What the Dead Men Say

I

   The body of Louis Sarapis, in a transparent plastic shatterproof case, had lain on display for one week, exciting a continual response from the public. Distended lines filed past with the customary sniffling, pinched faces, distraught elderly ladies in black cloth coats.
   In a corner of the large auditorium in which the casket reposed, Johnny Barefoot impatiently waited for his chance at Sarapis’s body. But he did not intend merely to view it; his job, detailed in Sarapis’s will, lay in another direction entirely. As Sarapis’s public relations manager, his job was—simply—to bring Louis Sarapis back to life.
   “Keerum,” Barefoot murmured to himself, examining his wristwatch and discovering that two more hours had to pass before the auditorium doors could be finally closed. He felt hungry. And the chill, issuing from the quick-pack envelope surrounding the casket, had increased his discomfort minute by minute.
   His wife Sarah Belle approached him, then, with a thermos of hot coffee. “Here, Johnny.” She reached up and brushed the black, shiny Chiricahua hair back from his forehead. “You don’t look so good.”
   “No,” he agreed. “This is too much for me. I didn’t care for him much when he was alive—I certainly don’t like him any better this way.” He jerked his head at the casket and the double line of mourners.
   Sarah Belle said softly, “Nil nisi bonum.”
   He glowered at her, not sure of what she had said. Some foreign language, no doubt. Sarah Belle had a college degree.
   “To quote Thumper Rabbit,” Sarah Belle said, smiling gently, “ ‘if you can’t say nothing good, don’t say nothing at all.’ ” She added, “From Bambi, an old film classic. If you attended the lectures at the Museum of Modern Art with me every Monday night—”
   “Listen,” Johnny Barefoot said desperately, “I don’t want to bring the old crook back to life, Sarah Belle; how’d I get myself into this? I thought sure when the embolism dropped him like a cement block it meant I could kiss the whole business goodbye forever.” But it hadn’t quite worked out that way.
   “Unplug him,” Sarah Belle said.
   “W-what?”
   She laughed. “Are you afraid to? Unplug the quick-pack power source and he’ll warm up. And no resurrection, right?” Her blue-gray eyes danced with amusement. “Scared of him, I guess. Poor Johnny.” She patted him on the arm. “I should divorce you, but I won’t; you need a mama to take care of you.”
   “It’s wrong,” he said. “Louis is completely helpless, lying there in the casket. It would be—unmanly to unplug him.”
   Sarah Belle said quietly, “But someday, sooner or later, you’ll have to confront him, Johnny. And when he’s in half-life you’ll have the advantage. So it will be a good time; you might come out of it intact.” Turning, she trotted off, hands thrust deep in her coat pockets because of the chill.
   Gloomily, Johnny lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall behind him. His wife was right, of course. A half-lifer was no match, in direct physical tete-a-tete, for a living person. And yet—he still shrank from it, because ever since childhood he had been in awe of Louis, who had dominated 3-4 shipping, the Earth to Mars commercial routes, as if he were a model rocket-ship enthusiast pushing miniatures over a paper-mache board in his basement. And now, at his death, at seventy years of age, the old man through Wilhelmina Securities controlled a hundred related—and non-related—industries on both planets. His net worth could not be calculated, even for tax purposes; it was not wise, in fact, to try, even for Government tax experts.
   It’s my kids, Johnny thought; I’m thinking about them, in school back in Oklahoma. To tangle with old Louis would be okay if he wasn’t a family man… nothing meant more to him than the two little girls and of course Sarah Belle, too. I got to think of them, not myself, he told himself now as he waited for the opportunity to remove the body from the casket in accordance with the old man’s detailed instructions. Let’s see. He’s probably got about a year in total half-life time, and he’ll want it divided up strategically, like at the end of each fiscal year. He’ll probably proportion it out over two decades, a month here and there, then towards the end as he runs out, maybe just a week. And then—days.
   And finally old Louis would be down to a couple of hours; the signal would be weak, the dim spark of electrical activity hovering in the frozen brain cells… it would flicker, the words from the amplifying equipment would fade, grow indistinct. And then—silence, at last the grave. But that might be twenty-five years from now; it would be the year 2100 before the old man’s cephalic processes ceased entirely.
   Johnny Barefoot, smoking his cigarette rapidly, thought back to the day he had slouched anxiously about the personnel office of Archimedean Enterprises, mumbling to the girl at the desk that he wanted a job; he had some brilliant ideas that were for sale, ideas that would help untangle the knot of strikes, the spaceport violence growing out of jurisdictional overlapping by rival unions—ideas that would, in essence, free Sarapis of having to rely on union labor at all. It was a dirty scheme, and he had known it then, but he had been right; it was worth money. The girl had sent him on to Mr. Pershing, the Personnel Manager, and Pershing had sent him to Louis Sarapis.
   “You mean,” Sarapis had said, “I launch from the ocean? From the Atlantic, out past the three mile limit?”
   “A union is a national organization,” Johnny had said. “Neither outfit has a jurisdiction on the high seas. But a business organization is international.”
   “I’d need men out there; I’d need the same number, even more. Where’ll I get them?”
   “Go to Burma or India or the Malay States,” Johnny had said. “Get young unskilled laborers and bring them over. Train them yourself on an indentured servant basis. In other words, charge the cost of their passage against their earnings.” It was peonage, he knew. And it appealed to Louis Sarapis. A little empire on the high seas, worked by men who had no legal rights. Ideal.
   Sarapis had done just that and hired Johnny for his public relations department; that was the best place for a man who had brilliant ideas of a non-technical nature. In other words, an uneducated man: a noncol. A useless misfit, an outsider. A loner lacking college degrees.
   “Hey Johnny,” Sarapis had said once. “How come since you’re so bright you never went to school? Everyone knows that’s fatal, nowadays. Self-destructive impulse, maybe?” He had grinned, showing his stainless-steel teeth.
   Moodily, he had replied, “You’ve got it, Louis. I want to die. I hate myself.” At that point he had recalled his peonage idea. But that had come after he had dropped out of school, so it couldn’t have been that. “Maybe I should see an analyst,” he had said.
   “Fakes,” Louis had told him. “All of them—I know because I’ve had six on my staff, working for me exclusively at one time or another. What’s wrong with you is you’re an envious type; if you can’t have it big you don’t want it, you don’t want the climb, the long struggle.”
   But I’ve got it big, Johnny Barefoot realized, had realized even then. This is big, working for you. Everyone wants to work for Louis Sarapis; he gives all sorts of people jobs.
   The double lines of mourners that filed past the casket… he wondered if all these people could be employees of Sarapis or relatives of employees. Either that or people who had benefited from the public dole that Sarapis had pushed through Congress and into law during the depression three years ago. Sarapis, in his old age the great daddy for the poor, the hungry, the out of work. Soup kitchens, with lines there, too. Just as now.
   Perhaps the same people had been in those lines who were here today.
   Startling Johnny, an auditorium guard nudged him. “Say, aren’t you Mr. Barefoot, the P.R. man for old Louis?”
   “Yes,” Johnny said. He put out his cigarette and then began to unscrew the lid of the thermos of coffee which Sarah Belle had brought him. “Have some,” he said. “Or maybe you’re used to the cold in these civic halls.” The City of Chicago had lent this spot for Louis to lie in state; it was gratitude for what he had done here in this area. The factories he had opened, the men he had put on the payroll.
   “I’m not used,” the guard said, accepting a cup of coffee. “You know, Mr. Barefoot, I’ve always admired you because you’re a noncol, and look how you rose to a top job and lots of salary, not to mention fame. It’s an inspiration to us other noncols.”
   Grunting, Johnny sipped his own coffee.
   “Of course,” the guard said, “I guess it’s really Sarapis we ought to thank; he gave you the job. My brother-in-law worked for him; that was back five years ago when nobody in the world was hiring except Sarapis. You hear what an old skinflint he was—wouldn’t permit the unions to come in, and all. But he gave so many old folks pensions… my father was living on a Sarapis pension-plan until the day he died. And all those bills he got through Congress; they wouldn’t have passed any of the welfare for the needy bills without pressure from Sarapis.”
   Johnny grunted.
   “No wonder there’re so many people here today,” the guard said. “I can see why. Who’s going to help the little fellow, the noncols like you and me, now that he’s gone?”
   Johnny had no answer, for himself or for the guard.

   As owner of the Beloved Brethren Mortuary, Herbert Schoenheit von Vogelsang found himself required by law to consult with the late Mr. Sarapis’s legal counsel, the well-known Mr. Claude St. Cyr. In this connection it was essential for him to know precisely how the half-life periods were to be proportioned out; it was his job to execute the technical arrangements.
   The matter should have been routine, and yet a snag developed almost at once. He was unable to get in touch with Mr. St. Cyr, trustee for the estate.
   Drat, Schoenheit von Vogelsang thought to himself as he hung up the unresponsive phone. Something must be wrong; this is unheard of in connection with a man so important.
   He had phoned from the bin—the storage vaults in which the half-lifers were kept in perpetual quick-pack. At this moment, a worried-looking clerical sort of individual waited at the desk with a claim check stub in his hand. Obviously he had shown up to collect a relative. Resurrection Day—the holiday on which the half-lifers were publicly honored—was just around the corner; the rush would soon be beginning.
   “Yes sir,” Herb said to him, with an affable smile. “I’ll take your stub personally.”
   “It’s an elderly lady,” the customer said. “About eighty, very small and wizened. I didn’t want just to talk to her; I wanted to take her out for a while.” He explained, “My grandmother.”
   “Only a moment,” Herb said, and went back into the bin to search out number 3054039-B.
   When he located the correct party he scrutinized the lading report attached; it gave but fifteen days of half-life remaining. Automatically, he pressed a portable amplifier into the hull of the glass casket, tuned it, listened at the proper frequency for indication of cephalic activity.
   Faintly from the speaker came, “…and then Tillie sprained her ankle and we never thought it’d heal; she was so foolish about it, wanting to start walking immediately…”
   Satisfied, he unplugged the amplifier and located a union man to perform the actual task of carting 3054039-B to the loading platform, where the customer could place her in his ‘copter or car.
   “You checked her out?” the customer asked as he paid the money due.
   “Personally,” Herb answered. “Functioning perfectly.” He smiled at the customer. “Happy Resurrection Day, Mr. Ford.”
   “Thank you,” the customer said, starting off for the loading platform. When I pass, Herb said to himself, I think I’ll will my heirs to revive me one day a century. That way I can observe the fate of all mankind. But that meant a rather high maintenance cost to the heirs, and no doubt sooner or later they would kick over the traces, have the body taken out of quick-pack and—God forbid—buried.
   “Burial is barbaric,” Herb murmured aloud. “Remnant of the primitive origins of our culture.”
   “Yes sir,” his secretary Miss Beasman agreed, at her typewriter. In the bin, several customers communed with their half-lifer relations, in rapt quiet, distributed at intervals along the aisles which separated the caskets. It was a tranquil sight, these faithfuls, coming as they did so regularly, to pay homage. They brought messages, news of what took place in the outside world; they cheered the gloomy half-lifers in these intervals of cerebral activity. And—they paid Herb Schoenheit von Vogelsang; it was a profitable business, operating a mortuary.
   “My dad seems a little frail,” a young man said, catching Herb’s attention. “I wonder if you could take a moment to check him over. I’d really appreciate
   it.”
   ‘Certainly,” Herb said, accompanying the customer down the aisle to his deceased relative. The lading report showed only a few days remaining; that explained the vitiated quality of cerebration. But still—he turned up the gain, and the voice from the half-lifer became a trifle stronger. He’s almost at an end, Herb thought. It was obvious that the son did not want to see the lading, did not actually care to know that contact with his dad was diminishing, finally. So Herb said nothing; he merely walked off, leaving the son to commune. Why tell him? Why break the bad news?
   A truck had now appeared at the loading platform, and two men hopped down from it, wearing familiar pale blue uniforms. Atlas Interplan Van and Storage, Herb realized. Delivering another half-lifer, or here to pick up one which had expired. He strolled toward them. “Yes, gentlemen,” he said.
   The driver of the truck leaned out and said, “We’re here to deliver Mr. Louis Sarapis. Got room all ready?”
   “Absolutely,” Herb said at once. “But I can’t get hold of Mr. St. Cyr to make arrangements for the schedule. When’s he to be brought back?”
   Another man, dark-haired, with shiny-button black eyes, emerged from the truck. “I’m John Barefoot. According to the terms of the will I’m in charge of Mr. Sarapis. He’s to be brought back to life immediately; that’s the instructions I’m charged with.”
   “I see,” Herb said, nodding. “Well, that’s fine. Bring him in and we’ll plug him right in.”
   “It’s cold, here,” Barefoot said. “Worse than the auditorium.”
   “Well of course,” Herb answered.
   The crew from the van began wheeling the casket. Herb caught a glimpse of the dead man, the massive, gray face resembling something cast from a break-mold. Impressive old pirate, he thought. Good thing for us all he’s dead finally, in spite of his charity work. Because who wants charity? Especially his. Of course, Herb did not say that to Barefoot; he contented himself with guiding the crew to the prearranged spot.
   “I’ll have him talking in fifteen minutes,” he promised Barefoot, who looked tense. “Don’t worry; we’ve had almost no failures at this stage; the initial residual charge is generally quite vital.”
   I suppose it’s later,” Barefoot said, “as it dims… then you have the technical problems.”
   “Why does he want to be brought back so soon?” Herb asked.
   Barefoot scowled and did not answer.
   “Sorry,” Herb said, and continued tinkering with the wires which had to be seated perfectly to the cathode terminals of the casket. “At low temperatures,” he murmured, “the flow of current is virtually unimpeded. There’s no measurable resistance at minus 150. So—” He fitted the anode cap in place. “The signal should bounce out clear and strong.” In conclusion, he clicked the amplifier on.
   A hum. Nothing more.
   “Well?” Barefoot said.
   “I’ll recheck,” Herb said, wondering what had gone afoul.
   “Listen,” Barefoot said quietly, “if you slip up here and let the spark flicker out—” It was not necessary for him to finish; Herb knew.
   “Is it the Democratic-Republican National Convention that he wants to participate in?” Herb asked. The Convention would be held later in the month, in Cleveland. In the past, Sarapis had been quite active in the behind-the-scenes activities at both the Democratic-Republican and the Liberal Party nominating conventions. It was said, in fact, that he had personally chosen the last Democratic-Republican Presidential candidate, Alfonse Gam. Tidy, handsome Gam had lost, but not by very much.
   “Are you still getting nothing?” Barefoot asked.
   “Um, it seems—” Herb said.
   “Nothing. Obviously.” Now Barefoot looked grim. “If you can’t rouse him in another ten minutes I’ll get hold of Claude St. Cyr and we’ll take Louis out of your mortuary and lodge charges of negligence against you.”
   “I’m doing what I can,” Herb said, perspiring as he fiddled with the leads to the casket. “We didn’t perform the quick-pack installation, remember; there may have been a slip-up at that point.”
   Now static supervened over the steady hum.
   “Is that him coming in?” Barefoot demanded.
   “No,” Herb admitted, thoroughly upset by now. It was, in fact, a bad sign.
   “Keep trying,” Barefoot said. But it was unnecessary to tell Herbert Schoenheit von Vogelsang that; he was struggling desperately, with all he had, with all his years of professional competence in this field. And still he achieved nothing; Louis Sarapis remained silent.
   I’m not going to be successful, Herb realized in fear. I don’t understand why, either. WHAT’S WRONG? A big client like this, and it has to get fouled up. He toiled on, not looking at Barefoot, not daring to.

   At the radio telescope at Kennedy Slough, on the dark side of Luna, Chief Technician Owen Angress discovered that he had picked up a signal emanating from a region one light-week beyond the solar system in the direction of Proxima. Ordinarily such a region of space would have held little of interest for the U.N. Commission on Deep-Space Communications, but this, Owen Angress realized, was unique.
   What reached him, thoroughly amplified by the great antennae of the radio telescope, was, faintly but clearly, a human voice.
   “…probably let it slide by,” the voice was declaring. “If I know them, and I believe I do. That Johnny; he’d revert without my keeping my eye on him, but at least he’s not a crook like St. Cyr. I did right to fire St. Cyr. Assuming I can make it stick…” The voice faded momentarily.
   What’s out there? Angress wondered, dazedly. “At one fifty-second of a light-year,” he murmured, making a quick mark on the deep-space map which he had been recharting. “Nothing. That’s just empty dust-clouds.” He could not understand what the signal implied; was it being bounced back to Luna from some nearby transmitter? Was this, in other words, merely an echo?
   Or was he reading his computation incorrectly?
   Surely this couldn’t be correct. Some individual ruminating at a transmitter out beyond the solar system… a man not in a hurry, thinking aloud in a kind of half-slumbering attitude, as if free-associating… it made no sense.
   I’d better report this to Wycoff at the Soviet Academy of Sciences, he said to himself. Wycoff was his current supervisor; next month it would be Jamison of MIT. Maybe it’s a long-haul ship that—
   The voice filtered in clearly once again. “…that Gam is a fool; did wrong to select him. Know better now but too late. Hello?” The thoughts became sharp, the words more distinct. “Am I coming back?—for god’s sake, it’s about time. Hey! Johnny! Is that you?”
   Angress picked up the telephone and dialed the code for the line to the Soviet Union.
   “Speak up, Johnny!” the voice from the speaker demanded plaintively. “Come on, son; I’ve got so damn much on my mind. So much to do. Convention’s started yet, has it? Got no sense of time stuck in here, can’t see or hear; wait’ll you get here and you’ll find out…” Again the voice faded.
   This is exactly what Wycoff likes to call a “phenomenon,” Angress realized.
   And I can understand why.

II

   On the evening television news, Claude St. Cyr heard the announcer babbling about a discovery made by the radio telescope on Luna, but he paid little attention: he was busy mixing martinis for his guests.
   “Yes,” he said to Gertrude Harvey, “ironic as it is, I drew up the will myself, including the clause that automatically dismissed me, canceled my services out of existence the moment he died. And I’ll tell you why Louis did that; he had paranoid suspicions of me, so he figured that with such a clause he’d insure himself against being—” He paused as he measured out the iota of dry wine which accompanied the gin. “Being prematurely dispatched.” He grinned, and Gertrude, arranged decoratively on the couch beside her husband, smiled back.
   “A lot of good it did him,” Phil Harvey said.
   “Hell,” St. Cyr protested. “I had nothing to do with his death; it was an embolus, a great fat clot stuck like a cork in a bottleneck.” He laughed at the image. “Nature’s own remedy.”
   Gertrude said, “Listen. The TV; it’s saying something strange.” She rose, walked over to it and bent down, her “ar close to the speaker.
   “It’s probably that oaf Kent Margrave,” St. Cyr said. “Making another political speech.” Margrave had been their President now for four years; a Liberal, he had managed to defeat Alfonse Gam, who had been Louis Sarapis’ hand-picked choice for the office. Actually Margrave, for all his faults, was quite a politician; he had managed to convince large blocs of voters that having a puppet of Sarapis’ for their President was not such a good idea.
   “No,” Gertrude said, carefully arranging her skirt over her bare knees. “This is—the space agency, I think. Science.”
   “Science!” St. Cyr laughed. “Well, then let’s listen; I admire science. Turn it up.” I suppose they’ve found another planet in the Orionus System, he said to himself. Something more for us to make the goal of our collective existence.
   “A voice,” the TV announcer was saying, “emanating from outer space, tonight has scientists both in the United States and the Soviet Union completely baffled.”
   “Oh no,” St. Cyr choked. “A voice from outer space—please, no more.” Doubled up with laughter, he moved off, away from the TV set; he could not bear to listen any more. “That’s what we need,” he said to Phil. “A voice that turns out to be—you know Who it is.”
   “Who?” Phil asked.
   “God, of course. The radio telescope at Kennedy Slough has picked up the voice of God and now we’re going to receive another set of divine commandments or at least a few scrolls.” Removing his glasses he wiped his eyes with his Irish linen handkerchief.
   Dourly, Phil Harvey said, “Personally I agree with my wife; I find it fascinating.”
   “Listen, my friend,” St. Cyr said, “you know it’ll turn out to be a transistor radio that some Jap student lost on a trip between Earth and Callisto. And the radio just drifted on out of the solar system entirely and now the telescope has picked it up and it’s a huge mystery to all the scientists.” He became more sober. “Shut it off, Gert; we’ve got serious things to consider.”
   Obediently but reluctantly she did so. “Is it true, Claude,” she asked, rising to her feet, “that the mortuary wasn’t able to revive old Louis? That he’s not in half-life as he’s supposed to be by now?”
   “Nobody tells me anything from the organization, now,” St. Cyr answered. “But I did hear a rumor to that effect.” He knew, in fact, that it was so; he had many friends within Wilhelmina, but he did not like to talk about these surviving links. “Yes, I suppose that’s so,” he said.
   Gertrude shivered. “Imagine not coming back. How dreadful.”
   “But that was the old natural condition,” her husband pointed out as he drank his martini. “Nobody had half-life before the turn of the century.”
   “But we’re used to it,” she said stubbornly.
   To Phil Harvey, St. Cyr said, “Let’s continue our discussion.”
   Shrugging, Harvey said, “All right. If you really feel there’s something to discuss.” He eyed St. Cyr critically. “I could put you on my legal staff, yes. If that’s what you’re sure you want. But I can’t give you the kind of business that Louis could. It wouldn’t be fair to the legal men I have in there now.”
   “Oh, I recognize that,” St. Cyr said. After all, Harvey’s drayage firm was small in comparison with the Sarapis outfits; Harvey was in fact a minor figure in the 3-4 shipping business.
   But that was precisely what St. Cyr wanted. Because he believed that within a year with the experience and contacts he had gained working for Louis Sarapis he could depose Harvey and take over Elektra Enterprises.
   Harvey’s first wife had been named Elektra. St. Cyr had known her, and after she and Harvey had split up St. Cyr had continued to see her, now in a more personal—and more spirited—way. It had always seemed to him that Elektra Harvey had obtained a rather bad deal; Harvey had employed legal talent of sufficient caliber to outwit Elektra’s attorney… who had been, as a matter of fact, St. Cyr’s junior law partner, Harold Faine. Ever since her defeat in the courts, St. Cyr had blamed himself; why hadn’t he taken the case personally? But he had been so tied up with Sarapis business … it had simply not been possible.
   Now, with Sarapis gone and his job with Atlas, Wilhelmina and Archimedean over, he could take some time to rectify the imbalance; he could come to the aid of the woman (he admitted it) whom he loved.
   But that was a long step from this situation; first he had to get into Harvey’s legal staff—at any cost. Evidently, he was succeeding.
   “Shall we shake on it, then?” he asked Harvey, holding out his hand.
   “Okay,” Harvey said, not very much stirred by the event. He held out his hand, however, and they shook. “By the way,” he said, then, “I have some knowledge—fragmentary but evidently accurate—as to why Sarapis cut you off in his will. And it isn’t what you said at all.”
   “Oh?” St. Cyr said, trying to sound casual.
   “My understanding is that he suspected someone, possibly you, of desiring to prevent him from returning to half-life. That you were going to select a particular mortuary which certain contacts of yours operate … and they’d somehow fail to revive the old man.” He eyed St. Cyr. “And oddly, that seems to be exactly what has happened.”
   There was silence.
   Gertrude said, at last, “Why would Claude not want Louis Sarapis to be resurrected?”
   “I have no idea,” Harvey said. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t even fully understand half-life itself. Isn’t it true that the half-lifer often finds himself in possession of a sort of insight, of a new frame of reference, a perspective, that he lacked while alive?”
   “I’ve heard psychologists say that,” Gertrude agreed. “It’s what the old theologists called conversion.”
   “Maybe Claude was afraid of some insight that Louis might show up with,” Harvey said. “But that’s just conjecture.”
   “Conjecture,” Claude St. Cyr agreed, “in its entirety, including that as to any such plan as you describe; in actual fact I know absolutely no one in the mortuary business.” His voice was steady, too; he made it come out that way. But this all was very sticky, he said to himself. Quite awkward.
   The maid appeared, then, to tell them that dinner was ready. Both Phil and Gertrude rose, and Claude joined them as they entered the dining room together.
   “Tell me,” Phil Harvey said to Claude. “Who is Sarapis’ heir?” St. Cyr said, “A granddaughter who lives on Callisto; her name is Kathy Egmont and she’s an odd one … she’s about twenty years old and already she’s been in jail five times, mostly for narcotics addiction. Lately, I understand, she’s managed to cure herself of the drug habit and now she’s a religious convert of some kind. I’ve never met her but I’ve handled volumes of correspondence passing between her and old Louis.”
   “And she gets the entire estate, when it’s out of probate? With all the political power inherent in it?”
   “Haw,” St. Cyr said. “Political power can’t be willed, can’t be passed on. All Kathy gets is the economic syndrome. It functions, as you know, through the parent holding company licensed under the laws of the state of Delaware, Wilhelmina Securities, and that’s hers, if she cares to make use of it—if she can understand what it is she’s inheriting.”
   Phil Harvey said, “You don’t sound very optimistic.”
   “All the correspondence from her indicates—to me at least—that she’s a sick, criminal type, very eccentric and unstable. The very last sort I’d like to see inherit Louis’s holdings.”
   On that note, they seated themselves at the dinner table.

   In the night, Johnny Barefoot heard the phone, drew himself to a sitting position and fumbled until his hands touched the receiver. Beside him in the bed Sarah Belle stirred as he said gratingly, “Hello. Who the hell is it?”
   A fragile female voice said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Barefoot… I didn’t mean to wake you up. But I was told by my attorney to call you as soon as I arrived on Earth.” She added, “This is Kathy Egmont, although actually my real name is Mrs. Kathy Sharp. Do you know who I am?”
   “Yes,” Johnny said, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He shivered from the cold of the room; beside him, Sarah Belle drew the covers back up over her shoulders and turned the other way. “Want me to come and pick you up? Do you have a place to stay?”
   “I have no friends here on Terra,” Kathy said. “But the spaceport people told me that the Severely is a good hotel, so I’m going there. I started from Callisto as soon as I heard that my grandfather had died,”
   “You made good time,” he said. He hadn’t expected her for another twenty-four hours.
   “Is there any chance—” The girl sounded timid. “Could I possibly stay with you, Mr. Barefoot? It scares me, the idea of a big hotel where no one knows me.”
   “I’m sorry,” he said at once. “I’m married.” And then he realized that such a retort was not only inappropriate … it was actually abusive. “What I mean is,” he explained, “I have no spare room. You stay at the Severely tonight and tomorrow we’ll find you a more acceptable apartment.”
   “All right,” Kathy said. She sounded resigned but still anxious. “Tell me, Mr. Barefoot, what luck have you had with my grandfather’s resurrection? Is he in half-life, now?”
   “No,” Johnny said. “It’s failed, so far. They’re working on it.”
   When he had left the mortuary, five technicians had been busy at work, trying to discover what was wrong.
   Kathy said, “I thought it might work out that way.”
   “Why?”
   “Well, my grandfather—he was so different from everyone else. I realize you know that, perhaps even better than I… after all, you were with him daily. But—I just couldn’t imagine him inert, the way the half-lifers are. Passive and helpless, you know. Can you imagine him like that, after all he’s done?”
   Johnny said, “Let’s talk tomorrow; I’ll come by the hotel about nine. Okay?”
   “Yes, that’s fine. I’m glad to have met you, Mr. Barefoot. I hope you’ll stay on with Archimedean, working for me. Goodbye.” The phone clicked; she had rung off.
   My new boss, Johnny said to himself. Wow.
   “Who was that?” Sarah Belle murmured. “At this hour?”
   “The owner of Archimedean,” Johnny said. “My employer.”
   “Louis Sarapis?” His wife sat up at once. “Oh… you mean his granddaughter; she’s here already. What’s she sound like?”
   “I can’t tell,” he said meditatively. “Frightened, mostly. It’s a finite, small world she comes from, compared with Terra, here.” He did not tell his wife the things he knew about Kathy, her drug addiction, her terms in jail.
   “Can she take over now?” Sarah Belle asked. “Doesn’t she have to wait until Louis’s half-life is over?”
   “Legally, he’s dead. His will has come into force.” And, he thought acidly, he’s not in half-life anyhow; he’s silent and dead in his plastic casket, in his quick-pack, which evidently wasn’t quite quick enough.
   “How do you think you’ll get along with her?”
   “I don’t know,” he said candidly. “I’m not even sure I’m going to try.” He did not like the idea of working for a woman, especially one younger than himself. And one who was—at least according to hearsay—virtually psychopathic. But on the phone she had certainly not sounded psychopathic. He mulled that over in his mind, wide-awake now.
   “She’s probably very pretty,” Sarah Belle said. “You’ll probably fall in love with her and desert me.”
   “Oh no,” he said. “Nothing as startling as that. I’ll probably try to work for her, drag out a few miserable months, and then give up and look elsewhere.” And meanwhile, he thought, WHAT ABOUT LOUIS? Are we, or are we not, going to be able to revive him? That was the really big unknown.
   If the old man could be revived, he could direct his granddaughter; even though legally and physically dead, he could continue to manage his complex economic and political sphere, to some extent. But right now this was simply not working out, and the old man had planned on being revived at once, certainly before the Democratic-Republican Convention. Louis certainly knew—or rather had known—what sort of person he was willing his holdings to. Without help she surely could not function. And, Johnny thought, there’s little I can do for her. Claude St. Cyr could have, but by the terms of the will he’s out of the picture entirely. So what is left? We must keep trying to revive old Louis, even if we have to visit every mortuary in the United States, Cuba and Russia.
   “You’re thinking confused thoughts,” Sarah Belle said. “I can tell by your expression.” She turned on the small lamp by the bed, and was now reaching for her robe. “Don’t try to solve serious matters in the middle of the night.”
   This must be how half-life feels, he thought groggily. He shook his head, trying to clear it, to wake up fully.

