came out of the ocean — spotless and perfect. ..."

Gloriana the Second giggled again. "You say the nicest things, Mickey. But I still think it's a crazy idea." Gosma decided they'd given her enough rope — now it must be pulled a little tighter. "Crazy or not, we're going through with it. And you know, darling, you don't have any real choice…" "Haven't I?" Madge's giggles stopped suddenly. Her few years in show business had given her a tough sense of judgment, a quick reaction to the moods of managers and bosses. "We made you," Andor said in a quiet, conversational tone. "We can break you, too — just like that…" and he snapped his fingers. "All we have to do is to bring back Gloriana — the real Gloriana. Or find a new one. High Priestesses can retire. Goddesses can even die." "Are you threatening me?" "Oh no. How could I? Greenness is All and you are the Essence of Greenness." His thin lips jerked in a short grin. "I'm just telling you what your worshippers and followers expect. They've given you a lot, Gloriana. Don't make them take it away…" Madge was silent, her small but acute brain working away. Then she smiled, her soft, full green lips parting to show her perfect teeth. "No, I wouldn't like that," she said. "I'll play ball all right. Just tell me one thing, boys — what's your real game? what are you going to get out of this?" Gosma looked at Plainkop; Plainkop rubbed his nose reflectively. "We'll present our bill — in due course," Gosma said, after a little pause. "I hope I can afford to pay it," laughed Gloriana, anxious to be friends again. "YOU can't," Mimosa assured her. "But there are plenty others from whom we can collect." There was the usual flock of candidates in the primaries — assorted senators, governors, dark horses and favorite sons. The Republicans had an odd general or two, the Democrats had their stable of millionaires and a solitary egg-head. Both had their strongest man in the Wisconsin Primary; the Republican, Gordon Jarvis, had won three

and lost four of the previous contests and hoped to even up the score against his main rival General Housaton who had been 'drafted' after winning a very minor war in Africa. When these two gentlemen — Jarvis was only forty-two, the General twenty years older — woke up on the morning after the poll, they both had an unpleasant shock. The primary had been won — with a very handsome majority — by a woman. No one knew how it had happened. There were the usual 'lunatic fringe' candidates who only served as passive foils against the real contenders' wit and superior achievements. That one of them was a woman had been commented upon mostly by the cartoonists and television comics. California had gone Green but California had been always a maverick, the home of strange religions and cranky movements. Why, once in the distant past it had almost elected a writer as Governor and furthermore, a writer who had ideas! The great state had an important number of delegates at the presidential conventions but couldn't swing a decisive majority. And now here was a dame nobody ever heard of outside Los Angeles romping home. It was more than a shock. It was indecent. It was flying in the face of traditions. The two great parties had played musical chairs for two hundred years. They were certain that one or the other would end up comfortably seated when the music stopped and the shouting had died down. A man might be any color but his political convictions (and his vote) could be predicted, if not with perfect exactitude, then at least within the two alternatives. The inquest began at once at Republican and Democrat headquarters — but there was no body. No pollster had even mentioned Gloriana. No commentator had even hinted at her chances. And now when they descended upon her in droves she was 'not available'. During the primary campaign she hadn't made a single speech nor had she set foot in Wisconsin. It was witchcraft. It was un-American. But, of course, it meant nothing. Come November the General (or the Senator) would be a cinch. A woman President? Don't make me laugh.

25

THE WEEKEND AT B.B.'S WAS A huge success. Why, B.B. not only invited Marius to call him 'Bernie' but actually put his arm around the younger man's shoulder and introduced him to his guests — all solid citizens of the highest status — as 'my boy genius!' Edna was expanding under the slightly patronizing kindness of Mrs. B. By now 'greenbods' were generally accepted by the non-greens as slightly exotic but admissible members of the human race. And Edna was a very beautiful woman. The first VicePresident, a middle-aged playboy who had inherited his job with a large block of stock, made a pass at her which warmed the heart of Marius while making him slightly jealous. He had turned the first rhesus monkey green — and it had survived. Then, three days before they flew off in B.B.'s private plane to the Green Mountains hideout, he had reversed the process and the monkey had recovered its original color. All this without any noticeable ill effect. Marius was thinking with tolerant contempt of his father. Obviously old Pelargus had been wrong. The toxic effect in the guinea pigs must have been due to some imperfection in the serum, some slight impurity or some other fault the old man had committed in the preparation. Next week, Marius decided, he would release a cautiously-worded statement that the serum was on the verge of being finalized… that before long it would be available to the general public. He was sure nothing could go wrong now. He had repeated the double experiment on the remaining monkeys — and all had been fine. B.B. had a cook who was the envy of all New England, the food had been superb, the wines and liqueurs exquisite and Marius felt at peace with the world and saw the future in the rosiest glow. Then — it was after Sunday lunch — the butler came in and said that Mr. Pelargus was wanted on the phone — long distance. He felt a tiny twinge of anxiety but he followed the butler into B.B.'s den with its color TV screen covering a whole wall and a few discreetly obscene abstractions on the ceiling which B.B. obviously loved to gaze at while stretched flat on his back. It was Prescott, his first assistant whom he had left in charge during the weekend. "I think you'd better come back right away, Doctor Pelargus," the voice, laden with doom, came over the wire. "What's the matter?" "What isn't? Take your choice, doctor…" Prescott sounded slightly drunk. "The monkeys are dead. And there's been a burglary…" Marius grasped the receiver so hard that the plastic actually bent under the grip of his whitening fingers.

"Burglary?" "They took the notes, the test tubes, the serum — everything…" "Who?" "How should I know? I found the mess when I got here a couple of hours ago." "A couple of hours!" "Couldn't call you earlier. The animals were loose — and the janitor's disappeared… and the police kept on…" "O.K. I'll be back as soon as I can. And — don't let the papers get hold of…" "Too late for that. They're camped down the hall… But I can deal with them — maybe…" Marius put down the phone and very carefully wiped his forehead. The monkeys were dead. The serum gone. Maybe one balanced the other. If he had time… He swung around as B.B. came into the den. "Who was that, Marius?" "The lab. I've got to get back right away. There's been a burglary…" "What?" "I don't know all the details. Something must have leaked, Bernie. Maybe Consolidated Cosmetics…" "Aw, Reuben wouldn't have guts for that. I'd better come with you." "Oh no… why should you incommodate yourself? I can deal with it, I'm sure. I'll call later today and give you a full report." The short fat Chairman gave Marius one of his justly-famous penetrating looks. "You wouldn't keep anything from me, would you, Pelargus?" he asked and his voice wasn't very hospitable. "That would be very stupid and quite dangerous." "No, of course not, Ber… B.B." Marius felt it was better to go back to the more formal address. "Prescott was a bit excited… he didn't tell me much… I'd better make

sure myself…" "All right." B.B. looked at his watch. "It'll take you an hour to get to the Lab. I'll expect a call exactly two hours from now. And I'll want the truth — all of it…" Marius nodded, licking his lips. "I'd better hurry then… If you'd explain to Edna and the others…" "She can stay, of course," the Chairman relaxed a little. "And remember — whatever it is, the organization can take care of it…" This sounded more encouraging. But Marius wondered whether B.B. wasn't overestimating even the immense resources of the 'organization'…

The janitor, as he discovered within ten minutes of his arrival at the Laboratory, had been a 'greenbod'. The police didn't think that this was significant but he had disappeared and in his basement cubbyhole they found a copy of the weekly 'Green Glory' published by the Greenness-is-All Movement. This might or might not be important. The monkeys were in the refrigerating chamber, neatly spread out on slabs — and when he looked at them, Marius's spirits fell. They were like furry pieces of jelly — the same effect, the same disintegration of bone tissue had taken place as with the guinea pig his father had used for his original test. Prescott seemed sober but not very helpful. "If the janitor let them in, they had all the time in the world," he explained. "What about the. reporters?" asked Marius, feeling depressed and confused. "Oh, I reminded them that we spent seven million a year on publicity — but we didn't want any now. It'll be a routine paragraph — no splash." "That's a blessing, at least," murmured the Director of Research. "What's to be done with the bodies?" asked Prescott. He had expected somewhat warmer appreciation. "Bodies? Oh, you mean the monkeys. Dispose of them the usual way. I must call B.B."

The Chairman's voice was near the freezing point as he answered the phone. But Marius had had a little time to work out his story. "It's obvious that the janitor was planted by the opposition," he explained. "I've already arranged for permanent guards…" "What's the use locking the stable door after all the horses are stolen?" demanded B.B. irritably. "What is the exact amount of damage?" "They killed our test animals," Marius lied briskly. "They took all the serum and the notes. But that won't help them." "Why? It looks to me they got pretty much everything—" "No, B.B., I have a duplicate set of the notes at my home. And the really important things are in my head. Within a week we can have another batch of serum. The animals are easy to replace. It'll be all covered by the insurance so I won't need an extra budget…" The great man's voice softened a little. "I'm glad to hear that. What about publicity?" "Oh, I took care of that… There won't be any leaks… just a routine paragraph…" "Good man, Marius." B.B. was definitely reassured. "Why don't you come back tonight? I'll fly you up tomorrow afternoon myself…" This was tempting but Marius felt it wouldn't be wise to provoke Providence too much. Besides there might be other questions which he couldn't answer so glibly. "I'd love to," he said, his voice heavy with regret. "But I think I'd better start right away on that new serum. Just give my love to Edna, and explain, will you?" "Sure, my boy. Don't worry about your sweet girl. We'll look after her…" Marius put down the phone with a sigh of relief and turned to look into Prescott's mocking eyes. "I've just told B.B.," he said, without a moment's hesitation, "how well you acted. He was very pleased." "I bet he was."

Marius put his hand on Prescott's shoulder, unconsciously copying the Chairman's gesture of approval and condescension. "It must have been quite a strain, John. I think a proper way of showing the Company's appreciation would be a raise. Twenty per cent?" "I'd rather have fifty," said Prescott softly. But he did not move his shoulder to escape the affectionate pressure of Marius. "I have considerable expenses." "I'll see to it," promised Marius, despising himself only moderately. For Prescott knew and Prescott was gently and tactfully blackmailing him. Marius did not blame him — he would have done the same — but blamed himself for his own stupidity. He should've locked the notes and everything else away — there was a burglar-proof safe in his own office. But he had been too eager to get away for the weekend at B.B.'s. Still nothing was lost and no great harm done. He resolutely pushed the memory of the rhesus monkey's eyes from his mind. To get sentimental in his position was a quick way of committing suicide.

26

AFTER WISCONSIN, ILLINOIS. This was a key primary with both the Senator and the General mobilizing their biggest guns — the Senator had the blessing of the present occupant of the White House and the General was endorsed by every patriotic organization whose members were in the higher income brackets and by a hundred or so labor unions and the Dodecagon. (The Pentagon had long ago burst its seams.) Chicago was still controlled by the Democrats, down-state was still Republican. The 'greenbods' only made up twenty per cent of the votes. The Greenness-is-All Movement — now legally constituted as a political party with all constitutional requirements

scrupulously fulfilled — had entered the contest at the very last moment, under the name 'New Glory'; the primary was both for 'Presidential preference' and for the delegates to the Party Conventions. The Senator, in his first speech, made a contemptuous reference to 'the cranks and fools' who wanted to destroy the glorious two party system of the United States. They had a tiny temporary success in Wisconsin but the voters of Illinois were too hardheaded to fall for such ridiculous moonshine. The General, a man of few words, said that while he was second to none in his deep reverence for American womanhood he did not think that at this critical stage in human history a lady would be fit to fill the responsible and onerous position of Chief Executive. Gloriana said nothing. The Senator carried Illinois but the 'New Glory' Party was second in the poll. The General, obviously losing some of his reverence for the gentle sex, declared that he 'was robbed'. He also hinted darkly that he would appeal to the State Supreme Court for the annulment of the primary results — as these were 'due to intimidation, trickery and downright ballot-stuffing.' The appeal, however, was never lodged. A week later New Jersey held the primaries for its convention delegates — they were usually pretty evenly matched, the Democrats and Republicans — and for the 'presidential preference'. The Third Party polled more votes than the Senator and the General put together. Now there was a real outcry. The New Glory was accused of being (a) Communist, (b) Fascist and (c) of being financed by the Scarlet Woman of Rome. The Hon. Michael Greenbod was unmasked as a 'shady ward boss' who would sell America to the highest bidder. But neither Andor Gosma nor Michael Plainkop were ever mentioned. With considerable skill Gosma kept himself and his confederate entirely in the background. The New Glory headquarters were in a downtown building in Los Angeles but Gosma and Plainkop sat in a large, completely isolated house high up in the Sierras which could only be approached by air and which was patrolled by the pick of the Green Guards. Communications were faultless; the Inner Council of the Party could reach every committee, every individual canvasser and, if necessary, every voter in the country within seconds. Still another week passed — and now it was the turn of Alaska, Massachusetts and

Pennsylvania. The two chief contenders commuted between Philadelphia, Boston and Juneau, not to mention Pittsburgh, Springfield and Ketchikan, making four or five speeches a day; their trusty lieutenants filled more hotel rooms with smoke than ever before in American history. And all their prodigious efforts were wasted. The New Glory Party did not contest the three primaries at all. "But why not?" demanded the Hon. Michael Greenbod (ne Kelly). "We did wonderfully in New Jersey… superbly in Wisconsin…" "Keep 'em guessing," Andor Gosma replied. They were having a weekend conference in the mountain hideout. "We can't play this the orthodox way, Mickey. Keep 'em on the run until they're running in circles. Keep 'em hard at it — until they've spent even their fourth or fifth wind. Then we move in and gather up the pieces…" "I hope to God you're right," the Irishman shook his venerable head. "I've been at it thirty years, Andy—" "And where did you get?" Plainkop interrupted him quite rudely. He was asserting himself more and more these days though Gosma had told him to keep his big mouth shut unless there was a good reason to speak. Michael complained that there never seemed to be such a reason for it was Andor who always did the talking. "All right, all right," Gosma interrupted now. "We'd better talk about Alabama and the District…" "You got ten days," Greenbod said. "It ain't much." "Who'd you think is more easily scared?" asked Andor reflectively. "The Senator or the General?" "They're both tough 'uns. They don't get frightened so quickly…" "No. We need something pretty big and nasty. We've got it. It's just a question which of them should be knocked out first…" "There's little to choose between the two," the Hon. Michael declared. "But maybe the General…" "The General it shall be. He'll withdraw before Washington votes." Greenbod stared at the 'runt of a mastermind' as he privately (very privately) called Gosma. "You seem goddam sure of yourself," he protested. "What is it?"

