Free Classic Short Stories, Novels, Poetry and Books on Writing | Writer's Library (Writing Mastery) (2024)

In the country of the blind, the one-eyed man, of
course, is king. But how about a live wire, a smart
businessman, in a civilization of 100% pure chumps?

Some things had not changed. A potter's wheel was still a potter'swheel and clay was still clay. Efim Hawkins had built his shop nearGoose Lake, which had a narrow band of good fat clay and a narrow beachof white sand. He fired three bottle-nosed kilns with willow charcoalfrom the wood lot. The wood lot was also useful for long walks whilethe kilns were cooling; if he let himself stay within sight of them,he would open them prematurely, impatient to see how some new shape orglaze had come through the fire, and—ping!—the new shape or glazewould be good for nothing but the shard pile back of his slip tanks.

A business conference was in full swing in his shop, a modest cubeof brick, tile-roofed, as the Chicago-Los Angeles "rocket" thunderedoverhead—very noisy, very swept-back, very fiery jets, shaped assleekly swift-looking as an airborne barracuda.

The buyer from Marshall Fields was turning over a black-glazed oneliter carafe, nodding approval with his massive, handsome head. "Thisis real pretty," he told Hawkins and his own secretary, Gomez-Laplace."This has got lots of what ya call real est'etic principles. Yeah, itis real pretty."

"How much?" the secretary asked the potter.

"Seven-fifty each in dozen lots," said Hawkins. "I ran up fifteen dozenlast month."

"They are real est'etic," repeated the buyer from Fields. "I will takethem all."

"I don't think we can do that, doctor," said the secretary. "They'dcost us $1,350. That would leave only $532 in our quarter's budget.And we still have to run down to East Liverpool to pick up some cheapdinner sets."

"Dinner sets?" asked the buyer, his big face full of wonder.

"Dinner sets. The department's been out of them for two months now. Mr.Garvy-Seabright got pretty nasty about it yesterday. Remember?"

"Garvy-Seabright, that meat-headed bluenose," the buyer saidcontemptuously. "He don't know nothin' about est'etics. Why for don'the lemme run my own department?" His eye fell on a stray copy ofWhambozambo Comix and he sat down with it. An occasional deep chuckleor grunt of surprise escaped him as he turned the pages.

Uninterrupted, the potter and the buyer's secretary quickly closed adeal for two dozen of the liter carafes. "I wish we could take more,"said the secretary, "but you heard what I told him. We've had toturn away customers for ordinary dinnerware because he shot the lastquarter's budget on some Mexican piggy banks some equally enthusiasticimporter stuck him with. The fifth floor is packed solid with them."

"I'll bet they look mighty est'etic."

"They're painted with purple cacti."

The potter shuddered and caressed the glaze of the sample carafe.

The buyer looked up and rumbled, "Ain't you dummies through yakkin'yet? What good's a seckertary for if'n he don't take the burden ofde-tail off'n my back, harh?"

"We're all through, doctor. Are you ready to go?"

The buyer grunted peevishly, dropped Whambozambo Comix on the floorand led the way out of the building and down the log corduroy road tothe highway. His car was waiting on the concrete. It was, like allcontemporary cars, too low-slung to get over the logs. He climbed downinto the car and started the motor with a tremendous sparkle and roar.

"Gomez-Laplace," called out the potter under cover of the noise, "didanything come of the radiation program they were working on the lasttime I was on duty at the Pole?"

"The same old fallacy," said the secretary gloomily. "It stopped us onmutation, it stopped us on culling, it stopped us on segregation, andnow it's stopped us on hypnosis."

"Well, I'm scheduled back to the grind in nine days. Time for anotherfiring right now. I've got a new luster to try...."

"I'll miss you. I shall be 'vacationing'—running the drafting room ofthe New Century Engineering Corporation in Denver. They're going to putup a two hundred-story office building, and naturally somebody's got tobe on hand."

"Naturally," said Hawkins with a sour smile.

There was an ear-piercingly sweet blast as the buyer leaned on the hornbutton. Also, a yard-tall jet of what looked like flame spurted up fromthe car's radiator cap; the car's power plant was a gas turbine, andhad no radiator.

"I'm coming, doctor," said the secretary dispiritedly. He climbed downinto the car and it whooshed off with much flame and noise.

The potter, depressed, wandered back up the corduroy road andcontemplated his cooling kilns. The rustling wind in the boughs wasobscuring the creak and mutter of the shrinking refractory brick.Hawkins wondered about the number two kiln—a reduction fire on a loadof lusterware mugs. Had the clay chinking excluded the air? Had itbeen a properly smoky blaze? Would it do any harm if he just took oneclose—?

Common sense took Hawkins by the scruff of the neck and yanked himover to the tool shed. He got out his pick and resolutely set off on aprospecting jaunt to a hummocky field that might yield some oxides. Hewas especially low on coppers.

The long walk left him sweating hard, with his lust for a peek into thekiln quiet in his breast. He swung his pick almost at random into oneof the hummocks; it clanged on a stone which he excavated. A largelyobliterated inscription said:

ERSITY OF CHIC
OGICAL LABO
ELOVED MEMORY OF
KILLED IN ACT

The potter swore mildly. He had hoped the field would turn out to be acemetery, preferably a once-fashionable cemetery full of once-massivebronze caskets moldered into oxides of tin and copper.

Well, hell, maybe there was some around anyway.

He headed lackadaisically for the second largest hillock and slicedinto it with his pick. There was a stone to undercut and topple intoa trench, and then the potter was very glad he'd stuck at it. Hisnostrils were filled with the bitter smell and the dirt was tinged withthe exciting blue of copper salts. The pick went clang!

Hawkins, puffing, pried up a stainless steel plate that was quite badlystained and was also marked with incised letters. It seemed to havepulled loose from rotting bronze; there were rivets on the back thatbrought up flakes of green patina. The potter wiped off the surfacedirt with his sleeve, turned it to catch the sunlight obliquely andread:

"HONEST JOHN BARLOW

"Honest John," famed in university annals, represents a challengewhich medical science has not yet answered: revival of a human beingaccidentally thrown into a state of suspended animation.

In 1988 Mr. Barlow, a leading Evanston real estate dealer, visitedhis dentist for treatment of an impacted wisdom tooth. His dentistrequested and received permission to use the experimental anestheticCycloparadimethanol-B-7, developed at the University.

After administration of the anesthetic, the dentist resorted to hisdrill. By freakish mischance, a short circuit in his machine delivered220 volts of 60-cycle current into the patient. (In a damage suitinstituted by Mrs. Barlow against the dentist, the University and themakers of the drill, a jury found for the defendants.) Mr. Barlownever got up from the dentist's chair and was assumed to have died ofpoisoning, electrocution or both.

Morticians preparing him for embalming discovered, however, that theirsubject was—though certainly not living—just as certainly not dead.The University was notified and a series of exhaustive tests wasbegun, including attempts to duplicate the trance state on volunteers.After a bad run of seven cases which ended fatally, the attempts wereabandoned.

