The World Treasury of Science Fiction

TheWonld Tneasury of Science Fiction

oF Sclence

FtcLlon E D] T E D B Y

DavidG. Hantwell With a Fonewondby Clifton Fadiman,GenenalEditon

Little, Brown and Company Boston r Tonontor London

Copyright @ 1989 by David G. Harhryell Introduction copyright O 1989 by Clifton Fadiman All rights reserved.No part of this book may be reproducedin any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storageand retrieval systems, without permissionin writing from the publisher, exceptby a reviewer,who may quote brief passagesin a review. First edition Acknowledgmentsof permissionto reprint previouslycopyrighted material appearon pages1079-1083. Library of CongressCatalog Card Number: 88-82960

Book Design and Composition by The SarabandePress Publishedsimultaneouslyin Canada by Little, Brown & Company (Canada)Limited

Printed in the United Statesof America

Foreword Introduction

xl

xlll

Kurt Vonnegut, ]r. HARRISON BERGERON

fohn W Campbell,fr. FORGETFULNESS

l0

JohnBerryman SPECIAL FLIGHT

34

I. G. Ballard CHRONOPOLIS

70

Kono Tensei TRICERATOPS

9Z

Theodore Sturgeon THE MAN WHO LOST THE SEA

104

Karl Michael Armer ON THE INSIDE TRACK

1r5

Avram Davidson THE GOLEM

t35

Rend Rebetez-Cortes THE NEW PREHISTORY

141

Arthur C. Clarke A MEETING WITH MEDUSA

r46

VI / CONTENTS

GdrardKlein

184

THE VALLEY OF ECHOES

Gene Wolfe THE FIFTH HEAD OF CERBERUS

193

JohnUpdike

2+5

THE CHASTE PLANET

Nathalie-CharlesHenneberg

250

THE BLIND PILOT

Alfred Bester THE MEN WHO MURDERED MOHAMMED

266

Manuel van Loggem

278

PAIRPUPPETS

C. M. Kornbluth 286

TWO DOOMS

StanislawLem TALE OF THE COMPUTER THAI

FOUGHT A DRAGON

728

RobertA. Heinlein THE GREEN HILLS OF EARTH

334

RobertSheckley GHOST V

345

fohn Varley THE PHANTOM OF KANSAS

)59

fosefNesvadba CAPTAIN NEMO'S LAST ADVENTURE

)92

CCfNTENTS

/ VII

Larry Niven INCONSTANT MOON

4t5

FrederikPohl THE GOLD AT THE STARBOW'S END

+39

Italo Calvino A SIGN IN SPACE THE SPIRAL

485 493

IsaacAsimov THE DEAD PAST

503

Annemarievan Ewyck THE LENS

545

TheodoreSturgeon THE HURKLE IS A HAPPY BEAST

554

RayBradbury ZERO HOUR

,62

UrsulaK. Le Guin NINE LIVES

572

AnthonyBurgess THE MUSE

595

SteveAllen THE PUBLIC HATING

6tt

Fritz Leiber POOR SUPERMAN

6rB

ThomasM. Disch ANGOULEME

642

VI]] / CONTENTS

DamonKnight STRANGER STATION

657

Boris Vian THE DEAD FISH

679

Kirill Bulychev I WAS THE FIRST TO FIND YOU

690

WalterM. Miller, Jr. THE LINEMAN

701

forgeLuis Borges TLON, UQBAR, ORBIS TERTIUS

755

Tor Age Bringsvaerd CODEMUS

769

BrianAldiss A KIND OF ARTISTRY

787

PhilipK. Dick SECOND VARIETY

803

Keith Roberts WEIHNACHTSABEND

844

Robert Bloch I DO NOT LOVE THEE, DOCTOR FELL

876

SamuelR. Delany AYE, AND GOMORRAH .

885

StanislawLem HOW ERG THE SELF-INDUCTING SLEW A PALEFACE

895

CONTENTS

|oanna Russ NoBoDY'sHOME

/ IX

906

G6rard Klein PARTY LINE

920

LewisPadgett THE PROUD ROBOT

948

Henry Kuttnerand C. L. Moore VINTAGE SEASON

980

Arkadyand BorisStrugatsky THE WAY TO AMALTEIA

l0l9

Acknowledgments

t079

Fonewond his volumeformsone of a continuingseriesof World with the Book-ofpublishedin cooperation Tieasuries from gathers, the-MonthClub. Eachof theseTieasuries as many literaturesas possible,previouslypublished,highorderwriting of our time, fiction or nonfiction.Each coversa specific field or genre of general interest to the intelligent ,Lrdet. Each hasbeenconstructedand editedby a recognized authority in the field. The underlyingpurposeof the seriesis to meetthe expectations of the thoughtful modern reader,one consciousof the striking changethat hastakenplacein our view of the world. That changehasrun counterto parochialism.It recognizes the contribution made by thinkers and Proseartists of the Orient as well as the Occident, of thosewho use languages other than English. Hence World Tieasuries. The seriesis plannedto covera greatvarietyof fields, from the life sciencesto religiousthought, from sciencefiction to love storiesto mysteryand detection,and will be issuedover the next severalyears' crifton Fadiman General Editor

lntroduction his book is the largestand mostambitiouscollectionof sciencefiction from all overthe world evercompiled. It representsthe stateof the art today.The selectionsdate from the modern period, 1939 to the present.The majority are from the past thirty years, for science fiction did not becomean internationalliteraryform until the 1950sand did not become truly widespreadeven in the West until the 1970s.Thus this anthologycould not havebeen assembled until now. Science fiction is largely a twentieth-century phenomenon. The term was coined in I9Z9 to signify the birth, phoenixlike, of a new genre from the ashesof an older one, "scientificromance." Hugo Gernsback,the pulp editor and writer who fatheredthe new genre, pointed to the works of EdgarAllan Poe,JulesVerne,and H. G. Wells for exemplars of sciencefiction. In the editorialof the first issueof Amazing Stories(April 1926), he defined it as "charming romance intermingledwith scientificfact and propheticvision." For a fuller descriptionof what sciencefiction is and where it has comefrom, the readermight consultthiswriter'sbook, funof Wonders(1984). Gernsbackinitially referredto his new genre by many names, one of which, scientifiction,was used commonly until the 1960s.For our purposes,though, thereis one other aspectof the naming to be considered.In a historic speech beforethe l94l World ScienceFiction Convention(actuallya gatheringof a couple of hundred American fans in Denver), RobertA. Heinlein proposedthat the initialsSE the common abbreviationfor sciencefiction, be fused with the broader name "speculativefiction," and SF it has remained, especiallybecausespeculativefiction wasthe rallyingcry of the

X-IV / INTRODUCTION

youngTtrrksof the 1960s.This aspectof the name SF reflects an ambiguity toward sciencethat is easilydiscernedin the literature. Amazing Stories,ThrillingWonder Stories,AstoundingStoriesof Super Science-American pulp magazineswith thesetitles dominated the new genrefrom the start.The British werethe first to experiencethe invasion of AmericanS[ in the form of pulp magazinesusedasballastin freightersand then sold for pennies in British Woolworth before World Warlt. A few British writersrespondedby creatingtheir own fantasticstoriesfor this new market;the first British SF pulp magazine, Thlesof Tbmorrow,wasfounded in the late 1930sbut perishedin the earlydaysof World War II. However, such writersas C. S. Lewis had noticed the new genre.They combined someof its characteristics with other influences,notablythe quite healthy Wellsian tradition (Wells himself was still alive and quite an important man). Thus wascreateda steadythough small streamof distinctiveBritish Sfl like Lewis'sPerelandratrilogy, especiallythe first volume, Out of the Silent Planet (1938). It wasclear, however,that the real action lay in the United States,in the magazinesfilled with intellectual ferment and all kinds of excitements (exceptsex-that wasreserved for the garishartworkandthe advertisements in the back).In this collectionI haveincluded examplesof energeticstories by fohn w campbell, Jr., and fohn Berryman from this pulp period, chargedwith wonder.This SF was a kind of born-againmessagefrom convertsto the idea of an awesome,technophilic future. The magazineswent out much like the idealisticmessages sent into space,in the faint hope that some other intelligenceout there in'the plurality of worldsin the universewould receivethem and respond.But just as early U. S. radio broadcasts, and later television,werebeamedin every direction, howeverweakly,American SF wassent out indiscriminately.It preacheda gospelof technologicaland social optimism. These early storiesdid find an audience,usually young, male, and uninitiated into any literary culture. For the most part the readerswere interestedin scienceand technology,especiallyin the rapidly expanding technologyofthe presentand nearfuture, the technologyof the atom and of spacetravel, both wildly visionaryin their time and yet relatedto real sciencein the realworld. No matterhow crudelyexecuted-and much was indeedvery crude-the vision wascommunicatedto engineersand scientistsand to the children who would grow up to be engineersand scientists, eagerto transformand improvea world torn by war and poverty.Other than technical material, they had no literature that refected their concernsand their visionsof what they might accomplish,given the tools.American SF saidto itsaudience,"Look, here'sa strangepredicament,prettyunlikely but

INTFIODUCTION

/ XV

ilteresting-and if we just useour knowledgeand our toolsto build a neat gadget,the problem is solved." were receivedand translated There was a time lag before the messages into other tonguesbecauseWorld War II disruptedcommunicationsfrom the late 1930sthrough the late 1940s.Most of the prewarU.S. magazines died during this period. But by the end of the war, American SF wasreadyto boom again, this time under the leadershipof a firmly entrenchededitor, Stories. fohn W Campbell, fr., and his fagship magazine,Asfounding young developing of SE leader new Campbellhad spentthewar yearsasthe writersand creatingwhat cameto be known asthe Golden Age of the 1940s. But SF wasgrowingso fastand so strongthat by 1950two influential new magazines, Galaxy and The Magazine of Fantasy& ScienceFiction, had been founded and were seriouslychallengingthe Campbell aesthetic,the former from a sociological,the latterfrom a literary,point of view.This was certainlya goodthing for the internationalappealof SE sincethe human chauvinism of Campbellian SF (in Campbell'smagazine,humans were alwayssmarter,betterthan aliens)wasoften nearly indistinguishablefrom American chauvinism and was thereforecertain to disturb a significant number of foreign readers. Throughout the 1950sand 1960s,SF flourishedintermittently in the United States,spreadingto televisionand the movies,to hardcoverand then worldwide.But itwasalwaysdifficultto all disseminated to paperbackbooks, wasbeing receivedin the non-English-speaking tell whetherthe message garbled in transmission.Fewtranslationsof foreign it was world andwhether SF appearedin English, evenfewerwerepublishedin the United States. Perhapsthe mostsignificantresultof the declineof Campbell'sAstounding wasthe rise in satiricalSF and the concomitantrise in influenceof a small group of New York fans turned writers, most of whom had been membersof a club calledthe Futuriansin the late 1930sand 1940s.The groupincludedIsaacAsimov,Donald A. Wollheim, Damon Knight, fames Blish, FrederikPohl, Cyril M. Kornbluth, Virginia Kidd, Judith Merril, and RobertA. W Lowndes.Among them, they haveaccountedfor a large percentageof the effectivecommunicationsbetweenAmerican SF and the world. Startingasmembersof an idealisticteenage non-English-language fan club, they havecarriedthrough their careersdefinite leftistleaningsand a deep utopian optimism. Thus each one of the primary membershas becomea strongindependentforce for worldwide communication through SE often as publishers,editors,writers, and public figuresvisiting many countries.Their effortsare stronglyrepresentedin this book, often behind the scenes,as translatorsor as editorswho commissionedand published original translations.

XVI / INTRODUCTION

Internationalismhas been appealingto the Anglo-AmericanSF community sincethe 1940s;for morethan four decadesthe colorful fan, agent, and EsperantistForrestI Ackerman, for example,has traveledwidely to spreadthe greetingsof American SE In the 1970stherewasa largeenough internationalsciencefiction community among the peoplesof ihe developednationsfor Harry Harrisonto call a conferencein Irelandin orderto found World SB the world SF professionalorganization,which now awards prizesfor translationsin many languagesand promotesthe cross-fertilization of SF literatures,inviting internationalresponses to English-language

SE

There is not yet a reallyidentifiablethird world SE The underdeveloped countrieshavenot responded to the technologicallyoptimisticappealof SE perhapsbecause thatvisionaryfuture filled with mechanical*ond.r, seems so far beyond their presentresources. Until the 1970sand 1980s,the internationalresponsewasmost often a repetition of the messages sent from the United Statesin the 1930sand 1940s,at best accurate,at worst filled with literary static or extraneous 'Io matter. the discreditof the West, we did not hear from EasternEurope becauseuntil recentlyour antennaswerenot pointedin that direction.Yetit was from there that some of the most important messageswere being returned,in the worksof StanislawLem and of Arkadyand Boris Strugatsky. Here were seriousattemptsat true SF of the highestquality, but new and differentin approachand often in sensibility.In England and the United Statesmore translationsfrom the Russianhavebeen publishedthan from any otherlanguage,but until quite recentlyverylittle attentionwaspaid to any of them, becausethe firstwaveof translationswaspoorlydone, and the storiesusually met political criteria first and literary standardssecond. While mostSF from communistcountrieshasbeendidacticin the particular direction of socialistutopianism, to the detriment of storytelling,the best of it equalsthe best Westernsciencefiction. The storiesin this collection demonstratethe range of responsesto the disseminationof U. S. sciencefiction sincethe primitive daysof the 1920s and 1930s.In the worksof many British writersemergingin the late 1950s, like Brian Aldiss and |. G. Ballard, it is easyto observea clear reaction againstthe technologicaloptimism, naivematerialism,and empire-building consciousness of the U.S. literature.By the early 1960sthere was a distinct rift opening betweenUnited Statesand British SE This rift was institutionalizedin the mid-1960sunderthe bannerof the "New Wave."A young editor, Michael Moorcock, took the helm at New Worlds,a leading British SF magazine,and proclaimeda breakwith the Americantradition, holdingup Ballardasthe exemplarof the new literature.The ideaof a new

INTFIODUCTION

/ X.\/ll

literature and revolutionaryreform spreadto the United Statesin the late 1960s, and many modernist and postmodernliterary techniqueswere incorporatedfor the first time into SE Since the New Wave, SF has, in general,been written to a higher literary standard. The reactionin the 1960sagainstthe standardsof American SF is just as clearin other literatures,asevidencedby the work of, say,fosefNesvadbaor Italo Calvino. It is probably not too far off the mark to saythat only the Sovietstook the attitudesof American SF entirely seriouslyand attempted to build upon them asfoundations,and that in Europe only the Frenchhad a strong tradition of literal SF adventure,going back to fules Verne, that allowedSF to takehold and writersto producestoriesreflectingthe attitudes toward scientific method and technological wonder so characteristicof American sciencefiction. The rest of the world seemsto have taken the Campbellian SF of the Golden Age of the 1940sand the fowering of Heinlein, Clarke, and Asimov as somekind of joke or as a repositoryof imagery to be used for purposesother than SE To be fair, the sameattitudeof bemusedrejection-surely no one could be expected to take this stuff seriously-has characterizedthe general reactionin the United Statesof mainstreamliterary culture at all levelsto sciencefiction. So much early sciencefiction was unsophisticatedpolitically, shallowsociologically,lacking in roundedcharacterizationor psychological depth, stylisticallyuninteresting,and most of all, so unreal on the one hand (spacetravel and atomic power were consideredfantastic and laughable when most of the classicsof Heinlein, Asimov, Clarke, and Bradbury were published), and so concernedwith the gritty realities of scienceand technologyon the other,that a majority of educatedreadershad no interestin learning how to readthe genre,a practiceeasilypicked up by children and teenagers-by taking everydetail literally at first, until given other directionsby the text. This is just the reverseof the way we approach the prose literature of this century; we teach ourselvesto read with a sensitivityto metaphorand subtext,assumingthat that is the routeby which the essentialcommunication betweenreaderand text will take place. The rationalisttraditionsof SF demand,however,that the readerfirst experience the text asa literal report of somethingthat, by a thin thread of possibility, could be true, givena specifiedsetof circumstances, at someothertime, in some other place. SF givesthe readerthe experienceof the fantastic, of magic and wonder, then explains or implies how that wonder could be generatedthrough real scienceand technology.SF is inherently optimistic because,a priori, it assumesa future, whetherdismal or colorful. I do not, of course,deny the metaphoricallevelof SF texts.I simply state the obvious.which somehowseemsto havebeenlost in severaldecadesof

XVIII / INTFIODUCTIC]N

critical discussion:In a work of sciencefiction the readermust grant the premisethat whateveris statedasthe casein the storyis literal and true. For instance,in GdrardKlein's"Valleyof Echoes," the readermustbelievethat we are two hundred yearsin the future, exploringthe planet Mars, not merelyin somesurreallandscapethat embodiesa metaphorfor the human condition.The vehicle,in otherwords,hasjustasmuch weightasthe tenor in SE This is equallytrue in contemporaryscience,when we are askedto believethat somethingis both a waveand a particle. Still, given the hasty writing of the magazinedays,when writerslived on the penny-a-wordprose theygenerated,andgiventhe comicallyhyperboliccoversof the magazines andthe paperbacks, it is easyto understandwhy somany seriouspeoplehave found it hard to take SF seriously-although, as TheodoreSturgeonwas wont to remark,rarelyhasa literaturebeenjudgedsoexclusivelyby itsworst examples. The internationalresponseto SF is bestmeasured,it seemsto me, by analogyto otheraspects of Americanpopularculture--iazz, rock'n'roll, movies,andcomics.Franceis the countrywhereferry Lewisis a geniusand A. E. Van Vogt is literature.French SF is a hybrid of high literaryart and pulp and comic-booksensibilities,too often in conflict in the samestory. The selectionsin this book are exceptionsto this and to that extent not characteristic. The British havealwaysconsideredSF''part of contemporary literature-although often, inferior literature, like most of the stuff the Americanswrite. Ballard and Aldiss are important British writers, and KingsleyAmis, in New Maps of HeII, wrotethe firstsignificantmainstream book of criticism on sciencefiction in the late 1950s.But onefeelsa kind of gloom emanating from British SR characteristic,as Brian Aldiss has remarked,of a civilizationthat has,for the time being,givenup on Empire and technologicaladvance.There are vigorousSF publishingindustriesin Germany, Italy, Spain, and Scandinavia,but too little native writing of high quality.The sameholdsfor the countriesof SouthAmerica.fapanhas takena greatinterestin SF in recentyears,but the traditionsof narrative that we takefor grantedin fiction do not obtainin Japanese SF andverylittle hasbeentranslatedinto English.ChineseSF is in the processof forming in the 1980s,but no workshavebeen translatedyet. Only the Sovietshave gainedfaith in scienceand technologyover recentdecades,and it is from the Soviet Union that the preponderanceof foreign SF emanates. Many commentators,including Darko Suvin and Franz Rottensteiner, have noted that the primary force behind Soviet SF is utopian social aspiration.Indeed,this seemsto providean impetuspreciselyparallelto the imperialdreamsof U. S. SF of a future madebetterthroughthe application of scientificknowledgeandtechnology,a future filled with wonders.Most of

INTFIC]DUCTION

/ )(IX-

the restof the world seesSF asa repositoryof imagesthat can be usedin any fantasticcontext.This attitude-so foreign to the core idea of U. S. science fiction-will undoubtedlyhave an increasinginfluence upon SF writers who aspireto literaryeminence,evenin the United States,whosescience fiction literature the acerbicPolish critic and writer StanislawLem has declareda hopelesscase,redeemedonly in the worksof Philip K. Dick. SF has been written off with repeatedvehemence,perhapsbecauseit challengesso many preconceptionsabout what is good in literature by being outsidethe normal criteriaand yet popular and influential. Such a writer as Kurt Vonnegut, lr., was recognized as important as he was g any connectionwith genre SE iust as earlier Ray Bradbury disavowin allowed himself to be winnowed out of the field he had grown up in by friendlycriticswho said,in effect,"This is sogoodit can'tpossiblybe SE" It is high time readersdiscardsuchpreconceptions,which havepreventedthe recognition of many worksof varied strengthsand, sometimes,depth and profundity. This is a rich book, filled with ideasand images,wondersand excitement. It offersmany hours of thought-provokingreading,which will, I hope, lead you to investigatethe world of SF in more depth and with more satisfaction.It contains a large variety of stories,providing a mixture of American and international SE I confessto frustration that this volume could not contain three times as much material, for the world of SF has much more to offer. David G. Hartwell Pleasantville,New York

TheWonld Tneasury of Science Fiction

Harnison Bengenon Kurt Vonnegutbfrrrtnovel,PlayerPiano(/,952),wasoffered FictionBookClub andsoldasSFrn paperback by the Science as Utopia 14. In the 1950sVonnegutpublishedhis short storiesin both slickfiction and SF magazines,attendedthe Milford SF-writing workshop,wrote The Sirensof Titan (1959),a Hugo Awardnominee,abouttravelin spaceand time,tfienMotherNight (1961),a mainstreamnovelon the samethemeas RobertA. HeinlerniDoubleStar(1956).But theappellationof SF writer, iustasRay hepublicly disavowed Bradburyhad earlierin the 1950sallowedthat label to be lifted from his works,for the cultural and literarypreiudices attentionand of the 1950sand early 1960sdenied serious monetary rewardsto sciencefrction writers, regardlessof merit.ThesituationhaschangedenoughforVonneguttosay, recently,"When I beganto write storiesabout thingsI had seenand wonderedabout in real life, people said I was writing,heypresto,sciencefrction. Yes,andpeoplewhowrite faithfully about American urbanlife todaywill find themfiction. This is nothing to se/veswriting, hey presto,science be ashamed about-and neverwas." "HarrisonBergeron"wasfrrstpublishedin The Magazine of Fantasy& ScienceFiction rn /96/,. It hasall the outrugeouswit and moralforceof Vonnegutat firs besf.

4 / H'A.F.FIISON BEFIGERON

-l-he

yearwas2081,and everybodywasfinally equal.They weren'tonly equal before God and the law. They were equal every which way. I I Nobody was smarterthan anybody else. Nobody was better looking than anybodyelse.Nobodywasstrongeror quickerthan anybodyelse.All this equalitywasdue to the 2l lth, 2l2th, and 2llth Amendmentsto the Constitution,and to the unceasingvigilanceof agentsof the United States HandicapperGeneral. Some things about living still weren't quite right, though. April, for instance,still drovepeoplecrazyby not beingspringtime.And it wasin that clammy month that the H-G men took George and Hazel Bergeron's fourteen-year-old son, Harrison, away. It wastragic,all right, but Georgeand Hazel couldn't think aboutit very hard. Hazel had a perfectlyaverageintelligence,which meantshecouldn't think about anything exceptin shortbursts.And George,while his intelligencewaswayabovenormal, had a little mentalhandicapradioin his ear. He wasrequiredby law to wear it at all times. It wastuned to a government transmitter.Every twenty secondsor so, the transmitterwould sendout somesharpnoiseto keeppeoplelike Georgefrom taking unfair advantageof their brains. Georgeand Hazel werewatching television.There weretearson Hazel's cheeks,but she'd forgotten for the moment what they were about. On the televisionscreenwere ballerinas. A buzzer sounded in George'shead. His thoughts fled in panic, like banditsfrom a burglar alarm. "That wasa real pretty dance, that dancethey just did," said Hazel. "Huh?" said George. "That dance-it was nice," said Hazel. "Yup," saidGeorge.He tried to think a little about the ballerinas.They weren'treally very good-no betterthan anybodyelsewould havebeen, anyway.They were burdenedwith sash-weights and bagsof birdshot, and their facesweremasked,sothat no one, seeinga free and gracefulgestureor a pretty face, would feel like somethingthe cat drug in. Georgewastoying with the vaguenotion that maybedancersshouldn'tbe handicapped.But he didn't get very far with it beforeanothernoisein his ear radio scatteredhis thoughts. Georgewinced. So did two out of the eight ballerinas. Hazel sawhim wince. Having no mental handicapherself,shehad to ask George what the latest sound had been. "Soundedlike somebodyhitting a milk bottlewith a ball peenhammer," said George.

KURT VONNEC3UT

JFI. I 5

"l'd think it would be real interesting,hearingall the differentsounds," 'All the things they thinkr'rp." said Hazel, a little envious. "um," said George. "Only, if I wasHandicapperGeneral, you know what I would do?" said Hazel. Hazel, as a matter of fact, bore a strongresemblanceto the HandicapperGeneral,a woman namedDiana Moon Glampers."lf I wasDiana Moon Glampers,"said Hazel, "l'd havechimeson Sunday-just chimes. Kind of in honor of religion." "I could think, if it was just chimes," said George. *Well-maybe make'em realloud," saidHazel. "l think I'd makea good HandicapperGeneral." "Good as anybodyelse," said George. "Who knows better'n I do what normal is?" said Hazel. "Right," saidGeorge.He beganto think glimmeringlyabout his abnormal sonwho wasnow in jail, about Harrison,but a twenty-one-gunsalute in his head stoppedthat. "Boy!" said Hazel, "that was a doozy,wasn'tit?" It wassuch adoozythat Georgewaswhite and trembling, and tearsstood on the rims of his red eyes.Two of the eight ballerinashad collapsedto the studio floor, were holding lheir temples. 'All of a suddenyou loo$ so tired," saidHazel. "Why don't you stretch out on the sofa, so'syou lcan rest your handicap bag on the pillows, honeybunch." Shewasreferringto the forty-sevenpounds of birdshot in a canvasbag,which waspadlockedaroundGeorge'sneck. "Go on and restthe bagfor a little while," shesaid. "l don't careif you'renot equalto me for a while." Georgeweighedthe bag with his hands."l don't mind it," he said. "l don't notice it any more. It's just a part of me." "You beensotired lately-kind ofwore out," saidHazel. "lfthere wasjust somewaywe could makea little hole in the bottom of the bag, and just take out a few of them lead balls. fust a few." "Tho yearsin prison and two thousanddollars fine for everyball I took out," saidGeorge."l don't call that a bargain." "lf you could justtakea few out when you camefrom work,' saidHazel. "l mean-you don't compete with anybody around here. You just set around." "lf I tried to get awaywith it," saidGeorge,"then other people'dget away with it-and pretty soon we'd be right back to the dark agesagain, with everybodycompetingagainsteverybodyelse.You wouldn't like that, would you?"

6 / HARFIISC]N

EIEFIGEFION

"l'd hate it," said Hazel. "There you are," said George. "The minute peoplestart cheatingon laws, what do you think happensto society?" If Hazel hadn't been able to come up with an answerto this question, Georgecouldn't have suppliedone. A siren wasgoing off in his head. "Reckon ifd fall all apart," said Hazel. "What would?" said Georgeblankly. "Society,"said Hazel uncertainly."Wasn'tthat what you just said?" "Who knows?"said George. The televisionprogramwassuddenlyinterruptedfor a newsbulletin. It wasn'tclearat first asto what the bulletin wasabout, sincethe announcer, like all announcers,had a seriousspeechimpediment. For about half a minute, and in a state of high excitement, the announcer tried to say, "Ladiesand gentlemen-" He finally gaveup, handedthe bulletin to a ballerinato read. "That'sall right-" Hazelsaidof the announcer,"he tried. That'sthe big thing. He tried to do the besthe could with what God gavehim. He should get a nice raisefor trying so hard." "Ladiesand gqntlemen-" saidthe ballerina,readingthe bulletin. She must have been extraordinarilybeautiful, becausethe mask shewore was hideous.And it waseasyto seethat shewasthe strongestand most graceful of all the dancers,for her handicapbagswereasbig asthoseworn by twohundred-poundmen. And shehad to apologizeat oncefor her voice, which wasa very unfair voice for a woman to use. Her voice was a warm, luminous, timeless melody."Excuseme-" shesaid, and shebeganagain, making her voice absolutelyuncompetitive. "HarrisonBergeron, agefourteen,"shesaidin a gracklesquawk,"hasjust escapedfrom iail, wherehe washeld on suspicionof plotting to overthrow the government.He is a geniusand an athlete,is under-handicapped, and should be regardedas extremelydangerous. " A police photographof Harrison Bergeronwas flashedon the screenupsidedown, then sideways,upsidedown again, then right side up. The picture showedthe full length of Harrison againsta backgroundcalibrated in feet and inches. He was exactly sevenfeet tall. The restof Harrison'sappearance wasHalloweenand hardware.Nobody had everborneheavierhandicaps.He had outgrownhindrancesfasterthan the H-G men could think them up. Insteadof a little ear radiofor a mental handicap, he wore a tremendouspair of earphones,and spectacleswith thick wavylenses.The spectacles wereintendedto make him not only half blind, but to give him whanging headaches besides.

