THE MARCHING MORONS











THE MARCHING MORONS

 

 

Some things had not changed.
A potterłs wheel was still a potterłs wheel and clay was still clay. Efim
Hawkins had built his shop near Goose Lake, which had a narrow band of good fat
clay and a narrow beach of white sand. He fired three bottle-nosed kilns with
willow charcoal from the wood lot. The wood lot was also useful for long walks
while the kilns were cooling; if he let himself stay within sight of them, he
would open them prematurely, impatient to see how some new shape or glaze had
come through the fire, andping!the new shape or glaze would be
good for nothing but the shard pile back of his slip tanks.

A business conference was in
full swing in his shop, a modest cube of brick, tile-roofed, as the Chicago-Los
Angeles “rocket" thundered overheadvery noisy, very swept back, very fiery
jets, shaped as sleekly swift-looking as an airborne barracuda.

The buyer from Marshall
Fields was turning over a black-glazed one-liter carafe, nodding approval with
his massive, handsome head. “This is real pretty," he told Hawkins and his own
secretary, Gomez-­Laplace. “This has got lots of what ya call real estÅ‚etic
principles. Yeah, it is real pretty."

“How much?" the secretary
asked the potter.

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

“They are real estÅ‚etic,"
repeated the buyer from Fields. “I will take them all."

“I donÅ‚t think we can do
that, doctor," said the secretary. “TheyÅ‚d cost us $1,350. That would leave
only $532 in our quarterłs budget. And we still have to run down to East
Liverpool to pick up some cheap dinner sets."

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

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

“Garvy-Seabright, that
meat-headed bluenose," the buyer said contemptuously. “He donÅ‚t know nothinÅ‚
about estłetics. Why for donłt he lemme run my own department?" His eye fell on
a stray copy of Whambozambo Comix and he sat down with it. An occasional
deep chuckle or grunt of surprise escaped him as he turned the pages.

Uninterrupted, the potter and
the buyerłs secretary quickly closed a deal for two dozen of the liter carafes.
“I wish we could take more," said the secretary, “but you heard what I told
him. Wełve had to turn away customers for ordinary dinnerware because he shot
the last quar­terÅ‚s budget on some Mexican piggy banks some equally
enthusiastic importer stuck him with. The fifth floor is packed solid with
them."

“IÅ‚ll bet they look mighty estÅ‚etic."

“TheyÅ‚re painted with purple
cacti."

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

The buyer looked up and
rumbled, “AinÅ‚t you dummies through yakkinÅ‚ yet? What goodÅ‚s a seckertary for ifÅ‚n
he donÅ‚t take the bur­den of de-tail offÅ‚n my back, harh?"

“WeÅ‚re all through, doctor.
Are you ready to go?"

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

“Gomez-Laplace," called out
the potter under cover of the noise, “did anything come of the radiation
program they were working on the last time I was on duty at the Pole?"

“The same old fallacy," said
the secretary gloomily. “It stopped us on mutation, it stopped us on
culling, it stopped us on segregation, and now itłs stopped us on hypnosis."

“Well, IÅ‚m scheduled back to
the grind in nine days. Time for an­other firing right now. IÅ‚ve got a new
luster to try. . .“

“IÅ‚ll miss you. I shall be
ęvacationingłrunning the drafting room of the New Century Engineering Corporation
in Denver. TheyÅ‚re go­ing to put up a two-hundred-story office building, and
naturally some­bodyÅ‚s got to be on hand."

“Naturally," said Hawkins
with a sour smile.

There was an ear-piercingly
sweet blast as the buyer leaned on the horn button. Also, a yard-tall jet of
what looked like flame spurted up from the carłs radiator cap; the carłs power
plant was a gas turbine and had no radiator.

“IÅ‚m coming, doctor," said
the secretary dispiritedly. He climbed down into the car and it whooshed off
with much flame and noise.

The potter, depressed,
wandered back up the corduroy road and contemplated his cooling kilns. The rustling
wind in the boughs was obscuring the creak and mutter of the shrinking
refractory brick. Hawkins wondered about the number two kilna reduction fire
on a load of lusterware mugs. Had the clay chinking excluded the air? Had it
been a properly smoky blaze? Would it do any harm if he just took one close?

