Thirteen O'Clock and Other Zero Hours
 
 
CONTENTS 
 
PREFACE
THIRTEEN O'CLOCK
THE ROCKET OF 1955
WHAT SORGHUM SAYS
CRISIS
THE REVERSIBLE REVOLUTIONS
THE CITY IN THE SOFA
THE GOLDEN ROAD
MS. FOUND IN A CHINESE FORTUNE COOKIE
 
KORNBLUTH COUNTRY... 
A launching pad for pulse-racing flights to looking-glass worlds, where nothing 
is what it seems, and danger comes in the most inconceivable forms. 
A blast-off point for mind-bending trips in time—deep into the darkest past, and 
far out into the frenetic future. 
A wild realm of storytelling imagination inhabited by the most amazing surprises 
and action in all science fiction. 
All in C. M. Kornbluth's legendary "Cecil Corwin" stories, presented for the 
first time in book form for the delight of every SF fan.
 

to MARY—of course 
 
Published by Dell Publishing Co., Inc. 750 Third Avenue New York, New York 10017 

Copyright © 1970 by James Blish 
 
"The Golden Road," copyright 1942 by Albing Publications; copyright © renewed 
1970 by Mrs. C. M. Kornbluth. 
"Ms. Found in a Chinese Fortune Cookie," copyright © 1957 by Mercury Press, 
Inc.; reprinted from The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. 
"Thirteen O'Clock," copyright 1940 by Albing Publications. 
"The City in the Sofa," copyright 1941 by Albing Publications. 
"Mr. Packer Goes to Hell," copyright 1941 by Albing Publications. 
"The Reversible Revolutions," copyright 1941 by Albing Publications. 
"The Rocket of 1955," copyright 1941 by Albing Publications. 
"What Sorghum Says," copyright 1941 by Albing Publications. 
("Thirteen O'Clock" and "Mr. Packer Goes to Hell" appear in this volume under 
the title "Thirteen O'Clock".) 
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by 
any means without the prior written permission of the Publisher, excepting brief 
quotes used in connection with reviews written specifically for inclusion in a 
magazine or newspaper. 
Dell ® TM 681510, Dell Publishing Co., Inc. Printed in Canada 
First printing—December 1970 
 
PREFACE
 
In the very first years of the 1940s, the late C. M. Kornbluth, who was not only 
a master of many kinds of writing but also almost incredibly prolific, turned 
out eight delicious fantasies under the pen name of "Cecil. Corwin." These 
pieces appeared in low-paying, short-lived magazines, such as Stirring Science 
Stories and Cosmic Stories, and very few of them have ever been reprinted, even 
in Kornbluth's own short-story collections—perhaps in part because few 
anthologists even know where to look for them. 
I am delighted to be able to redress this injustice, however belatedly. The 
Corwin fantasies are all gorgeously imaginative and witty—even the shortest of 
them has a bite like a coral snake—but they have something else, too, which was 
rare in Kornbluth's other work. It is hard to characterize this special quality, 
but if pressed, I should be tempted to call it joy. 
The best-remembered of these little-known jeux d' esprit are the two stories 
about the bemused but resourceful Peter and Almarish Packer, which have a wild 
Carrollian logic nobody else since Lewis Carroll himself has ever approached. 
(An exception might be made for James Branch Cabell's "The Nightmare Had 
Triplets," but regardless of Cabell's intentions, this trilogy is pure Cabell, 
not Carrollian at all.) Though I may be struck by lightning for it, I will say 
that I think the Packer stories superior to some of Carroll's own fiction: for 
example, "Sylvie and Bruno." I think this is true despite a few small stylistic 
blemishes in this very early work which Cyril outgrew later: that is, a slight 
tendency toward said-bookism, and some conventional pulp reactions which vanish 
about halfway through the first chapter. Above all, these stories, like most of 
the other Corwin pieces, are genuinely, unsentimentally funny, which is an 
attribute painfully difficult to find in the science-fiction and fantasy field 
as a whole. 
These two stories appeared separately as "Thirteen O'Clock" and "Mr. Packer Goes 
to Hell," but with only slight editing they merge smoothly into one continuous 
and mountingly hilarious narrative, which is the way they are presented in this 
book. This did not prove possible to do for the two stories about Cyril's 
soldier of fortune, Lt. J. C. Battle, but at least I have offered them here in 
the order in which they were written. 
The first Battle story appeared with the notation "by Cecil Corwin (author of 
'Thirteen O'Clock,' `The Fly-by-Nights,' etc.)." There is no Corwin story called 
"The Fly-by-Nights"; Cyril was fond of this title, his editor of the period 
anything but, and he kept putting it on each new Corwin story he submitted. Then 
came the appearance of "The Reversible Revolutions" with its underline. "Now," 
said the editor, "you can't use the title on any further manuscripts, because 
'The Fly-by-Nights' has already been published. See—it says so right here in 
print!" At this point Cyril struck his colors.* (* For this explanation I am 
indebted to Robert A. W. Lowndes, who knew Cyril well back in those days, 
whereas my first personal contact with him was in 1950. The succeeding anecdote 
about "Fortune Cookie," however, I got from Cyril himself.)
The other stories are unrelated to each other, but they are all pure Kornbluth, 
in a genre he handled every bit as well as he did science fiction, adventure, 
the roman a clef, or any other field he ever touched. With one exception, they 
and the Battle stories might be classified as marginal science fiction, but 
obviously Cyril did not think of them as such or he would not have appended the 
Corwin pseudonym to them. The exception, of course, is the magnificent "The 
Golden Road." 
The final story, "Ms. Found in a Chinese Fortune Cookie," has been reprinted 
several times before, but it certainly belongs in this collection; for though it 
was not signed by Cecil Corwin, it contains Corwin, who is in fact the leading 
character. This story has a curious underground history. In 1953, a literary 
agent who did not represent Cyril somehow put his hands on an old Kornbluth 
manuscript—not a finished story, but a sketch for a collaboration with another 
writer. Without Cyril's knowledge, the agent sold the sketch to a magazine, 
signed jointly by Corwin and a pseudonym of the other writer. Cyril did not in 
fact know about this until the piece appeared in print, and both discovering how 
it had happened and collecting the money for the sale turned out to be 
difficult. 
The literary agent in question appears, in (not surprisingly) a not very 
flattering light, in "Ms. Found in a Chinese Fortune Cookie"; and the story also 
shows that, given the nature of poor Corwin's retirement from the world of 
letters, he couldn't possibly have written that sketch. (Just incidentally, the 
story also contains what I believe to be the very first reference to LSD in 
fiction.) 
The sketch, on the other hand, is the one story with Corwin's name on it which I 
have not included in this collection. Clearly, that would have been Cyril's own 
preference. 
Some rather serious—or at least, deadpan—remarks might be made about the Corwin 
fantasies, for they do contain germs of what were to be preoccupations of 
Cyril's in later years. One such, for example, is the question of the 
interchangeability of Good and Evil, which is the subject both of "The Golden 
Road," which is dead serious, and "The Reversible Revolutions," which most 
decidedly is not. Or one might note that "The Golden Road" contains a great deal 
of material about music (more than is to be found in any other work of Cyril's) 
and that the title itself—which is never explained in the text—is drawn from 
James Elroy Flecker's play Hassan, with one line of which Cyril was familiar 
because it had been set to music by Delius ("We take the Golden Road to 
Samarkand"). But critical apparatus of this kind would be inappropriate to the 
Corwin spirit, which—again except for "The Golden Road"—is all bounce and 
persiflage, and ought to be read as such.* (* It is certainly worth noticing, 
though, that every story in this book except "Fortune Cookie" was written in 
Cyril's 17th and 18th years. He died in 1958 at the age of 34. )
I am most indebted to Mrs. Mary Kornbluth for permission to reprint these rare 
and lovely pieces . . . and, of course, to Cyril, who was a dear friend of mine 
as well, for having written them. 
JAMES BUSH 
Marlow, Bucks., U.K. 1969 
 
Thirteen O'Clock
 
I
 
PETER PACKER folded the carpenter's rule and rose from his knees, brushing dust 
from the neat crease of his serge trousers. No doubt of it—the house had a 
secret attic room. Peter didn't know anything about sliding panels or hidden 
buttons; in the most direct way imaginable he lifted the axe he had brought and 
crunched it into the wall.
On his third blow he holed through. The rush of air from the darkness was cool 
and sweet. Smart old boy, his grandfather, thought Peter. Direct ventilation all 
over the house—even in a false compartment. He chopped away heartily, the hollow 
strokes ringing through the empty attic and down the stairs.
He could have walked through the hole erect when he was satisfied with his 
labors; instead he cautiously turned a flashlight inside the space. The beam was 
invisible; all dust had long since settled. Peter grunted. The floor seemed to 
be sound. He tested it with one foot, half in, half out of the hidden chamber. 
It held.
The young man stepped through easily, turning the flash on walls and floor. The 
room was not large, but it was cluttered with a miscellany of objects—chests, 
furniture, knick-knacks and what-nots. Peter opened a chest, wondering about 
pirate gold. But there was no gold, for the thing was full to the lid with 
chiffons in delicate hues. A faint fragrance of musk filled the air; sachets 
long since packed away were not entirely gone.
Funny thing to hide away, thought Peter. But Grandfather Packer had been a funny 
man—having this house built to his own very sound plans, waiting always on the 
Braintree docks for the China and India Clippers and what rare cargo they might 
have brought. Chiffons! Peter pocked around in the box for a moment, then closed 
the lid again. There were others.
He turned the beam of the light on a wall lined with shelves. Pots of old 
workmanship—spices and preserves, probably. And a clock. Peter stared at the 
clock. It was about two by two by three feet—an unusual and awkward size. The 
workmanship was plain, the case of crudely finished wood. And yet there was 
something about it—his eyes widened as he realized what it was. The dial showed 
thirteen hours!
Between the flat figures XII and I there was another—an equally flat XIII. What 
sort, of freak this was the young man did not know. Vaguely he conjectured on 
prayer-time, egg-boiling and all the other practical applications of 
chronometry. But nothing he could dredge up from his well-stored mind would 
square with this freak. He set the, flash on a shelf and hefted the clock in his 
arms, lifting it easily.
This, he thought, would bear looking into. Putting the light in his pocket he 
carried the clock down the stairs to his second-floor bedroom. It looked 
strangely incongruous there, set on a draftsman's table hung with rules and T 
squares. Determinedly Peter was beginning to pry open the back with a chisel, 
when it glided smoothly open without tooling. There was better construction in 
the old timeplace than he had realized. The little hinges were still firm and in 
working order. He peered into the works and ticked his nail against one of the 
chimes. It sounded sweet and clear. The young man took a pair of pliers. Lord 
knew where the key was, he thought, as he began to wind the clock. He nudged the 
pendulum. Slowly it got under way, ticking loudly. The thing had stopped at 
12:59. That would be nearly one o'clock in any other timepiece; on this the 
minute hand crept slowly toward the enigmatic XIII.
Peter wound the striking mechanism carefully, and watched as a little whir 
sounded. The minute hand met the Roman numeral, and with a click the chimes 
sounded out in an eerie, jangling discord. Peter thought with sudden confusion 
that all was not well with the clock as he had thought. The chimes grew louder, 
filling the little bedroom with their clang.
Horrified, the young man put his hands on the clock as though he could stop off 
the noise. As he shook the old cabinet the peals redoubled until they battered 
against the eardrums of the draftsman, ringing in his skull and resounding from 
the walls, making instruments dance and rattle on the drawing-board. Peter drew 
back, his hands to his ears. He was foiled with nausea, his eyes bleared and 
smarting. As the terrible clock thundered out its din without end he reached the 
door feebly, the room swaying and spinning about him, nothing real but the 
suddenly glowing clock-dial and the clang and thunder of its chimes.
He opened the door and it ceased; he closed his eyes in relief as his nausea 
passed. He looked up again, and his eyes widened with horror. Though it was noon 
outside a night-wind fanned his face, and though he was on the second-story 
landing of his Grandfather Packer's house dark trees rose about him, stretching 
as far as the eye could see.
For three hours—by his wristwatch's luminous dial—Peter had wandered, aimless 
and horrified, waiting for dawn. The aura of strangeness that hung over the 
forest in which he walked was bearable; it was the gnawing suspicion that he had 
gone mad that shook him to his very bones. The trees were no ordinary things, of 
that he was sure. For he had sat down under one forest giant and leaned back 
against its bole only to rise with a cry of terror. He had felt its pulse beat 
slowly and regularly under the bark. After that he did not dare to rest, but he 
was a young and, normal male. Whether he would or not he found himself 
blundering into ditches and stones from sheer exhaustion. Finally, sprawled on 
the ground, he slept.
Peter woke stiff and sore from his nap on the bare ground, but he felt better 
for it. The sun was high in the heavens; he saw that it was about eleven 
o'clock. Remembering his terrors of the night he nearly laughed at himself. This 
was a forest, and there were any number of sane explanations how he got here. An 
attack of amnesia lasting about twelve hours would be one cause. And there were 
probably others less disturbing.
He thought the country might be Maine. God knew how many trains or busses he had 
taken since he lost his memory in his bedroom. Beginning to whistle he strode 
through the woods. Things were different in the daytime.
There was a sign ahead! He sprinted up to its base. The thing was curiously 
large, painted in red characters on a great slab of wood, posted on a dead tree 
some twelve feet from the ground. The sign said ELLIL. He rolled the name over 
in his mind and decided that he didn't recognize it. But he couldn't be far from 
a town or house.
Ahead of him sounded a thunderous grunt.
"Bears!" he thought in a panic. (They had been his childhood bogies.) But it was 
no bear, he saw. He almost wished it was. For the thing that was veering on him 
was a frightful composite of every monster of mythology, menacing him with 
sabre-like claws and teeth and gusts of flame from its ravening throat. It stood 
only about as high as the man, and its legs were long, but it seemed ideally 
styled for destruction.
Without ado he jumped for a tree and dug his toes into the grooves of the bark, 
shimmying up it like a child. With the creature's flaming breath scorching his 
heels he climbed, stopping only at the third set of main branches, twenty-five 
feet from the ground. There he clung, limp and shuddering, and looked down.
The creature was hopping grotesquely about the base of the tree, its baleful 
eyes en him. The man's hand reached for a firmer purchase on the branch, and 
part came away in his hand. He had picked a sort of coconut—heavy, hard, and 
with sharp corners. Peter raised his eyes. Why not? Carefully noting the path 
that the creature below took around the trunk he poised the fruit carefully. 
Wetting a finger, he adjusted the placing. On a free drop that long you had to 
allow for windage, he thought.
Twice more around went the creature, and then its head and the murderous fruit 
reached the same point at the same time. There was a crunching noise which Peter 
could hear from where he was and the insides of its head spilled on the forest 
sward.
"Clever," said a voice beside him on the branch.
He turned with a cry. The speaker was only faintly visible— the diaphanous 
shadow of a young girl, not more than eighteen, he thought. Calmly it went on, 
"You must be very mancic to be able to land a fruit so accurately. Did he give 
you an extra sense?" Her tone was light, but from what he could see of her dim 
features they were curled in an angry smile.
Nearly letting go of the branch in his bewilderment he answered as calmly as he 
could, "I don't know who you mean. And what is mancic?"
"Innocent," she said coldly. "Eh? I could push you off this branch without a 
second thought. But first you tell me where Almarish got the model for you. I 
might turn out a few myself. Are you a doppleganger or a golem?"
"Neither," he spat, bewildered and horrified. "I don't even know what they are!"
"Strange," said the girl. "I can't read you." Her eyes squinted prettily and 
suddenly became solid, luminous wedges in her transparent face. "Well," she 
sighed, "let's get out of this." She took the man by his elbow and dropped from 
the branch, hauling him after her. Ready for a sickening impact with the ground, 
Peter winced as his heels touched it light as a feather. He tried to disengage 
the girl's grip, but it was steel-hard.
"None of that," she warned him. "I have a blast-finger. Or didn't he tell you?"
"What's a blast-finger?" demanded the engineer.
"Just so you won't try anything," she commented. "Watch." Her body solidified 
then, and she pointed her left index finger at a middling-sized tree. Peter 
hardly saw what happened, being more interested in the incidental miracle of her 
face and figure. But his attention was distracted by a flat crash of thunder and 
sudden glare. And the tree was riven as if by a terrific stroke of lightning. 
Peter smelled ozone as he looked from the tree to the girl's finger and back 
again. "Okay," he said.
"No nonsense?" she asked. "Come on."
They passed between two trees, and the vista of forest shimmered and tore, 
revealing a sort of palace—all white stone and maple timbers. "That's my place," 
said the girl.
 
II
 
"Now," she said, settling herself into a cane-backed chair. Peter looked about 
the room. It was furnished comfortably with pieces of antique merit, in the best 
New England tradition. His gaze shifted to the girl, slender and palely 
luminous, with a half-smile playing about her chisled features.
"Do you mind," he said slowly, "not interrupting until I'm finished with what I 
have to say?"
"A message from Almarish? Go on."
And at that he completely lost his temper. "Listen, you snip!" he raged. "I 
don't know who you are or where I am but I'd like to tell you that this mystery 
isn't funny or even mysterious—just downright rude. Do you get that? Now—my name 
is Peter Packer. I live in Braintree, Mass. I make my living as a consulting 
engineer. This place obviously isn't Braintree, Mass. Right? Then where is it?"
"Ellil," said the girl simply.
"I saw that on a sign," said Packer. "It still doesn't mean anything to me. 
Where is Ellil?"
Her face became suddenly grave. "You may be telling the truth," she said 
thoughtfully. "I do not know yet. Will you allow me to test you?"
"Why should I?"
"Remember my blast-finger?"
Packer winced. "Yes," he said. "What are the tests?"
"The usual," she smiled. "Rosemary and garlic, crucifixes and the secret name of 
Jehovah. If you get through those you're okay."
"Then get on with it," he said, confusedly.
"Hold these." She passed him a flowery sprig and a clove of garlic. He took 
them, one in each hand. "All right?" he asked.
"On those, yes. Now take the cross and read this name. You can put the 
vegetables down now."
He followed instructions, stammering over the harsh Hebrew word. In a cold fury 
the girl sprang to her feet and leveled her left index finger at him. "Clever," 
she blazed. "But you can't get away with it! I'll blow you so wide open—"
"Wait," he pleaded. "What did I do?" The girl, though sweet-looking, seemed to 
be absolutely irresponsible.
"Mispronounced the Name," she snapped. "Because you can't say it straight 
without crumbling into dust!"
He looked at the paper again and read aloud slowly and carefully. "Was that 
right?" he asked.
Crestfallen, the girl sat down. "Yes," she said. "I'm sorry. You seem to be 
okay. A real human. Now what do you want to know?"
"Well—who are you?"
"My name's Melicent," She smiled deprecatingly. "I'm a sorceress."
"I can believe that. Now why should you take me for a demon, or whatever you 
thought I was?"
"Doppleganger," she corrected him. "I was sure—well, I'd better begin at the 
beginning.
"You see, I haven't been a sorceress very long—only two years. My mother was a 
witch—a real one, and first-class. All I know I learned from her—never studied 
it formally. My mother didn't die a natural death, you see. Almarish got her."
"Who's Almarish?"
She wrinkled her mouth with disgust. "A thug!" she spat. "He and his gang of 
half-breed demons are out to get control of Ellil. My mother wouldn't stand for 
it—she told him right out flat over a Multiplex Apparition. And after that he 
was gunning for her steady—no letup at all. And believe me, there are mighty few 
witches who can stand up under much of that, but Mother stood him off for 
fifteen years. They got my father—he wasn't much good—a little while after I was 
born. Vampires.
"Mother got caught alone in the woods one morning without her tools—unguents, 
staffs and things—by a whole flock of golems and zombies." The girl shuddered. 
"Some of them—well, Mother finished about half before they overwhelmed her and 
got a stake of myrtle through her heart. That finished her—she lost all her 
magic, of course, and Almarish sent a plague of ants against her. Adding insult 
to injury!" There were real tears of rage in her eyes.
"And what's this Almarish doing now?" Peter was fascinated.
Melicent shrugged. "He's after me," she said simply. "The bandur you killed was 
one of my watchdogs. And I thought he'd sent you. I'm sorry."
"I see," he breathed slowly. "What powers has he?" 
"The usual, I suppose. But he has no principles about using them. And he has his 
gang—I can't afford real retainers. Of course I whip up some simulacra whenever 
I hold a reception or anything of that sort. Just images to serve and take 
wraps. They can't fight."
Peter tightened his jaw. "You must be in a bad way." The girl looked him full in 
the eye, her lip trembling. She choked out, "I'm in such a hell of a spot!" and 
then the gates opened and she was weeping as if her heart would break. He stood 
frozenly, wondering how he could comfort a despondent sorceress. "There, there," 
he said tentatively.
She wiped her eyes and looked at him. "I'm sorry," she said sniffing. "But it's 
seeing a friendly face again after all these years—no callers but leprechauns 
and things. You don't know what it's like."
"I wonder," said Peter, "how you'd like to live in Braintree."
"I don't know," she said brightly. "But how could I get there?"
'There should be at least one way."
"But why—what was that?" shot out the girl, snatching up a wand.
"Knock on the door," said Peter. "Shall I open it?"
"Please," said Melicent nervously, holding up the slender staff. He stood aside 
and swung the door wide. In walked a curious person of mottled red and white 
coloring. One eye was small and blue, the other large and savagely red. His 
teeth were quite normal—except that the four canines protruded two inches each 
out of his mouth. He walked with a limp; one shoe seemed curiously small. And 
there was a sort of bulge in the trousers that he wore beneath his formal 
morning-coat.
"May I introduce myself," said the individual, removing his sleek black topper. 
"I am Balthazar Pike. You must be Miss Melicent? And this—ah—zombie?" He 
indicated Peter with a leer.
"Mr. Packer, Mr. Pike," said the girl. Peter stared in horror while the creature 
murmured, "Enchanted."
Melicent drew herself up proudly. "And this, I suppose," she said, "is the end?"
"I fear so, Miss Melicent," said the creature regretfully. "I have my orders. 
Your house has been surrounded by picked forces; any attempt to use your 
blast-finger or any other weapon of offense will be construed as resistance. 
Under the laws of civilized warfare we are empowered to reduce you to ashes 
should such resistance be forthcoming. May I have your reply?"
The girl surveyed him haughtily, then, with a lighting-like sweep of her wand, 
seemed to blot out every light in the room. Peter heard her agitated voice, 
"We're in a neutral screen, Mr. Packer. I won't be able to keep it up for long. 
Listen! That was one of Almarish's stinkers—big cheese. He didn't expect any 
trouble from me. He'll take me captive as soon as they break the screen down. Do 
you want to help me?"
"Of course!"
"Good. Then you find the third oak from the front door on the left and walk 
widdershins three times. You'll find out what to do from them."
"Walk how?" asked Peter.
"Widdershins—counterclockwise. Lord, you're dumb!"
Then the lights seemed to go on again, and Peter saw that the room was filled 
with the half-breed creatures. With an expression of injured dignity the 
formally-attired Balthazar Pike asked, "Are you ready to leave now, Miss 
Melicent? Quite ready?"
"Thank you, General, yes," said the girl coldly. Two of the creatures took her 
arms and walked her from the room. Peter saw that as they stepped over the 
threshold they vanished, all three. The last to leave was Pike, who turned and 
said to the man: "I must remind you, Mister—er—ah—that you are trespassing. This 
property now belongs to the Almarish Realty Corporation. All offenders will be 
prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Good day, Mister—er—ah—". With 
which he stepped over the door and vanished.
Hastily Peter followed him across the line, but found himself alone outside the 
house. For which he was grateful. "Third oak from the left door," he repeated. 
Simple enough. Feeling foolish he walked widdershins three times around and 
stopped dead waiting for something.
What a sweet, brave kid she had been! He hoped nothing would really happen to 
her—before he got there.
He felt a sort of tugging at his serge trousers and stepped back in alarm. 
"Well?" shrilled a small voice. Peter looked down and winced. The dirtiest, most 
bedraggled little creature he had ever seen was regarding him with tiny, sharp 
eyes. There were others, too, squatting on pebbles and toadstools.
"Miss Melicent told me to ask you what I should do," said Peter. As the little 
leader of the troop glared at him he added hastily, "If you please."
"Likely tale," piped the voice of the creature. "What's in it for us?"
"I dunno," he said bewildered. "What do you want?"
"Green cloth," the creature answered promptly. "Lots of it. And if you have any 
small brass buttons, them too."
Peter hastily conducted on inventory of his person. "I'm sorry," he said 
hesitantly. "I haven't any green. How about blue? I can spare my vest." He 
carefully lowered the garment to the ground among the little people.
"Looks all right," said the leader. "Jake!" One of the creatures advanced and 
fingered the cloth. "Hmm—" he said. "Good material." Then there was a whispered 
consultation with the leader, who at last shouted up to Peter: "Head East for 
water. You can't miss it!"
"Hey," said Peter, blinking. But they were already gone. And though he 
widdershin-walked for the next half hour and even tried a few incantations 
remembered from his childhood they did not come back, nor did his vest.
So, with his back to the sinking sun, he headed East for water.
 
III
 
"Mahoora City Limits," said the sign. Peter scratched his head and passed it. He 
had hit the stretch of highway a few miles back once he had got out of the 
forest, and it seemed to be leading straight into a city of some kind. There was 
a glow ahead in the sky; a glow which abruptly became a glare.
Peter gasped. "Buildings—skyscrapers!" Before him reared a sort of triple Wall 
Street with which were combined the most spectacular features of Rockefeller 
Center. In the sudden way in which things happened in Ellil he turned a blind 
corner in the road and found himself in the thick of it.
A taxi roared past him; with a muttered imprecation he jumped out of the way. 
The bustling people on the sidewalks ignored him completely. It was about six 
o'clock; they were probably going home from their offices. They were all sorts 
of people—women and girls, plain and pretty, men and boys, slim, fat, healthy 
and dissipated. And striding along in lordly indifference Peter saw a cop.
"Excuse me," said Peter elbowing his way through the crowd to the member of 
Mahoora's finest. "Can you tell me where I can find water?" That was, he 
realized, putting it a bit crudely. But he was hopelessly confused by the 
traffic and swarms of pedestrians.
The cop turned on him with a glassy stare. "Water?" he rumbled. "Would yez be 
wantin' tap, ditch, fire—or cologne?" Peter hesitated. He didn't know, he 
realized in a sudden panic. The elves, or whatever they had been, hadn't 
specified. Cagily he raised his hand to his brow and muttered, " 'Scuse me— 
previous engagement—made the appointment for today— just forgot—" He was edging 
away from the cop when he felt a hand on his arm.
"What was that about water?" asked the cop hoarsely, putting his face near 
Peter's. Desperately Peter blurted: "The water I have to find to lick Almarish!" 
Who could tell? Maybe the cop would help him.
"What?" thundered M.P.D. Shield No. 2435957607. "And me a loyal supporter of the 
Mayor Almarish Freedom Peace and Progress Reform Administration?" He frowned. 
"You look subversive to me—come on!" He raised his nightstick suggestively, and 
Peter meekly followed him through the crowds.
"How'd they get you in here?" asked Peter's cellmate.
Peter inspected him. He was a short, dark sort of person with a pair of 
disconcertingly bright eyes. "Suspicion," said Peter evasively. "How about you?"
"Practicing mancy without a license, theoretically. Actually because I tried to 
buck the Almarish machine. You know how it is?"
"Can't say I do," answered Peter. "I'm a stranger here."
"Yeah? Well—like this. Few years ago we had a neat little hamlet here. Mahoora 
was the biggest little city in these parts of Ellil, though I say it myself. A 
little industry—magic chalices for export, sandals of swiftness, invisibility 
cloaks, invincible weapons—you know?"
"Um," said Peter noncommittally.
"Well, I had a factory—modest little chemical works. We turned out love-philtres 
from my own prescription. It's what I call a neat dodge—eliminates the balneum 
mariae entirely from the processing, cuts down drying time—maybe you aren't 
familiar with the latest things in the line?"
"Sorry, no."
"Oh. Well, then, in came those plugs of Almarish. Flying goonsquads that wrecked 
plants and shops on order; spies, provocateurs, everything. Soon they'd run out 
every racketeer in the place and hijacked them lock stock and barrel. Then they 
went into politics. There was a little scandal about buying votes with fairy 
gold—people kicked when it turned into ashes. But they smoothed that over when 
they got in.
"And then—! Graft right and left, patronage, unemployment, rotten food scandals, 
bribery, inefficiency—everything that's on the list. And this is their fifth 
term. How do you like that?"
"Lord," said Peter, shocked. "But how do they stay in office?"
"Oh," grinned his friend. "The first thing they did was to run up some imposing 
public works—tall buildings, bridges, highways and monuments. Then they let it 
out that they were partly made of half-stuff. You know what that is?"
"No," said Peter. "What is it?"
"Well—it's a little hard to describe. But it isn't really there and it isn't 
really not there. You can walk on it and pick it up and things, but—well, it's a 
little hard to describe. The kicker is this. Half-stuff is there only as long as 
you—the one who prepared a batch of it that is—keep the formula going. So if we 
voted those leeches out of office they'd relax their formula and the half-stuff 
would vanish and the rest of the buildings and bridges and highways and 
monuments would fall with a helluva noise and damage. How do you like that?"
"Efficiency plus," said Peter. "Where's this Almarish hang out?"
"The mayor?" asked his cellmate sourly. "You don't think he'd be seen in the 
city, do you? Some disgruntled citizen might sic a flock of vampires on his 
honor. He was elected in absentia. I hear he lives around Mal-Tava way."
"Where's that?" asked Peter eagerly.
"You don't know? Say, you're as green as they come! That's a pretty nasty corner 
of Ellil—the nastiest anywhere, I guess. It's a volcanic region, and those 
lava-nymphs are tough molls. Then there's a dragon-ranch around there. The owner 
got careless and showed up missing one day. The dragons broke out and ran wild. 
Anything else?"
"No," said Peter, heavy-hearted. "I guess not."
"That's good. Because I think we're going to trial right now." A guard was 
opening the door, club poised. "His honor, Judge Balthazar Pike will see you 
now," said the warden. Peter groaned.
The half-breed demon, his sartorial splendor of the preceding afternoon replaced 
by judiciary black silk, smiled grimly on the two prisoners. "Mr. Morden," he 
said indicating the erstwhile manufacturer, "and Mr.—er—ah?"
"Packer!" Peter shouted. "What are you doing here?"
"Haw!" laughed the judge. "That's what I was going to ask you. But first we have 
this matter of Mr. Morden to dispose of. Excuse me a moment? Clerk, read the 
charges."
A cowed-looking little man picked an index-card from a stack and read: "Whereas 
Mr. Percival Morden of Mahoora has been apprehended in the act of practicing 
mancy and whereas this Mr. Morden does not possess an approved license for such 
practice it is directed that His Honor Chief Judge Balthazar Pike declare him 
guilty of the practice of mancy without a license. Signed, Mayor Almarish. Vote 
straight Peace and Progress Reform Party for a clean and efficient 
administration." He paused for a moment and looked timidly at the judge who was 
cleaning his talons. "That's it, your honor," he said.
"Oh—thank you. Now Morden—guilty or not guilty?"
"What's the difference?" asked the manufacturer sourly. "Not guilty, I guess."
"Thank you." The judge took a coin from his pocket. "Heads or tails?" he asked.
"Tails," answered Morden. Then, aside to Peter, "It's magic, of course. You 
can't win." The half-breed demon spun the coin dexterously on the judical bench; 
it wobbled, slowed, and fell with a tinkle. The judge glanced at it. "Sorry, old 
man," he said sympathetically. "You seem to be guilty. Imprisonment for life in 
an oak-tree. You'll find Merlin de Bleys in there with you, I rather fancy. 
You'll like him. Next case," he called sharply as Morden fell through a trapdoor 
in the floor.
Peter advanced before the bar of justice. "Can't we reason this thing out?" he 
asked hopelessly. "I mean, I'm a stranger here and if I've done anything I'm 
sorry—"
"Tut!" exclaimed the demon. He had torn the cuticle of his left index talon, and 
it was bleeding. He stanched the green liquid with a handkerchief and looked 
down at the man.
"Done anything?" he asked mildly. "Oh—dear me, no! Except for a few trifles like 
felonious impediment of an officer in the course of his duty, indecent display, 
seditious publication, high treason and unlawful possession of military and 
naval secrets—done anything?" His two odd eyes looked reproachfully down on the 
man.
Peter felt something flimsy in his hand. Covertly he looked and saw a slip of 
blue paper on which was written in green ink: "This is Hugo, my other watchdog. 
Feed him once a day on green vegetables. He does not like tobacco. In haste, 
Melicent."
There was a stir in the back of the courtroom, and Peter turned to see one of 
the fire-breathing horrors which had first attacked him in the forest tearing 
down the aisle lashing out to right and left, incinerating a troop of officers 
with one blast of its terrible breath. Balthazar Pike was crawling around under 
his desk, bawling for more police.
Peter cried, "You can add one more—possession of a bandur without a license! Sic 
'em, Hugo!" The monster flashed an affectionate look at him and went on with the 
good work of clearing the court. The man sprang aside as the trapdoor opened 
beneath his feet and whirled on a cop who was trying to swarm over him. With a 
quick one-two he laid him out and proceeded to the rear of the courtroom, where 
Hugo was standing off a section of the fire-department that was trying to 
extinguish his throat. Peter snatched an axe from one and mowed away heartily. 
Resistance melted away in a hurry, and Peter pushed the hair out of his eyes to 
find that they were alone in the court.
"Come on, boy," he said. Whistling cheerily he left the building, the bandur at 
his heels, smoking gently. Peter collared a cop—the same one who had first 
arrested him. "Now," he snarled. "Where do I find water?"
Stuttering with fright, and with two popping eyes on the bandur, the officer 
said, "The harbor's two blocks down the street if you mean—"
"Never mind what I mean!" Luxuriating in his new-found power Peter strode off 
pugnaciously, Hugo following.
 