KURT

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Scrap metal was hung all over him. Ordinarily, there was a certain to the handicapsissuedto strongpeople,but symmetry,a military neatness Harrison looked like a walking junkyard. In the race of life, Harrison carried three hundred pounds. And to offsethis good looks, the H-G men requiredthat he wear at all times a red rubber ball for a nose,keephis eyebrowsshavedoff, and cover his even white teeth with black capsat snaggle-toothrandom. "lf you seethis boy,"saidthe ballerina,"do not-l repeat,do not-try to reasonwith him." There was the shriek of a door being torn from its hinges. Screamsand barking criesof consternationcamefrom the televisionset. The photographof Harrison Bergeronon the screen jumped again and again, as though dancingto the tune of an earthquake. GeorgeBergeroncorrectly identified the earthquake,and well he might have-for many was the time his own home had danced to the same crashingtune. "My God-" saidGeorge,"that must be Harrison!" The realizationwasblastedfrom his mind instantlv bv the sound of an automobilecollision in his head. When Georgecould open his eyesagain,the photographof Harrison was gone. A living, breathingHarrison filled the screen. Clanking, clownish, and huge, Harrison stood in the center of the studio. The knob of the uprooted studio door wasstill in his hand. Ballerinas, technicians, musicians,and announcerscoweredon their knees before him, expectingto die. "I am the Emperor!" cried Harrison. "Do you hear?I am the Emperor! Everybodymust do what I sayat once!" He stampedhis foot and the studio shook. "Even as I standhere-" he bellowed,"crippled,hobbled,sickened-l am a greaterruler than any man who ever lived! Now watch me become what I can become!" Harrison tore the strapsof his handicapharnesslike wet tissuepaper,tore strapsguaranteedto support five thousandpounds. Harrison'sscrap-iron handicapscrashedto the floor. Harrison thrust his thumbs under the bar of the padlockthat securedhis head harness.The bar snappedlike celery.Harrison smashedhis headphonesand spectaclesagainstthe wall. He flung awayhis rubber-ballnose,revealeda man that would haveawed Thor, the god of thunder. "l shall now selectmy Empress!"he said,looking down on the cowering people."Let the first woman who daresrise to her feet claim her mate and her throne!"

El / HARFIISON

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A moment passed,and then a ballerinaarose,swayinglike a willow. Harrison plucked the mental handicap from her ear, snappedoff her physicalhandicapswith marvelousdelicacy.Last of all, he removedher mask. She wasblindingly beautiful. "Now-" saidHarrison, taking her hand, "shall we showthe peoplethe meaning of the word dance?Music!" he commanded. The musiciansscrambledback into their chairs, and Harrison stripped them of their handicaps,too. "Playyour best,"he told them, "and I'll make you baronsand dukesand earls." The musicbegan.It wasnormalat first-cheap, silly,false.But Harrison snatchedtwo musiciansfrom their chairs,wavedthem like batonsashe sang the music ashe wantedit played.He slammedthem backinto their chairs. The music beganagain and was much improved. Harrison and his Empressmerely listenedto the music for a whilelistenedgravely,as though synchronizingtheir heartbeatswith it. They shifted their weights to their toes. Harrisonplacedhis big handson the girl'stiny waist,lettingher sensethe weightlessness that would soon be hers. And then, in an explosionof joy and grace,into the air they sprang! Not only werethe lawsof the land abandoned,but the law of gravityand the laws of motion as well. They reeled,whirled, swiveled,flounced,capered,gamboled,and spun. They leapedlike deer on the moon. The studioceilingwasthirty feethigh, but eachleapbroughtthe dancers nearerto it. It becametheir obviousintention to kissthe ceiling. They kissedit. And then, neutralizing gravitywith love and pure will, they remained in air inchesbelow the ceiling, and they kissedeachotherfor a suspended long, long time. It wasthen that Diana Moon Glampers,the HandicapperGeneral,came into the studio with a double-barreledten-gaugeshotgun.She fired twice, and the Emperor and the Empresswere dead before they hit the floor. Diana Moon Glampers loaded the gun again. She aimed it at the musiciansand told them they had ten secondsto get their handicaps back on. It was then that the Bergerons'televisiontube burned out. Hazelturned to comment about the blackoutto George.But Georgehad gone out into the kitchen for a can of beer. Georgecamebackin with the beer,pausedwhile a handicapsignalshook

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him up. And then he satdown again."You beencrying?"he saidto Hazel. "Yrp," shesaid. "What about?"he said. "l forget," she said. "Somethingreal sad on television." "What was it?" he said. "lt's all kind of mixed up in my mind," saidHazel. "Forgetsad things," said George. "l alwaysdo," said Hazel. "That's my girl," said George. He winced. There was the sound of a riveting gun in his head. "Gee-l could tell that wasa doozy,"said Hazel. "You can saythat again," said George. "Gee-" said Hazel, "l could tell that one wasa doozy."

Fongetfulness A revolutionary writer and editor,John W. Campbell, lr., was the frrstman to setout to have a careerin sciencefiction. He imposed his ideas on the freld first through writing, both under his own name and hispen name, Don A. Stuart,then through his editorship of Astounding ScienceFiction from 1937until hisdeathin 1971. "Forgetfulness"rs one of the last Stuartstories,publishedin thelune 1937 issueofAstounding only months before Campbell became its editor and created what is generally refened to as the Golden Age of SF in the Iate 1930sand 1940s. Campbell developeda whole stable of new young writers willing and eagerto meet his rigorous standards-Isaac Asimov RobertA. Heinlein, L. Spraguede Camp, A. E. Van Vogt, Theodore Sturgeon, and Alfred Bester,among them. He alsoattracted the establishedwriters, suchas Clifford D. Simak, Edward E. Smith, and lack Williamson, to fashion thedominant model of contemporarysciencefiction, a compound of scientifrc method, technological optimism, and clear iournalistic prose,a problem-solving literature imbued with depth of feeling and humanity. "Forge{ulness"is the earlieststory in this book, one of the founding worksof the modern field. According to LesterDel Rey,another Campbell writer who hasgone on to becomea major infuence, it is "one of the high points of all science fiction." Lesssophisticatedin some waysthan many other selections,it remains a great original.

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on Thule, the astronomer,stood in the lock gate and looked down acrossthe sweepof gently rolling land. Slowly, he breathedin the strange,tangy odors of this planet. There was something of a vast triumph in his eyes,and somethingof sorrow.They had been here now scarcelyfive hours,and the sun wasstill low in the east,rising slowly.Out beyond,abovethe westernhorizon, a paleghostof the strangetwin world of this planet, lessthan a third of a million miles distant, seemeda faint, luminous cloud in the deep,sereneblue of the sky. It wastriumph, for sixlong yearsof travel,at a speedcloseto that of light, lay behind them; three and a half light-yearsdistantwasPareeth,and the crowding people who had built and launched the mighty two-thousandfive-hundred-footinterstellarcruiserthat had broughtthis little band of one hundred. Launched in hope and striving, seekinga new sun with new planets,new worldsto colonize. More than that, even, for this new-found planet was a stepping-stoneto other infinities beyond. Ten yearsof unbrokentravelwasthe maximum any ship they could build would endure. They had found a planet;in fact, nine planets.Now, the rangethey might explore for new worlds was extendedby four light-years. And therewassorrowthere,too, for therewasa raceherenow. Ron Thule turned his eyestowardthe little clusteringvillage nestledin the swaleof the hills, a villageof simple,roundeddomesof someopalescent,glassymaterial. A scoreof them straggledirregularlyamong the mighty, deep-green treesthat shadedthem from the morning sun, twenty-footdomesof pearl and rose and blue. The deep green of the treesand the soft green of the mosslikegrassthat coveredall the low, roundedhills madeit verybeautiful; the sparkling colors of the little gardensabout the domesgave it further enchantment.It wasa lovely spot, a spot where space-wearied, interstellar wanderersmight rest in delight. Such it was.There wasa raceon this planetthe men of Pareethhad found aftersix long yearsof space,six yearsof purring, humming atomic engines and echoinggray,steelfabricthat carriedand protectedthem. Harshutility of giant girdersand rubberyflooring, the snoringdroneof forty quadrillion horsepowerof atomic engines.It wasreplacednow by the softcoolnessof the grassyland;the curvingsteelof the girdersgavewayto the brown of arching trees;the stern ceiling of steel platesgaveway to the vast, blue arch of a planet'satmosphere.Soundsdied awayin infinitudes where there was no steel to echo them back; the unending drone of the mighty engineshad becomebreezesstirring, rustling leaves-an invitation to rest. The racethat lived here had long sincefound it such, it seemed.Ron Thule looked acrossthe little village of domes to the largest of them, perhaps thirty feet across.Commander Shor Nun was there with his

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archeologistand anthropologist,and half a scoreof the men of this planet. Rhth, they called it. The conferencewas breaking up now. Shor Nun appeared,tall and powerful, his muscular figure in trim InterstellarExpedition uniform of utilitarian, silvery gray. Behind him came the other two in uniformyoung, powerful men of Pareeth,selectedfor this expedition becauseof physical and mental perfection, as was every man of them. Then came Seun, the man of Rhth. He wastaller, slimmer, an almost willowy figure. His lean body wasclothedin an elastic,close-fittingsuit of goldenstuff,while overhis shouldersa glowing,magnificentlyshimmering capeof rich blue wasthrown. Five more of thesemen came out, eachin a golden suit, but the drapedcapesglowed in deep reds,and rich greens, blues and violets.They walked leisurelybesidethe men of Pareeth.An unconsciousforcemadethosetrimly uniformedmen walk in stepbetween the great,arching trees.

They came near, and Shor Nun called out, "ls the expedition ready?" 'Ay., From the forward lock, Toth Mour replied, commander.Twentytwo men. What do thesepeople say?" ShorNun shookhis headslightly."That we may look aswe wish. The city is deserted.I cannot understandthem. What arrangementshave you made?" "The men you mentioned are coming. Each head of department, save " Ron Thule. There will be no work for the astronomer. "l will come, ShorNun," calledout the astronomer,softly."l can sketch; I would be interested." "Well enough, asyou like. Toth Mour, call the men into formation; we will startat once.The dayvariesin length, but is somethirteen hourslong at this season,I am told." Ron Thule leapeddown to the softturf and walkedovertowardthe group. Seunlookedat him slowlyand smiled.The man of Rhth lookedtallerfrom this distance,nearlysix and a third feet in height. His facewastannedto a goldencolor that camenearto matchingthe gold of his clothing. His eyes wereblue and verydeep.They seemeduncertain-a little puzzled,curious about thesemen, curious about the vast, gray bulk that had settledlike a grim shadowoverthe low hill. Half a mile in length, four hundredfeet in diameter,it loomednearlyaslargeasthe age-old,erodedhills it had berthed on. He ran a slim-fingeredhand through the glinting golden hair that curled in unruly locks abovea broad, smooth brow. "There is somethingfor an astronomerin all this world, I think." He

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'Are not climate and soilsand atmospheres the smiledat Ron Thule. too?" provinceof astronomy, slightly "The chemists knowit better," RonThule replied,andwondered that simply not spoken, had Rhth man of the He knew that at his replying. thethoughthadcometo be in his mind. "Eachwill havehis specialwork, savefor me. I will lookatthecity.Theywill lookatthebuildingsandgirders asis their choice.I will look at the city." andthe carvingsor mechanisms,

Uneasily,he movedawayfrom the group,startedalone acrossthe field. of a settledon him whenhewasnearthis Seun,thisdescendant Uneasiness first sprang his own years before racethat had beengreatten millionsof from the swamps.Cheatedheir to a glory five million yearslost. The low,greenroll of the hill fell behindhim ashe climbedthe grassy flank. Very slowlybeforehis eyes,the city lifted into view.Where the swellingcurveof the hill fadedsoftlyinto the infinite blueof the sky,first ashe walkedup the onelittle point, thena score,thenhundredsappeared, crest-the city. Then he stoodon the crest.The city toweredbeforehim, fivemilesaway thegentlyrollinggreenswale.Titan city of a Titan race!The towers across in the goldenlight of the sun. How glowedwith a sun-firedopalescence how longhadtheystoodthus?Three long,greatgodsof thisstrangeworld, soilat theirbases,three thousandfeettheyrosefrom the levelof age-sifted of the giantslong buildings stupendous mighty mass, feet of thousand dead. littleworldcirclinga dim, forgotten little manfroma strange The strange not know,or care.He walkedtoward did starlooked,rp at them, andthey the broad them, watchedthem climb into the blue of the sky.He crossed greenof the land, and theygrewin their uncaringmaiesty. weightsandloadingtheywere-and mass,immeasurable Sheer,colossal to foat thereon thegraceof a line anda curve,half in thedeep theyseemed blue of the sky,half touchingthe warm, bright greenof the land. They floatedstill on the strengthof a dreamdreamedby a man deadthese millionsof years.A brain had dreamedin termsof linesand curvesand planes,andthe brain had built in termsof opalcrystalandvast sweeping The mortalmindwasburiedunderunknownages,butan immortal masses. it molded-they livedandfoated ideahadsweptlife into the deadmasses glory. glory of the racememory mighty The on the of a still The racethat lived in twenty-foot,roundeddomes. The astronomer turned.Hiddennowby the riseof the verdantlandwas villages one of the that race built today.Low, roundedthings, built,

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perhaps,of this same,strange,gleamingcrystal,a secrethalf-remembered from a day that must havebeenThe city flamed beforehim. Acrossten-or was it twenty-thousand millenniums, the thought of the buildersreachedto this man of another race.A builderwho thoughtanddreamedof a mighty future, marchingon, on foreverin the aislesof time. He musthavelookedfrom somehigh, windsweptbalconyof the city to a star-sprinkled sky-and seenthe argosiesof space:mighty treasureships that swept back to this rememberedhome, coming in from the legion worlds of space,from far starsand unknown, clusteredsuns;Titan ships, burdenedwith strangecargoesof unguessed things. And the city peopled itself before him; the skiesstirred in a moment's flash. It wasthe day of Rhth'sglory then! Mile-long shipshoveredin the blue, settling,slow,slow,homefrom worldsthey'dcircled.Familiarsights, familiar sounds,greetingtheir men again. Flashing darts of silver that twistedthrough mazesof the upper air, the soft, vastmusic of the mighty city. The builder lived, and looked out acrosshis dreamBut, perhaps,from his height in the looming towershe could seeacross the swelling ground to the low, rounded domes of his people, his far descendants seekingthe friendly shelterof the shadingtrees-

Ron Thule stood among the buildings of the city. He trod a pavementof soft, greenmoss,and lookedbehind to the swell of the land. The wind had laid this pavement.The moving air wasthe only forcethat maintainedthe city'swalks.A thousandthousandyearsit hassweptits gatheringsacrossthe plain, and depositedthem as an offering at the baseof thesecalm towers. The land had built up slowly,ageon age,till it wasfive hundred feet higher than the land the builder had seen. But his dreamwastoo well built for time to melt away.Slowly time was burying it, even as long sincetime had buried him. The towerstook no notice. They dreamedup to the blue of the skiesand waited. They were patient;they had waitednow a million, or wasit ten million years?Some day, someyear,the buildersmust return, dropping in their remembered argosiesfrom the far, dim reachesof space,asthey had oncetheseagesgone. The towerswaited;they werefaithful to their trust. They had their memories, memoriesof a mighty age,when giantswalkedand worldsbeyondthe starspaid tribute to the city. Their builderswould come again.Till then, naught botheredthem in their silence. But wherethe soft rainsof a hundredthousandgenerations had drained

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from them, their infinite endurancesoftenedto its gentle touch. Etched channelsand rounded gutters, the mighty carvingsdimming, rounding, their powerful featuresbetrayedthe slow effects.Perhaps-it had been so long-so long-even the city was forgetting what once it was. They had waited, thesetowers, forAnd the builders walked in the shadeof the trees, and built rounded domes.And a new raceof builderswascome, a racethe city did not notice in its age-longquiet. Ron Thule looked up to them and wonderedif it were meant to be that his peopleshould carry on the dream begun so long ago. Softened by the silence, voices from the expedition reached him. "-diamond won't scratchit, Shor Nun-more elasticthan beryl steel. Tough-" That wasDee Lun, the metallurgist.He would learn that secret somehow.They would all learn. And Shor Nun, commander, executive, atomic engineer,would learn the secretsthat their powerplantsmust hold. The dream-the city'slife-would go on! Ron Thule wanderedon. No duty his, todayi no responsibilityto study carefully the form and turn of sweepingline, the hidden art that foated ten millions of tonsof masson the graceof a line. Thatfor the archeologistand the engineer.Nor his to study the cunning form of brace and girder, the making of the pearly walls. That for the metallurgist and the chemist.

Seun was besidehim, looking slowly about the great avenuesthat swept away into slim canyonsin the distance. "Your people visited ours, once," said Ron Thule softly. "There are legends,the goldengodsthat cameto Pareeth,bringing gifts of fire and the bow and the hammer.The myths haveenduredthrough two millions of our years-four and a half millions of yours.With fire and bow and hammer my peopleclimbed to civilization. With atomic powerthey blastedthemselves back to the swamps.Four times they climbed, discoveredthe secretof the atom, and blastedthemselvesbackto the swamps.Yetall the changescould not effacethe thankfulnessto the goldengods,who camewhen Pareethwas young." Seun noddedslowly. His unspokenthoughtsformed clear and sharp in mind. "Yes,I know.It wasthe city builders.Once, your sun the astronomer's and ours circled in a systemas a double star. A wandering star crashed through that system,breakingit, and in the breakingmaking planets.Your sun circled away,the new-formedplanetscooling; our Sun remained,these worldscoolingtill the daylife appeared.We aretwin races,born of the same stellarbirth. The city buildersknew that, and soughtyour worlds.They

1A / FORC3ETFULNESS

were a hundred thousandlight-yearsdistant, in that time, acrossall the widfh of the galaxy,asthe two sunscircled in separateorbitsabout the mass ofthe galaxy. "The city builders went to seeyour race but once. They had meant to return, but beforethe return wasmade they had interferedin the history of anotherrace,helping them. For their rewardthe city builderswereattacked by their own weapons,by their own pupils.Neveragainhavewe disturbed anotherrace." 'Across the galaxy,though. The GreatYear-how could they-so manv ' stars- " "The problem of multiple bodies?The city builderssolvedit; they traced the orbits of all the suns of all space;they knew then what sun must once havecircledwith ours.The mathematicsof it-l haveforgotten-l cannot developit. I am afraid I cannot answeryour thoughts.My peoplehave forgotten so many things the city builders knew. "But your peopleseekentranceto the buildings. I know the city, all its waysand entrances.The drifting soil hascoveredeverydoorway,savethose that oncewereusedfor the greatairships.They are still unblocked.I know of one at this level, I think. Perhaps-"

Ron Thule walkedslowly back toward the group. Seun wasspeakingwith Shor Nun, and now they angled off acrossthe city. Their voiceshushed; their footfallswerelost in the silencethat broodedendlesslyoverthe towers. Down timelessavenuesthey marched, a tiny band in the valley of the Titans. The towersmarchedon and on, on either side, up over low hills, beyondthe horizon.Then, beforethem, in the sideof oneof the milky walls a greatopening showed.Somefive feet abovethe level of the drifted soil, it led into the vast,black maw of the building. The little party groupedat the base,then, laboriously,one of the engineersboostedand climbed his wayto the thresholdand dropped a rope to a companion. Seunstooda bit apart,till ShorNun lifted himself up to the higherlevel and stoodon the milky floor. Then the man of Rhth seemedto glow slightly; a golden haze surrounded him and he floated effortlesslyup from the ground and into the doorway. The engineers,Shor Nun, all stoodfrozen, watching him. Seun stopped,turned,half-smiling."How?It is the lathan, the suit I wear." "lt defiesgravity?" askedShorNun, his dark eyesnarrowing in keenest

interest. "Defies gravity?No, it doesnot defy,for gravityis a natural law.The city

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buildersknewthat. They madethesesuitsshortlybeforetheyleft the city. Thelathansimplybendsgravityto will. The mechanismis in thefilaments of theback,servantto a wish.Its operation-I knowonly vagueprinciples. I-l haveforgottenso much. I will try to explain-" Ron Thule felt the thoughtsparadingthrough his mind: Nodesand vibrations,atomsandlessthan atoms,a strange,invisiblefabricof woven strainsthatwerenot there.His mind rebelled.Vague,inchoatestirringsof ideasthat had no clarity;the thoughtswereformlessandindistinct,uncerThey brokeoff. tain of themselves. "Wehaveforgottensomuchof thethingsthecitybuildersknewtheirarts and techniques,"Seun explained."They built things and laboredthat thingsmight surroundand protectthem, so they thought.They labored that this city might be. They stroveandthoughtandworked, generations night reveals. andbuilt fleetsthatsailedbeyondthefartheststartheclearest They broughtheretheir gains,their hard-wontreasures-thattheymight build and maketo protectthesethings. "They wereimpermanentthings,at best.How little is left of their fivemillion-yearstriving.Wehavenothingstoday,noranyprotectingof things. And we haveforgottenthe artsthey developedto protectand understand thesethings.And with them, I am sorry,I haveforgottenthe thoughtsthat makethe lathan understandable." ShorNun noddedslowly,turnedto his party.Ron Thule lookedback from this slightelevation,downthe long avenue.And his eyeswandered who dreamedno more. of the mightydreamers, asideto this descendant "Seekpassages to lowerlevels,"saidShorNun'svoice."Their records, their main interestmusthavecenterednearthe ancientgroundlevel.The levels,wherethepowersand engineers-wewill seekthelowest,subsurface Come." the forcesof the city musthavebeengenerated.

light thatfilteredthroughthewallsof thebuildingfadedto a The opalescent and roseduskastheyburroweddeeperintothevastpile.Corridorsbranched turned;roomsand officesdust litteredand barrenopenedfrom them. corridorbywhichtheyhadentered,ships Downthegreattwo-hundred-foot place had oncefoated, and at the heartof the building wasa cavernous halfstill!Great,dim shapes, wheretheseshipshadoncerested-andrested wall. light that filtered on translucent throughwall seenin the misted The roomblazedsuddenlywith the white light of half a dozenatomic torches,andthe opalescent wallsof the room refectedthe flareacrossthe great foor. of fowing lines fat, dustysweepof the Tivo-score smoothshapes

1A / FORGETFULNESS

clusteredon the floor, a forgottencompanyof travelers that had stopped here,once;whenthe city roaredin triumphantlife. A powdery,grayJust coveredtheir crystalhulls. Slowly,ShorNun walkedtowardthenearest of them,a slim, thirty-footprivate ship, waiting through eternity for forgottenhand.The open a long lock at the sidelightedsuddenlyat the touchof his foot, and softtiitrts appeared throughouttheship.Somewhere a soft,low hummingbegan,and fadedinto silencein a moment."DrusNol-come with tne.Seun,do you knowthe mechanismof theseships?" The manof Rhthhesitated, thenshookhisheadslowly."l cannotexplain it. " He sighed."Theywill notfunctionnow;theydrewtheirpowerfrom the centralplantof the city,andthat hasceased operation.The lastof the city buildersshut it down asthey left." The men of Pareethenteredthe ship hesitantly,and evenwhile they walkedtowardthe centralcontrolcabin at the nose,the white lighting dimmedthroughyellow,andfadedout. Only theirowntorchesremained. The storedpowerthat had lain hiddenin somecellsaboardthis craftwas gonein a last,fiful glow.Somewhere soft,muffed thudsof relaysacted, switchingvainly to seekcharged,emergencycells. The lights fared and died, flaredand vanished.The questingrelaysrelaxedwith a tired click. Dust-shrouded mechanism, etchedin thelightof faringtorches, greeted theireyes,hunchedbulks,andgleamingtubesof glassystuffthat, by its sparkling,fierylife mustbeotherthananyglasstheyknew,morenearlykin to the brilliant refractionof the diamond. "The powerplant," saidShorNun softly,"l think wehadbestlookat that first.Theseareprobablydelayed; theremightstill be somestoredpowerin thecentralplanttheycouldpickup andgiveusa fatalshock.The insulation here-" But thecity buildershadbuilt well. Therewasno signof frayedandagerottedinsulation.Only slightgraydustlay in torn blankets,tenderfabric their movements had disturbed. Seunwalkedslowlytowardthefar endof the room,roundingthe silent, lightless bulksoftheancientships.Thedustof forgottenagesstirredsoftlyin his wake,settledbehindhim. The men of Pareethgatheredin his steps, followedhim towardthe far wall. A doorwayopenedthere,andtheyentereda smallroom.The archeologist's breathwhistled:thefourwallsweredecorated with friezesof thehistory of the racethat hadbuilt, conquered andsaileda universe-andlivedin domesundershelteringtrees. Seunsawhisinterest, toucheda panelathisside.Soundlessly, a doorslid

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from the wall, clickedsoftly,and completedthe friezeon that wall. The to thechemistandthephotogswiftly,speaking wassketching archeologist rapherrr-h. worked.The torchesflaredhigherfor a moment,andthe men eye room,makingwayfortheremembering *bued aboutin thetwenty-foot of the little camera. AsSeuntouchedanotherstud,thedoorslidbackintothewall.The room of the shipswasgone.Hastily,the men of Pareethturnedto Seun' "Will that elevatorworksafelyto raiseus again?Yousaidthe powerwas cut off-" to but it wasdesigned "Thereis storedpower.Nearlyall hasleakedaway, for be, might they wherever besufficientto run all thiscity andall itsships, if youfear sevendays.Thereis powerenough.And therearefoot passages thepowerwill notbesufficient.This isthelowestlevel;thisisthelevelof the feetbelowthelevelat -r.hin.r, theheartof thecity-nearly onethousand which we entered." 'Are the machines,the powerplant, in this building?" "Thereis only onebuilding,herebeneaththeground.It is thecity,but it hasmanyheads.Thepowerplantisoffhere,I think. It hasbeena longtime me. sinceI camethisway.I wasyoungthen,andthecitybuildersfascinated and-" Their storyis interesting to echoin RonThule'smind. The "lnteresting-" The thoughtseemed suchashis storyof the conquestof the universe,the storyof achievement racecouldonly dreamof yet.Theyhaddreamed-anddone!And that, to Interestingto this dark, strange that was- interesting. their descendants, labyrinthof branchingcorridors,and strange,hoodedbulks.Production productionmachinerythat forgottenworkmachinery,he knew,somehow, men had hoodedas they steppedawaytemporarily-for a yearor two, perhapstill the waningpopulition shouldincreaseagainand makenew bundledthings that might be d.*andt on it. Then greatstorerooms, needed,spareparts,and storedrecordsanddeeds.Librariesof dull metal rottingin generations, effortsof a thousand undergraydust.The unneeded with disturbed had thisquietdarkthathe, RonThule, andhis companions the moment'srushof atomicfame. Then the tortuouscorridorbranched,joinedothers,becamesuddenlya into the powerroom,the heartof the city andall greatavenuedescending that it had meant.They waitedstill, the mighty enginesthe last of the buildershad shutdownashe left, waitedto startagainthe worktheyhad droppedfor the moment,takinga well-earnedrest.But they must have of their masters. growntired in that rest,that *iiting for the resurgence reflectingthe grayed dust, of blankets They gloweddimly underthe thin clearbrillianceof the pryinglight.