"B.B. Enterprises." "What of them? I happen to know Bernie — he's a hard man but he never meddled with politics. Kept his nose clean and his employers underpaid — but…" "Come on, Mick," Andor Gosma rose with a lazy, slightly contemptuous gesture. "Let me show you something…" The Irishman followed him docilely while thinking that one of these days he'd take this filthy ex-Red to pieces — he'd just wait for the right opportunity, it would come. They took the private elevator to the basement. This was carved out of the living rock, it was cool and dungeonlike. But the long low cellar which they entered was a spotless gleam of white tiles, chromium and stainless steel. The cages lining one wall had an antiseptic smell only slightly mixed with animal odors. A man in green overalls turned at the noise of their entry. He had a thin, pale, pointed face with a wispy, straggling moustache trained to cover his mouth. "Mike," Gosma said with a certain ceremonial deliberateness, "I want you to meet a very distinguished gentleman — Dr. Zbigniew Lukachevski." "Dee-lighted," the Irishman put on his usual vote-catching smile. "I've heard such great things of you, Doctor…" "Indeed you must have," Andor Gosma grinned. "We owe everything to him. And soon we'll be even deeper in his debt…" "I… I wouldn't like to raise false hopes," murmured the biochemist. "But I'll do my best…" Famous last words — or maybe not so famous first words. Once again Dr. Lukachevski was engaged in a series of experiments quite contrary to his desires and expectations. But of all the people who had exploited and bullied him, Andor Gosma was the least unbearable and the most understanding. Ever since the agents of the Movement had found him two weeks ago just emerging from a bout of the D.T.'s in his frowsy isolated house the discoverer of chlorophylogen had his ego inflated, his vanity massaged, his self-importance pampered. Gosma had realized in the first five minutes after Lukachevski's arrival in the secret headquarters of Greenness-is-All that this was a man whose inferiority complex had practically swallowed him. He was so hungry for praise, so starved for appreciation and both, the ex-political prisoner knew very well, cost him nothing. And he needed Lukachevski so that his flattery was half-sincere, for the biochemist had a very important part to play in Gosma's tortuous schemes which he

shared with nobody, not even Mimosa. "Have you transcribed the notes?" Gosma asked now, gently and without the slightest trace of impatience. "Yes, most of them. And I've made an analysis of the serum. The basis is a highly toxic phosphorus compound…" "You must bear with us, doctor… we are totally ignorant. You mean that this preparation wouldn't work?" "Oh, it works very well," Lukachevski assured him with a fleeting grin. "But its effects are lethal. It attacks the bone marrow… in a remarkably short time it causes total disintegration…" "What is all this?" demanded the white-haired Irishman who was both puzzled and impatient. "You said you had something to put the General out of…" Gosma raised his hand, commanding silence. "Please, Mike. The doctor is talking. I'll explain later." "There isn't very much to say," the biochemist shrugged. "Maybe I'd better to show you the effect…" He led them to the adjoining lab. The Hon. Michael turned an even darker green when he saw the lumps of jelly spread on the marble slabs — a couple of guinea pigs, a monkey and a dog. The guinea pigs were light green, the other animals a greyish-white. "I tried both the negative and positive formula," Lukachevski explained. "Their effect is the same, remarkably quick and highly distinctive. Of course, a weaker solution might slow down the process — but the final result would be the same…" "Excellent, doctor." Andor's voice was warm with enthusiasm. "You're a genius. You've fully proved our confidence in you. I'll tell Gloriana myself." "You think I ... I could meet her?" "Of course. In the meantime, why not have a little holiday? Relax and enjoy yourself. We'll have another talk tomorrow or the day after…" Back in his luxurious office, Gosma stretched himself on his broad and cunningly upholstered davenport, lit a cigarette and invited the Vice-Presidential candidate of the

New Glory party to make himself equally comfortable. "Now," he said briskly, "let me tell you. And please, Mike, don't interrupt." It was not easy to obey this injunction but the Hon. Michael's eyes opened wider and wider, goggling with disbelief and surprise, as the master-strategist unfolded his plan. It was cock-eyed and impossible. It would never work and it was dangerous. It was — he almost burst with suppressed objections. But the bald-headed little man could weave a spell and after fifteen minutes the Irishman admitted — grudgingly and only to himself — that Gosma got something. It would either be a success or they would all end up in Sing Sing if not at the end of a lynch rope. "But how did you know that B.B. Enterprises were working on this stuff?" he asked finally, picking on a minor point to cover up his general scepticism and confusion. "You forget, my dear Mike, that wherever there is a greenbod, we have our foot in the door or our fifth column —call it what you like. There were fifteen greenbods employed at the B.B. Laboratories. Naturally I had daily reports. I knew when young Pelargus went to Europe to bring his father over. I knew when the Professor arrived. I knew when he left again — unsuccessful — and within half an hour of Marius Pelargus' departure for that weekend to B.B.'s place, we had our four agents in the laboratory. It was the easiest burglary in the world — the janitor was one of them and he simply let them in…" "O.K., so B.B.'s boys were trying to develop some stuff to turn people green or white. You had their serum and their notes stolen—and this peculiar character, this Luka-something found out that it didn't work. How is that going to help you with the primaries?" "But I told you, Mickey-boy. The General's wife is one of the principal shareholders in B.B. Enterprises. Her father was B.B.'s first backer way back in the sixties…" The Hon. Michael Greenbod stared at his Svengali. He felt his hackles rise and a chilly shiver ran down his spine. "But, if this works and the General's out of the running… the Democrats will simply put up somebody else…" "Sure," nodded Gosma. "I know who it'll be." "Who?" Gosma grinned, enjoying himself hugely. This was the final shocker and he saw

great pleasure in administering it. "You, Mickey boy. You're going to desert the New Glory party. You'll obey your patriotic duty by leaving the sinking ship…" This time the Hon. Michael was quite speechless. "Don't worry — it's all in the good cause. You'll make history, changing your allegiance three times in less than six months. But you'll come out on top — you'll still be elected Vee-Pee — on the New Glory ticket."

The B.B. Housaton scandal broke in the Monday papers just three days before the Alabama and District of Columbia primaries. The headlines almost spilled off the front pages, the TV commentators talked themselves hoarse and several of them were carted off with nervous breakdowns. Nothing but positively nothing like this had happened in American history; compared to it Tammany Hall, the McCarthy disclosures, the ancient troubles about furcoats, carpets and expense accounts were tiny ripples on the surface of any millpond. "HOUSATON ACCUSED OF PROMOTING KILLER DRUG." "B.B. ENTERPRISES PLANNED MARKETING BONE-MELTING COSMETIC." "DRUG WOULD DECIMATE AMERICANS," and so on, with every possible variety of hysteria and screaming abuse. Of course both the General and the Party denied it at once. But the later editions carried photostatic copies of the share register showing Mrs. Housaton's substantial holdings in B.B. Enterprises. The lady's protest that she had inherited the shares and that she had nothing to do with the actual running of the company did not make much impression. The National Committee of the Party was in perpetual session. Not even B.B.'s seven million dollar annual advertising budget could kill this story. This was a billion dollar outrage. The Attorney General sealed the B.B. plants — there were seven of them scattered over the country — and F.B.I, experts started to go with that proverbial toothcomb through the files. Two days later Marius, Prescott and B.B. were arrested under a federal indictment. B.B. was out on bail within six hours but the other two were held. And the day before the primaries General Housaton announced his withdrawal from the presidential race.

27

"I AM SCARED, ANDY," CONFESSED Gloriana the Second, dabbling her small foot in the swimming pool. "I am scared stiff." Gosma, in shorts and an open shirt which disclosed a startling mat of green fur on his flabby chest, turned lazily and looked at her. She was so beautiful that even the tiny frown creasing her smooth forehead was becoming. "That's natural," he assured her. "But there's no cause for it. Being a High Priestess — yeh, a Goddess — surely if you carried that off, the job of a President shouldn't worry you…" "It's different," the former Madge McMamie said with surprising acumen. "In the Greenness-is-All there's been no opposition. I mean, everybody's for God. It's easy to sell salvation. But politics…" "Just leave it to me, honey." He patted her gleaming flank and considered, briefly, further action. But he decided against it; he had two charming mistresses these days, the pick of the Green Graces and neither of them a day over sixteen. "Everything's going to be fine." "I hope so," she said, looking still doubtful. Then she turned to him, the frown deepening. "Just tell me one thing, Andy. What d'you expect out of all this? why are you doing it? I mean, you got all the money and power … all a man can want…" "Not quite," he said softly. "There used to be a song — quite a while ago. 'Germany today, tomorrow the world…' That house-painter fellow was an amateur. He took on the Jews, the British and the Americans, all at once. You shouldn't make people work against you — it's just as easy to get them on your side." "How? There are always bound to be some who hate your guts."

"You know, Gloriana…" Gosma felt in a confidential mood and even he needed a listener, someone to whom he could unbosom himself. "If in ordinary life you blackmail somebody, sooner or later you're bound to come to grief. Either the law will get you or your victim will shoot you or, even worse, you'll get pangs of conscience and drop what may be a lucrative line…" "You don't really believe what you're saying, Andy, do you?" the Green Goddess asked. "You always sound like such a heel. But deep down, I'm sure…" "I'm even worse," laughed Gosma. "No — let me tell you this. You and I — we're going to be together a long long time. It's best if you have no illusions about me and some idea what I'm after…" "O.K. I won't let out a peep." She stretched herself on her back, her firm, shapely breasts forming a delightful twin peak, her armpits showing a tender growth of amethyst fluff. "But if nations do the same — blackmail, I mean," Andor took up his chain of thought again, "it's called high diplomacy. There's no law to put them in the dock — or if they're put there they can always talk of national dignity, the inviolable sovereign rights of a country or simply veto the jury's verdict. How convenient it would be if murderers or con-men could do the same!" He crossed his legs, sitting slackly like a small-size Buddha. "Now I think blackmail's old-fashioned. So I've invented greenmail." "What's that?" Gloriana couldn't resist the question. "Global blackmail. It has to be built up step by step. The first thing was to make Greenness-is-All into a going concern — and you know that our weekly income is now around a million. Quite nice — but very far from the national income of even such a small country as Italy or Pakistan…" "Gee, I wouldn't be too greedy, Andy… Sorry, I promised. Go on." "Next — the United States. You'll be President, Gloriana. And then we can start our greenmail — and before we're finished you'll be Mistress of the World. One world. One green beautiful world." "And when you got it all — what are you going to do with it?"

Andor Gosma looked at the smooth green surface of the swimming pool. There was a moment's silence. "I don't know," he said softly. "Maybe blow it up. Maybe retire to a Trappist monastery and let it stew in its own bitter juice. But I'll think of something…" He looked up as the lumbering, burly figure of Michael Greenbod appeared at the entrance to the patio. Mimosa, resplendent in a pale-green linen suit, minced alongside the tall Irishman. "Hi, Andy! Gloriana, my dear, you look dazzling…" The Hon. Michael was in a bubbling, happy mood. He lowered his bulk into a stainless steel chair and started to peel off his coat, loosen his collar. Mimosa knelt and ceremoniously kissed Gloriana's left instep. She patted his head indulgently. "You made the deal?" asked Gosma. "Practically. They smelled a rat, of course, but they also realize they're in a hole. They must have a greenbod candidate after all that outcry. I must say the story was beautifully handled." "Thank you," Plainkop said. He was still nursing Gloriana's foot in his slim fingers. Andor made a mental note to tell his partner not to make a fool of himself. "I thought it was pretty clever myself…" "Sorry, Michael," the Irishman was embarrassed. "I didn't know…" "Oh yes, it was all Mimosa's doing," Andor conceded magnanimously. "Give him a nice, juicy bit of dirt and he can make the most of it." "Well, it's all settled — they're pretending they must have another meeting of the Inner Council but that's just to save face. I guess this is goodbye for a little while, Andy…" "Yes… we mustn't meet until the two conventions are over," Gosma agreed. "And, of course, we're going to throw a lot of mud at you — just to make it convincing…" "That's part of the game — as long as it doesn't stick…" Gloriana freed her foot from Mimosa's grasp. She sat up. "Mind telling me what you're talking about?"

"Just a little strategy, darling," Andor reassured her. "You needn't bother your pretty head about the details." "I think you ought to tell her everything," Plainkop declared loyally. "If you insist…" Gosma nodded. "The best chance of winning this election," Mimosa explained, "is not to have any opposition." Gloriana burst into laughter. She loved to laugh — and she couldn't help finding all this too funny for words. "Please," the slim ex-peace fighter was truly pained, "I know it sounds silly. But it's the truth. Now we've worked out the best way to get rid of the opposition. The General's retired from the contest. So we've… err… arranged it so that Mr. Greenbod shall become the Democratic candidate…" "Why, Mickey…" Gloriana was still amused, "I'd never have thought you'd be ratting on us. And you a greenbod, too!" "Mr. Greenbod hasn't any intention of deserting us," Mimosa went on, stiffly. "This is a purely tactical move. When the time comes he'll return to the fold." "And what about Senator Jarvis?" "That's being taken care of," Gosma interposed. "You needn't worry about him…" Gloriana pouted. "You're just treating me as if I were a ten-year-old. After all, your future President…" "We're doing it all for your glory," smiled Andor. "The Chief Executive mustn't be bothered with small details. … When the time comes, you'll be inaugurated as the first Lady President of the United States — and it'll be the greatest in history…" "By the way," the Hon. Michael cleared his throat, "you heard that young Pelargus is dead?" "Yes," said Gosma indifferently. "Why bring it up? He was a fool. There was no need for him to commit suicide. He'd have got away with ten years — maybe less…" "Pity you couldn't tell him that," Greenbod's voice was quiet.

"Now let's not spoil this lovely day with such talk," Gosma gave him a warning look. "You'd better come inside — there are a few last minute instructions we must discuss…" That left Gloriana and Plainkop at the pool. She slipped into the water, her smooth green skin flashing down the long stretch. Plainkop watched her hungrily. It wouldn't do, he told himself, to fall in love with the High Priestess of his religion. He'd pick himself another Green Grace — that was the best cure. Only, he was pretty sure, it wouldn't work.

28

BUT DO THE WICKED FLOURISH unabated? Is there no sign yet of the Marines coming to the rescue, the Bengal Lancers riding to save the beleaguered garrison, the U.S. cavalry dashing over the pass to put the Indians to flight? Who is to foil the knaves who plot a green tyranny? Is there no wisdom and no virtue left in the world? Hold on a moment, please. What is the evil in Andor Gosma's mind, the twisted passion in Michael Plainkop's heart? They both want power and they might easily get too much of it. It has always been the favorite gambit of leader-writers to misquote Lord Acton. Democracy works as long as its opponents obey the rules. But dictators, actual and would-be, make their own. That is disconcerting and it confuses the forces of freedom. They always expect the other guy to play the game; secretly they hope that he won't kick a man when he's down, hit below the belt, punch a foul blow. But he always does — he cannot help it. And when he fails or falls it is only because those forces of freedom have come to break the rules themselves, have woken up (usually a bit too late). In the meantime the trains run on time, Autobahns and bigger and better rockets are built and the norms are raised. Gosma and his friends wanted power. But how evil was their desire? In the great United States they planned to turn a hidden but tacitly accepted matriarchy into an

official one. This might hurt the vanity of the American male but would it hurt America? "The President," Wood-row Wilson said, "is a person, not a mere department of the government; he is a human being trying to cooperate with other human beings in a common service." Why should Gloriana serve her country any worse than Senator Jarvis or General Housaton? Power is what you do with it. No one in the world believed that Greenness-is-All could grow from a cranky religion into a nation-wide faith and political force. So no one called out the Marines or alerted the F.B.I. The world was ready to be raped again and people were filling out forms, playing golf, making love and still trying to lose three pounds overweight in a week (as if that helped) as they had always done. Between the Nebraska and the Oregon primaries the Honorable Michael Greenbod reverted to his foine old name of O'Kelly and announced in a coast-to-coast telecast that he had resigned from the New Glory Party — which he described as a 'poisonous conglomeration of cranks, do-gooders and pinkos with a green varnish' — and had joined the Party of those great and glorious true-born Americans, Andrew Jackson, Woodrow Wilson, F.D.R. and Harry Truman. His humble talents were at the Party's disposal and as a greenbod, he trusted, he had a special understanding for this 'critical and complex problem' — but he was an American first and a greenbod second. The abuse in the New Glory press — by now Plainkop's Agitprop owned a newspaper in every city with a population over a hundred thousand plus two hundred television stations and three newsreel companies — was somewhat subdued. 'More in sorrow than in anger' they recorded the Hon. Michael's defection. Gloriana hadn't been a candidate in the Maryland, Indiana, Ohio, West Virginia or Florida polls. The G.O.P. and Democratic press began to speak of the New Glory movement as a flash-in-the-pan, a harmless aberration which had died of its own folly. Gosma smiled the smile of the waiting tiger.