IV
 
"I beg your pardon—are you looking for water?" asked a tall, dark man over 
Peter's shoulder. Hugo growled and let loose a tongue of flame at the stranger's 
foot. "Shuddup, Hugo," said Peter. Then, turning to the stranger, "As a matter 
of fact I was. Do you—?"
"I heard about you from them," said the stranger. "You know. The little people."
"Yes," said Peter. "What do I do now?"
"Underground Railroad," said the stranger. "Built after the best Civil War 
model. Neat, speedy and efficient. Transportation at half the usual cost. I hope 
you weren't planning to go by magic carpet?"
"No," Peter assured him hastily. "I never use them."
"That's great," said the stranger swishing his long black cloak. "Those carpet 
people—stifling industry. They spread a whispering campaign that our road was 
unsafe! Can you imagine it?"
"Unsafe," scoffed Peter. "I'll bet they wish their carpets were half as safe as 
your railroad!"
"Well," said the stranger thoughtfully, "perhaps not half as safe . . . No; I 
wouldn't say half as safe . . ." He seemed likely to go on indefinitely; Peter 
asked, "Where do I get the Underground?"
"A little East of here," said the stranger. He looked about apprehensively. 
"We'd better not be seen together," he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. 
"Meet you over there by the clock-tower—you can get it there."
"Okay," said Peter. "But why the secrecy?"
"We're really underground," said the stranger, walking away.
Peter rejoined him at the corner of the clock-tower; with an elaborate display 
of unconcern the stranger walked off, Peter following at some distance. Soon 
they were again in the forest that seemed to border the city of Mahoora. Once 
they were past the city-limits sign the stranger turned, smiling.
"I guess we're safe now," he said. "They could try a raid and drag us back 
across the line, but they wouldn't like to play with your bandur. Here's the 
station."
He pressed a section of bark on a huge tree; silently it slid open like a door. 
Peter saw a row of steps leading down into blackness. "Sort of spooky," he said.
"Not at all! I have the place ghostproofed once a year." The stranger led the 
way, taking out what looked like a five-branched electric torch. "What's that?" 
asked Peter, fascinated by the weird blue light it shed.
"Hand of glory," said the stranger casually. Peter looked closer and shuddered, 
holding his Stomach. Magic, he thought, was all right up to the point where it 
became grave-robbery.
They arrived at a neatly tiled station; Peter was surprised to find that the 
trains were tiny things. The one pulled up on the tracks was not as high as he 
was. "You'll have to stoke, of course," said the stranger.
"What?" demanded Peter indignantly.
"Usual arrangement. Are you coming or aren't you?"
"Of course—but it seems strange," complained Peter climbing into the engine. 
Hugo climbed up into the coal car and curled up emitting short smoky bursts of 
flame which caused the stranger to keep glancing at him in fear for his fuel.
"What's in the rest of the train?" asked Peter.
"Freight. This is the through cannonball to Mal-Tava. I have a special shipment 
for Almarish. Books and things, furniture, a few cases of liquor—you know?"
"Yes. Any other passengers?"
"Not this month. I haven't much trouble with them. They're usually knights and 
things out to kill sorcerers like Almarish. They take their horses along or send 
them ahead by carpet. Do you plan to kill Almarish?"
Peter choked. "Yes," he finally said. "What's it to you?"
"Nothing—I take your money and leave you where you want to go. A tradesman can't 
afford opinions. Let's get up some steam, eh?"
Amateurishly Peter shoveled coal into the little furnace while the stranger in 
the black cloak juggled with steam-valves and levers. "Don't be worried," he 
advised Peter. "You'll get the hang of things after a while." He glanced at a 
watch. "Here we go," he said, yanking the whistle-cord.
The train started off into its tunnel, sliding smoothly and almost silently 
along, the only noise being from the driving rods. "Why doesn't it clack against 
the rails?" asked Peter.
"Levitation. Didn't you notice? We're an inch off the track. Simple, really."
"Then why have a track?" asked Peter.
The stranger smiled and said, "Without—" then stopped abruptly and looked 
concerned and baffled. And that was all the answer Peter got.
"Wake up," shouted the stranger nudging Peter. "We're in the war zone!"
"Zasso?" asked Peter, blinking. He had been napping after hours of steady 
travel. "What war zone?"
"Trolls—you know."
"No, I don't!" snapped Peter. "What side are we on?"
"Depends on who stops us," said the stranger, speeding the engine. They were out 
of the tunnel now, Peter saw, speeding along a couple of inches above the floor 
of an immense dim cave. Ahead the glittering double strand of the track 
stretched into the distance.
"Oh—oh!" muttered the cloaked stranger. "Trouble ahead!" Peter saw a vague, 
stirring crowd before them. "Those trolls?" he asked.
"Yep," answered the engineer resignedly, slowing the train. "What do you want?" 
he asked a solid looking little man in a ragged uniform. "To get the hell out of 
here," said the little man. He was about three feet tall, Peter saw. "What 
happened?" he asked.
"The lousy Insurgents licked us," said the troll. "Will you let us on the train 
before they cut us down?"
"First," said the engineer methodically, "there isn't room. Second, I have to 
keep friends with the party in power. Third, you know very well that you can't 
be killed."
"What if we are immortal?" asked the troll. "Would you like to live forever 
scattered in little pieces?"
"Second," said Peter abruptly, "you get out of it as best you can." He was 
speaking to the engineer. "And first, you can dump all the freight you have for 
Almarish. He won't want it anyway when I'm through with him." "That right?" 
asked the troll.
"Not by me!" exploded the engineer. "Now get your gang off the track before I 
plough them under!"
"Hugo," whispered Peter. With a lazy growl the bandur scorched the nape of the 
engineer's head.
"All right," said the engineer. "All right. Use force—all right." Then, to the 
leader of the trolls, "You tell your men they can unload the freight and get as 
comfortable as they can."
"Wait!" said Peter. "Inasmuch as I got you out of this scrape—I think—would you 
be willing to help me out in a little affair of honor with Almarish?"
"Sure!" said the troll. "Anything at all. You know, for a surface-dweller you're 
not half bad!" With which he began to spread the good news among his army.
Later, when they were all together in the cab, taking turns with the shovel, the 
troll introduced himself as General Skaldberg of the Third Loyalist Army.
Speeding ahead again at full speed the end of the cavern was in sight when 
another swarm of trolls blocked the path. "Go through them!" ordered Peter 
coldly.
"For pity's sake," pleaded the stranger. "Think of what this will do to my 
franchise!"
"That's your worry," said the General. "You fix it up with the Insurgents. We 
gave you the franchise anyway—they have no right of search."
"Maybe," muttered the engineer. He closed his eyes as they went slapping into 
the band of trolls under full steam. When it was all over and they were again 
tearing through the tunnel he looked up. "How many?" he asked brokenly.
"Only three," said the general regretfully. "Why didn't you do a good job while 
you were at it?"
"You should have had your men fire from the freight-cars," said the engineer 
coldly.
"Too bad I didn't think of it. Could you turn back and take them in a surprise 
attack?"
The engineer cursed violently, giving no direct answer. But for the next half 
hour he muttered to himself distraitly, groaning "Franchise!" over and over 
again.
"How much farther before we get to Mal-Tava?" asked Peter glumly.
"Very soon now," said the troll. "I was there once. Very broken terrain—fine for 
guerilla work."
"Got any ideas on how to handle the business of Almarish?"
The general scratched his head. "As I remember it," he said slowly, "it's a 
funny tactical problem—practically no fortifications within the 
citadel—everything lumped outside in a wall of steel. Of course Almarish 
probably has a lot on the ball personally. All kinds' of direct magic at his 
fingertips. And that's where I get off with my men. We trolls don't even pretend 
to know the fine points of thaumaturgy. Mostly straight military stuff with us."
"So I have to face him alone?"
"More or less," said the general. "I have a couple of guys that majored in 
Military Divination at Ellil Tech Prep. They can probably give you a complete 
layout of the citadel, but they won't be responsible for illusions, multiplex 
apparitions or anything else Almarish might decide to throw in the way. My 
personal advice to you is—be skeptical."
"Yes?" asked Peter miserably.
"Exactly," said Skaldberg. "The real difficulty in handling arcane warfare is in 
knowing what's there and what ain't. Have you any way of sneaking in a 
confederate? Not a spy, exactly—we military men don't approve of spying—but a 
sort of—ah—one-man intelligence unit."
"I have already," said Peter diffidently. "She's a sorceress, but not much good 
I think. Has a blast-finger, though."
"Very good," grunted Skaldberg. "Very good indeed. How we could have used her 
against the Insurgents! The hounds had us in a sort of peninsular spot—with only 
one weak line of supply and communication between us and the main force —and I 
was holding a hill against a grand piquet of flying carpets that were hurling 
thunderbolts at our munitions supply. But their sights were away off and they 
only got a few of our snipers. What a blast-finger would have done to those 
bloody carpets!"
The engineer showed signs of interest. "You're right!" he snapped. "Blow 'em out 
of the sky—menace to life and limb! I have a bill pending at the All Ellil 
Conference on Communication and Transportation—would you be interested?"
"No," grunted the general. The engineer, swishing his long black cloak, returned 
to his throttle muttering about injunctions and fair play.
 
V
 
"Easy, now!" whispered the general.
"Yessir," answered a troll going through obvious mental strain while his hand, 
seemingly of its own volition, scrawled lines and symbols on a sheet of paper. 
Peter was watching, fascinated and mystified, as the specialist in military 
divination was doing his stuff.
"There!" said the troll, relaxing. He looked at the paper curiously and signed 
it: "Borgenssen, Capt."
"Well?" asked General Skaldberg. "What was it like?"
The Captain groaned. "You should see for yourself, sir!" he said despondently. 
"Their air-force is flying dragons and their infantry's a kind of Kraken squad. 
What they're doing out of water I don't know."
"Okay," said the general. He studied the drawing. "How about their mobility?"
"They haven't got any and they don't need any," complained the diviner. "They 
just sit there waiting for you—in a solid ring. And the air force has a couple 
of auxiliary rocs that pick up the Krakens and drop them behind your forces. 
Pincher stuff—very bad."
"I'll be the judge of that!" said the general. The captain saluted and stumbled 
out of the little cave which the general had chosen to designate as GHQ. His men 
were bivouacked on the bare rock outside. Volcanoes rumbled and spat in the 
distance. There came one rolling crash that set Peter's hair on end.
"Think that was for us?" he asked nervously.
"Nope—I picked this spot for lava drainage. I have a hundred men erecting a 
shut-off at the only exposed point. We'll be safe enough." He turned again to 
the map, frowning. "This is our real worry—what I call impregnable, or damn near 
it. If we could get them to attack us—but those rocs smash anything along that 
line. We'd be cut off like a rosebud. And with our short munitions we can't 
afford to be discovered and surrounded. Ugh! What a spot for an army man to find 
himself in!"
A brassy female voice asked, "Somep'n bodderin' you, shorty?" The general spun 
around in a fine purple rage. Peter looked in horror and astonishment on the 
immodest form of a woman who had entered the cave entirely unperceived— 
presumably by some occult means. She was a slutty creature, her hair dyed a 
vivid red and her satin skirt an inch or two above the knee. She was violently 
made up with flame-colored rouge, lipstick and even eye-shadow.
"Well," she complained stridently, puffing on a red cigaret, "wadda you joiks 
gawkin' at? Aincha nevva seen a lady befaw?"
"Madam," began the general, outraged. "Can dat," she advised him easily. "I hoid 
youse guys chewin' da fat. I wanna help youse out." She seated herself on an 
outcropping of rock and adjusted her skirt upward.
"I concede that women," spluttered the general, "have their place in activities 
of the military—but that place has little or nothing to do with warfare as such! 
I demand that you make yourself known—where did you come from?"
"Weh did I come from?" she asked mockingly. "Weh, he wansa know. Lookit dat!" 
She pointed one of her bright-glazed fingernails at the rocky floor of the cave, 
which grew liquid in a moment, glowing cherry-red. She leered at the two and 
spat at the floor. It grew cold in another moment. "Don't dat mean dothin' to 
youse?" she asked.
The general stared at the floor. "You must be a volcano nymph."
"Good fa you, shorty!" she sneered. "I represent da goils from Local toity-tree. 
In brief, chums, our demands are dese: one, dat youse clear away from our union 
hall pronto; two, dat youse hang around in easy reach—in case we want youse fa 
poiposes of our own. In return fa dese demands we—dats me an' de goils—will help 
youse guys out against Almarish. Dat lousy fink don't give his hands time off no 
more. Dis place might as well be a desert fa all de men around. Get me?" 
"These—ah—purposes of your own in clause two," said the general hesitantly. 
"What would they be?"
She smiled and half-closed her eyes. "Escort soivice, ya might call it, cap."
The general stared, too horrified even to resent being called "cap."
"Well?" demanded the nymph. "Well—yes," said the general. "Okay, shorty," she 
said, crushing out her cigaret against her palm. "Da goils'l be aroun' at dawn 
fa de attack. I'll try to keep 'em off yer army until de battle's over. So 
long!" She sank into the earth, leaving behind only a smell of fleur-de-floozy 
perfume.
"God!" whispered General Skaldberg. "The things I do for the army!"
In irregular open formation the trolls advanced, followed closely by the jeering 
mob of volcano nymphs.
"How about it, General?" asked Peter. He and the old soldier were surveying the 
field of battle from a hill in advance of their forces; the hideous octopoid 
forms of the defenders of Almarish could be plainly seen, lumbering onward to 
meet the trolls with a peculiar sucking gait.
"Any minute now—any second," said Skaldberg. Then, "Here it comes!" The farthest 
advanced of the trolls had met with the first of the Krakens. The creature 
lashed out viciously; Peter saw that its tentacles had been fitted with studded 
bands and other murderous devices. The troll dodged nimbly and pulled an 
invincible sword on the octopoid myth. They mixed it; when the struggle went 
behind an outcropping of rock the troll was in the lead, unharmed, while the 
slow-moving Kraken was leaking thinly from a score of punctures.
"The dragons," said Peter, pointing. "Here they are." In V formation the 
monsters were landing on a far end of the battlefield, then coming at a 
scrabbling run.
"If they make it quicker than the nymphs—" breathed the general. Then he sighed 
relievedly. They had not. The carnage among the dragons was almost funny; at 
will the nymphs lifted them high in the air on jets of steam and squirted melted 
rock in their eyes. Squalling in terror the dragons flapped into the air and 
lumbered off Southward.
"That's ocean," grinned the general. "They'll never come back—trying to find new 
homes, I suspect."
In an incredibly short time the field was littered with the flopping chunks that 
had been hewed from the Krakens. Living still they were, but powerless. The 
general shook his hand warmly. "You're on your own now," he said. "Good luck, 
boy. For a civilian you're not a bad egg at all." He walked away.
Glumly Peter surveyed the colossal fortress of Almarish. He walked aimlessly up 
to its gate, a huge thing of bronze and silver, and pulled at the silken cord 
hanging there. A gong sounded and the door swung open. Peter advanced hopelessly 
in a sort of audience chamber. "So!" thundered a mighty voice.
"So what?" asked Peter despondently. He saw on a throne high above him an 
imposing figure. "You Almarish?" he asked listlessly.
"I am. And who are you?"
"It doesn't matter. I'm Peter Packer of Braintree, Mass. I don't even expect you 
to believe me. The throne lowered slowly and jerkily, as if on hydraulic pumps. 
The wizard descended and approached Peter. He was a man of about forty, with a 
full brown beard reaching almost to his belt.
"Why," asked the sorcerer, "have you come bearing arms?"
"It's the only way I could come," said Peter. "Let me first congratulate you on 
an efficient, well-oiled set of political machinery. Not even back in the United 
States have I seen graft carried to such a high degree. Secondly, your choice of 
assistants is an eye-opener. Your Mr. Pike is the neatest henchman I've ever 
seen. Thirdly, produce the person of Miss Melicent or I'll have to use force."
"Is that so?" rumbled Almarish. "Young puppy! I'd like to see you try it. 
Wrestle with me—two falls out of three. I dare you!"
Peter took off his coat of blue serge. "I never passed up a dare yet," he said. 
"How about a mat?" 
"Think I'm a sissy?" the sorcerer jeered.
Peter was stripped for action. "Okay," he said. Slowly Almarish advanced on him, 
grappling for a hold. Peter let him take his forearm, then shifted his weight so 
as to hurl the magician over his shoulder. A moment later Peter was astonished 
to find himself on the floor underneath the wizard. "Haw!" grunted Almarish, 
rising. "You still game?" He braced himself. "Yep!" snapped Peter. He hurled 
himself in a flying tackle that began ten feet away from the wizard and ended in 
a bone-crushing grip about the knees. Peter swarmed up his trunk and cruelly 
twisted an arm across his chest. The magician yelped in sudden agony, and let 
himself fall against the floor. Peter rose, grinning. "One all," he said 
cheerfully.
Almarish grappled for the third fall; Peter cagily backed away. The wizard 
hurled himself in a bruising body-block against Peter, battering him off his 
feet and falling on the young man. Instinctively Peter bridged his body, arcing 
it off the floor. Almarish, grunting fiercely, gripped his arm and turned it 
slowly, as though he were winding a clock. Peter snapped over, rolling on the 
wizard's own body as a fulcrum. He had his toe in his hand, and closed his fist 
with every ounce of muscle he had. The sorcerer screamed and fell over on his 
face. Peter jammed his knee in the wizard's inside socket and bore down 
terribly. He could feel the bones bend in his grip.
"Enough!" gasped the wizard. Peter let him loose.
"You made it," said Almarish. "Two out of three."
Peter studied his face curiously. Take off that beard and you had—
"You said it, Grandfather Packer," said Peter, grinning.
Almarish groaned. "It's a wise child that knows its own father—grandfather, in 
this case," he said. "How could you tell?"
"Everything just clicked," said Peter simply. "You disappearing—that 
clock—somebody applying American methods in Ellil—and then I shaved you mentally 
and there you were. Simple?"
"Sure is. But how do you think I made out here, boy?"
"Shamefully. That kind of thing isn't tolerated any more. It's 
gangsterism—you'll have to cut it out, gramp."
"Gangsterism be damned!" snorted the wizard. "It's business. Business and common 
sense."
"Business maybe, certainly not common sense. My boys wiped out your guard and I 
might have wiped out you if I had magic stronger than yours."^
Grandfather Packer chuckled in glee. "Magic? I'll begin at the beginning. When I 
got that dad-blamed clock back in '63 I dropped right into Ellil—onto the head 
of an assassin who was going for a real magician. Getting the set-up I pinned 
the killer with a half-nelson and the magician dispatched him. Then he got 
grateful, said he was retiring from public life and gave me a kind of token, 
good for any three wishes.
"So I took it, thanking him kindly, and wished for a palace and bunch of gutty 
retainers. It was in my mind to run Ellil like a business, and I did it the only 
way I knew how—force. And from that day to this I used only one wish and I 
haven't a dab of magic more than that!"
"I'll be damned!" whispered Peter.
"And you know what I'm going to do with those other two wishes? I'm going to 
take you and me right back into the good ole U.S.A.!"
"Will it only send two people?"
"So the magician said."
"Grandfather Packer," said Peter earnestly, "I am about to ask a very great 
sacrifice of you. It is also your duty to undo the damage which you have done."
"Oh," said Almarish glumly. "The girl? All right."
"You don't mind?" asked Peter incredulously.
"Far be it from me to stand in the way of young love," grunted the wizard 
sourly. "She's up there."
Peter entered timidly; the girl was alternately reading a copy of the Braintree 
Informer and staring passionately at a photograph of Peter.
"Darling," said Peter.
"Dearest!" said Melicent, catching on almost immediately.
A short while later Peter was asking her: "Do you mind, dearest if I ask one 
favor of you—a very great sacrifice?" He produced a small, sharp pen-knife.
And all the gossip for a month in Braintree was of Peter Packer's stunning young 
wife, though some people wondered how it was that she had only nine fingers.
 
 
6 
 
"Drat it!" cursed Almarish, enchanter supreme and master of all Ellil. "Drat the 
sizzling dingus!" Lifting his stiffly embroidered robes of imperial purple, he 
was dashing to left and right about his bedroom, stooping low, snatching with 
his jeweled hands at an elusive something that skidded about the floor with 
little, chuckling snickers. 
Outside, beyond the oaken door, there was a sinister thud of footsteps, firm and 
normal slaps of bare sole against pavement alternating with sinister tappings of 
bone. "Slap-click. Slap-click. Slap-click," was the beat. Almarish shot a glance 
over his shoulder at the door, his bearded face pale with strain. 
"Young 'un," he snapped to an empty room, "this ain't the silly season. Come 
out, or when I find you I'll jest take your pointed ears and twist them till 
they come off in my hands." 
Again there was the chuckling snicker, this time from under the bed. Almarish, 
his beard streaming, dove headlong, his hands snapping shut. The snicker turned 
into a pathetic wail. 
"Leggo!" shrilled a small voice. "You're crushing me, you ox!" 
Outside the alternating footsteps had stopped before his door. A horny hand 
pounded on the solid oak. 
"Be with ye in a minute," called the bearded enchanter. Sweat had broken out on 
his brow. He drew out his clenched fists from under the bed. 
"Now, young lady!" he said grimly, addressing his prize. 
The remarkable creature in his hands appeared to be young; at least she was not 
senile. But if ever a creature looked less like a lady it was she. From tiny 
feet, shod in rhinestone, high-heeled pumps to softly waved chestnut hair at her 
very crown, she was an efficient engine of seduction and disaster. And to omit 
what came between would be a sin: her voluptuous nine inches were encased in a 
lame that glittered with the fire of burnished silver, cut and fitted in the 
guise of an evening gown. Pouting and sullen as she was in Mmarish's grasp, she 
hadn't noticed that the hem was scarcely below her ankles, as was intended by 
the unknown couturier who had spared no pains on her. That hem, or the 
maladjustment of it, revealed, in fact, that she had a pretty, though miniature, 
taste in silks and lacework. 
"Ox!" she stormed at the bearded sorcerer. "Beastly oaf—you'll squeeze me out of 
shape with your great, clumsy hands!" 
"That would be a pity," said Almarish. "It's quite a shape, as you seem to 
know." 
The pounding on the door redoubled. "Lord Almarish!" shouted a voice, clumsily 
feigning anxiety. "Are you all right?" 
"Sure, Pike," called the sorcerer. "Don't bother me now. I have a lady with me. 
We're looking at my potted plants." 
"Oh," said the voice of Pike. "All right—my business can wait." 
"That stalled him," grunted Almarish. "But not for long. You, what's your name?" 

She stuck out a tiny tongue at him. 
"Look here," said Almarish gently. He contracted his fist a little and the 
creature let out an agonized squawk on a small scale. "What's your name?" he 
repeated. 
"Moira," she snapped tartly. "And if your throat weren't behind all that hay I'd 
cut it." 
"Forget that, kid," he said. "Let me give you a brief resume of pertinent facts: 

"My name is Packer and I'm from Braintree, Mass., which you never heard of. I 
came to Ellil by means of a clock with thirteen hours. Unusual, eh? Once here I 
sized things up and began to organize on a business basis with the assistance of 
a gang of half-breed demons. I had three wishes, but they're all used up now. I 
had to send back to Braintree my grandson Peter, who got here the same way I 
did, and with him a sweet young witch he picked up. 
"Before leaving he read me a little lecture on business reform and the New Deal. 
What I thought was commercial common sense—little things like bribes, 
subornation of perjury, arson, assassination and the like—he claimed was 
criminal. So I, like a conscientious Packer, began to set things right. This my 
gang didn't like. The best testimony of that fact is that the gentleman outside 
my door is Balthazar Pike, my trusted lieutenant, who has determined to take 
over. 
"I learned that from Count Hacza, the vampire, when he called yesterday, and he 
said that I was to be wiped out today. He wrung my hand with real tears in his 
eyes—an affectionate chap—as he said goodbye." 
"And," snarled the creature, "ain't that too damn' bad?" 
"No," said Almarish mildly. "No, because you're going to get me out of this. I 
knew you were good luck the moment you poked your nose through the wall and 
began to snicker." 
Moira eyed him keenly. "What's in it for me?" she finally demanded. 
There was again the pounding on the door. "Lord Almarish," yelled Balthazar 
Pike, "aren't you through with those potted plants yet?" 
"No," called the sorcerer. "We've just barely got to the gladioli." 
"Pretty slow working," grumbled the trusted lieutenant. "Get some snap into it." 

"Sure, Pike. Sure. Only a few minutes more." He turned on the little creature. 
"What do you want?" he asked. 
There was a curious catch in her voice as she answered, "A vial of tears from la 
Bete Joyeux." 
"Cut out the bunk," snapped Almarish impatiently. "Gold, jewels—anything at all. 
Name it." 
"Look, whiskers," snarled the little creature. "I told you my price and I'll 
stick to it. What's more I'll take you to the right place." 
"And on the strength of that," grinned the sorcerer, "I'm supposed to let you 
out of my hands?" 
"That's the idea," snapped Moira. "You have to trust somebody in this lousy 
world—why not me? After all, mister, I'm taking your word—if you'll give it." 
"Done," said Almarish with great decision. "I hereby pledge myself to do 
everything I can to get you that whatever-it-was's tears, up to and including 
risk and loss of life." 
"Okay, whiskers," she said. "Put me down." He obliged, and saw her begin to pace 
out pentacles and figures on the mosaic floor. As she began muttering to herself 
with great concentration he leaned his head against the door. There were 
agitated murmurs without. 
"Don't be silly," Pike was saying. "He told me with his own mouth he had a 
woman—" 
"Look, Bally," said another voice, one that Almarish recognized as that of a 
gatekeeper, "I ain't sayin' you're wacked up, but they ain't even no mice in his 
room. I ain't let no one in and the ectoplasmeter don't show nothin' on the 
grounds of the castle." 
"Then," said Pike, "he must be stalling. Rourke, you get the rest of the 'breeds 
and we'll break down the door and settle Lord Almarish's hash for good. The 
lousy weakling!" 
Lord Almarish began to sweat afresh and cast a glance at Moira, who was standing 
stock-still to one side of the mosaic design in the floor. He noted abruptly a 
series of black tiles in the center that he had never seen before. Then others 
surrounding them turned black, and he saw that they were not coloring but 
ceasing to exist. Apparently something of a bottomless pit was opening up 
beneath his palace. 
Outside the padding and clicking of feet sounded. "Okay, boys! Get it in line!" 
They would be swinging up a battering ram, Almarish surmised. The shivering 
crash of the first blow against the oaken door made his ears ring. Futilely he 
braced his own brawny body against the planking and felt the next two blows run 
through his bones. 
"One more!" yelled his trusted lieutenant. And with that one more the door would 
give way, he knew, and what they would do to him would be no picnic. He had 
schooled them well, though crudely, in the techniques of strikebreaking effected 
by employers of the 1880s. 
"Hurry it up!" he snapped at Moira. She didn't answer, being wholly intent, it 
seemed, on the enlargement of the pit which was growing in the floor. It would 
now admit the passage of a slimmer man than the sorcerer, but his own big bones 
would never make it. 
With agonizing slowness the pit grew, tile by tile, as the tiny creature frowned 
into it till her face was white and bloodless. Almarish fancied he could hear 
through the door the labored breathing of the half-breed demons as they made 
ready to swing again. 
Crash! It came again, and only his own body kept the door from falling in 
fragments. 
"Right—dive!" shrilled the little voice of Moira as the battering ram poked 
through into the room. He caught her up in one hand and squeezed through into 
the blackness of the pit. He looked up and could see a circle of faces snarling 
with rage as he slid down a kind of infinitely smooth inclined tunnel. Abruptly 
the patch of light above him was blotted out and there was absolutely nothing to 
be seen. 
All Almarish knew was that he was gliding in utter blackness at some terrifying 
speed in excess of anything sane down to a place he knew nothing of in the 
company of a vicious little creature whose sole desire seemed to be to cut his 
throat and drink his blood with glee. 
 
7 
 
"Where," asked Almarish, "does this end?" 
"You'll find out," snarled the little creature. "Maybe you're yellow already?" 
"Don't say that," he warned. "Not unless you want to get playfully pinched—in 
half." 
"Cold-blooded," she marveled. "Like a snake or lizard. Heart's probably 
three-ventricled, too." 
"Our verbal contract," said the sorcerer, delicately emphasizing verbal, "didn't 
include an exchange of insults." 
"Yeah," she said abstractedly. And though they were in the dark, he could sense 
that she was worried. "Yeah, that's right." 
"What's the matter?" he demanded. 
"It's your fault," she shrilled. "It's your own damned fault hurrying me up so I 
did this!" The man knew that she was near distraction with alarm. And he could 
feel the reason why. They were slowing down, and this deceleration, presumably, 
was not on Moira's schedule. 
"We on the wrong line?" he asked coolly. 
"Yes. That's about it. And don't ask me what happens now, because I don't know, 
you stupid cow!" Then she was sniffling quietly in his hand, and the sorcerer 
was wondering how he could comfort her without breaking her in two. 
"There now," he soothed tentatively, stroking her hair carefully with the tip of 
a finger. "There, now, don't get all upset—" 
It occurred to him to worry on his own account. They had slowed to a mere 
snail's pace, and at the dramatically, psychologically correct moment a light 
appeared ahead. A dull chanting resounded through the tube: 
"Slimy flesh, 
Clotted blood, 
Fat, white worms, 
These are food." 
From Moira there was a little, strangled wail. "Ghouls!" 
"Grave robbers?" asked the sorcerer. "I can take care of them—knock a few heads 
together." 
"No," she said in thin, hopeless tones. "You don't understand. These are the 
real thing. You'll see." 
As they slid from the tube onto a sort of receiving table Almarish hastily 
pocketed the little creature. Then, staring about him in bewilderment, he 
dropped his jaw and let it hang. 
The amiable dietary ditty was being ground out by a phonograph, tending which 
there was a heavy-eyed person dressed all in gray. He seemed shapeless, lumpy, 
like a half-burned tallow candle on whose sides the drops of wax have congealed 
in half-teardrops and cancerous clusters. He had four limbs and, on the upper 
two, hands of a sort, and wore what could roughly be described as a face. 
"You," said Almarish. "What's—where—?" He broke off in confusion as a lackluster 
eye turned on him. 
From a stack beside him the creature handed him a pamphlet. The sorcerer studied 
the title: 
 
WORKERS! FIGHT TO PRESERVE AND EXTEND the GLORIOUS REVOLUTION which has BEFALLEN 
Y O U! 
 