   The next morning he parked his car in the underground garage of the Beverely and ascended by elevator to the lobby and the front desk where he was greeted by the smiling day clerk. It was not much of a hotel, Johnny decided. Clean, however; a respectable family hotel which probably rented many of its units by the month, some no doubt to elderly retired people. Evidently Kathy was accustomed to living modestly.
   In answer to his query, the clerk pointed to the adjoining coffee shop. “You’ll find her in there, eating breakfast. She said you might be calling, Mr. Barefoot.”
   In the coffee shop he found a good number of people having breakfast; he stopped short, wondering which was Kathy. The dark-haired girl with the stilted, frozen features, over in the far corner out of the way? He walked toward her. Her hair, he decided, was dyed. Without makeup she looked unnaturally pale; her skin had a stark quality, as if she had known a good deal of suffering, and not the sort that taught or informed one, made one into a “better” person. It had been pure pain, with no redemptive aspects, he decided as he studied her.
   “Kathy?” he asked.
   The girl turned her head. Her eyes, empty; her expression totally flattened. In a little voice she said, “Yes. Are you John Barefoot?” As he came up to the booth and seated himself opposite her she watched as if she imagined he would spring at her, hurl himself on her and—God forbid—sexually assault her. It’s as if she’s nothing more than a lone, small animal, he thought. Backed into a corner to face the entire world.
   The color, or rather lack of it, could stem from the drug addiction, he decided. But that did not explain the flatness of her tone, and her utter lack of facial expression. And yet—she was pretty. She had delicate, regular features… animated, they would have been interesting. And perhaps they had been, once. Years ago.
   “I have only five dollars left,” Kathy said. “After I paid for my one-way ticket and my hotel and my breakfast. Could you—” She hesitated. “I’m not sure exactly what to do. Could you tell me… do I own anything yet? Anything that was my grandfather’s? That I could borrow against?”
   Johnny said, “I’ll write you a personal check for one hundred dollars and you can pay me back sometime.” He got out his checkbook.
   “Really?” She looked stunned, and now, faintly, she smiled. “How trusting of you. Or are you trying to impress me? You were my grandfather’s public relations man, weren’t you? How were you dealt with in the will? I can’t remember; it’s all happened so fast, it’s been so blurred.”
   “Well,” he said, “I wasn’t fired, as was Claude St. Cyr.”
   “Then you’re staying on.” That seemed to relieve her mind. “I wonder… would it be correct to say you’re now working for me?”
   “You could say that,” Johnny said. “Assuming you feel you need a P.R. man. Maybe you don’t. Louis wasn’t sure, half the time.”
   “Tell me what efforts have been made to resurrect him.”
   He explained to her, briefly, what he had done.
   “And this is not generally known?” she asked.
   “Definitely not. I know it, a mortuary owner with the unnatural name of Herb Schoenheit von Vogelsang knows it, and possibly news has trickled to a few high people in the drayage business, such as Phil Harvey. Even Claude St. Cyr may know it, by now. Of course, as time goes on and Louis has nothing to say, no political pronouncements for the press—”
   “We’ll have to make them up,” Kathy said. “And pretend they’re from him. That will be your job, Mr. Funnyfoot.” She smiled once more. “Press-releases by my grandfather, until he’s finally revived or we give up. Do you think we’ll have to give up?” After a pause she said softly, “I’d like to see him. If I may. If you think it’s all right.”
   “I’ll take you there, to the Blessed Brethren Mortuary. I have to go there within the hour anyhow.”
   Nodding, Kathy resumed eating her breakfast.

   As Johnny Barefoot stood beside the girl, who gazed intently at the transparent casket, he thought bizarrely, Maybe she’ll rap on the glass and say, “Grandfather, you wake up.” And, he thought, maybe that will accomplish it. Certainly nothing else has.
   Wringing his hands, Herb Schoenheit von Vogelsang burbled miserably, “I just don’t understand it, Mr. Barefoot. We worked all night, in relays, and we just aren’t getting a single spark. And yet we ran an electrocephalograph and the ‘gram shows faint but unmistakable cerebral activity. So the after-life is there, but we can’t seem to contact it. We’ve got probes at every part of the skull, now, as you can see.” He pointed to the maze of hair-wires connecting the dead man’s head to the amplifying equipment surrounding the casket. “I don’t know what else we can do, sir.”
   “Is there measurable brain metabolism?” Johnny asked.
   “Yes sir. We called in outside experts and they detected it; it’s a normal amount, too, just what you’d expect, immediately after death.”
   Kathy said calmly, “I know it’s hopeless. He’s too big a man for this. This is for aged relatives. For grandmothers, to be trotted out once a year on Resurrection Day.” She turned away from the casket. “Let’s go,” she said to Johnny.
   Together, he and the girl walked along the sidewalk from the mortuary, neither speaking. It was a mild spring day, and the trees here and there at the curb had small pink flowers. Cherry trees, Johnny decided.
   “Death,” Kathy murmured, at last. “And rebirth. A technological miracle. Maybe when Louis saw what it was like on the other side he changed his mind about coming back… maybe he just doesn’t want to return.”
   “Well,” Johnny said, “the electrical spark is there; he’s inside there, thinking something.” He let Kathy take his arm as they crossed the street. “Someone told me,” he said quietly, “that you’re interested in religion.”
   “Yes, I am,” Kathy said quietly. “You see, when I was a narcotics addict I took an overdose—never mind of what—and as a result my heart action ceased. I was officially, medically, dead for several minutes; they brought me back by open-chest heart massage and electroshock… you know. During that time I had an experience, probably much like what those who go into half-life have experienced.”
   “Was it better than here?”
   “No,” she said. “But it was different. It was—dreamlike. I don’t mean vague or unreal. I mean the logic, the weightlessness; you see, that’s the main difference. You’re free of gravity. It’s hard to realize how important that is, but just think how many of the characteristics of the dream derive from that one fact.”
   Johnny said, “And it changed you.”
   “I managed to overcome the oral addictive aspects of my personality, if that’s what you mean. I learned to control my appetites. My greed.” At a newspaper stand Kathy halted to read the headlines. “Look,” she said.


Voice from Outer Space Baffles Scientists

   “Interesting,” Johnny said.
   Kathy, picking up the newspaper, read the article which accompanied the headline. “How strange,” she said. “They’ve picked up a sentient, living entity… here, you can read it, too.” She passed the newspaper to him. “I did that, when I died… I drifted out, free of the solar system, first planetary gravity then the sun’s. I wonder who it is.” Taking the newspaper back she reread the article.
   “Ten cents, sir or madam,” the robot vender said, suddenly.
   Johnny tossed it the dime.
   “Do you think it’s my grandfather?” Kathy asked.
   “Hardly,” Johnny said.
   “I think it is,” Kathy said, staring past him, deep in thought. “I know it is; look, it began one week after his death, and it’s one light-week out. The time fits, and here’s the transcript of what it’s saying.” She pointed to the column. “All about you, Johnny, and about me and about Claude St. Cyr, that lawyer he fired, and the Convention; it’s all there, but garbled. That’s the way your thoughts run, when you’re dead; all compressed, instead of in sequence.” She smiled up at Johnny. “So we’ve got a terrible problem. We can hear him, by use of the radio telescope at Kennedy Slough. But he can’t hear us.”
   “You don’t actually—”
   “Oh, I do,” she said matter-of-factly. “I knew he wouldn’t settle for half-life; this is a whole, entire life he’s leading now, out in space, there, beyond the last planet of our system. And there isn’t going to be any way we can interfere with him; whatever it is he’s doing—” She began to walk on, once more; Johnny followed. “Whatever it is, it’s going to be at least as much as he did when he was alive here on Terra. You can be sure of that. Are you afraid?”
   “Hell,” Johnny protested, “I’m not even convinced, let alone afraid.” And yet—perhaps she was right. She seemed so certain about it. He could not help being a little impressed, a little convinced.
   “You should be afraid,” Kathy said. “He may be very strong, out there. He may be able to do a lot. Affect a lot… affect us, what we do and say and believe. Even without the radio telescope—he may be reaching us, even now. Subliminally.”
   “I don’t believe it,” Johnny said. But he did, in spite of himself. She was right; it was just what Louis Sarapis would do.
   Kathy said, “We’ll know more when the Convention begins, because that’s what he cares about. He failed to get Gam elected last time, and that was one of the few times in his life that he was beaten.”
   “Gam!” Johnny echoed, amazed. “That has-been? Is he even still in existence? Why, he completely disappeared, four years ago—”
   “My grandfather won’t give up with him,” Kathy said meditatively. “And he is alive; he’s a turkey farmer or some such thing, on Io. Perhaps it’s ducks. Anyhow, he’s there. Waiting.”
   “Waiting for what?”
   Kathy said, “For my grandfather to contact him again. As he did before, four years ago, at the Convention then.”
   “No one would vote for Gam again!” Repelled, he gazed at her.
   Smiling, Kathy said nothing. But she squeezed his arm, hugging him. As if, he thought, she were afraid again, as she had been in the night, when he had talked to her. Perhaps even more so.

III

   The handsome, dapper, middle-aged man wearing vest and narrow, old-fashioned necktie, rose to his feet as Claude St. Cyr entered the outer office of St. Cyr and Faine, on his way to court. “Mr. St. Cyr—”
   Glancing at him, St. Cyr murmured, “I’m in a rush; you’ll have to make an appointment with my secretary.” And then he recognized the man. He was talking to Alfonse Gam.
   “I have a telegram,” Gam said. “From Louis Sarapis.” He reached into his coat pocket.
   “Sorry,” St. Cyr said stiffly. “I’m associated with Mr. Phil Harvey now; my business relationship with Mr. Sarapis was terminated several weeks ago.” But he paused, curious. He had met Gam before; at the time of the national campaign, four years ago, he had seen a good deal of the man—in fact, he had represented Gam in several libel suits, one with Gam as the plaintiff, the other as defendant. He did not like the man.
   Gam said, “This wire arrived the day before yesterday.”
   “But Sarapis has been—” Claude St. Cyr broke off. “Let me see it.” He held out his hand, and Gam passed him the wire.
   It was a statement from Louis Sarapis to Gam, assuring Gam of Louis’s utter and absolute support in the forthcoming struggle at the Convention. And Gam was correct; the wire was dated only three days before. It did not make sense.
   “I can’t explain it, Mr. St. Cyr,” Gam said dryly. “But it sounds like Louis. He wants me to run again. As you can see. It never occurred to me; as far as I’m concerned I’m out of politics and in the guinea-fowl business. I thought you might know something about this, who sent it and why.” He added, “Assuming that old Louis didn’t.”
   St. Cyr said, “How could Louis have sent it?”
   “I mean, written it before his death and had someone send it just the other day. Yourself, perhaps.” Gam shrugged. “Evidently it wasn’t you. Perhaps Mr. Barefoot, then.” He reached out for his wire.
   “Do you actually intend to run again?” St. Cyr asked.
   “If Louis wants me to.”
   “And lose again? Drag the party to defeat again, just because of one stubborn, vindictive old man—” St. Cyr broke off. “Go back to raising guinea fowl. Forget politics. You’re a loser, Gam. Everyone in the party knows it. Everyone in America, in fact.”
   “How can I contact Mr. Barefoot?”
   St. Cyr said, “I have no idea.” He started on.
   “I’ll need legal help,” Gam said.
   “For what? Who’s suing you now? You don’t need legal help, Mr. Gam; you need medical help, a psychiatrist to explain why you want to run again. Listen—” He leaned toward Gam. “If Louis alive couldn’t get you into office, Louis dead certainly can’t.” He went on, then, leaving Gam standing there.
   “Wait,” Gam said.
   Reluctantly, Claude St. Cyr turned around.
   “This time I’m going to win,” Gam said. He sounded as if he meant it; his voice, instead of its usual reedy flutter, was firm.
   Uneasy, St. Cyr said, “Well, good luck. To both you and Louis.”
   “Then he is alive.” Gam’s eyes flickered.
   “I didn’t say that; I was being ironic.”
   Gam said thoughtfully, “But he is alive; I’m sure of it. I’d like to find him. I went to some of the mortuaries, but none of them had him, or if they did they wouldn’t admit it. I’ll keep looking; I want to confer with him.” He added, “That’s why I came here from Io.”
   At that point, St. Cyr managed to break away and depart. What a nonentity, he said to himself. A cypher, nothing but a puppet of Louis’s. He shuddered. God protect us from such a fate: that man as our President.
   Imagine us all becoming like Gam!
   It was not a pleasant thought; it did not inspire him for the day ahead. And he had a good deal of work on his shoulders.
   This was the day that he, as attorney for Phil Harvey, would make Mrs. Kathy Sharp—the former Kathy Egmont—an offer for Wilhelmina Securities. An exchange of stock would be involved; voting stock, redistributed in such a fashion that Harvey gained control of Wilhelmina. The worth of the corporation being almost impossible to calculate, Harvey was offering not money but real estate in exchange; he had enormous tracts of land on Ganymede, deeded to him by the Soviet Government a decade ago in exchange for technical assistance he had rendered it and its colonies.
   The chance of Kathy accepting was nil.
   And yet, the offer had to be made. The next step—he shrank from even thinking about it—involved a fracas to the death in the area of direct economic competition, between Harvey’s drayage firm and hers. And hers, he knew, was now in a state of decay; there had been union trouble since the old man’s death. The thing that Louis hated the most had started to take place: union organizers had begun to move in on Archimedean.
   He himself sympathized with the unions; it was about time they came onto the scene. Only the old man’s dirty tactics and his boundless energy, not to speak of his ruthless, eternal imagination, had kept them out. Kathy had none of these. And Johnny Barefoot—
   What can you ask of a noncol? St. Cyr asked himself caustically. Brilliant strategy-purse out of the sow’s ear of mediocrity?
   And Barefoot had his hands full building up Kathy’s image before the public; he had barely begun to succeed in that when the union squabbles broke out. An ex-narcotics addict and religious nut, a woman who had a criminal record… Johnny had his work cut out for him.
   Where he had been productive lay in the area of the woman’s physical appearance. She looked sweet, even gentle and pure; almost saintly. And Johnny had seized on this. Instead of quoting her in the press he had photographed her, a thousand wholesome poses: with dogs, children, at county fairs, at hospitals, involved in charity drives—the whole business.
   But unfortunately Kathy had spoiled the image he had created, spoiled it in a rather unusual way.
   Kathy maintained—simply—that she was in communication with her grandfather. That it was he who lay a light-week out in space, picked up by Kennedy Slough. She heard him, as the rest of the world did… and by some miracle he heard her, too.
   St. Cyr, riding the self-service elevator up to the ‘copter port on the roof, laughed aloud. Her religious crankery couldn’t be kept from the gossip columnists… Kathy had said too much in public places, in restaurants and small, famous bars. And even with Johnny beside her. Even he couldn’t keep her quiet.
   Also, there had been that incident at that party in which she had taken off her clothes, declaring the hour of purification to be momentarily arriving; she had daubed herself in certain spots with crimson nail polish, as well, a sort of ritual ceremony… of course she had been drinking.
   And this is the woman, St. Cyr thought, who operates Archimedean.The woman we must oust, for our good and the public’s. It was, to him, practically a mandate in the name of the people. Virtually a public service to be performed, and the only one who did not see it that way was Johnny.
   St. Cyr thought, Johnny LIKES her. There’s the motive.
   I wonder, he mused, what Sarah Belle thinks of that.
   Feeling cheerful, St. Cyr entered his ‘copter, closed the hatch and inserted his key in the ignition. And then he thought once again of Alfonse Gam. And his good humor vanished at once; again he felt glum.
   There are two people, he realized, who are acting on the assumption that old Louis Sarapis is alive; Kathy Egmont Sharp and Alfonse Gam.
   Two most unsavory people, too. And, in spite of himself, he was being forced to associate with both of them. It seemed to be his fate.
   He thought, I’m no better off than I was with old Louis. In some respects, I’m even worse off.
   The ‘copter rose into the sky, on its way to Phil Harvey’s building in downtown Denver.
   Being late, he snapped on the little transmitter, picked up the microphone and put in a call to Harvey. “Phil,” he said, “Can you hear me? This is St. Cyr and I’m on my way west.” He listened, then.
   Listened, and heard from the speaker a far-off weird babble, a murmur as if many words were being blended into a confusion. He recognized it; he had come onto it several times now, on the TV news programs.
   “…spite of personal attacks, much superior to Chambers, who couldn’t win an election for house of ill repute janitor. You keep up faith in yourself, Alfonse. People know a good man, value him; you wait. Faith moves mountains. I ought to know, look what I’ve accomplished in my life…”
   It was, St. Cyr realized, the entity a light-week out, now emitting an even more powerful signal; like sunspots, it beclouded normal transmission channels. He cursed, scowled, then snapped off the receiver.
   Fouling up communications, he said to himself. Must be against the law; I ought to consult the FCC.
   Shaken, he piloted his ‘copter on, across open farm land.
   My God, he thought, it did sound like old Louis!
   Could Kathy Egmont Sharp possibly be right?

   At the Michigan plant of Archimedean, Johnny Barefoot appeared for his appointment with Kathy and found her in a state of gloom.
   “Don’t you see what’s happening?” she demanded, facing him across the office which had once been Louis’s. “I’m not managing things right at all; everybody knows that. Don’t you know that?” Wild-eyed, she stared at him.
   “I don’t know that,” Johnny said. But inside he did know it; she was correct. “Take it easy and sit down,” he said. “Harvey and St. Cyr will be here any minute now, and you want to be in command of yourself when you meet with them.” It was a meeting which he had hoped to avoid. But, he had realized, sooner or later it would take place, and so he had let Kathy agree to it.
   Kathy said, “I have something terrible to tell you.”
   “What is it? It can’t be so terrible.” He set himself, waiting in dread to hear.
   “I’m back on drugs, Johnny. All this responsibility and pressure; it’s too much for me. I’m sorry.” She gazed down at the floor sadly.
   “What is the drug?”
   “I’d rather not say. It’s one of the amphetamines. I’ve read the literature; I know it can cause a psychosis, in the amounts I’m taking. But I don’t care.” Panting, she turned away, her back to him. He saw, now, how thin she had gotten. And her face was gaunt, hollow-eyed; he now understood why. The overdosage of amphetamines wasted the body away, turned matter into energy. Her metabolism was altered so that she became, as the addiction returned, a pseudo-hyperthyroid, with all the somatic processes speeded up.
   Johnny said, “I’m sorry to hear it.” He had been afraid of this. And yet when it had come he had not understood; he had had to wait until she told him. “I think,” he said, “you should be under a doctor’s care.” He wondered where she got the drug. But probably for her, with her years of experience, it was not difficult.
   “It makes a person very unstable emotionally,” Kathy said. “Given to sudden rages and also crying jags. I want you to know that, so you won’t blame me. So you’ll understand that it’s the drug.” She tried to smile; he saw her making the effort.
   Going over to her he put his hand on her shoulder. “Listen,” he said, “when Harvey and St. Cyr get here, I think you better accept their offer.”
   “Oh,” she said, nodding. “Well.”
   “And then,” he said, “I want you to go voluntarily into a hospital.”
   “The cookie factory,” Kathy said bitterly.
   “You’d be better off,” he said, “without the responsibility you have, here at Archimedean. What you need is deep, protracted rest. You’re in a state of mental and physical fatigue, but as long as you’re taking that amphetamine—”
   “Then it doesn’t catch up with me,” Kathy finished. “Johnny, I can’t sell out to Harvey and St. Cyr.”
   “Why not?”
   “Louis wouldn’t want me to. He—” She was silent a moment. “He says no.”
   Johnny said, “Your health, maybe your life—”
   “My sanity, you mean, Johnny.”
   “You have too much personally at stake,” he said. “The hell with Louis. The hell with Archimedean; you want to find yourself in a mortuary, too, in half-life? It’s not worth it; it’s just property, and you’re a living creature.”
   She smiled. And then, on the desk, a light came on and a buzzer sounded. The receptionist outside said, “Mrs. Sharp, Mr. Harvey and Mr. St. Cyr are here, now. Shall I send them in?”
   “Yes,” she answered.
   The door opened, and Claude St. Cyr and Phil Harvey came swiftly in. “Hey, Johnny,” St. Cyr said. He seemed to be in a confident mood; beside him, Harvey looked confident, too.
   Kathy said, “I’ll let Johnny do most of the talking.”
   He glanced at her. Did that mean she had agreed to sell? He said, “What kind of deal is this? What do you have to offer in exchange for a controlling interest in Wilhelmina Securities of Delaware? I can’t imagine what it could be.”
   “Ganymede,” St. Cyr said. “An entire moon.” He added, “Virtually.”
   “Oh yes,” Johnny said. “The USSR land deed. Has it been tested in the international courts?”
   “Yes,” St. Cyr said, “and found totally valid. Its worth is beyond estimate. And each year it will increase, perhaps double, in value. My client will put that up. It’s a good offer, Johnny; you and I know each other, and you know when I say it that it’s true.”
   Probably it was, Johnny decided. It was in many respects a generous offer; Harvey was not trying to bilk Kathy.
   “Speaking for Mrs. Sharp,” Johnny began. But Kathy cut him off.
   “No,” she said in a quick, brisk voice. “I can’t sell. He says not to.”
   Johnny said, “You’ve already given me authority to negotiate, Kathy.”
   “Well,” she said in a hard voice, “I’m taking it back.”
   “If I’m to work with you and for you at all,” Johnny said, “you must go on my advice. We’ve already talked it over and agreed—”
   The phone in the office rang.
   “Listen to him yourself,” Kathy said. She picked up the phone and held it out to Johnny. “He’ll tell you.”
   Johnny accepted the phone and put it to his ear. “Who is this?” he demanded. And then he heard the drumming. The far-off uncanny drumming noise, as if something were scratching at a long metal wire.
   “…imperative to retain control. Your advice absurd. She can pull herself together; she’s got the stuff. Panic reaction; you’re scared because she’s ill. A good doctor can fix her up. Get a doctor for her; get medical help. Get an attorney and be sure she stays out of the hands of the law. Make sure her supply of drugs is cut. Insist on…” Johnny yanked the receiver away from his ear, refusing to hear more. Trembling, he hung the phone back up.
   “You heard him,” Kathy said. “Didn’t you? That was Louis.”
   “Yes,” Johnny said.
   “He’s grown,” Kathy said. “Now we can hear him direct; it’s not just the radio telescope at Kennedy Slough. I heard him last night, clearly, for the first time, as I lay down to go to sleep.”
   To St. Cyr and Harvey, Johnny said, “We’ll have to think your proposition over, evidently. We’ll have to get an appraisal of the worth of the unimproved real estate you’re offering and no doubt you want an audit of Wilhelmina. That will take time.” He heard his voice shake; he had not gotten over the shock of picking up the telephone and hearing the living voice of Louis Sarapis.

   After making an appointment with St. Cyr and Harvey to meet with them once more later in the day, Johnny took Kathy out to a late breakfast; she had admitted, reluctantly, that she had eaten nothing since the night before.
   “I’m just not hungry,” she explained, as she sat picking listlessly at her plate of bacon and eggs, toast with jam.
   “Even if that was Louis Sarapis,” Johnny said, “you don’t—”
   “It was. Don’t say ‘even’; you know it’s him. He’s gaining power all the time, out there. Perhaps from the sun.”
   “So it’s Louis,” he said doggedly. “Nonetheless, you have to act in your own interest, not in his.”
   “His interests and mine are the same,” Kathy said. “They involve maintaining Archimedean.”
   “Can he give you the help you need? Can he supply what’s missing? He doesn’t take your drug-addiction seriously; that’s obvious. All he did was preach at me.” He felt anger. “That’s damn little help, for you or for me, in this situation.”
   “Johnny,” she said, “I feel him near me all the time; I don’t need the TV or the phone—I sense him. It’s my mystical bent, I think. My religious intuition; it’s helping me maintain contact with him.” She sipped a little orange juice.
   Bluntly, Johnny said, “It’s your amphetamine psychosis, you mean.”
   “I won’t go into the hospital, Johnny. I won’t sign myself in; I’m sick but not that sick. I can get over this bout on my own, because I’m not alone. I have my grandfather. And—” She smiled at him. “I have you. In spite of Sarah Belle.”
   “You won’t have me, Kathy,” he said quietly, “unless you sell to Harvey. Unless you accept the Ganymede real estate.”
   “You’d quit?”
   “Yes,” he said.
   After a pause, Kathy said, “My grandfather says go ahead and quit.” Her eyes were dark, enlarged, and utterly cold.
   “I don’t believe he’d say that.”
   “Then talk to him.”
   “How?”
   Kathy pointed to the TV set in the corner of the restaurant. “Turn it on and listen.”
   Rising to his feet, Johnny said, “I don’t have to; I’ve already given my decision. I’ll be at my hotel, if you should change your mind.” He walked away from the table, leaving her sitting there. Would she call after him? He listened as he walked. She did not call.
   A moment later he was out of the restaurant, standing on the sidewalk. She had called his bluff, and so it ceased to be a bluff; it became the real thing. He actually had quit.
   Stunned, he walked aimlessly on. And yet—he had been right. He knew that. It was just that… damn her, he thought. Why didn’t she give in? Because of Louis, he realized. Without the old man she would have gone ahead and done it, traded her controlling, voting stock for the Ganymede property. Damn Louis Sarapis, not her, he thought furiously.
   What now? he asked himself. Go back to New York? Look for a new job? For instance approach Alfonse Gam? There was money in that, if he could land it. Or should he stay here in Michigan, hoping that Kathy would change her mind?
   She can’t keep on, he decided. No matter what Sarapis tells her. Or rather, what she believes he’s telling her. Whichever it is.
   Hailing a cab, he gave the driver the address of his hotel room. A few moments later he was entering the lobby of the Antler Hotel, back where he had started early in the morning. Back to the forbidding empty room, this time merely to sit and wait. To hope that Kathy would change her mind and call him. This time he had no appointment to go to; the appointment was over.
   When he reached his hotel room he heard his phone ringing.

   For a moment Johnny stood at the door, key in hand, listening to the phone on the other side of the door, the shrill noise reaching him as he stood in the hall. Is it Kathy? he wondered. Or is it him?
   He put the key in the lock, turned it and entered the room; sweeping the receiver off its hook he said, “Hello.”
   Drumming and far-off, the voice, in the middle of its monotonous monologue, its recitation to itself, was murmuring, “…no good at all, Barefoot, to leave her. Betrayal of your job; thought you understood your responsibilities. Same to her as it was to me, and you never would have walked off in a fit of pique and left me. I deliberately left the disposition of my body to you so you’d stay on. You can’t…” At that point Johnny hung up, chilled.
   The phone rang again, at once.
   This time he did not take it off the hook. The hell with you, he said to himself. He walked to the window and stood looking down at the street below, thinking to himself of the conversation he had held with old Louis years ago, the one that had made such an impression in his mind. The conversation in which it had come out that he had failed to go to college because he wanted to die. Looking down at the street below, he thought, Maybe I ought to jump. At least there’d be no more phones… no more of it.
   The worse part, he thought, is its senility. Its thoughts are not clear, not distinct; they’re dream-like; irrational. The old man is not genuinely alive. He is not even in half-life. This is a dwindling away of consciousness toward a nocturnal state. And we are forced to listen to it as it unwinds, as it develops step by step, to final, total death.
   But even in this degenerative state, it had desires. It wanted, and strongly. It wanted him to do something; it wanted Kathy to do something; the remnants of Louis Sarapis were vital and active, and clever enough to find ways of pursuing him, of getting what was wanted. It was a travesty of Louis’s wishes during his lifetime, and yet it could not be ignored; it could not be escaped.
   The phone continued to ring.
   Maybe it isn’t Louis, he thought then. Maybe it’s Kathy. Going to it he lifted the receiver. And put it back down at once. The drumming once more, the fragments of Louis Sarapis’s personality… he shuddered. And is it just here, is it selective?
   He had a terrible feeling that it was not selective.
   Going to the TV set at the far end of the room he snapped the switch. The screen grew into lighted animation, and yet, he saw, it was strangely blurred. The dim outlines of—it seemed to be a face.
   And everyone, he realized, is seeing this. He turned to another channel. Again the dully-formed features, the old man half-materialized here on the television screen. And from the set’s speaker the murmur of indistinct words. “…told you time and again your primary responsibility is to…” Johnny shut the set off; the ill-formed face and words sank out of existence, and all that remained, once more, was the ringing phone.
   He picked up the phone and said, “Louis, can you hear me?”
   “…when election time comes they’ll see. A man with the spirit to campaign a second time, take the financial responsibility, after all it’s only for the wealthy men, now, the cost of running…” The voice droned on. No, the old man could not hear him. It was not a conversation; it was a monologue. It was not authentic communication.
   And yet the old man knew what was occurring on Earth; he seemed to understand, to somehow see, that Johnny had quit his job.
   Hanging up the phone he seated himself and lit a cigarette.
   I can’t go back to Kathy, he realized, unless I’m willing to change my mind and advise her not to sell. And that’s impossible; I can’t do that. So that’s out. What is there left for me?
   How long can Sarapis hound me? Is there any place I can go?
   Going to the window once more he stood looking down at the street below.

   At a newsstand, Claude St. Cyr tossed down coins, picked up the newspaper.
   “Thank you, sir or madam,” the robot vender said.
   The lead article… St. Cyr blinked and wondered if he had lost his mind. He could not grasp what he was reading—or rather unable to read. It made no sense; the homeostatic news-printing system, the fully automated micro-relay newspaper, had evidently broken down. All he found was a procession of words, randomly strung together. It was worse than Finnegans Wake.
   Or was it random? One paragraph caught his eye.