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ShorNun haltedat the gate,his engineerbesidehim. Slowly,Seunof Rhth pacedinto the greatchamber."By the goldengodsof pareeth,Drus Nol, do you seethat insulation-those buss-bars!" "Five million volts,if it'sno betterthan we build," the engineersaid,"and I supposethey must be busses,though, by the starsof qpace,they look like columns! They're twenty-fivefeet through. But, man, man, the generator-for it must be a generator-it's no longer than the bussesit " energizes. "When the generatoroperated," Seun'sthoughts came, ,.the field it created ran through the bars, so that they, too, became nearly perfect conductors.The generatorsuppliedthe city, and its ships, whereverin all spacethey might be." And the further thought came into their minds, "lt wasthe finest thing the city buildershad." Shor Nun steppedover the threshold. His eyesfollowed the immense busses,acrossin a greatloop to a dimly sparklingswitchpanel,then across, and down to a thing in the centerof the hall, a thingShor Nun cried out, laughedand sobbedall at one moment. His hands clawedat his eyes;he fell to his knees,groaning."Don't look-by the gods, don't look-" he gasped. Drus Nol leapedforward, bent at his side. ShorNun'sfeet movedin slow arcsthrough the dust of the floor, and his handscoveredhis face. Seunof Rhth steppedoverto him with a strangedeliberationthat yet was speed."Shor Nun," camehis thought,and the man of pareethstraightened under it, "standup." Slowly, like an automaton, the commander of the expedition rose, twitching, his handsfalling to his sides.His eyeswereblank, white thingsin their sockets,and horrible to look at. "ShorNun, look at me, turn your eyeson me," saidSeun.He stoodhalf a head taller than the man of Pareeth,very slim and straight,and his eyes seemedto glow in the light that surroundedhim. As though pulled by a greaterforce, Shor Nun's eyesturned slowly,and first their brown edges,then the pupils showedagain. The frozen madness in his face relaxed;he slumped softly into a more natural position-and Seun looked away. Unsteadily,ShorNun satdown on a greatanglingbeam. "Don't look for the end of those busses,Drus Nol-it is not good. They knew all the universe,andthe endsof it, long beforetheybuilt this city.The thingsthese men haveforgottenembraceall the knowledgeour racehas,and a thousand thousandtimes more, and yet they have the ancient characteristics that made certainthings possibleto the city builders.I do not know what that

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thing may be, but my eyes had to follow it, and it went into another dimension.Seun, what is that thing?" "The generatorsuppliedthe power for the city, and for the ships of the city, wheieverthey might be in space.In all the universethey could draw on the power of that generator,through that sorganunit. That wasthe master to any ship uniq from it flowedthe powerof the generator,instantaneously, a field created It in all space,so long as its correspondingunit wastuned. rotating"-and the minds of his hearersrefusedthe term- "which involves, as well, time. "ln the first revolution it made, the first day it wasbuilt, it circled to the ultimate end of time and the universe,and backto the day it wasbuilt. And in all that sweep,everysorganunit tuned to it must follow. The power that drove it died when the city was deserted,but it is still making the first revolution,which it made and completedin the first hundredth of a second it existed. "Becauseit circledto the end of time, it passedthis momentin its swing, and everyother moment that everis to be. Wereyqu to wipe it out with your mightiestatomic blast,it would not be disturbed,for it is in the next instant, as it was when it was built. And so it is at the end of time, unchanged. Nothing in spaceor time can alter that, for it hasalreadybeen at the end of time. That is why it rotatesstill, and will rotatewhen this world dissolves, and the starsdie out and scatteras dust in space.Only when the ultimate when no morechangeis, or can be will it be at restequalityis established, be equal to it, all spaceequatedto it, because will things for then other space,too, will be unchangedthrough time. "Since, in its first swing, it turned to that time, and backto the day it was built, it radiatedits powerto the end of spaceand back.Anywhere, it might be drawn on, and was drawn on by the ships that sailedto other stars." Ron Thule glancedvery quickly towardand awayfrom the sorganunit. It rotated motionlessly,twinkling and winking in swift immobility. It was someten feet in diameter,a round spheroidof rigidly fixed coils that slipped awayand awayin flashingspeed.His eyestwistedand his thoughtsseemed to freezeashe lookedat it. Then he seemedto seebeyondand through it, as though it werean infinite window, to ten thousandother immobile, swiftly spinning coils revolving in perfect harmony, and beyond them to strange starsand worlds beyond the suns-a thousandcities such as this on a thousandplanets:the empire of the city builders! And the dream faded-faded as that dream in stoneand crystal and metal, everlastingreality, had faded in the softnessof human tissue.

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The ship hung motionlessover the towersfor a long moment. Sunlight, reddenedas the starssank behind the far hilis, flushedtheir opalescent beautywith a softtint, softenedeventhe harsh,utilitarian grayof ihe great, interstellarcruiserabovethem into an idle, rosydream. A dream, p.ihrp, suchasthe towershad dreamedten thousandtimesten thousandtimesthese long eons they had waited? Ron Thule looked down at them, and a feeling of satisfactionand fulfillment cameto him. Pareethwould sendher chiidren. A colony here, on this ancientworld would bring a new,strongerblood to washup in a great tide, to carry the ideals this race had forgotten to new heights, new achievements. Overthe low hills, visiblefrom this elevation,lay t[e simple, roundeddomesof the peopleof Rhth-Seun and his little clan of half a hundred-the dwindling representatives of a once-greatrace. It would mean death to thesepeople-these last descendants. A new world, busy with a greatwork of reconqueringthis system,then all space! They would haveno time to protectand carefor theseforgetful ones;ih.r. peopleof Rhth inevitablywould dwindle swiftly in a strange,busyworld. They who had forgottenprogressfive millions of yearsbefore;they who had been untrue to the dream of the city builders. It wasfor Pareeth,and the sonsof Pareethto carry on the abandonedpath again-

CONCLUSION OF THE REPORT TO THE COMMITTEEOF PAREETH SUBMITTEDBY SHORNUN, COMMANDER OF'THEFIRST INTERSTELLAR EXPEDITION -thus it seemedwiseto me that we leaveat the end of a singleweek,despite the obiectionsof thosemembersof the expeditionpersonnelwho had had no opportunity to seethis world. It wasbetter not to disturb the decadent inhabitants of Rhth in any further degree,and better that we return to Pareethwith thesereportsas soon as might be, since building operations would soon commence on the twelve new ships. I suggestthat thesenew shipsbe built of the new materialrhthite, superior to our bestpreviousmaterials.As hasbeen shownby the incredibleenduranceof the buildingsof the city, this materialis exceedinglystable,and we havefound it may be synthesizedfrom the cheapestmaterials,savingmany millions in the constructionwork to be undertaken. It hasbeensuggested by a certainmemberof the expedition,Thon Raul

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the anthropologist,that we may underestimatethe degreeof civilization actually retainedby the peopleof Rhth, specificallythat it is possiblethat a type of civilization existsso radicallydivergentfrom our own, that it is to us ,rnr..ognizableas civilization.His suggestionof a purely mental civilization of a high orderseemsuntenablein the faceof the fact that Seun, a man well-respectedby his fellows, wasunable to project his thoughtsclearly at any time, nor was there any evidence that any large proportion of his thoughtswereto himself of a high orderof clarity. His answersweretypified by "I have forgotten the development-" or "lt is difficult for me to explain-" or "The exactmechanismis not understoodby all of us-a few historians-" It is, of course, impossibleto disprovethe assertionthat such a civilization is possible,but there arisesin my mind the question of advantage gained,it being a maxim of any evolutionaryor advancingprocessthat the changeso madeis, in somemanner,beneficialto the modifiedorganismof society.Evidently, from the statementsmade by Seun of Rhth, they have forgottenthe knowledgeonce held by the mighty racethat built the cities, and haverecededto a stateof reposewithout labor or progressof any kind. Thon Raul hasmentionedthe effectproducedon me by closeobservation of the sorganmechanism, and further statedthat Seun wasable to watch this same mechanism without trouble, and able to benefit me after my unfortunateexperience.I would point out that mental potentialitiesdecline extremelyslowly; it is possiblethat the present,decadentpeople have the mental potentialities,still inherent in them, that permitted the immense civilization of the city builders. It liesthere,dormant. They are lost for lack of the driving will that makes it effective. The Pareeth,the greatestship our race has ever built, is powered, fueled, potentially mighty now-and inert for lack of a man's driving will, since no one is at her helm. us. So it is with them. Still, the mental capacityof the raceovershadows But the divine fire of ambition hasdied. Th.y rely wholly on materialsand tools given them by a long-deadpeople, using even thesein an automatic and uncomprehendingway, as they do their curious flying suits. Finally, it is our conclusion that the twelve ships under consideration should be completedwith all possiblespeed,and the programasat present outlined carriedout in full; i.e., seventhousandsix hundred and thirtyeight men and women betweenthe agesof eighteenand twenty-eightwill be selectedon a basisof health, previousfamily history, personalcharacter and ability asdeterminedby psychologicaltests.Thesewill be transported, to the newplanet,leavingin the early togetherwith a basiclist of necessities, months of the coming year.

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Six yearswill be requiredfor this trip. At the end of the first year on the new planet, when somedegreeof organizationhasbeen attainei, one ship, refueled,will return to Pareeth.At the end of the secondyeartwo ships*ili return from Rhth with all dataaccumulatedin that period. Thereafter,two will sail each year. On Pareeth, new ships will be manufactured at whateverrate seems practicable,that more colonistsmay be sentas swiftly as they desire.It is suggested,however,that, in view of the immense scientific advancements alreadyseenin the citiesof Rhth, no newshipsbe madeuntil a ship returns with the reportsof the first year'sstudies,in orderthat any resultantscientific advancesmay be incorporated. The presentcrew of the Pareethhave proven themselvesin every way competent,courageousand codperative.As trained and experiencedinterstellaroperators,it is further suggested that the one hundred men be divided among the thirteen ships to sail, the Pareefhretaining at leastfifty of her presentcrew and acting asguide to the remainderof the fleet. Ron Thule, it is specificallyrequested,shall be astronomicalcommander of the feet aboardthe fagship. His astronomicalwork in positioningand calculating the new systemhas been of the highest order, and his jr.r.n.. is vitally needed. Signedby me, SHOR NUN, this thirty-second dry after landing.

UNANIMOUSREPORT OF THE COMMITTEEOF PAREETHON THE FIRSTEXPEDITIONTO THE PLANETRHTH The Committeeof Pareeth, afterdueconsideration of the reports of FolderRl27-s6-ll, entitled"lnterstellar Exploration Reports, Expedition I" do sendto commanderof said expedition,Shor Nun, greetings. The committee finds the reportshighly satisfying,both in view of the successfulnature of the expedition, and in that they representan almost unanimousopinion. In consequence, it is orderedthat the shipsdesignated by the department of engineeringplan asnumbers18834-18846be constructedwith all such speedas is possible. It is orderedthat the seventhousandsix hundred and thirty-eight young peoplebe chosenin the manner prescribedin the attacheddocketof details.

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It is orderedthat in the event of the successfultermination of the new shall be made that the present, colonizingexpedition,such arrangements be allowedfree and plentiful planet shall Rhth decadentinhrbitrnts of the land; that they shall be in no way molestedor attacked.It is the policy of this committe. oi Prr.eth that this race shall be wards of the newly founded Rhth State, to be protectedand in all waysaided in their life. We feel, further, a deep obligation to this race in that the archeologist and anthropologicalreportsclearly indicate that it wasthe race known to them asthecity builderswho first brought fire, the bow and the hammer to our racein mythologicaltimes. Once their racegaveours a foothold on the climb to civilization.It is our firm policy that theselast,decadentmembers of that great race shall be given all protection, assistanceand encouragement possibleto tread again the climbing path. It isordered that the first colony city on Rhth shall be establishedat the spot representedon the accompanying maps as N'yor, as called in the lalguage of the Rhth people, near the point of landing of the first expedition. The nearbysettlementof the Rhth peopleis not to be molestedin any way, unlessmilitary action is forced upon the colonists. It is orderedthat if this condition shall arise, if the Rhth peopleobject to the proposedsettlementat the spot designatedas N'yor, arbitration be attempted. Should this measureprove unsuccessful,military penalties shall be exacted,but only to the extentfound necessaryfor effectiveaction. The colonistsshall aid in the moving of the settlementof the Rhth people,if the Rhth people do not desireto be near the city of the colonists. In any case,it is orderedthat the colonistsshall, in everywaywithin their aid, advanceand inspirethe remaining peopleof Rhth. It is further orderedthat ShorNun, commander,shall be plenipotentiary of the committee of Pareeth,with all powersof a discretionrepresentative ary nature, his commandto be military and of unquestionedauthority until suchtime asthe colony shall havebeenestablishedfor a periodof two years. governmentof such There shall then havebeen establisheda representative nature and powersas the coloniststhemselvesfind suitable. It is then suggestedthat this government, the State of Rhth, shall with the committee of Pareethasare suitable exchangesuchrepresentatives in the dealingsof two sovereignpowers. Until the establishmentof the Stateof Rhth, it is further orderedthat-

The grasslandrolled awayvery softly among the brown bolesof scattered trees.It seemedunchanged.The city seemedunchanged,foating asit had a thousandthousandyearshalfuay betweenthe blue of the skyand the green

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of the planet. Only it wasnot alonein its opalescentbeautynow, twelvegreat shipsfloatedserene,motionless,aboveits to*ers, matching them in glowing color. And on the low roll of the hilr, a thirteenth ship] gray andlrim and scarredwith eighteenyearsof nearly continuous spacetravel, ,.rt d. The locksmoved;men steppedforth into the light of the ior, ,ft.rnoon sun. To their right, the mighty monument of the.ity Uuitaers;to their left, the low, rounded domes of the great race'sdescendants.Ron Thule stepped down from the lock to ioin the eight departmentcommanderswho stood looking acrosstoward the village among the trees. ShorNun turnedslowlyto the men with him, shookhis head,smiling. ',I did not think to ask.I haveno ideawhat their life spanmay be. Perhapsthe man we knew as seun has died. when I first landed here, I was a young man. I am middle-agednow.That time may mean old ageand extinctionto thesepeople." "There is one man coming towardus now Shor Nun," saidRon Thule softly."He is floatingon his-what wasthat name?-it is a long time sinceI heard it. " The man came nearerleisurely;time seemedto mean little to these people.The soft, blue glow of his suitgrew,and he moveda bit more rapidly, asthoughconsciousof their importance."[-l think that is Seun," saidthe archeologist."I have seenthosepicturesso many times-" Seun stood beforethem again, smiling the slow, easysmile they had known twelveyearsbefore.Still he stoodslim and straight,his face lined only with the easygravingsof humor and kindliness.He wasasunchanged as the grassland,as the eternal city. The glow faded as he settledbeiore them, noiselessly."You have come back to Rhth, shor Nun?" "Yes, Seun. We promisedyou that when we left. And with someof our peopleas well. We hope to establisha colony here, near the ancient city; hope someday to learn again the secretsof the city builders, to roam space as they once did. Perhapswe will be able to occupy some of the longdesertedbuildings of the city and bring life to it again.,' 'A permanent colony?" askedSeun thoughtfully. "Yes,Seun." "There are many other cities here, on this planet, nearly as large, equippedwith all the things that made this city. To -y racethe quiet of the unstirredair is very dear;could you not as easilyestablishyour colony in Shao-or Loun-any of the other places?" ShorNun shookhis headslowly."l am sorry,Seun.We had hopedto live near you, that we might both discoveragain those forgotten secrets.We muststayhere,for this wasthe lastcity your peopledeserted;herein it areall the things they everbuilt, the lastachievementsof the city builders.We will

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aid you in moving your colony if you wish, to someother meadowlandnear the sea.All the t"otta is the sameto your people;only this city wasbuilt in this way; it was the last to be deserted."

Seun exhaledsoftly, looked at the ten men of Pareeth.His mind seemed groping,feelingfoi something.His deepblue eyesmistedin thought, then .t.rt a ttowly asRon Thule watched.Slowly,they movedfrom man to man of the group, pausinga moment at the anthropologist,catching Shor Nun's gazefor an instant, centering slowly on Ron Thule' Ron Thule lookedinto the deepeyesfor a moment, for a long eternitydeep,cleareyes,like mountain lakes.Subtly,the Rhthman'sfaceseemedto changeashe watchedthe eyes.The languor therechanged,becamea sense The pleasant,carefreeair became,someof limitlessness. of timelessness, how-different. It wasthe same, but as the astronomerlooked into those eyes,a new interpretationcame to him. A sudden, vastfear welled up in trim, so that his heartcontracted,and a suddentremor cameto his hands. "You haveforgotten-" he mumbled unsteadily."Yes-but you-" Seun smiled, the firm mouth relaxing in approval. "Yes, Ron Thule. That is enough. I soughtyour mind. Someonemust understand.Remember that only twice in the history of our racehavewe attemptedto alter the courseof another'shistory,for by that you will understandwhat I must do. " Seun'seyesturned away.Shor Nun waslooking at him, and Ron Thule realized, without quite understandinghis knowledge,that no time had elapsedfor theseothers.Now he stood motionless,paralyzedwith a new understanding. "We must stayhere," Seun'smind voice spokesoftly."I, too, had hoped we might live on this world together,but we aretoo different.We aretoo far apart to be so near." "You do not wish to move?" askedShor Nun sorrowfully. Seunlookedup. The twelvegreatinterstellarcruisershoveredclosernow, forming, almost,a roof overthis conferenceground. "That would be for the council to say,I know. But I think they would agreewith me, Shor Nun. " Vaguepicturesand ideasmovedthrough their minds, thoughtsemanating from Seun'smind. Slowly,his eyesdroppedfrom the twelveopalescent cruisersto the outstretchedpalm of his hand. His eyesgrewbright, and the linesof his facedeepenedin concentration.The air seemedto stir and move; a tensenessof inaction came over the ten men of Pareethand they moved restlessly. Quite abruptly, a dazzlinglight appearedover Seun'shand, sparkling, myriad colors-and died with a tiny, crystallineclatter.Somethinglay in

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his upturnedpalm: a round, small thing of aquamarinecrystal, shot throughwith veinsandarteries of softlypulsing,silverlight. It movedand alteredastheywatched,fadingin color,changingtheformand outline of light. Again the tinkling, crystallineclatter came, and some rearrangement had takenplace.There lay in his hand a tiny globe of ultimate nilht, an essence of darkness that no light could illumine, casedin a crystalsurface. stars shonein it, from the heart, from the borders,starsthat moved and turned in majesticsplendorin infinite smallness.Then faded. Seunraisedhis eyes.The darknessfadedfrom the crystalin his hand, and pulsing, little veinsof light appearedin it. He raisedit in his fingers,and nine of Pareeth's men fell back. Ron Thule lookedon with frozen. wooden face. A waveof blue haze washedout, caught and lifted the men and carried them effortlessly,intangibly back to the lock, through the lock. From the quiet of the grasslandsthey were suddenly in the steel of the ship that clangedand howledwith alarms.Greatenginesbellowedsuddenlyio life. Ron Thule stoodat the great,clearport light of the lock. Outside,Seun, in his softly glowing suit, floateda few feet from the ground. Abruptly, the greatatomic enginesof the Pareethshrilled a chorusof raveninghate, and from the three greatprojectorsthe annihilating beamstore out, shrieking destructionthrough the air-and vanished.Seun stoodat the junction of death, and his crystalglowed softly. Thelve floating shipsscreamedto the tortured shriek of overloadedatomics, and the planet below cursed back with quarter-mile-longtonguesof lightning. Somewhere,everywhere,the universethrummed to a vast, crystalline note, and hummed softly. In that instant, the green meadowlandof Rhth vanished;the eternalcity dissolvedinto blackness. Only blackness, starless, lightlessshoneoutsidethe lock port light. The soft,clearnote of the crystal hummed and beatand surged.The atomic engine'scry died full throated. An utter, paralyzedquiet descendedon the ship, so that the cry of a child somewhereechoed and reverberatednoisily down the steel corridors. The crystalin Seun'shand beat and hummed its note. The blackness beyondthe port becamegray.One by one, six opalescentshipsshifted into view in the blackness beyond,moving with a slow deliberation,asthough forcedby someinfinite powerinto a certain,predeterminedconfiguration. Like atomsin a crystallattice they shifted,seemedto click into placeand hold steady-neatly, geometricallyarranged.

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Then noisecamebackto theship;soundsthatcreptin, afraidof themselves, screams. poundingfeetof men,andwomen's andclamored; grewcourageous "We'reout of space," gasped ShorNun. "Thatcrystal-thatthing in his " hand "ln a spaceof our own," saidRonThule. "Waittill thenoteof thecrystal weakening slowly,to us,but it will begone,and diesdown.It isweakening, then-" Shor Nun turned to him, his dark eyesshadowed,his facepaleand drawn."What do you know-hs14r-" a crystalechoed RonThule stoodsilent.He did not know.Somewhere, andtinklingsound;the universeechoedto for a momentin rearrangement died away. tone it softly,asthe last, faint "ShorNun-Shor Nun-" a slow,wailingcry wasbuildingup in the feeton metalfloorsbecamea march. ship. Scampering of ShorNun sobbedonce."That crystal-theyhadnot lostthe weapons thecitybuilders.Spaceof our own?No-it islike thesorgan:It rotatesusto weknew-when all timehasdied,andthe theendof timelThis isthespace starsaregoneandthe worldsaredust.This is the end of the nothingness. their enemiesthus-by dumpingthem at the The city buildersdestroyed endof time andspace.I know.Theymusthave.And Seunhadthe ancient weapon.When the hummingnoteof the crystaldies-the lingeringforce of translation"Thenweshalldie,too. Die in thedeathof death.Oh, gods-Sulonseemed to slump Sulon,my dear-our son-" ShorNun, commander, port the light turned from toward his frozen rigidity. He abruptly away from the inner lock door. It openedbeforehim suddenly,and a technician stumbleddown, white facedand trembling. "Commander-ShorNun-the engines Theatomswill not arestopped. The powercellsaresupplyingemerexplode;no powercan be generated. gencypower,but the full strengthof the drivedoesnot moveor shakethe ship!What-what is this?" ShorNun stoodsilent.The shipthrummedandbeatwith thesoftening, dyingnoteof the universe-distant crystalthatheldall the beginnings and theendingsoftime andspacein a man'shand.The notewasfading;verysoft and sweet,it was.Through the ship the hystericalcry of voiceshad it wassoftening listeningto thedying changed; with thethrum, softening, threadof infinitelysweetsound. ShorNun shrugged his shoulders, turnedaway."lt doesnot matter.The is fading. force Acrossten million yearsthe city buildershavereachedto " protecttheir descendants.

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The note was very low-very faint; a quivering hush bound the ship. Beyond the port light, the six sister ships began to move again, very stealthily away,retreatingtowardthe positionsthey had held when this force first seizedthem. ThenShorNun's chokedcry wasdrownedin the criesof the othersin the lock. Blinding white light stabbedthroughthe port like a solid,incandescent bar. Their eyeswere hot and burning. Ron Thule, his astronomer's eyesaccustomed to rapid, extremechanges of light, recoveredfirst. His word wasindistinct,a crossbetweena sobanda chuckle. ShorNun stoodbesidehim, winking torturedeyes.The shipwaswaking, howling into a mad, frightenedlife; the children screamedin sympathetic comprehensionof their elders'terror. White, blazing sunlight on greengrassand brown dirt. The weathered grayof concrete,and the angular harshnessof greatbuilding cradles.A skylineof white-tipped,blue mountains,broken by nearer,less-majestic structuresof steeland stoneand glass,glinting in the raysof a strong,warm sun with a commonness,a familiarity that hurt. A vastnostalgiawelledup in them at the sightAnd died beforeanother waveof terror. "Darun Tara," said Shor Nun. "Darun Tara,on Pareeth.I am mad-this is mad. Acrazyvisionin a crazy instantasthe translatingforcecollapses. Darun Thraasit waswhen we left it six long yearsago. Changed-that half-finishedshed is still only three quartersfinished.I can seeThio Rog,the port masterthere,coming toward us. I am mad. I am five light yearsaway-" "lt is Darun Tara, Shor Nun," Ron Thule whispered.'And the city builderscould neverhavedone this. I understandnow. I-" He stopped.The whole, greatship vibratedsuddenlyto thwang like the plucked,bassstringof aTitan'sharp.Creaksand squeals,and little grunting readjustments,the fabric of the cruiser protested. "My telescope-" cried Ron Thule. He was running toward the inner lock door, into the dark mouth of the corridor. Again the ship thrummed to a vibrantstroke.The creakingof the girders and strakesprotestedbitterly; stressedrivets grunted angrily. Men pounded on the lock door from without. Thio Rog, Ton Gareth, Hol Brawn-familiar facesstaringanxiouslyin. Shor Nun moved dully toward the gate controls-

ShorNun knockedgently at the closed,metal door of the ship'sobservatory. Ron Thule'svoice answered,muffled, vague,from beyond.

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The commander opened the door; his breath sucked in sibilantly. "Space!"he gasped. "Come and see, come and see," the astronomercalled softly. ShorNun instinctivelyfelt his way forward on tiptoe. The greatobservatory room was space;it was utter blackness,and the corridor lights were swallowedin it the instantthe man crossedthe threshold.Blackness,starred by tiny, brilliant points, scatteredvery sparsely,in every direction. "Seun took the telescope,but he left me this, instead.I understandnow; he said that only twice had they attemptedto alter a race'shistory. "This is space, and that is Tioth, our own star. Watch-" The star expanded;the whole of this imagelessspaceexplodedoutward and vanishedthrough the unseen walls of the observatory.Tioth floated alone,centeredin the invisibleroom. Seventiny dotsof light hung nearit, glowing in its refected light. 'And that is our system.Now this is the star of Rhth-" Spacecontracted,shifted and exploded,leavingone shining, yellowish star, attendedby five brightly visible worlds. "The other planetsare too small or too dimly illumined to see.When I came there was a new systemdisplayed.This one." Another planetarysystemappeared. "That is the systemof Prother." "Prother!" Shor Nun stared. "Five and a half light-years away-and planets?" "Planets.Uninhabited,for I can bring eachplanetasnearasI will. But, voice-"though I can see Shor Nun"-sorrow crept into the astronomer's everydetail of eachplanet of that system,though I can seeeachoutline of the planetsof Rhth'ssystem-only thosethree starscan I see,closeby." "No other planetarysystems!" "No other planetarysystemthat Seunwill revealto us. I understand.One we won, on the right of our own minds, our own knowledge;we reachedhis worlds.We had won a secretfrom nature by our own powers;it waspart of the history of our race.They do not want to molest,or in any way influence the history of a race-so they permitted us to return, if only we did not disturbthem. They could not refuseus that, for it would be a breachin their feelingsof justice.

"But they felt it needfulto dispossess us, ShorNun, and this Seundid. But had he doneno more, our historywasaltered,changedvitally. So-this he gaveus; he has shown us another, equally near, planetarysystemthat we may use. We have not lost vitally. That is his justice."