He read further: 
 
There are those among you who still can remember the haphazard days of 
individual enterprise and communal wealth. Those days were bad; many starved for 
lack of nutritious corpses. And yet people died Above; why this poverty in the 
midst of plenty? 
There were Above as usual your scouts who cast about for likely members of your 
elite circle, those who wished to live forever on the traditional banquets of 
the Immortal Eaters. Fortunate indeed was the scout who enrolled Ingvar Hemming. 
For it was he who, descending to the Halls of the Eaters, saw the pitiful 
confusion which existed. 
Even as he had brought order into the vast holdings which had been his when 
Above, he brought order to the Halls. A ratio was established between production 
and consumption and civilized habits of life-in-death were publicized. Nowadays 
no Immortal Eater would be seen barbarously clawing the flesh from a corpse as 
in the bad old days; in these times your Safety-Tasty cans are the warrant of 
cleanliness and flavor. 
Bug-eyed, Almarish turned to the back of the booklet and scanned the 
advertisements: 
 


 
He tore his eyes from the repulsive pages. "Chum," he demanded hoarsely of the 
phonograph attendant, "what the hell goes on here?" 
"Hell?" asked the ghoul in a creaky, slushy voice. "You're way off. You'll never 
get there now. I buzzed the receiving desk—they'll come soon." 
"I mean this thing." Gingerly he held it up between thumb and forefinger. 
"Oh—that. I'm supposed to give it to each new arrival. It's full of bunk. If you 
could possibly get out of here, you'd do it. This ain't no paradise, not by a 
long shot." 
"I thought," said Almarish, "that you all had enough to eat now. And if you can 
afford hearses you must be well off." 
"You think so?" asked the attendant. "I can remember back when things was 
different. And then this Hemming man—he comes down from Above, corners the 
supply, hires men to can it and don't pay them enough to buy it in cans. I don't 
understand it, but I know it ain't right." 
"But who buys the—the eyes and hearses?" 
"Foremen an' ex-ex-ekky-tives. And whut they are I don't know. It jest ain't 
jolly down here no more." "Where you from?" asked Almarish. 
"Kentucky. Met a scout, 1794. Liked it and been here ever since. You 
change—cain't git back. It's a sad thing naow." He dummied up abruptly as a 
squad of ghouls approached. They were much less far gone—"changed" than the 
attendant. One snapped out a notebook. 
"Name?" he demanded. 
"Packer, Almarish—what you will," he said, fingering an invincible dagger in his 
sleeve. 
"Almarish—the Almarish?" 
"Overlord of Ellil," he modestly confessed, assuming, and rightly, that the news 
of his recent deposition had not yet reached the Halls of the Eternal Eaters. 
"Come on a tour of inspection. I was wondering if I ought to take over this 
glorified cafeteria." 
"I assume," said one of the reception committee—for into such it had hastily 
resolved itself—"you'll want to see our vice-president in charge of Inspection 
and Regulation?" 
"You assume wrongly," said the sorcerer coldly. "I want to see the president." 
"Mr. Hemming?" demanded the spokesman. All heads save that of Almarish bowed 
solemnly. "You—you haven't an appointment, you know." 
"Lead on," ordered the sorcerer grimly. "To Mr. Hemming." Again the heads bowed. 

Almarish strode majestically through the frosted-glass door simply lettered with 
the name and title of the man who owned the nation of ghouls body and soul. 
"Hello, Hemming," said he to the man behind the desk, sitting down unbidden. 
The president was scarcely "changed" at all. It was possible that he had been 
eating food that he had been used to when Above. What Almarish saw was an 
ordinary man in a business suit, white-haired, with a pair of burning eyes and a 
stoop forward that gave him the aspect of a cougar about to pounce. 
"Almarish," he said, "I welcome you to my—corporation." 
"Yes—thank you," said the sorcerer. He was vaguely worried. Superb businessman 
that he was, he could tell with infallible instinct that something was 
wrong—that his stupendous bluff was working none too well. 
"I've just received an interesting communication," said Hemming casually. "A 
report via rock signals that there was some sort of disturbance in your Ellil. A 
sort of—palace revolution. Successful, too, I believe." 
Almarish was about to spring at his throat and bring down guards about his head 
when he felt a stirring in his pocket. Over the top of one peeked the head of 
Moira. 
"Won't you," she said, "introduce me to the handsome man?" 
Almarish, grinning quietly, brought her out into full view. With a little purr 
she gloriously stretched her lithe body. Hemming was staring like an old goat. 
"This," said the sorcerer, "is Moira." 
"For sale?" demanded the president, clenching his hands till the knuckles 
whitened on the top of his desk. 
"Of course," she drawled amiably. "At the moment a free agent. Right?" She 
tipped Almarish a wink. 
"Of course," he managed to say regretfully, "you know your own mind, Moira, but 
I wish you'd stay with me a little longer." 
"I'm tired of you," she said. "A lively girl like me needs them young and 
handsome to keep my interest alive. There are some men"—she cast a sidelong, 
slumbrous glance at Hemming—"some men I'd never grow tired of." 
"Bring her over," said the president, trying to control his voice. 
Almarish realized that there was something in the combination of endemic 
desirability and smallness which was irresistible. He didn't know it, but that 
fact was being demonstrated in his own Braintree, Mass., at that very time by a 
shop which had abandoned full-sized window dummies and was using gorgeous things 
a little taller than Moira but scarcely as sexy. In the crowds around their 
windows there were four men to every woman. 
His Moira pirouetted on the desk top, displaying herself. "And," she said, "for 
some men I'll do a really extraordinary favor." 
"What's that?" asked Hemming, fighting with himself to keep his hands off her. 
He was plainly terrified of squashing this gorgeous creature. 
"I could make you," she said, "my size. Only a little taller, of course. Women 
like that." 
"You can?" he asked, his voice breaking. "Then go ahead!" 
"I have your full consent?" 
"Yes," he said. "Full consent." 
"Then—" A smile curved her lips as she swept her hands through the air in 
juggling little patterns. 
A lizard about ten inches long reared up on its hind legs, then frantically 
skittered across the tabletop. Almarish looked for Hemming; could not see him 
anywhere. He picked up Moira. In a sleepy, contented voice she was saying: 
"My size. Only a little taller, of course." 
 
8 
 
Back in the tube from which they had been shunted into the Halls of the Eternal 
Eaters, as the ghouls fancied calling themselves, Almarish couldn't get sense 
out of Moira. She had fallen asleep in his pocket and was snoring quietly, like 
a kitten that purred in its sleep. 
And more than ever he marveled at this cold-blooded little creature. She had had 
the routine of seduction and transformation down so pat that he was sure she had 
done it a hundred times—or a thousand. You couldn't tell ages in any of these 
unreal places; he, who should be a hundred and eight, looked just thirty-five 
and felt fifteen years younger than that. 
All the same, it would be a good thing not to give Moira full and clear consent 
to anything at all. That must be an important part of the ceremony. 
He hoped that the ghouls would straighten themselves out now that their 
president was a ten-inch lizard. But there were probably twenty villainous 
vice-presidents, assorted as to size, shape and duties, to fill his place. Maybe 
they'd get to fighting over it, and the ghouls-in-ordinary would be able to toss 
them all over. 
Just like Ellil. A good thing he'd gotten out of that. 
Not that he liked this way of traveling, he assured himself. It couldn't be 
anything half so honest as it seemed—a smooth-lined tube slanting down through 
solid rock. It was actually, of course, God-knew-what tricky path between the 
planes of existence. That thirteen-hour clock was one way, this was another, but 
more versatile. 
Lights ahead again—red lights. He took Moira from his pocket and shook her with 
incredible delicacy. 
"You ox!" she snapped. "Trying to break my back?" 
"Sorry," he said. "Lights—red ones. What about them?" 
"That's it," she said grimly. "Do you feel like a demigod —particularly?" 
"No," he admitted. "Not—particularly." 
"Then that's too damn bad," she snapped. "Remember, you have a job to do. When 
you get past the first trials and things, wake me up." 
"Trials?" 
"Yes, always. Egyptian, Greek, Roman, Norse—they all have a Weigher of Souls. 
It's always the same place, of course, but they like the formality. Now let me 
sleep." 
He put her back into his pocket and tried to brake with his hands and feet. No 
go. But soon he began to decelerate. Calling up what little he knew of such 
things, he tried to draw a desperate analogy between molecules standing radially 
instead of in line and whatever phenomenon this was which made him—who was 
actually, he knew, not moving at all—not-move more slowly than before, when he 
had been standing still at an inconceivably rapid pace. 
The lights flared ahead into a bloody brilliance, and he skidded onto another of 
the delivery tables of sardonyx. A thing with a hawk face took his arm. 
"Stwm stm!" it said irritably. 
"Velly solly," said the sorcerer. "Me no spik—whatever in Hades you're 
speaking." 
"R khrt sr tf mtht," it said with a clash of its beak. Almarish drew his 
invincible dirk, and the thing shrugged disarmingly. 
"Chdl nfr," it grinned, sauntering off. 
A Chinese approached, surveying him. "Sholom aleichim," he greeted Almarish, 
apparently fooled by the beard. 
"Aleichim sholom," replied the enchanter, "but you've made a mistake." 
"Sorry," said the Chinese. "We'll put you on the calendar at General Sessions. 
Take him away!" he called sharply. 
Almarish was hustled into a building and up a flight of stairs by two men in 
shiny blue uniforms before he had a chance to ask what the charge was. He was 
hustled through a pen, through innumerable corridors, through a sort of 
chicken-wire cage, and finally into a courtroom. 
"Hurrah!" yelled thousands of voices. Dazedly he looked over a sea of faces, 
mostly bloodthirsty. 
"Tough crowd," one of the attendants muttered. "We better stick around to take 
care of you. They like to collect souvenirs. Arms . . . scalps. . . ." 
"See him?" demanded the other attendant, pointing at the judge. "Used to be a 
Neminant Divine. This is his punishment. This and dyspepsia. Chronic." 
Almarish could read the sour lines in the judge's face like a book. And the book 
looked as though it had an unhappy ending. 
"Prisoner to the bar," wheezed the justice. 
THE COURT: Prisoner, give your name and occupation. 
PRISONER: Which ones, Your Honor? There are so many. (Laughter and hisses.) 
A VOICE: Heretic—burn him! 
THE COURT: Order! Prisoner, give the ones you like best. And remember—We Know 
All. 
PRISONER: Yes, Your Honor. Packer, ex-overlord of Ellil. 
THE COURT: Read the accusation, clerk. 
CLERK: (several words lost) did willfully conspire to transform said Hemming 
into a lizard ten inches long. (Laughter in the court.) 
THE COURT: Poppycock! 
RECORDING CLERK: How do you spell that, Your Honor? 
THE COURT: Silence! I said Poppycock! 
RECORDING CLERK: Thank you, Your Honor. 
PRISONER'S COUNSEL: Your Honor, (several words lost), known (several words lost) 
childhood (several words lost). 
THE COURT: Prisoner's counsel is very vague. 
PRISONER: My God—is he my lawyer? 
THE COURT: So it would appear. 
PRISONER: But I never saw the man before, and he's obviously drunk, Your Honor! 
THE COURT: Hic! What of it, prisoner? 
PRISONER: Nothing. Nothing at all. Move to proceed. 
PROSECUTING ATT'Y: I object! Your Honor, I object! 
THE COURT: Sustained. 
(A long silence. Hisses and groans.) 
THE COURT: Mr. Prosecutor, you got us into this—what have you to say for 
yourself? 
PROSECUTING ATT'Y: Your Honor, I—I—I move to proceed. 
PRISONER: It's my turn, Your Honor. I object. 
THE COURT: Overruled. 
(Cheers and whistles.) 
VOICES: Hang him by the thumbs! 
Cut his face off! 
Heretic—burn him! 
THE COURT: I wish it to go on record that I am much gratified by the intelligent 
interest which the public is taking in this trial. 
(Cheers and whistles.) 
PROSECUTING ATT'Y: Your Honor, I see no need further to dillydally. This is a 
clear-cut case and the state feels no hesitation in demanding that the Court 
impose maximum penalty under law—which, if I remember aright, is death per 
flagitionem extremum, peine forte et dure, crucifictio ultimo and inundation sub 
aqua regia—in that order. 
(Cheers and screams. Wild demonstration.) 
THE COURT: I SO-- 
A VOICE: Hey, blue-eyes! 
THE COURT: I SO- 
A VOICE (the same): Hey, you, cutie-pants! 
THE COURT: Prisoner. 
PRISONER: Yes, Your Honor? 
THE COURT: Prisoner, are you aware of what you have in your pocket? 
PRISONER: Oh—her. Cute, isn't she? 
THE COURT: Bring it closer. I shall make it Exhibit A. 
A VOICE (the same): Hey—that tickles! 
THE COURT: Exhibit A, have you any testimony to give? (Demonstration, mostly 
whistles.) 
EXHIBIT A: Yes, Your Honor. Take me away from this horrible man! The things he's 
done to me 
THE COURT: Yes? Yes? 
EXHIBIT A: You can't imagine. But Your Honor, you're not like him. You know, 
Your Honor, there are some men (rest of testimony lost). 
THE COURT: (comments lost). 
EXHIBIT A: (testimony lost). 
THE COURT: Really! You don't mean it! Well, go ahead. 
EXHIBIT A: Have I your full consent? 
THE COURT: You have—free, clear and legal. 
EXHIBIT A: (gestures with both hands). 
THE COURT: (turns into lizard approx. 10 in. long). 
EXHIBIT A: Come on, whiskers—let's beat it! 
PRISONER: I hear you talkin'! 
PROSECUTING ATT'Y: Go after them, you damfools! 
COURT ATTACHES: Not us, bud. What kind of dopes do we look like to you? 
(Screams, howls, whistles, yells, demonstrations, complete pandemonium.) 
 
9 
 
"How will I know," demanded Almarish, "when I'm supposed to turn left?" 
"When the three moons show up as an equilateral triangle," said Moira, "will be 
high time. Now, damn you, let me go to sleep." 
"Why are you always so tired after these little transformation acts of yours?" 
"You, not being a real sorcerer, wouldn't understand. But suffice it to say that 
any magic-worker would have to do as much. Watch out for ghosts. Good night." 
She was in his pocket again, either purring or snoring. He never could decide 
which was the right word. And Almarish realized that this little lady had 
somehow become very dear to him. 
He was walking along a narrow, sullen strip of desert bordered on either side by 
devil trees that lashed out with poisonous, thorny branches. The things must 
have had sharp ears, for they would regularly lie in wait for him and lash up as 
he stepped past. Fortunately, they could not make the extra yard or two of 
leeway he had. 
Above, the three moons of the present night were shifting in a stately drill, 
more like dancers than celestial bodies, sometimes drawing near to an 
equilateral triangle but never quite achieving it. And she had been most 
specific about it. 
There was still la Bete Joyeux to face, from whose eyes had to be wrung a vial 
of tears for purpose or purposes unknown to the sorcerer. His French was a 
little weak, but he surmised that the thing was a happy beast, and that to make 
it weep would bear looking into. He made a mental note to ask her about it. He 
was always asking her about things. 
The devil trees were at it again, this time with a new twist. They would snap 
their tentacles at him like whips, so that one or more of the darts would fly 
off and whiz past his face. And it was just as well that they did. One of those 
things would drop a rhino in full charge, Moira had told him. Odd name, Moira. 
Sounded Irish. 
He looked up and drew his breath in sharply. The moons had formed their triangle 
and held it for a long, long five minutes. Time to turn left. The way was 
blocked, of course, by ill-tempered trees. He drew the invincible dirk, hoping 
that the trees did not know enough magic to render the thing just an innocent 
little brand, and deliberately stepped within reach of one of the trees. 
It lashed out beautifully; Almarish did not have to cut at it. The tentacle 
struck against the blade and lopped itself clean off. The tree uttered a 
mournful squeal and tried to find and haul in the severed tentacle with the 
others. They had a way of sticking them back on again. 
He slashed away heartily, counting them as they fell. With each fresh gush of 
pussy sap the tree wailed more and more weakly. Finally it drooped, seemingly 
completely done in. Treachery, of course. He flung a lump of sandstone into the 
nest of arms and saw them close, slowly and with little crushing power, around 
it. Were it he instead of the stone, he could have hacked himself free before 
the thing burst into sand. 
Quite boldly, therefore, he picked his way among the oozing tendrils, now and 
then cutting at one from the wrist. He gum-shoed past the trunk itself and saw 
the pulsing membranes quiver malevolently at his step. They had things like this 
back in Ellil; he felt more than competent to deal with them. 
But ghosts, now—ghosts were something else again. He had never seen a ghost, 
though the rumors did go about. And if ever ghosts were to be seen, it was in 
this spot. 
Here the moons did not send their light—he didn't know why—and the grass 
underfoot was fatty, round rods. From shrubs shone a vague, reddish light that 
frayed on a man's nerves. There was the suggestion of a sound in the air, like 
the ghost itself of a noise dispersed. 
"Moira," he said softly. "Snap out of it. I'm scared." 
A tiny head peeked over the top of his pocket. "Yellow already?" she insultingly 
asked. "The master of all Ellil's turning green?" 
"Look," he said. "Just you tell me what we're up against and I'll go ahead. 
Otherwise, no." 
"Ghosts," she said. "This place is a den of them. I suppose you've heard all the 
stories about them and don't quite believe. Well, the stories are true. Just 
forget about the whimsy a la John Kendrick Bangs. Ghosts aren't funny; they're 
the most frightening things that ever were. There's nothing you can do about 
them; none of the magical formulas work because they aren't even magical. They 
are distilled essence of terror in tactile form. There's absolutely nothing you 
can do with, to, or about them. I can't give you a word of advice. You know what 
you have to do, whiskers. We're after that vial of tears." 
"Right," he said. "Keep your head out—here we go." 
He—they—walked into a vast glob of darkness that saturated their minds, seeped 
between their molecules and into their lungs and hearts. 
"Oh my God!" wailed a voice. "Oh, my God!" 
Almarish didn't turn his head; kept walking straight on. 
"Stranger—help me—here they come—" the voice shrilled. There was a sickening 
sound of crackling, then a mushy voice that spoke a few indistinguishable words. 

"They're at it," said Moira tremulously. "Don't let it get you down." 
"A big man like you," said the sweet voice of a young girl, "consorting with 
that evil little creature! You ought to be ashamed of yourself. I'm ever so much 
nicer. . . ." 
In the gooey blackness appeared a figure—wispy, luminous—of a charming maiden 
whose head was a skull and whose hair was a convolution of pink, writhing worms. 
Gently they hissed in chorus: 
"Bold, big master, 
Come to terms; 
Feed the dainty Maid of Worms." 
The last line of the ditty echoed from all sides in a variety of voices, ranging 
from a new-born wail to the hoarseness of a death rattle. 
Almarish shut his eyes and walked ahead as the Maid reached out her arms. He 
walked into her and felt a clammy, gelid coldness, the tightness of arms around 
him, and ropy things fumbling on his face. Repressing a shriek, breathing 
heavily, he strode on, finally opening his eyes. Again he—they—were in the 
blackness, without a sound or light. Fumbling for a handkerchief, he swabbed at 
his brow and cheeks, dripping with cold sweat. As he thought of the Maid again, 
his back rose into little prickles of ice. 
"It was me," he said, trembling violently, "who could never stand mice and 
roaches, Moira." 
"Keep going," she snapped coldly. "This isn't a picnic." The little creature was 
upset again. Almarish walked on, missed his footing and fell, sprawling 
grotesquely. Slowly he drifted down through unimaginable depths of blackness, 
reaching out frantically for holds, and there were none. 
"Stop it!" shrilled Moira. "Stop struggling!" 
Obediently he relaxed. His fall ended with a bump, on a twilit road sloping 
gently downward as far as the eye could see. There was a vague, rumbling noise 
underfoot, as if there were heavy carts on the road. 
He looked up along the road. Something was coming, and it was brutally big. 
Legless, it rolled along on iron wheels, coming at him. The thing was a 
flattened ovoid of dark, sharkish gray, and like a shark it had a gruesome, 
toothy slit of mouth. Growing bigger and bigger, it thundered down the road as 
he watched, petrified, his own mouth open in childish alarm. 
A shrill scream from his pocket brought him to. "Jump, you dummy!" shrieked 
Moira. "Jump!" He leaped into the air as the thing, its triangular mouth 
snapping savagely teeth clashing, thundered beneath him. 
He watched it go on down the road, still cold with terror "Can it come back?" he 
asked. 
"Of course not," said Moira. "Could you roll uphill?" 
"You're right," he said. "Quite right. But what do we do now?" He mopped his 
brow again. 
"Look," said the little creature kindly. "I know how you feel, but don't worry. 
You're doing a lot better than you think you are. We'll be out of this in a 
minute, if you don't break down." She looked sharply into his face. 
"Maybe I won't," he said. "I'm not making promises, the way I feel. What—what in 
Hades—?" 
He—they—were snatched up by a gigantic wind and were sucked through the air like 
flies in an air-conditioning plant. 
"Close your eyes," said Moira. "Close them tight and think of 
something—anything—except what's going to happen to you. Because if you think of 
something else, it won't happen." 
Almarish squeezed his eyes tight shut as a thunderous droning noise filled his 
ears. "Ex sub one sub two," he gabbled, "equals ei square plus two ei plus the 
square root of bee plus and minus ei square minus two ei bee over two ei." The 
droning roar was louder; he jammed his thumbs into his ears. 
He felt a hideous impulse to open his eyes. Little, stinging particles of dust 
struck against his neck. 
Flying through the air, turning over and over, the droning roar became one 
continual crash that battered against his body with physical force. There was 
one indescribable, utterly, incomparably violent noise that nearly blew his 
brain out like an overload of electricity. Then things became more or less 
quiet, and he tumbled onto a marshy sort of ground. 
"All clear?" he asked, without opening his eyes. "Yes," said Moira. "You were 
magnificent." 
He lifted his lids warily and saw that he sat on a stretch of forest sward. 
Looking behind him 
"My God!" he screamed. "Did we go through that?" 
"Yes," said Moira. "It's a ghost—unless you're afraid of it, it can't hurt you." 

Behind them, the thousand-foot blades of a monstrous electric fan swirled 
brilliantly at several hundred r.p.s. The noise reached them in a softening blur 
of sound. Gently it faded away. 
Almarish of Ellil leaned back quietly. 
"The big calf!" muttered Moira. "Now he faints on me!" 
 
10 
 
"Now," said Almarish, "what about this happy animal?" 
"La Bete Joyeux?" asked the little creature. 
"If that's what its name is. Why this damned nonsense about tears?" 
"It's a curse," said Moira grimly. "A very terrible curse." 
"Then it'll keep. Who's in there?" 
He pointed to a stony hut that blocked the barely defined trail they were 
following. Moira shaded her tiny eyes and wrinkled her brow as she stared. "I 
don't know," she admitted at last. "It's something new." 
Almarish prepared to detour. The stone door slid open. Out looked a wrinkled, 
weazened face, iron-rimmed spectacles slid down over the nose. It was whiskered, 
but not as resplendently as Almarish's, whose imposing mattress spread from his 
chin to his waist. And the beard straggling from the face was not the rich 
mahogany hue of the sorcerer's, but a dirty white, streaked with gray and soup 
stains. 
"Hello," said Almarish amiably, getting his fingers around the invincible dirk. 
"Beaver!" shrilled the old man, pointing a dirty-yellow, quavering, derisive 
finger at Almarish. Then he lit a cigarette with a big, apparently homemade 
match and puffed nervously. 
"Is there anything," inquired the sorcerer, "we can do for you? Otherwise we'd 
like to be on our way." 
"We?" shrilled the old man. 
Almarish realized that Moira had retreated into his pocket again. "I mean I," he 
said hastily. "I was a king once—you get into the habit." 
"Come in," said the old man quaveringly. By dint of extraordinarily hard 
puffing, he had already smoked down the cigarette to his yellowed teeth. 
Carefully he lit another from its butt. 
Almarish did not want to come in. At least he had not wanted to, but there was 
growing in his mind a conviction that this was a very nice old man, and that it 
would be a right and proper thing to go in. That happy-animal nonsense could 
wait. Hospitality was hospitality. 
He went in and saw an utterly revolting interior, littered with the big, clumsy 
matches and with cigarette butts smoked down to eighth-inches and stamped out. 
The reek of nicotine filled the air; ashtrays deep as water buckets overflowed 
everywhere onto the floor. 
"Perhaps," said the sorcerer, "we'd better introduce ourselves. I'm Almarish, 
formerly of Ellil." 
"Pleased to meet you," shrilled the ancient. Already he was chain-smoking his 
third cigarette. "My name's Hopper. I'm a geasan." 
"What?" 
"Geasan—layer-on of geases. A geas is an injunction which can't be disobeyed. 
Sit down." 
Almarish felt suddenly that it was about time he took a little rest. "Thanks," 
he said, sitting in a pile of ashes and burned matches. "But I don't believe 
that business about you being able to command people." 
The geasan started his sixth cigarette and cackled shrilly. "You'll see. Young 
man, I want that beard of yours. My mattress needs restuffing. You'll let me 
have it, of course." 
"Of course," said Almarish. Anything at all for a nice old man like this, he 
thought. But that business about geases was too silly for words. 
"And I may take your head with it. You won't object." "Why, no," said the 
sorcerer. What in Hades was the point of living, anyway? 
Lighting his tenth cigarette from the butt of the ninth, the geasan took down 
from the wall a gigantic razor. 
A tiny head peeked over the top of the sorcerer's pocket. 
"Won't you," said a little voice, "introduce me, Almarish, to your handsome 
friend?" 
The eleventh cigarette dropped from the lips of the ancient as Almarish brought 
out Moira and she pirouetted on his palm. She cast a meaningful glance at the 
geasan. "Almarish is such a boor," she declared. "Not one bit like some men. . . 
." 
"It was the cigarettes that gave him his power, of course," decided the sorcerer 
as he climbed the rocky bluff. 
"My size," purred Moira, "only a little taller, of course. Women like that." She 
began to snore daintily in his pocket. 
Almarish heaved himself over the top of the bluff, and found himself on a stony 
plain or plateau scattered with tumbled rocks. 
"Vials, sir?" demanded a voice next to his ear. 
"Ugh!" he grunted, rapidly sidestepping. "Where are you?" 
"Right here." Almarish stared. 
"No—here." Still he could see nothing. 
"What was that about vials?" he asked, fingering the dirk. 
Something took shape in the air before his eyes. He picked it out of space and 
inspected the thing. It was a delicate bottle, now empty, designed to hold only 
a few drops. Golden wires ran through the glass forming patterns suggestive of 
murder and other forms of sudden death. 
"How much?" he asked. 
"That ring?" suggested the voice. Almarish felt his hand being taken and one of 
his rings being twisted off. "Okay," he said. "It's yours." 
"Thanks ever so much," replied the voice gratefully. "Miss Megaera will love 
it." 
"Keep away from those Eumenides, boy," Almarish warned. "They're tricky sluts." 
"I'll thank you to mind your own business, sir," snapped the voice. It began to 
whistle an air, which trailed away into the distance. 
From behind one of the great, tumbled cairns of rock slid, with a colossal 
clashing of scales, a monster. "Ah, there," said the monster. 
Almarish surveyed it carefully. The thing was a metallic cross among the 
octopus, scorpion, flying dragon, tortoise, ape and toad families. Its middle 
face smiled amiably, almost condescendingly, down on the sorcerer. 
"You the Bête Joyeux?" asked Almarish. 
"See here," said the monster, snorting a bit and dribbling lava from a corner of 
its mouth. "See here—I've been called many things, some unprintable, but that's 
a new one. What's it mean?" 
"Happy animal, I think," said Almarish. 
"Then I probably am," said the monster. It chuckled. "Now what do you want?" 
"See this vial? It has to be filled with your tears." 
"So what?" asked the monster, scratching itself. 
"Will you weep for me?" 
"Out of sheer perversity, no. Shall we fight now?" 
"I suppose so," said Almarish, heavyhearted. "There's only one other way to get 
your tears that I can think of. Put up your dukes, chum." 
The monster squared off slowly. It didn't move like a fighter; it seemed to rely 
on static fire power, like a battle-tank. It reached out a tentacle whose end 
opened slowly into a steaming nozzle. Almarish snapped away as a squirt of 
sulfurous matter gushed from the tip. 
With a lively blow the sorcerer slashed off the tentacle, which scuttled for 
shelter. The monster proper let out a yell of pain. One of its lionlike paws 
slapped down and sidewise at Almarish; he stood his ground and let the thing run 
into the dirk its full length, then jumped inside the thing's guard and scaled 
its shoulder. 
"No fair!" squalled the monster. 
He replied with a slash that took off an ear. The creature scratched frantically 
for him, but he easily eluded the clumsy nails that raked past its hide. As he 
danced over the skin, stabbing and slashing more like a plowman than a warrior, 
the nails did fully as much damage as he did. 
Suddenly, treacherously, the monster rolled over. Almarish birled it like a log 
in a pond, harrowing up its exposed belly as it lay on its back. 
Back on its feet again, the thing was suddenly still. The sorcerer, catching his 
breath, began to worry. The squawking pants that had been its inhalations and 
exhalations had stopped. But it wasn't dead, he knew. The thing was holding its 
breath. But why was it doing that? 
The temperature of the skin began to rise, sharply. So, thought Almarish, it was 
trying to smoke him off by containing all its heat! He scrambled down over its 
forehead. The nostril flaps were tight shut. Seemingly, it breathed only by its 
middle head, the one he was exploring. 
His heels were smoking, and the air was growing superheated. Something had to be 
done, but good and quick. With a muttered prayer, Almarish balanced the dirk in 
his hand and flung it with every ounce of his amazing brawn. Then, not waiting 
to see the results, he jumped down and ran frantically to the nearest rock. He 
dodged behind it and watched. 
The dirk had struck home. The nostril flaps of the monster had been pinned shut. 
He chuckled richly to himself as the thing pawed at its nose. The metallic skin 
way. beginning to glow red-hot, then white. 
He ducked behind the rock, huddled close to it as he saw the first faint 
hairline of weakness on the creature's glowing hide. 
Crash! It exploded like a thunderclap. Parts whizzed past the rock like bullets, 
bounced and skidded along the ground, fusing rocks as they momentarily touched. 
Almarish looked up at last. La Bete Joyeux was scattered over most of the 
plateau. 
Almarish found the head at last. It had cooled down considerably; he fervently 
hoped that it had not dried out. With the handle of his dirk he pried up the 
eyelid and began a delicate operation. 
Finally the dead-white sac was in his hands. Unstoppering the vial, he carefully 
milked the tear gland into it. "Moira," he said gently, shaking her. 
"You ox!" 
She was awake in a moment, ill-tempered as ever. "What is it now?" 
"Your vial," he said, placing it on his palm beside her. 
"Well, set it down on the ground. Me, too." He watched as she tugged off the 
stopper and plunged her face into the crystal-clear liquid. 
Then, abruptly, he gasped. "Here," he said, averting his eyes. "Take my cloak." 
"Thanks," said the tall young lady with a smile. "I didn't think, for the 
moment, that my clothes wouldn't grow when I did." 
"Now—would you care to begin at the beginning?" 
"Certainly. Moira O'Donnel's my name. Born in Dublin.' Located in Antrim at the 
age of twenty-five, when I had the ill luck to antagonize a warlock named 
McGinty. He shrank me and gave me a beastly temper. Then, because I kept 
plaguing him, he banished me to these unreal parts. 
"He was hipped on the Irish literary renaissance—Yeats, AE, Joyce, Shaw and the 
rest. So he put a tag on the curse that he found in one of Lord Dunsany's 
stories, about the tears of la Bete Joyeux. In the story it was 'the gladsome 
beast,' and Mac's French was always weak. 
"What magic I know I picked up by eavesdropping. You can't help learning things 
knocking around the planes, I guess. There were lots of bits that I filed away 
because I couldn't use them until I achieved full stature again. And now, 
Almarish, they're all yours. I'm very grateful to you." 
He stared into her level green eyes. "Think you could get us back to Ellil?" 
"Like that!" She snapped her fingers. 
"Good. Those rats—Pike and the rest—caught me unawares, but I can raise an army 
anywhere on a week's notice and take over again." 
"I knew you could do it. I'm with you, Almarish, Packer, or whatever your name 
is." 
Diffidently he said, "Moira, you grew very dear to me as you used to snore away 
in my pocket." 
"I don't snore!" she declared. 
"Anyway—you can pick whichever name you like. It's yours if you'll have it." 
After a little while she said, smiling into his eyes: "My size. Only a little 
taller, of course." 
 