   At the hotel window now ready to leap. If you expect to conduct any more business with her you better get over there. She’s dependent on him, needs a man since her husband, that Paul Sharp, abandoned her. The Antler Hotel, room 604. I think you have time. Johnny is too hot-headed; shouldn’t have tried to bluff her. With my blood you can’t be bluffed and she’s got my blood, I…


   St. Cyr said rapidly to Harvey, who stood beside him, “Johnny Barefoot’s in a room at the Antler Hotel about to jump, and this is old Sarapis telling us, warning us. We better get over there.”
   Glancing at him, Harvey said, “Barefoot’s on our side; we can’t afford to have him take his life. But why would Sarapis—”
   “Let’s just get over there,” St. Cyr said, starting toward his parked ‘copter. Harvey followed on the run.

IV

   All at once the telephone stopped ringing. Johnny turned from the window—and saw Kathy Sharp standing by it, the receiver in her hand. “He called me,” she said. “And he told me, Johnny, where you were and what you were going to do.”
   “Nuts,” he said, “I’m not going to do anything.” He moved back from the window.
   “He thought you were,” Kathy said.
   “Yes, and that proves he can be wrong.” His cigarette, he saw, had burned down to the filter; he dropped it into the ashtray on the dresser and stubbed it out.
   “My grandfather was always fond of you,” Kathy said. “He wouldn’t like anything to happen to you.”
   Shrugging, Johnny said, “As far as I’m concerned I have nothing to do with Louis Sarapis any more.”
   Kathy had put the receiver to her ear; she paid no attention to Johnny—she was listening to her grandfather, he saw, and so he ceased talking. It was futile.
   “He says,” Kathy said, “that Claude St. Cyr and Phil Harvey are on their way up here. He told them to come, too.”
   “Nice of him,” he said shortly.
   Kathy said, “I’m fond of you, too, Johnny. I can see what my grandfather found about you to like and admire. You genuinely take my welfare seriously, don’t you? Maybe I could go into the hospital voluntarily, for a short period anyhow, a week or a few days.”
   “Would that be enough?” he asked.
   “It might.” She held the phone out to him. “He wants to talk to you. I think you’d better listen; he’ll find a way to reach you, in any case. And you know that.”
   Reluctantly, Johnny accepted the phone.
   “…trouble is you’re out of a job and that depresses you. If you’re not working you feel you don’t amount to anything; that’s the kind of person you are. I like that. The same way myself. Listen, I’ve got a job for you. At the Convention. Doing publicity to make sure Alfonse Gam is nominated; you’d do a swell job. Call Gam. Call Alfonse Gam. Johnny, call Gam. Call—”
   Johnny hung up the phone.
   I’ve got a job,” he told Kathy. “Representing Gam. At least Louis says so.”
   Would you do that?” Kathy asked. “Be his P.R. man at the nominating convention?”
   He shrugged. Why not? Gam had the money; he could and would pay well. And certainly he was no worse than the President, Kent Margrave. And I must get a job, Johnny realized. I have to live. I’ve got a wife and two children; this is no joke.
   “Do you think Gam has a chance this time?” Kathy asked.
   “No, not really. But miracles in politics do happen; look at Richard Nixon’s incredible comeback in 1968.”
   “What is the best route for Gam to follow?”
   He eyed her. “I’ll talk that over with him. Not with you.”
   “You’re still angry,” Kathy said quietly. “Because I won’t sell. Listen, Johnny. Suppose I turned Archimedean over to you.”
   After a moment he said, “What does Louis say to that?”
   “I haven’t asked him.”
   “You know he’d say no. I’m too inexperienced. I know the operation, of course; I’ve been with it from the start. But—”
   “Don’t sell yourself short,” Kathy said softly.
   “Please,” Johnny said. “Don’t lecture me. Let’s try to stay friends; cool, distant friends.” And if there’s one thing I can’t stand, he said to himself, it’s being lectured by a woman. And for my own good.
   The door of the room burst open. Claude St. Cyr and Phil Harvey leaped inside, then saw Kathy, saw him with her, and sagged. “So he got you to come here, too,” St. Cyr said to her, panting for breath.
   “Yes,” she said. “He was very concerned about Johnny.” She patted him on the arm. “See how many friends you have? Both warm and cool?”
   “Yes,” he said. But for some reason felt deeply, miserably sad.

   That afternoon Claude St. Cyr found time to drop by the house of Elektra Harvey, his present employer’s ex-wife.
   “Listen, doll,” St. Cyr said, “I’m trying to do good for you in this present deal. If I’m successful—” He put his arms around her and gave her a bear hug. “You’ll recover a little of what you lost. Not all, but enough to make you a trifle happier about life in general.” He kissed her and, as usual, she responded; she squirmed effectively, drew him down to her, pressed close in a manner almost uncannily satisfying. It was very pleasant, and in addition it lasted a long time. And that was not usual.
   Stirring, moving away from him finally, Elektra said, “By the way, can you tell me what ails the phone and the TV? I can’t call—there always seems to be someone on the line. And the picture on the TV screen; it’s all fuzzy and distorted, and it’s always the same, just a sort of face.”
   “Don’t worry about it,” Claude said. “We’re working on that right now; we’ve got a crew of men out scouting.” His men were going from mortuary to mortuary; eventually they’d find Louis’s body. And then this nonsense would come to an end… to everyone’s relief.
   Going to the sideboard to fix drinks, Elektra Harvey said, “Does Phil know about us?” She measured out bitters into the whiskey glasses, three drops to each.
   “No,” St. Cyr said, “and it’s none of his business anyhow.”
   “But Phil has a strong prejudice about ex-wives. He wouldn’t like it. He’d get ideas about you being disloyal; since he dislikes me, you’re supposed to, too. That’s what Phil calls ‘integrity’.”
   “I’m glad to know that,” St. Cyr said, “but there’s damn little I can do about it. Anyhow, he isn’t going to find out.”
   “I can’t help being worried, though,” Elektra said, bringing him his drink. “I was tuning the TV, you see, and—I know this sounds crazy, but it actually seemed to me—” She broke off. “Well, I actually thought I heard the TV announcer mention us. But he was sort of mumbling, or the reception was bad. But anyhow I did hear that, your name and mine.” She looked soberly up at him, while absent-mindedly rearranging the strap of her dress.
   Chilled, he said, “Dear, it’s ridiculous.” Going over to the TV set he clicked it on.
   Good Lord, he thought. Is Louis Sarapis everywhere? Does he see everything we do from that locus of his out there in deep space?
   It was not exactly a comforting thought, especially since he was trying to involve Louis’s granddaughter in a business deal which the old man disapproved of.
   He’s getting back at me, St. Cyr realized as he reflexively tuned the television set with numbed fingers.

   Alfonse Gam said, “As a matter of fact, Mr. Barefoot, I intended to call you. I have a wire from Mr. Sarapis advising me to employ you. I do think, however, we’ll have to come up with something entirely new. Margrave has a considerable advantage over us.”
   “True,” Johnny admitted. “But let’s be realistic; we’re going to get help this time. Help from Louis Sarapis.”
   “Louis helped last time,” Gam pointed out, “and it wasn’t sufficient.”
   “But his help now will be on a different order.” After all, Johnny thought, the old man controls all the communication media, the newspapers, radio and TV, even the telephones, God forbid. With such power Louis could do almost anything he chose.
   He hardly needs me, he thought caustically. But he did not say that to Alfonse Gam; apparently Gam did not understand about Louis and what Louis could do. And after all, a job was a job.
   “Have you turned on a TV set lately?” Gam asked. “Or tried to use the phone, or even bought a newspaper? There’s nothing but a sort of decaying gibberish coming out. If that’s Louis, he’s not going to be much help at the Convention. He’s—disjointed. Just rambles.”
   “I know,” Johnny said guardedly.
   “I’m afraid whatever scheme Louis had for his half-life period has gone wrong,” Gam said. He looked morose; he did not look like a man who expected to win an election. “Your admiration for Louis is certainly greater than mine, at this stage,” Gam said. “Frankly, Mr. Barefoot, I had a long talk with Mr. St. Cyr, and his concepts were totally discouraging. I’m determined to press on, but frankly—” He gestured. “Claude St. Cyr told me to my face I’m a loser.”
   “You’re going to believe St. Cyr? He’s on the other side, now, with Phil Harvey.” Johnny was astonished to find the man so naive, so pliable.
   “I told him I was going to win,” Gam murmured. “But honest to God, this drivel from every TV set and phone—it’s awful. It discourages me; I want to get as far away from it as possible.”
   Presently Johnny said, “I understand.”
   “Louis didn’t use to be like that,” Gam said plaintively. “He just drones on, now. Even if he can swing the nomination to me… do I want it? I’m tired, Mr. Barefoot. Very tired.” He was silent, then.
   “If you’re asking me to give you pep,” Johnny said, “you’ve got the wrong man.” The voice from the phone and the TV affected him much the same way. Much too much for him to say anything encouraging to Gam.
   “You’re in P.R.,” Gam said. “Can’t you generate enthusiasm where there is none? Convince me, Barefoot, and then I’ll convince the world.” From his pocket he brought a folded-up telegram. “This is what came from Louis, the other day. Evidently he can interfere with the telegraph lines as well as the other media.” He passed it over and Johnny read it.
   “Louis was more coherent then,” Johnny said. “When he wrote this.”
   “That’s what I mean! He’s deteriorating rapidly. When the Convention begins—and it’s only one more day, now—what’ll he be like? I sense something dreadful, here. And I don’t care to get mixed up in it.” He added, “And yet I want to run. So Barefoot—you deal with Louis for me; you can be the go-between.” He added, “The psychopomp.”
   “What’s that mean?”
   “The go-between God and man,” Gam said.
   Johnny said, “If you use words like that you won’t get the nomination; I can promise you that.”
   Smiling wryly, Gam said, “How about a drink?” He started from his living room, toward the kitchen. “Scotch? Bourbon?”
   “Bourbon,” Johnny said.
   “What do you think of the girl, Louis’s granddaughter?”
   “I like her,” he said. And that was true; he certainly did.
   “Even though she’s a psychotic, a drug addict, been in jail and on top of that a religious nut?”
   “Yes,” Johnny said tightly.
   “I think you’re crazy,” Gam said, returning with the drinks. “But I agree with you. She’s a good person. I’ve known her for some time, as a matter of fact. Frankly, I don’t know why she took the bent that she has. I’m not a psychologist… probably though it has something to do with Louis. She has a peculiar sort of devotion to him, a kind of loyalty that’s both infantile and fanatic. And, to me, touchingly sweet.”
   Sipping his drink, Johnny said, “This is terrible bourbon.”
   “Old Sir Muskrat,” Gam said, grimacing. “I agree.”
   “You better serve a better drink,” Johnny said, “or you really are through in politics.”
   “That’s why I need you,” Gam said. “You see?”
   “I see,” Johnny said, carrying his drink into the kitchen to pour it back in the bottle—and to take a look at the Scotch instead.
   “How are you going about getting me elected?” Alfonse Gam asked.
   Johnny said, “I think our best approach, our only approach, is to make use of the sentimentality people feel about Louis’s death. I saw the lines of mourners; it was impressive, Alfonse. Day after day they came. When he was alive, many persons feared him, feared his power. But now they can breathe easier; he’s gone, and the frightening aspects of—”
   Gam interrupted. “But Johnny, he’s not gone; that’s the whole point. You know that gibbering thing on the phones and on TV—that’s him!”
   “But they don’t know it,” Johnny said. “The public is baffled—just as the first person to pick it up was baffled. That technician at Kennedy Slough.” Emphatically, he said, “Why should they connect an electrical emanation one light-week away from Earth with Louis Sarapis?”
   After a moment Gam said, “I think you’re making an error, Johnny. But Louis said to hire you, and I’m going to. And you have a free hand; I’ll depend on your expertise.”
   “Thanks,” Johnny said. “You can depend on me.” But inside, he was not so sure. Maybe the public is smarter than I realize, he thought. Maybe I’m making a mistake. But what other approach was there? None that he could dream up; either they made use of Gam’s tie with Louis or they had absolutely nothing by which to recommend him.
   A slender thread on which to base the campaign for nomination—and only a day before the Convention convened. He did not like it.
   The telephone in Gam’s living room rang.
   “That’s probably him,” Gam said. “You want to talk to him? To be truthful, I’m afraid to take it off the hook.”
   “Let it ring,” Johnny said. He agreed with Gam; it was just too damn unpleasant.
   “But we can’t evade him,” Gam pointed out. “If he wants to get in touch with us; if it isn’t the phone it’s the newspaper. And yesterday I tried to use my electric typewriter… instead of the letter I intended to compose I got the same mishmash—I got a text from him.”
   Neither of them moved to take the phone, however. They let it ring on.
   “Do you want an advance?” Gam asked. “Some cash?”
   “I’d appreciate it,” Johnny said. “Since today I quit my job with Archimedean.”
   Reaching into his coat for his wallet, Gam said, “I’ll give you a check.” He eyed Johnny. “You like her but you can’t work with her; is that it?”
   “That’s it,” Johnny said. He did not elaborate, and Gam did not press him any further. Gam was, if nothing else, gentlemanly. And Johnny appreciated it.
   As the check changed hands the phone stopped ringing.
   Was there a link between the two? Johnny wondered. Or was it just chance? No way to tell. Louis seemed to know everything… anyhow, this was what Louis had wanted; he had told both of them that.
   “I guess we did the right thing,” Gam said tartly. “Listen, Johnny. I hope you can get back on good terms with Kathy Egmont Sharp. For her sake; she needs help. Lots of it.”
   Johnny grunted.
   “Now that you’re not working for her, make one more try,” Gam said. “Okay?”
   “I’ll think about it,” Johnny said.
   “She’s a very sick girl, and she’s got a lot of responsibility now. You know that, too. Whatever caused the rift between you—try to come to some kind of understanding before it’s too late. That’s the only proper way.”
   Johnny said nothing. But he knew, inside him, that Gam was right.
   And yet—how did he do it? He didn’t know how. How to you approach a psychotic person? he wondered. How do you repair such a deep rift? It was hard enough in regular situations… and this had so many overtones.
   If nothing else, this had Louis mixed in it. And Kathy’s feelings about Louis. Those would have to change. The blind adoration—that would have to cease.
   “What does your wife think of her?” Gam asked.
   Startled, he said, “Sarah Belle? She’s never met Kathy.” He added, “Why do you ask?”
   Gam eyed him and said nothing.
   “Damn odd question,” Johnny said.
   “Damn odd girl, that Kathy,” Gam said. “Odder than you think, my friend. There’s a lot you don’t know.” He did not elaborate.

   To Claude St. Cyr, Phil Harvey said, “There’s something I want to know. Something we must have the answer to, or we’ll never get control of the voting stock of Wilhelmina. Where’s the body?”
   “We’re looking,” St. Cyr said patiently. “We’re trying all of the mortuaries, one by one. But money’s involved; undoubtedly someone’s paying them to keep quiet, and if we want them to talk—”
   “That girl,” Harvey said, “is going on instructions from beyond the grave. Despite the fact that Louis is devolving… she still pays attention to him. It’s—unnatural.” He shook his head, repelled.
   “I agree,” St. Cyr said. “In fact, you expressed it perfectly. This morning when I was shaving I picked him up on the TV.” He shuddered visibly. “I mean, it’s coming at us from every side, now.”
   “Today,” Harvey said, “is the first day of the Convention.” He looked out of the window, at the cars and people. “Louis’s attention will be tied up there, trying to swing the vote onto Alfonse Gam. That’s where Johnny is, working for Gam—that was Louis’s idea. Now perhaps we can operate with more success. Do you see? Maybe he’s forgotten about Kathy; my God, he can’t watch everything at once.”
   St. Cyr said quietly, “But Kathy is not at Archimedean now.”
   “Where is she, then? In Delaware? At Wilhelmina Securities? It ought to be easy to find her.”
   “She’s sick,” St. Cyr said. “In a hospital, Phil. She was admitted during the late evening, last night. For her drug addiction, I presume.”
   There was silence.
   “You know a lot,” Harvey said finally. “Where’d you learn this, anyhow?”
   “From listening to the phone and the TV. But I don’t know where the hospital is. It could even be off Earth, on Luna or on Mars, even back where she came from. I got the impression she’s extremely ill. Johnny’s abandoning her set her back greatly.” He gazed at his employer somberly. “That’s all I know, Phil.”
   “Do you think Johnny Barefoot knows where she is?”
   “I doubt it.”
   Pondering, Harvey said, “I’ll bet she tries to call him. I’ll bet he either knows or will know, soon. If we only could manage to put a snoop-circuit on his phone… get his calls routed through here.”
   “But the phones,” St. Cyr said wearily. “All it is now—just the gibberish. The interference from Louis.” He wondered what became of Archimedean Enterprises if Kathy was declared unable to manage her affairs, if she was forcibly committed. Very complicated, depending on whether Earth law or—
   Harvey was saying, “We can’t find her and we can’t find the body. And meanwhile the Convention’s on, and they’ll nominate that wretched Gam, that creature of Louis’s. And next we know, he’ll be President.” He eyed St. Cyr with antagonism. “So far you haven’t done me much good, Claude.”
   “We’ll try all the hospitals. But there’s tens of thousands of them. And if it isn’t in this area it could be anywhere.” He felt helpless. Around and around we go, he thought, and we get nowhere.
   Well, we can keep monitoring the TV, he decided. That’s some help.
   “I’m going to the Convention,” Harvey announced. “I’ll see you later. If you should come up with something—which I doubt—you can get in touch with me there.” He strode to the door, and a moment later St. Cyr found himself alone.
   Doggone it, St. Cyr said to himself. What’ll I do now? Maybe I ought to go to the Convention, too. But there was one more mortuary he wanted to check; his men had been there, but he also wanted to give it a try personally. It was just the sort that Louis would have liked, run by an unctuous individual named, revoltingly, Herbert Schoenheit von Vogelsang, which meant, in German, Herbert Beauty of the Bird’s Song—a fitting name for a man who ran the Beloved Brethren Mortuary in downtown Los Angeles, with branches in Chicago and New York and Cleveland.

   When he reached the mortuary, Claude St. Cyr demanded to see Schoenheit von Vogelsang personally. The place was doing a rush business; Resurrection Day was just around the corner and the petite bourgeoisie, who flocked in great numbers to just such ceremonies, were lined up waiting to retrieve their half-lifer relatives.
   “Yes sir,” Schoenheit von Vogelsang said, when at last he appeared at the counter in the mortuary’s business office. “You asked to speak to me.”
   St. Cyr laid his business card down on the counter; the card still described him as legal consultant for Archimedean Enterprises. “I am Claude St. Cyr,” he declared. “You may have heard of me.”
   Glancing at the card, Schoenheit von Vogelsang blanched and mumbled, “I give you my word, Mr. St. Cyr, we’re trying, we’re really trying. We’ve spent out of our own funds over a thousand dollars in trying to make contact with him; we’ve had high-gain equipment flown in from Japan where it was developed and made. And still no results.” Tremulously, he backed away from the counter. “You can come and see for yourself. Frankly, I believe someone’s doing it on purpose; a complete failure like this can’t occur naturally, if you see what I mean.”
   St. Cyr said, “Let me see him.”
   “Certainly.” The mortuary owner, pale and agitated, led the way through the building into the chill bin, until, at last, St. Cyr saw ahead the casket which had lain in state, the casket of Louis Sarapis. “Are you planning any sort of litigation?” the mortuary owner asked fearfully. “I assure you, we—”
   “I’m here,” St. Cyr stated, “merely to take the body. Have your men load it onto a truck for me.”
   “Yes, Mr. St. Cyr,” Herb Schoenheit von Vogelsang said in meek obedience; he waved two mortuary employees over and began giving them instructions. “Do you have a truck with you, Mr. St. Cyr?” he asked.
   “You may provide it,” St. Cyr said, in a forbidding voice.
   Shortly, the body in its casket was loaded onto a mortuary truck, and the driver turned to St. Cyr for instructions.
   St. Cyr gave him Phil Harvey’s address.
   “And the litigation,” Herb Schoenheit von Vogelsang was murmuring, as St. Cyr boarded the truck to sit beside the driver. “You don’t infer malpractice on our part, do you, Mr. St. Cyr? Because if you do—”
   “The affair is closed as far as we’re concerned,” St. Cyr said to him laconically, and signaled the driver to drive off.
   As soon as they left the mortuary, St. Cyr began to laugh.
   “What strikes you so funny?” the mortuary driver asked.
   “Nothing,” St. Cyr said, still chuckling.

   When the body in its casket, still deep in its original quick-pack, had been left off at Harvey’s home and the driver had departed, St. Cyr picked up the telephone and dialed. But he found himself unable to get through to the Convention Hall. All he heard, for his trouble, was the weird distant drumming, the monotonous litany of Louis Sarapis—he hung up, disgusted but at the same time grimly determined.
   We’ve had enough of that, St. Cyr said to himself. / won’t wait for Harvey’s approval; I don’t need it.
   Searching the living room he found, in a desk drawer, a heat gun. Pointing it at the casket of Louis Sarapis he pressed the trigger.
   The envelope of quick-pack steamed up, the casket itself fizzed as the plastic melted. Within, the body blackened, shriveled, charred away at last into a baked, coal-like clinker, small and nondescript.
   Satisfied, St. Cyr returned the heat gun to the desk drawer.
   Once more he picked up the phone and dialed.
   In his ear the monotonous voice intoned, “…no one but Gam can do it; Gam’s the man what am—good slogan for you, Johnny. Gam’s the man what am; remember that. I’ll do the talking. Give me the mike and I’ll tell them; Gam’s the man what am. Gam’s—”
   Claude St. Cyr slammed down the phone, turned to the blackened deposit that had been Louis Sarapis; he gaped mutely at what he could not comprehend. The voice, when St. Cyr turned on the television set, emanated from that, too, just as it had been doing; nothing had changed.
   The voice of Louis Sarapis was not originating in the body. Because the body was gone. There simply was no connection between them.
   Seating himself in a chair, Claude St. Cyr got out his cigarettes and shakily lit up, trying to understand what this meant. It seemed almost as if he had it, almost had the explanation.
   But not quite.

V

   By monorail—he had left his ‘copter at the Beloved Brethren Mortuary—Claude St. Cyr numbly made his way to Convention Hall. The place, of course, was packed; the noise was terrible. But he managed to obtain the services of a robot page; over the public address system, Phil Harvey’s presence was requested in one of the side rooms used as meeting places by delegations wishing to caucus in secret.
   Harvey appeared, disheveled from shoving through the dense pack of spectators and delegates. “What is it, Claude?” he asked, and then he saw his attorney’s face. “You better tell me,” he said quietly.
   St. Cyr blurted, “The voice we hear. It isn’t Louis! It’s someone else trying to sound like Louis!”
   “How do you know?”
   He told him.
   Nodding, Harvey said, “And it definitely was Louis’s body you destroyed; there was no deceit there at the mortuary—you’re positive of that.”
   “I’m not positive,” St. Cyr said. “But I think it was; I believe it now and I believed it at the time.” It was too late to find out now, in any case, not enough remained of the body for such an analysis to be successfully made.
   “But who could it be, then?” Harvey said. “My God, it’s coming to us from beyond the solar system—could it be nonterrestrials of some kind? Some sort of echo or mockery, a non-living reaction unfamiliar to us? An inert process without intent?”
   St. Cyr laughed. “You’re babbling, Phil. Cut it out.”
   Nodding, Harvey said, “Whatever you say, Claude. If you think it’s someone here—”
   “I don’t know,” St. Cyr said candidly. “But I’d guess it’s someone right on this planet, someone who knew Louis well enough to have introjected his characteristics sufficiently thoroughly to imitate them.” He was silent, then. That was as far as he could carry his logical processes… beyond that he saw nothing. It was a blank, and a frightening one at that.
   There is, he thought, an element of the deranged in it. What we took to be decay—it’s more a form of madness than degeneration. Or is madness itself degeneration? He did not know; he wasn’t trained in the field of psychiatry, except regarding its legal aspects. And the legal aspects had no application, here.
   “Has anyone nominated Gam yet?” he asked Harvey.
   “Not yet. It’s expected to come sometime today, though. There’s a delegate from Montana who’ll do it, the rumor is.”
   “Johnny Barefoot is here?”
   “Yes.” Harvey nodded. “Busy as can be, lining up delegates. In and out of the different delegations, very much in evidence. No sign of Gam, of course. He won’t come in until the end of the nominating speech and then of course all hell will break loose. Cheering and parading and waving banners… the Gam supporters are all prepared.”
   “Any indication of—” St. Cyr hesitated. “What we’ve assumed to be Louis? His presence?” Or its presence, he thought. Whatever it is.
   “None as yet,” Harvey said.
   “I think we’ll hear from it,” St. Cyr said. “Before the day is over.”
   Harvey nodded; he thought so, too.
   “Are you afraid of it?” St. Cyr asked.
   “Sure,” Harvey said. “A thousand times more so than ever, now that we don’t even know who or what it is.”
   “You’re right to take that attitude,” St. Cyr said. He felt the same way.
   “Perhaps we should tell Johnny,” Harvey said.
   St. Cyr said, “Let him find out on his own.”
   “All right, Claude,” Harvey said. “Anything you say. After all, it was you who finally found Louis’s body; I have complete faith in you.”
   In a way, St. Cyr thought, I wish I hadn’t found it. I wish I didn ‘t know what I know now; we were better off believing it was old Louis talking to us from every phone, newspaper and TV set.
   That was bad—but this is far worse. Although, he thought, it seems to me that the answer is there, somewhere, just waiting.
   I must try, he told himself. Try to get it. TRY!

   Off by himself in a side room, Johnny Barefoot tensely watched the events of the Convention on closed-circuit TV. The distortion, the invading presence from one light-week away, had cleared for a time, and he could see and hear the delegate from Montana delivering the nominating speech for Alfonse Gam.
   He felt tired. The whole process of the Convention, its speeches and parades, its tautness, grated on his nerves, ran contrary to his disposition. So damn much show, he thought. Display for what? If Gam wanted to gain the nomination he could get it, and all the rest of this was purposeless. His own thoughts were on Kathy Egmont Sharp.
   He had not seen her since her departure for U.C. Hospital in San Francisco. At this point he had no idea of her condition, whether she had responded to therapy or not.
   The deep intuition could not be evaded that she had not. How sick really was Kathy? Probably very sick, with or without drugs; he felt that strongly. Perhaps she would never be discharged from U.C. Hospital; he could imagine that.
   On the other hand—if she wanted out, he decided, she would find a way to get out. That he intuited, too, even more strongly.
   So it was up to her. She had committed herself, gone into the hospital voluntarily. And she would come out—if she ever did—the same way. No one could compel Kathy… she was simply not that sort of person. And that, he realized, could well be a symptom of the illness-process.
   The door to the room opened. He glanced up from the TV screen. And saw Claude St. Cyr standing in the entrance. St. Cyr held a heat gun in his hand, pointed at Johnny. He said, “Where’s Kathy?”
   “I don’t know,” Johnny said. He got slowly, warily, to his feet.
   “You do. I’ll kill you if you don’t tell me.”
   “Why?” he said, wondering what had brought St. Cyr to this point, this extreme behavior.
   St. Cyr said, “Is it on Earth?” Still holding the gun pointed at Johnny he came toward him.
   “Yes,” Johnny said, with reluctance.
   “Give me the name of the city.”
   “What are you going to do?” Johnny said. “This isn’t like you, Claude; you used to always work within the law.”
   St. Cyr said, “I think the voice is Kathy. I know it’s not Louis, now; we have that to go on but beyond that it’s just a guess. Kathy is the only one I know deranged enough, deteriorated enough. Give me the name of the hospital.”
   “The only way you could know it isn’t Louis,” Johnny said, “would be to destroy the body.”
   “That’s right,” St. Cyr said, nodding.
   Then you have, Johnny realized. You found the correct mortuary; you got to Herb Schoenheit van Vogehang. So that was that.
   The door to the room burst open again; a group of cheering delegates, Gam supporters, marched in, blowing horns and hurling streamers, carrying huge hand-painted placards. St. Cyr turned toward them, waving his gun at them—and Johnny Barefoot sprinted past the delegates, to the door and out into the corridor.
   He ran down the corridor and a moment later emerged at the great central hall in which Gam’s demonstration was in full swing. From the loudspeakers mounted at the ceiling a voice boomed over and over.
   “Vote for Gam, the man what am. Gam, Gam, vote for Gam, vote for Gam, the one fine man; vote for Gam who really am. Gam, Gam, Gam, he really am—”
   Kathy, he thought. It can’t be you; it just can’t. He ran on, out of the hall, squeezing past the dancing, delirious delegates, past the glazed-eyed men and women in their funny hats, their banners wiggling… he reached the street, the parked ‘copters and cars, throngs of people clustered about, trying to push inside.
   If it is you, he thought, then you’re too sick ever to come back. Even if you want to, will yourself to. Had you been waiting for Louis to die, is that it? Do you hate us? Or are you afraid of us? What explains what it is you’re doing… what’s the reasonfor it?
   He hailed a ‘copter marked TAXI. “To San Francisco,” he instructed the driver.
   Maybe you’re not conscious that you’re doing it, he thought. Maybe it’s an autonomous process, rising out of your unconscious mind. Your mind split into two portions, one on the surface which we see, the other one—
   The one we hear.
   Should we feel sorry for you? he wondered. Or should we hate you, fear you? HOW MUCH HARM CAN YOU DO? I guess that’s the real issue. I love you, he thought. In some fashion, at least. I care about you, and that’s a form of love, not such as I feel toward my wife or my children, but it is a concern. Damn it, he thought, this is dreadful. Maybe St. Cyr is wrong; maybe it isn’t you.
   The ‘copter swept upward into the sky, cleared the buildings and turned west, its blade spinning at peak velocity.