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"His justice.Yes,I cameto you, RonThule, becauseyou seemedto know somewhatof the things that happened."Shor Nun's voice waslow in the dark of the observatory.He lookedat the floating planetsof Prother."What is-Seun? How hasthis happened?Do you know?You know that we were greetedby our friends-and they turned awayfrom us. "Six yearshave passedfor us. They wanted to know what misfortune made us return at the end of a single year,for only one yearhaspassedhere on Pareeth.My son wasborn, there in space,and he haspassedhis fourth birthday. My daughteris two. Yet thesethings have not happened,for we were gone a single year. Seun has done it, but it cannot be; Seun, the decadentsonof the city builders;Seun,who hasforgottenthe secretsof the shipsthat sailedbeyondthe starsandthe building of the Titan Towers;Seun, whosepeoplelive in a tiny villageshelteredfrom the rainsand the sun by a few green trees. "What are thesepeople of Rhth?" Ron Thule's voice wasa whisperfrom the darkness."I come from a far world, by what strangefreakwe will not say.I am a savage,a rising racethat hasnot learnedthe secretof fire, nor bow, nor hammer. Tell me, ShorNun, what is the nature of the two dry sticksI must rub, that fire may be born? Must they be hard, tough oak, or shouldone be a soft, resinousbit of pine? Tell me how I may make fire." "Why-with matchesor a heat ray-No, Ron Thule. Vaguethoughts, meaninglessideasand unclear.I-l haveforgottenthe ten thousandgenerations of development.I cannot retreatto a levelyou, savageof an untrained world, would understand.I-I haveforgotten." "Then tell me, how I must hold the f int, and wheremust I presswith a bit of deerhorn that the chipsshall fly small and even,sothat the knife will be sharpand kill my prey for me?And how shall I rub and washand treat the wood of the bow, or the skin of the slain animal that I may havea coat that will not be stiff, but soft and pliable?" "Those, too, I have forgotten. Those are unnecessarythings. I cannot help you, savage.I would greetyou, and showyou the relicsof our deserted pastin museums.I might conductyou through ancientcaves,wheremighty rock walls defended*y ancestorsagainstthe wild things they could not control. "Yes, Ron Thule. I have forgotten the development."

"Once"-Ron Thule's voice was tense-"the city builders made atomic generatorsto releasethe energybound in that violenttwist of spacecalledan atom. He made the sorganto distribute its power to his clumsy shellsof

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metal and crystal-the cavesthat protectedhim from the wild things of space. "Seun hasforgottenthe atom; he thinks in termsof space.The powersof spaceareat his direct command. He createdthe crystalthat brought us here from the energyof space,becauseit made easya taskhis mind alone could havedone. It wasno more needful than is an adding machine. His people have no ships;they are anywherein spacethey will without such things. Seun is not a decadentson of the city builders. His peopleneverforgot the dreamthat built the city. But it wasa dream of childhood, and his people werechildren then. Like a child with his broomstickhorse,the mind alone was not enough for thought; the city builders, just as ourselves,needed somethingof a solid metal and crystal,to make their dreamstangible." "My sonwasborn in space,and is four. Yetwe weregonebut a singleyear from Pareeth."Shor Nun sighed. "Our fleet took six yearsto crossthe gulf of five lighryears. In thirty seconds,infinitely fasterthan light, Seun returnedus, that there might be the minimum change in our racial history. Time is a function of the velocity of light, and five light-yearsof distanceis preciselyequal to five yearsof time multiplied by the squareroot of minus one. When we traversed five light-yearsof spacein no appreciabletime, we dropped back, also, through five yearsof time. "You and I have spenteighteenyearsof effort in this exploration, Shor Nun-eighteen yearsof our manhood. By this hurling us back Seun has foreverdeniedusthe planetswe earnedby thoselong yearsof effort. But now he does not deny us wholly. "They gaveus this, and by it anothersun, with other planets.This Seun gavenot to me, asan astronomer;it is his gift to the race.Now it is beyondus ever to make another. And this which projectsthis spacearound us will ceaseto be, I think, on the day we land on thoseother planetsof that other sun, whereSeun will be to watch us-as he may be herenow,to seethat we understandhis meanings. "l knowonly this-that sun I can see,andthe planetscircling it. The sun of Rhth I can see, and those planets, and our own. But-though these otherscameso nearat the impulseof my thoughts,no other sun in all space can I seeso near. "That, I think, is the wish of Seun and his race." The astronomerstiffenedsuddenly. Shor Nun stoodstraightand tense. "Yes," whisperedSeun, very softly,in their minds. Ron Thule sighed.

SpecialFlight In the early days of the Campbell era there was a constant searchfor new talent. One of the writers who respondedto the challenge ofAstounding wasJohn Berryman. I include this story to represent something o{ the breadth of SF at the inception of the modern period. It alsogivesa good idea of the sourcesof suchlater media avatarsasStarTiek, with irc heroic captain and international crew who relate to one another through tough and witty dialogue. Here is spaceadventure with a sincere concern for science and a real attempt at technological detail to increaseverisimilitude. Someof the details are justplain wrong (there is never a lackof gravity in the ship) and some today seem quaint (the useof slide rules), but this is typical early hard SE

chwabgravelyunfastenedthe buckleson his corset,one by one, and finally peeledthe garmentoff. "You know," he observed,holdingit up andlookingat it asthoughhe had neverseenit before,"l don't think I'd mind this iob half so much if I didn't haveto wearthat thing. I swearit'sdoing " Sympatheticlaughterfrom somethingto my subconscious. the rest of the Monitor's crew ran around the crew room. Spaceflying had its price, and part of it waswearing"straitjackets,"and heavy corsets. Captain Feathers,a little slowerabout his undressingthan the navigator,wasstill tugging idly at a zipper that refusedto 'Agh," slide. he breathedheavily,"it sureis goodto havea trip like that one. Not a murmur out of the rockets,no detours,

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" He leanedback and stretchedhis just a nice smooth ride in an elevator. shoulders. "What's the matter, Cap, getting old?" the navigatorcracked. "Not old, Schwab,"he repliedwith a smile; "iust weary." "You'll be anotherLex Cloatesbeforeyou know it!" Schwabshotbackat him from the shower door. "You'll be making each trip at maximum allowableaccelerationiust to get it over with!" Featherschuckled a little at the vagariesof some of the men who flew to the Moon. It wasn'tan easylife. The batteringof the rockets, spaceships all tendedto agea man unless the rackingof occasionalhigh accelerations, He wonderedto himself whether he kept in the peakof physicalcondition. to the planetswould ever materialize. The the dream of flying passengers Moon, ferrying the preciousoresfrom the to the forth shorthaul back and rich mines,washard enoughon a man. Shakingawayhis moodythoughts, he stood up, calling acrossto Buchanan, the computer, as he did: "Hey, Buck, what'veyou and your squawgot on for tomorrow night? How about somebridge?" The computer pausedat the showerdoor. "Why, I'd like to, Pete," he replied,"but I'm scheduledout at six the morning afterthat, I think. I can't makeitvery late." A chorusof denialsbrokeout. "Everything'scancelledfor three days,dope," Schwabyelledfrom insidethe shower."The Perseidsget here6 a.m. tomorrow.Hines told me the lastship left overtwo hoursago. Everybodypulled out for the Moon. " Buchananbeganto laugh. "That'sa scream.First vacationI've had in six months and I forgot all about it. All right, then, Pete, tomorrow night's O. K. " The showersbeganto hissasthe quickeronesjumped in and started the water. Feathershad just begun to strugglewith his corset when the phonerang.He pickedit up. "Yeah?Crew room." His facelit with concern. "What'sthat again?Slower,Harry." The headphonesqueakedagain."Good Lord! That'sterrible. Is it coming overthe ticker?"He waited an instantfor an answer,and then snapped:"I'll be right up." He slappedthe phoneback on the pedestalagain, and leapedto the showerroom, wherethe other nine of the Monitor's crew were luxuriating under the needlelikeiets. "Hey!" Feathers bawled."Hey! Shut offthat water!"A few complied,and in a moment all wasquiet, the men looking aroundshowercurtainsat the corset-cladcaptain."Listen, men," he said,speakingrapidly."There'sbeen a seriousaccidenton the Moon. Somethingwent haywireat No. 2 Mine. Hines just phoned. I'm beating it up to his office to take a look at what comes in on the teletype from headquarters,and you men better hang around on the ready.I don't think there'sanothership in the port; everybody elseis up at Mines City." He ran backto his lockerasa ripple of exclama-

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tions ran overthe men. Most of them leapedfor towels,while Feathers,who hadn't got wet, slippedinto his captain'sdungareesand dashedout of the room, tugging at the sticky zipper that exposedhis bare chest. The dispatcher'sglass-frontedoffice was on the ground floor of the AdministrationBuilding, and lit, at that latehour of the night, by only one green-shaded lamp on Hines'desk.The dispatcherwashunchedup in his swivelchair, leaningforward,nervouslyreadingthe tapethat wasstreaming from the teletype.His head snappedup as Feathersopenedthe door. "Hi, Pete," he got out in a quaveringtone, "this is awful!" Featherswent to the desk. "What's the story,Harry?" he asked.The dispatcherpassedhim the tape with shakinghands.His voice seemedstrained,unnatural, as he replied: 'All hell must havebroken looseat No. 2. Blissgot a phonecall through to Mines City a few minutesagoand saidthat maybeforty men werecaughtin some sort of an explosion in the smeltery.Hey! Here comes some more now!" He snatchedthe tape awayfrom Feathersand leanedoverto readthe purple printing on the yellow ribbon.

22,3478_06.30 AUG IO GMT_BLISSREPORTS FROM NUMBER TWO THAT SMEUTERPOT APPARENTLY EX. PLODED.FORTYSMEIIER HANDSTRAPPED.ADVISED THAT TRACTORWAS DUE AI NUMBERTWO AI THAI TIME FOR REGULARPICKUPAM MAKING INQUIRY. PLEASE ADVISE. HENDERSON. Hineslookedup. "God, that moltenmetalall overthe place.Wonder grewstony,granitelikein thegreenlight of howanygotout?"Feathers'face thelampshade.He lit a cigarette. The teletypebeganto clackagain.Hines readaloud: " 22,) 48F'- 06.34 AUG 1OGMT - BLISS REPORTSTRACTOR WAS IN SMERERY DOME AI TIME AND WAS BURIED UNDER THE MELT OPERATORKILLED. ADVISES FORTY. ONE DEAD NONE INJURED. INDICAIES NO IMMEDIATE EMERGENCY. HENDERSON." facewasturnedto Feathers, Hines'agitated eeriein thelight ashe stood up. "Noneinjured.Thosepoorguysneverhada prayer.What do youthink Pete?" happened,

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"Hell, I don't know.What do they mine there?" "No. 2?That'stantalum,I think. Oh, thatmusthavebeenfrightful!That potwasfilledwith moltenmagnesium. Theydissolve thetantalumout of its oreswith that. When that stuff hit the air, it must haveyankedevery moleculeof oxygenout." Feathers walkedoffinto theshadows of theoffice,out to thewindowthat formedthe front, lookingout to wherethe floodlightedMonitorstooderect in herloadingcradle.Her silverysidesgleamed,andfrom the gapinghole thatwasherafterhatch,hecouldseethecranesunloadingthepigsof metal, impurealloysaboutto be sentto the big refineries at Martin'sCreek,the Arizonadeserttownthathadbuilt itselfaroundthe Earth'sonly spaceport. fust as the teletypebeganto clackagain,Schwabcamein, followedby Prentiss,the computer's mate.All four leanedoverthe machine,reading thetapeasit passed out in shortjerksasthe operatorrattledoffa phraseat a time. 22,3198_06.36AUG IO GMT_BLISS REPORTSEXPLO. SION HURLED PART OF MELT ON TO ROOF OF TANK SHED. BOTH DOMES AT NUMBER TWO CUT OFF FROM OXYGEN. ASKS AID WITHIN TWELVE HOURS. DETAILS FOLLOWING. HENDERSON. (FOLO.) Herefolloweda detailedaccountof the predicament of the remaining hundredandten menat theNo. 2 workings.In smeltingthetantalumores, throughthe useof moltenmagnesium asa solventfor the refractorymetal, pressure createdthroughboilingthe magnesiumhad apparently burstthe pot. The hugecaterpillar-tread tractorusedto collectthe ingotsof metal from the severalminesthatsurrounded MinesCiV the Moon'sspaceport, hadiustloadedup afteritscall at No. 2 andwasaboutto leavewhencaught in thetorrentof incandescent metal.Thosewhowerenot in themineshaft itself,or in thebarracks dome,wereall killed.The remaininghundredand ten, however,had been cut off from their suppliesof oxygenby the explosion, whichhadcovered thetankshedanditscontentsof compressedoxygencylinderswith a greatblob of the liquid metal. The restof the Monitor'screw hadstraggled in in themeantime,andafter theyhadapprised themselves of thesituation,themenscattered themselves aroundin the shadowycornersof the room, sitting on desksand filing cabinets,waitingfor morenews.Hines,behindhis desk,showeda shiny, sweatyfacein the desklamp'scloistered glow.Cigarettes cut little redholes

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in the darknessof the corners,and soft murmurs of speculationstolearound the office. Outsidethe glassfront theMoniforwasstill the centreof buzzing activity, as the last of her metal cargo was being swung down. The clatteringof the phone burst in on the tensesilencelike a bomb. Hinessnatchedit up. "Yes?"he quavered.He listenedfor a moment."Right away,you mean?"The crew satlike statues,listening.More monosyllables from the dispatcher.With a final, "Yes, sir, right away,"he hung up and swung around to the expectantgroup. "That wasTurner.Thoseguyshaveto haveanothertractorright away.He saysto load that one that wasscheduledto go up next week, and cart it up tonight!" Silence greetedhis breathlessannouncement.Facesloomed whitely in the shadowas they looked from man to man. "What ship?" Schwabfinally drawled. "Well, it'll haveto be the Monitor. Everythingelseis up there.They were pulling out everycoupleof hoursall day to beatthe Perseids. Lastship left almost three hours ago." Schwablookedslowly to his left and right, and beforeFeathers,who was about to saysomething,could speak,the navigatorslowlysaid:"That'll be nice. The ship hasn'tbeen serviced,injector pistonshaven'tbeen lapped, and there'sa meteoroid storm in the offing. Yeah, nice trip, eh, boys?" Featherscut in: "You'd better get me Tirrner on the phone, Hines. I'd bettertalk to him." The dispatcherdialled the number and handedthe instrumentto the captain."Hello," he spokeinto it, "Mr. Tirrner?Captain Feathersspeakitg. . . Yes,sir. We'rethe only ship in port. fust got backabout an hour ago, maybea little longer. . Yes,sir, we'vebeen readingit asit cameoff the ticker. . That's what I wanted to speakto you about, sir. We're nowherenear readyto leave;we need to . . . Oh, certainly, I understand that. I know it'stheir only chance,but what do you meanby right away?The ship needssomeservice.Thoseinjectors-" He paused,draggingdeeplyon his cigaretteasTirrnerinterruptedhim, his voicesqueakingin the headset. Tirrnerfinally finished."Well, there'ssomethingin what you say,but I'd like to seea little done to them. But what'sthis about radio silence?. . . Don't the papersor newscasters know anything about it?" The crew satup; thatwas somethingnew."Oh, I see.O.K., we'll do that. Butthere'sone morething: what aboutthis Perseidstorm?"Feathers'eyes wanderedunseeing over the tensefacesof his crew as they leanedforward nervously,half obscuredin the dim light. "Yes,sir. I understandthat, but it seemsto me that it would be suicideto fy through the Perseidstorm. . . . All right, I'll call them, then, and havethem ring you. Thanks a lot." He hung up, but said nothing for a moment.

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"Well?" Hines demanded querulously."What did he say?" Feathers snubbedhis butt in an ash tray. "Thrner saysthat tractor is absolutelythe only hopethosemen have.They haveto cart oxygensomewayfrom Mines City to No. 2, and with the tractor up there buried in tantalum and magnesium, they can't use that. It's a good forty miles, too." He looked 'Another thing, not a word of this to anybody;don't even around the group. phoneyour wives.They haven'tlet this out yet. We can't evenuseour radio on the way up. " "Sry, what'she handing us?" Schwabbroke in. "What did he sayabout thosemeteoroids?"A chorus of assentsto his questionbroke out. Feathers shookhis head. "He saidto call the Observatoryand find out from them the latestpossiblehour of leaving. I think that guy expectsus to go, no matter what they sayat the Observatory.He made somecrackabout our havingthe only new detector-calculatorin the whole fleet, and that that should get us through any meteoroid storm. What do you think about that, Buck?" he askedthe computer. "Hah!" Buchanan shot back, with scorn. "That machine may be pretty goodat finding rocksin the skyand shovingus awayfrom them, it may even be the best in existence,like the manual says;but it can only do five body problems, and they come in bigger batchesthan that at the height of the storm. Don't you think so?" he askedhis mate. Prentissassented."That's right, Captain. After all, that is the first one they ever installed in a spaceship,and we've only had it this one trip. We aren't too familiar with it yet." "Yeah,"Buchananbeganagain."Besidesthat, we didn't havea peepout of the detectorsthe wholetrip, both ways.We'veneverevenseenthe darned thing work. It may be good, and fast, and then again it may be another queery.I don't know.' He mumbled into incoherence,shakinghis headas though affairs had got beyond his understanding. "You seewhat I mean," Prentisscontinued."Even we don't know how well the thing works." Buchananinterruptedhim: "Oh, I imagineit workslike they say,but it would have to be better than it is to get us through the Perseidstorm." Listening intently to all that wasbeing said, Feathershad at the sametime dialled a number. His connection completed,he beganspeakinginto the mouthpiece."Hello. I'm calling for Ttrrner.Is it possiblefor a ship to leave tonight and yet beat out the Perseidstorm, and if so, what'sthe latestsafe hour of departure?. . . Well, can't you tell me that?Can't you . . Yes, y€S,"he interruptedtestily,"l know all that, but this is imperative.. . . Well, get the old dopeout of bed. I'm holding the wire. . . . All right, call me back, then. This is an emergency,stupid!"

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"Thosedamn astronomers!" he swore."They'reall alike.The universeis Lord knowshow many billion yearsold, sothey figure they haveat leastthat long again to do anything!" "What'd they say?"the navigatorqueried. "Oh, some old sap answeredthe phone and said the chief astronomer would haveto be consulted,and would I call in the morning! They'll let me know in a few minutes." He appropriatedthe swivelchair that Hines had left while he pacedback and forth, and leanedfar back. "Sry," he observed,as his announcementraisedno comment, "whether we can go or not, it wouldn't hurt any to have them load that tractor. That'll savea little time." Hineswavedhis hand. "l forgotto tell you," he saidto Rathers, "Tirrner alreadygavethe order. It should be being piled in now " He bent down to peer through the window, and up. Three of the largestcraneswere cooperatingin loading the forty-foot vehicle into the Monitor'safter hold. A long hosewasdrapedout of the smallercentralhatch. Feathersinquiredas to the latter. "Oh, I guesstheyfigurethat if you'regoing,you might aswell takea load. It'll takesometime to tie that tractordown in there." Schwab,who had been unusuallyquiet for sometime, explodedat this. "H.y, what the hell? Tirrner actslike we're going, no matter what. Well, you boys can count me out. This whole thing soundslike a contestto seewho can think up the easiest way to get killed. You boys can be heroes.I'm keeping one foot on the ground tonight." Campbell and McCleod, Scotch engineerand engineer'smate, joined the discussionat Schwab'soutburst. "Ayr," yelled the engineer,"those injectorswill be overmeterin'inside of an hour, and we'll all get our guts ierkedout. I'm in nae mood for the ride!" The pent-up feelingsof the crew broke as a babel of voicesrose to condemn or approvehis sentiment. Feathersremainedsilent-not an extraordinaryperformancefor himnot moving till the phone rang again. Quiet fell with a thud. "Hello," Featherssaidsoftly."Yes,Feathersspeaking.. . . Oh, I see.Well, that'snot sobad. . . . At 2 p.*. Greenwichmeantime, AugustlOth. What is that by our time? . . . Uh-huh. Well, that leavesus aboutsevenhoursyet, doesn't it? . . . Will you pleaseget in touch with Tirrner?. . . Thanks. Oh, one more thing: what about the Moonlets?Will therebe any detours?. . No, there'sno fight forecastfor tomorrow no operationswere scheduled Yes, will you phone as soon as you get that, please,for a take-off." He paused,coveringthe mouthpieceashe called to Hines: "When will we get off, at this rate, Ha::y?" "By midnight, I guess."

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"Hello. For a take-offat l2 midnight, mountain time, August9th. . . . Yes,that'sit." He placed the phone back on the pedestal,turning to face the crew. "lt isn't so bad, men," he announced."The Observatorysays that Ti:rner cancelledoperationsalmost a day early in order to avoid any possiblemeetingswith the straysthat usually precedethe main body of the storm, and that we will easilyavoid the front of the meteoroidsif we get off by 6 a.m. tomorrow. I still think we should scram as soon as possible." Schwabwason his feet in an instant. "Say,listen here," he demanded ungrammatically,"we still haven't figured anything about those injectors. You know they ought to be lappedthirty-six hours after everyflight. Those babiesare worn from this last jaunt. We'll never get there without them being serviced. For Pete'ssake,can't those boys on the Moon figure out anything?" Feathersrubbedthe stubbleon his jaw and lookedaround the crew."The worstof our worriesis out of the way,"he observedslowly."We may havea little trouble with thoseinjectors.I don't deny it, but for the love of Mike, Schwab,there'sa hundredand ten men dependingon us for their lives!This is no time to worry about a rough ride! We're going!" Schwabwalked up next to the desk,where the light from Hines' greenshadedlamp made him clearlyvisibleto all. "I hate to remind you," his slow,acid tonesground out, "of what happenedthe lasttime somewiseguy senta ship out without lapping the injector pistons.Wallaceand his gang are still out there, floating around, nobody knowswhere. I'm afraid I don't appreciateTirrner'sinvitation to become part of the matter making up Feathers'Comet!" He stopped,staring defiantly at Feathers.The captain remainedsilent."Damn it all!" Schwabcried. "Do all you guyswant to be heroes?That'scheapstuff, and you know it. Listen here, Hines," he rasped, buttonholing the dispatcher,"you're the dispatcherhere. Nothing can leave unlessyou O.K. it. What do you say?Are you going to let thesesapsmake the scoreten more at No. Z?" Hines'pallidfacepeeredoverat Feathers, andthen he croaked:"l'll check you out. It's O. K. by me." 'All Feathersdidn't give Schwabanotherchance to remonstrate. right, men, get backinto your strait-jackets.Inspectionin the control room in ten minutes." Campbell steppedforward. "C.p," he began, and as Feathersnodded, said:"Thoseinjectorswon't be so bad, Schwab.We didn't cut a one out on the way in. We'll make it. I'll nursethem like a mother, I will!" The navigatorsnarledincoherently. Feathersspokeagain: "Schwab, you wait here a minute. The Observa-

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tory is sending through the dope on the detours for Moonlets in a few minutes. You'll want that." The other eight started back to the crew room to strap their corsetsand protectors back on, and Feathersand Schwabwaited in front of the dispatcher's desk."H.y," Featherscalled after "l the retreatingmen, don't carehow hungry you are, don't eat anything. We may have a rough trip, and I don't want any of you guys getting sick on me." The navigatorstartedto remonstrateonceagainwith his chief asthe three satwaiting for the call from the Observatory,but the captain cut him short. "Now listen, Schwab,I've had about enoughof this. What'sthe matterwith you?You'd think that after two yearsof this you'd be usedto it. You'vebeen on rough ridesbefore.You didn't die. Now cut the chatterand get that sour look off your puss, or does it belong there?" The reprimandseemedto makeSchwabbitterer."O. K., chief. fust asyou say.The RoverBoysto the rescue.But wait till a few of thosePerseidsshow up early.We shouldn't be flying, and you know it!" Then he shut up, his dour countenancegrowing,if that werepossible,moretart. The wordcame at last, giving Schwabone little bit of satisfaction.None of the Moonlets would intercept the Monitor's course from a midnight take-off. Schwab found somethingto gripe about, however."What the hell, " he complained. "No Moonletsto navigatearound, what do you needme for? I'd betterstay home." Feathers'scorching glance conveyedthat he would stand for no more. The two steppedout of the door and walked in silenceacrossthe concreteaprontowardsthe loadingdock, consciousof the clinging August heat of the desert. Schwabglancedoverto wherethe long launching ramp could be seen, bathedin the blue-white glareof enormouslights asit stretchedits two-mile length up the slope.Then he bowedhis headagain, fixing his fierce gazeon the concreteapron ashe sworesoftlyto himself, not evenglancingup at the toweringhull of the Monitor asthey approachedit. Feathers'eyesshotup to the shiny spaceship,rising a hundred and fifty feet over his head, where its chromium-platedbulk refectedin bright, tiny pointsthe myriadsof lights that are strung around a spaceport,and mirrored in a dazzlingstreakthe floor lights that blazeddown upon the launching ramp. Now that the after hatch had beenclosed,the smooth, round hull wasapparentlyunbrokenby a port or hatch for almost its entire length. The nose, however,appeared transparent,for it washerethat the control room periscopesstaredout into the void. Below the quartz plates of the nose, protected by the heavy meteoroidwall, lay the control room, and beneaththat, nine more decksfor cargoand machinery.The sterndriving rocketswerehidden by the loading

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cradle,giving theMonitorthe appearanceofa long, thin eggheld upright in an egg cuP. As they reachedthe loading cradle, the glowering Schwabfollowed the still-silent Feathersup the ladder to the Monitor's "back door," her lowest hatch, reallyan airlock, openingon I deck. They enteredthe lift and shot up the length of the spaceshipto the control room on A deck.