Thirteen months had passed since the C-Rocket was fired from the desert sands; more than a year since the coming of the Green Rain. Out of the three billion people in the world about one third were permanently and verdantly green. Thousands of green babies were born every day. The Watussis and their allies, after a three months' orgy of pillage, rape and destruction, had retired to their mountains. There were only a few thousand white people left in the All-White Republic, most of them homeless wanderers in forests and deserted

mines. The blacks were now killing each other in a senseless and vicious fratricidal massacre. On the Silver Coast a Watussi satrap ruled and the former subjects of Makru began to realize that green tyranny was no whit easier to bear than the old white one or the dictatorship of a man of their own color. Early in June the last series of primaries was held — in California, Montana, South Dakota and New York. Gloriana walked home in her own state as the 'favorite daughter.' Michael O'Kelly, the new Democratic candidate, carried New York. The Senator won in Montana and South Dakota. There were about nine weeks left to the National Conventions. The Democrats were to meet on August 13 in San Francisco; the Republicans a week later in Chicago. There would be 1372 Democratic delegates and 1323 Republicans. The candidates would be chosen by simple majorities; that meant at least 687 Democratic or 662 Republican votes. Andor Gosma had pursued an intensive course of study into the American constitution and electoral system. He had learned all about state ballots, 'pledged' delegates and 'uninstructed' ones; about 'keynote' speeches and the four Committees that ran each convention; the party 'ticket' and the horse-trading that went on behind the scenes. He could have passed a pretty stringent examination in every detail and every dodge. His 'cadre' files gave him the complete low-down on every candidate and every delegate. He had to work fast — but he had a huge organization to do the work for him; above all, the Green Graces. The 'greenmail' system was still a primitive one but Andor and his associates were daily, almost hourly, perfecting and refining it. Where it did not work, there was always its counterbalance — bribery. Nothing as crude as money ever changed hands. But there were spoils to be shared out — the usual spoils and a few unusual ones. The Green Graces worked double overtime. Every one of them was supplied with a miniature camera. By the middle of July almost four hundred delegates of both Conventions were in the bag. Furthermore they were all sworn to secrecy — not that their oaths were enough, the 'greenmail' was sufficient to secure not only their allegiance but their silence. Not one of them knew that there were three hundred and ninety-nine others in the same position. There were a few dozen who were too old or homosexuals or happened to be in love with their latest wives. But Andor could afford a generous wastage. He was working on a comfortable margin. He also received unexpected and welcome help from the UPPR. After a period of indecision, the Acting First Secretary acted — and all the rival candidates to his office were purged in a single night. It was quite like the good old times of Comrade Stalin. Now the new Master of the Socialist Fifth of the World was pure white, both in name —

Alexei Maximovich Byelo — and in complexion. And while he believed in the brotherhood of men under the Red Flag, he identified the greenbods with the traditional capitalist enemy of peace and progress — the United States. Though the UPPR permanent delegate to the United Nations had denied the existence of the Green International, there were some ominous rumors about peasant restlessness and discontent from both sides of the Urals. These were entirely due to imperialistic agitators. Some greenbods had managed to escape from the hospitable camps of the Arctic Circle and these were reported to be hiding under the protection of the apparently indestructible kulaks and agricultural saboteurs. Comrade Alexei considered for a while the idea of liquidating all the greenbods. But the statistics were a little disconcerting, for at a conservative estimate it would have involved thirty-two million people, not to mention the green babies to be born. This would have taxed even the organizing ability of the Third Reich which had achieved such amazing results in Auschwitz, Buchenwald and various other highly efficient disposal units of human bodies. Instead of such a drastic and costly step, the new First Secretary of the UPPR decided to re-educate his country and his allies. There might be some difficulty with the comrades in Asia who looked upon all colors except white with favor — but one or two skillfully staged outrages committed by suitably prepared greenbods on Chinese citizens would probably take care of that. The Agitprop chiefs were personally briefed by Comrade Byelo. The brazen chorus burst upon the world with a seven hour speech delivered by the Great Man himself to the Supreme Council of the Union. "Twenty years ago," he roared, "we, the most peace-loving nation in the world set the pattern for disarmament. But we still possess the most terrible arms compared to which the puny defenses of America are like a boy's slingshot. And we shall not hesitate to use them if this new green madness leads the capitalist remnant of the Western Hemisphere into new provocations. Should they elect a so-called greenbod as their President, we would consider this a direct provocation and we would take immediate steps which they would regret as long as they live — which wouldn't be long. Just because our great country has shown unlimited patience with the half-mad, half-wicked machinations of the decaying capitalist world, they must not presume that we are either weak or fools. Let me remind them that though they are as green as grass, green and grey make the worst mixture — and it would be only too easy for us to reduce their green pride to grey ashes…" He went on quoting proverbs — some of which he made up as he went along — at the rate of one every five minutes, being greeted by 'thunderous applause' and 'unending cheers' according to the faithful reports. This was a voice the world had almost forgotten since the days of the great Nikita; and it shook the complacent and traditionally divided West. The 'Old Statesman' of London, in a two page leading article praised Comrade

Byelo for speaking so frankly though it ventured to disagree with some of his conclusions; true enough, the Americans were playing their usual game of overriding the scruples and interests of their allies but to condemn a man just because he was green was going too far. The venerable periodical went on to suggest that Britain should give full independence to Christmas Island (the only territory she possessed which hadn't yet become a republic within the Commonwealth), advocated free health service to horses and dogs and denounced the Government for not being more daring (or more cowardly), as well as the Church of England for underpaying its bishops and all surtax payers who did not join trade unions. The French press called the First Secretary of the UPPR 'un raconteur formidable' and proposed a summit conference to which both green and white statesmen should be invited. But the United States reacted with far more vigor and fury than was expected. "Is Alexei going to elect the Next President?" asked the most popular columnist. "We didn't choose him — why should he choose for us?" demanded another. The Hon. Michael O'Kelly gave a very dignified interview in which he expressed his delight that Comrade Byelo had denounced him personally. "A man should be known by his enemies, too," he said. "My friends in this great country know what I'm standing for. This bad-tempered and mannerless Communist hates me because he knows I will always stand up to him and his evil policies. The rest I can leave to your commonsense and patriotism." Gosma and Plainkop waited until the sensation of Comrade Byelo's speech had died down a little and then launched their concentrated campaign. There wasn't very much time left now; but that served their purpose well. Voters had short memories and if the attack wasn't made close to the decisive date, it might be dissipated. Just two weeks before the Chicago Convention, the 'Byelo letter' was released. It was infinitely more skillful a forgery than the Zinoviev letter that had cost Labor so dearly in a historic British election earlier in the century. It was addressed not only to the underground Communist Party of the United States but to 'our allies, the Republicans' and it declared that the UPPR would 'view with full favor and sympathy' the election of Senator Jarvis as President of America. The Russians did not issue a denial — something on which Gosma and Mimosa, with their intimate knowledge of UPPR methods had counted. The Senator and his friends yelled red, white and blue murder. But the damage had been done — just as the General had been forced to retire because of his tenuous connection with the B.B. Enterprises scandal, the Senator, after a number of defiant declarations, saved his face by the statements of three eminent medical specialists. He was not fit enough to campaign, these great physicians said and he was retiring immediately to the Mayo Clinic for treatment. He recommended a fellow-Senator to take his place — but Mr. Conway was also white, not green — and the Convention took little notice of that. For the first time in history the Republicans chose a woman for a presidential candidate — a

woman who did not even have a second name. After only three ballots Gloriana was chosen by a landslide vote. There were only six delegates against her and a dozen abstentions. Her acceptance speech, written by Mimosa, was short. "Gentlemen," she said, "you have done me a great honor — but truly, you have honored yourselves. Together we will win — and together we will turn this beautiful and great country of ours into the greenest, greatest and most glorious land in the world… I shall serve you and all men as women have served and inspired men since the beginning of time. Thank you." The election campaign itself was certainly a strange one. The Hon. Michael O'Kelly, Democratic candidate, stumped the country and made all the usual whistle stop speeches. But, unlike any candidate before, he did not attack his rival — with exquisite, old-fashioned courtesy he explained that to throw mud at a lady would be both despicable and against his deepest convictions. Like most of his predecessors he promised the earth — and especially some vague but highly effective way of putting the UPPR and Comrade Byelo firmly in their places — and stressed the need for national unity in these times of unprecedented world emergency. Gloriana never stirred out of the Temple of Verdigris. She made three speeches — all by coast-to-coast color television — in which she appealed to the mothers, the wives and sweethearts of America, talking to them like a sister. Her sex-appeal was severely toned down — her make-up and hair-do had all been planned and executed by superb craftsmen — and her voice was demure, intimate and freshly simple. And of course, she also appealed to the fathers, husbands and to youth. She stressed she was young herself but America needed youth. She was bringing new life and vigor into politics and if she did not go into too many details about states' rights, automation and the unions, neither did she commit herself to any unpopular policies. Everything was going to be wonderful in the best of all green worlds. There were a couple of historic references to the Elizabethan age of Old England and to the great queens of the past — but, she explained with a smile, her aim was to serve and not to rule. She expressed her belief that she could handle Comrade Byelo — who but a woman could provide the milk of human kindness? — and thaw the ice of any new cold war that might be threatening. The November poll was pretty close. But in the end Gloriana won by more than a million votes. The first woman President of the United States was elected. Colonel Clancy Adams, her running mate, resigned and — in an unprecedented yet dramatically effective move — Madam President invited her rival, the Democratic Candidate, to accept the Vice-Presidency. There were a few days of constitutional argument with every jurist and historian having his say at great length. The party caucuses met for ninety-six

hours' non-stop deliberations sustained by oratory, whisky and coffee. The Democrats were the first to say 'yes' — because it was to their obvious interest. Part of the bargain offered to them through the Hon. Michael (who now decided to call himself Michael Greenbod-Kelly to satisfy everybody) was not only a bipartisan foreign and domestic policy but also half of the usual spoils to be distributed after each election — all the political jobs and quite a few federal ones. This point was the most hotly-debated in the Republican councils. But Gloriana and her lieutenants, constantly briefed and guided by Gosma and Plainkop, overrode the objections and doubts. Exactly twenty-one months to the day since the coming of the Green Rain, Gloriana was inaugurated in Washington and a Demo-Republican (or as some called it, a Repu-Democrat) administration was installed in the great Republic.

29

WHEN PELARGUS HEARD THE news of the B.B. Enterprises scandal and his son's arrest, his first impulse was to fly back to America and stand up for Marius. Buried deeply in his flint-like soul there was a strange flickering flame which some might have called a conscience. He thought of his son as a fool and a knave but, after all, they bore the same name and, forty years ago, Marius had given the false promise of a bright and charming child. Then came the suicide and Pelargus was sick at heart. He did not attend the funeral but cabled to Edna that she and her children were welcome to make their home with him. Perhaps, he thought, he could do better with his grandchildren than with his son. Edna, more bewildered than grief-stricken, found that there was practically no money left and B.B. was not inclined to help her. They arrived in Sweden a month after the death of Marius. "I've bought you a house and I've hired a servant," Pelargus told her frostily. "I shall visit you twice a month — but otherwise I want no communication from you and, above

all, no reminiscences. You're still young and personable — I hope you'll find yourself a man. But until you do, I'll keep you and the children. Goodbye," She tearfully assured him that she would devote her life to her .darling orphaned children. Pelargus snorted and left the hotel room hurriedly. His scepticism was fully justified; three months later Edna met a Danish tobacco wholesaler and married him within a week. He was a greenbod too. She departed without saying goodbye to her father-in-law but she left the children behind. Pelargus was quite content; he engaged a middle-aged ex-school teacher to look after his grandchildren and moved them to the little farm near Lund which he had kept for the day of his retirement. They were perfectly happy without their mother and the oldest boy even showed some indication of having brains. Pelargus was busy writing his big book about the Green Rain, spending long days over research and collating the material. He still kept away from any source of news, papers, radio, TV; but at one point in his work he decided that he had to talk to Dr. Lukachevski. It was with considerable difficulty that he discovered the biochemist's address and when he reached the isolated house he found it shuttered and deserted. Some more complex enquiries established finally that Lukachevski had returned to America and was working in California. Pelargus wrote to him but received no reply so he decided to make the trip during the summer vacation.

The Gloriana administration had been in power for seven months. Nothing very revolutionary had happened. Comrade Byelo, after making a heavily satirical and partly obscene speech about 'females playing at politics', had turned from foreign affairs to some internal troubles and to a new space program which aimed at Mars and Venus rather than the 'uninteresting' Moon. Congress passed a law which guaranteed the greenbods exactly the same rights as the white citizens of the United States and only a few Southern diehards opposed it. There was a spending boom and a building boom and Gloriana gave intimate little dinner parties to which selected political and business leaders were invited. She had made one trip abroad — to Canada — where she was acclaimed as none of her male predecessors had ever been. It seemed that the change was much less of a change than it had been expected but, of course, nothing is ever final in this world of ours. People learned to say 'Madam' instead of 'Mr. President'; the photographers no longer had to walk miles over golf courses but could take it easy around swimming pools, at fashion shows or outside beauty parlors and dress makers. Gloriana was

advised by the most eminent experts on what she wore, ate, drank and smoked; how she danced, drove, rode, swam, made-up and wore her neckline was a matter of long and intense conferences between the members of the Green House. (That was the first, cautious greenbod reform, the renaming of that ancient and venerable edifice which had been not long ago re-built in Gothic-Grotius, Late Lancaster and Dutch Dali styles). Her morals were impeccable for Gosma had taken good care that she should have anonymous and unimportant lovers who, after a suitable period, were sent on foreign missions to the most distant places. They had to sign the sort of document which civil servants bound by the official security act had to sign in England. Only one of them tried to talk and he had a very sudden fatal accident. It was only very gradually that the important federal jobs began to go to greenbods — and hand-picked ones at that. There had been a gentlemen's agreement with press and television that in no news story should a man's or woman's color be mentioned — something the black and brown people had long fought for. Greenbods did not necessarily obtain the top jobs but they held posts which gave them actual control of the state machinery. Whenever there was an interim election to Congress, the green-bod candidate was certain to win; if more than one candidate was green, a member of the old New Glory party (now dissolved) was chosen. It was all done with very little force, smoothly, quietly and efficiently. Gloriana ruled with a silken wand and her powersbehind-the-throne, her Green Eminences, still remained in the background. A second term was already taken for granted.

Pelargus arrived in San Francisco and took a helicopter to Lukachevski's laboratory. He was in his usual bad temper but he needed his fellow-scientist's help for his book which had now grown into a three-decker. He growled at the guards at the entrance, scowled at the receptionist in her trim Green Graces uniform and was positively rude to the assistant director. No, he had no appointment with Dr. Lukachevski and didn't know he needed one. Dr. Lukachevski ought to be honored to see him. His manner was so imperious that the hard-boiled and supercilious young man, who was one of Andor Gosma's handpicked aides, cringed under it. He asked Pelargus to wait in the luxurious lounge while he discovered whether his colleague — a word at which the lip of the dermatologist curled with contempt — was in the building or not. Pelargus didn't have long to wait. He was taken up to the top floor and led through an impressive series of rooms until he found himself in the holy of holies. A small,

sharp-nosed, bald man, dapper and smiling, rose to greet him from behind an enormous desk. "Professor Pelargus?" he held out his small chubby hand. "I'm delighted to meet you. Believe it or not, I was just about to ask you to come and visit us…" The stork-like scientist looked around. "You do pretty well," he said. "But look, I needn't take up too much of your time. There are a couple of things I wanted to ask you about chlorophylogen — if you remember…" Andor Gosma stared at his visitor and burst out laughing. "What's so funny?" demanded Pelargus belligerently. "Excuse me — it is not your fault. That was just what I wanted to do — if you had accepted my invitation. To ask you some questions. Very important questions. I see that you're under a slight misapprehension. I'm not our friend Zbygniew. My name's Gosma…" Pelargus glowered at him, and turned to go. "Wait a moment…" Gosma's voice was sharp now with the power of a man who had created a female President and was running a country — without any credit but with plenty of profit. The old man swung round. "Yes?" "Professor Pelargus, I doubt whether there are two men in the whole world who are destined for better understanding of each other than you and me." "Why?" "Because we're both concerned primarily with facts — not sentiments, fictions or dreams." Pelargus sat down again with a flicker of interest in his round eyes. "You've checked up on me," he stated, a trifle less hostile.

"Obviously." Gosma smiled and spread his hands in a self-deprecating gesture. "That's what you'd have done." "All right — what d'you want from me?" "Your help, your advice." "Oh no. I've learned to keep out of other lives, other peoples' problems. If I had any sensible advice to offer, they wouldn't take it. And I'm not fond enough of humanity to help — even if I could." "Professor — your son died. It was a tragic waste, I felt." Pelargus stiffened. "He was a fool," he said tonelessly. "He wouldn't accept facts. I warned him—" "Maybe his approach was wrong. And I'm not concerned with his motives. But what he tried to achieve my friends and I hope to do." "What? create some cosmetic or serum so that people can change the color of their skin? That would be the most futile and stupid…" "To you, Professor, color doesn't matter. Nor does it to me — that I happen to a greenbod is purely an accident. But to the vast majority of people it determines everything. I think most of our conflicts and problems, our difficulties and bickerings would end if…" He paused for a moment and Pelargus looked around the huge room. It began to dawn on him that he was facing a powerful and important man. He knew his name but nothing else of him. Gosma's voice jerked back his attention. "… if everybody would be the same color. Green." He went on quickly: "If we achieved that your son wouldn't have died in vain…" "What difference does it make to him now — why he died? He's dead. I don't believe in posterity, Mr. Gosma; I don't believe in rewards in the after-life. Nor do I believe in meddling with nature. All our troubles have come from that — not from our pigmentation…"

"How do you know?" Gosma got up and there was nothing conciliatory or ingratiating in his manner now. "You are a selfish, ill-tempered old man, Pelargus," he said. "You never argue — you make pronouncements. If you hadn't deserted your son in his hour of need he'd be alive today. It's so easy to call others stupid and wrap yourself in your omniscience — if there is such a thing which I doubt…" "Why, you—" "You probably think you have high moral principles — But they are the principles of the bigot and the smugly blind. We believe that peace and prosperity would come to the whole world if we succeed in turning all men green. You refuse to help us because you have other views. But you have no proof for your views except your own conceit. We'll do whatever we want without you — but for your own sake it would have been better if you'd agreed to help us…" The pale face of Pelargus had reddened, his eyes bulged. No one had ever dared to talk to him like this. And now Andor Gosma's face relaxed and he grinned and sat down again. "I had to tell you," he said in a friendly, warm tone. "I know it won't make the slightest difference — but I couldn't keep silent." Pelargus swallowed hard, his huge Adam's apple bobbed up and down. Then he said, in a curiously hoarse, hesitant tone: "Well, what d'you want from me? I'm no biochemist, I'm only a dermatologist…" "The experiments which you conducted at your son's laboratory — did they produce any results on chlorophylogen?" "Only whatever must be known to Dr. Lukachevski. After all, he discovered it." "But the effect of the C-Rocket was produced by a combination of chlorophylogen and something else. What was the other ingredient?" "I don't know. It may have been some special radiation … it may have been some chemical reaction effected by the dispersal and dilution of chlorophylogen through the upper layers of the atmosphere. What do we know of it? There's the Van Allen belt and the ionosphere — but no one has ever lived up there. And the results of lunar explorations haven't added much. The frog's climbed up one rung of the ladder — he still hasn't any idea what's on the first floor let alone on the roof…"

"Suppose we re-created as near as possible the conditions after the C-Rocket burst up there… re-created them in our laboratories?" Gosma asked. "Impossible! It would be mere guesswork…" "We've done it, Professor. And we want your help — to check the effects in your own field." "I'd have to be shown full proof…" Pelargus was weakening and, strangely enough, he felt no shame about it. "Oh, you'll have every facility," smiled Gosma. "Dr. Lukachevski is working with a very large team and unlimited funds. This is a federal project and we want the best results. We'll pay any salary you care to name and there's no reason why you shouldn't go on with your own book." There was silence. Then Pelargus said, with grudging docility: "Very well. But it must be understood that I can quit any time I like and that I'm not to take orders from anybody." "But, my dear Professor, I wouldn't dream of any other basis. Come on, let me introduce you to your colleagues."