Honest John was long an exhibit at the University museum, and livenedmany a football game as mascot of the University's Blue Crushers. Thebounds of taste were overstepped, however, when a pledge to SigmaDelta Chi was ordered in '03 to "kidnap" Honest John from his looselyguarded glass museum case and introduce him into the Rachel SwansonMemorial Girls' Gymnasium shower room.

On May 22nd, 2003, the University Board of Regents issued thefollowing order: "By unanimous vote, it is directed that the remainsof Honest John Barlow be removed from the University museum andconveyed to the University's Lieutenant James Scott III MemorialBiological Laboratories and there be securely locked in a speciallyprepared vault. It is further directed that all possible measuresfor the preservation of these remains be taken by the Laboratoryadministration and that access to these remains be denied to allpersons except qualified scholars authorized in writing by the Board.The Board reluctantly takes this action in view of recent notices andphotographs in the nation's press which, to say the least, reflect butsmall credit upon the University."

It was far from his field, but Hawkins understood what had happened—anearly and accidental blundering onto the bare bones of the Levantmanshock anesthesia, which had since been replaced by other methods. Tobring subjects out of Levantman shock, you let them have a squirt ofsimple saline in the trigeminal nerve. Interesting. And now about thatbronze—

He heaved the pick into the rotting green salts, expecting noresistence and almost fractured his wrist. Something down there wassolid. He began to flake off the oxides.

A half hour of work brought him down to phosphor bronze, a huge castingof the almost incorruptible metal. It had weakened structurally overthe centuries; he could fit the point of his pick under a corroded bossand pry off great creaking and grumbling striae of the stuff.

Hawkins wished he had an archeologist with him, but didn't dream ofreturning to his shop and calling one to take over the find. He was anall-around man: by choice and in his free time, an artist in clay andglaze; by necessity, an automotive, electronics and atomic engineerwho could also swing a project in traffic control, individual andgroup psychology, architecture or tool design. He didn't yell for aspecialist every time something out of his line came up; there were sofew with so much to do....

He trenched around his find, discovering that it was a greatbrick-shaped bronze mass with an excitingly hollow sound. A long stripof moldering metal from one of the long vertical faces pulled away,exposing red rust that went whoosh and was sucked into the interiorof the mass.

It had been de-aired, thought Hawkins, and there must have been aninner jacket of glass which had crystalized through the centuries andquietly crumbled at the first clang of his pick. He didn't know what avacuum would do to a subject of Levantman shock, but he had hopes, nordid he quite understand what a real estate dealer was, but it mighthave something to do with pottery. And anything might have a bearingon Topic Number One.

He flung his pick out of the trench, climbed out and set off at adog-trot for his shop. A little rummaging turned up a hypo and therewas a plasticontainer of salt in the kitchen.

Back at his dig, he chipped for another half hour to expose thejuncture of lid and body. The hinges were hopeless; he smashed them off.

Hawkins extended the telescopic handle of the pick for the bestleverage, fitted its point into a deep pit, set its built-in fulcrum,and heaved. Five more heaves and he could see, inside the vault, whatlooked like a dusty marble statue. Ten more and he could see that itwas the naked body of Honest John Barlow, Evanston real estate dealer,uncorrupted by time.

The potter found the apex of the trigeminal nerve with his needle'spoint and gave him 60 cc.

In an hour Barlow's chest began to pump.

In another hour, he rasped, "Did it work?"

"Did it!" muttered Hawkins.

Barlow opened his eyes and stirred, looked down, turned his handsbefore his eyes—

"I'll sue!" he screamed. "My clothes! My fingernails!" A horridsuspicion came over his face and he clapped his hands to his hairlessscalp. "My hair!" he wailed. "I'll sue you for every penny you've got!That release won't mean a damned thing in court—I didn't sign away myhair and clothes and fingernails!"

"They'll grow back," said Hawkins casually. "Also your epidermis. Thoseparts of you weren't alive, you know, so they weren't preserved likethe rest of you. I'm afraid the clothes are gone, though."

"What is this—the University hospital?" demanded Barlow. "I wanta phone. No, you phone. Tell my wife I'm all right and tell SamImmerman—he's my lawyer—to get over here right away. Greenleaf7-4022. Ow!" He had tried to sit up, and a portion of his pink skinrubbed against the inner surface of the casket, which was powdered bythe ancient crystalized glass. "What the hell did you guys do, boil mealive? Oh, you're going to pay for this!"

"You're all right," said Hawkins, wishing now he had a reference bookto clear up several obscure terms. "Your epidermis will start growingimmediately. You're not in the hospital. Look here."

He handed Barlow the stainless steel plate that had labeled the casket.After a suspicious glance, the man started to read. Finishing, he laidthe plate carefully on the edge of the vault and was silent for aspell.

"Poor Verna," he said at last. "It doesn't say whether she was stuckwith the court costs. Do you happen to know—"

"No," said the potter. "All I know is what was on the plate, and how torevive you. The dentist accidentally gave you a dose of what we callLevantman shock anesthesia. We haven't used it for centuries; it waspowerful, but too dangerous."

"Centuries ..." brooded the man. "Centuries ... I'll bet Sam swindledher out of her eyeteeth. Poor Verna. How long ago was it? What year isthis?"

Hawkins shrugged. "We call it 7-B-936. That's no help to you. It takesa long time for these metals to oxidize."

"Like that movie," Barlow muttered. "Who would have thought it? PoorVerna!" He blubbered and sniffled, reminding Hawkins powerfully of thefact that he had been found under a flat rock.

Almost angrily, the potter demanded, "How many children did you have?"

"None yet," sniffed Barlow. "My first wife didn't want them. But Vernawants one—wanted one—but we're going to wait until—we were goingto wait until—"

"Of course," said the potter, feeling a savage desire to tell him off,blast him to hell and gone for his work. But he choked it down. Therewas The Problem to think of; there was always The Problem to think of,and this poor blubberer might unexpectedly supply a clue. Hawkins wouldhave to pass him on.

"Come along," Hawkins said. "My time is short."

Barlow looked up, outraged. "How can you be so unfeeling? I'm a humanbeing like—"

The Los Angeles-Chicago "rocket" thundered overhead and Barlow brokeoff in mid-complaint. "Beautiful!" he breathed, following it with hiseyes. "Beautiful!"

He climbed out of the vault, too interested to be pained by itsroughness against his infantile skin. "After all," he said briskly,"this should have its sunny side. I never was much for reading, butthis is just like one of those stories. And I ought to make some moneyout of it, shouldn't I?" He gave Hawkins a shrewd glance.

"You want money?" asked the potter. "Here." He handed over a fistfulof change and bills. "You'd better put my shoes on. It'll be about aquarter-mile. Oh, and you're—uh, modest?—yes, that was the word.Here." Hawkins gave him his pants, but Barlow was excitedly countingthe money.

"Eighty-five, eighty-six—and it's dollars, too! I thought it'dbe credits or whatever they call them. 'E Pluribus Unum' and'Liberty'—just different faces. Say, is there a catch to this? Arethese real, genuine, honest twenty-two-cent dollars like we had orjust wallpaper?"

"They're quite all right, I assure you," said the potter. "I wish you'dcome along. I'm in a hurry."

The man babbled as they stumped toward the shop. "Where are wegoing—The Council of Scientists, the World Coordinator or somethinglike that?"