The lift door slid open and the two men steppedinto the control room. Buchanan,the computer,and Prentiss,his mate, were bending over the newly installed calculator, while the rest of the crew wasdisposedaround the room in variousposturesand positions.Pease,first mate, steppedfrom behind the chart tableand handedFeathersthe manifest."Crp," he greeted him, "all's secure.They stuck in some canned goodsand five hundred gallonsof milk to keepcool besidethe tractor." Feathersnoddedsilently as he signedthe paper, and walked over to the calculator. "Well, Buck," he began, "is that thing all right?" "Sure," the computer replied. "She'sa beauty. We can get five body approximationson this as easyas we got three on the old one." Eyeing the complex"shuffler" from its shiny new InternationalBusiness Machines label to the intricate complexity of the photo-electricsorters, Featherscracked:"Something tells me it had better do all the Fuller brush man said it would. I'm expectinga little trouble this trip." Schwab'sexplosive"Hah!" ierkd Feathers'head around. "Oh, yes?"he asked."Where'sCampbell? He was here a minute ago." "He's down checking the rockets, chiefl" Clement, navigator'smate, replied. Schwabyankedhimself out of his seatbehind the navigator's deskand stampedtowardsthe lift. 'All I've got to say,"he ground at the foor, "is that that thing betterbe fast, and it betterbe good. I just can't wait till a few pull in a little aheadof their time. They aren't sohot on arrivalsand Perseids " He snappeda glancebackat the frowning Feathers."You know departures. what they need,don't you, Cap?A smartdispatcherlike Hines to tell them when to pull in here!" He swungthe lift door open viciouslyasit rosefrom I deck, and leanedout of the cageto call, finally: "Who'staking her out, CrR firsts or seconds?" Featherssuckedin a deepbreath. "I guessI'll takeher out, Schwab." He lookedoverto the others."You secondsbettergo below for a little rest.We'll

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change watchesevery hour unless the going gets too rough." Schwab allowed the door to slam shut and the lift whined as it dropped him to the bunk room on B deck.Smiling andshakinghis head,the captaindialledthe engineroom on the phone."Hello, Campbell?"he finally said."Well, what aboutthoseiniectors?"His painedgrin revealedthat the engineer's opinion of said injectors, in spite of his optimistic sentimentsin the dispatcher's office, wasat extremelylow ebb. When Campbell'sprofanityhad run itself into incoherency,Featherstried again: "ls there anything you can do with them?" Again the headsetcrackled as Campbell indicated his general 'All dissatisfaction with the situation. right, listen, I'll be down in a couple of minutes. I want to checkoverthe servicerecords." He hung up aftera few 'Agh," more words. he grunted to the ventilator screen,"l'd hate to have another ride like that one two months back." The computer and his mate nodded their agreement. Tho months previouslythe injectorsof the Monitor, apparentlypoorly lapped in by the shopcreq had begunto overmeter,injecting excesschargesof fuel into the rocket chambers.In order to prevent enormousaccelerationsfrom being achieved,four chamberseventuallyhad to be cut out, and the majority of the flight made in a jarring madhouse. Getting out from behind the control board, Feathersasked:"How long before we get off, Buck?" Prentissreplied for his superior:"Less than an hour, now, Captain." The captain walkedto the lift door. As he pressedthe button and waited for the cageto rise from B deck, he said:"Run through the instrument checksfor me, will you, Pease?I'm taking a look around below." The lift dropped him quickly through eight decks.Campbell was not in sight ashe steppedout, so, with a word to McCleod, Featherswent down the spiral stairwaythat led to I deck. He was still checking over the servicerecord sheetwhen the squeakof Campbell'srubber-soledshoeson stairsmade him look up. the steel-webbed "Hi, skipp€r,"the Scotchmangrinned, "and what do ye find?" Featherssmiled wanly. "Nothing, Willy," he replied. "Pretty even distribution of failures." The engineerknelt down on the deck, and beganto examinethe throttle settingon the injectoratopNo. I tube, carefullyenteringon a slip of paper the setting.He madehis wayaroundthe circle of eight headsthat protruded slightly through the deck, ducking under the huge girdersthat all but filled the tiny space.With worriesover the chance of running into a meteoroid storm fairly well dispersed,Feathers,not to mention certain membersof his creq was still concernedover the fuel injectors. Mounted atop each rocket chamber, so that they could be servicedin flight, the iniectorswere really tiny meteringdevices,Lilliputian pumps

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to forcean infinitesimal,but rigidlyconstant,quantityof waterdesigned of the catalystplatewith the atomicrockets-into the presence fuel of the alloys,andmachinedwithin Formedof thehardest everyblastoftherockets. thepistonsof theiniectorpumpsstill wore tolerances, themostmicroscopic withdrawalfrom use.If those their occasional sufficientlywith useto cause pistons,alreadypartlywornfrom the fight in from the Moon, woremuch rocketblastswould becomenumbing, bruising more, the overcharged rackingmindsandbodiesuntil mencouldno longerstand. crashes, hischeck.*No. 7'sthrottleiscut fartherback Campbellfinallycompleted than the rest,Pete,"he reported."We mayhaveto cut that oneout pretty soon.Ah, I wishwe'drun downto the shops." "Why so?"he asked. raisedhis eyebrows. Feathers And the Scotchmanreplied: "Why, because hitchedup with an X-ray they'vegota photo-micrometer pistons withouttakingthem measured I those there. coulda down machine Oncethey'reout, theynevergobackin right." Feathers out of thecylinders. nodded,startingfor the stairs,for I deck,low in thetail of the Monitor,was thelift shaftin additionto theenormous notlargeenoughto accommodate rocketsin place.Pausing at thelift door, girdersthatheldthenowquiescent Feathers calledout to Campbell,who wasstill below:"That tractortied in tight?" '4y., she'llnot budge." 'O.K. I don't wantit shiftingaroundif we startdodgingmeteoroids." in the instrumentcheckwhenFeathers stepped Pease wasstill engaged his seat out of the lift again.At a touch on his shoulderhe surrendered job. Accumulators, carbon behind the board, Featherscompletingthe checked,beforethe dioxidetanksremainedto be tested,the pyrometers captainfipped overthe "Ready"light switch,its purpleflashingoverthe in everycompartment that boardbeingrepeated of the spaceship. Satisfied jack forthelaunching,Feathers pluggedin thespaceport all wasin readiness phone, of the and in a momentspoketo the dispatcher. "Hello. Feathers reportingall set.Say,Harry,what'sthe numberof this fight? . . . Fourseventy-six, eh?Any last-minutemeteoroidnews?"After "Nothing Hines'laconic new,Pete,"Feathers said:"Say,Harry,don'tlower us into that launchingcradletill the lastminute,will you?I don't wantto hanghereby my belt and not be ableto movearound.Wait till 11.55. O.K.?" Hinesspokefor a few seconds, to which the captainreplied,"No, no, Harry.We'll pull out at 12midnight.The fifteenminuteswon'tmake that much difference.Anyway,the Observatory gaveme that coursefor a midnighttake-offatthirty-sixfeetpersecondpersecondacceleration, and we'dprobablyloseasmuchtimedetouringsomeofthe Moonlets,if wetook

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off early,aswe'dgainby leavingthen.We'reluckyto missthem, I think." Hereached up for thejackasHinesspokea lastfewwords."Yeah,sure,we'll takeit easy. Thiswon'tbehard."He hungup, andunplugging thejack,he snapped on theaddress systemwhichcarriedhis brusquesyllables through the variousspeakers all overthe ship:"First crewto stations.Thke-offin hventy-twominutes."

At ll:55 p.m., August 9th, the control-boardphone light flashed,and Hines'voicecameoverthe headsetwhen Feathers pickedit up. "O.K. Pete, into the cradlewith you. Good luck, boy." Feathershung the mike backon the hook and snappedon the warninggong,which filled the metal bowelsof the Monifor with its clamour. The huge ship began to tilt as the hydraulic iacksloweredher into the launchingcradle,andcameto restat an angleof twelvedegrees,the slopeof the launching ramp. The tilting swivel chairswere leanedfar back in an effort to keepthe crew somewherenearvertical while the whole ship waited with intense expectancythrough the last few minutes. Through the periscope plate could be seen the two-mile ribbing of the launching ramp, stretchingout aheadof the ship, and off to the left the lights of the neverquiet refinerytown blinked solemnly,reflectedalmostapologeticallyby the starsin the cloudlesssky.The twenty rails on which the cradle restedwere shining ribbons that reflectedthe glare of the floodlights. Only the faint pantingof the air purifierstestifiedto the factthat living beingswereinside the Monifor'sgleaminghull. As the split-secondhand of the chronometer climbed up to the last minute, each man in the crew tensedhimself, gatheringhis abdominalmusclesto resistthe enormousacceleration developed by the launching catapult and the ship'sown rocketsacting in conjunction. |ust as that hand swung to vertical the cradle rumbled into motion. A grinding noisefilled the Monifor asshestartedher breathlessflight up the rails of the inclined ramp. After a mile of prodigiousaccelerationunder the actuationof the catapult, the ship'ssternrocketscut in with a stuttering roar and in an instant the Monifor had hurled off the end of the ramp, flashedacrossthe valleyadjoining the hill from which it leaped,andquickly disappearedinto the night. Following the first quick dashup the ramp, the accelerationdecreasedto thirty-six feet per secondper second,only one-eighth more than gravity. Steeringrocketsof gasolineand liquid oxygenflashedand turned the noseof

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the Monitor up to sixtydegrees.It had long beforebeenfound impossibleto usethe atomic rocketsfor steering,sincesufficientdelicacyof control could not be achieved. The spaceshipclimbed but slowly at first. Her departure, noticed by a newshound at the space port, made early editions under the caption, "spaceshipMakesQuick Turnabout,"while the real reasonfor the hurried departurewaskept from him. For the storythat nevermade the papers,the news that nevercame over in a newscast,lay hidden in Campbell'sworn injectors, in the well-kept secretthat every spaceshiphad been cancelled out of the etherhoursbeforetheMonitorleapedoffthe end of the launching ramp, bound through a spacethat washourly expectingthe arrival of a great massof meteoric material, the August Perseids. Slowly shedrew awayfrom Earth, her initial accelerationrelativeto the surfacebeing only four feetper secondper second.As the accelerationof the spaceshipwas maintained constantat one and one-eighthtimes gravity,it would be acceleratingat the rate of thirty-six feet per secondper second relativeto the surfaceat the two-hundred-thousand-milemark, where the reversalwasto be made. Becauseof the smalleraccelerationof gravityof the Moon, a similar decelerationwould enable the Monitor to lose its velocity in the remaining fifty thousandmiles. While the mean distancebetween Earth and its satelliteis only 238, 000 miles, the fact that both bodiesrotate, necessitatinga curved course, made the actual distancecoveredalmost exactly250,000miles. While Schwab sat idly by and watched, Feathersbegan to place the Monitor on her course.The first three hundred miles, through the atmosphereof Earth, alwaysrequiredthe pilot'shandson the controls,but, once clear of disturbing forces, the ship ran herself. Since no detours were necessary-all the Moonletsbeing outsidethe optimum course-Feathers setup a simple equationon the ruled, translucentnavigationpanel. A tiny amber light glowed through it, and then, as he threw a secondswitch, a secondlight, white, appearedto denote the Monitor's course. Feathers' handsmovedlightly and quickly from control to control ashe attemptedto stopthe motion of the white light and to get it to coincide with the amber. Sincethe amber light wasnot, aswassometimesthe case,moving, the task of compensatingthe point was simple and soon finished. Schwabat lastbrokethe silence."Gee, it sureis tough to havenothing to do for once. Why don't somewise guy land on those Moonlets and blow them all to hell, then navigatorscould alwayssit around and watch the rest of you guys work." Featherssmiled over at him. "You'd love it if we had a lot of meteoric stuff, wouldn't you, Schwabby?I think you'd be torn into little shredsby the

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'l conflict of your emotions.One sideof you would be screaming, told you 'Dammit so,' while the other was howling, to hell."' The navigatorlaughednastily."There'sone consolationI have,Pete.Yes, sir. That dumbbell Hines wassoexcitedhe forgotto hit me for the ten bucks I owe him. And if I don't come back, the sap is stuck for it!" The eight rocketchambers,firing in smooth rotation, gaveno trouble at the take-off. The detectorsremained quiet as no meteoric material came within the rangeof their electromagneticfields. Since virtually all meteoriteshad been found to contain conductingmaterials,it had been found feasibleto use magnetic detection, coupled with automatic calculating machines. These compound detector-calculatorscould take a seriesof observationson a moving conductor,compute its courseand velocity,and determinewhethera collisionwith theMonifor wasimminent in a tenth of the time it would have taken human observersmerely to ascertainthe position of the body. The calculatoritself, built by InternationalBusinessMachines, could relayits informationto the autopilotin the eventa collisionthreatened,and the latter machine could then correct the course to avoid the possible danger.The determinationof the courseand velocity of any singlebody was perfect, but when two or more conductorsfell within the range of the due to the impossibilityof detectors,approximationsbecamenecessary, solvingthe problem of three bodies.The courseand velocity of asmany as five bodiescould be calculatedin the time necessaryfor escape. As the Monitor finally passed,with increasingvelocity,throughthe lastof and the planetbeganto takeon a globularappearance, Earth'satmosphere, noticeda slight roughnessin the rockets."Hell," he thought, "not Feathers " His four thousandmilesout and that damnedmotor is cutting up already. eyesstoleover to Schwab, seatedbehind his navigator'sdesk, and then to chair. Buchanan,who wasdozing in his deep-cushioned Schwabstaredbackat him with a knowing leer.He noddedhis headvery slowly up and down. Finally he opened his mouth, drawing in a deep breath. "Well," he slowly draggedout, "you boyswantedto be heroes.Now it'scoming." Feathersshookhis headand glancedat the skin pyrometers.Now that they wereclear of Earth'sshadow,the Sun side of the Monitor wasbeginning to heatup, in spiteof the mirror-like sheenof its chromium plating and the best insulationthat man could provide. Featherspicked up the mike. Mueller answeredfor the engine room. "Hello, Mueller," he said,recognizinghis voice,"tell Campbellto turn her forty-fivedegreeseveryfive minutes from now on. That milk will go sour if it getswarmedup." He hung up, then jerkedhis headtowardsthe board as

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the red detectorlight flashedthe warning that a pieceof conductingmaterial large enough to damagethe Monitor had come within its range. With a rattle and a whir the calculatorspunched and sortedthe cards.But in six secondsa greenlight blinked the assurancethat the body the detectorshad located would not intercept the Monitor's course. Schwabgloweredin Feathers'direction. Now that the spaceshipwasaway from Earth, disciplinewaslessformal than ever."CaP," he said in a sour tone, "how'd you like to run into a few Perseidsa little in advanceof their time?" Feathersseemedmore cheerful than he had been all night. "How'd you like to quit grousing?"he chuckled."Your wife will think you're a hero!" Schwab'sface got no cheerier,but he remained silent. The phone rang. Feathers,who had left the chair at the board and was 'Thke it, Buck, I'm busy." Buchanan drinking at the water cooler, called: picked up the mike and slipped on the headphone. "Yeah?'he ground into the mike. "Oh, no, not sobad up here. How does it sounddown there?. . . Is that so?. . . Well, wait a minute, I'll askPete. Hey, Cap," h. calledto Feathers,"Campbell sayshe hasthe throttle on No. 7 cut all the way back, but she'sstill overmetering.He'shad to cut firing speeddown four per cent to keep up as at thirty-six per second." Featherscame from the water cooler. "l'll take it. . . . Hello, Willy? What's the story?. . No, it isn't too bad. Leaveit in till I call you. Save those others." He glanced around after he hung up, eyebrowsraised in question. Schwab,still practicallyrelievedof his duties by the absenceof Moonlets, had time to grousesome more. "That chamber will be cut out in ten minutes, I'll bet you ten bucks." As though to prove his statement,the roughnessincreasedperceptibly. As Feathersreached for the phone, it suddenlybecamea jarring seriesof smashes,and beforehe had dialled Campbell, the bridge crew felt the ailing chamber cut out of the circuit. "Christmas," breathedBuchanan, "that one sure let go in a hurry. Two more secondsof that and I deck would have smackedus in the pants." Feathersnow had Campbell on the phone. "What d'ya think, Willy?" he asked.Campbell'sreply was optimistic again, but Feathers,more than a little concernedwith the early and sudden breakdown,askedagain, "Do you think things are starting to fall apart?"A minute later he snappedthe mike backon the hook and saidto Schwaband Buchanan, "Campbell says that wasNo. 7. It wasworn worsethan the rest.He didn't expectit to last. I guessthe othersare going along better than he had hoped." The flashing of the detector light interrupted further conversation.All eyeswereon the deadgreensignalon the board, waiting for it to fash "safe."

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But after eight secondsthe Monitor lurched as gasolineand oxygen were poured to the steeringrocketsby the automatic pilot. Buchanan, who had iusthad time to getto his chair from the charttable,but not enoughto snap his safetybelt, wasthrown out, skiddedacrossthe rubber floor, to wind up againstthe ventilatoropening. He sworewith vigour.The rubberfoor had rubbeda good-sizedpieceof skin offhis cheekbone.After a quick glanceat the detectorlight, and seeing that it was now green, he hurried to the first-aidkit to repair his slightly scrambledfeatures.Schwab, after noting the deviation from the original coursewhich had occurredin escapingthe meteoroid,pouredpowerinto the steeringrocketsand correctedthe course.Glancing at the return slip from the calculator,sinceBuchananwasstill engagedin fixing the abrasion on his cheek, he remarked:"Some rock, Buck. Mass, one hundred tons; velocity,forty-sixmilesper second;course,sixty-fourdegreesfrom a tangent at eighty-threedegreeson the Earth'ssurface." He lookedup for a moment. 'Well," he announcedslowly,"that wasn'tan asteroidgonewrong, anyway. A good seventydegreesfrom the plane of the ecliptic. What do you think, Pete;could it have been a Perseid?" Featherspursedlips. "Let'ssee,"he mused,"they comefrom Perseus,but the radiant movesabout one degreea week. Where would that be now Buck?" he askedthe computer. Buchanan returned to the calculator and punched its keysfor three minutes in silence.Finally he spoke."That's about three degreesfrom their solarcourseand about six degreesfrom the angleat which the Perseidshit the atmosphereof Earth. And the velocity is almost exactly right. Well, I'll say it's a Perseid.After all, a few straggle through hereall the time betweenMarch 20th and late in September.We justhit the centralmassthe lOth, I lth and l2th of August." He lookedup at Feathersas he finished speaking. The captain left the control board and walked over to the chart table. "Say,Schwab,do you think they will get any thicker?Isn't the front of that storm due in a few hours?" The navigatorsnortedin disgust.He glancedover at his Manual but did not pick it up. Suddenly his head snappederect. "(Jm, I don't know. Ordinarily I'd saythat that rockwasoneof the regularonesthat sailthrough here all summer, and that we wouldn't be likely to encountermuch heavy stufffor the restof the trip, but I just thought of somethingthat I bet Hines and that whole flock of astronomersnever figured on. " He picked up the Manual, but did not open it. Still carryingthe volume, he walkedoverto the boardphoneanddialledthe bunk room on B deck."Give me Clement," he said, and a minute later, "Hello, Clem. Say,do you rememberthe associated comet of the Perseids? . . . Yeah, well, what do they call that

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thing?" There was a pause,then, "Hm-m-m, that'sit, I remember now. Think the dopeon it will be in the Manual?. . . Yeah,well, if it isn't I'll try that, too. . . . You bet. Sleeptight. " Slinging the mike backon the hook, he facedFeathers."Listen, Pete,"he ,rrrpp.d, "maybe there'sgoing to be trouble. Those Perseidsseem to be with the unnamed comet, 1862, III, and it may be coinciding associated this year with the heavysectionof the Perseidstream." Featherslooked at him, frowning, "What do you mean, Schwab?"he asked.The navigator stoodup and movedoverto the telescopemounting. As he snappedoff the dust covershe spoke. "Back in 1867, I think it was, someold bird noticed that the November Leonids revolvedin an orbit identical with that of Temple'sComet. Since then quite a few cometshave been associatedwith meteor streams.This particularone doesn'tagreevery well, and usuallyisn't listedasan associated comet." With the telescopebroken out, he returnedto the navigator's table and snapped severalvolumes out of the acceleration-proofbook holder. After severalminutes, during which the detectorlit up twice, only to showthe greenlight both times, he roseagainand went to the telescope. He pressedthe motor contactsand swungthe eyepiece."Yeah," he grunted, "here it is." He left the telescopechair and returnedto his navigator'sseat. "Pete," he said, "we may be in for it." He Swunghis chair around and facedthe captain."That comet, 1862,lll, hasa periodof a little betterthan one hundred and tweng-one years,and the Perseidsare stretchedout in a long ellipsemuch like the comet'sorbit, and havea period of one hundred and five and a half years.This comet and the Perseidsare coinciding in the vicinity of the Earth for the first time in severalcenturies.It may seriously " Schwab staredat Feathers,who staredback in accentuatethe showers. silence. "Hell, Schwab,"he finally said, "I don't seewhat differenceit'll make. That detector-calculatorwill solvefive body problemsand shoveus away from bigger groups. How close do you figure the bodieswill be to each other?" Schwableafedthrough the Manual. "Well," he replied, "in that famous 1833showerthey figured the bodiesto be about fifteen miles apart. At our velocity that meansthey'd be a solid mass.I don't suppose,though, that Perseidswould get that thick, but even a hundred miles betweenbodiesis closeat this speed." Silencegreetedhis announcement.The detectorflashedred, and then, after a few seconds'rattle from the calculator,greenagain. Feathersbit his lips and read the board instrumentsautomaticallythrough squintedeyes. He snappeda look at the chronometer.Fifty-eight minutes.That wasabout

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seventhousandmiles. He bowedhis head, steepedin thought, then turned slowly to facethe bared-toothedSchwab."Do you think they'retoo thick to go through, Schwab?" The navigatorlooked bitterly at him for a long time before replying. "What am I supposedto say?"he asked,at last. "You won't turn back now. Of coursewe can makeit. This trip is a breezefor guyslike us. Why, we'll never notice thoselittle pebbles!"Feathersdidn't pressthe point. What Schwab had said was true. The navigatorsuddenly began again. "By everythingholy,that guy Hines won't get his ten bucksif I do getback!What the hell, Pete,"he said, facingFeathersagain, "we'll make it o.K. It'sjust that you strong men get me sore." BeforeFeatherscould speakagain, a soft-tonedgong announcedthe end of the first watch. He remainedsilent until Pease,the mate, Clement, navigator'smate, and Prentiss,computer'smate, filed from the lift. "Seven thousandmiles out," he gritted to Pease."The rocketsare behaving too well, and Schwabsayswe'regoing to havea meteorstorm like you've never seen.Seewhat you can do with it, Andy." Peasegrinned his replyand took Feather's placeat the board. "No trouble at all, Pete," he chuckled."fust watch me run this boat." Prentiss moved over to the calculator and whistled when he saw Buchanan'sreturn slips and the notation on Schwab'snavigation log. Clement, alwaysquiet, took his navigator'splace in silence.

Scarcelyhad the lift door shut on the first watch and Clement got his belt snappedacrosswhen the detectorlight flared brightly and the calculator burst into furious activity. Again the green light stayeddead, while the steeringrocketsthrew long flamesto one side. For three searingseconds they iettedfiercelyto port, and then gavetheir characteristicending cough. Prentissannouncedquietlyin his reservedvoice. "Three largebodies,total mass, one hundred and thirty tons, moving as a group. We apparently missedthe closestby half a mile." Peaseierkederect. "What?" he roared."Half a mile! At this velocitywe didn't havea tenth of a secondto spare." He shookhis head with a determinedgrimness."For Pete'ssake,how fast were they going, Prentiss?" 'A little better than forty-five miles a second,the slip says,"he replied, "but they were pretty well straddled,must have been a hundred and fifty miles apart. We just made the gradethat time. " But he smiled ashe got up and walkedover to the calculator."This babv is a sweetheart."he went on.

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"Did you seethe way it handled that approximation?Why, with that old machine, we would have breezed right through that cluster before the figures were halfway through." Peasejabbedat the phone dial, and after a few momentsspokeinto the mike. "Hello, Cap?Say,did you feel that ierk?. . . Yeah,that'sright. Three Stillwanttokeepgoing,eh? ofthemthistime. . . . Sure,Perseidsallright. picking up speedfast. It's 1.07 far, we're so but 9,000 . . No, it'sabout now. . . O.K., chief." He hung up and swungback to the board, muttering to himself to the effectthat the boyson the Moon surepickedone hell of a time to havean accident."Hey, Prentiss,"he said, without looking up from the controls, "can't you extend the range of those detectorsa little? Theseswarmsare too damnedbig to get around, and that calculatorhasn't got enough senseto pick a path between more than two hunks of iron." The computer'smate wassilent for a while. Then he spokeslowly. "We might possiblyswingthe field of the horizontaldetectorssomewhatinto the vertical and rig them in serieswith the vertical detectors.That would leave us lessprotectedfrom meteoroidstravelling at right anglesto our course, but sinceour major fear is only twenty degreesfrom vertical, it seemsto me that the chanceis worth it. You'dbetteraskOtto or Mueller about switching those fields, though. That may be a long iob." Peasewas spinning the phone dial in an instant. As he waited for the engineroom to answer,he shotoverhis shoulderto Prentiss:"No, it doesn't takea minute. . . . Hello, Otto? Scram up here. We want you to play with the detectorfields." Without waiting for a replyhe slammedthe mike on to the hook and spokeagain to Prentiss."Come on you probability expert, figure out how much we ought to deflect thosehorizontal fields to get the maximum amount of coverage,and get on the ball!" "What do you think I am, chief?"he replied."l haveto havea greatdeal more data, especiallysomefigureson the probablefrequencyand numbers of the Perseidbodies." Peasescowledbackat him, "Make it up, do something,you must havean idea.What doesthe Manual say?Can't you get somefigureson the number of separateobjectsto expect?" Nettled by the mate's sharpness,Prentissansweredwith some heat: "Ordinarily, sir, this wouldn't be an impossibleproblem. We have some figures,of course,on the densityof Perseidbodiesat the height of the storm, but if Schwab'shypothesisis correct, we know absolutelynothing about what to expect. The presenceof that comet will make a great deal of difference,I should judge." Peaseglaredat him and snapped,"Say,haven't you got any brains?fust out of spaceschooland you can't figure that out! What the hell difference

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doesthat comet make?This is the Perseidstorm, isn't it?,' Prentissswungaroundto facePeasedirectly."I wasin hopes,sir," he said sardonically,"that I would not be forcedto explain this relativelysimple matter to you." He pausedto let his disrespectmake itself apparent,and before the smouldering Peasecould find a fit retort, went on, "lt is the measuredopinion, sir, of Earth'smostcompetentastronomers, that certain comets,while passingcloseto the Sun, haveleft behind them portionsof their matter. Occasionallythis matter follows the sameorbit as the parent comet, asin the caseof the Leonidsand Temple'scomet. In other casesthe orbits differ. When Earth, in its path around the Sun, runs into the extendedpiecesbrokenawayfrom the comet, a meteorshowerresults.The Perseids, asSchwabhaspointedout here,havean orbit rathersimilar to the comet 1862,III, but of a differentperiod.Apparentlythat attenuatedstring of matter wasbroken awayfrom the comet aeonsago, Every so often the densestpart of the string of Perseidmatter and the 1862 comet are in conjunctionat the time Earth runs into the densestpartof the Perseids. This is one of the times, and we may be visitedby additionalamountsof matter breakingawayfrom dearold 1862,III. I hope it is clear,sir, and alsohope that you seewhy it is nextto impossibleto form any judgmenton how many bodiesto expect!"He spunhis chair around,with his backto the astonished and slightly dampenedPease. Checkingthe hot reply on his lips, the mate wavedhis hand and said: "O.K., O.K. I get it. But can't you do anythingwith that?You can makea pretty good guess,can't you?" Prentiss,still at the board,answered,"l'm workingon it now.Give me a little time and I'll have somethingfor you." As though to prevent a single moment'scalm, the controlroom crew suddenlyfelt the rocketsgo rough. For five secondsthe slamming became increasinglysevereas one chamber began to overmeter.In spite of the inchesof spongerubber insulation in its mounting, and the compound springson which it wasswung,the control boardbeganto jitter. The needle on the dials began to dance, and the E deck third quadrantpyrometer snappedviolentlybackand forth beforewinding up againstthe peg. Again before the mate could reach the phone the slamming stopped.Clement shookhis head. "Dizzy, pal?"crackedPease,squintinghis eyesanxiouslyin the navigator'sdirection. "I'm O.K., chief," he replied,mumbling slightly."That wassomeslam, though." He shookhis headagain.Prentisssattight-lippedat the calculator and resumedhis work. Suddenlyhe suckedair betweenhis teeth. "That wassomewallop, chief," he said."lt shookthis thing up so much

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that the figuresI put in herecameout." He clearedthe board and startedhis problem ove, again. As he swung his swivel chair to speak,the lift door opened and Otto steppedout. Peasesnappedhim a glance over his shoulderas he startedto rip the damagedpyrometerapart for repairs."Was that you knocking at the door just then, Otto?" he gritted. The ganglaughedfor a second,but stilledwhen Otto leaned againstthe chart table and vomited. 'Ach," he gasped,"yor shouldride in that lift ven a chamberit letsgo. Mein Gott, vot a bouncing you get." Pulling a bandannafrom his engineer'sdungareeshe wiped his face,and spokethen to Pease."Vot issit ve are doing mit the detectors,nun?" he garbled. "Got it yet, Mr. Number Man?" called Pease,looking over at Prentiss. "l have an answer,"he said, "but I'd like to check the guessworkin it againstyour opinions. How many more groupsof more than two bodiesdo you think we are likely to meet between now and 3:45?" Peaseansweredquickly: "Why, hell, if we met three more' I'd saythe sky was full of rocks. What about you, Clem?" mateshookhis head. "I don't know.Haven'tany idea," he The navigator's said vaguely. Peaseand Prentissboth lookedat him anxiously."Well," saidPrentiss,"l basedmy calculations on ten more. I know that'sa lot, but I'm frankly worried by Schwab'sopinion that they will be thicker than we've everseen them." "Hm-m-m," musedPease."Figuring it that way, how much should we tip those fields?"Prentisspicked up the return sheetfrom the calculator. "On the assumptionI havementioned,and giventhe datain the Ephemeris about bolides approachingat right anglesto our course, the maximum coveragecan be obtainedby tilting the horizontal fields fifty degrees.This extendsour detector range twelve per cent." Peasescowledagain. "What, only twelve per cent?" Prentiss,by now thoroughly out of patience,snappedback:"l wasunder the impressionthat even you would realize that the amount of power required varieswith the cube of the distanceof detection." Peaseignoredhis tone. "O.K., Otto," he said;"get to work on it. How long will it take?" The German grinned. "Fife minutes und ve haff it, chief!" No soonerhad he completedthe work than the detectorlight blinked its warning signal again. The now familiar clatter of the calculator followed, and in a few seconds,anotherblast from the steeringrockets.This shove awayfrom dangerwasthe longestand most pronouncedyet experiencedby the crew.