   On the ground, standing in front of the convention hall, St. Cyr and Phil Harvey watched the ‘copter go.
   “Well, so it worked,” St. Cyr said. “I got him started moving. I’d guess he’s on his way either to Los Angeles or to San Francisco.”
   A second ‘copter slid up before them, hailed by Phil Harvey; the two men entered it and Harvey said, “You see the taxi that just took off? Stay behind it, just within sight. But don’t let it catch a glimpse of you if you can help it.”
   “Heck,” the driver said, “If I can see it, it can see me.” But he clicked on his meter and began to ascend. Grumpily, he said to Harvey and St. Cyr, “I don’t like this kind of stuff; it can be dangerous.”
   “Turn on your radio,” St. Cyr told him. “If you want to hear something that’s dangerous.”
   “Aw hell,” the driver said, disgusted. “The radio don’t work; some kind of interference, like sun spots or maybe some amateur operator—I lost a lot of fares because the dispatcher can’t get hold of me. I think the police ought to do something about it, don’t you?”
   St. Cyr said nothing. Beside him, Harvey peered at the ‘copter ahead.

   When he reached U.C. Hospital at San Francisco, and had landed at the field on the main building’s roof, Johnny saw the second ship circling, not passing on, and he knew that he was right; he had been followed all the way. But he did not care. It didn’t matter.
   Descending by means of the stairs, he came out on the third floor and approached a nurse. “Mrs. Sharp,” he said. “Where is she?”
   “You’ll have to ask at the desk,” the nurse said. “And visiting hours aren’t until—”
   He rushed on until he found the desk.
   “Mrs. Sharp’s room is 309,” the bespectacled, elderly nurse at the desk said. “But you must have Doctor Gross’s permission to visit her. And I believe Doctor Gross is having lunch right now and probably won’t be back until two o’clock, if you’d care to wait.” She pointed to a waiting room.
   “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll wait.” He passed through the waiting room and out the door at the far end, down the corridor, watching the numbers on the doors until he saw room number 309. Opening the door he entered the room, shut the door after him and looked around for her.
   There was the bed, but it was empty.
   “Kathy,” he said.
   At the window, in her robe, she turned, her face sly, bound up by hatred; her lips moved and, staring at him, she said with loathing, “I want Gam because he am.” Spitting at him, she crept toward him, her hands raised, her fingers writhing. “Gam’s a man, a real man,” she whispered, and he saw, in her eyes, the dissolved remnants of her personality expire even as he stood there. “Gam, gam, gam,” she whispered, and slapped him.
   He retreated. “It’s you,” he said. “Claude St. Cyr was right. Okay. I’ll go.” He fumbled for the door behind him, trying to get it open. Panic passed through him, like a wind, then; he wanted nothing but to get away. “Kathy,” he said, “let go.” Her nails had dug into him, into his shoulder, and she hung onto him, peering sideways into his face, smiling at him.
   “You’re dead,” she said. “Go away. I smell you, the dead inside you.”
   “I’ll go,” he said, and managed to find the handle of the door. She let go of him, then; he saw her right hand flash up, the nails directed at his face, possibly his eyes—he ducked, and her blow missed him. “I want to get away,” he said, covering his face with his arms.
   Kathy whispered, “I am Gam, I am. I’m the only one who am. Am alive. Gam, alive.” She laughed. “Yes, I will,” she said, mimicking his voice perfectly. “Claude St. Cyr was right; okay, I’ll go. I’ll go. I’ll go.” She was now between him and the door. “The window,” she said. “Do it now, what you wanted to do when I stopped you.” She hurried toward him, and he retreated, backward, step by step, until he felt the wall behind him.
   “It’s all in your mind,” he said, “this hate. Everyone is fond of you; I am, Gam is, St. Cyr and Harvey are. What’s the point of this?”
   “The point,” Kathy said, “is that I show you what you’re really like. Don’t you know yet? You’re even worse than me. I’m just being honest.”
   “Why did you pretend to be Louis?” he said.
   “I am Louis,” Kathy said. “When he died he didn’t go into half-life because I ate him; he became me. I was waiting for that. Alfonse and I had it all worked out, the transmitter out there with the recorded tape ready—we frightened you, didn’t we? You’re all scared, too scared to stand in his way. He’ll be nominated; he’s been nominated already, I feel it, I know it.”
   “Not yet,” Johnny said.
   “But it won’t be long,” Kathy said. “And I’ll be his wife.” She smiled at him. “And you’ll be dead, you and the others.” Coming at him she chanted, “I am Gam, I am Louis and when you’re dead I’ll be you, Johnny Barefoot, and all the rest; I’ll eat you all.” She opened her mouth wide and he saw the sharp, jagged, pale-as-death teeth.
   “And rule over the dead,” Johnny said, and hit her with all his strength, on the side of her face, near the jaw. She spun backward, fell, and then at once was up and rushing at him. Before she could catch him he sprinted away, to one side, caught then a glimpse of her distorted, shredded features, ruined by the force of his blow—and then the door to the room opened, and St. Cyr and Phil Harvey, with two nurses, stood there. Kathy stopped. He stopped, too. “Come on, Barefoot,” St. Cyr said, jerking his head. Johnny crossed the room and joined them.
   Tying the sash of her robe, Kathy said matter-of-factly, “So it was planned; he was to kill me, Johnny was to. And the rest of you would all stand and watch and enjoy it.”
   “They have an immense transmitter out there,” Johnny said. “They placed it a long time ago, possibly years back. All this time they’ve been waiting for Louis to die; maybe they even killed him, finally. The idea’s to get Gam nominated and elected, while keeping everyone terrorized with that transmission. She’s sick, much sicker than we realized, even sicker than you realized. Most of all it was under the surface where it didn’t show.”
   St. Cyr shrugged. “Well, she’ll have to be certified.” He was calm but unusually slow-spoken. “The will named me as trustee; I can represent the estate against her, file the commitment papers and then come forth at the sanity hearing.”
   “I’ll demand a jury trial,” Kathy said. “I can convince a jury of my sanity; it’s actually quite easy and I’ve been through it before.”
   “Possibly,” St. Cyr said. “But anyhow the transmitter will be gone; by that time the authorities will be out there.”
   “It’ll take months to reach it,” Kathy said. “Even by the fastest ship. And by then the election will be over; Alfonse will be President.”
   St. Cyr glanced at Johnny Barefoot. “Maybe so,” he murmured.
   “That’s why we put it out so far,” Kathy said. “It was Alfonse’s money and my ability; I inherited Louis’s ability, you see. I can do anything. Nothing is impossible for me if I want it; all I have to do is want it enough.”
   “You wanted me to jump,” Johnny said. “And I didn’t.”
   “You would have,” Kathy said, “in another minute. If they hadn’t come in.” She seemed quite poised, now. “You will, eventually; I’ll keep after you. And there’s no place you can hide; you know I’ll follow you and find you. All three of you.” Her gaze swept from one of them to the next, taking them all in.
   Harvey said, “I’ve got a little power and wealth, too. I think we can defeat Gam, even if he’s nominated.”
   “You have power,” Kathy said, “but not imagination. What you have isn’t enough. Not against me.” She spoke quietly, with complete confidence.
   “Let’s go,” Johnny said, and started down the hall, away from room 309 and Kathy Egmont Sharp.

   Up and down San Francisco’s hilly streets Johnny walked, hands in his pockets, ignoring the buildings and people, seeing nothing, merely walking on and on. Afternoon faded, became evening; the lights of the city came on and he ignored that, too. He walked block after block until his feet ached, burned, until he became aware that he was very hungry—that it was now ten o’clock at night and he had not eaten anything since morning. He stopped, then, and looked around him.
   Where were Claude St. Cyr and Phil Harvey? He could not remember having parted from them; he did not even remember leaving the hospital. But Kathy; he remembered that. He could not forget it even if he wanted to. And he did not want to. It was too important ever to be forgotten, by any of them who had witnessed it, understood it.
   At a newsstand he saw the massive, thick-black headlines.


Gam Wins Nomination, Promises Battling Campaign
for November Election

   So she did get that, Johnny thought. They did, the two of them; they got what they’re after exactly. And now—all they have to do is defeat Kent Margrave. And that thing out there, a light-week away; it’s still yammering. And will be for months.
   They’ll win, he realized.
   At a drugstore he found a phone booth; entering it he put money into the slot and dialed Sarah Belle, his own home phone number.
   The phone clicked in his ear. And then the familiar monotonous voice chanted, “Gam in November, Gam in November; win with Gam, President Alfonse Gam, our man—I am for Gam. I am for Gam. For GAM!” He rang off, then, and left the phone booth. It was hopeless.
   At the counter of the drugstore he ordered a sandwich and coffee; he sat eating mechanically, filling the requirements of his body without pleasure or desire, eating by reflex until the food was gone and it was time to pay the bill. What can I do? he asked himself. What can anyone do? All the means of communication are gone; the media have been taken over. They have the radio, TV, newspapers, phone, wire services… everything that depends on microwave transmission or open-gap electric circuitry. They’ve captured it all, left nothing for us, the opposition, by which to fight back.
   Defeat, he thought. That’s the dreary reality that lies ahead for us. And then, when they enter office, it’ll be our-death.
   “That’ll be a dollar ten,” the counter girl said.
   He paid for his meal and left the drugstore.
   When a ‘copter marked TAXI came spiralingby, he hailed it.
   “Take me home,” he said.
   “Okay,” the driver said amiably. “Where is home, buddy?”
   He gave him the address in Chicago and then settled back for the long ride. He was giving up; he was quitting, going back to Sarah Belle, to his wife and children. The fight—for him—apparently was over.

   When she saw him standing in the doorway, Sarah Belle said, “Good God, Johnny—you look terrible.” She kissed him, led him inside, into the warm, familiar living room. “I thought you’d be out celebrating.”
   “Celebrating?” he said hoarsely.
   “Your man won the nomination.” She went to put the coffee pot on for him.
   “Oh yeah,” he said, nodding. “That’s right. I was his P.R. man; I forgot.”
   “Better lie down,” Sarah Belle said. “Johnny, I’ve never seen you look so beaten; I can’t understand it. What happened to you?”
   He sat down on the couch and lit a cigarette.
   “What can I do for you?” she asked, with anxiety.
   “Nothing,” he said.
   “Is that Louis Sarapis on all the TV and phones? It sounds like him. I was talking with the Nelsons and they said it’s Louis’s exact voice.”
   “No,” he said. “It’s not Louis. Louis is dead.”
   “But his period of half-life—”
   “No,” he said. “He’s dead. Forget about it.”
   “You know who the Nelsons are, don’t you? They’re the new people who moved into the apartment that—”
   “I don’t want to talk,” he said. “Or be talked at.”
   Sarah Belle was silent, for a minute. And then she said, “One thing they said—you won’t like to hear it, I guess. The Nelsons are plain, quite commonplace people… they said even if Alfonse Gam got the nomination they wouldn’t vote for him. They just don’t like him.”
   He grunted.
   “Does that made you feel bad?” Sarah Belle asked. “I think they’re reacting to the pressure, Louis’s pressure on the TV and phones; they just don’t care for it. I think you’ve been excessive in your campaign, Johnny.” She glanced at him hesitantly. “That’s the truth; I have to say it.”
   Rising to his feet, he said, “I’m going to visit Phil Harvey. I’ll be back later on.”
   She watched him go out the door, her eyes darkened with concern.

   When he was admitted to Phil Harvey’s house he found Phil and Gertrude Harvey and Claude St. Cyr sitting together in the living room, each with a glass in hand, but no one speaking. Harvey glanced up briefly, saw him, and then looked away.
   “Are we going to give up?” he asked Harvey.
   Harvey said, “I’m in touch with Kent Margrave. We’re going to try to knock out the transmitter. But it’s a million to one shot, at that distance. And with even the fastest missile it’ll take a month.”
   “But that’s at least something,” Johnny said. It would at least be before the election; it would give them several weeks in which to campaign. “Does Margrave understand the situation?”
   “Yes,” Claude St. Cyr said. “We told him virtually everything.”
   “But that’s not enough,” Phil Harvey said. “There’s one more thing we must do. You want to be in on it? Draw for the shortest match?” He pointed to the coffee table; on it Johnny saw three matches, one of them broken in half. Now Phil Harvey added a fourth match, a whole one.
   St. Cyr said, “Her first. Her right away, as soon as possible. And then later on if necessary, Alfonse Gam.”
   Weary, cold fright filled Johnny Barefoot.
   “Take a match,” Harvey said, picking up the four matches, arranging and rearranging them in his hand and then holding out the four even tops to the people in the room. “Go ahead, Johnny. You got here last so I’ll have you go first.”
   “Not me,” he said.
   “Then we’ll draw without you,” Gertrude Harvey said, and picked a match. Phil held the remaining ones out to St. Cyr and he drew one also. Two remained in Phil Harvey’s hand.
   “I was in love with her,” Johnny said. “I still am.”
   Nodding, Phil Harvey said, “Yes, I know.”
   His heart leaden, Johnny said, “Okay. I’ll draw.” Reaching, he selected one of the two matches.
   It was the broken one.
   “I got it,” he said. “It’s me.”
   “Can you do it?” Claude St. Cyr asked him.
   He was silent for a time. And then he shrugged and said, “Sure. I can do it. Why not?” Why not indeed? he asked himself. A woman that I was falling in love with; certainly I can murder her. Because it has to be done. There is no other way out for us.
   “It may not be as difficult as we think,” St. Cyr said. “We’ve consulted some of Phil’s technicians and we picked up some interesting advice. Most of their transmissions are coming from nearby, not a light-week away by any means. I’ll tell you how we know. Their transmissions have kept up with changing events. For example, your suicide-attempt at the Antler Hotel. There was no time-lapse there or anywhere else!’
   “And they’re not supernatural, Johnny,” Gertrude Harvey said.
   “So the first thing to do,” St. Cyr continued, “is to find their base here on Earth or at least here in the solar system. It could be Gam’s guinea fowl ranch on Io. Try there, if you find she’s left the hospital.”
   “Okay,” Johnny said, nodding slightly.
   “How about a drink?” Phil Harvey said to him.
   Johnny nodded.
   The four of them, seated in a circle, drank, slowly and in silence.
   “Do you have a gun?” St. Cyr asked.
   “Yes.” Rising to his feet he set his glass down.
   “Good luck,” Gertrude said, after him.
   Johnny opened the front door and stepped outside alone, out into the dark, cold evening.

Orpheus With Clay Feet

   At the offices of Concord Military Service Consultants, Jesse Slade looked through the window at the street below and saw everything denied him in the way of freedom, flowers and grass, the opportunity for a long and unencumbered walk into new places. He sighed.
   “Sorry, sir,” the client opposite his desk mumbled apologetically. “I guess I’m boring you.”
   “Not at all,” Slade said, reawakening to his onerous duties. “Let’s see…” He examined the papers which the client, a Mr. Walter Grossbein, had presented to him. “Now you feel, Mr. Grossbein, that your most favorable chance to elude military service lies in the area of a chronic ear-trouble deemed by civilian doctors in the past acute labyrinthitis. Hmmm.” Slade studied the pertinent documents.
   His duties—and he did not enjoy them—lay in locating for clients of the firm a way out of military service. The war against the Things had not been conducted properly, of late; many casualties from the Proxima region had been reported—and with the reports had come a rush of business for Concord Military Service Consultants.
   “Mr. Grossbein,” Slade said thoughtfully, “I noticed when you entered my office that you tended to list to one side.”
   “Did I?” Mr. Grossbein asked, surprised.
   “Yes, and I thought to myself, That man has a severe impairment of his sense of balance. That’s related to the ear, you know, Mr. Grossbein. Hearing, from an evolutionary standpoint, is an outgrowth of the sense of balance. Some water creatures of a low order incorporate a grain of sand and make use of it as a drop-weight within their fluid body, and by that method tell if they’re going up or down.”
   Mr. Grossbein said, “I believe I understand.”
   “Say it, then,” Jesse Slade said.
   “I—frequently list to one side or another as I walk.”
   “And at night?”
   Mr. Grossbein frowned, and then said happily, “I, uh, find it almost impossible to orient myself at night, in the dark, when I can’t see.”
   “Fine,” Jesse Slade said, and begin writing on the client’s military service form B-30. “I think this will get you an exemption,” he said.
   Happily, the client said, “I can’t thank you enough.”
   Oh yes you can, Jesse Slade thought to himself. You can thank us to the tune of fifty dollars. After all, without us you might be a pale, lifeless corpse in some gully on a distant planet, not far from now.
   And, thinking about distant planets, Jesse Slade felt once more the yearning. The need to escape from his small office and the process of dealing with gold-bricking clients whom he had to face, day after day.
   There must be another life than this, Slade said to himself. Can this really be all there is to existence?
   Far down the street outside his office window a neon sign glowed night and day. Muse Enterprises, the sign read, and Jesse Slade knew what it meant. I’m going in there, he said to himself. Today. When I’m on my ten-thirty coffee break; I won’t even wait for lunch time.
   As he put on his coat, Mr. Hnatt, his supervisor, entered the office and said, “Say, Slade, what’s up? Why the fierce trapped look?”
   “Um, I’m getting out, Mr. Hnatt,” Slade told him. “Escaping. I’ve told fifteen thousand men how to escape military service; now it’s my turn.”
   Mr. Hnatt clapped him on the back. “Good idea, Slade; you’re overworked. Take a vacation. Take a time-travel adventure to some distant civilization—it’ll do you good.”
   “Thanks, Mr. Hnatt,” Slade said, “I’ll do just that.” And left his office as fast as his feet would carry him, out of the building and down the street to the glowing neon sign of Muse Enterprises.

   The girl behind the counter, blonde-haired, with dark green eyes and a figure that impressed him more for its engineering aspects, its suspension so to speak, smiled at him and said, “Our Mr. Manville will see you in a moment, Mr. Slade. Please be seated. You’ll find authentic nineteenth century Harper’s Weeklies over on the table, there.” She added, “And some twentieth century Mad Comics, those great classics of lampoonery equal to Hogarth.”
   Tensely, Mr. Slade seated himself and tried to read; he found an article in Harper’s Weekly telling that the Panama Canal was impossible and had already been abandoned by its French designers—that held his attention for a moment (the reasoning was so logical, so convincing) but after a few moments his old ennui and restlessness, like a chronic fog, returned. Rising to his feet he once more approached the desk.
   “Mr. Manville isn’t here yet?” he asked hopefully.
   From behind him a male voice said, “You, there at the counter.”
   Slade turned. And found himself facing a tall, dark-haired man with an intense expression, eyes blazing.
   “You,” the man said, “are in the wrong century.”
   Slade gulped.
   Striding toward him, the dark-haired man said, “I am Manville, sir.” He held out his hand and they shook. “You must go away,” Manville said. “Do you understand, sir? As soon as possible.”
   “But I want to use your services,” Slade mumbled.
   Manville’s eyes flashed. “I mean away into the past. What’s your name?” He gestured emphatically. “Wait, it’s coming to me. Jesse Slade, of Concord, up the street, there.”
   “Right,” Slade said, impressed.
   “All right, now down to business,” Mr. Manville said. “Into my office.” To the exceptionally-constructed girl at the counter he said, “No one is to disturb us, Miss Frib.”
   “Yes, Mr. Manville,” Miss Frib said. “I’ll see to that, don’t you fear, sir.”
   “I know that, Miss Frib.” Mr. Manville ushered Slade into a well-furnished inner office. Old maps and prints decorated the walls; the furniture—Slade gaped. Early American, with wood pegs instead of nails. New England maple and worth a fortune.
   “Is it all right…” he began.
   “Yes, you may actually sit on that Directorate chair,” Mr. Manville told him. “But be careful; it scoots out from under you if you lean forward. We keep meaning to put rubber casters on it or some such thing.” He looked irritated now, at having to discuss such trifles. “Mr. Slade,” he said brusquely, “I’ll speak plainly; obviously you’re a man of high intellect and we can skip the customary circumlocutions.”
   “Yes,” Slade said, “please do.”
   “Our time-travel arrangements are of a specific nature; hence the name ‘Muse.’ Do you grasp the meaning, here?”
   “Urn,” Slade said, at a loss but trying. “Let’s see. A muse is an organism that functions to—”
   “That inspires,” Mr. Manville broke in impatiently. “Slade, you are—let’s face it—not a creative man. That’s why you feel bored and unfulfilled. Do you paint? Compose? Make welded iron sculpture out of spaceship bodies and discarded lawn chairs? You don’t. You do nothing; you’re utterly passive. Correct?”
   Slade nodded. “You’ve hit it, Mr. Manville.”
   “I’ve hit nothing,” Mr. Manville said irritably. “You don’t follow me, Slade. Nothing will make you creative because you don’t have it within you. You’re too ordinary. I’m not going to get you started finger-painting or basket-weaving; I’m no Jungian analyst who believes art is the answer.” Leaning back he pointed his finger at Slade. “Look, Slade. We can help you, but you must be willing to help yourself first. Since you’re not creative, the best you can hope for—and we can assist you here—is to inspire others who are creative. Do you see?”
   After a moment Slade said, “I see, Mr. Manville. I do.”
   “Right,” Manville said, nodding. “Now, you can inspire a famous musician, like Mozart or Beethoven, or a scientist such as Albert Einstein, or a sculptor such as Sir Jacob Epstein—any one of a number of people, writers, musicians, poets. You could, for example, meet Sir Edward Gibbon during his travels to the Mediterranean and fall into a casual conversation with him and say something to this order… Hmmm, look at the ruins of this ancient civilization all around us. I wonder, how does a mighty empire such as Rome come to fall into decay? Fall into ruin… fall apart…”
   “Good Lord,” Slade said fervently, “I see, Manville; I get it. I repeat the word ‘fall’ over and over again to Gibbon, and due to me he gets the idea of his great history of Rome, the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. And—” He felt himself tremble. “I helped.”
   “ ‘Helped’?” Manville said. “Slade, that’s hardly the word. Without you there would have been no such work. You, Slade, could be Sir Edward’s muse.” He leaned back, got out an Upmann cigar, circa 1915, and lit up.
   “I think,” Slade said, “I’d like to mull this over. I want to be sure I inspire the proper person; I mean, they all deserve to be inspired, but—”
   “But you want to find the person in terms of your own psychic needs,” Manville agreed, puffing fragrant blue smoke. “Take our brochure.” He passed a large shiny multi-color 3-D pop-up booklet to Slade. “Take this home, read it, and come back to us when you’re ready.”
   Slade said, “God bless you, Mr. Manville.”
   “And calm down,” Manville said. “The world isn’t going to end… we know that here at Muse because we’ve looked.” He smiled, and Slade managed to smile back.

   Two days later Jesse Slade returned to Muse Enterprises. “Mr. Manville,” he said, “I know whom I want to inspire.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve thought and thought and what would mean to the most to me would be if I could go back to Vienna and inspire Ludwig van Beethoven with the idea for the Choral Symphony, you know, that theme in the fourth movement that the baritone sings that goes bum-bum de-da de-da bum-bum, daughters of Elysium; you know.” He flushed. “I’m no musician, but all my life I’ve admired the Beethoven Ninth and especially—
   “It’s been done,” Manville said.
   “Eh?” He did not understand.
   “It’s been taken, Mr. Slade.” Manville looked impatient as he sat at his great oak rolltop desk, circa 1910. Bringing out a thick metal-staved black binder he turned the pages. “Two years ago a Mrs. Ruby Welch of Montpelier, Idaho went back to Vienna and inspired Beethoven with the theme for the choral movement of his Ninth.” Manville slammed the binder shut and regarded Slade. “Well? What’s your second choice?”
   Stammering, Slade said, “I’d—have to think. Give me time.”
   Examining his watch, Manville said shortly, “I’ll give you two hours. Until three this afternoon. Good day, Slade.” He rose to his feet, and Slade automatically rose, too.

   An hour later, in his cramped office at Concord Military Service Consultants, Jesse Slade realized in a flashing single instant who and what he wanted to inspire. At once he put on his coat, excused himself to sympathetic Mr. Hnatt, and hurried down the street to Muse Enterprises.
   “Well, Mr. Slade,” Manville said, seeing him enter. “Back so soon. Come into the office.” He strode ahead, leading the way. “All right, let’s have it.” He shut the door after the two of them.
   Jesse Slade licked his dry lips and then, coughing, said, “Mr. Manville, I want to go back and inspire—well, let me explain. You know the great science fiction of the golden age, between 1930 and 1970?”
   “Yes, yes,” Manville said impatiently, scowling as he listened.
   “When I was in college,” Slade said, “getting my M.A. in English lit, I had to read a good deal of twentieth century science fiction, of course. Of the greats there were three writers who stood out. The first was Robert Heinlein with his future history. The second, Isaac Asimov with his Foundation epic series. And—” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “The man I did my paper on. Jack Dowland. Of the three of them, Dowland was considered the greatest. His future history of the world began to appear in 1957, in both magazine form—as short stories—and in book form, as complete novels. By 1963, Dowland was regarded as—”
   Mr. Manville said, “Hmmm.” Getting out the black binder, he began to thumb through it. “Twentieth century science fiction… a rather specialized interest—fortunately for you. Let’s see.”
   “I hope,” Slade said quietly, “it hasn’t been taken.”
   “Here is one client,” Mr. Manville said. “Leo Parks of Vacaville, California. He went back and inspired A. E. van Vogt to avoid love stories and westerns and try science fiction.” Turning more pages, Mr. Manville said, “And last year a client of Muse Enterprises, Miss Julie Oxenblut of Kansas City, Kansas asked to be permitted to inspire Robert Heinlein in his future history… was it Heinlein you said, Mr. Slade?”
   “No,” Slade said, “it was Jack Dowland, the greatest of the three. Heinlein was great, but I did much research on this, Mr. Manville, and Dowland was greater.”
   “No, it hasn’t been done,” Manville decided, closing up the black binder. From his desk drawer he brought out a form. “You fill this out, Mr. Slade,” he said, “and then we’ll begin to roll on this matter. Do you know the year and the place at which Jack Dowland began work on his future history of the world?”
   “I do,” Slade said. “He was living in a little town on the then Route 40 in Nevada, a town called Purpleblossom, consisted of three gas stations, a cafe, a bar, and a general store. Dowland had moved there to get atmosphere; he wanted to write stories of the Old West in the form of TV scripts. He hoped to make a good deal of money.”
   “I see you know your subject,” Manville said, impressed.
   Slade continued, “While living in Purpleblossom he did write a number of TV western scripts but somehow he found them unsatisfactory. In any case, he remained there, trying other fields such as children’s books and articles on teen-age pre-marital sex for the slick magazines of the times… and then, all at once, in the year 1956, he suddenly turned to science fiction and immediately produced the greatest novelette seen to date in that field. That was the consensus gentium of the time, Mr. Manville, and I have read the story and I agree. It was called THE FATHER ON THE WALL and it still appears in anthologies now and then; it’s the kind of story that will never die. And the magazine in which it appeared, Fantasy & Science Fiction, will always be remembered for having published Dowland’s first epic in its August 1957 issue.”
   Nodding, Mr. Manville said, “And this is the magnus opus which you wish to inspire. This, and all that followed.”
   “You have it right, sir,” Mr. Slade said.
   “Fill out your form,” Manville said, “and we’ll do the rest.” He smiled at Slade and Slade, confident, smiled back.

   The operator of the time-ship, a short, heavy-set, crew-cut young man with strong features, said briskly to Slade, “Okay, bud; you ready or not? Make up your mind.”
   Slade, for one last time, inspected his twentieth century suit which Muse Enterprises had provided him—one of the services for the rather high fee which he had found himself paying. Narrow necktie, cuffless trousers, and Ivy League striped shirt… yes, Slade decided, from what he knew of the period it was authentic, right down to the sharp-pointed Italian shoes and the colorful stretch socks. He would pass without any difficulty as a citizen of the U.S. of 1956, even in Purpleblossom, Nevada.
   “Now listen,” the operator said, as he fastened the safety belt around Slade’s middle, “you got to remember a couple of things. First of all, the only way you can get back to 2040 is with me; you can’t walk back. And second, you got to be careful not to change the past—I mean, stick to your one simple task of inspiring this individual, this Jack Dowland, and let it go at that.”
   “Of course,” Slade said, puzzled at the admonition.
   “Too many clients,” the operator said, “you’d be surprised how many, go wild when they get back into the past; they get delusions of power and want to make all sorts of changes—eliminate wars, hunger and poverty—you know. Change history.”
   “I won’t do that,” Slade said. “I have no interest in abstract cosmic ventures on that order.” To him, inspiring Jack Dowland was cosmic enough. And yet he could empathize enough to understand the temptation. In his own work he had seen all kinds of people.
   The operator slammed shut the hatch of the time-ship, made certain that Slade was strapped in properly, and then took his own seat at the controls. He snapped a switch and a moment later Slade was on his way to his vacation from monotonous office work—back to 1956 and the nearest he would come to a creative act in his life.

   The hot midday Nevada sun beat down, blinding him; Slade squinted, peered about nervously for the town of Purpleblossom. All he saw was dull rock and sand, the open desert with a single narrow road passing among the Joshua plants.
   “To the right,” the operator of the time-ship said, pointing. “You can walk there in ten minutes. You understand your contract, I hope. Better get it out and read it.”
   From the breast pocket of his 1950-style coat, Slade brought the long yellow contract form with Muse Enterprises. “It says you’ll give me thirty-six hours. That you’ll pick me up in this spot and that it’s my responsibility to be here; if I’m not, and can’t be brought back to my own time, the company is not liable.”
   “Right,” the operator said, and re-entered the time-ship. “Good luck, Mr. Slade. Or, as I should call you, Jack Dowland’s muse.” He grinned, half in derision, half in friendly sympathy, and then the hatch shut after him.
   Jesse Slade was alone on the Nevada desert, a quarter mile outside the tiny town of Purpleblossom.
   He began to walk, perspiring, wiping his neck with his handkerchief.