30

ALMOST THREE YEARS HAD PASSED since Dr. Lukachevski and the functionaries of the I.S.S. had watched the C-Rocket take off from the desert. It was the second year of the Gloriana administration and apart from an occasional South American revolution and a few Arab assassinations and the rumblings of Comrade Byelo there was peace in the world. Then three announcements came from the Green House — made by Mr. Michael

Plainfield (formerly Mimosa Plainkop), the President's Chief Press Secretary. The first stated that the United States had developed a new, vastly improved CRocket and intended to launch it within two weeks from a place in the Western Hemisphere. The second divulged that the United States had asked for a special session of the General Assembly to be called at U.N. Headquarters. It was hoped that heads of states would attend. The third contained the shortened version of the 'Green Charter' — the 'global unity of mankind' — which was to give an equal chance to every man, woman and child to become green, regardless of race, religion or nationality. The details of this epochmaking offer, the Green House spokesman said, would be submitted to the General Assembly when it met in two weeks' time. The announcements had come as a complete surprise to everybody except a very small inner circle, the members of the U.S. Cabinet, the top military men of the Dodecagon and, of course, Andor Gosma. Within the United States the reaction was one of excitement, jubilation and pride. Too long had this great country played second fiddle to the UPPR in scientific achievement even though Russia had never equalled American malteds, electronic washing machines and hygienic packaging. The C-Rocket, while its initial development had been under the authority of the I.S.S., was considered a basically American idea — and now it was to be launched under entirely American auspices. Only the lunatic fringe protested, saying that the United States should not attempt to force its way of life (and its dominant color) upon anybody else. Two leaders of the League for the Advancement of Colored People went on record saying that discrimination was still deeply-rooted and would the Administration guarantee that no Negro would be prevented from benefiting from the new process of 'veridification'? But telegrams poured into Washington expressing approval and support. The television networks announced a 'Green Week' in which all programs would be built around the 'great American color.' Seventeen film companies registered titles of pictures containing the word 'green' in various combinations. The cosmetic and fashion industries held emergency conventions to make large-scale plans for the increased demand that was to be expected — in products which 'greenbods' favored in contrast to their white-skinned fellow-citizens. There was much speculation about the 'improvements' in the C-Rocket; scientific correspondents pointed out that this time it would be deliberately guided back to earth instead of aiming at the moon but that this did not mean it could not be successfully launched at its original target at a later date.

Foreign comment was mixed. The Prime Minister answered a series of questions in the House of Commons. No, Washington had not been in previous consultation with Westminster but discussions were now taking place at the 'highest level' and Madam President would probably visit London before the General Assembly met. It would be, of course, a State visit and she would receive the same courtesies as Queen Beatrice of the Netherlands or any other reigning monarch or head of state. There was no cause for anxiety for the Prime Minister did not think that the American moves would in any way lead to a deterioration in the international situation. After all, whatever facilities for changing pigmentation the United States intended to offer, this would be a voluntary choice; he understood that for its success, one had to expose himself to the resultant precipitation after the C-Rocket had been exploded in the stratosphere. No, Britain had no intention of developing her own C-Rocket — that would be a waste of expenditure and only duplicating the efforts of its principal ally. The Moslem world greeted the American announcement with considerable acclaim but once again the demand that Jews should be excluded from the benefits of universal greenness was repeated and the Mufti of Jerusalem demanded special efforts that Mecca and the other holy places should be guaranteed the necessary rainfall at the critical time. The Irish decreed a national holiday for a date to be fixed following the launching of the rocket. The French thought that they should have been asked well ahead of time; but the Government had no intention of interfering with the individual decisions of the nongreens whether to benefit by the American plan or not. The Chinese were ominously quiet. After a day's silence Comrade Byelo exploded again. His threats were many and varied. The UPPR would shoot down the C-Rocket if it passed over its territory and before it could reach the effective height. It would destroy the launching bases if outside the continental United States. It would demand United Nations action against this unprecedented provocation by American capitalism. It would launch a rocket of its own which would restore any greenbods to lily-white on the outside and true Red inside. It would renounce any treaty with every country that would not prevent its citizens from cooperating with the lunatic and criminal American scheme. The speech lasted eight hours and at the end of it Comrade Alexei looked a little green. But that was only a passing phase and he rallied soon enough. The President of India sent a private envoy to Gloriana asking to abandon or at least postpone the 'Day of Universal Greenness'. He offered his good services to effect a compromise between East and West as his predecessor had done so often before — without the slightest success. Similar offers came from the President of Indonesia, the King of Sweden and the Prince Regent of Spain. They were all politely refused. Only direct negotiations were possible, the Hon. Michael Greenbod-Kelly told the ambassadors and envoys, unless Comrade Byelo was willing to attend the United Nations General Assembly.

To the surprise of the world press — though not to Gosma's and Mimosa's — Tass announced two days before the Assembly meeting that Comrade Byelo would make one last attempt to show the United States the madness of its ways; let nobody say that he was not willing to make every sacrifice for peace and progress. A hundred of his bodyguards were flown in and he arrived on the eve of the opening session. The welcoming speech was made by Gloriana herself and she had never looked more beautiful or more self-possessed. She had taken to her high office like a bird to the air; of course, she was neither a goose nor a duck. Like a beautiful green bird of paradise she seemed to hover above the crowded vast Assembly hall. "I am a woman," she began, stating the obvious, "and even though my job is considered to be a man's natural monopoly, I cannot help looking at my country and at the world from a feminine point-of-view. This may shock you, ladies and gentlemen, but I notice that there are fewer than five per cent of my own sex among the delegates. When the inequality of the sexes was first realized and in some countries laws were passed to give women the vote and the same rate of pay and other elementary rights, politics somehow were neglected — for women to be in positions of trust and responsibility is still a strange idea at the threshold of the twenty-first century. But once the first step has been taken — I'm proud to say — in my own country, it must become evident that women, even if not necessarily wiser, are more concerned with the future than men. We bear the children and we want our children to live. It was after much heart-searching and many careful considerations that the United States decided to offer to the rest of the world the benefits of greenhood. Now, if we had some way of turning everybody on the globe white or brown or black, I believe we'd have made the same offer. It isn't the particular color that matters — it is the unity of mankind. We are still divided by different political systems, by the inherited curse of the Tower of Babel and by many other clashing views and particularities — and it would be a dull and colorless world if these differences did not exist. But here we have the chance to remove at least one barrier and to abolish one obstacle — and this we propose to do. It is our deepfelt hope that all of you will share our views and that we will stride forward together towards a future that will abolish all physical and spiritual frontiers. We seek no advantage or domination. We believe that Greenness is All and that within it we can be all sisters and brothers not only under the skin but visibly, tangibly, irrevocably so…" The Communist delegations sat in stony silence, taking their cue from Comrade Byelo who, with the tiny button of the simultaneous translation system in his left ear, sprawled there, staring at Gloriana. The other delegations applauded wildly with the Moslems and Irish leading the loud acclaim. Up in the gallery two representatives of the shattered All-White Republic who had escaped from Africa by a fantastic piece of luck were shouting themselves hoarse for the C-Rocket was their only hope.

The First Secretary of the UPPR looked at this strange, glittering, beautiful woman who stood, poised and smiling, above the multitude. The Party had been his father, mother, wife and family; for the first time in his life he found himself lusting after alien gods — or rather, goddesses. As one by one the heads of the Western delegations rose and gave their approval — sometimes qualified or cautious but none-the-less real — to the American Green Plan, Byelo sat stolidly, his thick neck red with fury and desire. His predecessor had ended the period of extreme Victorian puritanism which had characterized the UPPR since the wild experimental days of the twenties and early thirties. The prim priggishness of Peace-Loving and Progressive art, literature, music and morals had been relaxed considerably. This was a very good reason for Comrade Byelo to restore it. A UPPR citizen was supposed to be monogamous and highly serious. Human nature being what it is, little had changed in reality; the orgies were more discreet, illegitimate babies were frowned upon and seducers were sent to Siberia. But this, of course, did not apply to the top men. Byelo himself had buried three wives and had discarded a number of mistresses. His appetites were robust in food, drink and fornication alike. Ever since his early days in the Party hierarchy he had never wanted anything he did not get — it was true, he usually got what he wanted. He was, for all his uncouth exterior, a clever and well-read man. As now speech after speech echoed in the Assembly hall, he amused himself by thinking of Solomon and the Queen of Sheba, of Judith and Holofernes, of Anthony and Cleopatra, of all the men and women who had been natural opponents and yet had met, peaceably and pleasurably, in bed. It never entered his mind that this might be somewhat difficult to achieve in the twentieth century and especially outside his own country. If he had wanted Gloriana in the UPPR, this would have been achieved with the greatest of discretion and dispatch; for one thing the great Republic did not possess, happily, was the gossip columnist and the bedroom snooper. When the laudatory speeches had ended, he rose. The dead silence was most complimentary. He thrust his bullet-head forward and said: "As the spokesman for the UPPR I only wish to say that we need time to consider this extraordinary proposal by the United States. I ask that this session be adjourned for a week when we shall be ready to state our views." He sat down and his eyes were again on Gloriana who had now withdrawn to the box reserved for heads of states. The President of the Assembly, a Pakistani greenbod, said hastily: "There has been a resolution for adjournment. Those in favor?" The United States chief delegate rose and said that while his country had no

objection to an adjournment, he wished to point out that this would leave only one day for the debate and discussion since the launching of the new C-Rocket had been definitely fixed for the day after the date proposed by the UPPR delegation. The Indonesian delegate asked why the launching could not be postponed? After all, the Assembly's right to a free and full expression of opinion was more important than any schedule. The Hon. Michael Greenbod-Kelly replied that meteorologists, rocket experts and other technicians had selected this date many months ago and there would be no reoccurrence of such favorable atmospheric conditions for another six months. Comrade Byelo rose again. "One day will be quite sufficient," he said. "We all talk too much — myself included." When this brief statement was translated, Gloriana looked at the First Secretary for the first time. This he found both disturbing and flattering. The General Assembly was adjourned for a week.

31

WHEN THE UPPER AMBASSADOR TO Washington asked the Green House for a personal and private meeting between the First Secretary and the President, Gloriana was scared for almost the first time since her inauguration. "But I can't speak Russian," she said. "And I'm sure to say the wrong things all the time."

Mimosa and Andor who were in conference with her, both grinned. "Maybe Byelo is even more scared," giggled Plainfield, ne Plainkop. "That man? He looks like a lump of pig-iron." "He is a man," said Gosma softly. "And what do you mean by that crack?" demanded Gloriana, reverting to the longlost identity of Madge McMamie. "You could always handle men, darling," Mimosa said. "Andor and I are convinced that the great man has no intention of discussing politics or rockets. We watched him yesterday. He was goggling at you — like a tired businessman seeing his first strip tease." "But that's ridiculous…" "Ridiculous and very useful," Gosma said. "If you don't mind, Michael and I will sit in as interpreters — as long as we are needed…" "Where do I meet him? If this is official…" "Oh no! The approach was informal and confidential. We'll suggest the Washington Temple where you still have your penthouse apartment." Gloriana turned a slightly darker green — she was blushing. "But I only…" "We know, sweetheart," Gosma grinned. "We must know everything you do or say. And you can ask Biff to move out for one or two nights… he's the current boy friend, isn't he?" "I hate you," Madam President said without any real conviction. "You're both too clever for me — and for your own good. Very well, I'll meet the Big Bear. But—" she looked quite pathetic, "do I have to sleep with him?" Gosma shrugged. "Surely there are some matters where we can't advise you. You don't have to, Gloriana. You don't have to do anything any more as I told you before. But any person in a high office has to make personal sacrifices now and then — for the good of the cause…"

"Oh, blow the cause!" cried Gloriana and then smiled. "What is the Russian for…" Gosma told her.

32

TEN YEARS BEFORE ANDOR GOSMA had once spent a day in the company of Alexei Byelo. He was a member of a writers' delegation to Moscow, sent there to study the deeper meaning of social realism and the application of Higher Zhdanovism to the 'engineers of the soul' as Lenin had miscalled the writers. Byelo at that time was in charge of the UPPR Agitprop for Central Europe and made no secret of his contempt for 'undisciplined inkslingers.' Gosma, with his intuitive talent of judging men, had thought that Comrade Alexei would go far for he could play the clown and he could be dead serious about things he didn't believe in. But that was ten years ago — since then Byelo had met thousands of people, shaken innumerable hands and had been avuncular or beastly to multitudes. Gosma had lost all his hair and he was a greenbod now. There was little danger that the First Secretary would recognize him — and if he did, well, the shock might be salutary. Smimosa, the second interpreter, was a little nervous; Byelo had been his supreme boss while he had fought the good peace-fight and though he had been too unimportant ever to be summoned into his presence, he wondered if his defection of a mere two years ago hadn't made his picture figure prominently in the Black Books of Agitprop. Neither of them need have worried. Byelo arrived at the Washington Temple of Greenness-is-All with his jowls cruelly close-shaven, wearing a light suit, carrying two books and an immense bouquet of red roses. His bodyguards were dismissed summarily and so, after a few minutes of polite and stilted conversation, were Andor and Mimosa. This was to be a real tete-a-tete. "They'll probably use sign language," grinned Gosma as he sauntered towards the

private elevator that connected the penthouse with the Greenness-is-All offices. "I think Gloriana's better at that than Alexei," giggled Plainkop. "You've got the telerecorder installed?" Gosma gave him only a reproachful look — as if his efficiency could be doubted in the least. But there were no records of the historic rendezvous. Only Gloriana's report — and that was almost incoherent with laughter. The first thing Byelo had done when they were alone was to make a thorough search of the place — he had enough experience of planting such machinery on others — and he found the mikes and automatic cameras remarkably quickly. He shook his head and clicked his tongue but he did not seem to be annoyed. Gloriana, in a negligee of masterly design and ethereal greenness, was watching him amused and a little uneasy. He sat down opposite her and took the two books from the table between them. He offered one to her and kept the other. "I hadn't any idea what he was up to… but I remembered what you boys said…" Gloriana told the story between bouts of giggling and peals of laughter. "So I took the book. It was a phrasebook — the sort they publish for tourists. You know, 'when's the next jet leaving?' and 'breakfast in bed' and 'd'you speak American?' Only this one was American-Russian — and it must've been specially printed for the big slob—every question and answer was loaded and they were all designed to make us real matey." Byelo took the books away with him when he left somewhat precipitately, so Gloriana couldn't show them to Gosma and Mimosa — but she gave them a pretty good idea of this peculiar compilation. The phrases started with courtesy, progressed to sentimentality and ended up with frank obscenity. "Russian must be quite a language for that," Gloriana laughed. "If I ever pay a state visit to Moscow — which I doubt — I'll be able to have some interesting talks… if I remember any of it…" "So he propositioned you," Andor prompted her when she had calmed down a little from her hysterical merriment. "Yeah — he kept pointing at the right phrase in my book and read out the Russian and after a while I caught on to the game and gave the right answers to the questions. Course, I didn't make it too easy for him. After all, I had to think of my constitutional dignity or whatever you call the thing." "And then?" Mimosa asked, licking his lips.