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Prentisspunchedthe calculatorin silence."Two more, chiefl" he said, "only twelvetons." He paused,frowned, and then said, "Wait a minute. There'ssomethingscrewyhere.This calculatorshouldbe ableto compute us a coursebetweenany two moving bodies.We shouldn'thavegonefor that long ride just then." Pease's facereflectedhis alarm at this announcement."ls thereanything wrong with that mowing machine?"he queried."lf that thing quits on us, we're sunk. We can wave good-byeto the boys at No. 2!" Shakinghis headPrentissreplied:"l don't know.It may havebeenshaken up a little when that last chamberwent bad. I'll run a few test problems through it." Furthersilencefollowedwhile the calculatorrattled."lt seems O.K., chiefl but theseare pretty simple problems." Peasewasworkingthe phoneagain."Hello, Crp," he calledinto it. "The calculator may be on the fritz. You better come up." Feathersappearedin short order. After Peaseexplainedthe shift of the detectorfields, which Feathersgavehis nodding approval,Prentissquietly relatedthe partial failure of the detectorcalculator. Featherslookedaroundthe control room a moment in silence.Then he spokeslowly:"Well, I guessyou'vedonethe bestyou can. I imaginethat the calculatorwasa little shakenup by that last iolt. It'sprobablyO. K. by now. We certainlydon't dareto try repairsif it is badlydamaged.Nobodyhereis enoughof a technician." With a brusque:"On your toes, gang,"he took the lift back to his bunk. No sensestandingthereand letting the rocketsslam you on the head when you could be resting.He'd need it the next hour. The mate went to the watercooler,but vaultedback into his chair at the boardwhen the detectorlight flashed.For eighteenagonizingseconds the bridgecrew waited,eachman holding his breath.With a sickeninglurch theMonifordashedoffto one side,for eight belly-tearingsecondsthe quartz bull's-eyes setin the port wall fared with eye-searing intensityasthe steering rocketsthrew their fiercely driven jets to that side. Prentisspunched buttons. "One hundred and ninety-two feet per secondper secondfor eight seconds,"he read."That'sdamnedneara mile and a quarter.Someshove." He went back to punching his machine. "Four bodies,"he spokeagain, "threethousandtwo hundredtons,forty-sixmilesper second.Missby about one thousandtwo hundredfeet." More punching. 'At our presentvelocity we had exactlythreeone-hundredths secondleeway.I'm surprisedwe didn't seethem." The silencethat greetedhis calm statementwasalmost noisy. Peasestaredfixedly at the computer for a moment. 'Are you sure that thing is O. K. ? Three one-hundredthsof a secondis entirely too closefor Mrs. Pease's little boy, entirelytoo close!"Prentissnoddeda silentverification of the calculator'sfinding. Now it was Pease's turn to begin to have

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doubtsabout the relativemeritsof being a live cowardor a deadhero. Still, asthe detectorremainedsilent, he beganto breathemore easily.The restof the control-room crewseemedto feel with him that a chapterof the trip had come to a close, asthough the escapefrom such a closecall signalledthe end of the gauntletof meteoroidsthey had to run. But the red light destroyed the illusion with its suddenflare. Peasesworeand bangedhis fist down on the board ashe watchedfor the greenlight that stayeddead. Another high accelerationshovebrought blood from Clement'snose. He let it run while he workedfuriously over the coursecorrectioncontrols."Damn, I didn't even have time to correct the first blast before we scram out from under another. What is this?" he askeda little querulously' Snappinga look at the chronometerthe mate saidsomethingunder his breathand reachedfor the phone. "Hello, Cap?"he gritted into it assoonas "Listen, the waywe'reusingsteeringfuel, we'll neverset he raisedFeathers. this thing into the landing cradle on the Moon. You know how that autopilot lanJsus, just hasall the ietsgoinghalf the time, swingingus backand spokeagain. . Sure,that'swhat I think." He pausedwhile Feathers iorth. "O.K.," he finally answered,"I'll call him right away."Insteadof hanging up he dialled the engine room. "Hello, McCleod? The chief saysto . Yeah,that'sright, quit discor,r,ectthe steeringrocketsfrom the rotator. fuel. . . . I know it, steering low on spinning her awayfrom the Sun, we're that milk will iust have to go sour. . . . Yeah, yeah, O.K." At l:31 the detectoragain indicatedconductorswithin its range. The calculator clacked for ten seconds,for fifteen, twenty. After twenty-five secondsof rattling, its noisesubsidedto a grindinghum. Prentissburstinto motion ashe snappedone switchafterthe other in an attemptto clearup the trouble. As he worked,the light turned green, indicating that the Perseids voice washarsh. "Has shequit, had passedby. He cut the switch. Pease's Prentiss?"he croaked. The computer'smate did not turn around to answer,but said, in his reservedtone:"lt lookslike a seriousjam to me. Every operationhasbeen suspended.I doubt whether we can repair it before we land." He beganto strip the mechanismof its dust coversand calledto Clement to break out the instrument tools. Peaseremained at the board while the computer'sand navigator'smates bent over the intricate entrails of the calculator. Prentissstood up. "Do you know, we may get farther thinking aboutthis thing than by poking into it," he said."Let'ssee,the wayall this trouble startedwasthat the slamming of that overmeteringchamber shook some figures out. What do you say,Clem, do you supPosethat all that's wrong is the verniersettingson the selectordisks?" The navigatorsquinted his eyesand bowed his head in concentration.

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Finally he spoke."Gosh, Prentiss,I don't know. I can't seemto get what you're driving at." PrentisslookedbackatPease, who returnedhis stare.WasClementalittle punchy-punchyfrom thoselasttwo rocketbeatings?"O. K., Clem, " prentiss said, "nevermind, I think that'sit. Anyway,I'll takea look." He went backto the calculatorasClement returnedto his seat,and startedto resetone of the fifteen verniers. Wthout any warning the calculator'sclatter suddenlyrecommenced. The card that had been punched from the detector'sdata wassnappedinto the auto-pilotbeforePrentisscould do morethan snatchhis handfrom the flailing mechanism.As he attemptedto straightenup the starboardsteering rocketsexplodedinto gargantuanactivity. Prentisswassmashedagainstthe top of the calculatorand bent double over it with the suddenand e.,or-o,rs acceleration. Clementfaintedalmostatonceandwasjammeddown into his chair. Pease,unprepared,was likewisesmashedagainstthe side of the board chair. He struggledto lift his arm againstthe enormousweightthat seemed to pressagainstit, and found to his horror that he could barely move it. "Eleven G" his eye recordedon the control board accelerometer,"three hundred and fifty feet per secondper second." With sensesreeling in his desperateeffort to maintain consciousness ashis chesttried to collapseand his heart almost stoppedbeating, he succeededin obtaining a purchase with his legswhich enabledhim to pry his body forward. He strained, purple-faced,to lift his right arm with the aid of his left, to the point where he could reach the emergencycut-out. As the rocketscoughedtheir final note, his straining musclesthrew him violentlyagainsthis belt. Prentiss collapsedto the floor. Ignoring the still unconsciousClement, Peasesnappedoff his belt and rushedto Prentiss'side. He did not appearto be seriouslyinjured and revivedin a shorttime. The telling solarplexusblow dealthim by the top of the calculatorstill madeit difficult for him to talk. As Peaseroseto get him somewater,he noticedthat Clement had revivedand wasstandingbehind him, staringwide-eyedand open-mouthedat the still recumbentPrentiss. "Hry, you!" Peaseyelledat him, bringinghim to his senses , "getBuchanan up herequick. On the ball!" As he wasdrawingthe waterhe uttereda queer squeak:"Hey, Clem, straightenour courseout. That wassomepush. A few more minutes riding sidewaysat this velocity and we'll miss the Moon completely!" "O.K., chief," he replied,seemingto regainhis composure."How long weretheyburning that trip?" Pease walkedto the boardand read,"Eighteen seconds,and elevenG all the way.It'sdamnedneartwo minutessinceI cut

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passed asClementworked themout, too." An additionalforty-fiveseconds the problemout on a sliderule and cut in the steeringrockets."In one thelengthof time betweenthebeginningof the hundredandfifty seconds, blastandwhenI cut the correction,we hadgonejustexactlytwo hundred pointsevenmorebeforewestop,at threeG miles,andwe'll gothirty-seven I think I'll setup iust enough That'sjust sixty-sixseconds. deceleration. on theMoon.Hines'ideaof right the dot in on us to bring motion counter "|ust " anoptimumcoursewill haveto bescrapped.HelookedoveratPease, so we get that tractorthere,that'swhat counts,isn't it, chief?"he asked. "Oh, yeah?fust so you get me there,thatb all that counts.I'm past worryingaboutsomeotherdopes'toughluck. I'll matchanybodyasfar as beingon the spotgoes." Buchananarrivedto replacePrentiss,who wentbelow,andthen Pease Did thatlastburstcatchanyof you calledtheengineroom."Hi, McCleod? didn't show.It went off by I know the warning . ready? . Yeah, . the off wasfiddlingwith the calculator.. . . That'sright, accidentwhile Prentiss thesillythingblewup rightin ourfaces. . Sure,what'llyoutakeforour themike replyandslapped of makingit?"He laughedat McCleod's chances thatno onehadbeeninjuredbelow,heturnedto backon thehook.Satisfied saidthattheverniersettings Buchanan."Listen,Buck,"he said,"Prentiss jolting of the lastchamberthatlet go, andfrom by the hadbeenderanged what happenedit looksasthoughhe'sright. Think you can do anything with it?"

No one spoke, and the detector light was miraculously dead while Buchananexaminedthe calculator.Finally he laid down the insuliteprobe Prentisshad in his hand, straightenedup and said:"From all appearances, out, three of the verniers rocket the settings the shook the right idea. When just how much I don't know yet, but when on the selectordiskswereshifted, the machine wasoperatingat top speedon that five body approximation,it jammed. Prentissshut it off beforeany real damagewasdone. At leastwe can tinker it into sufficientshapeto get us to the Moon, but we'll be nearly an hour." Pease,who had beenanxiouslyawaitingthe verdict,grunted."Well," he saidto the floor, "an hour is betterthan nothing. Get to work on it. Don't anybodybother to figure out our chancesof lasting out the hour, either. I don't want to know how bad things are!" With the steeringrocketsout of operation,Peaseunsnappedhis belt and

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wentto thecalculatorto helpBuchananandClementwith theirwork.His activitieswereconfinedmostlyto handingBuchanantools,but that was betterthanwatchingthedetectorblink red,andthen,aftera delaythataged eachof them years,blink green. The phonerang.McCleodreportedthat Chamber5 wasovermetering slightlyandshowedinclinationsof gettingprogressively, but not suddenly, worse."what doyouthink,chiefl" heasked. "shouldI cutit outnow,while thevibrationain't sobad,andlet fivedo theworkof eight,or shallI leaveit in to help the othersa little?" Pease thoughtfast."Leaveit in till I call you, unlessit goessourthe way thoseothersdid. We'llwantthesmoothest ridewecangetwhenweslapthat calculatorbacktogether,so I'll call you to cut it out then." As he finished speaking the detectorlight flashed,but no calculatorclackedinto activity. The menall stopped workingandwaitedforthegreenlight to tell themthat the conductingmaterialhad passed.After twentybreathless secondsit blinked,but only momentarily,asthe everwatchfuldetectorlocatedanotherconductingbodysomewhere in the pathof the Monitor.Finallythe light turnedgreenfor thefull five-second period.Clementcollapsed to the foor asthoughhe died with the greenlight. Pease andBuchanandidn't movefor an instant,andClementregained his control."God," he mouthed,ashe struggled to his feet,"l can'tstand much moreof this. My nervesare shot." That wasno secret.He reeled slightlyashe walkedto the watercooler,spillingwaterashe triedto drink from the papercup. The soft-toned watchbell interruptedhim. '4h," he breathed,"savedby the bell." The detectorlight wasflashingagainasthe firstwatchstepped out of the lit. Feathers glancedaroundandthenordered: "Buck,youbetterstayon this watch.Prentiss mayhavea brokenrib. Youstickaroundtoo, Clem.We'll needall the manpowerwe can get on this calculator.Pease,you better scram.Bytheway,"headded,smiling,"didyouhavea nicetrick?"AsPease glaredback,Feathers laughed,"l don't guessyou think that'sfunny!" Peasespun aroundat the lift door, purple-faced. "No, I don't," he "Schwabhad moresensethan I realized.We werea bunchof snapped. damnedfoolsto try this!" He startedfor the lift onceagain,thenfacedthe 'And if you solemnFeathers. think it'sfun to watchthatdetectorlight, and knowyoucan'tdo a damnedthingaboutit, yoursenseof humouris even moredistortedthan I bargained for!" He slammedthe doorof the lift and droppedout of sight.Feathers turnedto the otherthree. *Well, gang," hesaid,"we'vegota little troubleon our hands,but there's no senselettingit getusdown.Thattractorisgoingto bedumpedin Mines City. It hasto be. Thereisn't any alternative.We'll neverknow if oneof

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thoserockshits us, sowhy worry?Say,Buck," he askedthe computer,"what do you think, shouldwe disconnectthe detectorlight?" Buchananfrowned and turned to Schwabfor an answer. The pavigatorscowledand said acidly, "Hell, no, I want to know when we've got a chance to get it. I'm not going to be denied the pleasureof gloating over the ten bucks I'll never pay Hines, that dirty skunk!" "Won't we evergetthere?That motor is sodamnedrough that my brainsare getting set to come out of my nose!" Looking up into the stern and .or,..i,t.d facesof the restof the bridge creq he giggled,and then laughed "Ho-ho, boys,"he cried, "this is a breeze!Somefun, eh?" good-naturedly. "Easy,boy," said Featherssoftly,and Clement'seyeswidenedas he sank into his chair. "That'd be tough," thought Feathers."Too bad if he gets punchy. He'd better quit this racketbeforehe getspermanently iniured." M.n of space,subjectedas they were to the incessantpounding of rocket motors, often developedtiny bloodclotson the lining of the brain, whose pressureon delicatecentresoften causedthem to manifestthe symptomsof punch-drunkenness;mumbling speech,inability to concentrate,poor motor responses,and all the rest. Feathers,Schwab and Buchanan returned to the calculator, leaving Clement sitting at his chart table. PresentlyFeathersstraightenedup for a moment to wipe the sweatfrom his eyes,and then pausedin mid-motion as he realizedthat there should havebeen no causefor it. He steppedover to the board, where the thermometerindicateda temperatureof eighty-three degreesin the control room. Now that the Monitor wasno longer rotating on its axisin orderto keeponesidefrom beinggreatlyheatedby the Sun, the refrigeratorswereinsufficientto keepthe temperaturedown. He saidnothing, but just after Schwab had phoned Campbell to cut out the rough chamber so that the final assemblycould be made, Buchanan easedhis aching backand said:"What'sgoing on here?It'sgettingashot asthe devil." He walkedto the board."Whew," he whistled,"nearlyninety.I didn't think those refrigeratorswould be equal to it. " The rocketssmoothedout somewhatasthe selectordiskswere replaced, and after the dust coversweresnappedon, Schwabsaidto Feathers:"What do you say,Cap, do I tell Campbell to cut her back in?" "Might aswell," he replied,"we'll seehow it goesfor a while. Tfy to save thoseother five aslong aswe can." Schwabcalled the engine room again, and the roughnessrecommenced, only to get rapidly worse. Rathers signalledwith his hand, and Schwab,who wasstill holding Campbell on the phone, said: "Cut it, Willy. Skipper saysit's too bad." Feathersreturnedto the control board and cut in the steeringrockets.He

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snappedacrosshis belt and said:"Reversal in six minutes,boys,Z:51a.m., the dispatchersaid.What about it, Schwab,will Clem'snew coursescrew that time up much?" Schwab shook his head, "No, chiefl" he answered,"l just ran the problemthrough to seehow the calculatorwasgoing, and the differenceis lessthan a tenth of a second.Not enough to bother about." Feathersmumbled his satisfaction and swungbackto the board, laying his right hand on the sternrocketswitch and watchingthe split-secondhand asit creptup to the zeropoint. With his left handhe snappedon the warning gong, and at precisely2. 5l cut the stern rocketsand snappedthe Monitor smoothly end over end with the steeringrockets.Again he performedthe delicate task of compensation,this time to the slightly altered course necessitated by the long dashawayfrom meteoroidswhen the calculatorhad jammed. As Feathersconcentratedhis fierce gazeon the amberand white lights on the translucent-ruledpanel, the detectorlight flashed.Without looking awayfrom the panel, he cut the detectorout, and finishedthe iob. Schwab watchedthe wholeprocedurethrough narrowedeyelids."Sweet,chief," he breathedas Feathersfinished and cut the detectorback in. He reachedfor the rocket switchesand the drumming of the rocketsrecommenced,but with a heavy smashingthat rackedevery man's body, pounded his brain againsthis skull, and turned his stomachto jelly. Rathersgot Campbellon the phone. "Cut that one out, Campbell, for Pete'ssake,it'sshakingthe panelright out of its mounting!" Campbell,down in the tail, spokeback."Captain,there'sonly five going now.We can only cut one more, and with a wholehour yet to go, I surehate to do it." "Cut it anyway.Tank or no tank," he ground, referring to the tractor, "we'vegot to be aliveto land this crock,and we'll all be gibberingidiotsin a few more minutes." As Campbell continued to protest there was a dull thudding crashfrom below "What wasthat, Willy?" shoutedFeathersinto the mike. "I don'tknow,Crp," he replied,"but it soundeda few decksaboveme. I'll bet that tractoris shifting! I'm going up!" BeforeFeatherscould replythe headsetclickedthe announcementthat Campbell had hung up. Feathers sat still as the lift whined the newsthat the Scotchmanwasascending.It went silentalmostimmediately,startedagain,then stopped.Twicemore it whined. Then the phone rang and Featherssnappedthe mike offthe hook. "Yeah?"he snapped.Schwaband Buchananregardedhim tensely."Oh, is that all?"They breathed."Hell, no. Tiy to shut it off. No, wait a minute,

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I'll comedown," he announcedasthe watchgongsounded3 a.m. He hung up and explained as he took off the headset, "Campbell saysthat the supportsto onemilk tank on E deckcrackedat the weld and droppedit to the deck. It split wide open. The tractor'ssitting pretty." Pease,coming up for his secondtrick, steppedout of the lift, and someof the errant milk ran out on to the rubber floor. The mate himself wasnearly covered with the white fluid. "What's happened to you?" Buchanan laughed. The mate swore."somebody'sup to something.I ring for the lift, and when the door slidesopen, it'ssix inchesdeepin this stuff, so I skid on the deck and land in it." He slippedagain as he tried to crossto the board. Schwab'sface brightenedas he gavevent to a hearty laugh. "Well, Andy," he chuckled, "much as I hate to have missedthat little scene,I still find myselfimmeasurablycheeredby the mental picture of you wallowing in milk. All good things come to him who waits." He laughed againasPeasestrippedoffhis dungareesand threw them in a wet pile by the ventilator. "Well, Andy," saidRathers from the lift cage,"at leastit'shot in here,you won't catch cold." He smiledas he let the door slide shut. Buchananand Schwabremained,sincethe injured Prentissand the demoralizedClement were both unfit for their tricks. When the lift door slid open at E deck, milk rushedinto it, washingover Campbell and Mueller stoodin the middle of the the topsof Feathers'shoes. third quadrant, where the lift door was, hands on hips. The Scot turned slowlyto the captainand releaseda blisteringstreamof profanity,calculated to curdle the milk. Feathersrepliedamiably,"Hi, Willy, what areyou going to do with this stuff?" "Do with it?" Campbell squealed."What the hell can you do with it? Even if we had an empty tank on this deck to pump it into, we don't have any pump." The lift whined away. Mueller spoke, "Looks like the supportsto the tank crystallized and crackedat the welds, sir. It might be a good idea to take a look at the other tank, too." As Campbell sloshedover to examine the supporting bracketsof the second two hundred and fifty gallon tank, the lift whined again, and McCleod steppedout. "Gosh," he exclaimed,"I might haveexpectedit of you, Willy!" Campbell'scontorted featuresrelaxedslightly. "ls our engine room floating with this stuff.?"he queried. '4y., and it ran down the stair-well,too. I decklooks His mate replied, beautiful from the throttle pedestal." Mueller, who had completedthe examination of the secondtank'ssup-

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ports,straightened up. "Lookslike this oneis cracked,too. We'dbetterweld a coupleof supportsin here."As Campbell noddedhis O.K., he left by the Iift to return in a few minuteswith the portablewelderin its dolly and four half-inch steelrods. McCleod reachedfor the rods."Here, Mueller, I'll take 'em," he said. "Wlly and I will have this done in no time." Featherssworewith quiet vigour ashe movedto the lift door preparatory to going to his bunk on B deck, sloshingthrough the milk, his oaths forming a softobbligatoto Campbelland McCleod, who weresulphuricin their opinionsof motorsthat shookshipsto pieces,doubly sulphuric with weldsthatcracked,andtriply sulphuricwith eachotherin their impatience. He shotthe lift to C deck. Only food in canshere. Nothing that the milk would hurt. He openedthe door and let the white liquid run out, and then roseto B deck, wherehe changedhis dungareesand rode up againto the control room. Peasewasat the board. "Hi, Crp," he called, "we haven't beencloseto onesinceyou'veleft, if you'venoticed.Only threewarnings.I guesswe'rethrough the worstof them." Featherssmiledand satdown next to the water cooler and sipped slowly from a paper cup. While a peacefulquiet wasslowly settling,the detectorlight went red, and the calculator clackednoisily, to be followed by the flash of the top rockets.The light stayedred and the calculatordid not pauseasthe detector located more conducting material beforethe first had passed.With a jerk that madeneckscrack,the steeringrocketssuddenlyreversed their blasting, iamming the crewagainsttheir beltswith an eight G shove.Still the light stayed red, while the Monifor dashed away from its course in a new direction.Pease,at the board,felt himselfblackingout asthe high acceleration continued past its thirtieth second.He vaguelyheard Feathersyell, abovethe screamof the rockets,"Cut them out, Pease,cut them out!" The mate struggledto obey, finally reachedthe switch and the rocketsdied. Schwab gloweredacrossthe control room, "What's the matter, chief, can't you take it? We'll get it sure, the sky is lousy with them!" Without replying, Featherssnappeda questionat Pease."How much fuel left, Andy?" he asked. The mate replied, "Wow, just fifty-three secondsat five G!" He turned "Say,Crp, you can't much morethan land her with wide-eyedto Feathers. that!" Again Feathersdid not reply. "I'll take over, Andy," he said. Pease changedseatswith him. Once behind the board, Featherslooked at the chronometerand read aloud: ").12. Thirty-three minutes till the Moon cuts off those Perseids.At the rate we were using steeringfuel, we never would havebeenableto land this crock. Might aswell gethit with a rock as

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smashthe Moon so hard that we cashin." He snappedthe detectorswitch. The light stayeddead. "Well," he commented,"l guesswe're through that swarm. If we're lucky, we'll last out." At 3.28 the flashingof the detectorsignalledthe locationof conducting material.The steeringrocketsfared within seconds,and afterthey coughed into silence,Feathersread:"Forty-four seconds!"He glancedinto the faces of the others."One more shot is all we dare to risk. That auto-pilot needs about forty secondsat five G to land us. Any lessthan that and we'll drop in from whereverwe run out." Quiet fell overthe control room. There wasan audiblesuckingof breaths as the detectorlight flared red-then green, to the accompanimentof expelledsighs.Eight minutesbeforethe deadline,when the Moon would cut acrossthe path of the Perseids,it flared red again, stayedred while the calculator rattled and clattered.The port and lower rocketsscreamedinto fiery action. Feathers,teeth bared, gripped the steeringrocket switch. He watchedthe fuel gauge-forty secondsleft, thirty-six-thirty-two. He cut the switch. The four sat immobile, waiting for the crash.The greenlight from the detectorcamelike the crashof a cymbal. Feathersraspedhoarsely: "Thirty-one secondsleft. I'll haveto leaveit off." He threw a secondswitch, and snappingthe intenseSchwaba twinkling glance,said,"Ten bucksor no ten bucks, Schwab,I'm cutting that light, too!" "339," the chronometerread. Six minutes more. Feathersbroke the silence."lf we lastfive minutesmore, we havea chance.I'm goingto try to getthis boat closeenoughto the landing cradleto let the auto-pilot swingus in with only thirty secondsof fuel." Featherssquintedin thought. "Buck," he saidslowly,"l want to stopthis buggyasneardeadaswe can with the tail rockets,right overthe landing cradle,and want to be approachingthe cradle at an angle of two degrees.The cradle'sramp slopesat six degrees,so we want to hit the Moon at eight degreesto a tangent. Accelerationat the surfaceis five and a third feet per secondper second.Figure out what our velocitywill haveto be if I can get this crockwithin one hundredand fifty feet of the cradle." While Buchananwasworkingthe problemout, the chronometerreached 7.4r, but the eventwasscarcelynoticed,for with onedangerpast,the crew knew that a second,and much more apparentone, still facedthem. Their to control chanceof reachingthe surfacealivedependedon Feathers'ability it from keep the Monifor with tail rocketsinsteadof steeringrockets,to slewing from its course as their velocity was braked with the incomplete batteryof rockets.Buchananspun his chair. "Here it is, chief," h. said. "You'll haveto do twenty-sevenhundred feet per secondto hit the cradleat two degreesfrom one hundred and fifty feet."

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Feathersshook his head. "That's too fast. That cradle only doesseventeen-fifty.What altitude will I haveto bring the crock to, to makethe cradle at that angle?" The calculator clacked. "one hundredand eighteenfeet, Crp, " Buchananreadtersely,recalling ashe did that the auto-pilot usually took over around a thousandfeet, witfi velocityslowedto arounda thousandfeetper second,a featnot sodangerous at higher altitudes. "Guesswe'll haveto try it. Bring her in straightand fast,tail first, break her speedwith the tail rockets,and then flip her overquick and drop her in with automaticcontrol for the lastten secondsor so. Schwab,it'sabout time we scrappedTirrner'sradio-silenceorder.Get Mines City on the set.Things are too tough. If they don't put Hendersonon when you indicate we're in trouble, askfor him." While Feathersbrokethe fall of the Monitorand guided her towardsthe desiredspot on the Moon, Schwabestablishedcontact with the powerful radio stationat Mines City, on the Moon'ssurface,and spokeinto the radio mike. "Mty D^y," he saidlaconically,givingthe traditionalEnglishversion of the internationalsignalfor aid, "M'aidez!" He wasinstantlyconnected with the superintendentof fight operations,Henderson."Justa moment," Schwab said to him, and called to Feathers:"Here'sHendersonfor you, chief, and all agog."Featherssnappedthe selectorswitch of his headsetand chest microphone and spoke. "Hello, Henderson?. . . Feathers.We're coming in in about seven minutes." He pausedasthe superintendentinterruptedhim. At lasthe cut in: "Hold it! We aren't down yet. Listen to me. We're about five hundred miles out yet, and deceleratingat thirty-sixper, but we'reso damnedshort on steeringfuel that we'll run out if we land on the radio beam, with the auto-pilot." Henderson's voicesqueakedin the earphonesagain."Yes,sir," Feathers responded."The tractor'sall right, chief, but I'm telling you, we're going to haveour troublesgettingdown." He lookedaround at the anxious facesof the bridge crew then beganagain, as Henderson'sreply wasbriefi "Look, chief, I'll haveto bring her in prettylow by myself,tail first, and use the auto-pilot for the last few secondsonly. Suit you?" Curt syllables snappedin his ears."What'sthe most speedyou can get out of that cradle?" he askedagain. "Oh, I see.Well, that meansI'll haveto bring this baby down to about a hundred feetbeforeI cut you in. Tell you what. I'll makea passat the ramp, and if we'regoing too fastaccordingto the radio beam, let me know, and I'll pull her up and over and try again till I make the grade. Only got enoughfuel for a coupleof shots,though, and I can only giveyour auto-pilot about ten secondsat five G."