   There was no problem to locating Jack Dowland’s house, since only seven houses existed in the town. Slade stepped up onto the rickety wooden porch, glancing at the yard with its trash can, clothes line, discarded plumbing fixtures… parked in the driveway he saw a dilapidated car of some archaic sort—archaic even for the year 1956.
   He rang the bell, adjusted his tie nervously, and once more in his mind rehearsed what he intended to say. At this point in his life, Jack Dowland had written no science fiction; that was important to remember—it was in fact the entire point. This was the critical nexus in his life—history, this fateful ringing of his doorbell. Of course Dowland did not know that. What was he doing within the house? Writing? Reading the funnies of a Reno newspaper? Sleeping?
   Footsteps. Tautly, Slade prepared himself.
   The door opened. A young woman wearing light-weight cotton trousers, her hair tied back with a ribbon, surveyed him calmly. What small, pretty feet she had, Slade noticed. She wore slippers; her skin was smooth and shiny, and he found himself gazing intently, unaccustomed to seeing so much of a woman exposed. Both ankles were completely bare.
   “Yes?” the woman asked pleasantly but a trifle wearily. He saw now that she had been vacuuming; there in the living room was a tank type G.E. vacuum cleaner… its existence here proving that historians were wrong; the tank type cleaner had not vanished in 1950 as was thought.
   Slade, thoroughly prepared, said smoothly, “Mrs. Dowland?” The woman nodded. Now a small child appeared to peep at him past its mother. “I’m a fan of your husband’s monumental—” Oops, he thought, that wasn’t right. “Ahem,” he corrected himself, using a twentieth century expression often found in books of that period. “Tsk-tsk,” he said. “What I mean to say is this, madam. I know well the works of your husband Jack. I am here by means of a lengthy drive across the desert badlands to observe him in his habitat.” He smiled hopefully.
   “You know Jack’s work?” She seemed surprised, but thoroughly pleased.
   “On the telly,” Slade said. “Fine scripts of his.” He nodded.
   “You’re English, are you?” Mrs. Dowland said. “Well, did you want to come in?” She held the door wide. “Jack is working right now up in the attic… the children’s noise bothers him. But I know he’d like to stop and talk to you, especially since you drove so far. You’re Mr.—”
   “Slade,” Slade said. “Nice abode you possess, here.”
   “Thank you.” She led the way into a dark, cool kitchen in the center of which he saw a round plastic table with wax milk carton, melmac plate, sugar bowl, two coffee cups and other amusing objects thereon. “JACK!” she called at the foot of a flight of stairs. “THERE’S A FAN OF YOURS HERE; HE WANTS TO SEE YOU!”
   Far off above them a door opened. The sound of a person’s steps, and then, as Slade stood rigidly, Jack Dowland appeared, young and good-looking, with slightly-thinning brown hair, wearing a sweater and slacks, his lean, intelligent face beclouded with a frown. “I’m at work,” he said curtly. “Even though I do it at home it’s a job like any other.” He gazed at Slade. “What do you want? What do you mean you’re a ‘fan’ of my work? What work? Christ, it’s been two months since I sold anything; I’m about ready to go out of my mind.”
   Slade said, “Jack Dowland, that is because you have yet to find your proper genre.” He heard his voice tremble; this was the moment.
   “Would you like a beer, Mr. Slade?” Mrs. Dowland asked.
   “Thank you, miss,” Slade said. “Jack Dowland,” he said, “I am here to inspire you.”
   “Where are you from?” Dowland said suspiciously. “And how come you’re wearing your tie that funny way?”
   “Funny in what respect?” Slade asked, feeling nervous.
   “With the knot at the bottom instead of up around your adam’s apple.” Dowland walked around him, now, studying him critically. “And why’s your head shaved? You’re too young to be bald.”
   “The custom of this period,” Slade said feebly. “Demands a shaved head. At least in New York.”
   “Shaved head my ass,” Dowland said. “Say, what are you, some kind of a crank? What do you want?”
   “I want to praise you,” Slade said. He felt angry now; a new emotion, indignation, filled him—he was not being treated properly and he knew it.
   “Jack Dowland,” he said, stuttering a little, “I know more about your work than you do; I know your proper genre is science fiction and not television westerns. Better listen to me; I’m your muse.” He was silent, then, breathing noisily and with difficulty.
   Dowland stared at him, and then threw back his head and laughed.
   Also smiling, Mrs. Dowland said, “Well, I knew Jack had a muse but I assumed it was female. Aren’t all muses female?”
   “No,” Slade said angrily. “Leon Parks of Vacaville, California, who inspired A. E. van Vogt, was male.” He seated himself at the plastic table, his legs being too wobbly, now, to support him. “Listen to me, Jack Dowland—”
   “For God’s sake,” Dowland said, “either call me Jack or Dowland but not both; it’s not natural the way you’re talking. Are you on tea or something?” He sniffed intently.
   “Tea,” Slade echoed, not understanding. “No, just a beer, please.”
   Dowland said, “Well get to the point. I’m anxious to be back at work. Even if it’s done at home it is work.”
   It was now time for Slade to deliver his encomium. He had prepared it carefully; clearing his throat he began. “Jack, if I may call you that, I wonder why the hell you haven’t tried science fiction. I figure that—”
   “I’ll tell you why,” Jack Dowland broke in. He paced back and forth, his hands in his trousers pockets. “Because there’s going to be a hydrogen war. The future’s black. Who wants to write about it? Keeerist.” He shook his head. “And anyhow who reads that stuff? Adolescents with skin trouble. Misfits. And it’s junk. Name me one good science fiction story, just one. I picked up a magazine on a bus once when I was in Utah. Trash! I wouldn’t write that trash even if it paid well, and I looked into it and it doesn’t pay well—around one half cent a word. And who can live on that?” Disgustedly, he started toward the stairs. “I’m going back to work.”
   “Wait,” Slade said, feeling desperate. All was going wrong. “Hear me out, JackDowland.”
   “There you go with that funny talk again,” Dowland said. But he paused, waiting. “Well?” he demanded.
   Slade said, “Mr. Dowland, I am from the future.” He was not supposed to say that—Mr. Manville had warned him severely—but it seemed at the moment to be the only way out for him, the only thing that would stop Jack Dowland from walking off.
   “What?” Dowland said loudly. “The what?”
   “I am a time-traveler,” Slade said feebly, and was silent.
   Dowland walked back toward him.

   When he arrived at the time-ship, Slade found the short-set operator seated on the ground before it, reading a newspaper. The operator glanced up, grinned and said, “Back safe and sound, Mr. Slade. Come on, let’s go.” He opened the hatch and guided Slade within.
   “Take me back,” Slade said. “Just take me back.”
   “What’s the matter? Didn’t you enjoy your inspiring?”
   “I just want to go back to my own time,” Slade said.
   “Okay,” the operator said, raising an eyebrow. He strapped Slade into his seat and then took his own beside him.
   When they reached Muse Enterprises, Mr. Manville was waiting for them. “Slade,” he said, “come inside.” His face was dark. “I have a few words to say to you.”
   When they were alone in Manville’s office, Slade began, “He was in a bad mood, Mr. Manville. Don’t blame me.” He hung his head, feeling empty and futile.
   “You—” Manville stared down at him in disbelief. “You failed to inspire him! That’s never happened before!”
   “Maybe I can go back again,” Slade said.
   “My God,” Manville said, “you not only didn’t inspire him—you turned him against science fiction.”
   “How did you find this out?” Slade said. He had hoped to keep it quiet, make it his own secret to carry with him to the grave.
   Manville said bitingly, “All I had to do was keep my eye on the reference books dealing with literature of the twentieth century. Half an hour after you left, the entire texts on Jack Dowland, including the half-page devoted to his biography in the Britannica—vanished.”
   Slade said nothing; he stared at the floor.
   “So I researched it,” Manville said. “I had the computers at the University of California look up all extant citations on Jack Dowland.”
   “Were there any?” Slade mumbled.
   “Yes,” Manville said. “There were a couple. Minute, in rarified technical articles dealing comprehensively and exhaustively with that period. Because of you, Jack Dowland is now completely unknown to the public—and was so even during his own day.” He waved a finger at Slade, panting with wrath. “Because of you, Jack Dowland never wrote his epic future history of mankind. Because of your so-called ‘inspiration’ he continued to write scripts for TV westerns—and died at forty-six an utterly anonymous hack.”
   “No science fiction at all?” Slade asked, incredulous. Had he done that badly? He couldn’t believe it; true, Dowland had bitterly repulsed every suggestion Slade had made—true, he had gone back up to his attic in a peculiar frame of mind after Slade had made his point. But—
   “All right,” Manville said, “there exists one science fiction work by Jack Dowland. Tiny, mediocre and totally unknown.” Reaching into his desk drawer he grabbed out a yellowed, ancient magazine which he tossed to Slade. “One short story called ORPHEUS WITH CLAY FEET, under the pen name Philip K. Dick. Nobody read it then, nobody reads it now—it was an account of a visit to Dowland by—” He glared furiously at Slade. “By a well-intentioned idiot from the future with deranged visions of inspiring him to write a mythological history of the world to come. Well, Slade? What do you say?”
   Slade said heavily, “He used my visit as the basis for the story. Obviously.”
   “And it made him the only money he ever earned as a science fiction writer—dissapointingly little, barely enough to justify his effort and time. You’re in the story, I’m in the story—Lord, Slade, you must have told him everything.”
   “I did,” Slade said. “To convince him.”
   “Well, he wasn’t convinced; he thought you were a nut of some kind. He wrote the story obviously in a bitter frame of mind. Let me ask you this: was he busy working when you arrived?”
   “Yes,” Slade said, “but Mrs. Dowland said—”
   “There is—was—no Mrs. Dowland! Dowland never married! That must have been a neighbor’s wife whom Dowland was having an affair with. No wonder he was furious; you broke in on his assignation with that girl, whoever she was. She’s in the story, too; he put everything in and then gave up his house in Purpleblossom, Nevada and moved to Dodge City, Kansas.” There was silence.
   “Um,” Slade said at last, “well, could I try again? With someone else? I was thinking on the way back about Paul Ehrlich and his magic bullet, his discovery of the cure for—”
   “Listen,” Manville said. “I’ve been thinking, too. You’re going back but not to inspire Doctor Ehrlich or Beethoven or Dowland or anybody like that, anybody useful to society.”
   With dread, Slade glanced up.
   “You’re going back,” Manville said between his teeth, “to uninspire people like Adolf Hitler and Karl Marx and Sanrome Clinger—”
   “You mean you think I’m so ineffectual…” Slade mumbled.
   “Exactly. We’ll start with Hitler in his period of imprisonment after his first abortive attempt to seize power in Bavaria. The period in which he dictated Mein Kampf to Rudolf Hess. I’ve discussed this with my superiors and it’s all worked out; you’ll be there as a fellow prisoner, you understand? And you’ll recommend to Adolf Hitler, just as you recommended to Jack Dowland, that he write. In this case, a detailed autobiography laying out in detail his political program for the world. And if everything goes right—”
   “I understand,” Slade murmured, staring at the floor again. “It’s a—I’d say an inspired idea, but I’m afraid I’ve given onus to that word by now.”
   “Don’t credit me with the idea,” Manville said. “I got it out of Dowland’s wretched story, ORPHEUS WITH CLAY FEET; that’s how he resolved it at the end.” He turned the pages of the ancient magazine until he came to the part he wanted. “Read that, Slade. You’ll find that it carries you up to your encounter with me, and then you go off to do research on the Nazi Party so that you can best uninspire Adolf Hitler not to write his autobiography and hence possibly prevent World War Two. And if you fail to uninspire Hitler, we’ll try you on Stalin, and if you fail to uninspire Stalin, then—”
   “All right,” Slade muttered, “I understand; you don’t have to spell it out to me.”
   “And you’ll do it,” Manville said, “because in ORPHEUS WITH CLAY FEET you agree. So it’s all decided already.”
   Slade nodded. “Anything. To make amends.”
   To him Manville said, “You idiot. How could you have done so badly?”
   “It was an off-day for me,” Slade said. “I’m sure I could do better the next time.” Maybe with Hitler, he thought. Maybe I can do a terrific job of uninspiring him, better than anyone else ever did in uninspiring anyone in history.
   “We’ll call you the null-muse,” Manville said.
   “Clever idea,” Slade said.
   Wearily, Manville said, “Don’t compliment me; compliment Jack Dowland. It was in his story, too. At the very last.”
   “And that’s how it ends?” Slade asked.
   “No,” Manville said, “it ends with me presenting you with a bill—the costs of sending you back to uninspire Adolf Hitler. Five hundred dollars, in advance.” He held out his hand. “Just in case you never get back here.”
   Resignedly, in misery, Jesse Slade reached as slowly as possible into his twentieth century coat pocket for his wallet.

The Days of Perky Pat

   At ten in the morning a terrific horn, familiar to him, hooted Sam Regan out of his sleep, and he cursed the careboy upstairs; he knew the racket was deliberate. The careboy, circling, wanted to be certain that flukers—and not merely wild animals—got the care parcels that were to be dropped.
   We’ll get them, we’ll get them, Sam Regan said to himself as he zipped his dust-proof overalls, put his feet into boots and then grumpily sauntered as slowly as possible toward the ramp. Several other flukers joined him, all showing similar irritation.
   “He’s early today,” Tod Morrison complained. “And I’ll bet it’s all staples, sugar and flour and lard—nothing interesting like say candy.”
   “We ought to be grateful,” Norman Schein said.
   “Grateful!” Tod halted to stare at him. “GRATEFUL?”
   “Yes,” Schein said. “What do you think we’d be eating without them: If they hadn’t seen the clouds ten years ago.”
   “Well,” Tod said sullenly, “I just don’t like them to come early; I actually don’t exactly mind their coming, as such.”
   As he put his shoulders against the lid at the top of the ramp, Schein said genially, “That’s mighty tolerant of you, Tod boy. I’m sure the careboys would be pleased to hear your sentiments.”
   Of the three of them, Sam Regan was the last to reach the surface; he did not like the upstairs at all, and he did not care who knew it. And anyhow, no one could compel him to leave the safety of the Pinole Fluke-pit; it was entirely his business, and he noted now that a number of his fellow flukers had elected to remain below in their quarters, confident that those who did answer the horn would bring them back something.
   “It’s bright,” Tod murmured, blinking in the sun.
   The care ship sparkled close overhead, set against the gray sky as if hanging from an uneasy thread. Good pilot, this drop, Tod decided. He, or rather it, just lazily handles it, in no hurry. Tod waved at the care ship, and once more the huge horn burst out its din, making him clap his hands to his ears. Hey, a joke’s a joke, he said to himself. And then the horn ceased; the careboy had relented.
   “Wave to him to drop,” Norm Schein said to Tod. “You’ve got the wigwag.”
   “Sure,” Tod said, and began laboriously flapping the red flag, which the Martian creatures had long ago provided, back and forth, back and forth.
   A projectile slid from the underpart of the ship, tossed out stabilizers, spiraled toward the ground.
   “Sheoot,” Sam Regan said with disgust. “It is staples; they don’t have the parachute.” He turned away, not interested.
   How miserable the upstairs looked today, he thought as he surveyed the scene surrounding him. There, to the right, the uncompleted house which someone—not far from their pit—had begun to build out of lumber salvaged from Vallejo, ten miles to the north. Animals or radiation dust had gotten the builder, and so his work remained where it was; it would never be put to use. And, Sam Regan saw, an unusually heavy precipitate had formed since last he had been up here, Thursday morning or perhaps Friday; he had lost exact track. The darn dust, he thought. Just rocks, pieces of rubble, and the dust. World’s becoming a dusty object with no one to whisk it off regularly. How about you? he asked silently of the Martian careboy flying in slow circles overhead. Isn’t your technology limitless? Can’t you appear some morning with a dust rag a million miles in surface area and restore our planet to pristine newness?
   Or rather, he thought, to pristine oldness, the way it was in the “ol-days,” as the children call it. We’d like that. While you’re looking for something to give to us in the way of further aid, try that.
   The careboy circled once more, searching for signs of writing in the dust: a message from the flukers below. I’ll write that, Sam thought. BRING DUST RAG, RESTORE OUR CIVILIZATION. Okay, careboy?
   All at once the care ship shot off, no doubt on its way back home to its base on Luna or perhaps all the way to Mars.
   From the open fluke-pit hole, up which the three of them had come, a further head poked, a woman. Jean Regan, Sam’s wife, appeared, shielded by a bonnet against the gray, blinding sun, frowning and saying, “Anything important? Anything new?”
   “ ‘Fraid not,” Sam said. The care parcel projectile had landed and he walked toward it, scuffing his boots in the dust. The hull of the projectile had cracked open from the impact and he could see the canisters already. It looked to be five thousand pounds of salt—might as well leave it up here so the animals wouldn’t starve, he decided. He felt despondent.
   How peculiarly anxious the careboys were. Concerned all the time that the mainstays of existence be ferried from their own planet to Earth. They must think we eat all day long, Sam thought. My God… the pit was filled to capacity with stored foods. But of course it had been one of the smallest public shelters in Northern California.
   “Hey,” Schein said, stooping down by the projectile and peering into the crack opened along its side. “I believe I see something we can use.” He found a rusted metal pole—once it had helped reinforce the concrete side of an ol-days public building—and poked at the projectile, stirring its release mechanism into action. The mechanism, triggered off, popped the rear half of the projectile open… and there lay the contents.
   “Looks like radios in that box,” Tod said. “Transistor radios.” Thoughtfully stroking his short black beard he said, “Maybe we can use them for something new in our layouts.”
   “Mine’s already got a radio,” Schein pointed out.
   “Well, build an electronic self-directing lawn mower with the parts,” Tod said. “You don’t have that, do you?” He knew the Scheins’ Perky Pat layout fairly well; the two couples, he and his wife with Schein and his, had played together a good deal, being almost evenly matched.
   Sam Regan said, “Dibs on the radios, because I can use them.” His layout lacked the automatic garage-door opener that both Schein and Tod had; he was considerably behind them.
   “Let’s get to work,” Schein agreed. “We’ll leave the staples here and just cart back the radios. If anybody wants the staples, let them come here and get them. Before the do-cats do.”
   Nodding, the other two men fell to the job of carting the useful contents of the projectile to the entrance of their fluke-pit ramp. For use in their precious, elaborate Perky Pat layouts.

   Seated cross-legged with his whetstone, Timothy Schein, ten years old and aware of his many responsibilities, sharpened his knife, slowly and expertly. Meanwhile, disturbing him, his mother and father noisily quarreled with Mr. and Mrs. Morrison, on the far side of the partition. They were playing Perky Pat again. As usual.
   How many times today they have to play that dumb game? Timothy asked himself. Forever, I guess. He could see nothing in it, but his parents played on anyhow. And they weren’t the only ones; he knew from what other kids said, even from other fluke-pits, that their parents, too, played Perky Pat most of the day, and sometimes even on into the night.
   His mother said loudly, “Perky Pat’s going to the grocery store and it’s got one of those electric eyes that opens the door. Look.” A pause. “See, it opened for her, and now she’s inside.”
   “She pushes a cart,” Timothy’s dad added, in support.
   “No, she doesn’t,” Mrs. Morrison contradicted. “That’s wrong. She gives her list to the grocer and he fills it.”
   “That’s only in little neighborhood stores,” his mother explained. “And this is a supermarket, you can tell because of the electric eye door.”
   “I’m sure all grocery stores had electric eye doors,” Mrs. Morrison said stubbornly, and her husband chimed in with his agreement. Now the voices rose in anger; another squabble had broken out. As usual.
   Aw, cung to them, Timothy said to himself, using the strongest word which he and his friends knew. What’s a supermarket anyhow? He tested the blade of his knife—he had made it himself, originally, out of a heavy metal pan—and then hopped to his feet. A moment later he had sprinted silently down the hall and was rapping his special rap on the door of the Chamberlains’ quarters.
   Fred, also ten years old, answered. “Hi. Ready to go? I see you got that old knife of yours sharpened; what do you think we’ll catch?”
   “Not a do-cat,” Timothy said. “A lot better than that; I’m tired of eating do-cat. Too peppery.”
   “Your parents playing Perky Pat?”
   “Yeah.”
   Fred said, “My mom and dad have been gone for a long time, off playing with the Benteleys.” He glanced sideways at Timothy, and in an instant they had shared their mute disappointment regarding their parents. Gosh, and maybe the darn game was all over the world, by now; that would not have surprised either of them.
   “How come your parents play it?” Timothy asked.
   “Same reason yours do,” Fred said.
   Hesitating, Timothy said, “Well, why? I don’t know why they do; I’m asking you, can’t you say?”
   “It’s because—” Fred broke off. “Ask them. Come on; let’s get upstairs and start hunting.” His eyes shone. “Let’s see what we can catch and kill today.”

   Shortly, they had ascended the ramp, popped open the lid, and were crouching amidst the dust and rocks, searching the horizon. Timothy’s heart pounded; this moment always overwhelmed him, the first instant of reaching the upstairs. The thrilling initial sight of the expanse. Because it was never the same. The dust, heavier today, had a darker gray color to it than before; it seemed denser, more mysterious.
   Here and there, covered by many layers of dust, lay parcels dropped from past relief ships—dropped and left to deteriorate. Never to be claimed. And, Timothy saw, an additional new projectile which had arrived that morning.
   Most of its cargo could be seen within; the grownups had not had any use for the majority of the contents, today.
   “Look,” Fred said softly.
   Two do-cats—mutant dogs or cats; no one knew for sure—could be seen, lightly sniffing at the projectile. Attracted by the unclaimed contents.
   “We don’t want them,” Timothy said.
   “That one’s sure nice and fat,” Fred said longingly. But it was Timothy that had the knife; all he himself had was a string with a metal bolt on the end, a bull-roarer that could kill a bird or a small animal at a distance—but useless against a do-cat, which generally weighed fifteen to twenty pounds and sometimes more.
   High up in the sky a dot moved at immense speed, and Timothy knew that it was a care ship heading for another fluke-pit, bringing supplies to it. Sure are busy, he thought to himself. Those careboys always coming and going; they never stop, because if they did, the grownups would die. Wouldn’t that be too bad? he thought ironically. Sure be sad.
   Fred said, “Wave to it and maybe it’ll drop something.” He grinned at Timothy, and then they both broke out laughing.
   “Sure,” Timothy said. “Let’s see; what do I want?” Again the two of them laughed at the idea of them wanting something. The two boys had the entire upstairs, as far as the eye could see… they had even more than the careboys had, and that was plenty, more than plenty.
   “Do you think they know?” Fred said, “that our parents play Perky Pat with furniture made out of what they drop? I bet they don’t know about Perky Pat; they never have seen a Perky Pat doll, and if they did they’d be really mad.”
   “You’re right,” Timothy said. “They’d be so sore they’d probably stop dropping stuff.” He glanced at Fred, catching his eye.
   “Aw no,” Fred said. “We shouldn’t tell them; your dad would beat you again if you did that, and probably me, too.”
   Even so, it was an interesting idea. He could imagine first the surprise and then the anger of the careboys; it would be fun to see that, see the reaction of the eight-legged Martian creatures who had so much charity inside their warty bodies, the cephalopodic univalve mollusk-like organisms who had voluntarily taken it upon themselves to supply succor to the waning remnants of the human race… this was how they got paid back for their charity, this utterly wasteful, stupid purpose to which their goods were being put. This stupid Perky Pat game that all the adults played.
   And anyhow it would be very hard to tell them; there was almost no communication between humans and careboys. They were too different. Acts, deeds, could be done, conveying something… but not mere words, not mere signs. And anyhow—
   A great brown rabbit bounded by to the right, past the half-completed house. Timothy whipped out his knife. “Oh boy!” he said aloud in excitement. “Let’s go!” He set off across the rubbly ground, Fred a little behind him. Gradually they gained on the rabbit; swift running came easy to the two boys: they had done much practicing.
   “Throw the knife!” Fred panted, and Timothy, skidding to a halt, raised his right arm, paused to take aim, and then hurled the sharpened, weighted knife. His most valuable, self-made possession.
   It cleaved the rabbit straight through its vitals. The rabbit tumbled, slid, raising a cloud of dust.
   “I bet we can get a dollar for that!” Fred exclaimed, leaping up and down. “The hide alone—I bet we can get fifty cents just for the darn hide!”
   Together, they hurried toward the dead rabbit, wanting to get there before a red-tailed hawk or a day-owl swooped on it from the gray sky above.

   Bending, Norman Schein picked up his Perky Pat doll and said sullenly, “I’m quitting; I don’t want to play any more.”
   Distressed, his wife protested, “But we’ve got Perky Pat all the way downtown in her new Ford hardtop convertible and parked and a dime in the meter and she’s shopped and now she’s in the analyst’s office reading Fortune—we’re way ahead of the Morrisons! Why do you want to quit, Norm?”
   “We just don’t agree,” Norman grumbled. “You say analysts charged twenty dollars an hour and I distinctly remember them charging only ten; nobody could charge twenty. So you’re penalizing our side, and for what? The Morrisons agree it was only ten. Don’t you?” he said to Mr. and Mrs. Morrison, who squatted on the far side of the layout which combined both couples’ Perky Pat sets.
   Helen Morrison said to her husband, “You went to the analyst more than I did; are you sure he charged only ten?”
   “Well, I went mostly to group therapy,” Tod said. “At the Berkeley State Mental Hygiene Clinic, and they charged according to your ability to pay. And Perky Pat is at a private psychoanalyst.”
   “We’ll have to ask someone else,” Helen said to Norman Schein. “I guess all we can do now this minute is suspend the game.” He found himself being glared at by her, too, now, because by his insistence on the one point he had put an end to their game for the whole afternoon.
   “Shall we leave it all set up?” Fran Schein asked. “We might as well; maybe we can finish tonight after dinner.”
   Norman Schein gazed down at their combined layout, the swanky shops, the well-lit streets with the parked new-model cars, all of them shiny, the split-level house itself, where Perky Pat lived and where she entertained Leonard, her boy friend. It was the house that he perpetually yearned for; the house was the real focus of the layout—of all the Perky Pat layouts, however much they might otherwise differ.
   Perky Pat’s wardrobe, for instance, there in the closet of the house, the big bedroom closet. Her capri pants, her white cotton short-shorts, her two-piece polka dot swimsuit, her fuzzy sweaters… and there, in her bedroom, her hi-fi set, her collection of long playing records…
   It had been this way, once, really been like this in the ol-days. Norm Schein could remember his own lp record collection, and he had once had clothes almost as swanky as Perky Pat’s boy friend Leonard, cashmere jackets and tweed suits and Italian sportshirts and shoes made in England. He hadn’t owned a Jaguar XKE sports car, like Leonard did, but he had owned a fine-looking old 1963 Mercedes-Benz, which he had used to drive to work.
   We lived then, Norm Schein said to himself, like Perky Pat and Leonard do now. This is how it actually was.
   To his wife he said, pointing to the clock radio which Perky Pat kept beside her bed, “Remember our G.E. clock radio? How it used to wake us up in the morning with classical music from that FM station, KSFR? The ‘Wolf-gangers,’ the program was called. From six A.M. to nine every morning.”
   “Yes,” Fran said, nodding soberly. “And you used to get up before me; I knew I should have gotten up and fixed bacon and hot coffee for you, but it was so much fun just indulging myself, not stirring for half an hour longer, until the kids woke up.”
   “Woke up, hell; they were awake before we were,” Norm said. “Don’t you remember? They were in the back watching ‘The Three Stooges’ on TV until eight. Then I got up and fixed hot cereal for them, and then I went on to my job at Ampex down at Redwood City.”
   “Oh yes,” Fran said. “The TV.” Their Perky Pat did not have a TV set; they had lost it to the Regans in a game a week ago, and Norm had not yet been able to fashion another one realistic-looking enough to substitute. So, in a game, they pretended now that “the TV repairman had come for it.” That was how they explained their Perky Pat not having something she really would have had.

   Norm thought, Playing this game… it’s like being back there, back in the world before the war. That’s why we play it, I suppose. He felt shame, but only fleetingly; the shame, almost at once, was replaced by the desire to play a little longer.
   “Let’s not quit,” he said suddenly. “I’ll agree the psychoanalyst would have charged Perky Pat twenty dollars. Okay?”
   “Okay,” both the Morrisons said together, and they settled back down once more to resume the game.
   Tod Morrison had picked up their Perky Pat; he held it, stroking its blonde hair—theirs was blonde, whereas the Scheins’ was a brunette—and fiddling with the snaps of its skirt.
   “Whatever are you doing?” his wife inquired.
   “Nice skirt she has,” Tod said. “You did a good job sewing it.”
   Norm said, “Ever know a girl, back in the ol-days, that looked like Perky Pat?”
   “No,” Tod Morrison said somberly. “Wish I had, though. I saw girls like Perky Pat, especially when I was living in Los Angeles during the Korean War. But I just could never manage to know them personally. And of course there were really terrific girl singers, like Peggy Lee and Julie London… they looked a lot like Perky Pat.”
   “Play,” Fran said vigorously. And Norm, whose turn it was, picked up the spinner and spun.
   “Eleven,” he said. “That gets my Leonard out of the sports car repair garage and on his way to the race track.” He moved the Leonard doll ahead.
   Thoughtfully, Tod Morrison said, “You know, I was out the other day hauling in perishables which the careboys had dropped… Bill Ferner was there, and he told me something interesting. He met a fluker from a fluke-pit down where Oakland used to be. And at that fluke-pit you know what they play? Not Perky Pat. They never have heard of Perky Pat.”
   “Well, what do they play, then?” Helen asked.
   “They have another doll entirely.” Frowning, Tod continued, “Bill says the Oakland fluker called it a Connie Companion doll. Ever hear of that?”
   “A ‘Connie Companion’ doll,” Fran said thoughtfully. “How strange. I wonder what she’s like. Does she have a boy friend?”
   “Oh sure,” Tod said. “His name is Paul. Connie and Paul. You know, we ought to hike down there to that Oakland Fluke-pit one of these days and see what Connie and Paul look like and how they live. Maybe we could learn a few things to add to our own layouts.”
   Norm said, “Maybe we could play them.”
   Puzzled, Fran said, “Could a Perky Pat play a Connie Companion? Is that possible? I wonder what would happen?”
   There was no answer from any of the others. Because none of them knew.