But Gloriana was seized by another fit of laughter and it took several minutes before she was able to talk. Then she managed to produce a few disjointed sentences. "Dunno why… maybe he'd been drivin' himself too hard… maybe it was too much of an honor for him… Boys, it was the biggest flop ever since I was in a revue in Chicago which closed after one night… What you might call a fiasco. No dice." "You mean…" Gosma's face was tense and serious now. "I've told you… the great comrade was a total floperoo … a washout… a damp squib. I tried to help him but that made him even angrier… and even less good. Then I started to laugh… I laughed… and laughed… and laughed… And suddenly he got up, struggled into his pants… snatched up the rest of his clothes and the books … and ran." "You should've gone after him," Mimosa said reproachfully. "I did. But those hulking brutes, the bodyguards — one of them was helping him into the elevator and the other just stood there, blocking my way. I ... I wasn't really dressed for expeditions," she added a little lamely. "Hell hath no fury…" Andor quoted, inappropriately but intensely. "I know that one," Gloriana cut in. "And I didn't scorn him. I was ready an' willing. I can't help if he ... I mean, in a way it was quite an insult to me. But we couldn't send a State Department Note about it, I guess…" "Maybe," Plainkop said hesitantly, "maybe he'll just keep quiet. After all, if it got round…" "Yeah," Andor agreed. "It's a pretty chance for green-mail. He'd have to think up some good excuse for a smoke screen. But you can never tell with Comrade Alexei. It would be fatal to underestimate him…" He turned to Gloriana. "Madam President, we are sorry. You shouldn't have been exposed to such… incompetence. But we couldn't know, could we? This'll have to remain a State Secret. It's quite fortunate that Byelo turned off the recorders — there's no evidence, nothing tangible. We'll just forget about it…" "Oh, I've very little to forget," Gloriana assured him. "The question is — will he?"

When "the General Assembly met again, Comrade Alexei Byelo was not present and as a matter of fact, nobody seemed to know where he was. He had been reported in half a dozen places, all of them several thousand miles apart. The UPPR Embassy maintained its usual stony silence. Mr. Zelonnee, the UPPR permanent delegate made a noncommittal speech. His country, he said, disapproved strongly of such irresponsible adventures as the United States was indulging in and in any case, the whole ridiculous experiment was bound to fail. It would, however, not press for a resolution condemning the Americans for jeopardizing the peace of the world; he would be content to register his complete disagreement with the entire project. The UPPR reserved the right to take whatever measures it considered necessary to protect its citizens from the consequences of American action for it still held to its fundamental principle that the supreme good and the most precious possession was a human being. It was a remarkably short speech and after it there was nothing much to be said. Kelly-Greenbod found it necessary to reiterate that the C-Rocket could not cause anybody any harm; that an international panel of scientists, including the celebrated Professor Pelargus and the brilliant Dr. Lukachevski had established this beyond any doubt. He invited the delegates to attend the launching next day; a fleet of planes would be at their disposal and they would all be guests of the Federal Government. This was received with applause and the session ended.

"What's he up to?" asked Mimosa that night as he and Gosma sat in the penthouse office of Greenness-is-All. Their nerves were a little on edge; within thirty-six hours their great plan of global greenness would be put to the test. Messages were arriving continuously from the monitoring room on a lower floor; the American announcements had received world-wide publicity and the various governments were offering their citizens advice, instruction and warning according to their political attitude. But there hadn't been a peep out of Comrade Byelo; the only indication of something brewing was the Moscow announcement ordering every citizen of the UPPR to tune in to the main television program at eight o'clock the next morning. "Probably nothing," Gosma said lazily. "Suppose he decides to start a war. What good would that do him? The Dodecagon has re-activated the automatic K-rockets; within twenty minutes we would be retaliating — more than massively." "Maybe he doesn't care." Plainkop was in a pessimistic mood. "Maybe he's so angry

with Gloriana that…" "My dear Mimosa, the time is past when kings and presidents waged war because they disliked each other or because they had been insulted. If Byelo tried to revenge himself for his impotence — momentary, I'm sure — he'd soon be liquidated." "How soon?" "Soon enough. Why are you so jittery?" "Because… because maybe we've started something we can't control. It's all very well for you to play the Supreme Providence, the All-Wise, All-Controlling God. I know people. They're weak and rotten — when you think you've got them under your thumb, they wiggle free." "That's quite enough, my friend." Gosma stopped him with an imperious gesture. "You're not addressing a Peace Rally. Anyhow, what d'you propose we do? Call off the C-Rocket launching? Offer another night of love to Comrade Alexei? Retire to Curacao and play checkers with Gloriana the First?" "I only wanted to tell you…" muttered Mimosa resentfully and then subsided. The telescreen glowed into life. In front of them the launching site was spread out in full color — the yellow of the sands, the rusty-brown of the launching platform, the postcard-blue of the sky, with the black mountains on the far horizon. Gosma reached forward to adjust the image and make it sharper. Now the rocket itself filled the screen, slim and tall, painted a heat-resistant, shimmering emerald. There were no people in the picture and the commentator's voice came out of the set full of awe and self-importance. "Thirty seconds to go…" he announced. "Thirty seconds, ladies and gentlemen, to history… to a new world of All-Greenness…" And then the countdown began. "Ten… nine… eight…" Gosma glanced at his companion-in-greenness. Mimosa had covered his eyes as if unable to bear the sight. "Idiot," murmured Gosma.

"Seven… six… five…" There was no flame as the rocket rose gracefully and majestically. Only a subdued roar and then, as the camera tilted up, it soared up, aimed straight at the sky, unwavering and purposeful.

33

ALL WENT ACCORDING TO PLAN. As soon as the C-Rocket reached the appointed height at which the steering mechanism would start operating and curve it back towards the stratosphere, the seeding planes took off from the American bases. This had been a crucial stage of the operation — would, the UPPR take any counter-action? — for they had to fly at a great height and cover a regular grid pattern over the entire globe. But with the exception of one that developed engine trouble — the pilot used his ejector-seat and came down in his enclosed capsule unharmed — they all did their allotted job perfectly. By the time the CRocket, carrying a load triple to that of the first one, had re-entered the atmosphere and discharged its chlorophylogen at the same altitude as the first rocket had done by accident the necessary concentration of crystals covered the whole earth like an immense sheath. The rain started to fall. There was carnival in the streets of Vienna, booths lined the Ring and people were dancing in the gardens of the Heuriger. In Lederhosen, the brawny, bronzed, hatless Tyrolese stood on the greens of the Alp villages. The Government had given a holiday to all night workers and the hospitals and nursing homes carried their bedridden patients out into the open. Everybody was getting soaked with the Green Rain who hadn't become a greenbod three years earlier. It was a gay and abandoned time, a Dionysian frolic mixed with a little Schlamperei — it was only at the last minute that they

discovered a whole Bezirk which had not been properly notified and instructed about the Gift of Greenness; so policemen and postmen made the rounds of the villages, towns and isolated houses rousing the people and hurriedly explaining what was going on. On the Adriatic islands, along the Dalmatian coast, in the mountains of Montenegro, Bosnia, Herzegovina and Macedonia there was a far less complete turnout. The Council Republic had one of its periodic love-hate quarrels with Moscow; but it was equally and traditionally suspicious of America. Thus the Government neither discouraged nor supported the Global Greenness project; it simply ignored the whole thing. But as the Voice of Greenness had been broadcasting for a month in three hundred and twentyseven languages and a thousand dialects from satellite-transmitters, Slovenes and SerboCroats and the people of Crna Gora could not help being informed about the C-Rocket and the Second Green Rain. The Moslems among them followed the call without exception; the old Party members ignored it while almost all young people were out in the open getting soaked happily and dancing the kolo in the downpour. 'Next door', in Albania, Moscow ruled supreme and there were Progressive and Peace-Loving policemen stationed in every town and village to keep people indoors; they wore protective clothing and helmets with broad brims so that they should not be contaminated themselves. They used their progressive, peace-loving cudgels on anybody who ventured outdoors. The goats and cows bleated and mooed unmilked in the stables for no one was allowed even to cross a farmyard. Yet in the mountains and the isolated valleys, some reactionary hirelings of capitalism sneaked out and stood motionless, under a dripping tree or in the middle of a pasture, their faces turned upward. It was a desperate and futile gesture of defiance; for once they had turned green, they would be marked as conspicuous and unmistakable enemies of the state. They were committing suicide by turning green though some hoped that there would be no difference between the old and new greenness and the roundup of greenbods had been far less systematic in the satellites than in the UPPR. In the UPPR itself the same measures had been taken as in Albania but on a far vaster and more efficient scale. Every communal farm president, every 'block-official', every aparatchik had been briefed in a series of simultaneous meetings. No one was to leave his home as long as the rain lasted and for a week afterwards all bathing, swimming, washing in lakes, rivers and streams was forbidden lest the rainwater should have contaminated them. Half a million patrol cars covered every street and square; the orders were to shoot on sight. By morning over three thousand people had been killed — most of them policemen who had failed to give the identification signal by flashing their red lamps. The UPPR was determined to stay white — a mighty island in the middle of a green world — as Comrade Byelo had told the Presidium. In the pampas and savannahs of Argentina the Green Rain had also ended a long

drought. The President happened to be a greenbod and had held office for almost six months without either the Army or the Navy starting a seasonal revolution. Senor Veralda had appeared on a nationwide television hook-up the night before the launching of the second C-Rocket. He told his compatriots that this was the beginning of a new age for all differences between the gringos and the citizens of the South American republics would disappear. They would not only become the same color but the same mind and soul. He declared a national fiesta to last for three days — with full pay to all workers and state employees. He himself would lead a 'rain-parade' and he hoped that no man, woman and child would stay indoors on the 'glorious day of Greenness.' In Gloriana's own country the full blast of Mimosa's vast propaganda machine, now covering every state and every country, had been concentrated on a 100% turnout. Special syndicated features in the newspapers and magazines gave the detailed instructions — an exposure of sixty minutes was thought to be sufficient according to the experts but a couple of hours might be safer. Three hundred and sixty-two bartenders had invented special Green Rain cocktails — most of them with a chartreuse or absinthe basis — which were recommended as infallible safeguards against catching cold. There were Green Rain bathing-suits and sandals, Green Rain barbecue outfits and ice cream featuring pistachio; over a hundred songwriters had composed marches, dance tunes and suites for the occasion. In every town there were street parties, organized block by block on a communal basis; the municipal authorities contributed brass bands and the Elks, Kiwanis, Odd Fellows joined with the Rotary Clubs, the American Legion, the Salvation Army and thousands of other civic organizations to provide aid to the bedridden, the crippled and the blind, to the 'shut-ins' and all the other handicapped so that no one should be excluded from the unique opportunity of turning green. There were two Green Rain telethons, with special waterproof cameras and make-up for the performers; the armed forces planned their Operation Greenness down to the smallest detail and there was a special amnesty for all A.W.O.L. personnel provided they reported on the morning of the launching to the nearest base. Gloriana had expressed her 'heartfelt hope' that of the one hundred and forty million Americans who had not yet joined 'the blessed greenbods' not one would miss the chance of a thousand lifetimes. She stated her desire that as many weddings as possible should be scheduled for the day and huge open-air altars and registry offices were erected in the various city squares to accommodate those who would 'pledge their faith in the faith of Greenness.' To mark the Day — G-Day as it came to be called — as an unclouded, happy occasion, all funerals were postponed and the refrigerated vaults of mortuaries became somewhat crowded; but, as always, they coped manfully with this. Each bereaved family — just like every bridal couple — received a personal message from the President; a miniature green wreath went to the former and a tasteful imitation emerald brooch to the brides. Mimosa's fertile Agitprop brain did not forget the Indians who were visited by emissaries of the Great Green Mother and told that if they

participated in G-Day their reservations would be abolished and they would be encouraged to take their place in the all-green community. Still, there were dissenters and non-conformists even in the country of Greenness-isAll. The followers of Father Almighty, a Negro prophet, swore that they would not give up their original color for any blandishment of the green-bods whom they considered godless and fundamentally white, therefore evil. The underground Communist Party made frantic efforts to keep its minuscule membership from defying the UPPR's Party Line. "No true Marxist-Leninist-Byeloist could become green," the hastily printed leaflets proclaimed. "Show that you are a class-conscious peace-fighter by staying indoors during this poisonous Green Rain!" And in the Deep South there were a few thousand Confederate diehards who saw in the whole thing another diabolic plot by the damnyankees to destroy white supremacy and make all niggers the equals of the true American aristocracy. There was, as Gosma had decided at the beginning, no coercion — all pressure was social, applied through fashion, religion, or appeal to national pride — and therefore it was almost a hundred per cent effective. "In a year or so," Gosma foretold, "white-skinned people will be considered a curiosity, a survival of the bad old times, to be politely ignored and within a few decades they will be extinct." 'Down under' in Australia, with its fifty million people still spread thinly over the vastness of the Continent, opinions were sharply divided over G-Day. The New Australians who were descendants of the immigrants of two generations ago maintained that the Dominion should stay out of this whole peculiar business — this had always been a white country since the few hundred surviving aborigines had been carefully segregated in a hundred square miles and though there were about two million greenbods the white character of the country must be preserved. The Old Australians, the leaders of the country and the political parties opposed this view. There were quite a few fights in the saloons which — tremendous progress — were now open seven hours a day instead of six. There were processions and counter-processions. But the Government was pro-Green and cunningly arranged a series of open-air events for the critical period. There were no less than three cricket matches scheduled in Brisbane, Adelaide and Melbourne. In Sydney the heavyweight championship of the world was being staged in the new Olympic arena which held half a million. There were race meetings in every city and town that had a race track. There were beach festivals and cane festivals and other spectacular events. Not even the New Australians could resist this and so, with the exception of perhaps ten per cent of the population, they were all out when the gentle green rain started to fall. As for Africa, the Watussis and their allies had done the propaganda job which Mimosa's multi-lingual broadcasts and millions of leaflets couldn't have achieved. There were still occasional massacres of blacks and whites — though of the latter few survived. For them G-Day was salvation and resurrection — their only hope. For if they

became green they would be allowed to live; in time, perhaps, they could even revenge themselves for the butchering of their relatives and friends. The news spread from isolated hideouts to jungle communities; from the cellars of the ruined cities to the deep mine shafts in which small groups were living in constant terror. They emerged at night in tiny parties or singly. As the rain came, spreading in a broad, sweeping, moving belt from the Cape to North Africa, from Zanzibar to the Silver Coast, they stood under its blissful, wonderful whiplash shower, laughing, singing and dancing. Some of them were caught and killed before the pigmentation-change had come, but these were very few. If Andor Gosma had ever cared for gratitude or the blessings of people he had never even heard of, his vanity would have been fed to satiation. And the new greenbods who had been white soon started an underground movement against the monstrous tyranny of the Watussis. It would have succeeded too, but it was smothered, like so many other things, soon after it started. And England? Mimosa's propaganda was subtly keyed to the Old Country's traditions. The greensward and the greenwood were played to the hilt. In any case, it wasn't a new experience for the British to be out in the rain. The umbrellas remained furled. There was a march of anti-G-Day demonstrators from John o'Groat's to Green Park. But of course they marched through the rain — and turned green like most of the citizens of the tight little, right little island. Half the Cabinet in office, as it happened, was already composed of greenbods. It was a little like the old, dim days of the Blitz — only instead of bombs, phosphorus and rockets, it was just water that fell upon the patient, uncovered heads. Strangers once again talked to each other; in the newspapers there were competitions for 'my funniest G-Day story' and when the press secretary of Buckingham Palace announced that the royal family wanted to share the people's color, the wave of enthusiasm swamped even the most sceptical and most violently antiAmerican. England went green with two and a half cheers for democracy; there were a few colonels' sons (the colonels were dead long ago) who muttered rebelliously but nobody heard them because they didn't know how to speak up. Among the cedars of Lebanon, in the Sierras of Spain, on the Tagus and in Tel Aviv, on the Dutch canals, drifting through the tulip fields (the Hollanders had developed a wonderful new green variety), in Bali and around the weathered temples of Kyoto, in Rome, Naples and Capri, among the teeming millions of Calcutta and Bombay, on the slopes of Mount Olympus and under the noble ruins of the Parthenon, in Paris and Cairo, Brussels and Berlin — there were few people indeed who did not spend the prescribed hour or two offering their faces and bodies to the warm caress of the Green Rain. Greenness had become all. Except for the UPPR and some of her satellites (for in Hungary and in Poland there had been open defiance of Moscow's orders), except for about half of China where the Red had taken and the yellow was slowly submerged, Gosma's dream of a Green Globe had become reality. For the work which Lukachevski and Pelargus had done in the California laboratory, which had been put into effect by a

vast army of experts and technicians, had paid full dividends. They had succeeded in reproducing the same atmospheric and radiation conditions artificially which had existed in the upper atmosphere at the time the first C-Rocket had exploded on its way to the Moon. There was, of course, still some margin between laboratory experiments and the intangibles of space. But the result was more than gratifying. They had used a higher concentration of chlorophylogen and in no case did it take more than three or four hours for the pigmentation change. The Veridification controllee' as the French papers called it, was perfect, without any harmful after-effects, and world-wide.