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Hendersonthen spokefor somemoments, while Buchanan got to work on the calculator,convertingthe co-ordinatesthat Schwabwasreadingoff from his position at the low-powertelescope,into their courseand velocity figures.Finally Feathersconcluded:"You bettersavethat, Henderson.This trick isn't over yet. Wait till we set it down. Any more newsfrom No. 2?" Receivinga negativereply,he snappedthe set off for a moment and called Iayingit on thick, Schwab.You'll be a overto the navigator:"Henderson's switch, he snapped:"Tie in tight, hero!" Flipping overthe address-system quick look at the schedule,a grin, and rough!" a little One boys;this may be he said,half to himself:"Right on time. Hinessaidwe'd makeit at 4.07." Schwab and Buchanan, duties completed, sat with their eyesburning towardsFeathers'hands as they snappedback and forth acrossthe board, while Pease,who wasa competentpilot in his own right, went through the tortures of the damned as he had to sit and watch his superiormake the approach.His handsmadelittle jerkingmovementsashe involuntarily tried Alwaysa ticklish task,and calling for the fastest to correctFeathers'actions. and mostaccurateco-ordination,landingwas,underthe conditionsfacing Feathers,infinitely more difhcult. The surfacegrew amazingly close, and the Monitor was still travelling better than five thousand feet per second, tail first, as the whole trip following the reversalhad been made. Suddenly Featherscut in the port steeringrockets for a quick blast. The Monitor wasnow heading almost parallel with the surface,still tail first, all her downwardvelocity killed by of a lateral velocity of nearly the blastingof the tail rockets,but possessed three thousandfeet per secondthat Feathershad graduallybuilt up asthey had approachedthe surface.In another secondthe rocketsfired roughly, slammingall down tight into their seatsin a four G deceleration,and then, with that unbelievablequicknessthat he had, Featherssnappedthe spaceship end over end. He spokeinto the mike: "O.K., Henderson,here we come!" The Monitor sped towards the head of the landing ramp. Feathers' headsetcrackled;he sworeand snappedon the tail and steeringrockets.Up went the nose, and the ship climbed dizzily in a hundred-mile loop, snappingover as it nearedthe Moon'ssurfaceagain, so that the tail rockets might once more be usedas a brake.Again the speedwastoo greatfor the cradle,and an instantbeforethe Monifor passedthe speedingJuggernauton rails, Hendersonsignalledthem off. Feathersgruntedashe hung from his belt at the top of the huge loop. "This is it. Twelvesecondsfuel to go." The secondenormousloop completed,the spaceshipdashedacrossthe surfaceof the Moon, perilouslycloseto a rangeof low volcanichills, its shadowleaping acrossthe rough terrain with it. The tail rocketsstuttered

6E| / SPECIAL

FLIGHT

harshly,roughly braking the speedof the gleamingcraft. Feathersabruptly flipped her over,steadiedher momentarily with the steeringrocketsbefore gritting betweenhis teeth:"Sevensecondsof fuel. It'stwo to one againstus." He switchedon the automaticpilot as Henderson's voice snappeda breathless,"O.K., Pete!"into his headset.The spaceship saggeddown, almostto the cradle, under rocketsflaring, beforethey coughedtheir final note. The huge craft droppedthe remainingdistance,wreckinghalf the instruments on the panelasthe heavyship bouncedbackand forth beforethe magnetsof the cradle held her firm. Down the ramp the compositevehicle hurled, braking rocketsthrowing prodigioussilent-screaming jets of incandescent gasaheadof it, and came to rest at the end of the ramp. Figureswaddledfrom the AdministrationBuilding in distendedspacesuits,castingdead-blackshadowson the glaringpumice, climbed into the cab of the cradle, and shunted it acrossswitchesto the hangar, a great, hemisphericaldome of metal. Once inside,the enormousair lock closed; the dome lights high abovecame up and bathedthe interior of the hemispherewith a dull pallor. Huge overheadcranesloweredtheir magnetic grapples,pulling the Monitor erectfor unloading, as the increasing air pressuremade the spacesuitsof the docking crew go flabby. More figures aidedin settingthe telescopicpropsagainstthe hull to hold it erect.With air pressurefinally at normal, the variousair locks around the dome opened, and everypersonwho wasfree at the whole spaceportstreamedthrough the openingsand dashedtowardsthe frosting spaceship. Their shoutsof welcomeand praisequieteddown asthe lowestport of the spaceship remainedclosed,andthe secondspassed by slowly.At last,with a shower of hoarfrost flakes, Campbell crackedthe "back door," and the cheeringredoubledagain.The thin streamof milk that ran out and down the frost-whitened plates passedunnoticed, and the men were quickly rushedinto the flight superintendent's office. In the comparativequiet, Hendersonwasat lastableto speakto the men, while outsidethe space-portcrew wererushing through the taskof unloading the tractor.With the lastwell-wisherpushedout of the door, Henderson ran overto Feathers'side, graspedhis hand, and ashe shookit energetically, cried:"Oh, sweetlanding, Pete!One more passat that ramp and I'd have died of suspense!" Feathersgrinned feebly,but said nothing. The restof the creq now that the tension was relieved,were experiencinga like reaction.Most of them werelooking around for someplaceto sit down, feeling generallymiserable from the spacebeating they had taken. The bubbling Hendersonstartedsimilarly congratulatingthe restof the

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crew slappingone man on the back, shakinganother'shand. "ls everybody O.K.?" he asked,in general. Feathersstirred out of his lethargy. "Oh, yes. Better have a look at Prentiss,"he replied."He may havecrackeda rib. " He glancedaroundat the still-wet Pease,the soakingMcCleod and Campbell, the unenthusiastic, soberfacesof the creq and then to his own wet feet. "One more casualty," he announced,so that all could hear."Most of us got our feet wet. This spacetravel isn't safe.You might catch cold!"

Chnonopolis In the late 1950sI. G. Ballard beganto publishSF storiesof an entirely new type-cold, intellectual, sophisticated,and stylistically complex, treating science as a repository of symbols and images. Ballard quickly attracted admirers, and in the early 1960sa "new thing" wasproclaimed in England by theyoung editor and writer Michael Moorcock. Thus was the New Waveof the 1960sborn, taking Ballard as ifs model and representativewriter. With Moorcock as hisprophet, Ballard symbolizeda wholesalereactionagainstboth the conservative style and the atmosphere of technological optimism that permeatedCampbellian sciencefiction. As storiesabout the city of the future, it is interesting to compare "Chronopolis,' published in 1961, with *Forgetfulness,"published in 1937.

is trial had been fixed for the next day.Exactly when, of course, neither Newman nor anyone else knew. Probablyit would be during the afternoon,when the principalsconcerned,-judge, jury and prosecutor-managedto convergeon the samecourtroom at the sametime. With luck his defenseattorneymight alsoappearat the right moment, though the casewassuchan open and shut one that Newman hardly expectedhim to bother-besides,transport to and from the old penal complex wasnotoriouslydifficult, involvedendlesswaiting in the grimy depotbelow the prison walls. Newman had passedthe time usefully.Luckily, his cell facedsouth and sunlight traversedit for most of the day. He

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divided its arc into ten equal segments,the effectivedaylight hours, marking the intervalswith a wedgeof mortarprisedfrom the window ledge.Each segmenthe further subdivided into twelve smaller units. Immediatelyhe had a workingtimepiece,accurateto within virtually a minute (the final subdivisioninto fifths he made mentally). The sweepof white notches,curving down one wall, acrossthe foor and metal bedstead, and up the other wall, would havebeen recognizableto anyonewho stood with his backto the window, but no one everdid. Anyway,the guardswere too stupid to understand,and the sundialhad given Newman a tremendous advantageover them. Most of the time, when he wasn't recalibratingthe dial, he would pressagainst the grille, keeping an eye on the orderly room. "Brocken!" he would shoutout at seven-fifteenasthe shadowline hit the first interval. "Morning inspection!On your feet, man!" The sergeant would comestumbling out of his bunk in a sweat,rising the otherwardersas the reveille bell split the air. Later, Newman sangout the othereventson the daily roster:roll call, cell fatigues,breakfast,exercise,and soon aroundto the eveningroll just before dusk. Brockenregularlywon the block merit for the best-runcell deck and he relied on Newman to programthe day for him, anticipatethe next item on the roster,and warn him if anything went on for too long-in someof the other blocksfatigueswereusually over in three minutes while breakfast or exercisecould go on for hours, noneofthe wardersknowingwhen to stop, the prisonersinsisting that they had only just begun. Brocken never inquired how Newman organizedeverythingso exactly; once or twice a week, when it rained or was overcast,Newman would be strangely silent, and the resulting confusion reminded the sergeant forcefully of the merits of cooperation.Newman waskept in cell privileges and all the cigaretteshe needed.It wasa shamethat a datefor the trial had finally been named. Newman, too, wassorry.Most of his researchso far had been inconclusive. Primarily his problem wasthat, given a northward-facingcell for the bulk of his sentence,the taskof estimatingthe time might becomeimpossible. The inclination of the shadowsin the exerciseyardsor acrossthe towers andwallsprovidedtoo blunt a reading.Calibrationwould haveto be visual; an optical instrumentwould soon be discovered. What he neededwasan internaltimepiece,an unconsciouslyoperating psychicmechanismregulated,say,by his pulseor respiratoryrhythms. He had tried to train his time sense,running an elaborateseriesof teststo estimateits minimum in-built error, and this had been disappointingly large. The chancesof conditioningan accuratereflexseemedslim.

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However,unlesshe could tell the exacttime at any given moment, he knew he would go mad.

His obsession, which now facedhim with a chargeof murder,had revealed itself innocently enough. As a child, like all children, he had noticedthe occasionalancientclock tower, bearingthe samewhite circle with its twelve intervals.In the seedier areasof the city the round characteristicdials often hung over the cheap jewelry stores,rusting and derelict. "Justsigns,"his motherexplained."They don't meananything,like stars or rings." Pointlessembellishment,he had thought. Once, in an old furniture shop,they had seena clockwith hands,upside down in a box full of fire irons and miscellaneousrubbish. "Eleven and twelve," he had pointed out. "What doesit mean?" His mother had hurried him away,reminding herselfneverto visit that streetagain. "Nothing," shetold him sharply."It'sall finished." To herself she added experimentally:Five and twelve. Five fo twelve. Yes. Time unfoldedat its usualsluggish,half-confusedpace.They lived in a ramshacklehouse in one of the amorphoussuburbs, a zone of endless afternoons.Sometimeshe wentto school,until he wasten spentmostof his time with his mother queueing outside the closed food stores.In the eveningshe would play with the neighborhoodgangaroundthe abandoned railwaystation,punting a homemadeflatcaralongthe overgrowntracks,or breakinto one of the unoccupiedhousesand set up a temporarycommand post. He wasin no hurry to grow up; the adult world wasunsynchronizedand ambitionless.After his mother died he spentlong daysin the attic, going through her trunks and old clothes,playingwith the bric-)-brac of hatsand beads,trying to recoversomethingof her personality. In the bottom compartmentof her jewelrycasehe cameacrossa fat goldcasedobject, equippedwith a wrist strap.The dial had no handsbut the twelve-numberedface intrigued him and he fastenedit to his wrist. His father choked over his soup when he saw it that evening. "Conrad, my God! Where in heavendid you get that?" "ln Mamma'sbead box. Can't I keepit?" "No. Conrad, giveit to me! Sorry,son." Thoughtfully:"Let'ssee,you're fourteen. Look, Conrad, I'll explain it all in a coupleof years." With the impetusprovidedby this newtabootherewasno needto wait for his father'srevelations.Full knowledgecamesoon.The older boysknew the

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whole story,but strangelyenough it wasdisappointinglydull. "ls that all?" he kept saying."l don't get it. Why worry so much about clocks?We have calendars,don't we?" Suspectingmore, he scouredthe streets,carefully inspecting every derelict clock for a clue to the real secret. Most of the faceshad been mutilated, hands and numeralstorn off, the circle of minute intervals stripped away,leaving a shadowof fading rust. Distributed apparentlyat random all over the city, abovestores,banks,and public buildings, their realpurposewashard to discover.Sureenough,they measuredthe progress of time through hvelvearbitraryintervals.But this seemedbarelyadequate groundsfor outlawing them. After all, a whole varietyof timers were in generaluse:in kitchens,factories,hospitals,wherevera fixedperiodof time wasneeded.His fatherhad one by his bed at night. Sealedinto the standard small black box, and driven by miniature batteries,it emitted a high penetratingwhistle shortlybeforebreakfastthe next morning, woke him if he overslept.A clock wasno morethan a calibratedtimer, in many waysless useful, as it provided you with a steadystream of irrelevantinformation. What if it was half past three, as the old reckoning put it, if you weren't planning to start or finish anything then? Making his questionssound as naive as possible,he conducteda long, careful poll. Under fifty no one appearedto know anything at all about the historical background,and eventhe older peoplewerebeginning to forget. He alsonoticed that the lesseducatedthey werethe more they werewilling to talk, indicatingthat manual and lower-classworkershad playedno part in the revolutionand consequentlyhad no guilt-chargedmemoriesto repress. Old Mr. Crichton, the plumber who lived in the basementapartment, reminiscedwithout any prompting,but nothing he saidthrew any light on the problem. "Sure, therewerethousandsof clocksthen, millions of them, everybody had one. Watcheswe called them, strappedto the wrist, you had to screw them up everydry." "But what did you do with them, Mr. Crichton?" Conrad pressed. "Well, you just-looked at them, and you knew what time it was.One o'clock, or two or half past seven-that waswhen I'd go offto work." "But you go off to work now when you'vehad breakfast.And if you're late the timer rings." Crichton shookhis head. "l can't explain it to you, lad. You askyour father." But Mr. Newman was hardly more helpful. The explanationpromised for Conrad'ssixteenthbirthday never materialized.When his questions persistedMr. Newman, tired of sidestepping, shut him up with an abrupt:

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"fust stop thinking about it, do you understand?You'll get yourselfand the rest of us into a lot of trouble."

Stacey,the young English teacher,had a wry senseof humor, liked to shock the boys by taking up unorthodoxpositionson marriageor economics. Conrad wrote an essaydescribingan imaginarysocietycompletelypreoccupied with elaboraterituals revolvingaround a minute-by-minute observance of the passageof time. Staceyrefusedto play,however,and gavehim a noncommittal betaplus, after classquietly askedConrad what had prompted the fantasy.At first Conrad tried to back away,then finally came out with the questionthat containedthe central riddle. "Why is it againstthe law to have a clock?" Staceytosseda piece of chalk from one hand to the other. "ls it againstthe law?" Conrad nodded. "There'san old notice in the police station offering a bounty of one hundred poundsfor everyclock or wristwatchbrought in. I saw it yesterday.The sergeantsaid it was still in force." Staceyraisedhis eyebrowsmockingly."You'll makea million. Thinking of going into business?" Conradignoredthis. "lt'sagainstthe law to havea gun becauseyou might shootsomeone.But how can you hurt anybodywith a clock?" "Isn't it obvious?Youcan time him, knowexactlyhow long it takeshim to do something."

"Well?" "Then you can makehim do it

At seventeen,on a suddenimpulse, he built his first clock. Already his preoccupationwith time wasgiving him a markedleadoverhis classmates. One or two weremore intelligent, othersmore conscientious,but Conrad's ability to organizehis leisureand homeworkperiodsallowedhim to make the most of his talents.When the otherswerelounging around the railway yard on their way home Conrad had already completed half his prep, allocatinghis time accordingto its variousdemands. As soon as he finished he would go up to the attic playroom, now his workshop.Here, in the old wardrobesand trunks, he made his first experimental constructions:calibratedcandles,crude sundials,sandglasses, an elaborateclockworkcontraption developingabout half a horsepower that

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droveits handsprogressively fasterand fasterin an unintentionalparodyof Conrad'sobsession. His firstseriousclock waswater-powered, a slowlyleakingtank holdinga float that wooden drove the hands as it sank downwards. Simple but accurate,it satisfiedConrad for severalmonthswhile he carriedout his everwidening searchfor a real clock mechanism. He soon discoveredthat although there were innumerable table clocks, gold pocket watches,and timepiecesof everyvarietyrusting in junk shopsand in the backdrawersof most homes, none of them containedtheir mechanisms.These, together with the hands, and sometimesthe digits, had alwaysbeen removed.His own attemptsto build an escapementthat would regulatethe motion of the ordinary clockwork motor met with no success;everything he had heard about clock movementsconfirmed that they wereprecisioninstrumentsof exactdesignand construction.To satisfyhis secretambition-a portable timepiece,if possiblean actual wristwatch-he would have to find one, somewhere,in working order. Finally, from an unexpectedsource, a watch came to him. One afternoon in a cinema, anelderlyman sittingnextto Conradhad a suddenheart attack. Conrad and two membersof the audiencecarried him out to the manager's office. Holding one of his arms,Conradnoticedin the dim aisle light a glint of metal inside the sleeve.Quickly he felt the wrist with his fingers,identifiedthe unmistakablelens-shapeddisk of a wristwatch. As he carriedit home its tick seemedasloud asa deathknell. He clamped his hand around it, expectingeveryonein the streetto point accusinglyat him, the Time Policeto swoopdown and seizehim. In the attic he took it out and examinedit breathlessly, smotheringit in a cushion wheneverhe heard his father shift about in the bedroom below. Later he realizedthat its noisewasalmost inaudible. The watch wasof the samepatternashis mother's,though with a yellow and not a red face. The gold casewas scratchedand peeling, but the movement seemedto be in perfectcondition. He prized offthe rearplate, watchedthe frenzied flickering world of miniature cogsand wheelsfor hours,spellbound.Frightened of breakingthe main spring, he kept the watch only half wound, packed awaycarefully in cotton wool. In taking the watch from its ownerhe had not, in fact, beenmotivatedby theft; his first impulse had been to hide the watch before the doctor discoveredit feeling for the man's pulse. But once the watch was in his possession he abandonedany thoughtof tracingthe ownerand returningit. That otherswere still wearing watcheshardly surprisedhim. The water clock had demonstratedthat a calibratedtimepieceaddedanotherdimen-

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sion to life, organizedits energies,gavethe countlessactivitiesof everyday existencea yardstickof significance.Conrad spenthours in the attic gazing at the small yellow dial, watching its minute hand revolveslowly, its hour through the hand presson imperceptibly,a compasscharting his passage gray purposeless future. Without it he felt rudderless,adrift in a limbo of timelessevents.His fatherbeganto seem idle and stupid, sitting around vacantlywith no idea when anything wasgoing to happen. Soon he waswearingthe watch all day.He stitchedtogethera slim cotton sleeve,fitted with a narrow flap below which he could seethe face. He timed everything-the length of classes,football games,meal breaks,the hours of daylight and darkness,sleepand waking. He amusedhimself endlesslyby baffling his friendswith demonstrationsof this privatesixth sense,anticipating the frequencyof their heart beats,the hourly newscasts on the radio,boiling a seriesof identicallyconsistenteggswithout the aid of a timer. Then he gavehimself away. Stacey,shrewderthan any of the others,discoveredthat he waswearinga watch. Conrad had noticed that Stacey's English classeslastedexactlyfortyfive minutes;he let himself slideinto the habit of tidying his deska minute beforeStacey's timer pipped up. Once or twice he noticed Staceylooking at him curiously,but he could not resistthe temptation to impressStaceyby alwaysbeing the first one to make for the door. One day he had stackedhis booksand clipped awayhis pen when Stacey pointedly askedhim to read out a pr6cishe had done. Conrad knew the timer would pip out in lessthan ten seconds,and decidedto sit tight and wait for the usual stampedeto savehim the trouble. Staceysteppeddown from the dais, waiting patiently.One or two boys turned around and frowned at Conrad, who wascounting awaythe closing seconds. Then, amazed,he realizedthat the timer had failedto sound!Panicking, he first thought his watchhad broken,just restrainedhimself in time from looking at it. "ln a hurry, Newman?"Staceyaskeddryly. He sauntereddown the aisle to Conrad. Baffed, his face reddening with embarrassment,Conrad fumbled open his exercisebook, read out the pr6cis.A few minutes later, without waiting for the timer, Staceydismissedthe class. "Newman," he called out. "Here a moment." He rummaged behind the rostrum as Conrad approached."What happened then?" he asked."Forget to wind up your watch this morning?" Conrad saidnothing. Staceytook out the timer, switchedoffthe silencer and listenedto the pip that buzzed out.

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Don't worry'theTime Police "Wheredid yougetit from?Yourparents? yearsago." weredisbanded he lied. "I foundit face."lt wasmy mother's," ConradexaminedStacey's amongher things."Staceyheld out his hand and Conradnervouslyunstrappedthe watchand handedit to him. Str..y slippedit half out of its sleeve,glancedbrieflyat the yellowface. "Yourmother,you say?Hmh." 'Are you goingto reportme?"Conradasked. time evenfurther?" psychiatrist's "What, and wastesomeoverworked "lsn't it breakingthe law to weara watch?" living menaceto public security." "Well, you'renot exactlythe greatest Staceystartedfor the door, gesturingConradwith him. He handedthe Youand afternoon. you'redoingon Saturday watchback."Cancelwhatever I aretakinga trip." "Where?"Conradasked. "Backinto the past," Staceysaidlightly. "To Chronopolis,the Time City." of chromiumandfins.He mastodon hadhired aca\ a hugebattered Stacey the PublicLibrary. up outside picked him *ru.d jauntilyto Conradashe Conrad "Climb into the turret." He pointedto the bulgingbriefcase. slungonto the seatbetweenthem. "Haveyou had a look at thoseyet?" squareheopened Conradnodded.Astheymovedoffaroundthedeserted andpulledout a thick bundleof roadmaps."I've iustworked thebriefcase out thatthe city coversoverfivehundredsquaremiles.I'd neverrealizedit wasso big. Whereis everYbodY?" themain street,cut downinto a longtreeStaceylaughed.Theycrossed houses.Half of them wereempty,windows lined .u.nr" of semidetached wreckedand roofssagging.Even the inhabitedhouseshad a makeshift lashedto their crudewatertowerson homemadescaffolding appearance, gardens. front chimneys,pilesof logsdumpedin overgrown "Thirty million peopleoncelived in this city," Staceyremarked."Now the populationis little morethan two, andstill declining.Thoseof usleft hang on in what wereoncethe distalsuburbs,so that the city todayis effectiuelyan enormousring, five milesin width, encirclinga vastdead " centerforty or fifty milesin diameter. They wovein and out of variousbackroads,pasta small factorystill to endat noon' finally pickedup a runningalthoughworkwassupposed Conradtraced thatcarriedthemsteadilywestward. long,straightboulevard maps.They werenearingthe edgeof the acrosssuccessive their progress

7E

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annulus Staceyhad described.On the map it wasoverprintedin greenso that the central interior appeareda flat, uncharted gray, a massiveterra incognita. They passed the lastof the smallshoppingthoroughfares he remembered, a frontierpostof mean terracedhouses,dismal streetsspannedby massive steelviaducts.Staceypointedup at one asthey drovebelow it. "Partof the elaboraterailwaysystemthat onceexisted,an enormousnetworkof stations and junctionsthat carriedfifteen million peopleinto a dozengreatterminals every day." For half an hour they drove on, Conrad hunched againstthe window, Staceywatchinghim in the driving mirror. Gradually,the landscapebegan to change. The houseswere taller, with colored roofs, the sidewalkswere railedoffand fitted with pedestrianlightsand turnstiles.They had entered the inner suburbs, completely desertedstreetswith multilevel supermarkets,towering cinemas, and departmentstores. Chin in one hand, Conrad staredout silently.Lacking any meansof transporthe had neverventuredinto the uninhabited interior of the city, like the otherchildren alwaysheadedin the oppositedirectionfor the op.n country. Here the streetshad died twenty or thirty yearsearlier;plateglass shopfrontshad slipped and smashedinto the roadway,old neon signs, window framesand overheadwireshung down from everycornice,traiiing a raggedwebworkof disintegratingmetal acrossthe pavements.Staceydtoue slowly,avoidingthe occasionalbusor truck abandonedin the middle of the road, its tires peeling off their rims. Conradcranedup at the empty windows,into the narrowalleysand side streets,but nowherefelt any sensationof fearor anticipation.Thesestreets were merely derelict, as unhauntedas a half-emptydustbin. One suburbancentergavewayto another,to long interveningstretchesof congestedribbon developments. Mile by mile, the architecturealteredits character;buildingswerelarger,ten- or fifteen-storyblocks,clad in facing materialsof green and blue tiles, glassor copper sheathing. They were movingforwardin time ratherthan, asConradhad expected,backinto the pastof a fossilcity. Staceyworkedthe car through a nexusof side streetstoward a six-lane expressway that roseon concretebuttresses abovethe rooftops.They found a sideroadthat circledup to it, leveledout, and then pickedup speedsharply, spinning along one of the clear centerlanes. Conrad cranedforward. In the distance,two or three miles away,the rectilinear outlines of enormousapartmentblocks rearedthirty or forty storyshigh, hundredsof them lined shoulderto shoulderin apparently endlessranks, like giant dominoes.

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"We'reenteringthe centraldormitorieshere,"Staceytold him. On either side buildings overtoppedthe motorway,the congestionmounting so that someof them had been built right up againstthe concretepalisades. In a few minutes they passedbetweenthe first of the apartmentbatteries, the thousandsof identicalliving units with their slantingbalconiesshearing up into the sky,the glassin-falls of the aluminum curtain walling speckling in the sunlight. The smallerhousesand shopsof the outer suburbshad vanished.There wasno room on the ground level. In the narrow intervals betweenthe blocksthereweresmall concretegardens,shoppingcomplexes, ramps banking down into huge undergroundcar parks. And on all sidesthere were the clocks. Conrad noticed them immediately,at everystreetcorner, over everyarchway,three quartersof the way up the sidesof buildings, coveringeveryconceivableangle of approach. Most of them weretoo high off the ground to be reachedby anything less than a fireman'sladderand still retainedtheir hands.All registeredthe same t i m e : l 2 : 0 1. Conrad looked at his wristwatch,noted that it was iust 2:45 p.m. "They were driven by a master clock," Staceytold him. "When that stoppedthey all ceasedat the samemoment. One minute after midnight, thirty-sevenyears ago." The afternoonhad darkened,asthe high cliffs cut offthe sunlight, the sky of narrowverticalintervalsopeningand closingaroundthem. a succession Down on the canyon floor it was dismal and oppressive,a wildernessof divided and pressedon westward. concreteand frostedglass.The expressway gave way to the first office blocks the apartment miles more After a few buildings in the central zone. Thesewereeventaller, sixty or seventystorys wasfifty feet The expressway high, linked by spiralingrampsand causeways. with it, level were blocks office the floors of yet first the off the ground entrancebaysof mounted on massivestiltsthat straddledthe glass-enclosed lifts and escalators.The streetswerewide but featureless.The sidewalksof parallel roadwaysmergedbelow the buildings, forming a continuous concrete apron. Here and there were the remains of cigarettekiosks, rusting andarcadesbuilt on platformsthirty feetin the air. stairwaysup to restaurants Conrad, however,waslooking only atthe clocks.Neverhad he visualized so many, in placessodensethat they obscuredeachother. Their faceswere multicolored: red, blue, yellow, green. Most of them carried four or five hands.Although the masterhandshad stoppedat a minute pasttwelve, the subsidiaryhands had halted at varying positions,apparentlydictatedby their color. 'And the different "What were the extra hands for?" he asked Stacey. colors?"