   As they skinned the rabbit, Fred said to Timothy, “Where did the name ‘fluker’ come from? It’s sure an ugly word; why do they use it?”
   “A fluker is a person who lived through the hydrogen war,” Timothy explained. “You know, by a fluke. A fluke of fate? See? Because almost everyone was killed; there used to be thousands of people.”
   “But what’s a ‘fluke,’ then? When you say a ‘fluke of fate’—”
   “A fluke is when fate has decided to spare you,” Timothy said, and that was all he had to say on the subject. That was all he knew.
   Fred said thoughtfully, “But you and I, we’re not flukers because we weren’t alive when the war broke out. We were born after.”
   “Right,” Timothy said.
   “So anybody who calls me a fluker,” Fred said, “is going to get hit in the eye with my bull-roarer.”
   “And ‘careboy,’ ” Timothy said, “that’s a made-up word, too. It’s from when stuff was dumped from jet planes and ships to people in a disaster area. They were called ‘care parcels’ because they came from people who cared.”
   “I know that,” Fred said. “I didn’t ask that.”
   “Well, I told you anyhow,” Timothy said.
   The two boys continued skinning the rabbit.

   Jean Regan said to her husband, “Have you heard about the Connie Companion doll?” She glanced down the long rough-board table to make sure none of the other families was listening. “Sam,” she said, “I heard it from Helen Morrison; she heard it from Tod and he heard it from Bill Ferner, I think. So it’s probably true.”
   “What’s true?” Sam said.
   “That in the Oakland Fluke-pit they don’t have Perky Pat; they have Connie Companion… and it occurred to me that maybe some of this—you know, this sort of emptiness, this boredom we feel now and then—maybe if we saw the Connie Companion doll and how she lives, maybe we could add enough to our own layout to—” She paused, reflecting. “To make it more complete.”
   “I don’t care for the name,” Sam Regan said. “Connie Companion; it sounds cheap.” He spooned up some of the plain, utilitarian grain-mash which the careboys had been dropping, of late. And, as he ate a mouthful, he thought, I’ll bet Connie Companion doesn’t eat slop like this; I’ll bet she eats cheeseburgers with all the trimmings, at a high-type drive-in.
   “Could we make a trek down there?” Jean asked.
   “To Oakland Fluke-pit?” Sam stared at her. “It’s fifteen miles, all the way on the other side of the Berkeley Fluke-pit!”
   “But this is important,” Jean said stubbornly. “And Bill says that a fluker from Oakland came all the way up here, in search of electronic parts or something… so if he can do it, we can. We’ve got the dust suits they dropped us. I know we could do it.”
   Little Timothy Schein, sitting with his family, had overheard her; now he spoke up. “Mrs. Regan, Fred Chamberlain and I, we could trek down that far, if you pay us. What do you say?” He nudged Fred, who sat beside him. “Couldn’t we? For maybe five dollars.”
   Fred, his face serious, turned to Mrs. Regan and said, “We could get you a Connie Companion doll. For five dollars for each of us.”
   “Good grief,” Jean Regan said, outraged. And dropped the subject.

   But later, after dinner, she brought it up again when she and Sam were alone in their quarters.
   “Sam, I’ve got to see it,” she burst out. Sam, in a galvanized tub, was taking his weekly bath, so he had to listen to her. “Now that we know it exists we have to play against someone in the Oakland Fluke-pit; at least we can do that. Can’t we? Please.” She paced back and forth in the small room, her hands clasped tensely. “Connie Companion may have a Standard Station and an airport terminal with jet landing strip and color TV and a French restaurant where they serve escargot, like the one you and I went to when we were first married… I just have to see her layout.”
   “I don’t know,” Sam said hesitantly. “There’s something about Connie Companion doll that—makes me uneasy.”
   “What could it possibly be?”
   “I don’t know.”
   Jean said bitterly, “It’s because you know her layout is so much better than ours and she’s so much more than Perky Pat.”
   “Maybe that’s it,” Sam murmured.
   “If you don’t go, if you don’t try to make contact with them down at the Oakland Fluke-pit, someone else will—someone with more ambition will get ahead of you. Like Norman Schein. He’s not afraid the way you are.”
   Sam said nothing; he continued with his bath. But his hands shook.

   A careboy had recently dropped complicated pieces of machinery which were, evidently, a form of mechanical computer. For several weeks the computers—if that was what they were—had sat about the pit in their cartons, unused, but now Norman Schein was finding something to do with one. At the moment he was busy adapting some of its gears, the smallest ones, to form a garbage disposal unit for his Perky Pat’s kitchen.
   Using the tiny special tools—designed and built by inhabitants of the fluke-pit—which were necessary in fashioning environmental items for Perky Pat, he was busy at his hobby bench. Thoroughly engrossed in what he was doing, he all at once realized that Fran was standing directly behind him, watching.
   “I get nervous when I’m watched,” Norm said, holding a tiny gear with a pair of tweezers.
   “Listen,” Fran said, “I’ve thought of something. Does this suggest anything to you?” She placed before him one of the transistor radios which had been dropped the day before.
   “It suggests that garage-door opener already thought of,” Norm said irritably. He continued with his work, expertly fitting the miniature pieces together in the sink drain of Pat’s kitchen; such delicate work demanded maximum concentration.
   Fran said, “It suggests that there must be radio transmitters on Earth somewhere, or the careboys wouldn’t have dropped these.”
   “So?” Norm said, uninterested.
   “Maybe our Mayor has one,” Fran said. “Maybe there’s one right here in our own pit, and we could use it to call the Oakland Fluke-pit. Representatives from there could meet us halfway… say at the Berkeley Fluke-pit. And we could play there. So we wouldn’t have that long fifteen mile trip.”
   Norman hesitated in his work; he set the tweezers down and said slowly, “I think possibly you’re right.” But if their Mayor Hooker Glebe had a radio transmitter, would he let them use it? And if he did—
   “We can try,” Fran urged. “It wouldn’t hurt to try.”
   “Okay,” Norm said, rising from his hobby bench.

   The short, sly-faced man in Army uniform, the Mayor of the Pinole Fluke-pit, listened in silence as Norm Schein spoke. Then he smiled a wise, cunning smile. “Sure, I have a radio transmitter. Had it all the time. Fifty watt output. But why would you want to get in touch with the Oakland Fluke-pit?”
   Guardedly, Norm said, “That’s my business.”
   Hooker Glebe said thoughtfully, “I’ll let you use it for fifteen dollars.”
   It was a nasty shock, and Norm recoiled. Good Lord; all the money he and his wife had—they needed every bill of it for use in playing Perky Pat. Money was the tender in the game; there was no other criterion by which one could tell if he had won or lost. “That’s too much,” he said aloud.
   “Well, say ten,” the Mayor said, shrugging.
   In the end they settled for six dollars and a fifty cent piece.
   “I’ll make the radio contact for you,” Hooker Glebe said. “Because you don’t know how. It will take time.” He began turning a crank at the side of the generator of the transmitter. “I’ll notify you when I’ve made contact with them. But give me the money now.” He held out his hand for it, and, with great reluctance, Norm paid him.
   It was not until late that evening that Hooker managed to establish contact with Oakland. Pleased with himself, beaming in self-satisfaction, he appeared at the Scheins’ quarters, during their dinner hour. “All set,” he announced. “Say, you know there are actually nine fluke-pits in Oakland? I didn’t know that. Which you want? I’ve got one with the radio code of Red Vanilla.” He chuckled. “They’re tough and suspicious down there; it was hard to get any of them to answer.”
   Leaving his evening meal, Norman hurried to the Mayor’s quarters, Hooker puffing along after him.
   The transmitter, sure enough, was on, and static wheezed from the speaker of its monitoring unit. Awkwardly, Norm seated himself at the microphone. “Do I just talk?” he asked Hooker Glebe.
   “Just say, This is Pinole Fluke-pit calling. Repeat that a couple of times and then when they acknowledge, you say what you want to say.” The Mayor fiddled with controls of the transmitter, fussing in an important fashion. “This is Pinole Fluke-pit,” Norm said loudly into the microphone. Almost at once a clear voice from the monitor said, “This is Red Vanilla Three answering.” The voice was cold and harsh; it struck him forcefully as distinctly alien. Hooker was right.
   “Do you have Connie Companion down there where you are?”
   “Yes we do,” the Oakland fluker answered.
   “Well, I challenge you,” Norman said, feeling the veins in his throat pulse with the tension of what he was saying. “We’re Perky Pat in this area; we’ll play Perky Pat against your Connie Companion. Where can we meet?”
   “Perky Pat,” the Oakland fluker echoed. “Yeah, I know about her. What would the stakes be, in your mind?”
   “Up here we play for paper money mostly,” Norman said, feeling that his response was somehow lame.
   “We’ve got lots of paper money,” the Oakland fluker said cuttingly. “That wouldn’t interest any of us. What else?”
   “I don’t know.” He felt hampered, talking to someone he could not see; he was not used to that. People should, he thought, be face to face, then you can see the other person’s expression. This was not natural. “Let’s meet halfway,” he said, “and discuss it. Maybe we could meet at the Berkeley Fluke-pit; how about that?”
   The Oakland fluker said, “That’s too far. You mean lug our Connie Companion layout all that way? It’s too heavy and something might happen to it.”
   “No, just to discuss rules and stakes,” Norman said.
   Dubiously, the Oakland fluker said, “Well, I guess we could do that. But you better understand—we take Connie Companion doll pretty damn seriously; you better be prepared to talk terms.”
   “We will,” Norm assured him.
   All this time Mayor Hooker Glebe had been cranking the handle of the generator; perspiring, his face bloated with exertion, he motioned angrily for Norm to conclude his palaver.
   “At the Berkeley Fluke-pit,” Norm finished. “In three days. And send your best player, the one who has the biggest and most authentic layout. Our Perky Pat layouts are works of art, you understand.”
   The Oakland fluker said, “We’ll believe that when we see them. After all, we’ve got carpenters and electricians and plasterers here, building our layouts; I’ll bet you’re all unskilled.”
   “Not as much as you think,” Norm said hotly, and laid down the microphone. To Hooker Glebe—who had immediately stopped cranking—he said, “We’ll beat them. Wait’ll they see the garbage disposal unit I’m making for my Perky Pat; did you know there were people back in the ol-days, I mean real alive human beings, who didn’t have garbage disposal units?”
   “I remember,” Hooker said peevishly. “Say, you got a lot of cranking for your money; I think you gypped me, talking so long.” He eyed Norm with such hostility that Norm began to feel uneasy. After all, the Mayor of the pit had the authority to evict any fluker he wished; that was their law.
   “I’ll give you the fire alarm box I just finished the other day,” Norm said. “In my layout it goes at the corner of the block where Perky Pat’s boy friend Leonard lives.”
   “Good enough,” Hooker agreed, and his hostility faded. It was replaced, at once, by desire. “Let’s see it, Norm. I bet it’ll go good in my layout; a fire alarm box is just what I need to complete my first block where I have the mailbox. Thank you.”
   “You’re welcome,” Norm sighed, philosophically.

   When he returned from the two-day trek to the Berkeley Fluke-pit his face was so grim that his wife knew at once that the parley with the Oakland people had not gone well.
   That morning a careboy had dropped cartons of a synthetic tea-like drink; she fixed a cup of it for Norman, waiting to hear what had taken place eight miles to the south.
   “We haggled,” Norm said, seated wearily on the bed which he and his wife and child all shared. “They don’t want money; they don’t want goods—naturally not goods, because the darn careboys are dropping regularly down there, too.”
   “What will they accept, then?”
   Norm said, “Perky Pat herself.” He was silent, then.
   “Oh good Lord,” she said, appalled.
   “But if we win,” Norm pointed out, “we win Connie Companion.”
   “And the layouts? What about them?”
   “We keep our own. It’s just Perky Pat herself, not Leonard, not anything else.”
   “But,” she protested, “what’ll we do if we lose Perky Pat?”
   “I can make another one,” Norm said. “Given time. There’s still a big supply of thermoplastics and artificial hair, here in the pit. And I have plenty of different paints; it would take at least a month, but I could do it. I don’t look forward to the job, I admit. But—” His eyes glinted. “Don’t look on the dark side; imagine what it would be like to win Connie Companion doll. I think we may well win; their delegate seemed smart and, as Hooker said, tough… but the one I talked to didn’t strike me as being very flukey. You know, on good terms with luck.”
   And, after all, the element of luck, of chance, entered into each stage of the game through the agency of the spinner.
   “It seems wrong,” Fran said, “to put up Perky Pat herself. But if you say so—” She managed to smile a little. “I’ll go along with it. And if you won Connie Companion—who knows? You might be elected Mayor when Hooker dies. Imagine, to have won somebody else’s doll—not just the game, the money, but the doll itself
   “I can win,” Norm said soberly. “Because I’m very flukey.” He could feel it in him, the same flukeyness that had got him through the hydrogen war alive, that had kept him alive ever since. You either have it or you don’t, he realized. And I do.
   His wife said, “Shouldn’t we ask Hooker to call a meeting of everyone in the pit, and send the best player out of our entire group. So as to be the surest of winning.”
   “Listen,” Norm Schein said emphatically. “I’m the best player. I’m going. And so are you; we make a good team, and we don’t want to break it up. Anyhow, we’ll need at least two people to carry Perky Pat’s layout.” All in all, he judged, their layout weighed sixty pounds.

   His plan seemed to him to be satisfactory. But when he mentioned it to the others living in the Pinole Fluke-pit he found himself facing sharp disagreement. The whole next day was filled with argument.
   “You can’t lug your layout all that way yourselves,” Sam Regan said. “Either take more people with you or carry your layout in a vehicle of some sort. Such as a cart.” He scowled at Norm.
   “Where’d I get a cart?” Norm demanded.
   “Maybe something could be adapted,” Sam said. “I’ll give you every bit of help I can. Personally, I’d go along but as I told my wife this whole idea worries me.” He thumped Norm on the back. “I admire your courage, you and Fran, setting off this way. I wish I had what it takes.” He looked unhappy.
   In the end, Norm settled on a wheelbarrow. He and Fran would take turns pushing it. That way neither of them would have to carry any load above and beyond their food and water, and of course knives by which to protect them from the do-cats.
   As they were carefully placing the elements of their layout in the wheelbarrow, Norm Schein’s boy Timothy came sidling up to them. “Take me along, Dad,” he pleaded. “For fifty cents I’ll go as guide and scout, and also I’ll help you catch food along the way.”
   “We’ll manage fine,” Norm said. “You stay here in the fluke-pit; you’ll be safer here.” It annoyed him, the idea of his son tagging along on an important venture such as this. It was almost—sacreligious.
   “Kiss us goodbye,” Fran said to Timothy, smiling at him briefly; then her attention returned to the layout within the wheelbarrow. “I hope it doesn’t tip over,” she said fearfully to Norm.
   “Not a chance,” Norm said. “If we’re careful.” He felt confident.
   A few moments later they began wheeling the wheelbarrow up the ramp to the lid at the top, to upstairs. Their journey to the Berkeley Fluke-pit had begun.

   A mile outside the Berkeley Fluke-pit he and Fran began to stumble over empty drop-canisters and some only partly empty remains of past care parcels such as littered the surface near their own pit. Norm Schein breathed a sigh of relief; the journey had not been so bad after all, except that his hands had become blistered from gripping the metal handles of the wheelbarrow, and Fran had turned her ankle so that now she walked with a painful limp. But it had taken them less time than he had anticipated, and his mood was one of buoyancy.
   Ahead, a figure appeared, crouching low in the ash. A boy. Norm waved at him and called, “Hey, sonny—we’re from the Pinole pit; we’re supposed to meet a party from Oakland here… do you remember me?”
   The boy, without answering, turned and scampered off.
   “Nothing to be afraid of,” Norm said to his wife. “He’s going to tell their Mayor. A nice old fellow named Ben Fennimore.”
   Soon several adults appeared, approaching warily.
   With relief, Norm set the legs of the wheelbarrow down into the ash, letting go and wiping his face with his handkerchief. “Has the Oakland team arrived yet?” he called.
   “Not yet,” a tall, elderly man with a white armband and ornate cap answered. “It’s you Schein, isn’t it?” he said, peering. This was Ben Fennimore. “Back already with your layout.” Now the Berkeley flukers had begun crowding around the wheelbarrow, inspecting the Scheins’ layout. Their faces showed admiration.
   “They have Perky Pat here,” Norm explained to his wife. “But—” He lowered his voice. “Their layouts are only basic. Just a house, wardrobe and car… they’ve built almost nothing. No imagination.”
   One Berkeley fluker, a woman, said wonderingly to Fran, “And you made each of the pieces of furniture yourselves?” Marveling, she turned to the man beside her. “See what they’ve accomplished, Ed?”
   “Yes,” the man answered, nodding. “Say,” he said to Fran and Norm, “can we see it all set up? You’re going to set it up in our pit, aren’t you?”
   “We are indeed,” Norm said.
   The Berkeley flukers helped push the wheelbarrow the last mile. And before long they were descending the ramp, to the pit below the surface.
   “It’s a big pit,” Norm said knowingly to Fran. “Must be two thousand people here. This is where the University of California was.”
   “I see,” Fran said, a little timid at entering a strange pit; it was the first time in years—since the war, in fact—that she had seen any strangers. And so many at once. It was almost too much for her; Norm felt her shrink back, pressing against him in fright.

   When they had reached the first level and were starting to unload the wheelbarrow, Ben Fennimore came up to them and said softly, “I think the Oakland people have been spotted; we just got a report of activity upstairs. So be prepared.” He added, “We’re rooting for you, of course, because you’re Perky Pat, the same as us.”
   “Have you ever seen Connie Companion doll?” Fran asked him.
   “No ma’am,” Fennimore answered courteously. “But naturally we’ve heard about it, being neighbors to Oakland and all. I’ll tell you one thing… we hear that Connie Companion doll is a bit older than Perky Pat. You know—more, um, matured.” He explained, “I just wanted to prepare you.”
   Norm and Fran glanced at each other. “Thanks,” Norm said slowly. “Yes, we should be as much prepared as possible. How about Paul?”
   “Oh, he’s not much,” Fennimore said. “Connie runs things; I don’t even think Paul has a real apartment of his own. But you better wait until the Oakland flukers get here; I don’t want to mislead you—my knowledge is all hearsay, you understand.”
   Another Berkeley fluker, standing nearby, spoke up. “I saw Connie once, and she’s much more grown up than Perky Pat.”
   “How old do you figure Perky Pat is?” Norm asked him.
   “Oh, I’d say seventeen or eighteen,” Norm was told.
   “And Connie?” He waited tensely.
   “Oh, she might be twenty-five, even.”
   From the ramp behind them they heard noises. More Berkeley flukers appeared, and, after them, two men carrying between them a platform on which, spread out, Norm saw a great, spectacular layout.
   This was the Oakland team, and they weren’t a couple, a man and wife; they were both men, and they were hard-faced with stern, remote eyes. They jerked their heads briefly at him and Fran, acknowledging their presence. And then, with enormous care, they set down the platform on which their layout rested.
   Behind them came a third Oakland fluker carrying a metal box, much like a lunch pail. Norm, watching, knew instinctively that in the box lay Connie Companion doll. The Oakland fluker produced a key and began unlocking the box.
   “We’re ready to begin playing any time,” the taller of the Oakland men said. “As we agreed in our discussion, we’ll use a numbered spinner instead of dice. Less chance of cheating that way.”
   “Agreed,” Norm said. Hesitantly he held out his hand. “I’m Norman Schein and this is my wife and play-partner Fran.”
   The Oakland man, evidently the leader, said, “I’m Walter R. Wynn. This is my partner here, Charley Dowd, and the man with the box, that’s Peter Foster. He isn’t going to play; he just guards our layout.” Wynn glanced about, at the Berkeley flukers, as if saying, I know you’re all partial to Perky Pat, in here. But we don’t care; we’re not scared.
   Fran said, “We’re ready to play, Mr. Wynn.” Her voice was low but controlled.
   “What about money?” Fennimore asked.
   “I think both teams have plenty of money,” Wynn said. He laid out several thousand dollars in greenbacks, and now Norm did the same. “The money of course is not a factor in this, except as a means of conducting the game.”
   Norm nodded; he understood perfectly. Only the dolls themselves mattered. And now, for the first time, he saw Connie Companion doll.
   She was being placed in her bedroom by Mr. Foster who evidently was in charge of her. And the sight of her took his breath away. Yes, she was older. A grown woman, not a girl at all… the difference between her and Perky Pat was acute. And so life-like. Carved, not poured; she obviously had been whittled out of wood and then painted—she was not a thermoplastic. And her hair. It appeared to be genuine hair.
   He was deeply impressed.
   “What do you think of her?” Walter Wynn asked, with a faint grin.
   “Very—impressive,” Norm conceded.

   Now the Oaklanders were studying Perky Pat. “Poured thermoplastic,” one of them said. “Artificial hair. Nice clothes, though; all stitched by hand, you can see that. Interesting; what we heard was correct. Perky Pat isn’t a grownup, she’s just a teenager.”
   Now the male companion to Connie appeared; he was set down in the bedroom beside Connie.
   “Wait a minute,” Norm said. “You’re putting Paul or whatever his name is, in her bedroom with her? Doesn’t he have his own apartment?”
   Wynn said, “They’re married.”
   “Married!” Norman and Fran stared at him, dumbfounded.
   “Why sure,” Wynn said. “So naturally they live together. Your dolls, they’re not, are they?”
   “N-no,” Fran said. “Leonard is Perky Pat’s boy friend…” Her voice trailed off. “Norm,” she said, clutching his arm, “I don’t believe him; I think he’s just saying they’re married to get the advantage. Because if they both start out from the same room—”
   Norm said aloud, “You fellows, look here. It’s not fair, calling them married.”
   Wynn said, “We’re not ‘calling’ them married; they are married. Their names are Connie and Paul Lathrope, of 24 Arden Place, Piedmont. They’ve been married for a year, most players will tell you.” He sounded calm.
   Maybe, Norm thought, it’s true. He was truly shaken.
   “Look at them together,” Fran said, kneeling down to examine the Oaklanders’ layout. “In the same bedroom, in the same house. Why, Norm; do you see? There’s just the one bed. A big double bed.” Wild-eyed, she appealed to him. “How can Perky Pat and Leonard play against them?” Her voice shook. “It’s not morally right.”
   “This is another type of layout entirely,” Norm said to Walter Wynn. “This, that you have. Utterly different from what we’re used to, as you can see.” He pointed to his own layout. “I insist that in this game Connie and Paul not live together and not be considered married.”
   “But they are,” Foster spoke up. “It’s a fact. Look—their clothes are in the same closet.” He showed them the closet. “And in the same bureau drawers.” He showed them that, too. “And look in the bathroom. Two toothbrushes. His and hers, in the same rack. So you can see we’re not making it up.”
   There was silence.
   Then Fran said in a choked voice, “And if they’re married—you mean they’ve been—intimate?”
   Wynn raised an eyebrow, then nodded. “Sure, since they’re married. Is there anything wrong with that?”
   “Perky Pat and Leonard have never—” Fran began, and then ceased.
   “Naturally not,” Wynn agreed. “Because they’re only going together. We understand that.”
   Fran said, “We just can’t play. We can’t.” She caught hold of her husband’s arm. “Let’s go back to Pinole pit—please, Norman.”
   “Wait,” Wynn said, at once. “If you don’t play, you’re conceding; you have to give up Perky Pat.”
   The three Oaklanders all nodded. And, Norm saw, many of the Berkeley flukers were nodding, too, including Ben Fennimore.
   “They’re right,” Norm said heavily to his wife. “We’d have to give her up. We better play, dear.”
   “Yes,” Fran said, in a dead, flat voice. “We’ll play.” She bent down and listlessly spun the needle of the spinner. It stopped at six.
   Smiling, Walter Wynn knelt down and spun. He obtained a four.
   The game had begun.

   Crouching behind the strewn, decayed contents of a care parcel that had been dropped long ago, Timothy Schein saw coming across the surface of ash his mother and father, pushing the wheelbarrow ahead of them. They looked tired and worn.
   “Hi,” Timothy yelled, leaping out at them in joy at seeing them again; he had missed them very much.
   “Hi, son,” his father murmured, nodding. He let go of the handles of the wheelbarrow, then halted and wiped his face with his handkerchief.
   Now Fred Chamberlain raced up, panting. “Hi, Mr. Schein; hi, Mrs. Schein. Hey, did you win? Did you beat the Oakland flukers? I bet you did, didn’t you?” He looked from one of them to the other and then back.
   In a low voice Fran said, “Yes, Freddy. We won.”
   Norm said, “Look in the wheelbarrow.”
   The two boys looked. And, there among Perky Pat’s furnishings, lay another doll. Larger, fuller-figured, much older than Pat... they stared at her and she stared up sightlessly at the gray sky overhead. So this is Connie Companion doll, Timothy said to himself. Gee.
   “We were lucky,” Norm said. Now several people had emerged from the pit and were gathering around them, listening. Jean and Sam Regan, Tod Morrison and his wife Helen, and now their Mayor, Hooker Glebe himself, waddling up excited and nervous, his face flushed, gasping for breath from the labor—unusual for him—of ascending the ramp.
   Fran said,”We got a cancellation of debts card, just when we were most behind. We owed fifty thousand, and it made us even with the Oakland flukers. And then, after that, we got an advance ten squares card, and that put us right on the jackpot square, at least in our layout. We had a very bitter squabble, because the Oaklanders showed us that on their layout it was a tax lien slapped on real estate holdings square, but we had spun an odd number so that put us back on our own board.” She sighed. “I’m glad to be back. It was hard, Hooker; it was a tough game.”
   Hooker Glebe wheezed, “Let’s all get a look at the Connie Companion doll, folks.” To Fran and Norm he said, “Can I lift her up and show them?”
   “Sure,” Norm said, nodding.
   Hooker picked up Connie Companion doll. “She sure is realistic,” he said, scrutinizing her. “Clothes aren’t as nice as ours generally are; they look machine-made.”
   “They are,” Norm agreed. “But she’s carved, not poured.”
   “Yes, so I see.” Hooker turned the doll about, inspecting her from all angles. “A nice job. She’s—um, more filled-out than Perky Pat. What’s this outfit she has on? Tweed suit of some sort.”
   “A business suit,” Fran said. “We won that with her; they had agreed on that in advance.”
   “You see, she has a job,” Norm explained. “She’s a psychology consultant for a business firm doing marketing research. In consumer preferences. A high-paying position… she earns twenty thousand a year, I believe Wynn said.”
   “Golly,” Hooker said. “And Pat’s just going to college; she’s still in school.” He looked troubled. “Well, I guess they were bound to be ahead of us in some ways. What matters is that you won.” His jovial smile returned. “Perky Pat came out ahead.” He held the Connie Companion doll up high, where everyone could see her. “Look what Norm and Fran came back with, folks!”
   Norm said, “Be careful with her, Hooker.” His voice was firm.
   “Eh?” Hooker said, pausing. “Why, Norm?”
   “Because,” Norm said, “she’s going to have a baby.”
   There was a sudden chill silence. The ash around them stirred faintly; that was the only sound.
   “How do you know?” Hooker asked.
   “They told us. The Oaklanders told us. And we won that, too—after a bitter argument that Fennimore had to settle.” Reaching into the wheelbarrow he brought out a little leather pouch, from it he carefully took a carved pink new-born baby. “We won this too because Fennimore agreed that from a technical standpoint it’s literally part of Connie Companion doll at this point.”
   Hooker stared a long, long time.
   “She’s married,” Fran explained. “To Paul. They’re not just going together. She’s three months pregnant, Mr. Wynn said. He didn’t tell us until after we won; he didn’t want to, then, but they felt they had to. I think they were right; it wouldn’t have done not to say.”
   Norm said, “And in addition there’s actually an embryo outfit—”
   “Yes,” Fran said. “You have to open Connie up, of course, to see—”
   “No,” Jean Regan said. “Please, no.”
   Hooker said, “No, Mrs. Schein, don’t.” He backed away.
   Fran said, “It shocked us of course at first, but—”
   “You see,” Norm put in, “it’s logical; you have to follow the logic. Why, eventually Perky Pat—”
   “No,” Hooker said violently. He bent down, picked up a rock from the ash at his feet. “No,” he said, and raised his arm. “You stop, you two. Don’t say any more.”
   Now the Regans, too, had picked up rocks. No one spoke. Fran said, at last, “Norm, we’ve got to get out of here.”
   “You’re right,” Tod Morrison told them. His wife nodded in grim agreement.
   “You two go back down to Oakland,” Hooker told Norman and Fran Schein. “You don’t live here any more. You’re different than you were. You—changed.”
   “Yes,” Sam Regan said slowly, half to himself. “I was right; there was something to fear.” To Norm Schein he said, “How difficult a trip is it to Oakland?”
   “We just went to Berkeley,” Norm said. “To the Berkeley Fluke-pit.” He seemed baffled and stunned by what was happening. “My God,” he said, “we can’t turn around and push this wheelbarrow back all the way to Berkeley again—we’re worn out, we need rest!”
   Sam Regan said, “What if somebody else pushed?” He walked up to the Scheins, then, and stood with them. “I’ll push the darn thing. You lead the way, Schein.” He looked toward his own wife, but Jean did not stir. And she did not put down her handful of rocks.
   Timothy Schein plucked at his father’s arm. “Can I come this time, Dad? Please let me come.”
   “Okay,” Norm said, half to himself. Now he drew himself together. “So we’re not wanted here.” He turned to Fran. “Let’s go. Sam’s going to push the wheelbarrow; I think we can make it back there before nightfall. If not, we can sleep out in the open; Timothy’ll help protect us against the do-cats.” Fran said, “I guess we have no choice.” Her face was pale. “And take this,” Hooker said. He held out the tiny carved baby. Fran Schein accepted it and put it tenderly back in its leather pouch. Norm laid Connie Companion back down in the wheelbarrow, where she had been. They were ready to start back.
   “It’ll happen up here eventually,” Norm said, to the group of people, to the Pinole flukers. “Oakland is just more advanced; that’s all.”
   “Go on,” Hooker Glebe said. “Get started.”
   Nodding, Norm started to pick up the handles of the wheelbarrow, but Sam Regan moved him aside and took them himself. “Let’s go,” he said.
   The three adults, with Timothy Schein going ahead of them with his knife ready—in case a do-cat attacked—started into motion, in the direction of Oakland and the south. No one spoke. There was nothing to say.
   “It’s a shame this had to happen,” Norm said at last, when they had gone almost a mile and there was no further sign of the Pinole flukers behind them.
   “Maybe not,” Sam Regan said. “Maybe it’s for the good.” He did not seem downcast. And after all, he had lost his wife; he had given up more than anyone else, and yet—he had survived.
   “Glad you feel that way,” Norm said somberly. They continued on, each with his own thoughts.
   After a while, Timothy said to his father, “All these big fluke-pits to the south… there’s lots more things to do there, isn’t there? I mean, you don’t just sit around playing that game.” He certainly hoped not.
   His father said, “That’s true, I guess.”
   Overhead, a care ship whistled at great velocity and then was gone again almost at once; Timothy watched it go but he was not really interested in it, because there was so much more to look forward to, on the ground and below the ground, ahead of them to the south.
   His father murmured, “Those Oaklanders; their game, their particular doll, it taught them something. Connie had to grow and it forced them all to grow along with her. Our flukers never learned about that, not from Perky Pat. I wonder if they ever will. She’d have to grow up the way Connie did. Connie must have been like Perky Pat, once. A long time ago.”
   Not interested in what his father was saying—who really cared about dolls and games with dolls?—Timothy scampered ahead, peering to see what lay before them, the opportunities and possibilities, for him and for his mother and dad, for Mr. Regan also.
   “I can’t wait,” he yelled back at his father, and Norm Schein managed a faint, fatigued smile in answer.