34

THERE ARE A COUPLE OF SEMI-scientific terms which the layman uses thoughtlessly and lightly. One is 'trigger-effect' and the other 'saturation point.' Sulphuric acid and potassium cyanide aren't exactly pick-me-ups — but if they are left alone they behave themselves. The moment they combine they create a vapor that is fatal to all life within a few seconds. There are innumerable high explosives — orthodox and atomic — which can be handled perfectly safely up to a certain temperature or outside certain conditions of pressure and insulation. But if the conditions are removed, if the temperature rises or the pressure increases, the trigger effect starts to operate and there is disaster and destruction. Through costly and deadly experiments and endless series of trials and errors, men had discovered the conditions of control, but still, there are far more things we do not know about Nature and her workings than the comparatively pitiful amount of knowledge we have acquired. There was the man who invented an acid that would, so he claimed, destroy everything — glass, metal, wood or what have you. It was perfection (or if you like, abomination) in the lab and on paper. Then he was asked the simple and disconcerting question — what would he use to keep his all-devouring acid in? There

was no answer; all too often there isn't one. When a sponge absorbs all the water it can hold it is saturated. In the primitive days of the Second World War they talked of 'saturation bombing,' meaning that there wasn't much, if anything, left to bomb. The last straw broke the camel's back; the last drop made the cup overflow. There is the last fraction of heat that blows up the boiler; the final ounce of weight that makes a building collapse. Trigger effect, saturation point, chain reaction — the jargon that is glibly used. Behind the words there is reality, stark and cruel, implacable and final. It began in two places many thousands of miles apart — in the province of Hunan of the Chinese People's Progressive and Peace-Loving Republic and in the vineyards of Tokay, Hungary — though nobody knew why. Perhaps the soil and climatic conditions in these two spots were just right (or wrong) or perhaps it was a mere accident and it could have happened just as well in Iceland or Peru. But because both places were in the Communist half of the world it took weeks before any news leaked out and even then, it was fragmentary and distorted by censorship. In the rice paddies of Hunan the tender shoots suddenly began to grow at a mad, heedless rate. Not even the oldest member of the communal farms could remember anything like this. In a single day they shot up more than two feet and they continued to soar towards the sun as if suddenly afflicted by vegetable elephantiasis. Of course, the members of the kolkhoz were delighted. They called out the agronomists and these took cuttings of the plants — which continued to grow and also to thicken so that the rice fields began to resemble swamp-jungles — carting them off to the laboratories. There was no disease they could find and no change in the capillary or chemical structure. Harvest time was still several months away but already the problem arose how to gather the gigantic yield. Within a week the rice shoots were thirty feet tall and still continued to grow. The Hunan rice growers offered a good many theories, all being creditable to their own wisdom and ability. They had already qualified for a Chou En-lai Prize and if the rice stalks continued to grow they might even win the Mao Reward which not only meant a medal for each of them but also a facsimile photograph of the Greatest Statesman in World History. What truly amazed them was that rice began to grow outside the paddies where it had never grown before. The intricate network of causeways became covered with the gigantic stalks, the ditches were choked with them and the water level began to rise. This caused some flooding in the villages; but such abundance, such miraculous growth

was well worth a little inconvenience and most of the people were able to move to higher ground a mile or so away. Only six were drowned and they were old or crippled so that they hardly diminished the work force. It was getting increasingly difficult, however, to do the necessary weeding and transplanting. The rice fields were being transformed into almost impenetrable thickets and jungles through which not even the sharpest sickles and knives could hack a way. Luckily the nearby machine station had a relic of the ancient Civil War — a flame thrower. Only a couple of people were badly burnt before it was refurbished and they learned its use. Blasting through the still thickening and growing rice shoots — these were now the thickness of large bamboo trees — they managed to do some of their work. But by the next day the seared plants had shot up again, at least shoulder high and every day the access became more difficult. And then they began to realize that the weeds were growing almost at the same rate. The agronomists sent for the District Agricultural Director who at first refused to believe their reports. But he came at last in a gleaming hovercar and inspected the miraculous paddies. He had little advice to offer and grew rather angry when one of the young agricultural experts suggested that either some fire engines should be sent to the commune or helicopters provided for the harvesting. The rice stalks were now fifty feet high and were still growing. When their yield was inspected, it was established that the kernels had remained quite normal size for only the plants themselves were suffering from this gigantism. One of the young agronomists who had also dabbled in zoology and paleontology promptly dubbed this the 'brontosauric effect', using the parallel of the gigantic herbivore with a tremendous body and a remarkably small head. Nobody was much interested in this parallel — whether apt or not — because they were too busy making out reports and offering various theories and explanations of the 'rice field revolution.' In due course these got to the district capital, then to the provincial seat and in the fullness of time they reached Peking. But by that time the giant rice shoots were literally overshadowed by vaster and stranger events. The communal farm lay in a shallow valley watered by one of the tributaries of the Yellow River and surrounded by steeply rising, almost sheer cliffs. Two passes led into it; the valley was circular with rice fields occupying its center, and the villages and kolkhoz buildings on the lower part of the slopes. The giant rice plants were therefore contained in a more or less regular circle. And now this circle began to spread visibly and rapidly. The growth was accelerated until one could almost say that rice was growing before one's very eyes. It was as if some immense animal, some never-traced prehistoric monster, lay in the middle of that jungle-

swamp thrusting out tentacles, scales and webbed feet in all directions, swelling and extending towards all points of the compass. Some of the valley floor was composed of yellow clay, the always-present loess of China. Nothing ever grew in it — at least nothing had grown for time immemorial. But now the green tentacles seemed to grip it voraciously. Within a week the circle of green had quadrupled its area— it was now more than five miles across — and in another week it had reached the slopes of the bare brownish-grey cliffs. When this happened the manager of the kolkhoz got panicky. He collected all the people he could mobilize. They spent a whole day gathering brushwood or any dry timber they could find. They had some fuel and after building a kind of hedge around their swelling rice fields, they doused the barriers they had erected with it and set them on fire. It burned with a fierce blaze that threw its reflection high on the pinnacles. The collective farmers and their families huddled at a safe distance staring sadly at the destruction of their hopes. There were mutinous murmurs but no action; too long had the Party ruled, too deep was the fear and humility to let resentment break into violence. But the manager's drastic method was a complete failure. The fire destroyed the outer fringe of the riotous rice stalks, but water prevented it from reaching the jungleswamp itself. And three days later the shoots began to climb the mountain slopes all around the valley. Like a victorious, overwhelming army greenness marched up the naked rock where nothing, not even moss, had grown for hundreds of centuries. The giant stalks must have received extra nourishment from the ashes of the abortive fire. The houses were engulfed in this invasion; with knives and scythes the rice growers hacked at the silent and apparently indestructible enemy. The tendrils wove around the doorposts and windowframes; their gentle yet immense pressure could not be resisted by wood, stone or glass. Two weeks after the last attempt to control the explosive rice paddies the green attackers had won the battle. The houses and farm buildings had disappeared in an impenetrable thicket, the villagers had fled and the manager was out of a job. The valley was now like a green sea, a mountain tarn of vegetation.

The vintage in Tokay was over. It had been a good year and the feasting and drinking had lasted three days. Now the vines were pruned and cut back, the rods reduced to a third of their height in order to thicken their lower part and make them bear the full quota next year. The gentle slopes were thinned out, the leaves began to be stained silver and brownish-purple. The vineyard workers had stowed away as much as they would

need for themselves, stealing, neither too much nor too little of the new wine according to the immemorial custom which not even the peace and progress of the Communist state could change. It was a warm sunny autumn. One morning the village was roused early by the shouting of the two old men who lived up in the hills and whose task was to guard the vineyards during the winter. The two white-haired, dignified men behaved as if they were drunk, staggering and clutching at each other, making incoherent sounds. Their racket brought the vintners out of their houses with their women and wide-eyed children. Someone sent for the elder and the Party Secretary; someone helped the 'grape guards' as they were called to a bench outside the house. It took a good half an hour before they could be made to talk sense. "The vines — they've started to leaf again… And they're growing…" "They're drunk," said the Party Secretary in disgust. He was a thin-lipped puritan who had three times applied for a transfer from this bibulous, easy-going and non-shockworker district. "It'd take a lot of wine to make Uncle Bela and Andras drunk," protested the elder who had been born and raised in Tokay. "It's the Virgin's miracle," gasped Uncle Bela. "She's been walking in the hills… she wants to give us a sign." The Party Secretary's expression was now not only severely disapproving but grim and ominous. "Lock them up," he told to the two policemen who followed him everywhere like twin, shabby shadows. "Anti-State propaganda… reactionary agitation…" "Maybe we'd better see for ourselves," proposed the village elder. "Don't be a fool," snapped the Secretary. "They're lying or drunk or both." The two old men were dragged off, still dazed and repeating their incredible news, invoking the Holy Virgin. In the afternoon the elder and a few other men climbed the road to the vineyards. Uncle Bela and Andras had only reported facts. The vines, pruned and cut back for the winter, had burst into leaf. The 'eyes' — the short pieces of side growth, each with a plump bud on them — had already opened. And they were tall — much taller than they

had ever been. They next day the vineyards were so green that it might have been June instead of October. And they were still growing though they bore no grapes. By now whole processions were travelling to the hills, carrying long-hidden crucifixes, fingering rosaries and singing hymns to the Blessed Lady. The two old men had been released at dawn as the party secretary was afraid of making a fool of himself but he still refused to see 'the miracle.' But two days later when the 'circle-effect' of Hunan was starting in Tokay and the vineyards burst over the adjoining pastures and fields, the county vinicultural office sent out its quarterly inspecting team, the 'dregs-snoopers' as the vintners called them for it was their habit to poke their noses even into the lees of the empty barrels. By now the rods of the famous vines were twelve feet high and still growing. The team had to make its way through praying and singing crowds, completely mystified as to the cause of this 'religious hysteria'. They were even more mystified when they inspected the vineyards. They took cuttings, examined the soil, questioned people and fired the village party secretary on the spot for not sending an immediate report. This, too, the villagers considered a miracle worked by the Blessed Virgin. A week later the vines were sixty feet tall and the circle of growth had spread halfway down to the villages. In the nearby town botanists and viniculturists were demanding new cuttings — they had used up all the material supplied by the inspecting team without finding any clue to what was happening. Hunan was very far away and though the news of Tokay's miracle had spread over the country, nothing was published in the tightly-censored papers.

After the two 'primary outbreaks' the progress of the green invasion was extremely rapid. In Western Europe it appeared first in the tulip fields of Holland where in spite of the late autumn the flamed buff of Brunnhilde, the yellow of the Prince de Ligny, the crimson and purple edges of the Baronne de la Tonnaye, the maroon of The Sultan and the cerise of Lord Beaconsfield burst out overnight. A staid burgher of Leyden, cycling past one of the fields, fell from his bike and rolled into the nearby canal when he first caught sight of them — ten feet tall, measuring two feet across and still climbing skywards. The tulips marched into the canal — like multi-colored lemmings. But there was no question of suicide. The shoots took root in the cold water and by the next morning their glorious colors were bobbing, as if freshly-washed, above the surface. The first day's barges — for Holland had stuck to her old-world transport ways in spite of the hovercars and rocket mail — decapitated them neatly enough. But three days later they had crowded so close and formed such a thickly-woven barrier that traffic on a long stretch came to a complete halt. They had also continued their march across the fields to

the outskirts of a small town where they merged with another large tulip field that should have been bloomless and waiting for the spring's resurrection but wasn't. They sent down divers who hacked at the thick stems — no tulip had any right to grow them — but as soon as a few hundred yards were cleared the gap closed in front and back. In the meantime flower-lovers had flocked from all over the country to inspect this unseasonable wonder. Many of them cut off a tulip and carried it home. This was the first recorded time of the 'Green Army' getting indoors. The result, for a few hundred stolid Dutchmen and women from Gelderland to Brabant, was most discomforting. Within a couple of days their homes had become inhabitable. Put into a large vase or an urn, the tulip, overnight, sought and found the nearest plot of earth — a backgarden, a strip of soil, even a dustbin with some mold in it — and had not only started to grow again but put out shoots that enfolded furniture and stairs, burst watermains, and forced their way through roofs and walls. Fire checked them only for a short time; various chemicals, normally lethal for any plant, did not have the slightest effect. Instead of spreading from one spot in the regular circular pattern of Hungary and China, the small land was being overgrown and parts of it strangled from a hundred different directions and centers. The blooms were gorgeous and as they bobbed over the houses, threw tendrils over overhead wires and, again and again, dived into the canals and the inland, hard-won sweetwater polders, it looked as if color and shape had run riot and the bewitched woods of the fairy tales had become reality. The Dutch had their experts and as the tulip invasion lapped over the frontiers of Belgium, Germany and France, international aid became necessary. The Benelux countries called an emergency council session. In Belgium it had been common or ordinary grass that had suddenly gone mad — in November, too! — and erupted in ten and fifteen feet monstrosities. Dogtails and Hard Fescue, Fiorin and Clover, not to mention Smooth-stalked Meadow Grass and Perennial Rye Grass grew where it had no business to grow at all — thrusting through the cobblestones of the streets, choking the harbors and running riot across the dunes of Ostend and Scheveningen. In Luxembourg the first case of gigantism in trees occurred — beeches and poplars which should have been bare and wintry not only burst into leaf but started to grow as if they were immense fingers trying to claw at the firmament. Soon the Ardennes became a living barrier, all road traffic ceased and the trains tried in vain to force their way across the thickets that sprang up overnight. Transport had to be reorganized and hovercars and helicopters were collected from other countries which had not yet been affected, but these were only temporary measures. And the planes soon found it difficult to operate for several of the principal airfields were fast becoming fantastic meadows in which grass reached to the top of the hangars and the control towers were being enveloped by flowers and trees.

There was shortage of food and fuel. Three huge power stations had been immobilized by, of all things, a gigantic army of hyacinths. It was not only their flowers and stalks that woke to teeming, Goliath-like life; their scent was so overpowering that people fainted and several cardiac cases died. Fire, it was quickly learned, wouldn't make much difference; the ashes would only act as extra manure for whatever force was making the always servile, always controllable vegetable world wage a silent war on man. It was freezing now, but the tulips burst through the ice on the canals and the snow was being melted by some mysterious heat generated by all the lunatic vegetation. In France fifty-foot tall lilies were blooming in the south and carnations spread their heady perfume halfway up the Eiffel Tower. It had all been so sudden, so simultaneous and unexpected that the dazed people who could not grasp the facts became even more baffled and helpless. Famines and floods, wars and plagues could be fought because they had happened before; an invasion from outer space or bug-eyed monsters appearing suddenly from the bottom of the ocean were conceivable because sixty years of science fiction had familiarized people with the idea. But this was an obscene and almost ridiculous disaster; it was as if a table had suddenly turned on a human being and kicked him in the bottom or a bookcase had become transformed into a machine gun. France and the Federal Republic acted quickly; the frontiers were sealed and the armies were mobilized. The Red Cross hurried teams into the stricken areas on the roads which were still open — flying was almost impossible with Schiphol and Brussels airport a wilderness and even the smaller airfields unserviceable — evacuating people, providing food and fuel where communications had broken down. Amsterdam died first; and just before Christmas, with the pumping stations choked with the brilliance of tulips and the polders turning into Sargasso Seas, the water level began to rise. By the middle of January the sea had reclaimed Holland and was battering at the plains of Belgium.

A French botanist who was also an eminent chemist found the first clue to the cause of the Green Invasion. When the second Green Rain had come, observation stations all over the world had collected samples of it in their rain gauges. But the analysis to which the samples were subjected found nothing different from the basic ingredients of water and chlorophylogen, the latter slightly modified by the radiation effect which had originally caused the world-wide pigmentation changes. The samples were flushed down the laboratory sinks; except at Meudon where they had forgotten to empty one of the

gauges. It was there that Grandiret, the French scientist was working and he came upon this undiluted, original sample by accident. He subjected it to a series of complicated tests and found that its chemical structure had changed under exposure to light. He never had time to publish his findings and the series of experiments were conducted at a frantic speed — but he took his conclusions to the Benelux Council and later they were made available to the I.S.S. and the national organizations. The Grandiret Effect as it became known was the cumulative result of chlorophylogen subjected to radiation. As in the primitive days of atomic tests strontium had accumulated in animal and vegetable matter and in rivers and lakes and — though it never reached anything like real danger or saturation point — the amount of irradiated chlorophylogen contained in the second C-Rocket was just sufficient to trigger off the gigantism in trees and plants. What happened, in effect, was a fantastic speeding-up in photosynthesis; the mechanism worked a thousandfold overtime and the result was the eruption of phlox and sorghum, of edelweiss and moss, of snowdrop and corn. There was nothing, in Grandiret's gloomy but realistic view, that could stop this process except the denial of light to the giant plants. They needed light to live and to grow. In his laboratory tests he had established that the process was interrupted in darkness; but daylight, even without sunshine, was quite sufficient to maintain it. Fire was useless — because fire produced light. Weedkillers and other chemical substances might temporarily arrest it; but the damage they would cause to the vegetable organism would be more than balanced by the immense acceleration of the photosynthetic process. When Grandiret was asked how he proposed to create perpetual darkness in the affected areas he replied that he was not qualified to offer technological advice; he was only presenting his findings. It was for others to take practical measures — though he doubted if any measures would prove practical.