THE ROCKET OF 1955
 
The scheme was all Fein's, but the trimmings that made it more than a pipe dream 
and its actual operation depended on me. How long the plan had been in 
incubation I do not know, but Fein, one spring day, broke it to me in crude 
form. I pointed out some errors, corrected and amplified on the thing in 
general, and told him that I'd have no part of it—and changed my mind when he 
threatened to reveal cer­tain indiscretions committed by me some years ago.
It was necessary that I spend some months in Europe, conducting research work 
incidental to the scheme. I returned with recorded statements, old newspapers, 
and photostatic copies of certain documents. There was a brief, quiet interview 
with that old, bushy-haired Viennese worshipped incon­tinently by the mob; he 
was convinced by the evidence I had compiled that it would be wise to assist us.
You all know what happened next—it was the professor's historic radio broadcast. 
Fein had drafted the thing, I had rewritten it, and told the astronomer to 
assume a German accent while reading. Some of the phrases were beautiful: 
"American dominion over the very planets! . . . veil at last ripped aside . . . 
man defies gravity . . . travel through limitless space ... plant the 
red-white-and-blue banner in the soil of Mars!"
The requested contributions poured in. Newspapers and magazines ostentatiously 
donated yard-long checks of a few thousand dollars; the government gave a 
welcome half-mil­lion; heavy sugar came from the "Rocket Contribution Week" held 
in the nation's public schools; but independent contributions were the largest. 
We cleared seven million dol­lars, and then started to build the spaceship.
The virginium that took up most of the money was tin plate; the monoatomic 
fluorine that gave us our terrific speed was hydrogen. The takeoff was a party 
for the newsreels: the big, gleaming bullet extravagant with vanes and 
projections; speeches by the professor; Farley, who was to fly it to Mars, 
grinning into the cameras. He climbed an outside ladder to the nose of the 
thing, then dropped into the steering compart­ment. I screwed down the 
soundproof door, smiling as he hammered to be let out. To his surprise, there 
was no duplicate of the elaborate dummy controls he had been practicing on for 
the past few weeks.
I cautioned the pressmen to stand back under the shelter, and gave the professor 
the knife switch that would send the rocket on its way. He hesitated too 
long—Fein hissed into his ear: "Anna Pareloff of Cracow, Herr Professor . . ."
The triple blade clicked into the sockets. The vaned projec­tile roared a 
hundred yards into the air with a wobbling curve—then exploded.
A photographer, eager for an angle shot, was killed; so were some kids. The 
steel roof protected the rest of us. Fein and I shook hands, while the pressmen 
screamed into the telephones which we had provided.
But the professor got drunk, and, disgusted with the part he had played in the 
affair, told all and poisoned himself. Fein and I left the cash behind , and 
hopped a freight. We were picked off it by a vigilance committee (headed by a 
man who had lost fifty cents in our rocket). Fein was too frightened to talk or 
write so they hanged him first, and gave me a paper and pencil to tell the story 
as best I could.
Here they come, with an insulting thick rope.
 
WHAT SORGHUM SAYS
 
UP IN THE FOOTHILLS of the Cumberlands they have something new in the way of 
folk-lore. If you're lucky and haven't got the professorial gleam in your eye, 
the tale is unfolded something like this:
Sorghum Hackett lived by himself up by Sowbelly Crag, not because he was afraid 
for his still but because when he was a young man some girl blighted his life by 
running off to Nashville with a railroad man. Ever since that he's been bitter 
against most people.
So this spring morning, when the scientific man came climbing up to his house he 
got out his squirrel-gun and asked him like the mountain people do: "Will you 
make tracks or your peace with God?"
"Shut up!" said the scientific man, not even looking at him. Then he went pacing 
off the ground and writing down figures in a book. At last he turned to Sorghum. 

"How much do you want for your property?" he asked. "I suppose it's yours."
"Anyone in his right mind wouldn't be eager to dispute it," said Sorghum dryly. 
"But it ain't for sale."
"Don't be stubborn," said the scientific man. "I haven't any time to waste on 
benighted peasants."
Sorghum dropped his gun in real admiration for the bravery of the man, whoever 
he was. He held out a hand saying: "I'm Sorghum Hackett, and I've killed men for 
less than what you said."
The man shook his hand absentmindedly. "I'm Wayne Baily, and I've got to have 
the use of your land for about a month."
Hackett nearly fell in love with the man; he didn't know there was anyone who 
could stand up to him that way, and he liked it. "I'm willing," he said at last. 
"But I won't take your money—it ain't clean."
So Baily just laughed and then went down to the village and came back up with a 
Nord truck loaded to the gills with junk. "Hackett," he said, "first thing we do 
is run this penstock down from that springhead."
And by the next morning they had forty yards of big piping down from Chittling 
Spring, and the water gushing out of the end of the pipe would have irrigated a 
whole farm. Baily rigged up a metal globe that he bolted to the pipes' end; a 
globe with a small-gage turbine wheel in it, and he hooked that up to a little 
dynamo that stayed on the truck.
When a week was up there was precious little room in Sorghum's house for him and 
Baily, because it was cluttered up with the junk from town—insides of radios, 
big coils of wire, aerials, rods stuck into the ground so deep that they were 
cold from underground water they touched—everything crazy you could think of, 
and all lit up every now and then whenever Baily turned on his dynamo in the 
truck.
Finally Baily said to Sorghum: "It's been a pleasure knowing you, Hackett. Now 
there's only one stipulation I'm putting on you, and that is to knock all my 
machinery into pieces as soon as I'm gone."
"Gone?" asked Sorghum, because Baily didn't say it as though he was going down 
to town for another storage battery.
"Yes—for good, Hackett," said Baily, puttering with the wires and finally 
turning a switch. The things lit up and glowed even brighter than ever before. 
"Goodbye, Hackett," said Baily. Then he grabbed at his chest and his face 
twisted. "Heart!" he gasped faintly, and even fainter he cut loose with a string 
of curses that made Sorghum blush.
Baily hit the floor, and Sorghum listened for his breath, but there wasn't any. 
He scratched his head, wondering how he'd explain things to the coroner, and 
reached automatically for his jug to help him think.
But one of the things he didn't think of was that his jug had been moved outside 
to make room for what the late Mr. Baily had called a condenser. Sorghum got a 
shock that sent him crashing back on his heels into some of the deep-driven 
rods. The last thing he knew the lights were still sparkling and glowing, but he 
never could tell what hit him.
 
THERE WAS a dizzying splash and Sorghum found himself floundering in water up to 
his knees. He looked around and wasn't in any place he knew, because he didn't 
know any places that were all marble and tile. Overhead a hot sun was beating 
down on him.
"Well!" said someone. And right there Sorghum knew that something was wrong, 
because though what he heard was "Well!" the sound he heard wasn't anything like 
that—more like "Ahoo!"
He looked up and saw a man facing him, dressed in sandals and a shirt that fell 
to his knees. And the man said, still talking so that Sorghum could understand 
him but not making a single sound in English, "It's a blundering assassin that 
falls into his victim's fishpond. Tiberius chooses unwisely."
"Are you calling me a bushwhacker, mister?" demanded Sorghum, who never killed 
except fairly.
The man, who had been grinning proudly, looked surprised then. Not frightened, 
surprised. "I don't know what language you speak, assassin," he said, "but it's 
a damnably strange one that confounds and is clear at the same time." He looked 
closer at Sorghum. "And you don't seem altogether real. Are you always as 
ghostly when you're sent on the Caesar's errands?"
Sorghum looked at himself and saw that the man wasn't lying. His own flesh 
seemed to have got a funny trick of being half here and half there, like a 
column of smoke that's always ready to break. "I reckon you're right, mister," 
said Sorghum, cracking one of his icy smiles. "I seem to be in a predicament. 
But I ain't what you take me for. I'm Sorghum Hackett of Tennessee."
"Never heard of the town," said the man. "I'm Asinius Gallo. Need I explain that 
this is Rome?"
Now Sorghum had heard that foreigners were peculiar, but he didn't expect 
anything as peculiar as this, and he said so.
"Foreigners!" yelled the man. "I don't know what barbarous land you're from, 
stranger, but bear in mind that when you're in the City you're the foreigner 
until and unless naturalized. Though," he added, calmer, "what with that 
avaricious slut the Lady Livia raising the prices on the roll week after week, 
soon a Julio-Claudian himself won't be able to stay in his place."
"I don't get your talk, Mr. Gallo," said Sorghum. "I'm here by accident, and I'd 
like mightily to get back to Tennessee. How can I earn some passage money? I 
reckon it's overseas."
"Work, eh?" asked Asinius Gallo. "What can you do?"
Sorghum considered. "I can do a little carpentering," he said. "And I can make 
the best white mule in the Cumberlands."
"Carpentry's out of the question," said Asinius Gallo. "The Joiners' Guild has 
it tight as a drum. But I don't know of any guild covering the manufacture of 
white mules—doubt that it can be done."
"Do ye?" asked Sorghum, grinning again. "Just give me some corn, some copper and 
a few days and I'll show you."
Asinius Gallo abruptly nodded. "It might be worth trying," he said. "Certainly I 
can't raise my own. And if they're really good they can be resold at a profit. 
Sorghum Hackett, I'll finance you."
 
SO, WORKING in privacy, the way that the mountain folks like to, it took him a 
few days before he got a good run. He had to fool around a lot because they used 
a funny, stunted kind of grain, but finally it came out all right.
"Here, Mr. Gallo," he called to his backer. "It's finished."
"Will it kick?" asked Asinius Gallo cautiously.
Sorghum laughed. "Like the devil with a porky quill in him, I promise you that 
much. Best you ever saw."
"Well," said Asinius Gallo uncertainly as he entered. Sorghum held up the big 
jug he'd caught the run in. "What's that?"
"The white mule," said Sorghum, a little hurt.
His backer was downright bewildered. "I expected an animal," he explained. "What 
you've got in there I can't imagine."
"Oh," said Sorghum. "Well, if you don't agree with me, Mr. Gallo, that this is 
better than any animal you ever tasted I'll make you an animal." And he said 
this because he felt pretty sure that the benighted idolater wouldn't take him 
up. Sorghum had asked the terrified servants, and they told him that they didn't 
have anything stronger than the sticky red wine they drank at supper. And that, 
Sorghum judged by the body, was no more than twenty proof, while this run of his 
would prove at least a hundred and twenty. He poured a medium slug—four 
fingers—for his host, who smelled it cautiously.
"Don't put your eyes over it, Mr. Gallo," cautioned Sorghum. "Just drink it 
right down the way we do in Tennessee." He filled a glass of his own with a 
man-sized drink.
"Feliciter," said Asinius Gallo, which sounded like "good luck," to Sorghum. 
"Confusion to Tories," he replied, downing his. His host immediately after 
swallowed his own shot convulsively. Almost immediately he screamed shrilly and 
clutched at his throat. Sorghum held a water-pitcher out to him, grinning. The 
pitcher was empty when he took it back.
"That," said his host hoarsely, "was a potion worthy of Livia herself. Are you 
sure it won't kill me?"
"Sartin," replied Sorghum, enjoying the backwash of the home-brew. "That was 
almost the smoothest I've ever made."
"Then," said Asinius Gallo, "let's have another."
 
THE TENNESSEE MAN had a few more runs, each better than the last as his 
equipment improved and settled, and with Asinius Gallo as his agent he had 
amassed quite a bit of the coinage of these foreigners. Altogether things were 
looking up when a slave appeared with a message.
Sorghum's host read from it: "The Lady Livia will be pleased to see Sorghum 
Hackett, the guest of the Senator Asinius Gallo. She believes that there are 
many mutual interests which it will be profitable to discuss."
"Right kind of her," said Sorghum.
"Hah!" groaned his backer. "You don't know the old hag. Sorghum Hackett, you're 
as good as dead, and it's no use hoping otherwise. She's always been down on me, 
but she never dared to strike at me direct because of my family. Now you're 
going to get it. Oh, I'm sorry, friend. And I thought I'd kept you a pretty 
close secret. Well, go on—no use postponing fate."
Sorghum grinned slowly. "We'll see," he said. He picked up two bottles of the 
latest brew and rammed them into his boot-tops. "Goodbye, Mr. Gallo," he said, 
entering the sedan-chair that was waiting for him. The bearers let him off at 
the Augustan Palace and conducted him to a side-entrance. He waited only a 
moment before the door opened and a cracked voice bade him enter. "Come in, 
young man; come in!" it shrilled.
Sorghum closed the door behind him and faced the notorious Livia, mother of the 
Emperor Tiberius, poisoner supreme and unquestioned ruler of Rome. "Pleased 
t'meetcha, ma'am," he said.
"You're the Hackett they tell me about?" she demanded. He studied her wispy 
white hair and the bony, hooked nose as he answered: "I'm the only Hackett in 
these parts."
"It's true!" she shrilled. "You are a magician—your body waves like a flame, and 
your language is strange, but I can understand it. Everything they said is 
true!"
"I reckon so, ma'am," admitted Sorghum.
"Then you're condemned," she said promptly. "I won't have any magicians going 
about in my empire. Can't tax the brutes—they're unfair. You're condemned, young 
man!"
"To what?" asked the Tennesseean.
"Amphitheater," she snapped. "Wild beasts. Take him away, you fools!"
Sorghum's arms were grabbed by two of the biggest, ugliest people he had ever 
seen in his born days and he was hustled down flights of stairs and hurled into 
something of a dungeon with other condemned magicians.
"You got in just under the wire," one of them informed him helpfully. "We're 
going to get chased out into the arena in a few minutes."
"What can I do?" asked Sorghum.
"Don't struggle. Don't shield your throat—let the animals tear it out as soon as 
possible. That way it's over with at once and you cheat the mob of watching you 
squirm."
"I reckon so," said Sorghum thoughtfully. He remembered his courtesy and the 
bottles in his boots. "Have a drink?" he asked, producing them. The magicians 
clustered around him like flies around honey.
 
THE AFTERNOON GAMES were to consist of such little things as a pack of craven 
magicians and fortune-tellers being killed in a mess by leopards. Consensus 
favored the leopards; odds were quoted as something like eighty to one against 
the magicians.
Tiberius waved his hand from the President's box in one end of the colossal 
amphitheater, and the gate which admitted the beasts opened. There was a buzz 
from the audience as the magnificent animals came streaming through like a river 
of tawny fur.
The emperor waved again, and the public prepared to be amused by the customary 
sight of unwilling victims being prodded out into the arena by long-handled 
tridents. But something must have gone wrong, for the craven magicians came 
striding boldly out, roaring some song or other. At their head was a curiously 
shimmering figure, who was beating time with two enormous bottles in either 
hand, both empty.
It roared in a titanic voice, as it sighted the animals: "Look out, ye 
hell-fired pussy-cats! I'm a-grapplin'!" The magicians charged in a body to the 
excited screams of the mob.
Roughly there was one cat to every man, and that was the sensible way that the 
men went about eliminating the cats. The favorite grip seemed to be the tail—a 
magician would pick up the leopard and swing it around heftily two or three 
times, then dash its head to the sand of the arena. The rest would be done with 
the feet.
In a surprisingly short time the magicians were sitting on the carcasses of the 
cats and resuming their song.
"Let out the lion!" shrilled Tiberius. "They can't do this to me!" The second 
gate opened, and the king of the jungle himself stalked through, his muscles 
rippling beneath his golden skin, tossing his huge mane. He sighted the 
magicians, who weren't paying him any attention at all, and roared savagely.
The shimmering figure looked up in annoyance. "Another one!" it was heard to 
declare. The song broke off again as the grim, purposeful body of men went for 
the lion. He eyed them coldly and roared again. They kept coming. The king of 
the jungle grew somewhat apprehensive, lashing his tail and crouching as for a 
spring. The bluff didn't work, he realized a second later, for the men were on 
him and all over him, gouging his face cruelly and kicking him in the ribs. He 
tumbled to the sand rather than suffer a broken leg and grunted convulsively as 
the magicians sat heavily on his flanks and continued their song.
"It was dow-wen in Raid River Vail-lee—" mournfully chanted the leader—he with 
the empty bottles.
Tiberius stamped his feet and burst into tears of rage. "My lion!" he wailed. 
"They're sitting on my lion!"
The leader dropped his bottles and sauntered absently about the arena. One of 
the deep-driven, iron posts of the inside wall caught his eye. He reached out to 
touch it and—was gone, with a shimmer of purple light.
 
SORGHUM'S REAPPEARANCE was as unchronicled as his disappearance. He didn't tell 
anybody until they asked him, and then he told them from beginning to end, 
substantially as I have told it here.
But every once in a while he remarks: "Foreigners are sartinly peculiar people. 
I know—I've lived among them. But some day I'm going to get me some money and 
take a boat back there and see that Mr. Gallo to find out if he ever did get the 
hang of running the mash. Foreigners are sartinly peculiar—behind the times, I 
call 'em."
That's what Sorghum says.
 
CRISIS
 
IF THE Karfiness hadn't cut herself badly while she was trimming her chelae one 
morning, the whole mess might never have happened. But fashion decreed that the 
ropy circle of tentacles about the neck of the female Martian would be worn 
short that year, and everybody in the Matriarchy, from Girl Guide to the Serene 
Karfiness herself, obeyed without question. 
That was why her temper was short that morning, and why she snapped at the 
Venusian Plenipotentiary who had come to chat with her concerning the 
space-mining rights for the following year. The worthy lady glowered at the 
gentleman from Venus and shrieked, "By the Almighty, if you fish-faced baboons 
so much as try to lay a flipper on a single free electron between here and Venus 
I'll blow your waterlogged planet out of space!" And, unfortunately for the 
Venusians, she had the navy with which to do it. 
The principles of compensation operated almost immediately; the Plenipotentiary 
ethered back to Venus, and Venus severed diplomatic relations with Earth. Should 
you fail to grasp the train of events, stop worrying. Those are the facts; the 
Karfiness cut herself and Venus made warlike noises at Earth. 
Earth was in a very peculiar situation. Only a century ago it had begun really 
intensive spacing, with freight exchanges and mining. Venus and Mars, and in a 
smaller way Jupiter, had been a space culture for millennia. Earth had not had 
the elaborate machineries of foreign offices and consulates, embassies and 
delegates and envoys that the other planets maintained. Terra had gone into the 
complicated mess of astropolitics with her eyes serenely closed and the naive 
conviction that right would prevail. 
To the cloistered Bureau of Protocol in Alaska came a message under diplomatic 
seal from the Ambassador to Venus, right into the office of Code Clerk Weems. 
Carefully he scanned the tape and lead that closed the pouch. "At it again," he 
said finally. "I sometimes wonder if the whole thing wouldn't go smash if we 
read our own mail before every other great power in space." 
Dr. Helen Carewe, his highly privileged assistant, opened the pouch with a paper 
knife and a shrug. "Take it easy, career man," she advised. "Your daddy had the 
same trouble before they promoted him to Washington State. We get all the dirty 
work here in Nome—have to explain how and when and why the inviolable mail sacks 
arrive open and read." She scanned the messages heavily typed on official paper. 
"What," she asked, "does 'Aristotle' mean?" 
"Inexcusable outrages on the dignity of a representative of Terra," said Weems 
after consulting the code book. "Sounds bad." 
"It is. Oh, but it is! They took Ambassador Malcolm and painted him bright blue, 
then drove him naked through the streets of Venusport." 
"Whew!" whistled Weems. "That's an 'Aristotle' if ever I heard one! What do we 
do now?" He was already reaching for the phone. 
"Cut that out!" snapped Dr. Carewe. She could speak to him like that—or even 
more firmly—because she was more than old enough to be his mother. The number of 
career men she had coached through the Alaska Receiving Station would fill half 
the consulates in space—and with damned good men. Brow wrinkled, she brooded 
aloud, "While this isn't definitely spy stuff, we ought to know whether they 
have a line on our phones. Don't get Washington; try Intelligence in Wyoming." 
Meekly, Weems rang the Central Intelligence Division. After a hasty conversation 
he turned to Dr. Carewe. "They say that we're being tapped—probably by Martians. 
What do I do?" 
"Thank the man nicely and hang up." Weems obliged. 
"Now," said Dr. Carewe, "the sooner Washington hears of this, the better. And if 
the Martians hear of this later, much better. What we have to avoid is the 
Martians' being able to let the Venusians know with any degree of credibility 
that Earth is very, very angry about the Aristotle. Because that will get Venus 
very angry and virtuous. Which will get Earth very dignified and 
offensive—snotty, I might even say." 
"I notice," commented Weems, "that Mars is practically out of the picture. 
Except as a silent purveyor of fighting ships to both sides, is that it?" 
"It is. You learn quickly and cleanly. We'll have to go to Washington ourselves 
with the pouch." 
"And report," said Weems, "to—Oh, my God!—Osgood!" 
"Exactly," said she. "Oh-my-God Osgood." 
And there was good and sufficient reason for the alarm in her voice. 
In the chaste marble structure that housed the diminutive Foreign Office that 
Terra thought it sufficient to maintain, there were to be found persons who 
would be kicked out of any other department of the government in two seconds 
flat. But because astropolitics was something new to Earth, and because there 
had to be some place made for the halfwitted offspring of the great legislative 
families, this chaste marble structure housed a gallery of subnormals that made 
St. Elizabeth's look like the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton on a 
sunny day. Or so the junior members thought. Not the least of these half-witted 
great ones was Jowett Osgood, the direct superior of Weems, to whom he would 
naturally report. 
Weems and Carewe were announced with a strange pomp and circumstance; they 
entered the big office and found Osgood rudely buried in what was supposed to 
look like work. Weems stood dumbly as Dr. Carewe coughed sharply. 
"Ah?" grunted Osgood, looking up. "What is it?" He was a gross man. 
"A pouch from Venus. We decoded it, and we think it deserves your immediate 
attention. We didn't phone the contents because of tappers on the wires." Weems 
handed over the decodings, marked very prominently in red: CONFIDENTIAL—MAKE NO 
COPIES. 
Osgood scanned them and heaved himself to his feet. "Gad!" he grunted. "We must 
brook no delay—arm to 'the teeth!" He turned on his dictaphone. "Henry!" he 
snorted. "Listen to this! To Bureau of Protocol—" Dr. Carewe snapped off the 
dictaphone and shoved him back into his well-padded chair. 
"This," she said between her teeth, "is entirely up to you. Take it from us, 
immediate action is demanded to smooth over this incident. You won't be able to 
pass the buck on to some other department; this is right in your lap. And you 
won't be able to delay the affair until you've forgotten it; even you can see 
that. Now, what are you going to do?" 
Osgood considered the matter with great dignity for two full minutes. Finally he 
announced, "I don't know." 
"My suggestion is that you appoint Mr. Weems here a sort of goodwill ambassador 
for special, but very vague, work. And give him an unlimited expense account. 
This thing mustn't get any further. Keep it between us three that the message 
arrived officially on Earth. The fiction will be that it was lost in space and 
that nobody has received official confirmation of the Aristotle. Any unofficial 
reports will be considered as sensational tales concocted by newscasters. That's 
the only way to keep Earth off the spot. And what a spot it is!" 
"I see," said Osgood. "Be advised that I shall follow your suggestions—as 
closely as is compatible with the dignity of this Office." 
Outside, she informed Weems, "That last was face-saving and nothing else. From 
here we go to Venus—spreading sweetness and light. Always remember, young man, 
that our interceptor rockets are pretty good, but that the Venus bombers are 
pretty damned good." 
"War," mused Weems. "Nobody wins, really—it wouldn't be nice to see New York 
blown to pieces, even though we could do exactly the same thing to Venusport. 
Sweetness and light it is." 
Venus politics are no joke. The fish-faced little people have at least two 
parties per acre and the dizziest system of alliances and superalliances that 
ever bewildered a struggling young diplomat. Typically, there were absolutely no 
points of agreement among any of the parties as to foreign policy, and yet the 
Venusian embassies spoke with authority that was backed up by a united planet. 
Their military forces were likewise held in common by all the countries, but 
there were "state militias" engaged in intramural activities and constant border 
fighting. 
Weems knew the language, and that was one very great advantage; also, he spent 
the long rocket trip to the foggy planet in learning what he could of the 
political setup. He arrived with a fanfare of trumpets; at the pier he was 
greeted by a score of minor officials. This was a deliberate insult from the 
Venusian army, for not a single high-ranking officer was present. He glossed it 
over for the sake of a splendid ovation from the population of Venusport, who 
were thoroughly hopped up with esteem for him. He was the shining young man who 
would assure peace and prosperity for the two inner planets, and the populace 
was all for him. 
But, he knew very well, if one nasty word came from Earth, officially 
recognizing the Aristotle, their mood would change suddenly and savagely. And 
that was what he had to be ready for. He didn't trust the fat-headed Osgood. 
From city to city he made a grand tour, speaking with very little accent before 
huge audiences of the little people and meeting few really high-up officials. 
Everywhere he went he met with disapproval from the public officials. 
"How," he complained to Dr. Carewe, "they get together on a complicated issue 
like disliking me, I don't understand." 
With a grim look about the hotel room, she explained, "It's the army. They must 
be partly in the pay of Mars. You're the finest thing that's happened in the way 
of friendly relations between Earth and Venus. If you take root long enough to 
get your message over, they won't be able to pounce on Earth, to the benefit of 
nobody except the red planet. So they're trying to cool things off." Again the 
nervous glance around the room. 
"What's that for?" 
"Dictaphones. But I don't think there are any. So at the risk of getting mushy 
I'm going to tell you what I think of your job. I think you're working like a 
madman, with some of the finest, single-hearted devotion to the cause of peace 
that I've ever seen. If you keep this up and handle the rest of your life the 
way you're handling this part you won't be immortal—not the way Osgood is going 
to be, with a bust in the rotunda of the capitol and a chapter in the history 
books. 
"No, you're going to be something different. There are going to be Venusians—and 
Martians and Earthmen—who'll talk about you many, many years from now. About how 
their fathers and grandfathers stood in the rain to hear you talk." She looked 
over her spectacles. "Which reminds me—get out on that balcony and don't make 
any slips." 
He pressed the very old, very great lady's hand silently, then, mopping his 
brow, stepped out to the ledge beyond his window. It was in the twilight zone of 
perpetual rain, and the crowd of white pates and faces before him was hardly 
visible through the wisps of steam. He looked about uneasily as he turned on the 
fog-piercing lights that flooded him with a golden glow, so that the Venusians 
could see their superman. As he began to speak into the mike at his lips, there 
was a hoot of reproof from the crowd. And then there were others. Something was 
going the rounds; he could feel it. 
Very distinctly there was a shrill cry from the sea of faces, "Liar!" And others 
echoed it, again and again. He tried to speak, but was howled down. A firm hand 
snapped off the lights and closed the window; Dr. Carewe dropped him into a 
chair, limp and shocked. She handed him a slip of paper that had just been 
delivered. 
With her lips tightly compressed she said, "They knew before we did. Osgood 
spilled it—all." 
They shot to Mars before assassins could take any tries at them. Weems was 
completely washed up and discredited on Venus; knew it and felt like it. What 
had his fine words been in the face of a stern, righteous declaration from the 
Foreign Office on Earth to the Foreign Office on Venus—gleefully published far 
and wide by the Mars-bribed officers in the latter—hurling the most frightful 
accusations of violating diplomatic immunity? 
God only knew, brooded Weems, why Osgood had chosen precisely that moment to 
sound off. He had said fighting words, too: "—back up our determination to 
shield the weak with deeds as well as—" Ugh! What was the matter with Osgood? 
The Martians couldn't touch Earth's Foreign Office; they bred them dumb but 
honest there. Why had Osgood—? Did he want to be an Iron Man? Did he think he 
could get further faster in time of war? Or did he actually, honestly believe 
that by this halfwitted note insulting a friendly planet on account of a mere 
violation of etiquette he was striking a blow for justice and equality? 
It probably was just that, Weems decided. And Dr. Carewe agreed. 
When they landed on the red planet Weems felt very low, and was scarcely given a 
new lease on life by the warm reception he received from Martian notables. He 
was welcomed Earth fashion, with a band and speeches from a platform to twenty 
thousand cheering Martians. They could afford to treat him kindly; he'd failed 
utterly and miserably to block a new, magnificent source of income to Mars—the 
onrushing Earth-Venus war. 
Mars wouldn't get into it. Oh, no! Mars didn't need colonies or prestige. When 
you have a navy like the Martian Matriarchal Fleet you don't need colonies or 
prestige. You just sit tight and sell the scrappers your second-rate equipment 
at premium prices. 
At his first official reception he stood nervously among the ladies of the 
court. He had just received news from the Earth diplomatic colony that Venus had 
replied to Earth with a note just as stiff, charging that Earth was impeaching 
the authority of the Venusian Foreign Office with respect to its planetary 
jurisdiction. In plain language that meant: "Our army is bigger and better than 
yours. Knock this chip off—if you dare!" 
One of the elegant ladies of the Matriarchal court sidled up to him. "We were 
presented to each other when you landed," she said, in French. 
"Of course!" he said delightedly. "I remember you perfectly!" But all Martians 
looked alike to him. 
"I was wondering, Mr. Weems, whether you would care to attend a party I'm giving 
tomorrow evening. I feel there would be features extremely entertaining to you." 