Stand-by

   An hour before his morning program on channel six, ranking news clown Jim Briskin sat in his private office with his production staff, conferring on the report of an unknown possibly hostile flotilla detected at eight hundred astronomical units from the sun. It was big news, of course. But how should it be presented to his several-billion viewers scattered over three planets and seven moons?
   Peggy Jones, his secretary, lit a cigarette and said, “Don’t alarm them, Jim-Jam. Do it folksy-style.” She leaned back, riffled the dispatches received by their commercial station from Unicephalon 40-D’s teletypers.
   It had been the homeostatic problem-solving structure Unicephalon 40-D at the White House in Washington, D.C. which had detected this possible external enemy; in its capacity as President of the United States it had at once dispatched ships of the line to stand picket duty. The flotilla appeared to be entering from another solar system entirely, but that fact of course would have to be determined by the picket ships.
   “Folksy-style,” Jim Briskin said glumly. “I grin and say, Hey look comrades—it’s happened at last, the thing we all feared, ha ha.” He eyed her. “That’ll get baskets full of laughs all over Earth and Mars but just possibly not on the far-out moons.” Because if there were some kind of attack it would be the farther colonists who would be hit first.
   “No, they won’t be amused,” his continuity advisor Ed Fineberg agreed. He, too, looked worried; he had a family on Ganymede.
   “Is there any lighter piece of news?” Peggy asked. “By which you could open your program? The sponsor would like that.” She passed the armload of news dispatches to Briskin. “See what you can do. Mutant cow obtains voting franchise in court case in Alabama… you know.”
   “I know,” Briskin agreed as he began to inspect the dispatches. One such as his quaint account—it had touched the hearts of millions—of the mutant blue jay which learned, by great trial and effort, to sew. It had sewn itself and its progeny a nest, one April morning, in Bismark, North Dakota, in front of the TV cameras of Briskin’s network.
   One piece of news stood out; he knew intuitively, as soon as he saw it, that here he had what he wanted to lighten the dire tone of the day’s news. Seeing it, he relaxed. The worlds went on with business as usual, despite this great news-break from eight hundred AUs out.
   “Look,” he said, grinning. “Old Gus Schatz is dead. Finally.”
   “Who’s Gus Schatz?” Peggy asked, puzzled. “That name… it does sound familiar.”
   “The union man,” Jim Briskin said. “You remember. The stand-by President, sent over to Washington by the union twenty-two years ago. He’s dead, and the union—” He tossed her the dispatch: it was lucid and brief. “Now it’s sending a new stand-by President over to take Schatz’s place. I think I’ll interview him. Assuming he can talk.”
   “That’s right,” Peggy said. “I keep forgetting. There still is a human stand-by in case Unicephalon fails. Has it ever failed?”
   “No.” Ed Fineberg said, “And it never will. So we have one more case of union featherbedding. The plague of our society.”
   “But still,” Jim Briskin said, “people would be amused. The home life of the top stand-by in the country… why the union picked him, what his hobbies are. What this man, whoever he is, plans to do during his term to keep from going mad with boredom. Old Gus learned to bind books; he collected rare old motor magazines and bound them in vellum with gold-stamped lettering.”
   Both Ed and Peggy nodded in agreement. “Do that,” Peggy urged him. “You can make it interesting, Jim-Jam; you can make anything interesting. I’ll place a call to the White House, or is the new man there yet?”
   “Probably still at union headquarters in Chicago,” Ed said. “Try a line there. Government Civil Servants’ Union, East Division.”
   Picking up the phone, Peggy quickly dialed.

   At seven o’clock in the morning Maximilian Fischer sleepily heard noises; he lifted his head from the pillow, heard the confusion growing in the kitchen, the landlady’s shrill voice, then men’s voices which were unfamiliar to him. Groggily, he managed to sit up, shifting his bulk with care. He did not hurry; the doc had said not to overexert, because of the strain on his already-enlarged heart. So he took his time dressing.
   Must be after a contribution to one of the funds, Max said to himself. It sounds like some of the fellas. Pretty early, though. He did not feel alarmed. I’m in good standing, he thought firmly. Nuthin’ to fear.
   With care, he buttoned a fine pink and green-striped silk shirt, one of his favorites. Gives me class, he thought as with labored effort he managed to bend far enough over to slip on his authentic simulated deerskin pumps. Be ready to meet them on an equality level, he thought as he smoothed his thinning hair before the mirror. If they shake me down too much I’ll squawk directly to Pat Noble at the Noo York hiring hall; I mean, I don’t have to stand for any stuff. I been in the union too long.
   From the other room a voice bawled, “Fischer—get your clothes on and come out. We got a job for you and it begins today.”
   A job, Max thought with mixed feelings; he did not know whether to be glad or sorry. For over a year now he had been drawing from the union fund, as were most of his friends. Well what do you know. Gripes, he thought; suppose it’s a hard job, like maybe I got to bend over all the time or move around. He felt anger. What a dirty deal. I mean, who do they think they are? Opening the door, he faced them. “Listen,” he began, but one of the union officials cut him off.
   “Pack your things, Fischer. Gus Schatz kicked the bucket and you got to go down to Washington, D.C. and take over the number one stand-by; we want you there before they abolish the position or something and we have to go out on strike or go to court. Mainly, we want to get someone right in clean and easy with no trouble; you understand? Make the transition so smooth that no one hardly takes notice.”
   At once, Max said, “What’s it pay?”
   Witheringly, the union official said, “You got no decision to make in this; you ‘re picked. You want your freeloader fund-money cut off? You want to have to get out at your age and look for work?”
   “Aw come on,” Max protested. “I can pick up the phone and dial Pat Noble—”
   The union officials were grabbing up objects here and there in the apartment. “We’ll help you pack. Pat wants you in the White House by ten o’clock this morning.”
   “Pat!” Max echoed. He had been sold out.
   The union officials, dragging suitcases from the closet, grinned.

   Shortly, they were on their way across the flatlands of the Midwest by monorail. Moodily, Maximilian Fischer watched the countryside flash past; he said nothing to the officials flanking him, preferring to mull the matter over and over in his mind. What could he recall about the number one stand-by job? It began at eight A.M.—he recalled reading that. And there always were a lot of tourists flocking through the White House to catch a glimpse of Unicephalon 40-D, especially the school kids… and he disliked kids because they always jeered at him due to his weight. Gripes, he’d have a million of them filing by, because he had to be on the premises. By law, he had to be within a hundred yards of Unicephalon 40-D at all times, day and night, or was it fifty yards? Anyhow it practically was right on top, so if the homeostatic problem-solving system failed—Maybe I better bone up on this, he decided. Take a TV educational course on government administration, just in case.
   To the union official on his right, Max asked, “Listen, goodmember, do I have any powers in this job you guys got me? I mean, can I—”
   “It’s a union job like every other union job,” the official answered wearily. “You sit. You stand by. Have you been out of work that long, you don’t remember?” He laughed, nudging his companion. “Listen, Fischer here wants to know what authority the job entails.” Now both men laughed. “I tell you what, Fischer,” the official drawled. “When you’re all set up there in the White House, when you got your chair and bed and made all your arrangements for meals and laundry and TV viewing time, why don’t you amble over to Unicephalon 40-D and just sort of whine around there, you know, scratch and whine, until it notices you.”
   “Lay off,” Max muttered.
   “And then,” the official continued, “you sort of say, Hey Unicephalon, listen. I’m your buddy. How about a little ‘I scratch your back, you scratch mine.’ You pass an ordinance for me—”
   “But what can he do in exchange?” the other union official asked.
   “Amuse it. He can tell it the story of his life, how he rose out of poverty and obscurity and educated himself by watching TV seven days a week until finally, guess what, he rose all the way to the top; he got the job—” The official snickered. “Of stand-by President.”
   Maximilian, flushing, said nothing; he stared woodenly out of the monorail window.

   When they reached Washington, D.C. and the White House, Maximilian Fischer was shown a little room. It had belonged to Gus, and although the faded old motor magazines had been cleared out, a few prints remained tacked on the walls: a 1963 Volvo S-122, a 1957 Peugeot 403 and other antique classics of a bygone age. And, on a bookcase, Max saw a hand-carved plastic model of a 1950 Studebaker Starlight coupe, with each detail perfect.
   “He was making that when he croaked,” one of the union officials said as he set down Max’s suitcase. “He could tell you any fact there is about those old preturbine cars—any useless bit of car knowledge.”
   Max nodded.
   “You got any idea what you’re going to do?” the official asked him.
   “Aw hell,” Max said. “How could I decide so soon? Give me time.” Moodily, he picked up the Studebaker Starlight coupe and examined its underside. The desire to smash the model car came to him; he put the car down, then, turning away.
   “Make a rubber band ball,” the official said.
   “What?” Max said.
   “The stand-by before Gus. Louis somebody-or-other… he collected rubber bands, made a huge ball, big as a house, by the time he died. I forget his name, but the rubber band ball is at the Smithsonian now.”
   There was a stir in the hallway. A White House receptionist, a middle-aged woman severely dressed, put her head in the room and said, “Mr. President, there’s a TV news clown here to interview you. Please try to finish with him as quickly as possible because we have quite a few tours passing through the building today and some may want to look at you.”
   “Okay,” Max said. He turned to face the TV news clown. It was Jim-Jam Briskin, he saw, the ranking clown just now. “You want to see me?” he asked Briskin haltingly. “I mean, you’re sure it’s me you want to interview?” He could not imagine what Briskin could find of interest about him. Holding out his hand he added, “This is my room, but these model cars and pics aren’t mine; they were Gus’s. I can’t tell you nuthin’ about them.”
   On Briskin’s head the familiar flaming-red clown wig glowed, giving him in real life the same bizarre cast that the TV cameras picked up so well. He was older, however, than the TV image indicated, but he had the friendly, natural smile that everyone looked for: it was his badge of informality, a really nice guy, even-tempered but with a caustic wit when occasion demanded. Briskin was the sort of man who… well, Max thought, the sort of fella you’d like to see marry into your family.
   They shook hands. Briskin said, “You’re on camera, Mr. Max Fischer. Or rather, Mr. President, I should say. This is Jim-Jam talking. For our literally billions of viewers located in every niche and corner of this far-flung solar system of ours, let me ask you this. How does it feel, sir, to know that if Unicephalon 40-D should fail, even momentarily, you would be catapulted into the most important post that has ever fallen onto the shoulders of a human being, that of actual, not merely stand-by, President of the United States? Does it worry you at night?” He smiled. Behind him the camera technicians swung their mobile lenses back and forth; lights burned Max’s eyes and he felt the heat beginning to make him sweat under his arms and on his neck and upper lip. “What emotions grip you at this instant?” Briskin asked. “As you stand on the threshold of this new task for perhaps the balance of your life? What thoughts run through your mind, now that you’re actually here in the White House?”
   After a pause, Max said, “It’s—a big responsibility.” And then he realized, he saw, that Briskin was laughing at him, laughing silently as he stood there. Because it was all a gag Briskin was pulling. Out in the planets and moons his audience knew it, too; they knew Jim-Jam’s humor.
   “You’re a large man, Mr. Fischer,” Briskin said. “If I may say so, a stout man. Do you get much exercise? I ask this because with your new job you pretty well will be confined to this room, and I wondered what change in your life this would bring about.”
   “Well,” Max said, “I feel of course that a Government employee should always be at his post. Yes, what you say is true; I have to be right here day and night, but that doesn’t bother me. I’m prepared for it.”
   “Tell me,” Jim Briskin said, “do you—” And then he ceased. Turning to the video technicians behind him he said in an odd voice, “We’re off the air.”
   A man wearing headphones squeezed forward past the cameras. “On the monitor, listen.” He hurriedly handed the headphones to Briskin. “We’ve been pre-empted by Unicephalon; it’s broadcasting a news bulletin.”
   Briskin held the phones to his ear. His face writhed and he said, “Those ships at eight hundred AUs. They are hostile, it says.” He glanced up sharply at his technicians, the red clown’s wig sliding askew. “They’ve begun to attack.”

   Within the following twenty-four hours the aliens had managed not only to penetrate the Sol System but also to knock out Unicephalon 40-D.
   News of this reached Maximilian Fischer in an indirect manner as he sat in the White House cafeteria having his supper.
   “Mr. Maximilian Fischer?”
   “Yeah,” Max said, glancing up at the group of Secret Servicemen who had surrounded his table.
   “You’re President of the United States.”
   “Naw,” Max said. “I’m the stand-by President; that’s different.”
   The Secret Serviceman said, “Unicephalon 40-D is out of commission for perhaps as long as a month. So according to the amended Constitution, you’re President and also Commander-in-Chief of the armed forces. We’re here to guard you.” The Secret Serviceman grinned ludicrously. Max grinned back. “Do you understand?” the Secret Serviceman asked. “I mean, does it penetrate?”
   “Sure,” Max said. Now he understood the buzz of conversation he had overheard while waiting in the cafeteria line with his tray. It explained why White House personnel had looked at him strangely. He set down his coffee cup, wiped his mouth with his napkin, slowly and deliberately, pretended to be absorbed in solemn thought. But actually his mind was empty.
   “We’ve been told,” the Secret Serviceman said, “that you’re needed at once at the National Security Council bunker. They want your participation in finalization of strategy deliberations.”
   They walked from the cafeteria to the elevator.
   “Strategy policy,” Max said, as they descended. “I got a few opinions about that. I guess it’s time to deal harshly with these alien ships, don’t you agree?”
   The Secret Servicemen nodded.
   “Yes, we got to show we’re not afraid,” Max said. “Sure, we’ll get finalization; we’ll blast the buggers.”
   The Secret Servicemen laughed good-naturedly.
   Pleased, Max nudged the leader of the group. “I think we’re pretty goddam strong; I mean, the U.S.A. has got teeth.”
   “You tell ‘em, Max,” one of the Secret Servicemen said, and they all laughed aloud. Max included.
   As they stepped from the elevator they were stopped by a tall, well-dressed man who said urgently, “Mr. President, I’m Jonathan Kirk, White House press secretary; I think before you go in there to confer with the NSC people you should address the nation in this hour of gravest peril. The public wants to see what their new leader is like.” He held out a paper. “Here’s a statement drawn up by the Political Advisory Board; it codifies your—”
   “Nuts,” Max said, handing it back without looking at it. “I’m the President, not you. Kirk? Burke? Shirk? Never heard of you. Show me the microphone and I’ll make my own speech. Or get me Pat Noble; maybe he’s got some ideas.” And then he remembered that Pat had sold him out in the first place; Pat had gotten him into this. “Not him either,” Max said. “Just give me the microphone.”
   “This is a time of crisis,” Kirk grated.
   “Sure,” Max said, “so leave me alone; you keep out of my way and I’ll keep out of yours. Ain’t that right?” He slapped Kirk good-naturedly on the back. “And we’ll both be better off.”
   A group of people with portable TV cameras and lighting appeared, and among them Max saw Jim-Jam Briskin, in the middle, with his staff.
   “Hey, Jim-Jam,” he yelled. “Look, I’m President now!”
   Stolidly, Jim Briskin came toward him.
   “I’m not going to be winding no ball of string,” Max said. “Or making model boats, nuthin’ like that.” He shook hands warmly with Briskin. “I thank you,” Max said. “For your congratulations.”
   “Congratulations,” Briskin said, then, in a low voice.
   “Thanks,” Max said, squeezing the man’s hand until the knuckles creaked. “Of course, sooner or later they’ll get that noise-box patched up and I’ll just be stand-by again. But—” He grinned gleefully around at all of them; the corridor was full of people now, from TV to White House staff members to Army officers and Secret Servicemen.
   Briskin said, “You have a big task, Mr. Fischer.”
   “Yeah,” Max agreed.
   Something in Briskin’s eyes said: And I wonder if you can handle it. I wonder if you ‘re the man to hold such power.
   “Surely I can do it,” Max declared, into Briskin’s microphone, for all the vast audience to hear.
   “Possibly you can,” Jim Briskin said, and on his face was dubiousness.
   “Hey, you don’t like me any more,” Max said. “How come?”
   Briskin said nothing, but his eyes flickered.
   “Listen,” Max said, “I’m President now; I can close down your silly network—I can send FBI men in any time I want. For your information I’m firing the Attorney General right now, whatever his name is, and putting in a man I know, a man I can trust.”
   Briskin said, “I see.” And now he looked less dubious; conviction, of a sort which Max could not fathom, began to appear instead. “Yes,” Jim Briskin said, “you have the authority to order that, don’t you? You’re really President…”
   “Watch out,” Max said. “You’re nothing compared to me, Briskin, even if you do have that great big audience.” Then, turning his back on the cameras, he strode through the open door, into the NSC bunker.

   Hours later, in the early morning, down in the National Security Council subsurface bunker, Maximilian Fischer listened sleepily to the TV set in the background as it yammered out the latest news. By now, intelligence sources had plotted the arrival of thirty more alien ships in the Sol System. It was believed that seventy in all had entered. Each was being continually tracked.
   But that was not enough, Max knew. Sooner or later he would have to give the order to attack the alien ships. He hesitated. After all, who were they? Nobody at CIA knew. How strong were they? Not known either. And—would the attack be successful?
   And then there were domestic problems. Unicephalon had continually tinkered with the economy, priming it when necessary, cutting taxes, lowering interest rates… that had ceased with the problem-solver’s destruction. Jeez, Max thought dismally. What do I know about unemployment! I mean, how can I tell what factories to reopen and where?
   He turned to General Tompkins, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, who sat beside him examining a report on the scrambling of the tactical defensive ships protecting Earth. “They got all them ships distributed right?” he asked Tompkins.
   “Yes, Mr. President,” General Tompkins answered.
   Max winced. But the general did not seem to have spoken ironically; his tone had been respectful. “Okay,” Max murmured. “Glad to hear that. And you got all that missile cloud up so there’re no leaks, like you let in that ship to blast Unicephalon. I don’t want that to happen again.”
   “We’re under Defcon one,” General Tompkins said. “Full war footing, as of six o’clock, our time.”
   “How about those strategic ships?” That, he had learned, was the euphemism for their offensive strike-force.
   “We can mount an attack at any time,” General Tompkins said, glancing down at the long table to obtain the assenting nods of his co-workers. “We can take care of each of the seventy invaders now within our system.”
   With a groan, Max said, “Anybody got any bicarb?” The whole business depressed him. What a lot of work and sweat, he thought. All this goddam agitation—why don’t the buggers just leave our system ? I mean, do we have to get into a war? No telling what their home system will do in retaliation; you never can tell about unhuman life forms—they’re unreliable.
   “That’s what bothers me,” he said aloud. “Retaliation.” He sighed.
   General Tompkins said, “Negotiation with them evidently is impossible.”
   “Go ahead, then,” Max said. “Go give it to them.” He looked about for the bicarb.
   “I think you’re making a wise choice,” General Tompkins said, and, across the table, the civilian advisors nodded in agreement.
   “Here’s an odd piece of news,” one of the advisors said to Max. He held out a teletype dispatch. “James Briskin has just filed a writ of mandamus against you in a Federal Court in California, claiming you’re not legally President because you didn’t run for office.”
   “You mean because I didn’t get voted in?” Max said. “Just because of that?”
   “Yes sir. Briskin is asking the Federal Courts to rule on this, and meanwhile he has announced his own candidacy.”
   “WHAT?”
   “Briskin claims not only that you must run for office and be voted in, but you must run against him. And with his popularity he evidently feels—”
   “Aw nuts,” Max said in despair. “How do you like that.”
   No one answered.
   “Well anyhow,” Max said, “it’s all decided; you military fellas go ahead and knock out those alien ships. And meanwhile—” He decided there and then. “We’ll put economic pressure on Jim-Jam’s sponsors, that Reinlander Beer and Calbest Electronics, to get him not to run.”
   The men at the long table nodded. Papers rattled as briefcases were put away; the meeting—temporarily—was at an end.
   He’s got an unfair advantage, Max said to himself. How can I run when it’s not equal, him a famous TV personality and me not? That’s not right; I can’t allow that.
   Jim-Jam can run, he decided, but it won’t do him any good. He’s not going to beat me because he’s not going to be alive that long.

   A week before the election, Telscan, the interplanetary public-opinion sampling agency, published its latest findings. Reading them, Maximilian Fischer felt more gloomy than ever.
   “Look at this,” he said to his cousin Leon Lait, the lawyer whom he had recently made Attorney General. He tossed the report to him.
   His own showing of course was negligible. In the election, Briskin would easily, and most definitely, win.
   “Why is that?” Lait asked. Like Max, he was a large, paunchy man who for years now had held a stand-by job; he was not used to physical activity of any sort and his new position was proving difficult for him. However, out of family loyalty to Max, he remained. “Is that because he’s got all those TV stations?” he asked, sipping from his can of beer.
   Max said cuttingly, “Naw, it’s because his navel glows in the dark. Of course it’s because of his TV stations, you jerk—he’s got them pounding away night and day, creatin’ an image.” He paused, moodily. “He’s a clown. It’s that red wig; it’s fine for a newscaster, but not for a President.” Too morose to speak, he lapsed into silence.
   And worse was to follow.
   At nine P.M. that night, Jim-Jam Briskin began a seventy-two hour marathon TV program over all his stations, a great final drive to bring his popularity over the top and ensure his victory.
   In his special bedroom at the White House, Max Fischer sat with a tray of food before him, in bed, gloomily facing the TV set.
   That Briskin, he thought furiously for the millionth time. “Look,” he said to his cousin; the Attorney General sat in the easy chair across from him. “There’s the nerd now.” He pointed to the TV screen.
   Leon Lait, munching on his cheeseburger, said, “It’s abominable.”
   “You know where he’s broadcasting from? Way out in deep space, out past Pluto. At their farthest-out transmitter, which your FBI guys will never in a million years manage to get to.”
   “They will,” Leon assured him. “I told them they have to get him—the President, my cousin, personally says so.”
   “But they won’t get him for a while,” Max said. “Leon, you’re just too damn slow. I’ll tell you something. I got a ship of the line out there, the Dwight D. Eisenhower. It’s all ready to lay an egg on them, you know, a big bang, just as soon as I pass on the word.”
   “Right, Max.”
   “And I hate to,” Max said.

   The telecast had begun to pick up momentum already. Here came the Spotlights, and sauntering out onto the stage pretty Peggy Jones, wearing a glittery bare-shoulder gown, her hair radiant. Now we get a top-flight striptease, Max realized, by a real fine-looking girl. Even he sat up and took notice. Well, maybe not a true striptease, but certainly the opposition, Briskin and his staff, had sex working for them, here. Across the room his cousin the Attorney General had stopped munching his cheeseburger; the noise came to a halt, then picked up slowly once more.
   On the screen, Peggy sang:


It’s Jim-Jam, for whom I am,
America’s best-loved guy.
It’s Jim-Jam, the best one that am,
The candidate for you and I.


   “Oh God,” Max groaned. And yet, the way she delivered it, with every part of her slim, long body… it was okay. “I guess I got to inform the Dwight D. Eisenhower to go ahead,” he said, watching.
   “If you say so, Max,” Leon said. “I assure you, I’ll rule that you acted legally; don’t worry none about that.”
   “Gimme the red phone,” Max said. “That’s the armored connection that only the Commander-in-Chief uses for top-secret instructions. Not bad, huh?” He accepted the phone from the Attorney General. “I’m calling General Tompkins and he’ll relay the order to the ship. Too bad, Briskin,” he added, with one last look at the screen. “But it’s your own fault; you didn’t have to do what you did, opposing me and all.”
   The girl in the silvery dress had gone, now, and Jim-Jam Briskin had appeared in her place. Momentarily, Max waited.
   “Hi, beloved comrades,” Briskin said, raising his hands for silence; the canned applause—Max knew that no audience existed in that remote spot—lowered, then rose again. Briskin grinned amiably, waiting for it to die.
   “It’s a fake,” Max grunted. “Fake audience. They’re smart, him and his staff. His rating’s already way up.”
   “Right, Max,” the Attorney General agreed. “I noticed that.”
   “Comrades,” Jim Briskin was saying soberly on the TV screen, “as you may know, originally President Maximilian Fischer and I got along very well.” His hand on the red phone, Max thought to himself that what Jim-Jam said was true.
   “Where we broke,” Briskin continued, “was over the issue of force—of the use of naked, raw power. To Max Fischer, the office of President is merely a machine, an instrument, which he can use as an extension of his own desires, to fulfill his own needs. I honestly believe that in many respects his aims are good; he is trying to carry out Unicephalon’s fine policies. But as to the means. That’s a different matter.”
   Max said, “Listen to him, Leon.” And he thought, No matter what he says I’m going to keep on; nobody is going to stand in my way, because it’s my duty; it’s the job of the office, and if you got to be President like I am you ‘d do it, too.
   “Even the President,” Briskin was saying, “must obey the law; he doesn’t stand outside it, however powerful he is.” He was silent for a moment and then he said slowly, “I know that at this moment the FBI, under direct orders from Max Fischer’s appointee, Leon Lait, is attempting to close down these stations, to still my voice. Here again Max Fischer is making use of power, of the police agency, for his own ends, making it an extension—”
   Max picked up the red phone. At once a voice said from it, “Yes, Mr. President. This is General Tompkins’ C of C.”
   “What’s that?” Max said.
   “Chief of Communications, Army 600-1000, sir. Aboard the Dwight D. Eisenhower, accepting relay through the transmitter at the Pluto Station.”
   “Oh yeah,” Max said, nodding. “Listen, you fellas stand by, you understand? Be ready to receive instructions.” He put his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. “Leon,” he said to his cousin, who had now finished his cheeseburger and was starting on a strawberry shake. “How can I do it? I mean, Briskin is telling the truth.”
   Leon said, “Give Tompkins the word.” He belched, then tapped himself on the chest with the side of his fist. “Pardon me.”
   On the screen Jim Briskin said, “I think very possibly I’m risking my life to speak to you, because this we must face: we have a President who would not mind employing murder to obtain his objectives. This is the political tactic of a tyranny, and that’s what we’re seeing, a tyranny coming into existence in our society, replacing the rational, disinterested rule of the homeostatic problem-solving Unicephalon 40-D which was designed, built and put into operation by some of the finest minds we have ever seen, minds dedicated to the preservation of all that’s worthy in our tradition. And the transformation from this to a one-man tyranny is melancholy, to say the least.”
   Quietly, Max said, “Now I can’t go ahead.”
   “Why not?” Leon said.
   “Didn’t you hear him? He’s talking about me. I’m the tyrant he has reference to. Keerist.” Max hung up the red phone. “I waited too long.”
   “It’s hard for me to say it,” Max said, “but—well, hell, it would prove he’s right.” Iknow he’s right anyhow, Max thought. But do they know it? Does the public know it? I can’t let them find out about me, he realized. They should look up to their President, respect him. Honor him. No wonder I show up so bad in the Telscan poll. No wonder Jim Briskin decided to run against me the moment he heard I was in office. They really do know about me; they sense it, sense that Jim-Jam is speaking the truth. I’m just not Presidential caliber.
   I’m not fit, he thought, to hold this office.
   “Listen, Leon,” he said, “I’m going to give it to that Briskin anyhow and then step down. It’ll be my last official act.” Once more he picked up the red phone. “I’m going to order them to wipe out Briskin and then someone else can be President. Anyone the people want. Even Pat Noble or you; I don’t care.” He jiggled the phone. “Hey, C. of C.,” he said loudly. “Come on, answer.” To his cousin he said, “Leave me some of that shake; it’s actually half mine.”
   “Sure, Max,” Leon said loyally.
   “Isn’t no one there?” Max said into the phone. He waited. The phone remained dead. “Something’s gone wrong,” he said to Leon. “Communications have busted down. It must be those aliens again.”
   And then he saw the TV screen. It was blank.
   “What’s happening?” Max said. “What are they doing to me? Who’s doing it?” He looked around, frightened. “I don’t get it.”
   Leon stoically drank the milkshake, shrugging to show that he had no answer. But his beefy face had paled.
   “It’s too late,” Max said. “For some reason it’s just too late.” Slowly, he hung up the phone. “I’ve got enemies, Leon, more powerful than you or me. And I don’t even know who they are.” He sat in silence, before the dark, soundless TV screen. Waiting.