"Who? Oh, no. We call them 'President' and 'Congress.' No, thatwouldn't do any good at all. I'm just taking you to see some people."

"I ought to make plenty out of this. Plenty! I could write books.Get some smart young fellow to put it into words for me and I'll bet Icould turn out a best-seller. What's the setup on things like that?"

"It's about like that. Smart young fellows. But there aren't anybest-sellers any more. People don't read much nowadays. We'll findsomething equally profitable for you to do."

Back in the shop, Hawkins gave Barlow a suit of clothes, deposited himin the waiting room and called Central in Chicago. "Take him away," hepleaded. "I have time for one more firing and he blathers and blathers.I haven't told him anything. Perhaps we should just turn him loose andlet him find his own level, but there's a chance—"

"The Problem," agreed Central. "Yes, there's a chance."

The potter delighted Barlow by making him a cup of coffee with a cubethat not only dissolved in cold water but heated the water to boilingpoint. Killing time, Hawkins chatted about the "rocket" Barlow hadadmired, and had to haul himself up short; he had almost told the realestate man what its top speed really was—almost, indeed, revealed thatit was not a rocket.

He regretted, too, that he had so casually handed Barlow a couple ofhundred dollars. The man seemed obsessed with fear that they wereworthless since Hawkins refused to take a note or I.O.U. or even adefinite promise of repayment. But Hawkins couldn't go into details,and was very glad when a stranger arrived from Central.

"Tinny-Peete, from Algeciras," the stranger told him swiftly as thetwo of them met at the door. "Psychist for Poprob. Polasigned specialovertake Barlow."

"Thank Heaven," said Hawkins. "Barlow," he told the man from the past,"this is Tinny-Peete. He's going to take care of you and help you makelots of money."

The psychist stayed for a cup of the coffee whose preparation haddelighted Barlow, and then conducted the real estate man down thecorduroy road to his car, leaving the potter to speculate on whether hecould at last crack his kilns.

Hawkins, abruptly dismissing Barlow and the Problem, happily pickedthe chinking from around the door of the number two kiln, prying itopen a trifle. A blast of heat and the heady, smoky scent of thereduction fire delighted him. He peered and saw a corner of a shelfglowing cherry-red, becoming obscured by wavering black areas as itlost heat through the opened door. He slipped a charred wood paddleunder a mug on the shelf and pulled it out as a sample, the hairs onthe back of his hand curling and scorching. The mug crackled and pingedand Hawkins sighed happily.

The bismuth resinate luster had fired to perfection, a haunting filmof silvery-black metal with strange bluish lights in it as it turnedbefore the eyes, and the Problem of Population seemed very far away toHawkins then.

Barlow and Tinny-Peete arrived at the concrete highway where thepsychist's car was parked in a safety bay.

"What—a—boat!" gasped the man from the past.

"Boat? No, that's my car."

Barlow surveyed it with awe. Swept-back lines, deep-drawn compoundcurves, kilograms of chrome. He ran his hands futilely over thedoor—or was it the door?—in a futile search for a handle, and askedrespectfully, "How fast does it go?"

The psychist gave him a keen look and said slowly, "Two hundred andfifty. You can tell by the speedometer."

"Wow! My old Chevvy could hit a hundred on a straightaway, but you'reout of my class, mister!"

Tinny-Peete somehow got a huge, low door open and Barlow descendedthree steps into immense cushions, floundering over to the right. Hewas too fascinated to pay serious attention to his flayed dermis. Thedashboard was a lovely wilderness of dials, plugs, indicators, lights,scales and switches.

The psychist climbed down into the driver's seat and did something withhis feet. The motor started like lighting a blowtorch as big as a silo.Wallowing around in the cushions, Barlow saw through a rear-view mirrora tremendous exhaust filled with brilliant white sparkles.

"Do you like it?" yelled the psychist.

"It's terrific!" Barlow yelled back. "It's—"

He was shut up as the car pulled out from the bay into the road witha great voo-ooo-ooom! A gale roared past Barlow's head, though thewindows seemed to be closed; the impression of speed was terrific. Helocated the speedometer on the dashboard and saw it climb past 90, 100,150, 200.

"Fast enough for me," yelled the psychist, noting that Barlow's facefell in response. "Radio?"

He passed over a surprisingly light object like a football helmet,with no trailing wires, and pointed to a row of buttons. Barlow puton the helmet, glad to have the roar of air stilled, and pushed apushbutton. It lit up satisfyingly and Barlow settled back even fartherfor a sample of the brave new world's super-modern taste in ingeniousentertainment.

"TAKE IT AND STICK IT!" a voice roared in his ears.

He snatched off the helmet and gave the psychist an injured look.Tinny-Peete grinned and turned a dial associated with the pushbuttonlayout. The man from the past donned the helmet again and found thevoice had lowered to normal.

"The show of shows! The super-show! The super-duper show! The quiz ofquizzes! Take it and stick it!"

There were shrieks of laughter in the background.

"Here we got the contes-tants all ready to go. You know how we work it.I hand a contes-tant a triangle-shaped cut-out and like that down theline. Now we got these here boards, they got cut-out places the sameshape as the triangles and things, only they're all different shapes,and the first contes-tant that sticks the cutouts into the board, hewins.

"Now I'm gonna innaview the first contes-tant. Right here, honey.What's your name?"

"Name? Uh—"

"Hoddaya like that, folks? She don't remember her name! Hah? Wouldyou buy that for a quarter?" The question was spoken with archsignificance, and the audience shrieked, howled and whistled itsappreciation.

It was dull listening when you didn't know the punch lines and catchlines. Barlow pushed another button, with his free hand ready at thevolume control.

"—latest from Washington. It's about Senator Hull-Mendoza. He is stillattacking the Bureau of Fisheries. The North California Syndicalistsays he got affidavits that John Kingsley-Schultz is a bluenose fromway back. He didn't publistat the affydavits, but he says they say thatKingsley-Schultz was saw at bluenose meetings in Oregon State Collegeand later at Florida University. Kingsley-Schultz says he gotta confesshe did major in fly-casting at Oregon and got his Ph.D. in game-fish atFlorida.

"And here is a quote from Kingsley-Schultz: 'Hull-Mendoza don't knowwhat he's talking about. He should drop dead.' Unquote. Hull-Mendozasays he won't publistat the affydavits to pertect his sources. He saysthey was sworn by three former employes of the Bureau which was firedfor in-com-petence and in-com-pat-ibility by Kingsley-Schultz.

"Elsewhere they was the usual run of traffic accidents. A three-waypileup of cars on Route 66 going outta Chicago took twelve lives.The Chicago-Los Angeles morning rocket crashed and exploded in theMo-have—Mo-javvy—what-ever-you-call-it Desert. All the 94 peopleaboard got killed. A Civil Aeronautics Authority investigator on thescene says that the pilot was buzzing herds of sheep and didn't pullout in time.

"Hey! Here's a hot one from New York! A Diesel tug run wild in theharbor while the crew was below and shoved in the port bow of theluck-shury liner S. S. Placentia. It says the ship filled and sanktaking the lives of an es-ti-mated 180 passengers and 50 crew members.Six divers was sent down to study the wreckage, but they died, too,when their suits turned out to be fulla little holes.