"Delighted, madame!" He beckoned over Dr. Carewe. 
"Your social secretary?" asked the Martian lady. "I'll give her the details." 
Then the Karfiness entered regally and all the ladies of the court twiddled 
their curtailed chelae with deep veneration as she folded up in a basketlike 
affair. 
"Mr. Weems," she said graciously. He advanced and bowed, Earth fashion, for all 
of his encumbering furs. "Mr. Weems, we are delighted to see you here. Such a 
refreshing change from those slimy little Venusians!" Her English was perfect, 
though lispy. 
"And I, madame, am delighted to attend. If there is any message I can take back 
to Earth from you—any word of friendship—you have only to say it." 
She regarded him amiably. "The people of Earth know well that the people of Mars 
are wholly committed to a policy of amicable industrial cooperation. Nothing 
will please me more than to reassure my friends of the third planet that there 
is no end of this policy in sight." 
What did that mean? wondered Weems. Was she playing with him? 
"I trust," he said, "that you are wholeheartedly working in the interests of 
peace among the planets?" 
"So I have said," she said simply. "So I shall always say." Incredible! Did she 
take him for an imbecile? Or—or "Thank you for this kind assurance," he said, 
bowing again and retiring. 
When he had cornered Dr. Carewe he said agitatedly, "I don't get it at all. I 
simply don't understand. Is she lying into my teeth? The least she could have 
done would have been to turn aside the questions. I never dreamed I'd get an 
answer at a time like this!" 
"Neither did I," she said slowly. "Something is rotten in the Matriarchy, and it 
isn't the customary scent of senile decay peculiar to dictatorships. The biology 
of the Martians demands a dictatorship, what with their weird reproductive 
methods. Unless there were a strong and centralized authority they'd slump back 
into barbarism after a few thousand years of unrestricted matings. Here's one 
dictator who's loved by the dictatees." 
She was silent for a moment, then said, "To change the subject, I have the place 
and time for tomorrow's party. The lady is—I knew you couldn't tell one from 
another—director of a munitions and fabrication syndicate." 
"Thanks," he said vaguely, taking the memo. "That's the perfect spot of irony to 
top off the evening—in fact this whole damned mission that failed." 
He went to the party with Dr. Carewe, both thoroughly wrapped up in fur and wool 
against the Martian indoors ten-below temperature. And, they carried thermos 
flasks full of hot coffee for an occasional warming nip in a dark corner. 
Anything but that would be unmannerly. 
His hostess presented Weems to her husband-brother-nephew, an example of the 
ungodly family relationships into which their anatomy naturally led. The 
creature was very much smaller than the female, and spoke only Martian, which 
the Earthman could not handle except sparingly. He got the idea that they were 
talking about auriferous sand, but how they got onto the subject he did not 
understand. He excused himself as quickly as he could and retreated for some of 
the steaming coffee. 
"Earthman, of course!" said a hearty voice. 
He turned to see a curious, stubby person, quite human in his appearance, but 
with a somehow distorted look—as though he had been squeezed in a hydraulic 
press. And the person wore elaborately ornamental trappings of a blackish-silver 
metal. 
"You must be a Jovian," he said, corking the thermos. "I've never seen one of 
your people before. You're more—ah—human than these others." 
"So they say. And you're the first Earthman I've ever seen. You're 
very—ah—long." They both laughed; then the Jovian introduced himself as a pilot 
on the regular Io-Mars freighters. He waved off Weems' introduction. "Don't 
bother, Weems," he said. "I know of you." 
"Indeed?" There was a pause. With the diplomatic instinct to avoid embarrassment 
whenever possible, the Earthman asked, "Why don't your people appear more often 
on Earth? You could chuck some of that osmium you have to wear here on Mars." 
"This?" the Jovian gestured at his trappings. "A mere drop in the bucket. I have 
a hundredweight in each shoe. But the reason is that the Earth is relatively 
undeveloped in its space culture—though, of course, much better developed than 
Jupiter. There are so few of us—fifty million on the whole planet." He shrugged 
whimsically. "We're growing, of course. There was a polygamy decree a few years 
ago—did you hear of it?" 
"No—I'm sorry to say I know nothing at all about your planet. I'm in the 
diplomatic service. Studying Venus, mostly." 
"So? Perhaps you are the wrong man to come to, then. We know nothing about these 
matters. Is there a person more appropriate to whom I ought to broach the idea 
of a rapprochement between our two worlds?" 
Weems was rocked back on his heels. Unheard of! Diplomacy as casual as this was 
tantamount to an interplanetary incident. The Jovian continued as casually as 
before, "You see, we've no navy and don't need space rights. It's strictly 
commercial, so we haven't got any Foreign Office. We hardly trade at all with 
Venus and Earth, and our Mars relations are settled by treaty once every four of 
Mars' years." 
"Excuse me," said Weems abruptly. He had just caught a high sign from Dr. 
Carewe, who was holding a flimsy like a dead rat. He sidled over to her 
inconspicuously. 
"Well—what turned up?' 
"The chip," she said breathlessly, "has been knocked off. I just got this from 
our Embassy—by messenger. It's a copy of the note the Earth F.O. just sent to 
Venus. The Earth F.O. not only assures Venus that not only does Earth impeach 
the Venus F.O. but that she is prepared to put its jurisdiction to trial." She 
handed him the flimsy. 
He scanned it almost unbelievingly. "The so-and-sos," he commented inaudibly. 
"That about fixes our little red wagon, Doc. Though we have an ally. Jupiter 
wants its place in the sun." 
As the woman stared with amazement, he introduced the Jovian to her and 
explained the situation. The squat man listened with increasing anxiety as he 
dilated on the relations that would exist between the two worlds. 
"Will we really," he asked at length, "need all those men—actually twenty-five 
on our end!—to handle a little thing like a military alliance?" 
"Lord, yes!" breathed Weems. "Code clerks, secretaries, subsecretaries, 
second-subsecretaries—lots more." 
"May I ask," said the woman, "why this sudden interest in protocol and procedure 
has come up on Jupiter?" 
The Jovian looked a little embarrassed. "It's a matter of pride," he explained. 
"The three other planets have their own secret codes and messages. We're the 
only planet that hasn't got sealed diplomatic pouches absolutely inviolable in 
any jurisdiction! And so our Executive Committee decided that if it's good 
enough for them it's good enough for us." 
"I see," said Weems thoughtfully. "But how is it that you, the A pilot on a 
freighter, are their Plenipotentiary without even identification?" 
"As a matter of fact," confessed the Jovian with some hesitation, "I was given a 
note, but it seems to be lost. Do things like that really matter?" 
"They do," said Weems solemnly. "But you were saying—?" 
"Yes. They chose a freight pilot to avoid taking a man off real work. It's our 
principle of the economization of kinesis. Without its operation we'd have all 
sorts of superfluous men who did only half a man's work. And do not forget that 
to a people of only fifty million that is no small matter. We need every man, 
all the time." 
"As to the treaty necessary," said the woman, "would you prefer it to be secret 
or published?" 
"Secret," promptly replied the Jovian. "It'll be more fun that way." 
Up dashed a very young subattache from the Earth Embassy. "Excuse me," he 
shrilled, his voice breaking. "But you have to come at once. It's important 
as—as the very devil, sir, if you will excuse—" He found himself addressing 
empty air and an amused Jovian. The two Earth people had flown to their sand 
car. They had been awaiting the summons. 
The ambassador was waiting for them, grim and white. He was no fool, this 
ambassador; his punishment for that was the dusty job on Mars instead of an 
office on Terra. He had just removed the earphone clamps, they saw; the 
diplomatic receiver set was on his desk. 
Without waiting for a question from them he said, "The good word is—ultimatum." 
"God!" said Dr. Carewe, her old face quite white. "When?" snapped Weems, taking 
out pencil and paper. "Note delivered to Venus F.O.—that's the note from 
Earth—and ten minutes or so later lynching of Venusians on the staff of the 
Earth Embassy by an outraged populace. Foolish defense by Earthmen attached to 
the Embassy. Several of them killed. Stronger note from Earth. Why didn't Venus 
F.O. notify immediately and offer indemnification? Very strong reply from Venus 
F.O.—chip on the shoulder. Earth knocks off chip. That's the last you saw at 
your party. Then ultimatum from Venus giving Earth twelve dicenes to apologize 
profoundly and offer an indemnity in good faith." 
"And when is the time up?" 
"The twelve dicenes will come to an end"—the ambassador consulted his 
watch—"about forty-eight hours from now." 
There was a long pause, broken at last by a muffled groan from the ambassador. 
"Damn it—oh, damn it!" he wailed. "Why do the idiots have to fight? There's 
trade enough for everybody, isn't there?" 
"And, of course," said Weems, "Earth will never back down. Not in a million 
years. They're built like that. And if they did back down, Venus would be sure 
of herself and force a war." 
"Well," said the woman quietly, "are you just going to sit here?" 
"Suggestions are in order," said the young man unhappily. 
"You'll have to work like hell to stave this off," warned the woman. 
"Ready and willing, Doctor. Tell me what to do." 
Considering that the art of diplomacy is, ultimately reduced, the system found 
most practical in actual use when stalling for time to rush ahead with military 
expansion, it is not very remarkable that the two roving delegates did what they 
did with such neatness. The system was there for them to use. 
Use it they did, to the fullest extent. They shot ethers through to most of the 
crowned heads of the inner planet; radioed Earth confidentially meanwhile to 
stand by for the answers from Venus; contacted the Martian Protocol Division 
regarding an alliance for trade purposes alone. They were so thoroughly 
efficient in their functioning that after ten hours of this the bureau chiefs 
back on Earth fell to their knees and prayed for a letup of this lunatic barrage 
of red tape that came, unasked-for and unanswerable, from a minor embassy on 
Mars. 
Venus was bally well baffled. At first they made some pretense of replying 
stiffly to the muted threats from the Embassy on Mars, then gave up and hung 
onto the ropes, trying to decode the weird messages. It must be code, they 
decided. How could a message like "Advise your F.O. investigate frog ponds for 
specious abnormalities" be anything but an uncrackable cipher? They set their 
experts to work. The experts decided that the message meant: "All Earthmen on 
Venus are advised to sabotage production machinery and destroy records." But 
they were as wrong as they could be, for the message meant just what it said. 
Its value was on its face. 
The consulate and the staff were drafted by the Embassy to aid in the good work 
of confusion; the ambassador himself sat for ten hours writing out messages 
which bore absolutely no relation to each other or the world at large. And if 
you think that sounds easy—try it! 
Meanwhile the inseparables, Mr. Weems and Dr. Carewe, had been separated. The 
woman was gathering data from Martian libraries and Weems was paying social 
calls at the palace, interviewing secretaries without number. Meanwhile, 
authentic, distressing news releases kept rushing to him, causing him great 
pain. The first thing after the ultimatum he heard had called in all spacers 
except those related to navigation—fueling stations, etc. Venus retaliated in 
kind, and furthermore towed out the gigantic battle islands used to fuel 
fighting ships. Earth retaliated in kind, and furthermore began skirmishing war 
games around midway between Terra and Luna. 
By the time the ten hours of lunatic messages were elapsed, the two great fleets 
of Earth and Venus were face to face midway between the planets, waiting for 
orders from the home planets to fire when ready. 
"For the love of Heaven," he pleaded with a secretary to the Karfiness, "they 
won't even wait for the ultimatum to elapse. There's going to be a space war in 
two hours if I don't get to see Her Serene Tentaculosity!" The title he bestowed 
upon her was sheer whimsy; he wasn't half as upset as he was supposed to be. It 
was all for effect. He rushed away, distraught, with the information that he 
couldn't possibly see the Karfiness, and aware that the munitions interests of 
Mars would by now be rubbing their chelae with glee. 
He reached a phone and rang up the ambassador. "Okay," he informed him. "Stop 
short!" 
The ambassador, badly overworked and upset, stopped short with the messages. 
Venus and Earth were baffled again, this time because there was nothing to be 
baffled by. The strange silence that had fallen on the F.O.s was alarming in its 
implications. The diplomatic mind had already adjusted itself to the abnormal 
condition; restoration of normality created almost unbearable strain. Messages 
rushed to the Embassy; the ambassador left them severely alone and went to bed. 
From that moment anybody who touched a transmitter would be held for treason, he 
informed his staff. It was as though the Mars Embassy had been blown out of the 
ground. 
"They are now," brooded Weems, "ready for anything. Let us hope that Venus 
hasn't lost her common sense along with her temper." 
With that he set himself to the hardest job of all—waiting. He got a couple of 
hours of sleep, on the edge of a volcano, not knowing whether the lined-up Venus 
fleet would fire on the opposite Earth fleet before he woke. If it did, it would 
be all over before he really got started. 
Even Weems hadn't imagined how well his plan was taking root. Back on Earth the 
whole F.O. had gone yellow, trembling at the gills lest they should actually 
have to fight. And it was perfectly obvious that they would, for when planetary 
integrity directs, no mere individual might stand in the way. 
There was a great dearth of news; there had been for the past few hours of the 
crisis. Since that God-awful business from the Mars Embassy stopped and the 
entire staff there had—presumably—been shot in the back while hard at work 
fabricating incredible dispatches, there was a mighty and sullen silence over 
the air, ether and subetheric channels of communication. 
On Venus things were pretty bad, too. A lot of Earthmen had been interned and 
the whole planet was sitting on edge waiting for something to happen. It did 
happen, with superb precision, after exactly seven hours of silence and 
inactivity. 
There was a frantic call from, of all Godforsaken places, Jupiter. Jupiter 
claimed that the whole business was a feint, and that the major part of the 
Earth fleet was even now descending on the Jovians to pillage and slay. 
The official broadcast—not a beam dispatch—from Jupiter stated this. Earth 
promptly denied everything, in a stiff-necked communique. 
Venus grinned out of the corner of her mouth. In an answering communique she 
stated that since Venus was invariably to be found on the side of the underdog, 
the Venus Grand Fleet would depart immediately for Jupiter to engage the enemy 
of her good friends, the Jovians. 
Earth, to demonstrate her good faith, withdrew her own fleet from anywhere near 
the neighborhood of Jupiter, going clear around to the other side of the Sun for 
maneuvers. 
Lovers of peace drew great, relieved sighs. The face-to-face had been broken up. 
The ultimatum had been forgotten in Earth's righteous stand that she had not 
invaded Jupiter nor intended to. This made Venus look and feel silly. This made 
the crisis collapse as though it had never been there at all. 
And just after the Venus fleet had reported to its own home F.O.—this was three 
hours after the ultimatum had elapsed without being noticed by anybody—there 
were several people in the Earth Embassy on Mars acting hilariously. There was a 
Jovian who gurgled over and over: 
"I didn't know it would be this much fun! We'd have gotten into the game years 
ago if we'd known." 
"And I," said the ambassador, "have the satisfaction of knowing that I've given 
a pretty headache to the best code experts in the system. And all by the simple 
expedient of sending a code message that means just what it says." 
"And I," said Weems, upending a glass, "have aided the cause of peace between 
the planets. If I can get to the Karfiness and let her know that she's being 
played for a sucker by the munitions people—" 
"Let it come later," said Dr. Carewe. "I wish I could live another eighty years 
to read about it in the history books. But it really doesn't matter, because 
they'll say something like this: 
" 'Toward the end of this year there arose a crisis between Earth and Venus, 
seemingly over matters of trade. It actually reached a point of ultimatums and 
reprisals. Fortunately the brilliant, calm and efficient work of the Hon. 
Secretary of Recession, Jowett Osgood, saved the day. He contracted a defensive 
alliance with Jupiter, the combined might of the Earth-Jovian fleet crushing any 
idea of victory that may have been the goal of the Venusians.' " 
Dr. Carewe laughed loudly and raucously as she refilled her glass. 
 
THE REVERSIBLE REVOLUTIONS
 
J. C. BATTLE, late of the Foreign Legion, Red Army, United States Marines, 
Invincibles De Bolivia and Coldstream Guards, alias Alexandre de Foma, 
Christopher Jukes, Burton Macauly and Joseph Hagstrom—ne Etzel Bernstein—put up 
his hands. 
"No tricks," warned the feminine voice. The ample muzzle of the gun in his back 
shifted slightly, seemingly from one hand to another. Battle felt his pockets 
being gone through. "Look out for the left hip," he volunteered. "That gat's on 
a hair-trigger." 
"Thanks," said the feminine voice. He felt the little pencilgun being gingerly 
removed. "Two Colts," said the voice admiringly, "a police .38, three Mills 
grenades, pencilgun, brass knuckles, truncheons of lead, leather and rubber, one 
stiletto, tear-gas gun, shells for same, prussic-acid hypo kit, thuggee's 
braided cord, sleeve Derringer and a box of stink bombs. Well, you walking 
armory! Is that all?" 
"Quite," said Battle. "Am I being taken for a ride?" He looked up and down the 
dark street and saw nothing in the way of accomplices. 
"Nope. I may decide to drop you here. But before you find out, suppose you tell 
me how you got on my trail?" The gun jabbed viciously into his back. "Talk!" 
urged the feminine voice nastily. 
"How I got on your trail?" exploded Battle. "Dear lady, I can't see your face, 
but I assure you that I don't recognize your voice, that I'm not on anybody's 
trail, that I'm just a soldier of fortune resting up during a slack spell in the 
trade. And anyway, I don't knock off ladies. We—we have a kind of code." 
"Yeah?" asked the voice skeptically. "Let's see your left wrist." Mutely Battle 
twitched up the cuff and displayed it. Aside from a couple of scars it was 
fairly ordinary. "What now?" he asked. 
"I'll let you know," said the voice. Battle's hand was twisted behind his back, 
and he felt a cold, stinging liquid running over the disputed wrist. "What 
the—?" he began impatiently. 
"Oh!" ejaculated the voice, aghast. "I'm sorry! I thought—" The gun relaxed and 
Battle turned. He could dimly see the girl in the light of the merc lamp far 
down the deserted street. She appeared to be blushing. "Here I've gone and taken 
you apart," she complained, "and you're not even from Breen at all! Let me help 
you." She began picking up Battle's assorted weapons from the sidewalk where she 
had deposited them. He stowed them away as she handed them over. 
"There," she said. "That must be the last of them." 
"The hypo kit," he reminded her. She was holding it, unconsciously, in her left 
hand. He hefted the shoulder holster under his coat and grunted. "That's 
better," he said. 
"You must think I'm an awful silly," said the girl shyly. 
Battle smiled generously as he caught sight of her face. "Not at all," he 
protested. "I've made the same mistake myself. Only I've not always caught 
myself in time to realize it." This with a tragic frown and sigh. 
"Really?" she breathed. "You must be awfully important —all these guns and 
things." 
"Tools of the trade," he said noncommittally. "My card." He handed her a simple 
pasteboard bearing the crest of the United States Marines and the legend: 
LIEUTENANT J. C. BATTLE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE REVOLUTIONS A SPECIALTY 
She stared, almost breathless. "How wonderful!" she said. 
"In every major insurrection for the past thirty years," he assured her 
complacently. 
"That must make you—let's see—" she mused. 
"Thirty years, did I say?" he quickly interposed. "I meant twenty. In case you 
were wondering, I'm just thirty-two years old." He tweaked his clipped, military 
moustache. 
"Then you were in your first at—" 
"Twelve. Twelve and a half, really. Shall we go somewhere for a cup of coffee, 
Miss—er—ah—?" 
"McSweeney," she said, and added demurely, "but my friends all call me Spike." 
"China? Dear me, yes! I was with the Eighth Route Army during the celebrated 
long trek from Annam to Szechuan Province. And I shouldn't call it boasting to 
admit that without me—" 
Miss Spike McSweeney appeared to be hanging on his every word. "Have you ever," 
she asked, "done any technical work?" 
"Engineering? Line of communication? Spike, we fighters leave that to the 
`greaseballs,' as they are called in most armies. I admit that I fly a combat 
fighter as well as the next—assuming that he's pretty good—but as far as the 
engine goes, I let that take care if itself. Why do you ask?" 
"Lieutenant," she said earnestly, "I think I ought to tell you what all this 
mess is about." 
"Dear lady," he said gallantly, "the soldier does not question his orders." 
"Anyway," said Miss McSweeney, "I need your help. It's a plot—a big one. A kind 
of revolution. You probably know more about them than I do, but this one seems 
to be the dirtiest trick that was ever contemplated." 
"How big is it?" asked Battle, lighting a cigarette. 
"Would you mind not smoking?" asked the girl hastily, shrinking away from the 
flame. "Thanks. How big is it? World-scale. A world revolution. Not from the 
Right, not from the Left, but, as near as I can make out, from Above." 
"How's that?" asked Battle, startled. 
"The leader is what you'd call a scientist-puritan, I guess. His name's 
Breen—Dr. Malachi Breen, formerly of every important university and lab in the 
world. And now he's got his own revolution all planned out. It's for a world 
without smoking, drinking, swearing, arguing, dancing, movies, music, rich 
foods, steam heat—all those things." 
"Crackpot!" commented the lieutenant. 
She stared at him grimly. "You wouldn't think so if you knew him," said Spike. 
"I'll tell you what I know. I went to work for him as a stenographer. He has a 
dummy concern with offices in Rockefeller Plaza and a factory in New Jersey. 
He's supposed to be manufacturing Pot-O-Klutch, a device to hold pots on the 
stove in case of an earthquake. With that as a front, he goes on with his 
planning. He's building machines of some kind in his plant—and with his science 
and his ambition, once he springs his plans, the world will be at his feet!" 
"The field of action," said Battle thoughtfully, "would be New Jersey 
principally. Now, you want me to break this insurrection? 
"Of course!" agonized the girl. "As soon as I found out what it really was, I 
hurried to escape. But I knew I was being followed by his creatures!" 
"Exactly," said Battle. "Now, what's in this for me?" 
"I don't understand. You mean—?" 
"Money," said Battle. "The quartermaster's getting shorthanded. Say twenty 
thousand?" 
The girl only stared. "I haven't any money," she finally gasped. "I thought—" 
"You thought I was a dilettante?" asked Battle. "Dear lady, my terms are fifty 
percent cash, remainder conditional on the success of the campaign. I'm sorry I 
can't help you—" 
"Look out!" screamed the girl. Battle spun around and ducked under the table as 
a bomb crashed through the window of the coffee shop and exploded in his face. 
"Open your eyes, damn you!" growled a voice. 
"Stephen—the profanity—" objected another voice mildly. 
"Sorry, Doc. Wake, friend! The sun is high." 
Battle came to with a start and saw a roast-beef face glowering into his. He 
felt for his weapons. They were all in place. "What can I do for you, 
gentlemen?" he asked. 
"Ah," said the second voice gently. "Our convert has arisen. On your feet, 
Michael." 
"My name is Battle," said the lieutenant. "J. C. Battle. My card." 
"Henceforth you shall be known as Michael, the Destroying Angel," said the 
second voice. "It's the same name, really." 
Battle looked around him. He was in a kind of factory, dim and vacant except for 
himself and the two who had spoken. They wore pure white military uniforms; one 
was a tough boy, obviously. It hurt Battle to see how clumsily he carried his 
guns. The bulges were plainly obvious through his jacket and under his shoulder. 
The other either wore his more skillfully or wasn't heeled at all. That seemed 
likely, for his gentle blue eyes carried not a trace of violence, and his 
rumpled, pure white hair was scholarly and innocent. 
"Will you introduce yourselves?" asked the lieutenant calmly. 
"Steve Haglund, outta Chi," said the tough. 
"Malachi Breen, manufacturer of Pot-O-Klutch and temporal director of Sweetness 
and Light, the new world revolution," said the old man. 
"Ah," said. Battle, sizing them up. "What happened to Miss McSweeney?" he asked 
abruptly, remembering. 
"She is in good hands," said Breen. "Rest easy on her account, Michael. You have 
work to do." 
"Like what?" asked the lieutenant. 
"Trigger work," said Haglund. "Can you shoot straight?" 
In answer there roared out three flat crashes, and Battle stood with his smoking 
police special in his hand. As he reloaded he said, "Get yourself a new lathe, 
Dr. Breen. And if you'll look to see how close together the bullets were—" 
The old man puttered over to Battle's target. "Extraordinary," he murmured. "A 
poker chip would cover them." His manner grew relatively brisk and businesslike. 
"How much do you want for the job?" he asked. "How about a controlling factor in 
the world of Sweetness and Light?" 
Battle smiled slowly. "I never accept a proposition like that," he said. "Twenty 
thousand is my talking point for all services over a six-month period." 
"Done," said Breen promptly, counting out twenty bills from an antiquated 
wallet. Battle pocketed them without batting an eyelash. "Now," he said, "what's 
my job?" 
"As you may know," said Breen, "Sweetness and Light is intended to bring into 
being a new world. Everybody will be happy, and absolute freedom will be the 
rule and not the exception. All carnal vices will be forbidden and peace will 
reign. Now, there happens to be an enemy of this movement at large. He thinks he 
has, in fact, a rival movement. It is your job to convince him that there is no 
way but mine. And you are at absolute liberty to use any argument you wish. Is 
that clear?" 
"Perfectly, sir," said Battle. "What's his name?" 
"Lenninger Underbottam," said Breen, grinding his teeth. "The most unprincipled 
faker that ever posed as a scientist and scholar throughout the long history of 
the world. His allegedly rival movement is called 'Devil Take the Hindmost.' The 
world he wishes to bring into being would be one of the most revolting 
excesses—all compulsory, mark you! I consider it my duty to the future to blot 
him out!" 
His rage boiled over into a string of expletives. Then, looking properly 
ashamed, he apologized. "Underbottam affects me strangely and horribly. I 
believe that if I were left alone with him I should—I, exponent of Sweetness and 
Light!—resort to violence. Anyway, Lieutenant, you will find him either at his 
offices in the Empire State Building where the rotter cowers under the alias of 
the Double-Action Kettlesnatcher Manufacturing Corporation or in his upstate 
plant where he is busy turning out not only weapons and defenses but also his 
ridiculous Kettlesnatcher, a device to remove kettles from the stove in case of 
hurricane or typhoon." 
Battle completed his notes and stowed away his memo book. "Thank you, sir," he 
said. "Where shall I deliver the body?" 
 
"Hello!" whispered a voice. 
"Spike!" Battle whispered back. "What are you doing here?" He jerked a thumb at 
the illuminated ground glass of the door and the legend, Double-Action 
Kettlesnatcher Manufacturing Corp., Lenninger Underbottam, Pres. 
"They told me where to find you." 
"They?" 
"Mr. Breen, of course. Who did you think?" 
"But," expostulated the lieutenant, "I thought you hated him and his movement." 
"Oh, that," said the girl casually. "It was just a whim. Are you going to knock 
him off?" 
"Of course. But how did you get here?" 
"Climbed one of the elevator shafts. The night watchman never saw me. How did 
you make it?" 
"I slugged the guard and used a service lift. Let's go." 
Battle applied a clamp to the doorknob and wrenched it out like a turnip from 
muddy ground. The door swung open as his two Colts leaped into his hands. The 
fat man at the ornate desk rose with a cry of alarm and began to pump blood as 
Battle drilled him between the eyes. 
"Okay. That's enough," said a voice. The lieutenant's guns were snatched from 
his hands with a jerk that left them stinging, and he gaped in alarm as he saw, 
standing across the room, an exact duplicate of the bleeding corpse on the 
floor. 
"You Battle?" asked the duplicate, who was holding a big, elaborate sort of 
radio tube in his hand. 
"Yes," said the lieutenant feebly. "My card—" 
"Never mind that. Who's the dame?" 
"Miss McSweeney. And you, sir, are—?" 
"I'm Underbottam, Chief of Devil Take the Hindmost. You from Breen?" 
"I was engaged by the doctor for a brief period," admitted Battle. "However, our 
services were terminated—" 
"Liar," snapped Underbottam. "And if they weren't, they will be in a minute or 
two. Lamp this!" He rattled the radio tube, and from its grid leaped a fiery 
radiance that impinged momentarily on the still-bleeding thing that Battle had 
shot down. The thing was consumed in one awful blast of heat. "End of a robot," 
said Underbottam, shaking the tube again. The flame died down, and there was 
nothing left of the corpse but a little fused lump of metal. 
"Now, you going to work for me, Battle?" 
"Why not?" shrugged the lieutenant. 
"Okay. Your duties are as follows: Get Breen. I don't care how you get him, but 
get him soon. He posed for twenty years as a scientist without ever being 
apprehended. Well, I'm going to do some apprehending that'll make all previous 
apprehending look like no apprehension at all. You with me?" 
"Yes," said Battle, very much confused. "What's that thing you have?" 
"Piggy-back heat ray. You transpose the air in its path into an unstable isotope 
which tends to carry all energy as heat. Then you shoot your juice, light or 
whatever along the isotopic path and you burn whatever's on the receiving end. 
You want a few?" 
"No," said Battle. "I have my gats. What else have you got for offense and 
defense?" 
Underbottam opened a cabinet and proudly waved an arm. "Everything," he said. 
"Disintegrators, heat rays, bombs of every type. And impenetrable shields of 
energy, massive and portable. What more do I need?" 
"Just as I thought," mused the lieutenant. "You've solved half the problem. How 
about tactics? Who's going to use your weapons?" 
"Nothing to that," declaimed Underbottam airily. "I just announce that I have 
the perfect social system. My army will sweep all before it. Consider: Devil 
Take the Hindmost promises what every persons wants—pleasure, pure and simple. 
Or vicious and complex, if necessary. Pleasure will be compulsory; people will 
be so happy that they won't have time to fight or oppress or any of the other 
things that make the present world a caricature of a madhouse." 
"What about hangovers?" unexpectedly asked Spike McSweeney. 
Underbottam grunted. "My dear young lady," he said. "If you had a hangover, 
would you want to do anything except die? It's utterly automatic. Only 
puritans—damn them!—have time enough on their hands to make war. You see?" 
"It sounds reasonable," confessed the girl. 
"Now, Battle," said Underbottam. "What are your rates?" 
"Twen—" began the lieutenant automatically. Then, remembering the ease with 
which he had made his last twenty thousand, he paused. "Thir—" he began again. 
"Forty thousand," he said firmly, holding out his hand. 
"Right," said Underbottam, handing him two bills. Battle scanned them hastily 
and stowed them away. "Come on," he said to Spike. "We have a job to do:' 
The lieutenant courteously showed Spike a chair. "Sit down," he said firmly. 
"I'm going to unburden myself." Agitatedly Battle paced his room. "I don't know 
where in hell I'm at!" he yelled frantically. "All my life I've been a soldier. 
I know military science forward and backward, but I'm damned if I can make head 
or tail of this bloody mess. Two scientists, each at the other's throat, me 
hired by both of them to knock off the other—and incidentally, where do you 
stand?" He glared at the girl. 
"Me?" she asked mildly. "I just got into this by accident. Breen manufactured me 
originally, but I got out of order and gave you that fantastic story about me 
being a steno at his office—I can hardly believe it was me!" 
"What do you mean, manufactured you?" demanded Battle. 
"I'm a robot, Lieutenant. Look." Calmly she took off her left arm and put it on 
again. 
Battle collapsed into a chair. "Why didn't you tell me?" he groaned. 
"You didn't ask me," she retorted with spirit. "And what's wrong with robots? 
I'm a very superior model, by the way—the Seduction Special, designed for 
diplomats, army officers (that must be why I sought you out), and legislators. 
Part of Sweetness and Light. Breen put a lot of work into me himself. I'm only 
good for about three years, but Breen expects the world to be his by then." 
Battle sprang from his chair. "Well, this pretty much decides me, Spike. I'm 
washed up. I'm through with Devil Take the Hindmost and Sweetness and Light 
both. I'm going back to Tannu-Tuva for the counterrevolution. Damn Breen, 
Underbottam and the rest of them!" 
"That isn't right, Lieutenant," said the robot thoughtfully. "Undeterred, one or 
the other of them is bound to succeed. And that won't be nice for you. A world 
without war?" 
"Awk!" grunted Battle. "You're right, Spike. Something has to be done. But not 
by me. That heat ray—ugh!" He shuddered. 
"Got any friends?" asked Spike. 
"Yes," said Battle, looking at her hard. "How did you know?" 
"I just guessed—" began the robot artlessly. 
"Oh no you didn't," gritted the lieutenant. "I was just going to mention them. 
Can you read minds?" 
"Yes," said the robot in a small voice. "I was built that way. Governor 
Burly—faugh! It was a mess." 
"And—and you know all about me?" demanded Battle. 
"Yes," she said. "I know you're forty-seven and not thirty-two. I know that you 
were busted from the Marines. And I know that your real name is—" 
"That's enough," he said, white-faced. 
"But," said the robot softly, "I love you anyway." 
"What?" sputtered the lieutenant. 
"And I know that you love me, too, even if I am—what I am." 
Battle stared at her neat little body and her sweet little face. "Can you be 
kissed?" he asked at length. 
"Of course, Lieutenant," she said. Then, demurely, "I told you I was a very 
superior model." 
To expect a full meeting of the Saber Club would be to expect too much. In the 
memory of the oldest living member, Major Breughel, who had been to the 
Netherlands Empire what Clive and Warren Hastings had been to the British, two 
thirds—nearly—had gathered from the far corners of the earth to observe the 
funeral services for a member who had been embroiled in a gang war and shot in 
the back. The then mayor of New York had been reelected for that reason. 
At the present meeting, called by First Class Member Battle, about a quarter of 
the membership appeared. 
There was Peasely, blooded in Tonkin, 1899. He had lost his left leg to the 
thigh with Kolchak in Siberia. Peasely was the bombardier of the Saber Club. 
With his curious half-lob he could place a Mills or potato masher or nitro 
bottle on a dime. 
Vaughn, he of the thick Yorkshire drawl, had the unique honor of hopping on an 
Axis submarine and cleaning it out with a Lewis gun from stem to stern, then, 
single-handed, piloting it to Liverpool, torpedoing a German mine layer on the 
way. 
The little Espera had left a trail of bloody revolution through the whole of 
South America; he had a weakness for lost causes. It was worth his life to cross 
the Panama Canal; therefore he made it a point to do so punctually, once a year. 
He never had his bullets removed. By latest tally three of his ninety-seven 
pounds were lead. 
"When," demanded Peasely fretfully, "is that lug going to show up? I had an 
appointment with a cabinetmaker for a new leg. Had to call it off for Battle's 
summons. Bloody shame—he doesn't give a hang for my anatomy." 
"Ye'll coom when 'e wish, bate's un," drawled Vaughn unintelligibly. Peasely 
snarled at him. 
Espera sprang to his feet. "Miss Millicent," he said effusively. 
"Don't bother to rise, gentlemen," announced the tall, crisp woman who had 
entered. "As if you would anyway. I just collected on that Fiorenza deal, 
Manuel," she informed Espera. "Three gees. How do you like that?" 
"I could have done a cleaner job," said Peasely snappishly. He had cast the only 
blackball when this first woman to enter the Saber Club had been voted a member. 
"What did you use?" 
"Lyddite," she said, putting on a pale lipstick. 
"Thot's pawky explaw-seeve," commented Vaughn. "I'd moat risk such." 
She was going to reply tartly when Battle strode in. They greeted him with a 
muffled chorus of sighs and curses. 
"Hi," he said briefly. "I'd like your permission to introduce a person waiting 
outside. Rules do not apply in her case for—for certain reasons. May I?" 
There was a chorus of assent. He summoned Spike, who entered. "Now," said 
Battle, "I'd like your help in a certain matter of great importance to us all." 
"Yon's t' keenin' tool," said the Yorkshireman. 
"Okay, then. We have to storm and take a plant in New Jersey. This plant is 
stocked with new weapons—dangerous weapons—weapons that, worst of all, are 
intended to effect a world revolution which will bring an absolute and complete 
peace within a couple of years, thus depriving us of our occupations without 
compensation. Out of self-defense we must take this measure. Who is with me?" 
All hands shot up in approval. "Good. Further complications are as follows: This 
is only one world revolution; there's another movement which is in rivalry to 
it, and which will surely dominate if the first does not. So we will have to 
split our forces—" 
"No you won't," said the voice of Underbottam. 
"Where are you?" asked Battle, looking around the room. 
"In my office, you traitor. I'm using a wire screen in your clubroom for a 
receiver and loudspeaker in a manner you couldn't possibly understand." 
"I don't like that traitor talk," said Battle evenly. "I mailed back your 
money—and Breen's. Now what was that you said?" 
"We'll be waiting for you together in Rockefeller Center. Breen and I have 
pooled our interests. After we've worked our revolution we're going to flip a 
coin. That worm doesn't approve of gambling, of course, but he'll make this 
exception." 
"And if I know you, Underbottam," said Battle heavily, "it won't be gambling. 
What time in Rockefeller Center?" 
"Four in the morning. Bring your friends—nothing like a showdown. By heaven, I'm 
going to save the world whether you like it or not!" 
The wire screen from which the voice had been coming suddenly fused in a flare 
of light and heat. 
Miss Millicent broke the silence. "Scientist!" she said in a voice heavy with 
scorn. Suddenly there was a gun in her palm. "If he's human I can drill him," 
she declared. 
"Yeah," said Battle gloomily. "That was what I thought." 
The whole length of Sixth Avenue not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse, 
as the six crept through the early morning darkness under the colossal shadow of 
the RCA building. The vertical architecture of the Center was lost in the sky as 
they hugged the wall of the Music Hall. 
"When do you suppose they'll finish it?" asked Peasely, jerking a thumb at the 
boarding over the Sixth Avenue subway under construction.*  (* When last I saw 
this area, 28 years almost to the day after publication of Cyril's story, the 
boarding was there still—or again. —Ed. )
"What do you care?" grunted Battle. "We need a scout to take a look at the 
plaza. How about you, Manuel? You're small and quick." 
"Right," grinned Espera. "I could use a little more weight." He sped across the 
street on silent soles, no more than a shadow in the dark. But he had been 
spotted, for a pale beam of light hissed for a moment on the pavement beside 
him. He flattened and gestured. 
"Come on—he says," muttered Miss Millicent. They shot across the street and 
flattened against the building. "Where are they, Manuel?" demanded Battle. 
"Right there in the Plaza beside the fountain. They have a mess of equipment. 
Tripods and things. A small generator." 
"Shall I try a masher?" asked Peasely. 
"Do," said Miss Millicent. "Nothing would be neater." 
The man with the wooden leg unshipped a bomb from his belt and bit out the pin. 
He held it to his ear for just a moment to hear it sizzle. "I love the noise," 
he explained apologetically to Spike. Then he flung it with a curious twist of 
his arm. 
Crash! 
Battle looked around the corner of the building. "They haven't been touched. And 
that racket's going to draw the authorities," he said. "They have some kind of 
screen, I guess." 
"Darling," whispered Spike. 
"What it is?" asked Battle, sensing something in her tone. 
"Nothing," she said, as women will. 
"Close in under heavy fire, maybe?" suggested the little Espera. 
"Yep," snapped Battle. "Ooops! There goes a police whistle." 
Pumping lead from both hips, the six of them advanced down the steps to the 
Plaza, where Breen and Underbottam were waiting behind a kind of shimmering 
illumination. 
The six ducked behind the waist-high stone wall of the Danish restaurant, one of 
the eateries which rimmed the Plaza. Hastily, as the others kept up their fire, 
Vaughn set up a machine gun. 
"Doon, a' fu' leef!" he ordered. They dropped behind the masking stone. "Cae 
oot, yon cawbies," yelled Vaughn. 
His only answer was a sudden dropping of the green curtain and a thunderbolt or 
something like it that winged at him and went way over his head, smashing into 
the RCA building and shattering three stories. 
"Haw!" laughed Peasely. "They can't aim! Watch this." He bit another grenade and 
bowled it underhand against the curtain. The ground heaved and bucked as the 
crash of the bomb sounded. In rapid succession he rolled over enough to make the 
once-immaculate Plaza as broken a bit of terrain as was ever seen, bare pipes 
and wires exposed underneath. Underbottam's face was distorted with rage. 
The curtain dropped abruptly and the two embattled scientists and would-be 
saviors of the world squirted wildly with everything they had—rays in every 
color of the spectrum, thunderbolts and lightning flashes, some uncomfortably 
near. 
The six couldn't face up to it; what they saw nearly blinded them. They 
flattened themselves to the ground and prayed mutely in the electric clash and 
spatter of science unleashed. 
"Darling," whispered Spike, her head close to Battle's. "Yes?" 
"Have you got a match?" she asked tremulously. "No—don't say a word." She took 
the match pack and kissed him awkwardly and abruptly. "Stay under cover," she 
said. "Don't try to follow. When my fuel tank catches it'll be pretty violent." 
Suddenly she was out from behind the shelter and plastered against one of the 
tumbled rocks, to leeward of the worldsavers' armory. A timid bullet or two was 
coming from the Danish restaurant. 
In one long, staggering run she made nearly seven yards, then dropped, winged by 
a heat ray that cauterized her arm. Cursing, Spike held the matches in her mouth 
and tried to strike one with her remaining hand. It lit, and she applied it to 
the match pack, dropping it to the ground. Removing what remained of her right 
arm, she lit it at the flaring pack. It blazed like a torch; her cellulose skin 
was highly inflammable. 
She used the arm to ignite her body at strategic points and then, a blazing, 
vengeful figure of flame, hurled herself on the two scientists in the Plaza. 
From the restaurant Battle could see, through tear-wet eyes, the features of the 
fly-by-night worldsavers. Then Spike's fuel tank exploded and everything blotted 
out in one vivid sheet of flame. 
"Come on! The cops!" hissed Miss Millicent. She dragged him, sobbing as he was, 
into the Independent subway station that let out into the Center. Aimlessly he 
let her lead him onto an express, the first of the morning. 
"Miss Millicent, I loved her," he complained. 
"Why don't you join the Foreign Legion to forget?" she suggested amiably. 
"What?" he said, making a wry face. "Again?" 
 