   The speaker of the TV set said abruptly, “Psuedo-autonomic news bulletin. Stand by, please.” Then again there was silence.
   Jim Briskin, glancing at Ed Fineberg and Peggy, waited.
   “Comrade citizens of the United States,” the flat, unmodulated voice from the TV speaker said, all at once. “The interregnum is over, the situation has returned to normal.” As it spoke, words appeared on the monitor screen, a ribbon of printed tape passing slowly across, before the TV cameras in Washington, D.C. Unicephalon 40-D had spliced itself into the co-ax in its usual fashion; it had pre-empted the program in progress: that was its traditional right.
   The voice was the synthetic verbalizing-organ of the homeostatic structure itself.
   “The election campaign is nullified,” Unicephalon 40-D said. “That is item one. The stand-by President Maximilian Fischer is cancelled out; that is item two. Item three: we are at war with the aliens who have invaded our system. Item four. James Briskin, who has been speaking to you—”
   This is it, Jim Briskin realized.
   In his earphones the impersonal, plateau-like voice continued, “Item four. James Briskin, who has been speaking to you on these facilities, is hereby ordered to cease and desist, and a writ of mandamus is issued forthwith requiring him to show just cause why he should be free to pursue any further political activity. In the public interest we instruct him to become politically silent.”
   Grinning starkly at Peggy and Ed Fineberg, Briskin said, “That’s it. It’s over. I’m to politically shut up.”
   “You can fight it in the courts,” Peggy said at once. “You can take it all the way up to the Supreme Court; they’ve set aside decisions of Unicephalon in the past.” She put her hand on his shoulder, but he moved away. “Or do you want to fight it?”
   “At least I’m not cancelled out,” Briskin said. He felt tired. “I’m glad to see that machine back in operation,” he said, to reassure Peggy. “It means a return to stability. That we can use.”
   “What’ll you do, Jim-Jam?” Ed asked. “Go back to Reinlander Beer and Calbest Electronics and try to get your old job back?”
   “No,” Briskin murmured. Certainly not that. But—he could not really become politically silent; he could not do what the problem-solver said. It simply was not biologically possible for him; sooner or later he would begin to talk again, for better or worse. And, he thought, I’ll bet Max can’t do what it says either… neither of us can.
   Maybe, he thought, I’ll answer the writ of mandamus; maybe I’ll contest it. A counter suit… I’ll sue Unicephalon 40-D in a court of law. Jim-Jam Briskin the plaintiff, Unicephalon 40-D the defendant. He smiled. I’ll need a good lawyer for that. Someone quite a bit better than Max Fischer’s top legal mind, cousin Leon Lait.
   Going to the closet of the small studio in which they had been broadcasting, he got his coat and began to put it on. A long trip lay ahead of them back to Earth from this remote spot, and he wanted to get started.
   Peggy, following after him, said, “You’re not going back on the air at all? Not even to finish the program?”
   “No,” he said.
   “But Unicephalon will be cutting back out again, and what’ll that leave? Just dead air. That’s not right, is it, Jim? Just to walk out like this… I can’t believe you’d do it, it’s not like you.”
   He halted at the door of the studio. “You heard what it said. The instructions it handed out to me.”
   “Nobody leaves dead air going,” Peggy said. “It’s a vacuum, Jim, the thing nature abhors. And if you don’t fill it, someone else will. Look, Unicephalon is going back off right now.” She pointed at the TV monitor. The ribbon of words had ceased; once more the screen was dark, empty of motion and light. “It’s your responsibility,” Peggy said, “and you know it.”
   “Are we back on the air?” he asked Ed.
   “Yes. It’s definitely out of the circuit, at least for a while.” Ed gestured toward the vacant stage on which the TV cameras and lights focussed. He said nothing more; he did not have to.
   With his coat still on, Jim Briskin walked that way. Hands in his pockets he stepped back into the range of the cameras, smiled and said, “I think, beloved comrades, the interruption is over. For the time being, anyhow. So… let’s continue.”
   The noise of canned applause—manipulated by Ed Fineberg—swelled up, and Jim Briskin raised his hands and signalled the nonexistent studio audience for silence.
   “Does any of you know a good lawyer?” Jim-Jam asked caustically. “And if you do, phone us and tell us right away—before the FBI finally manages to reach us out here.”

   In his bedroom at the White House, as Unicephalon’s message ended, Maximilian Fischer turned to his cousin Leon and said, “Well, I’m out of office.”
   “Yeah, Max,” Leon said heavily. “I guess you are.”
   “And you, too,” Max pointed out. “It’s going to be a clean sweep; you can count on that. Cancelled.” He gritted his teeth. “That’s sort of insulting. It could have said retired.”
   “I guess that’s just its way of expressing itself,” Leon said. “Don’t get upset, Max; remember your heart trouble. You still got the job of stand-by, and that’s the top stand-by position there is, Stand-by President of the United States, I want to remind you. And now you’ve got all this worry and effort off your back; you’re lucky.”
   “I wonder if I’m allowed to finish this meal,” Max said, picking at the food in the tray before him. His appetite, now that he was retired, began almost at once to improve; he selected a chicken salad sandwich and took a big bite from it. “It’s still mine,” he decided, his mouth full. “I still get to live here and eat regularly—right?”
   “Right,” Leon agreed, his legal mind active. “That’s in the contract the union signed with Congress; remember back to that? We didn’t go out on strike for nothing.”
   “Those were the days,” Max said. He finished the chicken salad sandwich and returned to the eggnog. It felt good not to have to make big decisions; he let out a long, heartfelt sigh and settled back into the pile of pillows propping him up.
   But then he thought, In some respects I sort of enjoyed making decisions. I mean, it was—He searched for the thought. It was different from being a stand-by or drawing unemployment. It had—
   Satisfaction, he thought. That’s what it gave me. Like I was accomplishing something. He missed that already; he felt suddenly hollow, as if things had all at once become purposeless.
   “Leon,” he said, “I could have gone on as President another whole month. And enjoyed the job. You know what I mean?”
   “Yeah, I guess I get your meaning,” Leon mumbled.
   “No you don’t,” Max said.
   “I’m trying, Max,” his cousin said. “Honest.”
   With bitterness, Max said, “I shouldn’t have had them go ahead and let those engineer-fellas patch up that Unicephalon; I should have buried the project, at least for six months.”
   “Too late to think about that now,” Leon said.
   Is it? Max asked himself. You know, something could happen to Unicephalon 40-D. An accident.
   He pondered that as he ate a piece of green-apple pie with a wide slice of longhorn cheese. A number of persons whom he knew could pull off such tasks ... and did so, now and then.
   A big, nearly-fatal accident, he thought. Late some night, when everyone’s asleep and it’s just me and it awake here in the White House. I mean, let’s face it; the aliens showed us how.
   “Look, Jim-Jam Briskin’s back on the air,” Leon said, gesturing at the TV set. Sure enough, there was the famous, familiar red wig, and Briskin was saying something witty and yet profound, something that made one stop to ponder. “Hey listen,” Leon said. “He’s poking fun at the FBI; can you imagine him doing that now? He’s not scared of anything.”
   “Don’t bother me,” Max said. “I’m thinking.” He reached over and carefully turned the sound of the TV set off.
   For thoughts such as he was having he wanted no distractions.

What’ll We Do with Ragland Park?

   In his demesne near the logging town of John Day, Oregon, Sebastian Hada thoughtfully ate a grape as he watched the TV screen. The grapes, flown to Oregon by illegal jet transport, came from one of his farms in the Sonoma Valley of California. He spat the seeds into the fireplace across from him, half-listening to his CULTURE announcer delivering a lecture on the portrait busts of twentieth-century sculptors.
   If only I could get Jim Briskin on my network, Hada thought gloomily. The ranking TV news clown, so popular, with his flaming scarlet wig and genial, informal patter… CULTURE needs that, Hada realized. But—
   But their society, at the moment, was being run by the idiotic—but peculiarly able—President Maximilian Fischer, who had locked horns with Jim-Jam Briskin; who had, in fact, clapped the famous news clown in jail. So, as a result, Jim-Jam was available neither for the commercial network which linked the three habitable planets nor for CULTURE. And meanwhile, Max Fischer ruled on.
   If I could get Jim-Jam out of prison, Hada thought, perhaps due to gratitude he’d move over to my network, leave his sponsors Reinlander Beer and Calbest Electronics; after all, they have not been able to free him despite their intricate court maneuvers. They don’t have the power or the know-how… and I have.
   One of Hada’s wives, Thelma, had entered the living room of the demesne and now stood watching the TV screen from behind him. “Don’t place yourself there, please,” Hada said. “It gives me a panic reaction; I like to see people’s faces.” He twisted around in his deep chair.
   “The fox is back,” Thelma said. “I saw him; he glared at me.” She laughed with delight. “He looked so feral and independent—a bit like you, Seb. I wish I could have gotten a film clip of him.”
   “I must spring Jim-Jam Briskin,” Hada said aloud; he had decided.
   Picking up the phone, he dialed culture’s production chief, Nat Kaminsky, at the transmitting Earth satellite Culone.
   “In exactly one hour,” Hada told his employee, “I want all our outlets to begin crying for Jim-Jam Briskin’s release from jail. He’s not a traitor, as President Fischer declares. In fact, his political rights, his freedom of speech, have been taken away from him—illegally. Got it? Show clips of Briskin, build him up… you understand.” Hada hung up then, and dialed his attorney, Art Heaviside.
   Thelma said, “I’m going back outdoors and feed the animals.”
   “Do that,” Hada said, lighting an Abdulla, a British-made Turkish cigarette which he was most fond of. “Art?” he said into the phone. “Get started on Jim-Jam Briskin’s case; find a way to free him.”
   His lawyer’s voice came protestingly, “But, Seb, if we mix into that, we’ll have President Fischer after us with the FBI; it’s too risky.”
   Hada said, “I need Briskin. CULTURE has become pompous—look at the screen right this minute. Education and art—we need a personality, a good news clown; we need Jim-Jam.” Telscan’s surveys, of late, had shown an ominous dropping-off of viewers, but he did not tell Art Heaviside that; it was confidential.
   Sighing, the attorney said, “Will do, Seb. But the charge against Briskin is sedition in time of war.”
   “Time of war? With whom?”
   “Those alien ships—you know. That entered the Sol System last February. Darn it, Seb; you know we’re at war—you can’t be so lofty as to deny that; it’s a legal fact.”
   “In my opinion,” Hada said, “the aliens are not hostile.” He put the receiver down, feeling angry. It’s Max Fischer’s way of holding onto supreme power, he said to himself. Thumping the war-scare drum. I ask you, What actual damage have the aliens done lately? After all, we don’t own the Sol System. We just like to think we do.
   In any case, CULTURE—educational TV itself—was withering, and as the owner of the network, Sebastian Hada had to act. Am I personally declining in vigor? he asked himself.
   Once more picking up the phone, he dialed his analyst, Dr. Ito Yasumi, at his demesne outside of Tokyo. I need help, he said to himself. CULTURE’s creator and financial backer needs help. And Dr. Yasumi can give it to me.

   Facing him from across his desk, Dr. Yasumi said, “Hada, maybe problem stems from you having eight wives. That’s about five too many.” He waved Hada back to the couch. “Be calm, Hada. Pretty sad that big-time operator like Mr. S. Hada falling apart under stress. You afraid President Fischer’s FBI get you like they got Jim Briskin?” He smiled.
   “No,” Hada said. “I’m fearless.” He lay semisupine, arms behind his head, gazing at a Paul Klee print on the wall… or perhaps it was an original; good analysts did make a god-awful amount of money: Yasumi’s charge to him was one thousand dollars a half hour.
   Yasumi said contemplatively, “Maybe you should seize power, Hada, in bold coup against Max Fischer. Make successful power play of your own; become President and then release Mr. Jim-Jam—no problem then.”
   “Fischer has the Armed Forces behind him,” Hada said gloomily. “As Commander-in-Chief. Because of General Tompkins, who likes Fischer, they’re absolutely loyal.” He had already thought of this. “Maybe I ought to flee to my demesne on Callisto,” he murmured. It was a superb one, and Fischer, after all, had no authority there; it was not U.S. but Dutch territory. “Anyhow, I don’t want to fight; I’m not a fighter, a street brawler; I’m a cultured man.”
   “You are biophysical organism with built-in responses; you are alive. All that lives strives to survive. You will fight if necessary, Hada.”
   Looking at his watch, Hada said, “I have to go, Ito. At three I’ve an appointment in Havana to interview a new folksinger, a ballad-and-banjo man who’s sweeping Latin America. Ragland Park is his name; he can bring life back into CULTURE.”
   “I know of him,” Ito Yasumi said. “Saw him on commercial TV; very good performer. Part Southern U.S., part Dane, very young, with huge black mustache and blue eyes. Magnetic, this Rags, as is called.”
   “But is folksinging cultural?” Hada murmured.
   “I tell you something,” Dr. Yasumi said. “There strangeness about Rags Park; I noted even over TV. Not like other people.”
   “That’s why he’s such a sensation.”
   “More than that. I diagnose.” Yasumi reflected. “You know, mental illness and psionic powers closely related, as in poltergeist effect. Many schizophrenics of paranoid variety are telepaths, picking up hate thoughts in subconscious of persons around them.”
   “I know,” Hada sighed, thinking that this was costing him hundreds of dollars, this spouting of psychiatric theory.
   “Go careful with Rags Park,” Dr. Yasumi cautioned. “You volatile type, Hada; jump too quick. First, idea of springing Jim-Jam Briskin—risking FBI wrath—and now this Rags Park. You like hat designer or human flea. Best bet, as I say, is to openly face President Fischer, not deviousness as I foresee you doing.”
   “Devious?” Hada murmured. “I’m not devious.”
   “You most devious patient I got,” Dr. Yasumi told him bluntly. “You got nothing but tricky bones in your body, Hada. Watch out or you scheme yourself out of existence.” He nodded with great soberness.
   “I’ll go carefully,” Hada said, his mind on Rags Park; he barely heard what Dr. Yasumi was telling him.
   “A favor,” Dr. Yasumi said. “When you can arrange, let me examine Mr. Park; I would enjoy, okay? For your good, Hada, as well as professional interest. Psi talent may be of new kind; one never knows.”
   “Okay,” Hada agreed. “I’ll give you a call.” But, he thought, I’m not going to pay for it; your examination of Rags Park will be on your own time.

   There was an opportunity before his appointment with the ballad singer Rags Park to drop by the federal prison in New York at which Jim-Jam Briskin was being held on the sedition in time of war charge.
   Hada had never met the news clown face-to-face, and he was surprised to discover how much older the man looked than on the TV. But perhaps Briskin’s arrest, his troubles with President Fischer, had temporarily overwhelmed him. It would be enough to overwhelm anyone, Hada reflected as the deputy unlocked the cell and admitted him.
   “How did you happen to tangle with President Fischer?” Hada asked.
   The news clown shrugged and said, “You lived through that period in history as much as I did.” He lit a cigarette and stared woodenly past Hada.
   He was referring, Hada realized, to the demise of the great problem-solving computer at Washington, D.C., Unicephalon 40-D; it had ruled as President of the United States and Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces until a missile, delivered by the alien ships, had put it out of action. During that period, the standby President, Max Fischer, had taken power, a clod appointed by the union, a primitive man with an unnatural bucolic cunning. When at last Unicephalon 40-D had been repaired and had resumed functioning, it had ordered Fischer to depart his office and Jim Briskin to cease political activity. Neither man had complied. Briskin had gone on campaigning against Max Fischer, and Fischer had managed, by some method still unknown, to disable the computer, thereby again becoming President of the United States.
   And his initial act had been to clap Jim-Jam in jail.
   “Has Art Heaviside, my attorney, seen you?” Hada asked.
   “No,” Briskin said shortly.
   “Listen, my friend,” Hada said, “without my help you’ll be in prison forever, or at least until Max Fischer dies. This time he isn’t making the mistake of allowing Unicephalon 40-D to be repaired; it’s out of action for good.”
   Briskin said, “And you want me on your network in exchange for getting me out of here.” He smoked rapidly at his cigarette.
   “I need you, Jim-Jam,” Hada said. “It took courage for you to expose President Fischer for the power-hungry buffoon he is; we’ve got a terrible menace hanging over us in Max Fischer, and if we don’t join together and work fast it’ll be too late; we’ll both be dead. You know—in fact you said it on TV—that Fischer would gladly stoop to assassination to get what he wants.”
   Briskin said, “Can I say what I want over your facilities?”
   “I give you absolute freedom. Attack anyone you want, including me.”
   After a pause, Briskin said, “I’d take your offer, Hada… but I doubt if even Art Heaviside can get me out of here. Leon Lait, Fischer’s Attorney General, is conducting the prosecution against me personally.”
   “Don’t resign yourself,” Hada said. “Billions of your viewers are waiting to see you emerge from this cell. At this moment all my outlets are clamoring for your release. Public pressure is building up. Even Max will have to listen to that.”
   “What I’m afraid of is that an ‘accident’ will happen to me,” Briskin said. “Just like the ‘accident’ that befell Unicephalon 40-D a week after it resumed functioning. If it couldn’t save itself, how can—”
   “You afraid?” Hada inquired, incredulous. “Jim-Jam Briskin, the ranking news clown—I don’t believe it.”
   There was silence.
   Briskin said, “The reason my sponsors, Reinlander Beer and Calbest Electronics, haven’t been able to get me out is”—he paused—“pressure put on them by President Fischer. Their attorneys as much as admitted that to me. When Fischer learns you’re trying to help me, he’ll bring all the pressure he has to bear directly on you.” He glanced up acutely at Hada. “Do you have the stamina to endure it? I wonder.”
   “Certainly I have,” Hada said. “As I told Dr. Yasumi—”
   “And he’ll put pressure on your wives,” Jim-Jam Briskin said.
   “I’ll divorce all eight of them,” Hada said hotly.
   Briskin held out his hand and they shook. “It’s a deal then,” Jim-Jam said. “I’ll go to work for CULTURE as soon as I’m out of here.” He smiled in a weary but hopeful way.
   Elated, Hada said, “Have you ever heard of Rags Park, the folk and ballad singer? At three today I’m signing him, too.”
   “There’s a TV set here and now and then I catch one of Park’s numbers,” Briskin said. “He sounds good. But do you want that on CULTURE? It’s hardly educational.”
   “CULTURE is changing. We’re going to sugarcoat our didacticisms from now on. We’ve been losing our audience. I don’t intend to see CULTURE wither away. The very concept of it—”
   The word “culture” stood for Committee Utilizing Learning Techniques for Urban Renewal Efforts. A major part of Hada’s real estate holdings consisted of the city of Portland, Oregon, which he had acquired—intact—ten years ago. It was not worth much; typical of the semiabandoned slum constellations which had become not only repellent but obsolete, Portland had a certain sentimental value to him because he had been born there.
   However, one notion lingered in his mind. If for any reason the colonies on the other planets and moons had to be abandoned, if the settlers came streaming back to Earth, the cities would be repopulated once more. And with the alien ships flitting about the farther planets, this was not as implausible as it sounded. In fact, a few families had emigrated back to Earth already…
   So, underneath, CULTURE was not quite the disinterested public service nonprofit agency that it appeared. Mixed in with the education, Hada’s outlets drummed away at the seductive idea of the city, how much it could offer, how little there was to be had in the colonies. Give up the difficult, crude life of the frontier, CULTURE declared night and day. Return to your own planet; repair the decaying cities. They’re your real home.
   Did Briskin know this? Hada wondered. Did the news clown understand the actual purpose of his organization?
   Hada would find that out—if and when he managed to get Briskin out of jail and before a CULTURE microphone.

   At three o’clock Sebastian Hada met the folksinger Ragland Park at the Havana office of CULTURE.
   “I’m glad to make your acquaintance,” Rags Park said shyly. Tall, skinny, with his huge black mustache hiding most of his mouth, he shuffled about self-consciously, his blue eyes gentle with authentic friendliness. He had an unusual sweetness about him, Hada noted. Almost a saintly quality. Hada found himself impressed.
   “And you play both the guitar and five-string banjo?” Hada said. “Not at once, of course.”
   Rags Park mumbled, “No, sir. I alternate. Want me to play something right now for you?”
   “Where were you born?” Nat Kaminsky asked. Hada had brought his production chief along; in matters such as this, Kaminsky’s opinion was valuable.
   “In Arkansas,” Rags answered. “My family raises hogs.” He had his banjo with him and now, nervously, he twanged a few notes. “I know a real sad song that’ll break your heart. It’s called ‘Poor Old Hoss.’ Want me to sing it for you?”
   “We’ve heard you,” Hada said. “We know you’re good.” He tried to imagine this awkward young man twanging away over CULTURE in between lectures on twentieth-century portrait sculptors. Hard to imagine…
   Rags said, “I bet there’s one thing you don’t know about me, Mr. Hada. I make up a lot of my own ballads.”
   “Creative,” Kaminsky said to Hada straight-faced. “That’s good.”
   “For instance,” Rags continued, “I once made up a ballad about a man named Tom McPhail who ran ten miles with a bucket of water to put out the fire in his little daughter’s crib.”
   “Did he make it?” Hada asked.
   “Sure did. Just in time. Tom McPhail ran faster and faster with that bucket of water.” Chanting, Rags twanged in accompaniment.


“Here comes Tom McPhail
Holdin’ on tight to that great little pail.
Holdin’ on tight, boys, here he come.
Heart full of fear, faculties numb.”


   Twang, twang, sounded the banjo, mournfully and urgently.
   Kaminsky said acutely, “I’ve been following your shows and I’ve never heard you sing that number.”
   “Aw,” Rags said, “I had bad luck with that, Mr. Kaminsky. Turned out there really is a Tom McPhail. Lives in Pocatello, Idaho. I sang about ol’ Tom McPhail on my January fourteenth TV show and right away he got sore—he was listenin’—and got a lawyer to write me.”
   “Wasn’t it just a coincidence in names?” Hada said.
   “Well,” Rags said, twisting about self-consciously, “it seems there really had been a fire in his home there in Pocatello, and McPhail, he got panicky and ran with a bucket to the creek, and it was ten miles off, like I said in the song.”
   “Did he get back with the water in time?”
   “Amazingly, he did,” Rags said.
   Kaminsky said to Hada, “It would be better, on CULTURE, if this man stuck to authentic Old English ballads such as ‘Greensleeves.’ That would seem more what we want.”
   Thoughtfully, Hada said to Rags, “Bad luck to pick a name for a ballad and have it turn out that such a man really exists… Have you had that sort of bad luck since?”
   “Yes, I have,” Rags admitted. “I made up a ballad last week… it was about a lady, Miss Marsha Dobbs. Listen.


“All day, all night, Marsha Dobbs.
Loves a married man whose wife she robs.
Robs that wife and hearth of Jack Cooks’s heart.
Steals the husband, makes that marriage fall apart.


   “That’s the first verse,” Rags explained. “It goes on for seventeen verses; tells how Marsha comes to work at Jack Cooks’s office as a secretary, goes to lunch with him, then later they meet late at—”
   “Is there a moral at the end?” Kaminsky inquired.
   “Oh sure,” Rags said. “Don’t take no one else’s man because if you do, heaven avenges the dishonored wife. In this case:


“Virus flu lay ‘round the corner just for Jack.
For Marsha Dobbs ‘twas to be worse, a heart attack.
Miz Cooks, the hand of heaven sought to spare.
Surrounded her, became a garment strong to wear.
Miz Cooks—”


   Hada broke in over the twanging and singing. “That’s fine, Rags. That’s enough.” He glanced at Kaminsky and winced.
   “And I bet it turned out,” Kaminsky said, “that there’s a real Marsha Dobbs who had an affair with her boss, Jack Cooks.”
   “Right,” Rags said, nodding “No lawyer called me, but I read it in the homeopape, the New York Times. Marsha, she died of a heart attack, and it was actually during—” He hesitated modestly. “You know. While she and Jack Cooks were at a motel satellite, lovemaking.”
   “Have you deleted that number from your repertoire?” Kaminsky asked.
   “Well,” Rags said, “I can’t make up my mind. Nobody’s suing me… and I like the ballad. I think I’ll leave it in.”
   To himself, Hada thought, What was it Dr. Yasumi said? That he scented psi powers of some unusual kind in Ragland Park… perhaps it’s the parapsychological power of having the bad luck to make up ballads about people who really exist. Not much of a talent, that.
   On the other hand, he realized, it could be a variant on the telepathic talent... and with a little tinkering it might be quite valuable.
   “How long does it take you to make up a ballad?” he asked Rags.
   “I can do it on the spot,” Rags Park answered. “I could do it now; give me a theme and I’ll compose right here in this office of yours.”
   Hada pondered and then said, “My wife Thelma has been feeding a gray fox that I know—or I believe—killed and ate our best Rouen duck.”
   After a moment of considering, Rags Park twanged:


“Miz Thelma Hada talked to the fox.
Built it a home from an old pine box.
Sebastian Hada heard a sad cluck:
Wicked gray fox had eaten his duck”


   “But ducks don’t cluck, they quack,” Nat Kaminsky said critically.
   “That’s a fact,” Rags admitted. He pondered and then sang:


“Hada’s production chief changed my luck.
I got no job, and ducks don’t cluck.”


   Grinning, Kaminsky said, “Okay, Rags; you win.” To Hada he said, “I advise you to hire him.”
   “Let me ask you this,” Hada said to Rags. “Do you think the fox got my Rouen?”
   “Gosh,” Rags said, “I don’t know anything about that.”
   “But in your ballad you said so,” Hada pointed out.
   “Let me think,” Rags said. Presently he twanged once more and said:


“Interesting problem Hada’s stated.
Perhaps my ability’s underrated.
Perhaps I’m not no ordinary guy.
Do I get my ballads through the use of psi?”


   “How did you know I meant psi?” Hada asked. “You can read interior thoughts, can’t you? Yasumi was right.”
   Rags said, “Mister, I’m just singing and twanging; I’m just an entertainer, same as Jim-Jam Briskin, that news clown President Fischer clapped in jail.”
   “Are you afraid of jail?” Hada asked him bluntly.
   “President Fischer doesn’t have nothing against me,” Rags said. “I don’t do political ballads.”
   “If you work for me,” Hada said, “maybe you will. I’m trying to get Jim-Jam out of jail; today all my outlets began their campaign.”
   “Yes, he ought to be out,” Rags agreed, nodding. “That was a bad thing, President Fischer using the FBI for that… those aliens aren’t that much of a menace.”
   Kaminsky, rubbing his chin meditatively, said, “Do one on Jim-Jam Briskin, Max Fischer, the aliens—on the whole political situation. Sum it up.”
   “That’s asking a lot,” Rags said, with a wry smile.
   “Try,” Kaminsky said. “See how well you can epitomize.”
   “Whooee,” Rags said. “ ‘Epitomize.’ Now I know I’m talking to CULTURE. Okay, Mr. Kaminsky. How’s this?” He said:


“Fat little President by name of Max.
Used his power, gave Jim the ax.
Sebastian Hada’s got eyes like a vulture.
Sees his opening, steps in with CULTURE.”


   “You’re hired,” Hada said to the folksinger, and reached into his pocket for a contract form.
   Kaminsky said, “Will we be successful, Mr. Park? Tell us about the outcome.”
   “I’d, uh, rather not,” Rags said. “At least not this minute. You think I can also read the future, too? That I’m a precog as well as a telepath?” He laughed gently. “I’ve got plenty of talent, according to you; I’m flattered.” He bowed mockingly.
   “I’ll assume that you’re coming to work for us,” Hada said. “And your willingness to be an employee of CULTURE—is it a sign that you feel President Fischer is not going to be able to get us?”
   “Oh, we could be in jail, too, along with Jim-Jam,” Rags murmured. “That wouldn’t surprise me.” Seating himself, his banjo in hand, he prepared to sign the contract.

   In his bedroom at the White House, President Max Fischer had listened for almost an hour now to the TV set, to CULTURE hammering away on the same topic, again and again. Jim Briskin must be released, the voice said; it was a smooth, professional announcer’s voice, but behind it, unheard, Max knew, was Sebastian Hada.
   “Attorney General,” Max said to his cousin Leon Lait, “get me dossiers on all of Hada’s wives, all seven or eight, whatever it is. I guess I got to take a drastic course.”
   When, later in the day, the eight dossiers had been put before him, he began to read carefully, chewing on his El Producto alta cigar and frowning, his lips moving with the effort of comprehending the intricate, detailed material.
   Jeez, what a mess some of these dames must be, he realized. Ought to be getting chemical psychotherapy, have their brain metabolisms straightened out. But he was not displeased; it had been his hunch that a man like Sebastian Hada would attract an unstable sort of woman.
   One in particular, Hada’s fourth wife, interested him. Zoe Martin Hada, thirty-one years old, now living on Io with her ten-year-old son.
   Zoe Hada had definite psychotic traits.
   “Attorney General,” he said to his cousin, “this dame is living on a pension supplied by the U.S. Department of Mental Health. Hada isn’t contributing a dime to her support. You get her here to the White House, you understand? I got a job for her.”
   The following morning Zoe Martin Hada was brought to his office.
   He saw, between the two FBI men, a scrawny woman, attractive, but with wild, animosity-filled eyes. “Hello, Mrs. Zoe Hada,” Max said. “Listen, I know sumpthin’ about you; you’re the only genuine Mrs. Hada—the others are imposters, right? And Sebastian’s done you dirt.” He waited, and saw the expression on her face change.
   “Yes,” Zoe said. “I’ve been in courts for six years trying to prove what you just said. I can hardly believe it; are you really going to help me?”
   “Sure,” Max said. “But you got to do it my way; I mean, if you’re waiting for that skunk Hada to change, you’re wasting your time. About all you can do”—he paused—“is even up the score.”
   The violence which had left her face crept back as she understood, gradually, what he meant.