"And here is a bulletin I just got from Denver. It seems—"

Barlow took off the headset uncomprehendingly. "He seemed so callous,"he yelled at the driver. "I was listening to a newscast—"

Tinny-Peete shook his head and pointed at his ears. The roar of air wasdeafening. Barlow frowned baffledly and stared out of the window.

A glowing sign said:

MOOGS!
WOULD YOU BUY IT
FOR A QUARTER?

He didn't know what Moogs was or were; the illustration showedan incredibly proportioned girl, 99.9 per cent naked, writhingpassionately in animated full color.

The roadside jingle was still with him, but with a new feature. Radaror something spotted the car and alerted the lines of the jingle. Eachin turn sped along a roadside track, even with the car, so it could beread before the next line was alerted.

IF THERE'S A GIRL
YOU WANT TO GET
DEFLOCCULIZE
UNROMANTIC SWEAT.
"A*R*M*P*I*T*T*O"

Another animated job, in two panels, the familiar "Before and After."The first said, "Just Any Cigar?" and was illustrated with a two-persondomestic tragedy of a wife holding her nose while her coarse andred-faced husband puffed a slimy-looking rope. The second panel glowed,"Or a VUELTA ABAJO?" and was illustrated with—

Barlow blushed and looked at his feet until they had passed the sign.

"Coming into Chicago!" bawled Tinny-Peete.

Other cars were showing up, all of them dreamboats.

Watching them, Barlow began to wonder if he knew what a kilometerwas, exactly. They seemed to be traveling so slowly, if you ignoredthe roaring air past your ears and didn't let the speedy lines of thedreamboats fool you. He would have sworn they were really crawlingalong at twenty-five, with occasional spurts up to thirty. How muchwas a kilometer, anyway?

The city loomed ahead, and it was just what it ought to be: toweringskyscrapers, overhead ramps, landing platforms for helicopters—

He clutched at the cushions. Those two 'copters. They were goingto—they were going to—they—

He didn't see what happened because their apparent collision coursestook them behind a giant building.

Screamingly sweet blasts of sound surrounded them as they stopped for ared light. "What the hell is going on here?" said Barlow in a shrill,frightened voice, because the braking time was just about zero, hewasn't hurled against the dashboard. "Who's kidding who?"

"Why, what's the matter?" demanded the driver.

The light changed to green and he started the pickup. Barlow stiffenedas he realized that the rush of air past his ears began just a brief,unreal split-second before the car was actually moving. He grabbed forthe door handle on his side.

The city grew on them slowly: scattered buildings, denser buildings,taller buildings, and a red light ahead. The car rolled to a stop inzero braking time, the rush of air cut off an instant after it stopped,and Barlow was out of the car and running frenziedly down a sidewalkone instant after that.

They'll track me down, he thought, panting. It's a secret policething. They'll get you—mind-reading machines, television eyeseverywhere, afraid you'll tell their slaves about freedom and stuff.They don't let anybody cross them, like that story I once read.

Winded, he slowed to a walk and congratulated himself that he had gutsenough not to turn around. That was what they always watched for.Walking, he was just another business-suited back among hundreds. Hewould be safe, he would be safe—

A hand tumbled from a large, coarse, handsome face thrust close to his:"Wassamatta bumpinninna people likeya owna sidewalk gotta miner slamyainna mushya bassar!" It was neither the mad potter nor the mad driver.

"Excuse me," said Barlow. "What did you say?"

"Oh, yeah?" yelled the stranger dangerously, and waited for an answer.

Barlow, with the feeling that he had somehow been suckered intothe short end of an intricate land-title deal, heard himself replybelligerently, "Yeah!"

The stranger let go of his shoulder and snarled, "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah!" said Barlow, yanking his jacket back into shape.

"Aaah!" snarled the stranger, with more contempt and disgust thanferocity. He added an obscenity current in Barlow's time, a standardbut physiologically impossible directive, and strutted off hulking hisshoulders and balling his fists.

Barlow walked on, trembling. Evidently he had handled it well enough.He stopped at a red light while the long, low dreamboats roared beforehim and pedestrians in the sidewalk flow with him threaded their waysthrough the stream of cars. Brakes screamed, fenders clanged anddented, hoarse cries flew back and forth between drivers and walkers.He leaped backward frantically as one car swerved over an arc ofsidewalk to miss another.

The signal changed to green, the cars kept on coming for about thirtyseconds and then dwindled to an occasional light-runner. Barlow crossedwarily and leaned against a vending machine, blowing big breaths.

Look natural, he told himself. Do something normal. Buy somethingfrom the machine.

He fumbled out some change, got a newspaper for a dime, a handkerchieffor a quarter and a candy bar for another quarter.

The faint chocolate smell made him ravenous suddenly. He clawed at theglassy wrapper printed "CRIGGLIES" quite futilely for a few seconds,and then it divided neatly by itself. The bar made three good bites,and he bought two more and gobbled them down.

Thirsty, he drew a carbonated orange drink in another one of the glassywrappers from the machine for another dime. When he fumbled with it, itdivided neatly and spilled all over his knees. Barlow decided he hadbeen there long enough and walked on.

The shop windows were—shop windows. People still wore and boughtclothes, still smoked and bought tobacco, still ate and bought food.And they still went to the movies, he saw with pleased surprise as hepassed and then returned to a glittering place whose sign said it wasTHE BIJOU.

The place seemed to be showing a quintuple feature, Babies AreTerrible, Don't Have Children, and The Canali Kid.

It was irresistible; he paid a dollar and went in.

He caught the tail-end of The Canali Kid in three-dimensional,full-color, full-scent production. It appeared to be an interplanetarysaga winding up with a chase scene and a reconciliation betweenestranged hero and heroine. Babies Are Terrible and Don't HaveChildren were fantastic arguments against parenthood—the grotesquelyexaggerated dangers of painfully graphic childbirth, vicious children,old parents beaten and starved by their sad*stic offspring. Theaudience, Barlow astoundedly noted, was placidly champing sweets andshowing no particular signs of revulsion.

The Coming Attractions drove him into the lobby. The fanfareswere shattering, the blazing colors blinding, and the added scentsstomach-heaving.

When his eyes again became accustomed to the moderate lighting of thelobby, he groped his way to a bench and opened the newspaper he hadbought. It turned out to be The Racing Sheet, which afflicted himwith a crushing sense of loss. The familiar boxed index in the lowerleft hand corner of the front page showed almost unbearably thatChurchill Downs and Empire City were still in business—

Blinking back tears, he turned to the Past Performances at Churchill.They weren't using abbreviations any more, and the pages because ofthat were single-column instead of double. But it was all the same—orwas it?

He squinted at the first race, a three-quarter-mile maiden claimer forthirteen hundred dollars. Incredibly, the track record was two minutes,ten and three-fifths seconds. Any beetle in his time could have knockedoff the three-quarter in one-fifteen. It was the same for the otherdistances, much worse for route events.

What the hell had happened to everything?