THE CITY IN THE SOFA
 
LIEUTENANT J. C. BATTLE tweaked the ends of his trim little military moustache  
and smiled brilliantly at the cashier.
"Dear Judy," he said, "there seems to have been some mistake. I could have sworn 
 I'd put my wallet in this suit—"
The super-blonde young lady looked bored and crooked a finger at the manager of  
the cafeteria. The manager crooked a finger at three muscular busboys, who 
shambled over to the exit.
"Now," said the manager, "what seems to be the trouble?"
The lieutenant bowed. "My name," he said, "is Battle. My card, sir." He 
presented a pasteboard square which bore the crest of the United States Marines 
and the legend:
LIEUTENANT J. C. BATTLE,
SOLDIER OF FORTUNE
REVOLUTIONS A SPECIALTY
"A phony," said the manager with the wickedest of smiles. "A dead-beat. The 
check says thirty cents, Major do you cough up or wash dishes?" He flung the 
card aside, and an innocent-appearing old man, white-haired, wrinkled of face 
and shabbily dressed, who had been patient]y waiting to pay his ten cent check, 
courteously stooped and tapped the manager on the shoulder.
"You dropped this," he said politely, extending the card.
"Keep it," snarled the manager. The innocent old man scanned the card and 
stiffened as though he had been shot.
"If you will allow me," he said, interrupting Battle's impassioned plea for 
justice, "I shall be glad to pay this young man's check." He fished out an 
ancient wallet and dropped a half dollar into the super-blonde's hand.
"May I have your address, sir?' asked Battle when they were outside. "I shall 
mail you the money as soon as I get back to my club."
The old man raised a protesting hand. "Don't mention it," he smiled toothlessly. 
"It was a pleasure. In fact I should like you to come with me to my club." He 
looked cautiously around. "I think," he half-whispered, "that I have a job for 
you, Lieutenant—if you're available."
"Revolution?" asked Battle, skeptically surveying the old man, taking in every 
wrinkle in the suit he wore. "I'm rather busy at the moment, sir, but I can 
recommend some very able persons who might suit you as well. They do what might 
be called a cut-rate business. My price is high, sir—very high."
"Be that as it may, lieutenant. My club is just around the corner. Will you 
follow me, please?"
Only in New York could you find a two-bit cafeteria on a brightly lit avenue 
around the corner from the homes of the wealthy on one side and the poor on the 
other. Battle fully expected the old man to cross the street and head 
riverwards; instead he led the soldier of fortune west towards Central Park.
Battle gasped as the old man stopped and courteously gestured him to enter a 
simple door in an old-style marble-faced building. Disbelievingly he read the 
house number.
"But this is—" said Battle, stuttering a little in awe.
"Yes," said the old man simply. "This is the Billionaire's Club."
IN THE SMOKING room Battle eased himself dazedly into a chair upholstered with a 
priceless Gobelin tapestry shot through by wires of pure gold. Across the room 
he saw a man with a vast stomach and a nose like a pickled beet whom he 
recognized as "Old Jay." He was shaking an admonishing finger at the 
stock-market plunger known as the "Cobra of Canal Street."
"Where you should put your money," Old Jay rumbled—as Battle leaned forward 
eagerly, the rumble dropped to a whisper. The Cobra jotted down a few notes in a 
solid silver memo pad and smiled gratefully. As he left the room he nodded at a 
suave young man whom the lieutenant knew to be the youngest son of the Atlantis 
Plastic and Explosive dynasty.
"I didn't," said Battle breathlessly, "I didn't catch the name, sir."
"Cromleigh," snapped the old man who had brought him through the fabulous 
portals. "Ole Cromleigh, `Shutter-shy,' they call me. I've never been 
photographed, and for a very good reason. All will be plain in a moment. Watch 
this." He pressed a button.
"Yessir?" snapped a page, appearing through a concealed door as if by magic.
Cromleigh pointed at a rather shabby mohair sofa. "I want that fumigated, 
sonny," he said. "I'm afraid it's crummy."
"Certainly, sir," said the page. "I'll have it attended to right away, sir " He 
marched through the door after a smart salute.
"Now study that sofa," said Cromleigh meditatively. "Look at it carefully and 
tell me what you think of it."
The Lieutenant looked at it careful]y. "Nothing," he said at length and quite 
frankly. "I can't see a thing wrong with it, except that beside all this period 
furniture it looks damned shabby."
"Yes," said Ole Cromleigh. "I see." He rubbed his hands meditatively. "You heard 
me order that page to fumigate it, eh ? Well—he's going to forget all about 
those orders as completely as if I'd never delivered them."
"I don't get it," confessed Battle. "But I'd like you to check—for my benefit."
Cromleigh shrugged and pressed the button again. To the page who appeared, he 
said irascibly: "I told you to have that sofa fumigated—didn't I?"
The boy looked honestly baffled. "No, sir," he said, wrinkling his brows. "I 
don't think so, sir."
"All right, sonny. Scat." The boy disappeared with evident relief.
"That's quite a trick," said Battle. "How do you do it'!" He was absolutely 
convinced that it was the same boy and that he had forgotten all about the 
incident.
"You hit the nail on the head, young man," said Cromleigh leaning forward. "I 
didn't do it. I don't know who did, but it happens regularly." He looked about 
him sharply and continued: "I'm owing-gay oo-tay eek-spay in ig-pay atin-Lay. 
Isten-lay."
And then, in the smoking room of the Billionaire's Club, the strangest story 
ever told was unreeled—in pig-Latin!—for the willing ears of Lieutenant J. C. 
Battle, Soldier of Fortune. And it was the prelude to his strangest job—the 
strangest job any soldier of fortune ever was hired for throughout the whole 
history of the ancient profession.
 
BATTLE WAS BEWILDERED. He stared about himself with the curious feeling of 
terrified uncertainty that is felt in nightmares. At his immediate left arose a 
monstrous spiral mountain, seemingly of metal-bearing ore, pitted on the surface 
and crusted with red rust.
From unimaginable heights above him filtered a dim, sickly light... beneath his 
feet was a coarse stuff with great ridges and interstices running into the 
distance. Had he not known he would never have believed that he was standing on 
wood.
"So this," said Battle, "is what the inside of a mohair sofa is like."
Compressed into a smallness that would have made a louse seem mastodonic, he 
warily trod his way across huge plains of that incredible worm's-eye wood, 
struggled over monstrous tubes that he knew were the hairy padding of the sofa.
From somewhere, far off in the dusk of this world of near night, there was a 
trampling of feet, many feet. Battle drew himself on the alert, snapped out 
miniature revolvers, one in each hand. He thought briskly that these 
elephant-pistols had been, half an hour ago, the most dangerous handguns on 
Earth, whereas here—well?
The trampling of feet attached itself to the legs of a centipede, a very small 
centipede that was only about two hundred times the length of the Lieutenant. 
Its sharp eyes sighted him, and rashly the creature headed his way.
The flat crash of his guns echoing strangely in the unorthodox construction of 
this world, Battle stood his ground, streaming smoke from both pistols. The 
centipede kept on going.
He drew a smoke-bomb and hurled it delicately into the creature's face. The 
insect reared up and thrashed for a full second before dying. As Battle went a 
long way around it, it switched its tail, nearly crushing the diminished soldier 
of fortune.
After the equivalent of two miles' walk he saw before him a light that was not 
the GE's, filtering down from the smoking room of the Billionaire's Club, but a 
bright, chemical flare of illumination.
"It's them," breathed the Lieutenant. "In person!" He crouched behind a towering 
wood-shaving and inspected the weird scene. It was a city that spread out before 
him, but a city the like of which man's eyes had never before seen.
A good, swift kick would have sent most of it crashing to the ground, but to the 
tiny Lieutenant it was impressive and somehow beautiful. It was built mostly of 
wood-splinters quarried from the two-by-fours which braced the sofa; the base of 
the city was more of the same, masticated into a sort of papier-mache platform. 
As the soldier of fortune looked down on it from the dizzy height of two feet, 
he felt his arms being very firmly seized.
"What do we do about this?" demanded a voice, thin and querulous. "I never saw 
one this size."
"Take him to the Central Committee, stupid," snapped another. Battle felt his 
guns being hoisted from their holsters and snickered quietly. They didn't know—
Yes they did. A blindfold was whipped about his eyes and his pockets and person 
were given a thorough going-over. They even took the fulminate of mercury that 
he kept behind his molars.
"Now what?" asked the first voice. Battle could picture its owner gingerly 
handling the arsenal that he habitually carried with him.
"Now," said the second voice, "now freedom slowly broadens down." Clunk! Battle 
felt something—with his last fighting vestige of consciousness he realized that 
it was one of his own gun-butts—contact his head, then went down for the count.
 
THE NEXT THING he knew a dulcet voice was cooing at him. The Lieutenant had 
never heard a dulcet voice before, he decided. There had been, during his hitch 
with the Foreign Legion, one Messoua whose voice he now immediately classified 
as a sort of hoarse cackle. The blonde Hedvig, Norwegian spy he had encountered 
in service with Los Invincibles de Bolivia had seemed at the time capable of a 
dulcet coo; Battle reallocated the Norse girl's tones as somewhere between a 
rasp and a metallic gurgle.
The voice cooed at him: "Get up, stupid. You're conscious."
He opened his eyes and looked for the voice as he struggled to his feet. As he 
found the source of the coo he fell right flat on his back again. J. C. Battle, 
soldier-of-fortune extraordinary, highest-priced insurrectionaire in the world, 
had seen many women in the course of his life. Many women had looked on him and 
found him good, and he had followed the lead with persistence and ingenuity. His 
rep as a Lothario stretched over most of the Earth's surface. Yet never, he 
swore fervently to himself, never had he seen anything to match this little one 
with the unfriendly stare.
She was somewhat shorter than the Lieutenant and her coloring was the palest, 
most delicate shade of apple-green imaginable. Her eyes were emerald and her 
hair was a glorious lushness like the hue of a high-priced golf-club's prize 
putting-green on a Summer morning. And she was staring at him angrily, tapping 
one tiny foot.
"Excuse me, madame," said Battle as he rose with a new self-possession in his 
bearing. He noted that she was wearing what seemed to be a neat little paper 
frock of shell pink. "Excuse me—I had no notion that it was a lady whom I was 
keeping waiting."
"Indeed," said the lady coldly. "We'll dispense with introductions, whoever you 
are. Just tell your story. Are you a renegade?" She frowned. "No, you couldn't 
be that. Begin talking."
Battle bowed. "My card," he said, tendering it. "I presume you to be in a 
position of authority over the—?" He looked around and saw that he was in a room 
of wood, quite unfurnished.
"Oh, sit down if you wish," snapped the woman. She folded herself up on the 
floor and scrutinized the card.
"What I am doesn't concern you," she said broodingly. "But since you seem to 
know something about our plans, know that I am the supreme commander of the—" 
She made a curious, clicking noise. "That's the name of my people. You can call 
us the Invaders."
"I shall," began Battle. "To begin at the beginning, it is known that 
your—Invaders—plan to take over this world of ours. I congratulate you on your 
location of your people in a mohair sofa; it is the most ingenious place of 
concealment imaginable. However, so that the sofa will not be fumigated, you 
must perform operations at long-range—posthypnotic suggestion—I imagine—on the 
minds of the servants at the Billionaire's Club. Can you explain to me why you 
cannot perform these operations on the club-members themselves?"
"Very simple," said the woman sternly, with the ghost of a smile. "Since all the 
billionaire members are self-made men they insist that even the lowest bus-boy 
have advanced college degrees and be Phi Beta Kappas. This betokens a certain 
type of academic mind which is very easy to hypnotize. But even if we worked in 
twenty-four hour relays on "Old Jay" we couldn't put a dent in him. The psychic 
insensitivity of a billionaire is staggering.
"And,' she added, looking at Battle through narrowed eyes, "there was one member 
who noticed that the bus-boys never fumigated the sofa. We tried to work on him 
while he slept, but he fought us back. He even subconsciously acquired knowledge 
of our plans. Thought he'd dreamed it and forgot most of the details."
Battle sighed. "You're right," he admitted. "Cromleigh was his name, and he 
tipped me off. Where are you Invaders from?"
"None of your business," she tartly retorted. "And where, precisely, do you come 
from?"
"This Cromleigh," said Battle, "was—and is—no fool. He went to a psychologist 
friend and had his mind probed. The result was a complete outline of your 
civilization and plans—including that ingenious device of yours, the minimifyer. 
He had one built in his lab and paid me very highly to go into it. Then I was 
dropped by him personally into this sofa with a pair of tweezers."
"How much does he know?" snapped the woman.
"Not much. Only what one of your more feeble-minded citizens let him know. He 
doesn't know the final invasion plans and he doesn't know the time-schedule—if 
there is any as yet."
"There isn't," she said with furrowed brow. "And if there were, you imbecile 
monsters would never learn it from us." Suddenly she blazed at him: "Why must 
you die the hard way? Why don't you make room for the super-race while you have 
the chance? But no! We'd never be able to live in peace with you—you—cretins!" 
Then her lip trembled. "I'm sorry," she said. "I don't mean to be harsh—but 
there are so few of us and so many of you—" The dam broke, and the little lady 
dissolved in a flood of tears.
Battle leaped into the breech like a veteran He scored 99.9807 on the firing 
range consistently and that was pretty good, but when it came to comforting 
weeping female soldiers-of-fortune Battle really shone.
 
SOME MINUTES LATER they were chummily propped up against the wall of the wooden 
room. Her weeps over, the little lady—who had identified herself as Miss Aktying 
click! Byam—began:
"We come—you could have guessed this from our size—from an asteroid near 
Jupiter. Don't ask me why my people are so much like yours except for size; 
after all, why shouldn't they be? Spores of life, you know.
"Our space-ship's somewhere in your New Jersey; we landed there two years ago 
and sized the situation up. We'd been driven from our own planet by nasty 
creatures from Ceres who had the damnedest war-machines you ever saw. 
Flame-guns, disintegrator rays—and they're going to mop up the universe when 
they get around to it. By your standards they were three inches tall; to us they 
were twenty-foot horrors.
"We sent out a few agents who learned the language in two or three days; we 
could live on the space-ship and keep out of sight. The agents came back to us 
all steamed up. They'd been riding in coat pockets and things, listening in on 
private wires. They found out that most of the wealth in the world is 
concentrated in the Billionaire's Club, right here where we are. So we moved en 
masse, all three hundred of us, into this sofa and built our city.
"It isn't as easy as it sounds, of course. To listen in on a conversation means 
that you have to weigh yourself down with almost an ounce of equipment for 
raising the octaves of the voice and scaling it down to fit our ears. But now we 
have our listening posts and we eavesdrop in relays to every word that's spoken. 
If you knew what I know about Atlantis Plastic and Explosive—
"Anyway, Battle; we have our fingers on the economic pulse of the planet. We 
could release information through dreams and hunches that would wreck the 
market, as you call it, and create the most staggering panic of all times. Once 
that happens, Battle..."
"Go on," snapped the Lieutenant.
"Once that happens, Battle," she said in a small, tense voice, "we turn on a 
little machine we have and every human being that walks the Earth turns into 
pocket-fuzz."
She faced his horrified stare with a pitying smile. "It's true," she said. "We 
can do it. When we're ready, when we're convinced that science and research is 
so disorganized that they can't possibly do anything about it, we turn on the 
machine, technically known as a protoplasmo-high carbon proteidic - discellular 
converter and it happens."
"Not," grated Battle, "if I can stop it."
"That's the rub, my dear," she said with a frown. "You can't. You're my 
prisoner." And she smiled exquisitely, baring apple-green teeth, so that Battle 
was constrained to agree with the little lady.
"It seems fitting," he brooded absently. "A super-race indeed is come to humble 
man."
 
"DARLING," SAID BATTLE, "it's the strange mixture of ruthlessness and 
sentimentality that makes your people perpetually amazing to me. It's a pitched 
battle in the dark on our part; my people have no notion of what's going on 
behind their backs, and you see nothing evil or dark in the situation."
Busily Miss Aktying click! Byam kissed him and returned to her desk. "My sweet," 
she said, "if you trouble your head over our alien morality you'll never get to 
the end of it. Enough that you are accepted into our midst as a non-combatant 
worker and the very special charge of the Expediter-in-Chief--that's me. Now go 
away, please. I'll see you tonight."
Battle pocketed the seal he had lifted from the desk and blew a kiss at her back 
as he closed the door behind him.
The week he had been imprisoned had been no great hardship; he had been 
privileged to roam within the limits of the city and examine the marvelously 
complicated life these tiny invaders had made for themselves. There had been 
other privileges as well...
The lieutenant, professional and romanticized killer, could not get over the 
appalling technique of the invaders. It was not inefficient, it was not 
cold-blooded; somehow to him it was worse. Like all right-minded military men of 
the old school, he deplored the occasional necessity of spying. What then could 
he think of a campaign that was spying and nothing else but?
He had been allowed to see—under guard—the wonderful listening posts of the tiny 
people. From little speakers boomed the voices of "Old Jay" and the other Titans 
of finance who worked off steam in the smoking room of the Billionaire's Club. 
And nobody ever sat on the sofa or moved it; it simply would never occur to a 
member to do so, and in the minds of the servants there had been built up a myth 
that it was the very first sofa that the celebrated and deceased founder of the 
club, Nicholas VanBhoomenbergen, had installed and that it would be a breach of 
the club's rules to move it. The fact was that it had been brought in by two men 
from Airways Express who had had their minds taken over for the nonce by the 
invaders. A Mrs. Pinsky, for whom it had been originally consigned, never did 
find out what happened to it.
Battle ascertained by judicious inquiry that the pocket-fuzz machine actually 
did exist. It had been a swipe from the war-science of the invaders from Ceres. 
The thing was broken down at the moment, but when they got it into shape again—!
He had uneasy pictures of a vast number of speculators all waking up with the 
same hunch on which way the market would jump. All bidding simultaneously for 
the same securities would make a ticklish situation that could be touched off by 
judicious inspiration of an investment banker—any investment banker—who could be 
dreamed into thinking his bank was without assets. Bank closes and banker 
commits suicide.
Panic on the market; the vast number of speculators find themselves with 
securities at fantastically high prices and worth fantastically near nothing at 
all. Vast number of speculators sell out and are ruined, for then three more 
banks close and three more bankers commit suicide. President declares 
bank-holiday; the great public withdraws savings as soon as the banks open 
again, therefore the banks close again. The great public holes up for a long, 
hard winter. With loose cash lying around crime is on the upswing and martial 
law is declared, at which Leftist organizations explode and start minor 
insurrections in industrial cities.
Mexico attacks across the Rio Grande; the invaders from the asteroid had a 
contingent of expert hypnotists ready to leave for Chihuahua where the southern 
republic's army as stationed.
And then the protoplasmo-high carbon proteidic-discellular converter would get 
turned on. The population of Manhattan would turn into pocket fuzz—or at least 
separate large-molecule units resembling very closely the stuff you find in 
pockets or handbags after two or three weeks of use.
Manhattan is fortified by the wee folk from the asteroid who build several more 
of the flug-machines, aiming them at the other boroughs and moving their 
twenty-mile field of effectiveness at the rate of a state each day. The North 
American continent would be clear of any and all protoplasmic life at the end of 
a week, they estimated.
And the hell of it was that they were right. But Battle was whistling cheerily 
as he forged a pass with the aid of the seal from his lady's desk. 
 
HE HAD CREPT out into the open, been perceived by the eagle-eye of old 
Cromleigh, lifted on a pair of tweezers and whistled into a waiting Rolls.
Once again his natural size in the New Jersey lab he stretched comfortably. 
"Thanks for being so prompt," he yawned. "Thanks a lot. They were coming after 
me, by the sound of footsteps in the distance."
"Now you see why I had to be quiet and do this thing on the sly?" demanded the 
financier. "If I'd told all I know they'd have called me mad and locked me up 
the way his family treated poor old John Dee. (But don't let that get out, 
Lieutenant.) Now tell me what you found there—begin at the beginning. How much 
do they know about finance and manipulation? Have they got their records in a 
safe place?"
Battle lit a cigarette; he hadn't taken any with him for fear of firing the 
sofa. Luxuriously he drew in a draft of the smoke clear down to his toenails and 
let it trickle from the corners of his mouth. "One question at a time," he said. 

"And I'll ask the first few of them. Mr. Cromleigh, why won't you let me bomb 
the sofa ?"
The old man twisted his hands nervously together. "Because a bomb in the 
smoking-room would kill Old Jay when he hears about it; the man always goes to 
Lhasa in Tibet when July Fourth rolls around. He's been that way since the Wall 
Street Massacre in `24 or `5. Because I'm not cold-blooded. And because, dammit, 
those little people I saw were cute."
"Yeah!" agreed Battle reminiscently. "That she was. To begin at the beginning, 
your dream was substantially correct. They're little people from an asteroid. 
They have war-machinery and no hearts whatsoever. They're listening twenty-four 
hours a day. Not a word spoken in the room escapes them and it all goes onto 
records."
"Good—good God!" whispered Cromleigh, cracking his freckled knuckles. "What that 
information must be worth!" He rose. "Let's get back to Manhattan for a drink, 
Lieutenant," he said shakily. "And there's another aspect I want to discuss with 
you. Your first trip was a sort of foray. It was mostly to convince me that I 
wasn't mad. And to size up the ground as well. Now can we discuss planting a 
permanent spy in the sofa? To keep tabs on them and move only when necessary?"
"Delightful," said Battle thoughtfully. "I have friends. My own club you 
probably do not know of, but it is the best of its kind."
 
CROMLEIGH, NERVOUSLY tapping his desk with a pencil, was alone in the great New 
Jersey lab as far as could be seen. Grotesque machinery lined the walls; during 
the day there would be eight score technicians working, checking and 
double-checking their results, bringing new honor and glory to the Cromleigh 
Vacumaxie Sweeper and the rest of the string of electric products. His sugar 
plants and labs were far away in Pasadena; the Cromleigh Iron Works were going 
full blast in the ore basin of the continent. He looked like a very worried man.
From the shadows, with completely noiseless tread, stole a figure. "Good 
evening, sir," said Battle. "I've brought all of the Sabre Club that's available 
on two hours' notice.
"Miss Millicent, this is Mr. Cromleigh," he announced, leading forth from the 
shadows a tall, crisp woman. When she spoke it was with a faint, Southern drawl: 

"Pleased t' know you. Any frien' of Lieutenant Battle's . . ." She trailed back 
into the darkness and vanished completely.
"Doctor Mogilov, former Professor of Philosophy at the University of Kazan." A 
slight, smiling man bowed out from the darkness; he was smooth-shaven and looked 
very un-Russian. In a pronounced Cambridge dialect he said: "Delighted," and put 
one hand on the butt of a revolver slung from his slender waist.
"And Alex Vaughn, Yorkshire born and bred." The Englishman said thickly, in the 
peculiar speech that makes the clear-headed, big-boned men of York sound always 
a little intoxicated: "Ah coom wi' russi-veh-shins, soor. Lut thawt bay 
oondair-stud."
"He says," interpreted the Lieutenant, "that he comes with reservations; let 
that be understood. And that completes the present roster of the Sabre Club 
present in New York."
"Only three?" complained Cromleigh. "And one a woman? You gave me to understand 
that they could completely smash the invaders."
"Yes," said the Lieutenant, his voice heavy with added meaning. "Any invaders."
"No doubt—" said Cromleigh. Then some message in Battle's eyes alarmed him 
unaccountably; his hand trembled on the desk-top and gripped the edge to steady 
itself.
"That did it!" snapped Battle. He swung on Ole Cromleigh "How long have we?" he 
grated, pulling a gun and aiming for the financier's throat.
In a voice hoarse with hatred Cromleigh yelled: "Just two minutes more, you 
meddling scum! Then—"
"Lights!" yelled Battle. "Turn the damned lights on, Miss Millicent !" As the 
overhead indirects flared up, bathing the huge lab in a lambent, flaming 
radiance, the four figures of the Sabre Club members, the Billionaire Clubman 
and one other leaped into sharp reality.
It was the figure of the sofa. "We took the liberty," said Battle, his gun not 
swerving an inch, "of removing this object from the smoking room. It's going 
lock, stock and barrel into the enlarging machine you have here."
"You fool!" roared Cromleigh. "Don't you know—" The descending gun butt cut off 
any further conversation.
"Hurry up!" grated the Lieutenant. He hefted the sofa to his broad shoulders. 
"That trembling hand was a signal if ever I saw one. His friends'll be here any 
minute. Open that damned machine and plug in the power!"
The Russian philosopher, muttering wildly to himself, swung wide the gates of 
the box-like magnifier through which Battle had come only a few hours before.
"Thank God there's plenty of room!" groaned Battle. "And if this doesn't work, 
prepare for Heaven, friends!" He turned on the machine full power and speed, 
took Miss Millicent by the arm and dragged her to the far end of the vast lab.
 
DURING THE INCREDIBLY long three minutes that ensued, they made ready their 
weapons for what might prove to be a siege, while Battle explained in rapid-fire 
undertones what he had had no time for during the plane-ride from Manhattan.
As he checked the load of his quickfirers he snapped: "Invaders—fooey! Anybody 
could tell that those women were fresh from an office. They had the clerical air 
about them. The only invader—as a carefully logical process of deduction 
demonstrated—was the gruesome creature who's been posing as Cromleigh. Just 
murdered the old guy—I suppose—and took over his body. Him and his friends whom 
he just signaled. He's the only baby who hypnotized the Phi Beta Kappas they use 
for busboys.
"Why did he risk sending me in there? The inevitable mark of a louse. Doesn't 
trust anybody, not even his own office-staff dyed a pale green and reduced to 
half gnat-size. So he sent me in for a spy on them. The whole cock-and-bull 
story of the creatures from an asteroid was so that there'd be no suspicion 
directed at him in case some bright waiter should find the louse-people. 
Wouldn't be surprised if he's from an asteroid himself. Crazy business! Craziest 
damned business!"
"How about the financial angle?" asked Vaughn, who could be intelligible when 
money was involved.
"I picked that bird's pocket slick as a whistle just before I conked him. Feels 
like a hundred grand."
"Here they come !" snapped Miss Millicent.
"They" were creatures of all shapes and sizes who were streaming through the 
only door to the lab, at the other end of the room.
"Awk!" gulped the lady involuntarily. "They" were pretty awful. There were a 
hundred or so of them, many much like men, a few in an indescribable 
liquid-solid state that sometimes was gaseous. The luminous insides of these 
churned wildly about; there were teeth inside them two feet long.Others were 
gigantic birds, still others snakes, still others winged dragons.
"That settles it," grunted the Russian philosopher as he flicked his gun into 
and out of its holster faster than the eye could follow. "That settles it. They 
are amoebic, capable of assuming any shape at all. One is changing now—awk!" He 
persevered. "Indubitably possessed of vast hypnotic powers over unsuspecting 
minds only. Otherwise they would be working on us."
"They" were rolling in a flood of shifting, slimy flesh down the floor of the 
lab.
"The machine! The sofa!" cried Miss Millicent. Battle breathed a long sigh of 
relief as the cabinet-like expander exploded outward and the sofa it held kept 
on growing—and growing—and growing—and growing! It stopped just as it filled the 
segment of the lab that it occupied.
With a squeaking of tortured timbers the laws of cross-sectional sufferance 
power asserted themselves and the hundred-yard-high sofa collapsed in a 
monstrous pile of rubble.
"Sit very still," said the Lieutenant. "Be quite quiet and blow the head off any 
hundred-yard centipede that wanders our way."
There were agonized yells from the other side of the couch's ruins. "That 
couch," Battle informed them, "was just plain lousy. Full of centipedes, lice, 
what have you. And when a louse smells blood—God help any invaders around, be 
they flesh, fish, fowl or amoebic!"
 
AFTER TEN MINUTES there was complete quiet.
"What about the insects?" asked Vaughn.
"They're dead," said Battle, rising and stretching. "Their respiratory system 
can't keep up with the growth. They were good for about ten minutes, then they 
keel over. Their tracheae can't take in enough oxygen to keep them going, which 
is a very good thing for the New Jersey countryside."
He strolled over to the vast pile of rubble and began turning over timbers, Miss 
Millicent assisting him.
"Ah!" he grunted. "Here it is!" He had found the body of an apple-green young 
lady whose paint was beginning to peel, revealing a healthy pink beneath. With 
many endearing terms he brought her out of her swoon as Miss Millicent's 
eyebrows went higher and higher.
Finally she exploded, as the two were cozily settled on a mountainous 
upholstery-needle that had, at some time, got lost in the sofa.
"Just when, Lieutenant, did you find out that these people weren't invaders from 
an asteroid?"
Rattle raised his eyebrows and kissed the girl. "Have no fear, darling," he 
said. "A gentleman never—er—kisses—and tells.
 