By spring the green circles spreading from Tokay had practically merged with those thrusting east. Western, Eastern and Central Europe were one vast jungle and the growth continued. Many millions had died for lack of food and shelter. Grandiret's report hadn't been published — its implications were too grim. Many desperate measures had been tried. Sprays and powders were developed in headlong haste — some of which had undreamt of toxic effects. There were temporary victories — London and Stockholm staved off the Green Invasion for several weeks — but in the end there was defeat. It took bitter experience to discover that darkness kept the invaders out — and the

survivors became troglodytes, living in caves and cellars, in tunnels and subways, masking all light, afraid even to light a candle or keep the spasmodically working electricity on for long stretches. Those who broke the rule paid the price quickly enough for it seemed that the unchained, gently relentless power of chlorophylogen took advantage of the faintest flicker, the tiniest pinpoint of light. In Eurasia it was the UPPR that succeeded in keeping its immunity longest. The Russian scientists had benefited by Grandiret's discovery — several of them had arrived at similar results independently — and Comrade Byelo's councils organized a first light to last light system of aerial patrols. It was thought that the burgeoning of a 'green spot' could be discovered from the air and counter-measures could be taken. The patrol system entailed a tremendous expenditure of manpower and machines but there had been no choice and all the energies of the vast country were devoted to it, having learned from the disaster of China. Whenever a danger area was discovered it was cordoned off, the inhabitants evacuated and huge, light-proof plastic covers were erected. Under them, as Grandiret foretold, the explosion of plant life subsided — though when, weeks later, there was a trial removal of the covers, it started again within minutes showing that the latent menace was still there. But there was bound to be a snafu. Somewhere on the western slopes of the Urals there was a tiny valley surrounded by high cliffs. The young airman, having been on duty for twenty-two hours of ceaseless crisscross hover-flight, dozed off for a few minutes. By the time the controller's voice, checking with monotonous regularity, jerked him into alertness again, it was too late. The danger spot remained undiscovered. It was a desolate area with no human habitations within twenty miles of it. The dwarfed juniper bushes that grew in the valley burst out as if in revenge for all the inhibited and thwarted plant-giants and spread over the cliffs and were soon marching down the slopes and up the crags of the surrounding countryside. Not even UPPR technology could create a light-proof cover for a ten-mile diameter — the 'infected' area had grown so rapidly that by the time the next hover patrol passed over it, little could be done. Heroic efforts were made to stem the Green Invasion. For days and weeks the fantastic battle raged with varied success; but by the late spring the danger spots had multiplied and the green army had consolidated and joined its forces. Potato fields had become primeval forests and corn grew much higher than even the mastodon's eye. One by one the cities of the Ukraine and the towns of White Russia were swallowed up. Moscow and Leningrad were still holding out. Comrade Byelo proved a tower of strength. It was he who pinned the blame squarely on America for the catastrophe. "I warned the world what Green Domination would mean," he said in a television interview. His plump face was haggard now, his voice subdued. "We in the UPPR have striven to control Nature — not to outrage and pervert her. The immunity of America from this terrible blight shows that this was a deliberate plot. What do her evil rulers

care if the rest of the world is destroyed by this plague as long as they are safe themselves? History will pass the final judgment but already we know who the criminals are and we shall do our utmost to have them punished…" But Comrade Byelo was wrong. America was no longer safe.

35

BEFORE THE TRANSMITTERS were choked into silence, before the wave of Greenness drowned most of Europe, the Far East and Africa, there was ample time for America to be warned and to prepare. As soon as the first reports arrived, an emergency meeting of experts and top brass was called at the Green House. The Vice-President sat in the chair for it was better not to involve Gloriana at this stage. Gosma and Plainkop were present to give him support. "We've mobilized all our disaster teams, the Red Cross, the air raid wardens, the state police and, of course, the armed forces," the Secretary for the Interior reported. "We've, I think, improved upon the Russian patrol system and we have sufficient lightblocking material to deal with any outbreak." "And we've drafted every botanist, biochemist and radiation expert in the country," the Secretary for Science added. "They've already produced a weed-killer which is five hundred times more powerful than any known before." "Does it work?" the State Secretary asked. "No," replied the Secretary for Science. "But there are other approaches — at Princeton they're close to developing something called the 'black ray'. I'm no scientist but they're pretty hopeful about it—" "There must be no panic," the Vice-President interrupted. "Above all, we must

control information." "No difficulty about that," smiled Mimosa. "We've stopped the importation of all foreign newspapers. All short-wave radio is jammed. Our country's sealed tight." "It would be good if the President made a telecast," suggested the State Secretary. "You know, to express regret about the trouble outside, to promise all possible aid and stress our own immunity…" "And scare everybody to death?" Gosma's voice was quietly contemptuous. "No." The State Secretary was suitably deflated. "What about the Southern border?" asked Michael Greenbod-O'Kelly. "Can we protect ourselves from any trouble in Latin America?" "We've evacuated the strip along the Mexican border. Canada is still untouched by this… thing…" the Secretary of Interior reassured him. "We're working out a joint defense program with them." "Excellent," the Vice-President nodded. "I must ask you, gentlemen, to be on call twenty-four hours a day. If you have to leave the District you must inform me at once. We'll have daily meetings until further notice…" Gosma and Mimosa flew back that afternoon to the Greenness-is-All headquarters in Los Angeles. Gosma was strangely silent during the two hour trip and Plainkop's attempts at conversation were severely snubbed. It wasn't until they were alone in the penthouse office that the ex-political prisoner opened his mouth. "Well, Mimosa, it was nice while it lasted…" "What d'you mean?" "Old Pelargus was right — not because he knew but because if you expect the worst, you set a high batting average." Plainkop looked greener than ever. "You mean…" Andor picked up a file from his vast desk. "I've the truth here, Mick. Not the little bits and pieces those idiots collected to show

off at the Cabinet meeting. We may have a month, a year — maybe five years. But unless a miracle happens — and they only happen in science-fiction magazines and teleplays — we'll have a really green world. Only we won't be alive to enjoy it." "I don't believe it." "Neither do I," nodded Gosma. "Not with my guts. But I have a peculiar mind, Mimosa, as you ought to know. I can't kid myself for very long. Now — I've made plans long ago — in case anything went wrong. I don't suppose you want to commit suicide or be lynched when the time comes and we're picked as scape-goats…" "But we've got the Green Guards — the whole country—" "How long? Here____" He stepped to the map and pointed to a spot about the center. "I had this built last year," he said. "It's in the Bad Lands — isolated and safe. There is a cave there, three hundred feet of solid rock insulated against radiation and stocked with food and all comforts for about ten years. If you want to come with me… you're welcome though before very long we'll probably hate each other's sight…" "Now?" "Oh no. We'll play out the comedy. And I'm a little curious to watch the play to the last curtain." Plainkop was chewing his nails. "And after ten years?" Gosma shrugged. "Who knows? There might be a new world in which it is possible to live — though I doubt it. Or we may be dead from over-indulgence. I've picked a couple of Green Graces — perhaps you'd better do the same. Who knows, we might prove to be a couple of Adams with four or five Eves…" "Heaven help humanity," murmured Mimosa. "Heaven won't." "What about Gloriana?" Gosma shrugged. "She's charming but I don't think she'd make a good breeder. Of

course, if you prefer her…" Mimosa began to pace the room. "I wish you hadn't told me," he said finally. "I wish—" "My dear Mimosa, we've been in this from the beginning. How could I keep you in the dark?" Gosma laughed. "That's funny — it's exactly what I propose to do. But we'll be deep enough to have the luxury of artificial light — we can cope with any fungi or moss down there. No, you had to know. Mind you, I intend to make a fight of it and we won't make our exit until there's nothing to do or until we feel the hot breath of the dear people coming close."

Actually, the attack on America did not come from the land. The emergency measures, on an unprecedented scale, were highly effective even though the 'black light' ray proved a failure. There was an outbreak in Kansas and another in West Virginia — but these were quickly brought under control by the 'total black-out' which the Army engineers managed with traditional efficiency. In the meantime refugees poured into the new world. They were quarantined offshore where all their clothes were burned and they were thoroughly disinfected — the idea being that they might bring spores or other 'green' microorganisms with them. There was strong opposition at first to their admission; but Mimosa still controlled all means of communication and the isolationist resentment died down for lack of dissemination. The refugees — except a handful of specialists and intellectuals — were put to work on the deep shelters that were being reconditioned and newly constructed all over the land. The invasion came from the sea. By now, but for a small enclave in Russia and the continent of Australia, only the Americas were untouched by the green blight. The flood of refugees narrowed to a stream, then to a rivulet and finally dried up except for one or two desperate individuals. In the tangled forest that was Eurasia everything was blotted out — overdrafts and adulteries, masterpieces and complexes, faith, hope and charity, love and lust. Crowfoot three hundred feet high smothered the printing presses and television stations. Deodars drove their green spears into the warm stone of Omar's Mosque and the dome of the Nativity Church at Bethlehem. Larkspur and sweet peas garrotted the government and opposition benches in Westminster and hid the ten thousand streets of London in their flowery, leafy wilderness. Magnolias wasted their scent and color upon the choked-up lagoons and crumbling palaces of Venice. If there had been anybody left to measure them, they would have recorded that the frantic

growth did stop at about four hundred feet and that strange and ominous stirrings had started where the immense roots tangled in the depths. But the handful that survived were hiding underground and if they ventured forth, were only trying to snatch a handful of food or get a pint or two of water. Man had built and man had destroyed. Pelargus had said that something always went wrong. But even he did not imagine how easy it was to upset the delicate balance that Nature had built and maintained for millions of years. From the shallow shelves of the ocean bottom the seaweed began to reach up, together with other underwater plants, towards the light, being driven by the mad sap that was now in all living vegetation; the sap that ordinarily was content to secure life but was now commanding stalk and stem, shoot and tendril to attack and conquer. And as the volume and size of the plants grew, their very bulk increased the volume of the oceans so that the water level rose for there was a limit to what these plants could absorb. The loss by evaporation was also reduced. When rain fell it no longer circulated in the eternal round, it was trapped. The American continent was first invaded in the Gulf of Florida. The patrols were still effective; the 'black-out' mats, immense plastic shields, were in position within an hour. The green tide lapped against the shore, advanced a few yards and then retreated. Similar outbreaks were just as swiftly controlled. But then, before Lenin's Tomb was submerged under the Green Invaders, Byelo and the men he still commanded, launched three intercontinental ballistic missiles. It was an act of despair, a final gesture of defiance. More than twenty years had passed since any of these had been tested even though the stockpiles were still kept in reasonably good condition. Due to a slight deterioration of the launching mechanism — and probably to the inexperience of the motley crew of a few hundred people Byelo could still command — two of the I.C.B.M.'s landed in the sea about fifty miles off target. But the third did hit America — and as luck or ill-luck would have it, it hit one of the sealed-off areas along the coast and shattered the light-proof cover. It was a 'clean' warhead which meant practically no fall out but radiation was so strong in the area that it could not be approached. Two attempts were made to restore the plastic dome that had prevented the 'plant-burst' (this had become the technical term for the outbreaks of vegetable gigantism) from spreading but both failed and the volunteers of the Green Guard did not return. In any case, it would have been too late.

36

FROM PROFESSOR PELARGUS' DIARY: I am recording this in the soundproof, lightproof laboratory a hundred feet underground, in darkness and solitude. I can't even hear the drunken snores of my esteemed colleague Zbigniew Lukachevski next door. These two rooms are sealed and safe. We have enough food for ten days and water for about two weeks. The temperature is low but not uncomfortable. Perhaps I would have chosen a different companion for my final days but it makes no difference and I did not have any choice. Around me the copies of my book are piled up; it was published the day before the green eruption in Florida and the three volumes are neatly boxed. Nobody is going to read it but perhaps in the unforeseeable future someone will come across it. Whether he will be able to decipher it, whether the very craft of reading will have been lost by then, I do not know and of course I do not care. What is the pleasure of being able to say 'I told you so' if there is no one to listen? I'm hearing my own voice, hollow and quavering. It isn't fear, I hope. But to be locked up with a sot, a sex maniac and a gambler all rolled into one, has a strange effect on one's mentality. For me humanity has been reduced to this quivering mass of appetites and terrors. Most of the time, happily, he is unconscious — but the moment will come when I'll have to take drastic action and put him out of his misery. For someone who has made such a filthy mess of his life, he is remarkably loath to end it. I can and I will take care of it when I consider the opportunity and the necessity appropriate. Thus the world is ending. Not with a bang and certainly not with a whimper. It is ending with the soft susurration of leaves trembling and whispering at a height no human builder has achieved; it is ending with the slithering or tapping of delicate tendrils thrusting upward and forward. I watched it only a couple of weeks ago before this city died as cities, towns and villages have died all over the globe. Maybe there are still a few patches clear of the Green Blight but the telescreen has now been empty for the last six days and there is no sound from the ancient radio which I found in an antique shop just before I and Lukachevski immured ourselves here. They are all gone — the glib and the powerful, the young and the old. As the news came that the Florida burst could not be sealed off — panic spread much faster than the

giant plants. There was much killing. I barely escaped being murdered by a group of our assistants who conceived the quaint idea that, in some way, I was to blame for the disaster. There would have been no time to explain my warnings or my reluctance to work with that bald-headed maniac who had planned and directed it all, with his slimy accomplice and all the others whom he hypnotized, cajoled and bullied into serving him. A green world, indeed. But a green world without man. Sometimes I find moments of detachment when I am sure that, after all, this is the best way. Once the first shock wore off, their dazed paralysis ended and they were all on the move, rushing like lemmings, fighting over the hovercars, the planes, any means of locomotion. I remembered the old phrase: 'all dressed up and no place to go.' I saw them, meeting and colliding with the other lemmings, swarming over the few roads that were still open, seeking shelter and food, fighting over scraps and mouthfuls of water. That was when I decided that I would die here. I didn't know that the celebrated discoverer of chlorophylogen was lying dead drunk in one of the washrooms. But such a cross, too, can be endured. I could speed it all up — by opening the elevator door or one of the casements on the emergency stairs. Within a few hours this place would become a green wilderness. Why do I prolong it — not the agony for I am comfortable enough, I have cigars to last a couple of years and if I am frugal maybe I can eke out the food and water a little longer… but the waiting? Maybe because my basic, most enduring trait, that is, my curiosity, wants to see as much as possible even if I carry it with me into oblivion. When starvation and thirst knock on the door, I have a painless way out; and a day or two before that I shall administer the same drug to poor, broken Zbigniew. I am spending half the day outdoors — the double doors still work well and there is no danger of a burst-in if I leave and return in darkness. I have even taken some moving pictures which is a childish conceit for no one will ever see them. We are on a high mountain here and, having rigged up some climbing irons yesterday — the fifth day of my solitary vigil, with only occasional eruptions by Lukachevski, between his bouts of drinking and unconsciousness — I managed to scale one of the immense fir trees that tower now several hundred feet above this building. I could not climb to the top because my muscles would not bear the strain but went high enough to see some of the valley and the distant seacoast. There was no trace of human life anywhere though far below some animals flashed in the rare patches of thinner growth and there were birds wheeling in the sky. It was incredibly peaceful and beautiful — a limitless sea of greenness with patches of color where flowering trees had thrust up to rival the evergreens. I remember reading about the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, though I cannot remember all their names. Plague, Famine, War were three of them. They were supposed

to be 'pale.' But our Apocalypse has come in the richest colors and shapes. Sooner or later, I know, this mad urge will spend itself, its impetus will be exhausted. There was a limit to the size of the giant lizards; all such lunacy is self-limiting. But that is cold comfort indeed for those choked and destroyed by it. I have been outside again for half an hour. There is a subtle change in the atmosphere — something I cannot analyze. After a few minutes I felt discomfort — difficulty in breathing and moving — and I made a hasty and undignified retreat. The air-conditioning plant is still working since I rigged up a battery system. I wish I had the apparatus to test the air. But why should I have such a wish? If it is noxious, what difference will it make? It'll only shorten the time-limit I have set for myself.