He studied the form of a five-year-old brown mare in the second andcouldn't make head or tail of it. She'd won and lost and placed andshowed and lost and placed without rhyme or reason. She looked like afront-runner for a couple of races and then she looked like a no-goodpig and then she looked like a mudder but the next time it rained shewasn't and then she was a stayer and then she was a pig again. In agood five-thousand-dollar allowances event, too!

Barlow looked at the other entries and it slowly dawned on him thatthey were all like the five-year-old brown mare. Not a single damnedhorse running had the slightest trace of class.

Somebody sat down beside him and said, "That's the story."

Barlow whirled to his feet and saw it was Tinny-Peete, his driver.

"I was in doubts about telling you," said the psychist, "but I see youhave some growing suspicions of the truth. Please don't get excited.It's all right, I tell you."

"So you've got me," said Barlow.

"Got you?"

"Don't pretend. I can put two and two together. You're the secretpolice. You and the rest of the aristocrats live in luxury on the sweatof these oppressed slaves. You're afraid of me because you have to keepthem ignorant."

There was a bellow of bright laughter from the psychist that got themblank looks from other patrons of the lobby. The laughter didn't soundat all sinister.

"Let's get out of here," said Tinny-Peete, still chuckling. "Youcouldn't possibly have it more wrong." He engaged Barlow's arm and ledhim to the street. "The actual truth is that the millions of workerslive in luxury on the sweat of the handful of aristocrats. I shallprobably die before my time of overwork unless—" He gave Barlow aspeculative look. "You may be able to help us."

"I know that gag," sneered Barlow. "I made money in my time and to makemoney you have to get people on your side. Go ahead and shoot me if youwant, but you're not going to make a fool out of me."

"You nasty little ingrate!" snapped the psychist, with a kaleidoscopicchange of mood. "This damned mess is all your fault and the fault ofpeople like you! Now come along and no more of your nonsense."

He yanked Barlow into an office building lobby and an elevator that,disconcertingly, went whoosh loudly as it rose. The real estate man'sknees were wobbly as the psychist pushed him from the elevator, down acorridor and into an office.

A hawk-faced man rose from a plain chair as the door closed behindthem. After an angry look at Barlow, he asked the psychist, "Was Icalled from the Pole to inspect this—this—?"

"Unget updandered. I've dee-probed etfind quasichance exhimPoprobattackline," said the psychist soothingly.

"Doubt," grunted the hawk-faced man.

"Try," suggested Tinny-Peete.

"Very well. Mr. Barlow, I understand you and your lamented had nochildren."

"What of it?"

"This of it. You were a blind, selfish stupid ass to tolerate economicand social conditions which penalized child-bearing by the prudent andforesighted. You made us what we are today, and I want you to know thatwe are far from satisfied. Damn-fool rockets! Damn-fool automobiles!Damn-fool cities with overhead ramps!"

"As far as I can see," said Barlow, "you're running down the bestfeatures of time. Are you crazy?"

"The rockets aren't rockets. They're turbo-jets—good turbo-jets, butthe fancy shell around them makes for a bad drag. The automobileshave a top speed of one hundred kilometers per hour—a kilometer is,if I recall my paleolinguistics, three-fifths of a mile—and thespeedometers are all rigged accordingly so the drivers will thinkthey're going two hundred and fifty. The cities are ridiculous,expensive, unsanitary, wasteful conglomerations of people who'dbe better off and more productive if they were spread over thecountryside.

"We need the rockets and trick speedometers and cities because, whileyou and your kind were being prudent and foresighted and not havingchildren, the migrant workers, slum dwellers and tenant farmers wereshiftlessly and short-sightedly having children—breeding, breeding. MyGod, how they bred!"

"Wait a minute," objected Barlow. "There were lots of people in ourcrowd who had two or three children."

"The attrition of accidents, illness, wars and such took care of that.Your intelligence was bred out. It is gone. Children that should havebeen born never were. The just-average, they'll-get-along majority tookover the population. The average IQ now is 45."

"But that's far in the future—"

"So are you," grunted the hawk-faced man sourly.

"But who are you people?"

"Just people—real people. Some generations ago, the geneticistsrealized at last that nobody was going to pay any attention to whatthey said, so they abandoned words for deeds. Specifically, they formedand recruited for a closed corporation intended to maintain and improvethe breed. We are their descendants, about three million of us. Thereare five billion of the others, so we are their slaves.

"During the past couple of years I've designed a skyscraper, keptBillings Memorial Hospital here in Chicago running, headed off war withMexico and directed traffic at LaGuardia Field in New York."

"I don't understand! Why don't you let them go to hell in their ownway?"

The man grimaced. "We tried it once for three months. We holed up atthe South Pole and waited. They didn't notice it. Some drafting-roompeople were missing, some chief nurses didn't show up, minor governmentpeople on the non-policy level couldn't be located. It didn't seem tomatter.

"In a week there was hunger. In two weeks there were famine and plague,in three weeks war and anarchy. We called off the experiment; it tookus most of the next generation to get things squared away again."

"But why didn't you let them kill each other off?"

"Five billion corpses mean about five hundred million tons of rottingflesh."

Barlow had another idea. "Why don't you sterilize them?"

"Two and one-half billion operations is a lot of operations. Becausethey breed continuously, the job would never be done."

"I see. Like the marching Chinese!"

"Who the devil are they?"

"It was a—uh—paradox of my time. Somebody figured out that if allthe Chinese in the world were to line up four abreast, I think it was,and start marching past a given point, they'd never stop because of thebabies that would be born and grow up before they passed the point."

"That's right. Only instead of 'a given point,' make it 'the largestconceivable number of operating rooms that we could build and staff.'There could never be enough."

"Say!" said Barlow. "Those movies about babies—was that yourpropaganda?"

"It was. It doesn't seem to mean a thing to them. We have abandoned theidea of attempting propaganda contrary to a biological drive."

"So if you work with a biological drive—?"

"I know of none which is consistent with inhibition of fertility."

Barlow's face went poker-blank, the result of years of carefuldiscipline. "You don't, huh? You're the great brains and you can'tthink of any?"

"Why, no," said the psychist innocently. "Can you?"

"That depends. I sold ten thousand acres of Siberian tundra—througha dummy firm, of course—after the partition of Russia. The buyersthought they were getting improved building lots on the outskirts ofKiev. I'd say that was a lot tougher than this job."

"How so?" asked the hawk-faced man.

"Those were normal, suspicious customers and these are morons, bornsuckers. You just figure out a con they'll fall for; they won't knowenough to do any smart checking."

The psychist and the hawk-faced man had also had training; they keptthemselves from looking with sudden hope at each other.

"You seem to have something in mind," said the psychist.

Barlow's poker face went blanker still. "Maybe I have. I haven't heardany offer yet."

"There's the satisfaction of knowing that you've prevented Earth'sresources from being so plundered," the hawk-faced man pointed out,"that the race will soon become extinct."

"I don't know that," Barlow said bluntly. "All I have is your word."

"If you really have a method, I don't think any price would be toogreat," the psychist offered.

"Money," said Barlow.

"All you want."

"More than you want," the hawk-faced man corrected.

"Prestige," added Barlow. "Plenty of publicity. My picture and my namein the papers and over TV every day, statues to me, parks and citiesand streets and other things named after me. A whole chapter in thehistory books."