THE GOLDEN ROAD
 
OUT OF THE myth of night and language there come strange tales told over wine. 
There is a man known as The Three-Cornered Scar who frequents a village spot 
famed for its wine and raconteurs, both of which are above the average. 
The Three-Cornered Scar favored us by a visit to my table and ordering, during 
the course of his story, five half-bottles of house red to my account. The wine 
is drunk up and the story told. 
 
1 
 
Colt was tired. He was so bone-broke weary that he came near to wishing he was 
dead. It would have been easy to die in the snow; heaps in the way seemed to beg 
for the print of his body. He skirted crevasses that were like wide and hungry 
mouths. 
This was Central Asia, High Pamir, a good thousand miles from any permanent 
habitation of the human race. The nomadic Kirghiz population had been drained 
away to the Eastern front, civil and military authorities likewise. Colt himself 
was the tragic, far-strayed end of the First Kuen-Lung Oil Prospecting 
Expedition, undertaken by a handful of American volunteers on behalf of the 
Chungking government. 
Estimating generously, his assets were five more days of scanty eating. And an 
eternity of sleep under the glaring stars of the plateau? ... 
He had struck, somehow, an easier way across the snow-covered, rocky wastes. 
There was a route to follow, a winding, mazy route that skirted the Alai Range's 
jagged foothills and slipped through Tengis-Bai Pass. Old memories of maps and 
trails swirled through Colt's tired head; he bore north for no better reason 
than that he could guide himself by Polaris, low on the horizon. Colt was 
headed, with a laugh and a curse, for Bokhara. 
Colt marched through the first watch of the night, before the smiting cold of 
space descended on this roof of the world; then he would sleep, twitching with 
frost. He would wake eight hours later, a stone, a block of wood, to unkink his 
wretched muscles, shoulder his pack, and march under the naked, brassy sun. 
The Parsees said that this High Pamir was the cradle of human life, that from 
here had sprung the primals who proliferated into white, yellow, black and 
brown. To the southwest, at the same thirteen-thousand elevation, was the Valley 
of the Oxus, a green ribbon in the steel gray and bone white of the plateau. To 
the northeast were the great peaks—Everest, Kinchinjunga, K-4—that started where 
other mountains ended, shooting from seventeen thousand up to unthinkable 
heights, sky-piercing. 
Night and day scarcely interrupted the flow of his thoughts. His waking 
fantasies and his dreams alike were brutish, longing for warmth and comfort, 
bespelled remembrance of palmier days. He woke to find an ear frostbitten, dead, 
marble white, without sensation, killed by cold. 
It came to him slowly, the idea forcing its way through the numbed machinery of 
his brain, that he was following a path. This easier way across the plateau 
could be nothing but one of the historic caravan routes. Over this trail had 
gone a billion feet of beasts and men, and his own had found their way into the 
ancient grooves. Colt was content with that; going by the sun and stars was 
good, compass better, but best of all were the ways that men had taken and found 
well suited. 
There were animal droppings before him now and then, once a fragment of broken 
crockery. He doubled his pace, from a slow plod to a loping, long-strided walk 
that took much of his husbanded wind. Finally he saw the print in a snowbank 
that spelled man. It was a shod foot's mark, light and side-stepping. As he 
watched, a puff of wind drifted it over with dry, gleaming snow. 
Colt found a splash of milk against a rock, then the smell of camel clinging 
about a wiry shrub. 
He saw them at last, the tail of a great caravan, and fell fainting into the 
arms of tall, curious Kirghiz camel drivers. They carried him in a litter until 
he awoke and could eat, for nothing was so important or unexpected that it could 
be allowed to break the schedule of the march. Colt opened his eyes to grunts of 
satisfaction from his bearers. He accepted the hunks of dried meat and bottle of 
warm tea they gave him, trying to catch enough of the language to offer thanks. 
Coming down the line of the caravan was a large Hindu on one of the small 
Mongolian ponies. He reined beside Colt and asked in French, "How are you? They 
passed me word. Can you march with us?" 
"But yes! It's like life out of death to find you people here. What can I do to 
help?" 
The Hindu dismounted to walk the pony beside him. "Keep up spirits. Our few 
Europeans are tired of each other's company. In case of bandit raiding—highly 
improbable, of course—you'll fight. I'm Raisuli Batar, merchant of the Punjab. 
I'm caravan master, whose word is law. Not that it's necessary—the boys are well 
behaved and we have enough food." 
"Where are we headed?" asked Colt, gnawing on the hunk of meat. 
"We started for Bokhara. Come up the line to meet the better sort with me. 
They're agog with excitement, of course, don't dare break line without my 
permission, which I don't choose to grant. By way of payload we have crates of 
soap on the camels and drums of flavoring essence on the ponies." 
Colt sniffed, finding wintergreen and peppermint on the air. "May you find a 
good price," he said respectfully. Raisuli smiled and the American was pleased. 
The caravan master was big and solid, with a grim, handsome face. It was good to 
please a man like that, Colt thought. 
They quickened their pace, overtaking a hundred plodding bearers and a herd of 
sheep. Colt was introduced to a pale, thoughtful man named McNaughton, a reader 
in history at the University of Glasgow, who said he had been doing field work 
in Asia for three years. 
Farther on were Lodz and wife, two young Poles from Galicia who were hoping for 
government work in Bokhara. The man was quiet, his English heavily accented. The 
wife spoke French only, but with the vivid dash of a Parisienne. Her lips were 
touched with scarlet; here in the wilderness of the High Pamir she wore a 
freshly pressed riding habit. Colt was enchanted. 
Raisuli cast a glance at the sky. "Bedding down," he snapped. "Excuse me—c'est 
l'heure." 
He left Colt with the Poles, mounting his pony again to gallop down the line 
barking orders to the various Hindus, Tajiks, Chinese, Abyssinians, Kirghiz and 
Kroomen who made up the crew. It took no more than a quarter hour to bring the 
unwieldy line to a halt; in another quarter hour a thousand felt tents were 
pitched and pegged, fires lighted and animals staked out. 
"He times well, that one," smiled M. Lodz. Colt looked up and saw the sky 
already deepening into black. He shuddered a little and drew nearer to the fire. 

"I think," said McNaughton absently, "that I could take a little refreshment." 
Lodz looked up from under his brows, then clapped his hands. A native boy came 
running. "Bring food—some of that cold joint, wallah." 
"Yes, sahib." 
"Such a night this will be, perhaps," said M. Lodz softly, "as it was in 
August." 
"Just such a night," said McNaughton. "Will you join us, Mr. Colt?" 
"Not I," said the American with a sense of guilt. "I was fed when I came to 
after fainting. Is it safe—may I look about?" 
He got no answer. The boy had returned with a great haunch of meat; silently the 
Occidentals gathered about it, taking out knives. Colt watched in amazement as 
the dainty Frenchwoman hacked out a great slab of beef and tore at it, crammed 
it down her throat. Before it was swallowed she was cutting away again. 
"Ah—I asked if I ought to look about. . . ." 
Lodz shot him a sidewise glance, his mouth crammed with meat, his jaws working 
busily. Then, as though Colt had never spoken, he returned to the serious 
business of feeding, with the same animal quality as his wife and McNaughton 
showed. 
"I'll look about then," said Colt forlornly. He wandered away from the fire in 
the direction of a yellow felt tent. There he was delighted to catch words of 
Cantonese. 
"Greetings, son of Han," he said to the venerable speaker. 
The fine old Mongol head turned; Colt felt himself subjected to a piercing, 
kindly scrutiny by two twinkling little black eyes. The ruddy little mouth 
smiled. "Sit down, son. It's a long time between new friends." 
Colt squatted by the fire obediently; the venerable one took a long pull from a 
bottle of suntori, a vile synthetic Japanese whisky. Wiping his mouth with the 
back of a wrinkled, yellow hand, he announced, "I'm Grandfather T'ang. This is 
my son, rang Gaw Yat. If you let him he'll talk you deaf about the time he was 
on the long march with the Eighth Route Army. He claims General Chuh Teh once 
ate rice with him." 
T'ang Gaw Yat smiled obediently and a little tolerantly at his father's whimsy. 
He was a fine-looking Chinese, big-headed and straight-faced, with little 
wrinkles of laughter playing about his mouth. "What my father says," he 
confided, "is strictly true. It was a full thousand miles from—" 
"What did I tell you?" broke in the old man. "The slave is his wife, and the 
smartest one of the lot." He indicated a small Chinese woman of the 
indeterminate age between twenty and fifty. 
She said in English hardly accented, "Hello. You do speak English, don't you? 
These barbarians don't know anything but their village jargon and Canton talk." 
The smile took the edge from her harsh words. 
Colt introduced himself, and answered endless questions on the state of China, 
military, political and economic. 
"Hold off," ordered the woman at last. "Let him have his turn. Want to know 
anything, Mr. Colt?" 
"Wouldn't mind knowing how long you've been traveling." 
"Stupid question," broke in Grandfather Han. "Just what one expects from a 
foreign devil. The splendor of the night closes about him and he would know how 
long we've been on the march! Have a drink—a small one." He passed the bottle; 
Colt politely refused. 
"Then maybe you'd like a little game—" There clicked in his palm two ivory 
cubes. 
"Please, Father," said T'ang Gaw Yat. "Put those away." 
"Pattern of ancient virtue!" sneered the old man. "O you child of purity!" 
"Grandfather is very lucky," said the woman quietly. "He started on the caravan 
with nothing but those dice and many years of gambling experience. He is now one 
of the richest men on the line of march. He owns two herds of sheep, a riding 
camel of his own and the best food there is to be had." 
"And drink," said the son somberly. 
"Tell you what," said the old man. "You can have some of my V.S.O. stock—stuff I 
won from a Spaniard a month back." He rummaged for a moment in one of the tent 
pockets, finally emerged with a slender bottle which caught the firelight like 
auriferous quartz. "Danziger Goldwasser—le veritable," he gloated. "But I can't 
drink the stuff. Doesn't bite like this Nipponese hellbroth." He upended the 
bottle of suntori again; passed the brandy to Colt. 
The American took it, studied it curiously against the fire. It was a thin, 
amber liquid, at whose bottom settled little flakes. He shook them up into the 
neck of the bottle; it was like one of the little globular paperweights that 
hold a mimic snowstorm. But instead of snow there were bits of purest beaten 
gold to tickle the palate and fancy of the drinker. 
"Thanks," he said inadequately. "Very kind of you." 
"Curious, isn't it," said the woman, "how much the caravan life resembles a 
village? Though the wealth, of course, is not in land but in mercantile 
prospects—" She stopped as Colt caught her eye. Why, he wondered, had she been 
rattling on like that? 
"The wisdom of the slave is the folly of the master," said Grandfather T'ang 
amiably. "He is happy who learns to discount the words of a woman." 
"Suppose," said the woman slowly and quietly, "you learn to mind your own 
business, you poisonous old serpent?" 
"They can't stand common sense," confided the old man. 
Colt felt, painfully, that he had wandered into a family quarrel. He bolted with 
a mumbled excuse, hanging onto the bottle of brandy. He stood for a moment away 
from the trail and stared down the long line of fires. There were more than a 
thousand, snaking nearly out of sight. The spectacle was restful; the fires were 
a little blue, being kindled largely out of night-soil briquettes. 
The sky was quite black; something had overcast the deep-ranked stars of the 
plateau. No moon shone. 
Colt settled against the lee of a rock in a trance. He heard winds and the hiss 
of voices, soft in the distance. It was the quiet and complaining Tajiki 
dialect. He could hear it and understand it. It was absurdly simple, he thought 
abstractedly, to pick out the meanings of words and phrases. 
"Such a night," one was saying, "as in August. You remember?" 
"I remember." Then, dark and passionate, "The limping, bloody demon! Let him 
come near and I'll tear his vitals!" 
"Surely you will not. He is the tearer in his evil work. We are the torn—" 
Colt sat up with a start. What the hell! He couldn't understand Tajiki, not one 
little word of it! He had been dreaming, he thought. But it didn't melt away as 
a dream should. The memory of the overheard conversation was as sharp and 
distinct as it could be, something concrete and mysterious, like a joke that 
hadn't been explained to him. 
Then there was a sort of heavenly grumbling, like a megatherial word or more. 
Colt twisted and stared at the zenith; could see nothing at all. The rumbling 
ended. Colt saw black little fingers all down the line rise and attend, twisting 
and staring and buzzing to each other. 
 
2 
 
He hurried to the fire of his European friends. They were sprawled on blankets, 
their bodies a little swollen from the enormous meal they had eaten. Colt saw 
the bare bone of the joint, scraped by knife edges. The Occidentals were 
unconcernedly smoking. 
"What was that racket?" he asked, feeling a little silly. "What was it—do you 
know?" 
"Thunder," said McNaughton noncommittally. 
"Oui," agreed M. Lodz, puffing a long, tip-gilt cigarette. "Did it frighten you, 
the thunder?" 
Colt pulled himself together. There was something evasive here, something that 
sought to elude him. "It was peculiar thunder," he said with glacial calm. 
"There was no lightning preceding it." 
"The lightning will come soon," said Lodz furtively. "I tell you so you will not 
be alarmed." 
"You have your lightning after your thunder here? Odd. In my country it's the 
other way around." He wasn't going to break—he wasn't going to swear 
"But how boring," drawled the Pole's wife. "Never a change?" 
He wasn't going to break 
Then the peculiar lightning split the skies. Colt shot one staggered, 
incredulous glance at it, and was dazzled. It was a word, perhaps a name, 
spelled out against the dead-black sky. He knew it. It was in some damned 
alphabet or other; fretfully he chided himself for not remembering which of the 
twenty-odd he could recognize it could be. 
Colt realized that the Occidentals were staring at him with polite concern. He 
noticed a shred of meat between the teeth of Mme. Lodz as she smiled 
reassuringly—white, sharp teeth, they were. Colt rubbed his eyes dazedly. He 
knew he must be a haggard and unseemly figure to their cultured gaze—but they 
hadn't seen the words in the sky—or had they—? 
Politely they stared at him, phrases bubbling from their lips: 
"So frightfully sorry, old man—" 
"Wouldn't upset you for the world—" 
"Hate to see you lose your grip—" 
Colt shook his head dazedly, as though he felt strands of sticky silk wind 
around his face and head. He turned and ran, hearing the voice of Raisuli Batar 
call after him, "Don't stray too far—" 
He didn't know how long he ran or how far he strayed. Finally he fell flat, 
sprawled childishly, feeling sick and confused in his head. He looked up for a 
moment to see that the caravan fires were below some curve of rock or other—at 
any rate, well out of sight. They were such little lights, he thought. Good for 
a few feet of warm glow, then sucked into the black of High Pamir. They made not 
even a gleam in the night-heavy sky. 
And there, on the other side of him and the caravan, he saw the tall figure of 
another human being. She stood on black rock between two drifts of snow. 
Colt bit out the foil seal of the brandy bottle and pulled the cork with his 
fingers. After a warm gulp of the stuff, he rose. 
"Have a drink?" 
She turned. She was young in her body and face, Mongoloid. Her eyes were 
blue-black and shining like metal. Her nose was short, Chinese, yet her skin was 
quite white. She did not have the eyefold of the yellow people. 
Silently she extended one hand for the bottle, tilted it high. Colt saw a 
shudder run through her body as she swallowed and passed him the tall flask with 
its gold-flecked liquor. 
"You must have been cold." 
"By choice. Do you think I'd warm myself at either fire?" 
"Either?" he asked. 
"There are two caravans. Didn't you know?" 
"No. I'm just here—what's the other caravan?" 
"Just here, are you? Did you know that you're dead?" 
Colt thought the matter over slowly; finally declared, "I guess I did. And all 
those others—and you—?" 
"All dead. We're the detritus of High Pamir. You'll find, if you look, men who 
fell to death from airplanes within the past few years walking by the side of 
Neanderthalers who somehow strayed very far from their tribes and died. The 
greatest part of the caravans comes, of course, from older caravans of the 
living who carried their goods from Asia to Europe for thousands of years." 
Colt coughed nervously. "Have another drink," he said. "Then let's see this 
other caravan. I'm not too well pleased with the one I fell into." 
She took his hand and guided him across the snow and black rock to back within 
sight of his own caravan. He stared, eager and hungry to see. As she pointed 
with one tapering finger it seemed that many things were clearer than they ever 
had been before. He saw that the long line of lights was not his caravan but 
another in the opposite direction, paralleling his. 
"There you will see their caravan master," she said, putting her face next to 
his. He looked and saw a potbellied monster whose turban was half as high as its 
wearer. Its silhouette, as it passed before a fire, was indescribably 
unpleasant. 
"Evening prayer," said his guide, with a faint tone of mockery. 
He studied them as they arranged flares before a platform flung together out of 
planks and trestles; he also saw them assemble a sort of idol, fitting the 
various parts together and bolting them securely. When the thing was perhaps 
two-thirds assembled he turned away and covered his face, repelled. 
"I won't look at the rest of it now," he said. "Perhaps later, if you wish me 
to." 
"That's right," she said. "It isn't a thing to look at calmly. But you will see 
the rest of it one time or another. This is a very long caravan." 
She looked down and said, "Now they are worshiping." 
Colt looked. "Yes," he said flatly. They were worshiping in their own fashion, 
dancing and leaping uglily while some dozen of them blew or saw fantastic 
discords from musical instruments. Others were arranged in a choir; as they 
began to sing Colt felt cold nausea stirring at the pit of his belly. 
Their singing was markedly unpleasant; Colt, who enjoyed the discords of Ernest 
Bloch and Jean Sibelius, found them stimulatingly revolting. The choir droned 
out a minor melody, varying it again and again with what Colt construed to be 
quarter-tones and split-interval harmonies. He found he was listening intently, 
nearly fascinated by the ugly sounds. 
"Why are they doing it?" he asked at length. 
"It is their way," she said with a shrug. "I see you are interested. I, too, am 
interested. Perhaps I should not discuss this before you have had the 
opportunity of making up your own mind. But as you may guess, the caravan below 
us there, where they make the noises, is Bad. It is a sort of marching gallery 
of demons and the black in heart. On the other hand, the caravan with which you 
found yourself previously is Good—basically kind and constructive, taking 
delight in order and precision." 
Colt, half-listening, drew her down beside him on the rock. He uncorked the 
bottle. "You must tell me about yourself," he said earnestly. "It is becoming 
difficult for me to understand all this. So tell me about yourself, if you may." 

She smiled slowly. "I am half-caste," she said. "The Russian Revolution—so many 
attractive and indigent female aristocrats, quite unable to work with their 
hands ... many, as you must know, found their way to Shanghai. 
"There was a Chinese merchant and my mother, a princess. Not eine 
Fuerstin—merely a hanger-on at court. I danced. When I was a small child already 
I was dancing. My price was high, very high at one time. I lost popularity, and 
with it income and much self-assurance. I was a very bad woman. Not bad as those 
people there are bad, but I was very bad in my own way. 
"Somehow I learned mathematics—a British actuary who knew me for a while let me 
use his library, and I learned quickly. So I started for India, where nobody 
would hire me. I heard that there was a country to the north that wanted many 
people who knew building and mathematics and statistics. Railway took me through 
the Khaiber and Afghanistan—from there pony and litter—till I died of exposure 
seven months ago. That is why we meet on High Pamir." 
"Listen," said Colt. "Listen to that." 
It was again the megatherial voices, louder than before. He looked at the woman 
and saw that her throat cords were fight as she stared into the black-velvet 
heavens. 
Colt squinted up between two fingers, snapped shut his eyelids after a moment of 
the glaring word across the sky that followed the voices. He cursed briefly, 
blinded. Burned into the backs of his eyes were the familiar characters of the 
lightning, silent and portentous. 
"It doesn't do to stare into it that way," said the woman. 
"Come with me." He felt for her hand and let her pull him to his feet. As sight 
returned he realized that again they were walking on rock. 
"And there's the Good and holy caravan at evening devotions," said the woman, 
with the same note of bedrock cynicism in her voice. And they were. From his 
point of vantage Colt could see Raisuli Batar solemnly prostrating himself 
before a modestly clad, well-proportioned idol whose face beamed kindly on the 
congregation through two blue-enameled eyes. There was a choir that sang the old 
German hymn "Ein Feste Burg." 
"Shocking," said the woman, "yet strangely moving to the spirit. One feels a 
certain longing. . . ." 
Bluntly Colt said, "I'd like to join them. You're holding me back, you know. I 
wouldn't see you as a comrade again if I sang with them." He hummed a few bars 
of the hymn. "On Earth is not His e-qual—" 
"Girding their loins for the good fight," said the woman. She chuckled quietly 
for a moment. In a ribald tone that seemed barely to conceal heartbreak, she 
snapped, "Do you care to fall in with the ranks of the Almighty? Or may it be 
with the Lord of Nothing, Old Angra Mainyu of the sixteen plagues? Pick your 
sides in the divine sweepstakes! It's for you they do it and of a great love for 
the soul in you."
"They want you black and they want you white—"How in blazes do you know who's 
right?" 
"It seems clear," said Colt doubtfully. 
"You think so?" she exploded. "You think so now? Wait and see—with them tearing 
at your heart two ways and you sure that it'll never hold out but it's going to 
rip in half, and it never doing that but you going on through the night thirteen 
thousand meters above the world and never a soft bed and never a bite of real 
food and never a moment of closing your eyes and sleeping in darkness and 
night—!" 
She collapsed, weeping, into his arms. 
 
3 
 
The long, starless night had not lifted. Three times more the voices had spoken 
from the heavens and silent lightning scribbled across the sky. The two 
in-betweeners had chanted back and forth sacred writings of Asia, wretchedly 
seeking for answers: 
"I will incline mine ears to a parable. I will open my dark sayings upon the 
harp. Wherefore should I fear in the days of evil when the iniquity of my heels 
shall compass me about?" 
"O maker of the material world, thou holy one! When the good waters reach the 
left instep whereon does the Drukh Nasu rush?" 
There was an explosion of cynical laughter above them, old and dry. Grandfather 
T'ang greeted them, "Be well, Valeska and Colt. And forget the insteps and the 
heels of the Upanishad. That is my counsel." He upended the suntors bottle and 
flushed his throat with a half-pint of the stuff. 
In reply to Colt's surprised glance she said, "He often visits me. Gaw is a 
terrible old man who thinks nothing of lying and being untrue to himself." 
"A little of that would do you no harm, daughter. I belong out here with you, of 
course. But out here are no likely candidates for the dice box, and this 
ethereal gullet refuses to do without alcohol. Though this ethereal brain could 
do with considerably less of the pious nonsense that invariably accompanies 
winning at dice." 
He painfully squatted by them, keeping a death grip on the quart bottle. 
"They're going to be at it again," said the old man. "It's just such a night as 
in August. Tooth and nail, hammer and tongs, no holds barred." He spat on the 
rock. "Pah! These spectacles disgust a man of my mentality." 
"You see?" asked the woman. "He lies and cheats at dice. Yet often he sings with 
the worshipers. And always he says he spits on them in his mind. He is 
terrible!" 
Colt quoted slowly, "Judge me and my cause against the ungodly nation; O deliver 
me from the deceitful and the unjust man." 
"Ah?" asked Grandfather T'ang. "Sacred books? Wisdom of the East? I join your 
symposium with the following, reverently excerpted from the Shuh King: 'The soil 
of the province was whitish and mellow. Its contribution of revenue was of the 
highest of the highest class, with some proportion of the second. Its fields 
were of the average of the second class.' " He grinned savagely and drank deeply 
again. 
"You can't be right," said Colt. "You can't be. There's something that forbids 
it being right to lie now that you're dead. It doesn't matter which side you 
choose—whether it's Raisuli's smiling idol or that thing the other side of the 
ridge. But you have to choose." 
"I'm different," said rang smugly. "I'm different, and I'm drunk two thirds of 
the time, so what's the difference if I'm different?" He began raucously to 
sing, beating time with the bottle, the one and only Confucian hymn: 
"Superiority in a person 
Should better not 
Nor should it worsen. 
It should consider everything 
From pussycat to honored king. 
Inferior people 
Need a steeple 
To climb and shout 
Their views about." 
Colt drew a little aside with Valeska. "Should this matter?" he asked. 
"He really ought to choose one caravan or another. It's very wrong of him to 
pretend to be with one when he's really with neither. Either the Good or the 
Bad. . . ." She stared quaintly into Colt's eyes. "Do you think I'm bad?" 
"No," said Colt slowly. "I know you're not. And you aren't good either. Not by 
nature, practice or inclination. I'm the same as you. I want to sing their devil 
song and a Lutheran hymn at the same time. And it can't be done." 
"And you aren't a liar like that lovable old drunk rolling on the rocks there," 
she said with a gesture. "At least you aren't a liar." 
"I congratulate myself. I can appreciate it to the full. Have a drink, Valeska." 

"Yes. There is, you know, going to be a holy war. Which side should we be on?" 
"Who knows? Let's take another look at the Bad boys." There was half a pang of 
terror in his heart—a formless fear that he might find Badness less repugnant to 
him than Goodness. He knew the feeling: it was the trial of every human soul 
torn between one thing and another. Doubt was Hell—worse than Hell—and it had to 
be resolved, even at the risk of this magnificent creature by his side. 
Silently he passed the bottle as the sky lightened and the silence spoke out of 
the heavens. 
"As you wish," she said. Colt felt a sort of opening in his mind, as though 
unspoken words had passed between them. He had heard her think in sorrow and 
fear of losing him. 
She led him over a ridge to the long line of fires of the Bad caravan, fires 
blue-tipped before the ugly altar. There was a disemboweled sacrifice in its 
lap. Colt stared his fill, trying to probe what was in his own heart. It was 
neither pleasure nor pain, neither pompous virtue nor cackling glee in 
destruction and death. There were techniques of self-searching now open to him 
that could never be those of a living man; he shuddered to think of how he had 
groped in darkness and ignorance before his death. 
The caravan master, the squat monster in the mighty turban, greeted him warmly, 
"We've been watching your progress with considerable interest, my son. We have 
felt that you were warming to our ideas. How do you feel about our community?" 
Colt rolled back his consciousness into the dark recesses of his mind, exploring 
a new stock of knowledge—things that it seemed he must always have known, but 
never recognized till now for what they were. "Community"— that meant the mutual 
practice of evil and destruction. One of the tidbits of wisdom newly in his mind 
was an awareness that the Bad worked together, sealed in a union that bore death 
as its bond. The Good practiced alone, rising very seldom to a community of any 
respectable proportions. 
"May I enter the bond tentatively?" he asked. 
The master looked pained. "My son of abomination," he said kindly, "I'll have to 
ask you to be very careful. The balance is beautifully precise; it would be a 
shame to throw them out of kilter. But since you wish to go ahead, very well. 
Enter!" 
Colt squatted on the ground with numerous others of the Bad people. He sent out 
a consoling line of thought to Valeska, who stood somberly by, fearing to lose 
her solitary ally. He smiled a little and ran back a signal of reassurance. 
He trembled a little with the effort, then threw back his mind like a door. The 
inverging flood of black, glistening stuff gave him a warm feeling of 
comradeship with the others; he yielded and allowed himself to drift with them. 
He inspected the attitude of which he was a part, found it consisted of a series 
of aesthetic balances among eye, ear, touch, smell and taste. The viewpoint was 
multiplex, dirigible, able to rise, enlarge, focus from infinity to zero, split 
to examine an object from all vantages. 
The viewpoint inspected a rock from about a dozen feet in the air, saw it as a 
smoothly prolate spheroid. There was a moment of dwelling on the seeming fact of 
its perfection, a painful moment, then the viewpoint descended slowly and with 
little waves of pleasure as chips and scars became apparent in the rock. The 
viewpoint split, correlated its observations and registered the fact that the 
rock was of an eccentric shape, awkward and unbeautiful. 
The viewpoint coalesced again and shrank microscopically, then smaller still. 
For an ecstatic moment it perceived a welter of crashing, blundering molecules, 
beetling about in blindness. 
It shifted again, swiftly, far away to a point in Hong Kong where a lady was 
entertaining a gentleman. The viewpoint let the two humans' love, hate, disgust, 
affection and lust slide beneath its gaze. There was a gorgeous magenta jealousy 
from the man, overlaying the woman's dull-brown, egg-shaped avarice, both swept 
away in a rushing tide of fluxing, thick-textured, ductile, crimson-black 
passion. 
The viewpoint passed somewhere over a battlefield, dwelt lovingly on the 
nightmare scene below. There were dim flares of vitality radiating from every 
crawling figure below; a massing of infantry was like a beacon. From the 
machinery of war there came a steely radiance which waxed as it discharged its 
shell or tripped its bomb, then dimmed to a quiet glow of satisfaction. 
A file of tanks crawled over a hill, emitting a purplish radiance which sent out 
thin cobwebs of illumination. They swung into battle formation, crept down the 
slope at the infantry mass. Behind the infantry antitank guns were hurrying 
up—too late. The tanks opened fire, their cobwebs whitening to a demon's flare 
of death as soldiers, scurrying for cover, one by one, keeled over. As they fell 
there was a brittle little tingle, the snapping of a thread or wire, and the 
light of vitality was extinguished, being replaced by a sallow, corpsey glow. 
The viewpoint gorged, gloated, bloated on the scene, then seemed to swell 
immeasurably. 
Suddenly, after a wringing transition feeling, it was in a mighty hall, 
approaching a lightless apse where two little points of radiance gleamed. 
There was music, harmonizing ear, eye, taste, touch and smell in a twilit blend 
of sensations. Colt struggled involuntarily, felt himself bathed in rhythmic 
complications, subtly off-pleasure, spoiled by the minute introduction of some 
unharmonious element. With dismay he felt there creeping into his own 
consciousness, his segment of the viewpoint, a simple little flicker of a theme 
in C major. He was conscious of a gnat's wing beat of disapproval in response to 
his untoward disturbance. The viewpoint continued its drift toward the darkened 
apse. 
It lovingly picked out the inhabitant of the lightless space and greeted it, 
even Colt, even though it was a monster of five legs and incredible teeth which 
opened wide. Damnably, irritatingly, the little C-major motif persisted; he 
tried to drive it from his mind, then, in a fatal moment, recognized it as one 
Oliver's "Flower Song," a sweet little thing suitable for small hands on the 
pianoforte. 
"—lilies, roses, flowers of every hue—" 
He couldn't lose it after having recognized it that far; the theme spread and 
orchestrated through the viewpoint. The whole polysensual off-pleasure matrix 
broke up, tore wide open as it was about to pass down the gullet of the monster 
in the apse. 
"I'm sorry," he said, rising. "I simply couldn't help—" 
"I know," said the caravan master sadly. "I know what it was. But you wrecked a 
full communion all the same. Go in torment, my son of abomination. May your ways 
be woeful." 
Colt thanked him and left with Valeska. 
"How was it?" she asked. 
"Indescribable," he exploded. "Loathsome—glorious, terrible. I found myself 
gloating over—" He went into details. 
"So did I," she said absently. "I went through it, too. It has a gorgeous kick 
to it, no doubt. But it isn't right for us. Me, I broke up their communion with 
a line from Pushkin: The aged sorcerer in anger said, This queen is evil from 
toe to head. You know it?" 
The sound of singing came from over the ridge, blurred by the megatherial 
voices. Colt stared abstractedly at the sky as the words were scribbled again in 
light. 
"Their turn," he said. "The Good boys." 
 