Lukachevski is gone. Last night I was dozing a little — for I find I can do without much sleep — when he staggered in here. He looked a sorry sight. He started to scream at me in some language I didn't understand — I assume it was Polish. Obviously it was abuse. I tried to calm him down, without much success but at last he realized I hadn't any idea what he was shouting and switched to English. "You should've stopped me!" he roared. "I never wanted to do it! You and all the others — why did you let me?" I forced him to drink some water and sit down. Then he was sick and began to cry. I ought to have been disgusted; but I was neither angry nor particularly sorry for him. His behavior was the typical manic-depressive. He subsided when I gave him an injection that contained a strong sedative. But his drink-sodden body reacted to it only temporarily. He began to maunder about his childhood and a woman called Tatiana Ivanovna whose physical attractions he described in considerable detail. His main concern appeared to be about the opportunity he had missed to possess these attractions, even temporarily. A little later he became violent again. "Let me kill him!" he screamed. "He made me do it! Where is he?" It soon became evident that he was referring to Andor Gosma. I told him that Gosma and his associates had left many days ago and I hadn't any idea where they were. But he refused to believe me and, displaying unexpected strength, broke free when I tried to restrain him. He rushed to the door and disappeared before I could stop him. I hesitated whether or not to follow him and then decided against it. In these fits he

has the muscular power of a madman and I saw no reason to risk injury at his hands. I want to die in my own time and with the least possible discomfort. And what difference does it make whether my eminent colleague dies today, tomorrow or in a week's time? He has no chance of survival.

Today, by an atmospheric fluke, I heard the last broadcast from Australia. At least, I assume it must be the last. The speaker, some government official, was dignified and, at times, I must admit, moving. "We do not know," he said (and I'm now playing back part of his speech, having recorded it on my next to last spool of tape), "we do not know if the rest of the world is sharing our fate or not. But there is little hope that any continent has escaped this global disaster. Whatever man has built throughout the centuries has been destroyed by man himself — because he could not leave Nature alone. No one is to blame and all of us share the blame — as all of us are paying the terrible price. But in these final hours or days let us behave like human beings. Some of us might escape — though I cannot hold out much comfort. Some thought that the end of the world would come by fire, others that it would be ice — few, if any, expected this green end. If there are any survivors, it is my deep hope that they will have learned the lesson. If there are none, if trees and flowers are to rule instead of man, perhaps in the distant future man will be reborn and can start afresh. We can leave no record but our cities which may be crushed and obliterated — but perhaps those generations, hundreds of thousands of years hence, will rediscover our heritage. Even now our end might be a beginning." And then, oddly and touchingly, he called upon God to bless King Charles the Third. I haven't been out of doors for the last two days. But I have been extravagant with light and I have been thumbing through my favorite book. It is somehow gratifying to repeat the words of the plump, merry-eyed Dutchman who loved to compose his sentences while jogging on muleback across the rich plains. "… And oh the incomparable contrivance of nature, who has ordered all things in so even a method that wherever she has been less bountiful in her gifts, there she makes it up with a larger dose of self-love, which supplies the former defects, and makes all even…" Happy Erasmus! Nature has been more than bountiful in her gifts but hasn't lessened our self-love. And self-love so often means hating others. And the bountiful gifts of'

Nature are putting an end to all — to egotism and selflessness, to fact and fancy. "Nature," my long-dead friend writes, "glitters most in her own plain, homely garb, and then gives the greatest luster when she is unsullied from all artificial garnish… Thus if we enquire into the state of all dumb creatures, we shall find those fare best that are left to nature's conduct…" But when you praised Folly, they took little notice of your championing of wisdom. Perhaps if they had Nature would have been left in her 'own plain, homely garb.' I can call myself an idiot for there's no one to hear my self-abuse — an idiot, mouthing away in this dead, silent place, speaking an epitaph with nobody to dig his grave except the green spades and shovels of the trees and plants that will soon invade even this pitiful sanctuary. Is it to pass the time? How comfortable it would be if I could believe that soon I shall be talking to Erasmus, walking arm in arm with Dean Swift and cracking jokes with the good vicar of Meudon…

Half an hour ago I gave myself the injection I had so carefully prepared; fifteen minutes ago I opened the doors and casements. There are only a few minutes left and I can already feel the warm drowsiness climbing up my calves towards my belly. I was chilly and it is a pleasant sensation to be warmed in death. Euthanatos, the Greeks had called him, the Good Death, the merciful releaser. As long as my tongue obeys me, I shall speak to myself for there is no one left to listen. No one but the trees and the creeping, weaving, dancing, twining green things outside. Almost seventy years I've spent — in what? I've read, maybe, five thousand books and written five thousand pages. I have begotten one child and lost it to its own stupidity and greed. It would have been the same with my grandchildren — but that disappointment I'm mercifully spared. There had been love, too, but all too short and all too little and I can't even remember the color of my wife's eyes nor the curve of her lips. This is very peaceful. The tips of my fingers are tingling now and the soft heat is walking the tightrope of my nerves up my arms. It seems to converge towards my chest. There is no anger now. No fear. From the corner of my eye I have just caught a

glimpse of a green tendril curling around the doorjamb. A scout, a herald announcing an army on the march. There is another now, striving towards the light above my head. Here I will sit until they twine around me spinning a green coffin within a green tomb. They will hold my bones even when they have sucked them clean of flesh and blood. But most of myself will pass into them and be integrated in their sap and leaf, pulp and bud. That's as it should be. They are more fit to rule the earth than my own kind. There is… just a twinge of pain. It has passed now and the even warmth has spread over my chest. I feel my brain reacting to it, slowing down like… like an engine coming to rest after a long long haul. I see it now… all. It had to be this way. We — all of us — who believed — that we had planned and directed — commanded and shaped — fate — destiny — we were all… all blind… The fact… the fact is… the fact to face… The tape ran on silently until it came to the end of the spool. Pelargus was leaning back, his eyes closed, his large, bony hands on his knees. And, with soft tapping, gentle scraping, with undulations and sinuous obeisances, the green tomb-builders and enshriners came to erect his mausoleum and make him part of their greenness.

37

IN THE DISTANT DAYS WHEN there were still tales to be written and people to read them, a Hungarian related the story of the man who carried the power of death in his brain — not figuratively but literally. An epidemic had broken out, half a dozen people collapsed in the street and the autopsies revealed a startling similarity — both the heart and the brain had undergone pathological changes which had only been observed before as the effects of high voltage electric current. Scientists could find no virus or bacteria for the disease was not contagious. The number of the victims increased until more than three hundred had died, two hundred of them within a single week.

The carrier of this power, this singular Angel of Death was a mild-mannered, gentle clergyman. He had an old friend, a scientist, and to him he told his secret. "I always thought I loved my fellowmen," his tortured confession ran, "until I discovered that I had this terrible gift — like the chameleon's ability to change color or the electric ray's to sting those who attack it. And I thanked God that He had chosen to endow me with this deadly power — it was a curse, of course, but I knew that I would never abuse it. Yet who was I to pretend that I knew myself — or that any man did — just because I believed myself to be kind and tolerant, because I abhorred blood and hated to see suffering? I was sent to a small island after I had been ordained and there, when mortal fear produced for the first time a sufficient concentration of my power, the drunken, half-crazed mulatto who was about to stab me, collapsed, moaning, before I had time even to touch him. He died within a few seconds, but even then I was calm, telling myself that it had been self-defense and that the murderous power of my brain was untainted by any evil intention… But when I returned to the mainland — within a few hours I had killed another man. I recognized the same agony, the same twisted grimace on his trembling face. And I remembered that when I had passed him a few seconds earlier, I felt a sudden pang of envy because of his fine overcoat and wished I had one like it. I had believed that my will was governed by reason and tolerance; but it had suddenly changed into some blind instinct, working freely and untramelled in the dark fastness of my mind; some immutable instinct born when I was born had sentenced that unfortunate man to death because he was better dressed than I and my brain, with its power to kill, had carried out the sentence." Indeed, do we not dream sometimes of the deaths of our friends, our dearest and nearest kin? You wake up in a sweat, half-mourning them in the state between sleep and consciousness, happy to realize that it was only a dream — and yet the liberated will had been working in your dream, you wanted them to die, had in fact killed them. And if you examine the day before the night of mental execution, you realize that the person you have 'murdered' had given you some offense — or maybe you heard that he was making more money, had a prettier mistress. "Oh, I know from my own hellish experience," the Man of Death said, "how often we wish the death of others for the slightest reason — sometimes without a reason for in all of us there lives a wild beast killing more than it can eat. I've killed strangers and friends. I've killed the girl I loved for whom I'd have died happily. We walked together in the street and she turned back to give a handsome young policeman a look." The fantastic and fatal power worked only on human beings, not on animals. And the gentle clergyman who had murdered by the uncontrolled and uncontrollable desire for the death of others, was found dead, locked in an inseparable tangle with a tiger in a jungle clearing…

A few hours after the Russian I.C.B.M. had shattered the defenses of the Florida 'seal-off,' Andor Gosma and his party were on their way to the carefully prepared hideout in the Dakota Bad Lands. It was a small party. The plane, equipped with special landing gear, only carried six people, including the pilot. Mimosa had his way, after all. Gloriana was too frightened to offer any opposition when he told her about Gosma's scheme. But Andor drew the line at the Vice-President. The Honorable Michael Greenbod-O'Kelly died on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial when, two days after the disappearance of the President, the people of the capital lynched most of the Administration. He died with his mouth open, still orating, still believing in the power of gab while being offered painful and lethal proof to the contrary. The six were Gosma, Mimosa, Gloriana and two Green Graces whom Andor had chosen for their looks, their physical attractiveness and their various, unusual abilities. One of them was not only a trained nurse but also a superb cook. The other had started life as an electronics engineer though she was too beautiful to stay in her original profession. They were both around twenty-five; the ex-nurse was called Dorothy and the ex-electronics expert, Ann. The pilot was a Filipino, Jose Cristoforo and Gosma, in a blasphemous mood of pleasantry, declared that this was a most apt name for wasn't he carrying the saviour of humanity to safety as St. Christopher had carried Jesus across the deep, swift-flowing river? They travelled at a safe height and covered the distance in a couple of hours. Cristoforo found a 'sealed-off patch not far from the entrance of the artificial cave that had been blasted out of the living rock. They landed without mishap by bursting through the thin plastic sheath which was only devised to keep out light though it was strong enough not to be holed by falls of rock or hail. Then the plane taxied up through the dense undergrowth, its specially fitted excavator-blades cutting through the tangle, right to the hidden opening and was manhandled inside. Gosma thought they might need transport at some future time and he was not going to be marooned in case a move became necessary. Maybe it never would, he said; for no one could find them here and they had supplies for ten years or more. The green invasion, apart from the sealed-off outburst, had barely touched the brim of the plateau where, among tormented and twisted rock-formations, the hide-out, perfectly camouflaged, was resting. They had almost a week when they were free to move outside in a kind of goodbye to fresh air and to the sky and living nature. Gosma

was silent and withdrawn during these last few days; but Mimosa, as if a heavy burden had been removed from his thin shoulders, was talking his head off. Gloriana, having recovered from her terror, had hesitated briefly before sleeping with him; but this hesitation had lasted less than forty-eight hours and Plainkop felt as if he were on a honeymoon. Jose' had bedded down with Dorothy after Gosma had offered him a choice of her and Ann. The shelter was most comfortable, even luxurious, with separate bedrooms for all six and two huge living rooms where they could meet if they wished; there were also the 'usual offices' and storerooms. The master switch to all electronically-controlled doors was behind Gosma's bed and he could close or open any of them at his will. He was still the master of the little community and in these early days nobody disputed his leadership. Then the green spears of corn and sorghum thrust their tips above the rocks creeping, undulating, marching in an ever-narrowing spiral. By the end of the week the plateau had become engulfed and the plants were growing fast. Gloriana who hadn't seen this happen before — both Gosma and Mimosa had visited the first outbreaks when they had occurred — was fascinated by this, now familiar, miracle. She would have stayed out of doors until the last moment but Andor would not risk the hideout being invaded and ordered everybody inside before there was any real danger. That night as they sat in the lounge where the rock walls had been perfectly disguised and one could imagine oneself in a luxury apartment, Gloriana said to Gosma: "I remember what you said that day… we were sitting beside the swimming pool. Well, you've done it…" "What did I say?" "That when the whole world was green you might blow it up — or retire into a Trappist monastery. This ain't exactly a monastery and we can still talk — but, otherwise, haven't you kinda achieved both?" "You flatter me, dear," the little bald man said quietly. "I hadn't such high ambitions. It would be fine to pretend that it's all my own doing. But it isn't. In small or big events, fools always like to think they can foretell the future or direct events. I'm not that kind of an idiot___" "But it was you…" "I saw ahead — maybe a few yards or a few weeks at most. But what was beyond the bend, past those weeks — no, Gloriana. The world is green now and the world will soon be dead."

She clutched his arm in a violent spasm of fear. "But not us, Andy… you planned so cleverly. We are safe here", aren't we? Tell me we're safe…" He looked at her, at the perfection of her face and her body's still youthful beauty and he lied without hesitation, with the smoothness of long practice: "Oh yes, we're safe. Nothing can harm us." How pleasant it would be to describe the North Dakotan Family Robinsons, the castaways of the Bad Lands, a paradise without innocence but with ample comforts; how amusing to trace the beginnings of a new world in which the survivors could make a fresh start, having benefited from the mistakes of the dead. Cleansed by the allpervading greenness of the teeming burden of humanity, with plenty of space and time, building a strong and happy Utopia. But there were still things to go wrong; the Pelargus theory of an endless series of chain reactions, of cause and effect being traceable only within an infinitesimal circle still worked. It worked to the bitter end. We know very little of the Planet Venus. The perpetual clouds that cover its surface have masked it from prying human eyes since the beginning of time. Astronomers and astrophysicists had, by the middle of the twentieth century, established only a few facts — and even those were hotly argued. We know that its mass is smaller than the Earth's and its surface gravity slightly lower. It is probably pelted with continuous rain and its torrid, humid climate must have produced the most prolific and luxuriant vegetation. It is almost certain, however, that there is no oxygen in its atmosphere. A man on Venus, unless equipped with special breathing apparatus and oxygen tanks, would die of acidosis within a few minutes. As the mad thrust of trees and flowers, of bushes and creepers towards the light increased they absorbed more and more oxygen; but their capacity for absorbing and breaking down carbon dioxide gradually decreased. That left more and more carbon dioxide in the air. Normally its proportion to the oxygen and nitrogen was negligible — about 0.03 per cent. But now it steadily and continuously rose. Greenness had become Death. How long they lived in the deep shelter which had its own air supply we do not know. Perhaps days, perhaps weeks. There were throbbing headaches at first, then their blood pressure rose and there was an increasing desire to breathe in greedy gulps which never quite satisfied. There would be dizziness and quick exhaustion. They might have

rigged up some apparatus to clear the air temporarily; but effort and movement became more and more difficult. The small party from Fargo that came upon them — they were led by a young physicist and were equipped with aqualungs and oxygen tanks in sufficient supply for short journeys — found Gloriana and Mimosa in a twisted embrace, frozen in death. Jose and the two Green Graces were discovered in another part of the luxurious cave; they had tried to fight the end and were not a pretty sight. Some distance from the cave they came upon Andor Gosma. He had wandered from the cave, wearing an oxygen helmet which lay shattered beside his mangled body. Before he died he had strangled his killer — a golden-maned cougar, half-grown, but powerful enough.

38 THE MEN ON THE MOON — THERE were a few hundred of them, all under sentence of death, for no more supplies could reach them from their earth bases, and the existing ones could not last longer than a few months at the most — watched the Earth through their radar screens. They knew what had happened for radio communications with some countries hadn't broken down until the end. They were hand-picked men and they faced their own extinction with truly Stoic acceptance. On the screens they could see the globe, in glorious and complete greenness, spinning through space on its wellknown elliptical orbit. It was beautiful and nothing marred its surface — especially no human being. If there were some alive, fighting for breath, prolonging existence by shifts and stratagems, they were quite invisible beneath the carpet of greenness. It covered them as it covered a thousand Angkor-Vats, great cities buried in flowers and leaves that were both their graves and their funeral wreaths. And I, who dreamt this dream, woke up in terror and tears. For I had dreamt of a world that was green and dead and I awoke in a world that was red and white, black and yellow; a world that was alive and not at peace. And my terror and my tears were because I did not know if the dream or the waking was reality; and of the two, which was evil and which was good. THE END London, January-July 1960