The psychist made a facial sign to the hawk-faced man that meant, "Oh,brother!"

The hawk-faced man signaled back, "Steady, boy!"

"It's not too much to ask," the psychist agreed.

Barlow, sensing a seller's market, said, "Power!"

"Power?" the hawk-faced man repeated puzzledly. "Your own hydro stationor nuclear pile?"

"I mean a world dictatorship with me as dictator!"

"Well, now—" said the psychist, but the hawk-faced man interrupted,"It would take a special emergency act of Congress but the situationwarrants it. I think that can be guaranteed."

"Could you give us some indication of your plan?" the psychist asked.

"Ever hear of lemmings?"

"No."

"They are—were, I guess, since you haven't heard of them—littleanimals in Norway, and every few years they'd swarm to the coast andswim out to sea until they drowned. I figure on putting some lemmingurge into the population."

"How?"

"I'll save that till I get the right signatures on the deal."

The hawk-faced man said, "I'd like to work with you on it, Barlow. Myname's Ryan-Ngana." He put out his hand.

Barlow looked closely at the hand, then at the man's face. "Ryan what?"

"Ngana."

"That sounds like an African name."

"It is. My mother's father was a Watusi."

Barlow didn't take the hand. "I thought you looked pretty dark. I don'twant to hurt your feelings, but I don't think I'd be at my best workingwith you. There must be somebody else just as well qualified, I'm sure."

The psychist made a facial sign to Ryan-Ngana that meant, "Steadyyourself, boy!"

"Very well," Ryan-Ngana told Barlow. "We'll see what arrangement can bemade."

"It's not that I'm prejudiced, you understand. Some of my bestfriends—"

"Mr. Barlow, don't give it another thought. Anybody who could pick onthe lemming analogy is going to be useful to us."

And so he would, thought Ryan-Ngana, alone in the office afterTinny-Peete had taken Barlow up to the helicopter stage. So hewould. Poprob had exhausted every rational attempt and the newPoprobattacklines would have to be irrational or sub-rational. Thiscreature from the past with his lemming legends and his improvedbuilding lots would be a fountain of precious vicious self-interest.

Ryan-Ngana sighed and stretched. He had to go and run the SanFrancisco subway. Summoned early from the Pole to study Barlow, he'dleft unfinished a nice little theorem. Between interruptions, he wasslowly constructing an n-dimensional geometry whose foundations andsuperstructure owed no debt whatsoever to intuition.

Upstairs, waiting for a helicopter, Barlow was explaining toTinny-Peete that he had nothing against Negroes, and Tinny-Peete wishedhe had some of Ryan-Ngana's imperturbability and humor for the ordeal.

The helicopter took them to International Airport where, Tinny-Peeteexplained, Barlow would leave for the Pole.

The man from the past wasn't sure he'd like a dreary waste of ice andcold.

"It's all right," said the psychist. "A civilized layout. Warm,pleasant. You'll be able to work more efficiently there. All the factsat your fingertips, a good secretary—"

"I'll need a pretty big staff," said Barlow, who had learned fromthousands of deals never to take the first offer.

"I meant a private, confidential one," said Tinny-Peete readily, "butyou can have as many as you want. You'll naturally have top-primary-toppriority if you really have a workable plan."

"Let's not forget this dictatorship angle," said Barlow.

He didn't know that the psychist would just as readily have promisedhim deification to get him happily on the "rocket" for the Pole.Tinny-Peete had no wish to be torn limb from limb; he knew verywell that it would end that way if the population learned from thisanachronism that there was a small elite which considered itselfhead, shoulders, trunk and groin above the rest. The fact that thisassumption was perfectly true and the fact that the elite was condemnedby its superiority to a life of the most grinding toil would not beconsidered; the difference would.

The psychist finally put Barlow aboard the "rocket" with some thirtypeople—real people—headed for the Pole.

Barlow was airsick all the way because of a post-hypnotic suggestionTinny-Peete had planted in him. One idea was to make him as averse aspossible to a return trip, and another idea was to spare the otherpassengers from his aggressive, talkative company.

Barlow during the first day at the pole was remindedof his first day in the Army. It was the samenow-where-the-hell-are-we-going-to-put-you? business until he took afirm line with them. Then instead of acting like supply sergeants theyacted like hotel clerks.

It was a wonderful, wonderfully calculated buildup, and one that hefailed to suspect. After all, in his time a visitor from the past wouldhave been lionized.

At day's end he reclined in a snug underground billet with the 60-milegales roaring yards overhead, and tried to put two and two together.

It was like old times, he thought—like a coup in real estate whereyou had the competition by the throat, like a 50-per cent rent boostwhen you knew damned well there was no place for the tenants to move,like smiling when you read over the breakfast orange juice that thecity council had decided to build a school on the ground you hadacquired by a deal with the city council. And it was simple. He wouldjust sell tundra building lots to eagerly suicidal lemmings, and thatwas absolutely all there was to solving the Problem that had thesedouble-domes spinning.

They'd have to work out most of the details, naturally, but what thehell, that was what subordinates were for. He'd need specialists inadvertising, engineering, communications—did they know anything abouthypnotism? That might be helpful. If not, there'd have to be a lot ofbribery done, but he'd make sure—damned sure—there were unlimitedfunds.

Just selling building lots to lemmings....

He wished, as he fell asleep, that poor Verna could have been in onthis. It was his biggest, most stupendous deal. Verna—that sharpshyster Sam Immerman must have swindled her....

It began the next day with people coming to visit him. He knew theapproach. They merely wanted to be helpful to their illustrious visitorfrom the past and would he help fill them in about his era, whichunfortunately was somewhat obscure historically, and what did he thinkcould be done about the Problem? He told them he was too old to beroped any more, and they wouldn't get any information out of him untilhe got a letter of intent from at least the Polar President, and asession of the Polar Congress empowered to make him dictator.

He got the letter and the session. He presented his program, was askedwhether his conscience didn't revolt at its callousness, explainedsuccinctly that a deal was a deal and anybody who wasn't smart enoughto protect himself didn't deserve protection—"Caveat emptor," he threwin for scholarship, and had to translate it to "Let the buyer beware."He didn't, he stated, give a damn about either the morons or theirintelligent slaves; he'd told them his price and that was all he wasinterested in.

Would they meet it or wouldn't they?

The Polar President offered to resign in his favor, with certaintemporary emergency powers that the Polar Congress would vote him ifhe thought them necessary. Barlow demanded the title of World Dictator,complete control of world finances, salary to be decided by himself,and the publicity campaign and historical writeup to begin at once.

"As for the emergency powers," he added, "they are neither to betemporary nor limited."

Somebody wanted the floor to discuss the matter, with the declared hopethat perhaps Barlow would modify his demands.

"You've got the proposition," Barlow said. "I'm not knocking off eventen per cent."

"But what if the Congress refuses, sir?" the President asked.

"Then you can stay up here at the Pole and try to work it outyourselves. I'll get what I want from the morons. A shrewd operatorlike me doesn't have to compromise; I haven't got a single competitorin this whole co*ckeyed moronic era."

Congress waived debate and voted by show of hands. Barlow wonunanimously.