4 
 
They stepped over ridges of snowy rock and stood for a moment surveying the 
other caravan. There was a semicircle of faces, gleaming benevolently in the 
firelight, handsome smiling faces. They were singing, under the pleasant aspect 
of the blue-eyed idol, a lusty slab from the great Bach's great Mass in B minor. 
While Valeska smiled a little cynically, Colt sidestepped into the baritone 
choir and sounded back tentatively for the words and music. They came easily; he 
was experiencing again, for the first time in many years, the delights of close 
harmony that move men to form barbershop quartets and Philharmonic Societies. 
He sang the hearty, solid language, the crashing chords, from his chest, 
standing straight, bouncing the tones from his palate like the old glee-dubber 
that he was. Beside him he saw Lodz, a beatific smile on his face, chanting 
sonorously. Why were so many small men bassos? 
Colt forgot himself and sang, let his voice swim out into the pool of sound and 
melt into harmony; when need was, he sang up, playing off against M. Lodz's 
basso and McNaughton's ringing tenor. And then he sang a sinister quarter-tone. 
It ended the bar on a gorgeously askew chord and got him very severely looked 
at. Raisuli Batar, baton in hand, frowned. Colt signaled wildly back that he 
couldn't help it. 
It might have been lack of control, but it wasn't. It seemed that musical 
virtuosity was a gift to the dead. He had no choice in the matter—it was his 
nature that had dictated the quarter-tone. Raisuli Batar tapped a rock twice 
with the baton, then swept down, his left hand signaling volume, cuing in the 
bassos with his eyes. 
The brilliant, crashing unison passage rang out. Damn! As though he had no 
control over his own voice, Colt sang not in unison but sharping and flatting 
around the line, botching the grand melody completely. 
He strode angrily from the semicircle of singers, back to Valeska. She passed 
the bottle with a twisted smile on her face. 
"You tried to compromise," she said. "It can't be done. They didn't thank you 
for Stravinskying their Bach." "Right," he said. "But what do we do?" 
"It doesn't seem right," she brooded. "We shouldn't be the only in-betweeners. 
Five thousand years—more—they must appear more often. Then something happens to 
them. And they go away somewhere." 
"Right," crowed Grandfather T'ang, drunker than ever. "Right, m'lass. And I know 
what happens to them. And I'll tell you what to do." 
"Why?" asked Colt practically. 
"Because I'm not as far outside as you think, children. Once I was as far 
in-between as you. I had my chance and I missed it—passed it up for the suntori 
and the dice games around the fires. Grandfather was a fool. I can't tell you 
any more than this: Get into the battle and observe rather closely. When you 
discover a very important secret, you will ascend to the Eighteenth Orbit and 
dwell forever, dancing and singing on the rings of Saturn. Or, to discard the 
gibberish, your psychic tissues so alter that you recognize a plane of existence 
more tenuous than ours; a plane, one suspects, more delectable. The mythological 
name for it is Heaven." He hugged his bottle and crooned affectionately to it: 
"Superiority in a person 
Should better not 
Nor should it—" 
"Does he know?" asked Colt, looking out into the long night. 
"He wasn't lying this time. Shall we do it?" 
"We shall. This waiting blasts my ethereal soul." 
"You're an impatient cuss," she smiled at him. "You haven't seen me dance yet. I 
was a well-paid dancer once, It should be worth your while." 
"Dance, then," he said, settling himself against a rock. "You make the music. 
You know how." 
He thought for a moment, then uncovered another bit of technique known to the 
dead. He began to send out mentally Debussy's Claire de Lune. She heard it, 
smiled at him as she caught the music, and began to dance. 
Her body was not very good; certainly not as good as it had been. But as he 
studied the dancing, sometimes with eyes closed so that he could hear only the 
rustle of her feet on the snow and sometimes so abstracted that he could hear 
only the displacement of air as she moved, Colt was deeply stirred. 
He tuned in on her thoughts, picking out the swiftly running stream, the 
skittering little point of consciousness that danced over them. 
"Now I am a swan," said her thoughts while she danced to the music. "Now I am a 
swan, dying for love of the young prince who has wandered through the courtyard. 
And now I am the prince, very pretty and as dumb as a prince could be. Now I am 
his father the King, very wrathy and pompous. And now, and through it all, I was 
really the great stone gargoyle on the square top tower who saw all and grinned 
to himself." 
She pirouetted to an end with the music, bowing with a stylized, satirically 
cloying grace. He applauded lustily. 
"Unless you have other ideas," she said, "I would like to dance again." Her face 
was rosy and fresh-looking. 
He began to construct music in his mind while she listened in and took little 
tentative steps. Colt started with a split-log-drum's beat, pulse speed, low and 
penetrating. He built up another rhythm overlaying it, a little slower, with 
wood-block timbre. It was louder than the first. Rapidly he constructed a series 
of seven polyrhythmic layers, from the bottom split-log pulse to a small, 
incessant snare-drum beat. 
"I'm an animal now, a small, very arboreal animal. I can prick up my ears; my 
toes are opposed, so I can grasp a branch." 
He added a bone-xylophone melody, very crude, of only three tones. 
"My eyes are both in front of my face. My vision has become stereoscopic. I can 
sit up and handle leaves. I can pick insects from the branches I live in." 
Colt augmented the xylophone melody with a loud, crude brass. 
Valeska thought, "I'm bigger—my arms are longer. And I often walk little 
distances on the ground, on my feet and my arm knuckles." 
Colt added a see-sawing, gutty-sounding string timbre, in a melody opposed to 
the xylophone and the brass. 
"I'm bigger—bigger—too big for trees. And I eat grubs as well as leaves—and I 
walk almost straight up—see me walk!" 
He watched her swinging along the ground, apish, with the memory of brachiation 
stamped in every limb. He modified the bone-xylophone's timbre to a woody ring, 
increased the melodic range to a full octave. 
With tremendous effort Valeska heaved over an imaginary rock, chipped at it. 
"I'm making flint hand-axes. They kill animals bigger than I am—tigers and 
bears—see my kitchen heap, high as a mountain, full of their bones!" 
He augumented with a unison choir of woodwinds and a jangling ten-string harp. 
"I eat bread and drink beer and I pray to the Nile—I sing and I dance, I farm 
and I bake—see me spin rope! See me paint pictures on plaster!" 
A wailing clarinet mourned through the rhythmic sea. Valeska danced statelily. 
"Yes—now I'm a man's woman —now I'm on top of the heap of the ages—now I'm a 
human—now I'm a woman. . . ." 
Colt stopped short the whole accumulation of percussion, melody and harmony in a 
score of timbres, cutting in precisely a single blues piano that carried in its 
minor, sobbing-sad left hand all the sorrow of ages; in the serpentine-stabbing 
chords splashed gold by the right sang the triumph of man in his glory of metal 
and stone. 
Valeska danced, sending out no words of what the dance was, for it was she, what 
she dreamed, what she had been, and what she was to be. The dance and the music 
were Valeska, and they ended when she was in Colt's arms. The brandy bottle 
dropped from his grip and smashed on the rock. 
Their long, wordless communion was broken by a disjointed yell from the two 
sides of the ridge as fighting forces streamed to battle. From the Bad caravan 
came the yell, "Kill and maim! Destroy! Destroy!" And the Good caravan cried, 
"In the name of the right! For sanctity and peace on Earth! Defend the right!" 
Colt and Valeska found themselves torn apart in the rush to attack, swept into 
the thick of the fighting. The thundering voices from above, and the lightning, 
were almost continuous. The blinding radiance rather than the night hampered the 
fighting. 
They were battling with queer, outlandish things—frying pans, camp stools, table 
forks. One embattled defender of the right had picked up a piteously bleating 
kid and was laying about him with it, holding its tiny hooves in a bunch. 
Colt saw skulls crack, but nobody gave way or even fell. The dead were immortal. 
Then what in blazes was this all about? There was something excruciatingly wrong 
somewhere, and he couldn't fathom what it was. 
He saw the righteous and amiable Raisuli Batar clubbing away with a table leg; 
minutes later he saw the fiendish and amiable chief of the Bad men swinging 
about him with another. 
Vaguely sensing that he ought perhaps to be on the side of the right, he picked 
up a kettle by the handle and looked about for someone to bean with it. He saw a 
face that might be that of a fiend strayed from Hell, eyes rolling hideously, 
teeth locked and grinding with rage as its owner carved away at a small-sized 
somebody with a broken-bladed axe. 
He was on the verge of cracking the fiend out of Hell when it considered itself 
finished with its victim, temporarily at least, and turned to Colt. "Hello, 
there," snapped the fiend. "Show some life, will you?" 
Colt started as he saw that the fiend was Lodz, one of the Good men. Bewildered, 
he strayed off, nearly being gouged in the face by Grandfather T'ang, who was 
happily swinging away with a jagged hunk of suntori bottle, not bothering to 
discriminate. 
But how did one discriminate? It came over him very suddenly that one didn't and 
couldn't. The caravaneers were attacking each other. At that moment there came 
through a mental call from Valeska, who had just made the same discovery on her 
own. They joined and mounted a table, inspecting the sea of struggling human 
beings. 
"It's all in the way you look at them," said Valeska softly. 
Colt nodded. "There was only one caravan," he said in somber tones. 
He experimented silently a bit, discovering that by a twiddle of the eyes he 
could convert Raisuli Batar into the Bad caravan leader, turban and all. And the 
same went for the Bad idol—a reverse twiddle converted it into the smiling, 
blue-eyed guardian of the Good caravan. It was like the optical illusion of the 
three shaded cubes that point one way or the other, depending on how you decide 
to see them. 
"That was what Grandfather rang meant," said the woman. Her eyes drifted to the 
old man. He had just drained another bottle; with a businesslike swing against a 
rock he shattered the bottom into a splendid cutting tool and set to work again. 

"There's no logic to it," Colt said forlornly. "None at all." Valeska smiled 
happily and hugged him. 
Colt felt his cheek laid open. 
"Bon soir. Guten Tag. Buon giorno. Buenos dias. Bon soir. Guten Tag. Buon—" 
"You can stop that," said Colt, struggling to his feet. He cracked his head 
against a strut, hung on dazedly. "Where's—" 
He inspected the two men standing before him with healthy grins. They wore the 
Red Army uniform under half-buttoned flying suits. The strut that had got in his 
way belonged to a big, black helicopter; amidships was blazoned the crimson star 
of the Soviet Union. 
"You're well and all that, I fawncy?" asked one of the flyers. "We spotted you 
and landed—bunged up your cheek a bit—Volanov heah would try to overshoot." 
"I'm fine," said Colt, feeling his bandage. "Why'n hell can't you Russians learn 
to speak American?" 
The two soldiers exchanged smiles and glances. They obviously considered Colt 
too quaint for words. "Pile in, old chap. We can take you as far as Bokhara—we 
fuel at Samarkand. I—ah—suppose you have papers?" 
Colt leaned against the strut and wearily shoved over his credentials. 
Everything would be all right. Chungking was in solid with the Reds at the 
moment. Everything would be all right. 
"I fawncy," said Volanov, making conversation while his partner handled the 
helicopter vanes, "youah glad to see the lawst of all that." 
Colt looked down, remembered, and wept. 
"I find," I said as dryly as possible, "a certain familiarity—a nostalgic ring, 
as it were—toward the end of your tale." I was just drunk enough to get fancy 
with The Three-Cornered Scar. 
"You do?" he asked. He leaned forward across the table. "You do?" 
"I've read widely in such matters," I hastily assured him, pouring another glass 
of red wine. 
He grinned glumly, sipping. "If I hadn't left half my spirit with Valeska that 
night I was dead," he remarked conversationally, "I'd smash your face in." 
"That may be," I assented gracefully. 
But I should say that he drank less like half a spirit than half a dozen. 
 
MS. Found in a Chinese Fortune Cookie
 
 
   They say I am mad, but I am not mad—damn it, I've written and sold two 
million words of fiction and I know better than to start a story like that, but 
this isn't a story and they do say I'm mad—catatonic schizophrenia with 
assaultive episodes—and I'm not. (This is clearly the first of the Corwin 
Papers. Like all the others it is written on a Riz-La cigarette paper with a 
ball point pen. Like all the others it is headed: Urgent, Finder please send to 
C. M. Kornbluth, Wantagh, N. Y. Reward! I might comment that this is typical of 
Corwin's generosity with his friends' time and money, though his attitude is at 
least this once justified by his desperate plight. As his longtime friend and, 
indeed, literary executor, I was clearly the person to turn to. C.M.K.) I have 
to convince you, Cyril, that I am both sane and the victim of an enormous 
conspiracy—and that you are too, and that everybody is. A tall order, but I am 
going to try to fill it by writing an orderly account of the events leading up 
to my present situation. (Here ends the first paper. To keep the record clear I 
should state that it was forwarded to me by a Mr. L. Wilmot Shaw, who found it 
in a fortune cookie he ordered for dessert at the Great China Republic 
Restaurant in San Francisco. Mr. Shaw suspected it was "a publicity gag" but 
sent it to me nonetheless, and received by return mail my thanks and my check 
for one dollar. I had not realized that Corwin and his wife had disappeared from 
their home at Painted Post; I was merely aware that it had been weeks since I'd 
heard from him. We visited infrequently. To be blunt, he was easier to take via 
mail than face to face. For the balance of this account I shall attempt to avoid 
tedium by omitting the provenance of each paper, except when noteworthy, and its 
length. The first is typical—a little over a hundred words. I have, of course, 
kept on file all correspondence relating to the papers, and am eager to display 
it to the authorities. It is hoped that publication of this account will nudge 
them out of the apathy with which they have so far greeted my attempts to engage 
them. C.M.K.)
   On Sunday, May 13, 1956, at about 12:30 P.M., I learned The Answer. I was 
stiff and aching because all Saturday my wife and I had been putting in young 
fruit trees. I like to dig, but I was badly out of condition from an unusually 
long and idle winter. Creatively, I felt fine. I'd been stale for months, but 
when spring came the sap began to run in me too. I was bursting with story 
ideas; scenes and stretches of dialog were jostling one another in my mind; all 
I had to do was let them flow onto paper.
   When The Answer popped into my head I thought at first it was an idea for a 
story—a very good story. I was going to go downstairs and bounce it off my wife 
a few times to test it, but I heard the sewing machine buzzing and remembered 
she had said she was way behind on her mending. Instead, I put my feet up, 
stared blankly through the window at the pasture-and-wooded-hills View we'd 
bought the old place for, and fondled the idea.
   What about, I thought, using the idea to develop a messy little local 
situation, the case of Mrs. Clonford? Mrs. C. is a neighbor, animal-happy, 
land-poor and unintentionally a fearsome oppressor of her husband and children. 
Mr. C. is a retired brakeman with a pension and his wife insists on his making 
like a farmer hi all weathers and every year he gets pneumonia and is pulled 
through with antibiotics. All he wants is to sell the damned farm and retire 
with his wife to a little apartment in town. All she wants is to mess around 
with her cows and horses and sub-marginal acreage.
   I got to thinking that if you noised the story around with a comment based on 
The Answer, the situation would automatically untangle. They'd get their 
apartment, sell the farm and everybody would be happy, including Mrs. C. It 
would be interesting to write, I thought idly, and then I thought not so idly 
that it would be interesting to try—and then I sat up sharply with a dry mouth 
and a systemful of adrenalin. It would work. The Answer would work.
   I ran rapidly down a list of other problems, ranging from the town drunk to 
the guided-missile race. The Answer worked. Every time.
   I was quite sure I had turned paranoid, because I've seen so much of that 
kind of thing in science fiction. Anybody can name a dozen writers, editors and 
fans who have suddenly seen the light and determined to lead the human race 
onward and upward out of the old slough. Of course The Answer looked logical and 
unassailable, but so no doubt did poor Charlie McGandress's project to unite 
mankind through science fiction fandom, at least to him. So, no doubt, did (I 
have here omitted several briefly sketched case histories of science fiction 
personalities as yet uncommitted. The reason will be obvious to anyone familiar 
with the law of libel. Suffice it to say that Corwin argues that science fiction 
attracts an unstable type of mind and sometimes insidiously undermines its 
foundations on reality. C.M.K.)
   But I couldn't just throw it away without a test. I considered the wording 
carefully, picked up the extension phone on my desk and dialed Jim Howlett, the 
appliance dealer in town. He answered. "Corwin here, Jim," I told him. "I have 
an idea—ooops! The samovar's boiling over. Call me back in a minute, will you?" 
I hung up.
  He called me back in a minute; I let our combination—two shorts and a 
long—ring three times before I picked
up the phone. "What was that about a samovar?" he asked, baffled.
   "Just kidding," I said. "Listen Jim, why don't you try a short story for a 
change of pace? Knock off the novel for a while—" He's hopefully writing a big 
historical about the Sullivan Campaign of 1779, which is our local chunk of the 
Revolutionary War; I'm helping him a little with advice. Anybody who wants as 
badly as he does to get out of the appliance business is entitled to some help.
   "Gee, I don't know," he said. As he spoke the volume of his voice dropped 
slightly but definitely, three times. That meant we had an average quota of 
party-line snoopers listening in. "What would I write about?"
   "Well, we have this situation with a neighbor, Mrs. Clonford," I began. I 
went through the problem and made my comment based on The Answer. I heard one of 
the snoopers gasp. Jim said when I was finished: "I don't really think it's for 
me, Cecil. Of course it was nice of you to call, but—"
   Eventually a customer came into the store and he had to break off.
   I went through an anxious crabby twenty-four hours.
   On Monday afternoon the paper woman drove past our place and shot the 
rolled-up copy of the Pott Hill Evening Times into the orange-painted tube 
beside our mailbox. I raced for it, yanked it open to the seventh page and read:
 
FARM SALE
 
Owing to Ill Health and Age 
Mr. and Mrs. Ronald Clonford 
Will sell their Entire Farm, All 
Machinery and Furnishings and 
All Live Stock at Auction Sat-
urday May 19 12:30 P.M. Rain 
or Shine, Terms Cash Day 
of Sale, George Pfennig,
Auctioneer.
 
   (This is one of the few things in the Corwin Papers which can be 
independently verified. I looked up the paper and found that the ad was run 
about as quoted. Further, I interviewed Mrs. Clonford in her town apartment. She 
told me she "just got tired of farmin', I guess. Kind of hated to give up my 
ponies, but people was beginning to say it was too hard of a life for Ronnie and 
I guess they was right." C.M.K.)
   Coincidence? Perhaps. I went upstairs with the paper and put my feet up 
again. I could try a hundred more piddling tests if I wished, but why waste 
time? If there was anything to it, I could type out The Answer in about two 
hundred words, drive to town, tack it on the bulletin board outside the 
firehouse and—snowball. Avalanche!
   I didn't do it, of course—for the same reason I haven't put down the two 
hundred words of The Answer yet on a couple of these cigarette papers. It's 
rather dreadful—isn't it—that I haven't done so, that a simple feasible plan to 
ensure peace, progress and equality of opportunity among all mankind, may be 
lost to the world if, say, a big meteorite hits the asylum in the next couple of 
minutes. But—I'm a writer. There's a touch of intellectual sadism in us. We like 
to dominate the reader as a matador dominates the bull; we like to tease and 
mystify and at last show what great souls we are by generously flipping up the 
shade and letting the sunshine in. Don't worry. Read on. You will come to The 
Answer in the proper artistic place for it. (At this point I wish fervently to 
dissociate myself from the attitudes Corwin attributes to our profession. He 
had—has, I hope—his eccentricities, and I consider it inexcusable of him to tar 
us all with his personal brush. I could point out, for example, that he once 
laboriously cultivated a 16th Century handwriting which was utterly illegible to 
the modern reader. The only reason apparent for this, as for so many of his 
traits, seemed to be a wish to annoy as many people as possible. C.M.K.)
   Yes; I am a writer. A matador does not show up in the bull ring with a tommy 
gun and a writer doesn't do things the simple, direct way. He makes the people 
writhe a little first. So I called Fred Greenwald. Fred had been after me for a 
while to speak at one of the Thursday Rotary meetings and I'd been reluctant to 
set a date. I have a little speech for such occasions, "The Business of Being a 
Writer"—all about the archaic royalty system of payment, the difficulty of 
proving business expenses, the Margaret Mitchell tax law and how it badly needs 
improvement, what copyright is and isn't. I pass a few galley sheets down the 
table and generally get a good laugh by holding up a Doubleday book contract, 
silently turning it over so they can see how the fine print goes on and on, and 
then flipping it open so they see there's twice as much fine print as they 
thought there was. I had done my stuff for Oswego Rotary, Horseheads Rotary and 
Cannon Hole Rotary; now Fred wanted me to do it for Painted Post Rotary.
   So I phoned him and said I'd be willing to speak this coming Thursday. 
"Good," he said. On a discovery I'd made about the philosophy and technique of 
administration and interpersonal relationships, I said. He sort of choked up and 
said, "Well, we're broadminded here."
   I've got to start cutting this. I have several packs of cigarette papers left 
but not enough to cover the high spots if I'm to do them justice. Let's just say 
the announcement of my speech was run in the Tuesday paper (It was. C.M.K.) and 
skip to Wednesday, my place, about 7:30 P.M. Dinner was just over and my wife 
and I were going to walk out and see how (At this point I wish to insert a 
special note concerning some difficulty I had in obtaining the next four papers. 
They got somehow into the hands of a certain literary agent who is famous for a 
sort of "finders-keepers" attitude more appropriate to the eighth grade than to 
the law of literary property. In disregard of the fact that Corwin retained 
physical ownership of the papers and literary rights thereto, and that I as the 
addressee possessed all other rights, he was blandly endeavouring to sell them 
to various magazines as "curious fragments from Corwin's desk". Like most 
people, I abhor lawsuits; that's the fact this agent lives on. I met his 
outrageous price of five cents a word "plus postage (!)." I should add that I 
have not heard of any attempt by this gentleman to locate Corwin or his heirs in 
order to turn over the proceeds of the sale, less commission. C.M.K.) the new 
fruit trees were doing fine when a car came bumping down our road and stopped at 
our garden fence gate.
   "See what they want and shove them on their way," said my wife. "We haven't 
got much daylight left." She peered through the kitchen window at the car, 
blinked, rubbed her eyes and peered again. She said uncertainly: "It looks 
like—no! Can't be." I went out to the car.
   "Anything I can do for you?" I asked the two men hi the front seat. Then I 
recognized them. One of them was about my age, a why lad in a T-shirt. The other 
man was plump and graying and ministerial, but jolly. They were unmistakable; 
they had looked out at me—one scowling, the other smiling—from a hundred book 
ads. It was almost incredible that they knew each other, but there they were 
sharing a car.
   I greeted them by name and said: "This is odd. I happen to be a writer 
myself. I've never shared the bestseller list with you two, but—"
   The plump ministerial man tut-tutted. "You are thinking negatively," he 
chided me. "Think of what you have accomplished. You own this lovely home, the 
valuation of which has just been raised two thousand dollars due entirely to the 
hard work and frugality of you and your lovely wife; you give innocent pleasure 
to thousands with your clever novels; you help to keep the good local merchants 
going with your patronage. Not least, you have fought for your country in the 
wars and you support it with your taxes."
   The man in the T-shirt said raspily: "Even if you didn't have the dough to 
settle in full on April 15 and will have to pay six per cent per month interest 
on the unpaid balance when and if you ever do pay it, you poor shnook."
   The plump man said, distressed: "Please, Michael—you are not thinking 
positively. This is neither the time nor the place—"
   "What's going on?" I demanded. Because I hadn't even told my wife I'd been a 
little short on the '55 federal tax.
   "Let's go inna house," said the T-shirted man. He got out of the car, brushed 
my gate open and walked coolly down the path to the kitchen door. The plump man 
followed, sniffing our rose-scented garden air appreciatively, and I came last 
of all, on wobbly legs.
   When we filed in my wife said: "My God. It is them."
   The man in the T-shirt said: "Hiya, babe," and stared at her breasts. The 
plump man said: "May I compliment you, my dear, for a splendid rose garden. 
Quite unusual for this altitude."
   "Thanks," she said faintly, beginning to rally. "But it's quite easy when 
your neighbors keep horses."
   "Haw!" snorted the man in the T-shirt. "That's the stuff, babe. You grow 
roses like I write books. Give 'em plenty of—"
   "Michael!" said the plump man.
   "Look, you," my wife said to me. "Would you mind telling me what this is all 
about? I never knew you knew Dr.—"
   "I don't," I said helplessly. "They seem to want to talk to me."
   "Let us adjourn to your sanctum sanctorum," said the plump man archly, and we 
went upstairs. The T-shirted man sat on the couch, the plump fellow sat in the 
club chair and I collapsed on the swivel chair in front of the typewriter. 
"Drink, anybody?" I asked, wanting one myself. "Sherry, brandy, rye, straight 
angostura?"
   "Never touch the stinking stuff," grunted the man in the T-shirt.
   "I would enjoy a nip of brandy," said the big man. We each had one straight, 
no chasers, and he got down to business with: "I suppose you have discovered The 
Diagonal Relationship?"
   I thought about The Answer, and decided that The Diagonal Relationship would 
be a very good name for it, too. "Yes," I said. "I guess I have. Have you?"
   "I have. So has Michael here. So have one thousand, seven hundred and 
twenty-four writers. If you'd like to know who they are, pick the one thousand, 
seven hundred and twenty-four top-income men of the ten thousand free-lance 
writers in this country and you have your men. The Diagonal Relationship is 
discovered on an average of three times a year by rising writers."
   "Writers," I said. "Good God, why writers? Why not economists, psychologists, 
mathematicians—real thinkers?"
   He said: "A writer's mind is an awesome thing, Corwin. What went into your 
discovery of The Diagonal Relationship?"
   I thought a bit. "I'm doing a Civil War thing about Burnside's Bomb," I said, 
"and I realized that Grant could have sent in fresh troops but didn't because 
Halleck used to drive him crazy by telegraphic masterminding of his campaigns. 
That's a special case of The Answer—as I call it. Then I got some data on 
medieval attitudes toward personal astrology out of a book on ancient China I'm 
reading. Another special case. And there's a joke the monks used to write at the 
end of a long manuscript-copying job. Liddell Hart's theory of strategy is about 
half of the general military case of The Answer. The merchandising special case 
shows clearly in a catalog I have from a Chicago store that specializes in 
selling strange clothes to bop-crazed Negroes. They all add up to the general 
expression, and that's that."
   He was nodding. "Many, many combinations add up to The Diagonal 
Relationship," he said. "But only a writer cuts across sufficient fields, 
exposes himself to sufficient apparently unrelated facts. Only a writer has 
wide-open associational channels capable of bridging the gap between astrology 
and, ah, 'bop.' We write in our different idioms"—he smiled at the T-shirted 
man—"but we are writers all. Wide-ranging, omnivorous for data, equipped with 
superior powers of association which we constantly exercise."
   "Well," I asked logically enough, "why on earth haven't you published The 
Diagonal Relationship? Are you here to keep me from publishing it?"
   "We're a power group," said the plump man apologetically. "We have a vested 
interest in things as they are. Think about what The Diagonal Relationship would 
do to writers, Corwin."
   "Sure," I said, and thought about it. "Judas Priest!" I said after a couple 
of minutes. He was nodding again. He said: "Yes. The Diagonal Relationship, if 
generally promulgated, would work out to approximate equality of income for all, 
with incentive pay only for really hard and dangerous work. Writing would be 
regarded as pretty much its own reward."
   "That's the way it looks," I said. "One-year copyright, after all ..."
   (Here occurs the first hiatus in the Corwin Papers. I suspect that three or 
four are missing. The preceding and following papers, incidentally, come from a 
batch of six gross of fortune cookies which I purchased from the Hip Sing 
Restaurant Provision Company of New York City during the course of my 
investigations. The reader no doubt will wonder why I was unable to determine 
the source of the cookies themselves and was forced to buy them from middlemen. 
Apparently the reason is the fantastic one that by chance I was wearing a white 
shirt, dark tie and double-breasted blue serge suit when I attempted to question 
the proprietor of the Hip Sing Company. I learned too late that this is just 
about the unofficial uniform of U. S. Treasury and Justice Department agents and 
that I was immediately taken to be such an agent. "You T-man," said Mr. Hip 
tolerantly, "you get cou't oh-dah, I show you books. Keep ve'y nice books, all 
in Chinese cha'ctahs." After that gambit he would answer me only in Chinese. How 
he did it I have no idea, but apparently within days every Chinese produce 
dealer in the United States and Canada had been notified that there was a new 
T-man named Kornbluth on the prowl. As a last resort I called on the New York 
City office of the Treasury Department Field Investigations Unit in an attempt 
to obtain what might be called un-identification papers. There I was assured by 
Mr. Gershon O'Brien, their Chinese specialist, that my errand was hopeless since 
the motto of Mr. Hip and his colleagues invariably was "Safety First." To make 
matters worse, as I left his office I was greeted with a polite smile from a 
Chinese lad whom I recognized as Mr. Hip's book-keeper. C.M.K.) 
   "So you see," he went on as if he had just stated a major and a minor 
premise, "we watch the writers, the real ones, through private detective 
agencies which alert us when the first teaser appears in a newspaper or on a 
broadcast or in local gossip. There's always the teaser, Corwin, the rattle 
before the strike. We writers are like that. We've been watching you for three 
years now, and to be perfectly frank, I've lost a few dollars wagered on you. In 
my opinion you're a year late."
   "What's the proposition?" I asked numbly. 
   He shrugged. "You get to be a best-seller. We review your books, you review 
ours. We tell your publisher: 'Corwin's hot—promote him. Advertise him.' And he 
does, because we're good properties and he doesn't want to annoy us. You want 
Hollywood? It can be arranged. Lots of us out there. In short, you become rich 
like us and all you have to do is keep quiet about The Diagonal Relationship. 
You haven't told your wife, by the way?"
   "I wanted to surprise her," I said.
   He smiled. "They always do. Writers! Well, young man, what do you say?"
   It had grown dark. From the couch came a raspy voice: "You heard what the doc 
said about the ones that throw in with us. I'm here to tell you that we got 
provisions for the ones that don't."
   I laughed at him.
   "One of those guys," he said flatly.
   "Surely a borderline case, Michael?" said the plump man. "So many of them 
are."
   If I'd been thinking straight I would have realized that "borderline case" 
did not mean "undecided" to them; it meant "danger—immediate action!"
   They took it. The plump man, who was also a fairly big man, flung his arms 
around me and the wiry one approached in the gloom. I yelled something when I 
felt a hypodermic stab my arm. Then I went numb and stupid.
   My wife came running up the stairs. "What's going on?" she demanded. I saw 
her heading for the curtain behind which we keep an aged hair-trigger Marlin .38 
rifle. There was nothing wrong with her guts, but they attacked her where 
courage doesn't count. I croaked her name a couple of times and heard the plump 
man say gently, with great concern: "I'm afraid your husband needs ... help." 
She turned from the curtain, her eyes wide. He had struck subtly and knowingly; 
there is probably not one writer's wife who does not suspect her husband is a 
potential psychotic.
   "Dear—" she said to me as I stood there paralyzed.
   He went on: "Michael and I dropped in because we both admire your husband's 
work; we were surprised and distressed to find his conversation so ... 
disconnected. My dear, as you must know I have some experience through my 
pastorate with psychotherapy. Have you ever—forgive my bluntness—had doubts 
about his sanity?"
   "Dear, what's the matter?" she asked me anxiously. I just stood there, 
staring. God knows what they injected me with, but its effect was to cloud my 
mind, render all activity impossible, send my thoughts spinning after their 
tails. I was insane. (This incident, seemingly the least plausible part of 
Corwin's story, actually stands up better than most of the narrative to one 
familiar with recent advances in biochemistry. Corwin could have been injected 
with lysergic acid, or with protein extracts from the blood of psychotics. It is 
a matter of cold laboratory fact such injections produce temporary psychosis in 
the patient. Indeed, it is on such experimental psychoses that the new 
tranquillizer drugs are developed and tested. C.M.K.)
   To herself she said aloud, dully: "Well, it's finally come. Christmas when I 
burned the turkey and he wouldn't speak to me for a week. The way he drummed his 
fingers when I talked. All his little crackpot ways—how he has to stay at the 
Waldorf but I have to cut his hair and save a dollar. I hoped it was just the 
rotten weather and cabin fever. I hoped when spring came—" She began to sob. The 
plump man comforted her like a father. I just stood there staring and waiting. 
And eventually Mickey glided up in the dark and gave her a needleful too and
   (Here occurs an aggravating and important hiatus. One can only guess that 
Corwin and his wife were loaded into the car, driven somewhere, separated, and 
separately, under false names, committed to different mental institutions.I have 
recently learned to my dismay that there are states which require only the 
barest sort of licensing to operate such institutions. One State Inspector of 
Hospitals even wrote to me in these words: "... no doubt there are some places 
in our State which are not even licenced, but we have never made any effort to 
close them and I cannot recall any statute making such operation illegal. We are 
not a wealthy state like you up North and some care for these unfortunates is 
better than none, is our viewpoint here..." C.M.K.)
   three months. Their injections last a week. There's always somebody to give 
me another. You know what mental hospital attendants are like: an easy bribe. 
But they'd be better advised to bribe a higher type, like a male nurse, because 
my attendant with the special needle for me is off on a drunk. My insanity wore 
off this morning and I've been writing in my room ever since. A quick trip up 
and down the corridor collected the cigarette papers and a tiny ball point pen 
from some breakfast-food premium gadget. I think my best bet is to slip these 
papers out in the batch of Chinese fortune cookies they're doing in the bakery. 
Occupational therapy, this is called. My own o.t. is shoveling coal when I'm 
under the needle. Well, enough of this. I shall write down The Answer, slip down 
to the bakery, deal out the cigarette papers into the waiting rounds of cookie 
dough, crimp them over and return to my room. Doubtless my attendant will be 
back by then and I'll get another shot from him. I shall not struggle; I can 
only wait. THE ANSWER: HUMAN BEINGS RAISED TO SPEAK AN INDO-EUROPEAN LANGUAGE 
SUCH AS ENGLISH HAVE THE FOLLOWING IN
   (That is the end of the last of the Corwin Papers I have been able to locate. 
It should be superfluous to urge all readers to examine carefully any fortune 
cookie slips they may encounter. The next one you break open may contain what my 
poor friend believed, or believes, to be a great message to mankind. He may be 
right. His tale is a wild one but it is consistent. And it embodies the only 
reasonable explanation I have ever seen for the presence of certain books on the 
best-seller list. C.M.K.)