BO / CHF|ONOPOLIS

"Time zones. Depending on your professionalcategoryand the consumer-shiftsallowed. Hold on, though, we're almostthere." They left the expressway and swung off down a ramp that fed them into the northeastcornerof a wide open plaza,eighthundredyardslong andhalf aswide, down the centerof which had oncebeenlaid a continuousstrip of lawn, now rank and overgrown.The plazawasempty,a suddenblock of free spacebounded by tall glass-facedcliffs that seemedto cany the sky. Staceyparked,andhe andConradclimbedout and stretchedthemselves. Togetherthey strolledacrossthe wide pavementtoward the strip of waisthigh vegetation.Looking down the vistasrecedingfrom the plazaConrad graspedfully for the first time the vastperspectivesof the city, the massive geometricjungle of buildings. Staceyput one foot up on the balustraderunning aroundthe lawn bed, pointed to the far end of the plaza,whereConrad sawa low-lying huddle of buildingsof unusualarchitecturalstyle,nineteenthcenturyperpendicular stained by the atmosphereand badly holed by a number of explosions. Again, however,his attention was held by the clock face built into a tall concretetower fust behind the older buildings.This wasthe largestclock dial he had everseen,at leasta hundredfeetacross,hugeblackhandshalted at a minute pasttwelve. The dial waswhite, the first they had seen,but on wide semicircularshouldersbuilt belowthe main facewerea dozensmaller faces,no more than twenty feet in diameter,running the full spectrumof colors.Each had five hands,the inferior three halted at random. "Fifty years ago:' Staceyexplained,gesturingat the ruins below the tower, "that collection of ancient buildings was one of the world'sgreatest legislativeassemblies. " He gazedat it quietly for a few moments, then turned to Conrad. "Enjoy the ride?" Conradnoddedfervently."It'simpressive, all right. The peoplewho lived heremust havebeengiants.What'sreally remarkableis that it looksasif they left only yesterday.Why don't we go back?" "Well, apartfrom the factthat therearen't enoughof us now,evenif there were we couldn't control it. In its heydaythis city was a fantastically complexsocial organism.The communicationsproblemsare difficult to imaginemerelyby looking at theseblank fagades.It'sthe tragedyof this city that there appearedto be only one way to solvethem." "Did they solvethem?" "Oh, yes,certainly.But theyleft themselves out of the equation.Think of the problems, though. Tiansporting fifteen million office workersto and from the center every day; routing in an endlessstreamof cars, buses, trains, helicopters;linking every office, almost every desk, with a videophone,everyapartmentwith television,radio, power,water;feedingand

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entertainingthis enormousnumberof people;guardingthem with ancillary services,pJi.., fire squads,medical units-it all hinged on one factor." Staceythrew a fist out at the great tower clock. "Time! Only by synchronizing everyactivity, everyfootstepforward or backward,everymeal, bus halt, and telephonecall, could the organism support itself. Like the cells in your body, which proliferateinto mortal cancersif allowedto grow in freedom, everyindividual here had to servethe overriding needsof the city or fatal bottlenecksthrew it into total chaos.You and I can turn on the tap any hour of the day or night, becausewe have our own private water cisterrrs,but what would happen here if everybodywashedthe breakfast disheswithin the sameten minutes?" They beganto walk slowly down the plazatowardthe clock tower. "Fifty yearsago, when the population was only ten million, they could iust providefor a potential peakcapacity,but eventhen a strikein one essential serviceparalyzedmost of the others;it took workerstwo or three hours to reachtheir offices, aslong again to queuefor lunch and get home. As the population climbed the first seriousattemptswere made to staggerhours; workersin certain areasstartedthe day an hour earlieror later than thosein and car number plateswerecoloredaccordingly, others.Their railwaypasses and if they tried to travel outside the permitted periodsthey were turned back. Soon the practice spread;you could only switch on your washing machine at a given hour, post a letter or take a bath at a specificperiod." "soundsfeasible,"Conradcommented,his interestmounting. "But how did they enforceall this?" "By a system of colored passes,colored money, an elaborate set of schedulespublishedeverydaylike TV or radioprograms.And, of course,by all the thousandsof clocksyou can seearound you here. The subsidiary handsmarkedout the number of minutesremainingin any activityperiod " for people in the clock'scolor category. blue-faced clock mounted on one of the pointed to a Staceystopped, buildings overlookingthe plaza."Let'ssay,for example,that a lower-grade executiveleaving his office at the allotted time, twelve o'clock, wants to have lunch, changea library book, buy someaspirin, and telephonehis his identityzoneis blue. He takesout his schedule wife. Like all executives, for the week, or looks down the blue-time columns in the newsPaper,and notesthat his lunch periodfor that day is twelve-fifteento twelve-thirty.He hasfifteen minutes to kill. Right, he then checksthe library. Time codefor today is given as three, that'sthe third hand on the clock. He looks at the nearestblue clock, the third hand saysthirty-sevenminutes past-he has twenty-threeminutes, ample time, to reachthe library. He startsdown the street,but finds at the first intersectionthat the pedestrianlights are only

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/ CHRC]NOPOLIS

shining red and greenand he can't get across.The area'sbeen temporarily zoned off for lower-gradewomen office workers-red, and manualsgreen." "what would happen if he ignoredthe lights?,,conrad asked. "Nothing immediately,but all blue clocksin the zoned areawould have returnedto zero, and no shopsor the library would servehim, unless he happenedto have,redor greencurrency and a forgedset of library tickets. Anyway,the penaltiesweretoo high to make the risk worthwhile, and the whole systemwasevolvedfor his convenience,no one else's.So, unable to reachthe library,he decideson the chemist.The time codefor the chemist is five, the fifth, smallesthand. It readsfifty-four minutespast:he has six minutesto find a chemistand make his purchase.This done, he still has five minutesbeforelunch, decidesto phonehis wife. Checkingthe phone codehe seesthat no periodhasbeenprovidedfor privatecallsthat day-or the next. He'll just haveto wait until he seeshei that evening.', "What if he did phone?" "He wouldn't be ableto gethis moneyin the coin box, and eventhen, his *if, assumingsheis a secretary, would be in a red time zoneand no longer in her office for that day-hence the prohibition on phone calls. It;ll meshedperfectly.Your time program told you when yol co,rld switch on your TV setand when to switch off. All electricapplianceswerefused, and if you strayedoutsidethe programmedperiodsyou'd havea hefty fine and repairbill to meet. The viewer'seconomicstatusobviouslydeterminedthe choice of program, and vice versa,so there was no qr.riion of coercion. Each day'sprogram listed your permitted activities:yo,, could go to the hairdresser's, cinema, bank, cocktail bar, at statedtimes, and if you went then you were sure of being servedquickly and efficiently." They had almost reachedthe far end of the plaza. Facing them on its tower wasthe enormousclock face, dominating its constellationof twelve motionlessattendants. "There werea dozen socioeconomiccategories:blue for executives,gold for professionalclasses,yellow for military and government officiaisincidentally, itb odd your parentsevergot hold of that wrishvatch,none of your family everworkedfor the government-green for manual workersand soon. Naturally,subtlesubdivisions werepossible.The lower-grade executive I mentionedleft his office at twelve,but a seniorexecutive,with exactly the same time codes, would leaveat eleven forty-five and have an extra fifteen minutes, would find the streetsclear beforethe lunch-hour rush of clerical workers." Staceypointed up at the tower."This wasthe Big Clock, the masterfrom which all otherswereregulated.CentralTime Control, a sortof Ministry of

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buildingsastheirlegislaTime, graduallytookoverthe old parliamentary were' effectively,the city's tive functionsdiminished.The programmers absoluterulers." poised atthebatteryof timepieces, continuedConradgazedup AsStacey to havebeensuspended, at l2:01. Somehowtime itselfseemed helplessly aroundhim the greatofficebuildingshung in a neutralintervalbetween andtomorrow.If onecouldonly startthe masterclockthe entire yesterday *o,rld probablyslide into gearand cometo life, in an instantbe "ity repeopled 'ThLy with its dynamicfostlingmillions. beganto waikbacktowardthecar.Conradlookedoverhisshoulder at the clockface,its giganticarmsuprighton the silenthour' "Why did it stop?"he asked. Staceylookedat him curiously."Haven'tI madeit fairlyplain?" "What do you mean?"Conradpulledhis eyesoff the scoresof clocks lining the plaza,frownedat Stacey. "Can you imaginewhatlife waslike for all but a fewof thethirty million here?" people ' all Blueandyellowclocks,he noticed,outnumbered ionrrd shrugged. the from had operated agencies others;obviouslythe majorgovernmental the sortof life we lead,"he than better but "Highly organized plazaarea. in thesightsaroundhim. "l'd ratherhavethe iepliedfinally,moreinterested arealwaysrationed, for onehoura daythan not at all. Scarcities teiephone aren'tthey?" "But this wasa wayof life in which everythingwasscarce.Don't you a point beyondwhich humandignityis surrendered?" think there's to beplentyof dignityhere.Lookat these Conradsnorted."Thereseems buildings,they'llstandfor a thousandyears.Tfy comparingthemwith my as asprecisely father.Any*.y, think of thebeautyof thesystem,engineered a watch." "That'sall it was,"Staceycommenteddourly."The old metaphorof the cog in the wheelwasnevermoretrue than here.The full sum of your columns,mailedto youonce wasprintedfor youin thenewspaper existence a monthfrom the Ministryof Time." pressed on in a Conradwaslookingoffin someotherdirectionandStacey slightlyloudervoice."EventuallXof course,revoltcame.It'sinteresting that in any industrialsocietythereis usuallyone socialrevolutioneach revolutionsreceivetheir impetusfrom procentury,and that successive highersociallevels.In the eighteenthcenturyit wasthe urban gressively in this revoltthe whiteproletariat,in the nineteenththe artisanclasses, flat, supporting modern collarofficeworker,living in his tiny so-called throughcreditpyramidsan economicsystemthat deniedhim all freedom

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of will or personality,chainedhim to a thousandclocks. . .,, He brokeoff. "What's the matter?" Conrad wasstaringdown one of the sidestreets.He hesitated,then asked in a casual voice: "How were theseclocks driven? Electrically?,, "Most of them. A few mechanically.Why?,' "l just wondered . . . how they kept them all going." He daw,clled at Stacey'sheels, checking the time from his wristwatchand glancing to his left. There were twenty or thirty clocks hanging from the buildings along the side street,indistinguishablefrom thosehe had seenall afternoon. Except for the fact that one of them wasworking! It wasmounted in the centerof a blackglassportico overan entranceway fifty yardsdown the right-hand side, about eighteen inches in diameter, with a faded blue face. Unlike the othersits handsregisteredthree-fifteen, the correcttime. Conrad had nearlymentionedthis apparentcoincidence to Staceywhen he had suddenlyseenthe minute hand moveon an interval. Withoutdoubtsomeonehad restartedthe clock;evenif it had beenrunning off an inexhaustiblebattery, after thirty-sevenyears it could never haue displayedsuch accuracy. He hung behind Stacey,who wassaying:"Every revolutionhasits symbol of oppression. ." The clock wasalmostout of view.Conrad wasabout to benddown and tie his shoelacewhen he sawthe minute hand jerk downward,tilt slightly from the horizontal. He followed Staceytoward the car, no longer botheringto listen to him. Ten yardsfrom it he turned and broke away,ran swiftly acrossthe roadway toward the nearestbuilding. "Newman!" he heard Staceyshout. "Come back!" He reachedthe pavement, ran between the great concrete pillars carrying the building. He pausedfor a moment behind an elevatorshaft, saw Staceyclimbing hurriedly into the car. The engine coughed and roared out, and Conrad sprintedon below the building into a rear alley that led back to the side street.Behindhim he heardthe car accelerati ng, adoorslamasit pickedup speed. When he enteredthe sidestreetthe car cameswingingoffthe plazathirty yardsbehind him. Staceyswervedoff the roadway,bumped up onto the pavementand gunned the car toward Conrad, throwing on the brakesin savagelurches, blasting the horn in an attempt to frighten him. Conrad sidestepped out of its way,almostfalling overthe bonnet, hurled himself up a narrow stairwayleadingto the first floor, and racedup the stepsto a short landing that endedin tall glassdoors.Through them he could seea wide balconythat ringedthe building. A fire escapecrisscrossed upwardto the

J. G. BALLARtr) / E}5

roof, giving way on the fifth floor to a cafeteriathat spannedthe streetto the office building opposite. Below he heard Stacey'sfeet running acrossthe pavement.The glass doorswerelocked. He pulled a fire extinguisherfrom its bracket,tossedthe heavycylinder againstthe centerof the plate. The glassslippedand crashed to the tiled fooi itr t sudden cascade,splashingdown the steps.Conrad steppedthrough onto the balcony, began to climb the stairway.He had ,.r.hed the third floor when he saw Staceybelow,craning upward. Hand over hand, Conrad pulled himself up the next two flights, swung over a bolted metal turnstile into the open court of the cafeteria.Tablesand chairs lay about on their sides, mixed up with the splinteredremains of desks thrown down from the upPer foors. The doors into the coveredrestaurantwere open, a large pool of water lying acrossthe foor. Conrad splashedthrough it, went over to a window and peereddown pastan old plasticplant into the street.Staceyseemedto have given up. Conrad crossedthe rear of the restaurant,straddledthe counter, and climbed through a window onto the open terrace running acrossthe street.Beyondthe rail he could seeinto the plaza,the double line of tire marks curving into the streetbelow. He had almost crossedto the oppositebalcony when a shot roared out into the air. There was a sharptinkle of falling glassand the sound of the explosionboomed awayamong the empty canyons. For a few secondshe panicked. He flinched back from the exposedrail, his eardrumsnumbed, looking up at the greatrectangularmassestowering abovehim on eitherside,the endlesstiersof windowslike the facetedeyesof giganticinsects.So Staceyhad beenarmed,almostcertainlywasa member of the Time Police! On his handsand kneesConrad scurriedalong the terrace,slid through the turnstiles and headedfor a half-open window on the balcony. Climbing through, he quickly lost himself in the building. He finally took up a position in a corner office on the sixth floor, the cafeteriajust below him to the right, the stairwayup which he had escaped directly opposite. All afternoon Staceydrove up and down the adjacentstreets,sometimes freewheelingsilentlywith the engineoff, at othersblazing through at speed. Thice he fired into the air, stoppingthe car afterwardto call out, his words lost among the echoesrolling from one streetto the next. Often he drove alongthe pavements,swervedaboutbelow the buildings asif he expectedto flush Conrad from behind one of the banks of escalators. Finally he appearedto drive offforgood, and Conrad turned his attention to the clock in the portico. It had movedon to six forty-five, almost exactly

AE / CHRONC]POLIS

the time givenby his own watch.Conrad resetthis to what he assumedwas the correct time, then sat back and waited for whoever had wound it to aPpear.Around him the thirty or forty other clockshe could seeremained stationary at l2:01. For five minutes he left his vigil, scoopedsomewateroff the pool in the cafeteria,suppressed his hunger,and shortlyafter midnight fell asleepin a cornerbehind the desk.

He woke the next morning to bright sunlight flooding into the office. standing up, he dusted his clothes, turned around to find a small grayhairedman in a patchedtweedsuit surveyinghim with sharpeyes.Slung in the crook of his arm was a large black-barreled*.rpon, it, hr--.r, menacinglycocked. The man put down a steel ruler he had evidently tapped against a cabinet,waited for Conrad to collect himself. "What areyou doing here?"he askedin a testyvoice.Conradnoticedhis pocketswerebulging with angularobjectsthat weigheddown the sidesof his jacket. "r . . . er . ." conrad searchedfor somethingto say.Somethingabout the old man convincedhim that this wasthe clock winder. Suddenlyhe decidedhe had nothing to loseby being frank, and blurted out, "l sawthe clock working. Down there on the left. I want to help wind them all up again." The old man watchedhim shrewdly.He had an alert birdlike face, twin folds under his chin like a cockerel's. "How do you proposeto do that?" he asked. Stuck by this one, Conrad said lamely, "l'd find a key somewhere. " The old man frowned. "one key?That wouldn't do much good." He seemedto be relaxing,and shookhis pocketswith a dull chink. For a few momentsneither of them saidanything. Then Conrad had an inspiration,baredhis wrist. "l havea watch," he said."lt'ssevenforty-five." "Let me see."The old man steppedforward,brisklytook Conrad'swrist and examinedthe yellow dial. "Movado Supermatic,"he saidto himself. "CTC issue."He steppedback, loweringthe shotgun,and seemedto be summingConradup. "Good," he remarkedat last."Let'ssee.Youprobably " need some breakfast. They madetheir wayout of the building, andbeganto walkquicklydown the street. "Peoplesometimescomehere,"the old man said."sightseersandpolice. I watchedyour escapeyesterday,you were lucky not to be killed." They

l J. G. BALLARtr / E7 swervedleft and right acrossthe empty streets,the old man darting between the stairwaysand buttresses.As he walked he held his hands stiffly to his sides,preventinghis pocketsfrom swinging.Glancing into them, Conrad saw that they were full of keys, large and rusty, of every design and combination. "I presumethat was your father'swatch," the old man remarked. lecture, and "Grandfather's,"Conrad corrected.He rememberedStacey's added, "He was killed in the plaza." The old man frownedsympathetically,for a moment held Conrad'sarm. They stoppedbelow a building, indistinguishablefrom the othersnearby, at one time a bank. The old man lookedcarefullyaroundhim, eyeingthe high cliff walls on all sides,then led the way up a stationaryescalator. His quarterswereon the secondfloor, beyonda mazeof steelgrillesand strongdoors,a stoveand a hammock slung in the centerof a largeworkshop. Lying about on thirty or forty desksin what had once been a typing pool, was an enormouscollection of clocks, all being simultaneouslyrepaired. Thll cabinetssurrounded them, loaded with thousandsof spareparts in neatly labeled correspondencetrays-escapements, ratchets, cogwheels, barely recognizablethrough the rust. The old man led Conrad over to a wall chart, pointed to the total listed against a column of dates. "Look at this. There are now 278 running continuously.Believeme, I'm gladyou'vecome.Ittakesme half my time to keep them wound." He made breakfastfor Conrad and told him somethingabout himself. His name wasMarshall. Once he had workedin Central Time Control asa programmer.He had survivedthe revoltand the Time Police,and ten years later returnedto the city. At the beginning of each month he cycled out to one of the perimetertownsto cashhis pensionand collectsupplies.The rest of the time he spentwinding the steadilyincreasingnumber of functioning clocks and searchingfor othershe could dismantle and repair. 'All theseyearsin the rain hasn't done them any good," he explained, "and there'snothing I can do with the electrical ones." Conrad wanderedoffamong the desks,gingerlyfeeling the dismembered timepiecesthat lay around like the nerve cells of somevastunimaginable robot. He felt exhilaratedand yet at the sametime curiously calm, like a man who hasstakedhis whole life on the turn of a wheel and is waiting for it to spin. "How can you make sure that they all tell the same time?" he asked Marshall, wondering why the questionseemedso important. Marshall gesturedirritably. "l can't, but what doesit matter?There is no such thing asa perfectlyaccurateclock. The nearestyou can get is one that

AB

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hasstopped.Although you neverknow when, it is absolutelyaccuratetwice a day." Conrad went overto the window,pointedto the greatclock visiblein an intervalbetweenthe rooftops."lf only we could startthat, and run all the othersoff it. " "Impossible.The entire mechanismwasdynamited.Only the chimer is intact. Anyway,the wiring of the electricallydriven clocksperishedyears ago. It would take an army of engineersto reconditionthem.', Conrad looked at the scoreboardagain. He noticed that Marshall appearedto have lost his way through the years-the completion dateshe listed were seven and a half years out. Idly, Conrad ieflected on the significanceof this irony, but decidednot to mention it to Marshall.

For three months Conrad lived with the old man, following him on foot as he cycledabout on his rounds,carryingthe ladderand the satchelfull of keyswith which Marshall wound up the clocks, helping him to dismantle recoverableones and carry them back to the *orkshop. All day, and often through half the night, they worked together, repairing the movements,restartingthe clocks, and returning them to their original positions. All the while, however,Conrad'smind wasfixed upon the greatclock in its tower dominating the plaza. once a day he managedto sneakoff and makehis wayinto the ruinedTime buildings.As Marshallhad said,neither the clock nor its twelve satelliteswould ever run again. The movement houselookedlike the engineroom ofa sunkenship, a rustingtangleof rotors and drive wheels exploded into contorted shapes.Every *..k he would climb the long stairwayup to the topmostplatform two hundredfeet above, look out through the bell towerat the flat roofsof the office blocksstretching awayto the horizon. The hammersrestedagainsttheir trips in long ranks iust below him. Once he kickedone of the trebletrips playfully, senta dull chime out acrossthe plaza. The sound drove strangeechoesinto his mind. Slowlyhe beganto repairthe chimer mechanism,rewiringthe hammers and the pulley systems,trailing fresh wire up the greatheighl of the tower, dismantlingthe winchesin the movementroom below and ,enouatingtheir clutches. He and Marshall neverdiscussed their self-appointed tasks.Like animals obeyingan instinct they workedtirelessly,barelyawareof their own motives. When Conrad told him one day that he intendedto leaveand continue the

J. G. BALLAFIE]

/ E}9

work in anothersectorofthe city, Marshall agreedimmediately,gaveConrad asmany toolsashe could spareand badehim good-bye.

Six monthslater,almostto the day,the soundsof the greatclock chimed out acrossthe rooftopsof the city, marking the hours, the half hours and the quarterhours, steadilytolling the progressof the day.Thirty miles away,in the townsforming the perimeterof the city, peoplestoppedin the streetsand in doorways,listeningto the dim hauntedechoesreflectedthrough the long aislesof apartment blocks on the far horizon, involuntarily counting the slow final sequencesthat told the hour. Older people whisperedto each other: "Four o'clock, or was it five? They have startedthe clock again. It seemsstrangeafter theseyears." And all through the day they would pauseasthe quarterand half hours reachedacrossthe miles to them, a voice from their childhoodsreminding them of the orderedworld of the past.They beganto resettheir timersby the chimes, at night before they slept they would listen to the long count of midnight, waketo hear them again in the thin clear air of the morning. Somewent down to the police stationand askedif they could havetheir watchesand clocks back again.

After sentence,twenty years for the murder of Stacey,five for fourteen offensesunder the Time Laws, to run concurrently,Newman wasled away to the holding cells in the basementof the court. He had expectedthe sentenceand made no comment when invited by the iudge. After waiting trial for a yearthe afternoon in the courtroom was nothing more than a momentaryintermission. He made no attempt to defend himself against the charge of killing Stacey,partly to shield Marshall, who would be ableto continue their work unmolested,and partly becausehe felt indirectly responsiblefor the policeman'sdeath. Stacey'sbody, skull fractured by a twenty- or thirty-story fall, had been discoveredin the backseatof his car in a basementgaragenot far from the plaza. PresumablyMarshall had discoveredhim prowling around. Newman recalledthat one day Marshall had disappearedaltogetherand had been curiously irritable for the rest of the week. The last time he had seenthe old man had been during the three days beforethe police arrived. Each morning asthe chimes boomed out across the plaza Newman had seenhis tiny figure striding briskly down the plaza towardhim, wavingup energeticallyat the tower,bareheadedand unafraid.

9Q / CHFTONOPOLIS

Now Newman wasfacedwith the problem of how to devise a clock that would chart his way through the coming twenty years.His fears increased when he was taken the next day to the cell block which housed the longterm prisoners-passinghis cell on the way to meet the superintendent he noticed that his window looked out onto a small shaft. iI. pu-ped his brains desperatelyas he stood at attention during the superintendent,s homilies,wonderinghow he could retain his sanity.Shortof counting the seconds,eachone of the 86,400 in everyday,he sawno possible meansof assessing the time. Lockedinto his cell, he satlimply on the narrowbed, too tired to unpack his small bundle of possessions. A moment'sinspectionconfirmed the uselessness of the shaft. A powerful light mounted halfway up maskedthe sunlight that slippedthrough a steelgrille fifty feet above. He stretchedhimself out on the bed and examinedthe ceiling. A lamp was recessedinto its center, but a second,surprisingly,appear."d to have been fitted to the cell. This wason the wall, , f.* feet abovehis head. He could see the curving bowl of the protective case, some ten inches in diameter. He waswonderingwhetherthis could be a readinglight when he realized that there was no switch. Swingingaround, he sat up and examinedit, then leapt to his feet in astonishment. It wasa clock!Hepressed his handsagainstthe bowl, readingthe circleof numerals, noting the inclination of the hands. 4:57, near-enough the presenttime. Not simply a clock, but one in running order! Wasthis some sort of macabrejoke, or a misguidedattempt at rehabilitation? His pounding on the door brought a warder. "What's all the noise about?The clockz What's the matter with it?,, He unlockedthe door and bargedin, pushing Newman back. "Nothing. But why is it here?They're againstthe law." "Is that what'sworryingyou." The wardeishtugged."well, you see,the rules are a little different in here. You lads havegot r lot of time aheadof you, it'd be cruel not to let you know where you stood. you know how to workit, do you?Good." He slammedthe door andboltedit fast,then smiled at Newman throughthe cage."lt! a long dayhere,son, asyou'll be finding out. That'll help you get through it. " Gleefully, Newman lay on the bed, his headon a rolledblanketat its foot, staringup at the clock. It appearedto be in perfectorder,electricallydriven, moving in rigid half-minute jerks. For an hour after the warder left he watchedit without a break,then beganto tidy up his cell, glancingoverhis shouldereveryfew minutes to reassurehimself that it wasstill there, still

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of iustice, The ironyof thesituation,thetotalinversion runningefficiently. delightedhim, eventhoughit would costhim twentyyearsof his life. He wasstill chucklingovertheabsurdityof it all twoweekslaterwhenfor the firsttime he noticedthe clock'sinsanelyirritatingtick . . .

Tnicenatops TFIANSLATED

BY DAVID

LEWIS

sciencefiction in lapan beganin the 1960s asan offshootof American sciencefrction, with conventionswhere fans gathered,-a majormagazine(Hayakawa's sF Magazine), and a waveof translationsfr_oyEnglish. Butwhatdivelopid was unlike theliteratuy g! the west,and more |ikethe irprnrrc sci-frfilms of the /,950s andearly 1960s, full of monsters and disasters. This story combinesihe frtcinationwith monsters and.1sensibility-akin to thatoflorge LuisBorgesor themagic realist2ol perhaps,?rly Bailard As rs ,ofr^on with lZpalleseSf; thereis notthe kindof narrativeforceorplot to'noU thestorytogetherthat weexpectin Westernliteratire. Instead therersa successro n of setpiecgs leadingup to a culminating image;in this case,one that hasstriking,perhapsevendiiturbing,political undertones.This is a-storvaboutwar.

he father and son were returning from cycling. They had setout togetheron a Sundayof deepeningautumn, headingfor the cycling coursealong the river. On the waybackthey had beenforcedto burrow through the exhaust and dust of the national highway before finally reachingthe residentialarea a mile from home. Their houselay beyond this slightly aging neighborhood,on the other side of the small hill, in the new subdivision. It was only a little past seven,but the autumn sun was sinkingquicklyanddarkness had begunto gatheraboutthem. The father and son stoppedtheir bikes beneath the yellow light of the streetlampsand breathedthe cool air in deeply. 'Are you okay,Dad?"