"You don't know how close you came to losing me," he said in his firstofficial address to the joint Houses. "I'm not the boy to haggle;either I get what I ask or I go elsewhere. The first thing I want isto see designs for a new palace for me—nothing unostentatious,either—and your best painters and sculptors to start working on myportraits and statues. Meanwhile, I'll get my staff together."

He dismissed the Polar President and the Polar Congress, telling themthat he'd let them know when the next meeting would be.

A week later, the program started with North America the first target.

Mrs. Garvy was resting after dinner before the ordeal of turning onthe dishwasher. The TV, of course, was on and it said: "Oooh!"—long,shuddery and ecstatic, the cue for the Parfum Assault Criminale spotcommercial. "Girls," said the announcer hoarsely, "do you want yourman? It's easy to get him—easy as a trip to Venus."

"Huh?" said Mrs. Garvy.

"Wassamatter?" snorted her husband, starting out of a doze.

"Ja hear that?"

"Wha'?"

"He said 'easy like a trip to Venus.'"

"So?"

"Well, I thought ya couldn't get to Venus. I thought they just had thatone rocket thing that crashed on the Moon."

"Aah, women don't keep up with the news," said Garvy righteously,subsiding again.

"Oh," said his wife uncertainly.

And the next day, on Henry's Other Mistress, there was a newcharacter who had just breezed in: Buzz Rentshaw, Master Rocket Pilotof the Venus run. On Henry's Other Mistress, "the broadcast dramaabout you and your neighbors, folksy people, ordinary people,real people"! Mrs. Garvy listened with amazement over a cooling cupof coffee as Buzz made hay of her hazy convictions.

MONA: Darling, it's so good to see you again!

BUZZ: You don't know how I've missed you on that dreary Venus run.

SOUND: Venetian blind run down, key turned in door lock.

MONA: Was it very dull, dearest?

BUZZ: Let's not talk about my humdrum job, darling. Let's talk about us.

SOUND: Creaking bed.

Well, the program was back to normal at last. That evening Mrs. Garvytried to ask again whether her husband was sure about those rockets,but he was dozing right through Take It and Stick It, so she watchedthe screen and forgot the puzzle.

She was still rocking with laughter at the gag line, "Would you buy itfor a quarter?" when the commercial went on for the detergent powdershe always faithfully loaded her dishwasher with on the first of everymonth.

The announcer displayed mountains of suds from a tiny piece of thestuff and coyly added: "Of course, Cleano don't lay around for you topick up like the soap root on Venus, but it's pretty cheap and it'salmost pretty near just as good. So for us plain folks who ain't luckyenough to live up there on Venus, Cleano is the real cleaning stuff!"

Then the chorus went into their "Cleano-is-the-stuff" jingle, but Mrs.Garvy didn't hear it. She was a stubborn woman, but it occurred to herthat she was very sick indeed. She didn't want to worry her husband.The next day she quietly made an appointment with her family freud.

In the waiting room she picked up a fresh new copy of Readers Pablumand put it down with a faint palpitation. The lead article, accordingto the table of contents on the cover, was titled "The Most MemorableVenusian I Ever Met."

"The freud will see you now," said the nurse, and Mrs. Garvy totteredinto his office.

His traditional glasses and whiskers were reassuring. She choked outthe ritual: "Freud, forgive me, for I have neuroses."

He chanted the antiphonal: "Tut, my dear girl, what seems to be thetrouble?"

"I got like a hole in the head," she quavered. "I seem to forget allkinds of things. Things like everybody seems to know and I don't."

"Well, that happens to everybody occasionally, my dear. I suggest avacation on Venus."

The freud stared, open-mouthed, at the empty chair. His nurse came inand demanded, "Hey, you see how she scrammed? What was the matter withher?"

He took off his glasses and whiskers meditatively. "You can searchme. I told her she should maybe try a vacation on Venus." A momentarybafflement came into his face and he dug through his desk drawersuntil he found a copy of the four-color, profusely illustrated journalof his profession. It had come that morning and he had lip-read it,though looking mostly at the pictures. He leafed through to the articleAdvantages of the Planet Venus in Rest Cures.

"It's right there," he said.

The nurse looked. "It sure is," she agreed. "Why shouldn't it be?"

"The trouble with these here neurotics," decided the freud, "is thatthey all the time got to fight reality. Show in the next twitch."

He put on his glasses and whiskers again and forgot Mrs. Garvy and herstrange behavior.

"Freud, forgive me, for I have neuroses."

"Tut, my dear girl, what seems to be the trouble?"

Like many cures of mental disorders, Mrs. Garvy's was achieved largelyby self-treatment. She disciplined herself sternly out of the crazynotion that there had been only one rocket ship and that one a failure.She could join without wincing, eventually, in any conversation on thedesirability of Venus as a place to retire, on its fabulous floralprofusion. Finally she went to Venus.

All her friends were trying to book passage with the Evening StarTravel and Real Estate Corporation, but naturally the demand wascrushing. She considered herself lucky to get a seat at last for thetwo-week summer cruise. The space ship took off from a place calledLos Alamos, New Mexico. It looked just like all the spaceships ontelevision and in the picture magazines, but was more comfortable thanyou would expect.

Mrs. Garvy was delighted with the fifty or so fellow-passengersassembled before takeoff. They were from all over the country andshe had a distinct impression that they were on the brainy side. Thecaptain, a tall, hawk-faced, impressive fellow named Ryan-Somethingor other, welcomed them aboard and trusted that their trip would be amemorable one. He regretted that there would be nothing to see because,"due to the meteorite season," the ports would be dogged down. It wasdisappointing, yet reassuring that the line was taking no chances.

There was the expected momentary discomfort at takeoff and then twomonotonous days of droning travel through space to be whiled away inthe lounge at cards or craps. The landing was a routine bump and thevoyagers were issued tablets to swallow to immunize them against anyminor ailments. When the tablets took effect, the lock was opened andVenus was theirs.

It looked much like a tropical island on Earth, except for a blanketof cloud overhead. But it had a heady, other-worldly quality that wasintoxicating and glamorous.

The ten days of the vacation were suffused with a hazy magic. The soaproot, as advertised, was free and sudsy. The fruits, mostly tropicalvarieties transplanted from Earth, were delightful. The simple sheltersprovided by the travel company were more than adequate for the balmydays and nights.

It was with sincere regret that the voyagers filed again into the ship,and swallowed more tablets doled out to counteract and sterilize anyVenus illnesses they might unwittingly communicate to Earth.

Vacationing was one thing. Power politics was another.

At the Pole, a small man was in a soundproof room, his face deathlypale and his body limp in a straight chair.

In the American Senate Chamber, Senator Hull-Mendoza (Synd., N. Cal.)was saying: "Mr. President and gentlemen, I would be remiss in my dutyas a legislature if'n I didn't bring to the attention of the au-gustbody I see here a perilous situation which is fraught with peril.As is well known to members of this au-gust body, the perfection ofspace flight has brought with it a situation I can only describeas fraught with peril. Mr. President and gentlemen, now that swiftAmerican rockets now traverse the trackless void of space between thisplanet and our nearest planetarial neighbor in space—and, gentlemen, Irefer to Venus, the star of dawn, the brightest jewel in fair Vulcan'sdiadome—now, I say, I want to inquire what steps are being takento colonize Venus with a vanguard of patriotic citizens like thoseminutemen of yore.

"Mr. President and gentlemen! There are in this world nations, enviousnations—I do not name Mexico—who by fair means or foul may seek towrest from Columbia's grasp the torch of freedom of space; nationswhose low living standards and innate depravity give them an unfairadvantage over the citizens of our fair republic.

"This is my program: I suggest that a city of more than 100,000population be selected by lot. The citizens of the fortunate cityare to be awarded choice lands on Venus free and clear, to have andto hold and convey to their descendants. And the national governmentshall provide free transportation to Venus for these citizens. And thisprogram shall continue, city by city, until there has been deposited onVenus a sufficient vanguard of citizens to protect our manifest rightsin that planet.

"Objections will be raised, for carping critics we have always withus. They will say there isn't enough steel. They will call it a cheapgiveaway. I say there is enough steel for one city's population tobe transferred to Venus, and that is all that is needed. For when thetime comes for the second city to be transferred, the first, emptiedcity can be wrecked for the needed steel! And is it a giveaway? Yes! Itis the most glorious giveaway in the history of mankind! Mr. Presidentand gentlemen, there is no time to waste—Venus must be American!"

Black-Kupperman, at the Pole, opened his eyes and said feebly, "Thestyle was a little uneven. Do you think anybody'll notice?"

"You did fine, boy; just fine," Barlow reassured him.

Hull-Mendoza's bill became law.

Drafting machines at the South Pole were busy around the clock and thePittsburgh steel mills spewed millions of plates into the Los Alamosspaceport of the Evening Star Travel and Real Estate Corporation. Itwas going to be Los Angeles, for logistic reasons, and the three mostaccomplished psycho-kineticists went to Washington and mingled in thecrowd at the drawing to make certain that the Los Angeles capsuleslithered into the fingers of the blind-folded Senator.

Los Angeles loved the idea and a forest of spaceships began to blossomin the desert. They weren't very good space ships, but they didn't haveto be.

A team at the Pole worked at Barlow's direction on a mail setup. Therewould have to be letters to and from Venus to keep the slightesttaint of suspicion from arising. Luckily Barlow remembered that theproblem had been solved once before—by Hitler. Relatives of personsincinerated in the furnaces of Lublin or Majdanek continued to getcheery postal cards.

The Los Angeles flight went off on schedule, under tremendous press,newsreel and television coverage. The world cheered the gallantAngelenos who were setting off on their patriotic voyage to the landof milk and honey. The forest of spaceships thundered up, and up, andout of sight without untoward incident. Billions envied the Angelenos,cramped and on short rations though they were.

Wreckers from San Francisco, whose capsule came up second, movedimmediately into the city of the angels for the scrap steel their ownflight would require. Senator Hull-Mendoza's constituents could do noless.

The president of Mexico, hypnotically alarmed at this extension ofyanqui imperialismo beyond the stratosphere, launched his ownVenus-colony program.

Across the water it was England versus Ireland, France versus Germany,China versus Russia, India versus Indonesia. Ancient hatreds grew intothe flames that were rocket ships assailing the air by hundreds daily.

Dear Ed, how are you? Sam and I are fine and hope you are fine. Isit nice up there like they say with food and close grone on trees?I drove by Springfield yesterday and it sure looked funny all thebuildings down but of coarse it is worth it we have to keep thegreasers in their place. Do you have any truble with them on Venus?Drop me a line some time. Your loving sister, Alma.

Dear Alma, I am fine and hope you are fine. It is a fine place herefine climate and easy living. The doctor told me today that I seem tobe ten years younger. He thinks there is something in the air herekeeps people young. We do not have much trouble with the greasers herethey keep to theirselves it is just a question of us outnumbering themand staking out the best places for the Americans. In South Bay I knowa nice little island that I have been saving for you and Sam with lotsof blanket trees and ham bushes. Hoping to see you and Sam soon, yourloving brother, Ed.

Sam and Alma were on their way shortly.

Poprob got a dividend in every nation after the emigration had passedthe halfway mark. The lonesome stay-at-homes were unable to bear themelancholy of a low population density; their conditioning had been toswarms of their kin. After that point it was possible to foist off thecrudest stripped-down accommodations on would-be emigrants; they didn'tcare.

Black-Kupperman did a final job on President Hull-Mendoza, the lastjob that genius of hypnotics would ever do on any moron, important orotherwise.

Hull-Mendoza, panic-stricken by his presidency over an emptying nation,joined his constituents. The Independence, aboard which traveledthe national government of America, was the most elaborate of all thespaceships—bigger, more comfortable, with a lounge that was handsome,though cramped, and cloakrooms for Senators and Representatives. Itwent, however, to the same place as the others and Black-Kuppermankilled himself, leaving a note that stated he "couldn't live with myconscience."

The day after the American President departed, Barlow flew into a rage.Across his specially built desk were supposed to flow all Poprobhigh-level documents and this thing—this outrageous thing—calledPoprobterm apparently had got into the executive stage before he hadeven had a glimpse of it!

He buzzed for Rogge-Smith, his statistician. Rogge-Smith seemed to beat the bottom of it. Poprobterm seemed to be about first and second andthird derivatives, whatever they were. Barlow had a deep distrust ofanything more complex than what he called an "average."

While Rogge-Smith was still at the door, Barlow snapped, "What's themeaning of this? Why haven't I been consulted? How far have you peoplegot and why have you been working on something I haven't authorized?"

"Didn't want to bother you, Chief," said Rogge-Smith. "It was reallya technical matter, kind of a final cleanup. Want to come and see thework?"

Mollified, Barlow followed his statistician down the corridor.

"You still shouldn't have gone ahead without my okay," he grumbled."Where the hell would you people have been without me?"

"That's right, Chief. We couldn't have swung it ourselves; our mindsjust don't work that way. And all that stuff you knew from Hitler—itwouldn't have occurred to us. Like poor Black-Kupperman."

They were in a fair-sized machine shop at the end of a slight upwardincline. It was cold. Rogge-Smith pushed a button that started a motor,and a flood of arctic light poured in as the roof parted slowly. Itshowed a small spaceship with the door open.

Barlow gaped as Rogge-Smith took him by the elbow and his other boysappeared: Swenson-Swenson, the engineer; Tsutsugimushi-Duncan, hispropellants man; Kalb-French, advertising.

"In you go, Chief," said Tsutsugimushi-Duncan. "This is Poprobterm."

"But I'm the world Dictator!"

"You bet, Chief. You'll be in history, all right—but this isnecessary, I'm afraid."

The door was closed. Acceleration slammed Barlow cruelly to the metalfloor. Something broke and warm, wet stuff, salty-tasting, ran from hismouth to his chin. Arctic sunlight through a port suddenly became afierce lancet stabbing at his eyes; he was out of the atmosphere.

Lying twisted and broken under the acceleration, Barlow realized thatsome things had not changed, that Jack Ketch was never asked to dinnerhowever many shillings you paid him to do your dirty work, that murderwill out, that crime pays only temporarily.

The last thing he learned was that death is the end of pain.