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

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

 

ERSITY OF CHIC

OGICAL LABO

ELOVED MEMORY OF

KILLED IN ACT

 

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

Well, hell, maybe there was
some around anyway.

He headed lackadaisically for
the second largest hillock and sliced into it with his pick. There was a stone
to undercut and topple into a trench, and then the potter was very glad hełd
stuck at it. His nostrils were filled with the bitter smell and the dirt was
tinged with the ex­citing blue of copper salts. The pick went clang!

Hawkins, puffing, pried up a
stainless steel plate that was quite badly stained and was also marked with
incised letters. It seemed to have pulled loose from rotting bronze; there were
rivets on the back that brought up flakes of green patina. The potter wiped off
the sur­face dirt with his sleeve, turned it to catch the sunlight obliquely
and read:

 

HONEST JOHN BARLOW

Honest John, famed in
university annals, represents a chal­lenge which medical science has not yet
answered: revival of a human being accidentally thrown into a state of
suspended ani­mation.

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

After administration of
the anesthetic, the dentist resorted to his drill. By freakish mischance, a
short circuit in his machine de­livered 220 volts of 60-cycle current into the
patient. (In a dam­age suit instituted by Mrs. Barlow against the dentist, the
University and the makers of the drill, a jury found for the de­fendants.) Mr.
Barlow never got up from the dentistłs chair and was assumed to have died of
poisoning, electrocution or both.

Morticians preparing him
for embalming discovered, however, that their subject wasthough certainly not
livingjust as cer­tainly not dead. The University was notified and a series of
ex­haustive tests was begun, including attempts to duplicate the trance state
on volunteers. After a bad run of seven cases which ended fatally, the attempts
were abandoned.

Honest John was long an
exhibit at the University museum and livened many a football game as mascot of
the Universityłs Blue Crushers. The bounds of taste were overstepped, however,
when a pledge to Sigma Delta Chi was ordered in Ä™03 to “kidnap" Honest John
from his loosely guarded glass museum case and introduce him into the Rachel
Swanson Memorial GirlsÅ‚ Gym­nasium shower room.

On May 22, 2003, the
University Board of Regents issued the following order: “By unanimous vote, it
is directed that the remains of Honest John Barlow be removed from the
University museum and conveyed to the Universityłs Lieutenant James Scott III
Memorial Biological Laboratories and there be securely locked in a specially
prepared vault. It is further directed that all possible measures for the
preservation of these remains be taken by the Laboratory administration and
that access to these re­mains be denied to all persons except qualified
scholars author­ized in writing by the Board. The Board reluctantly takes this action
in view of recent notices and photographs in the nationłs press which, to say
the least, reflect but small credit upon the University."

 

It was far from his field,
but Hawkins understood what had hap­penedan early and accidental blundering
onto the bare bones of the Levantman shock anesthesia, which had since been
replaced by other methods. To bring subjects out of Levantman shock, you let
them have a squirt of simple saline in the trigeminal nerve. Interest­ing. And
now about that bronze He heaved the pick into the rotting green salts,
expecting no resistance, and almost fractured his wrist. Something down
there was solid. He began to flake off the oxides.

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

Hawkins wished he had an
archaeologist with him but didnłt dream of returning to his shop and caffing
one to take over the find. He was an all-around man: by choice, and in his free
time, an artist in clay and glaze; by necessity, an automotive, electronics and
atomic engi­neer who could also swing a project in traffic control, individual
and group psychology, architecture or tool design. He didnłt yell for a
specialist every time something out of his line came up; there were so few with
so much to do.

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

It had been de-aired, thought
Hawkins, and there must have been an inner jacket of glass which had
crystallized through the centuries and quietly crumbled at the first clang of
his pick. He didnłt know what a vacuum would do to a subject of Levantman
shock, but he had hopes, nor did he quite understand what a real estate dealer
was, but it might have something to do with pottery. And anything might
have a bearing on Topic Number One.

He flung his pick out of the
trench, climbed out and set off at a dog-trot for his shop. A little rummaging
turned up a hypo and there was a plastic container of salt in the kitchen.

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

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

The potter found the apex of
the trigeminal nerve with his needlełs point and gave him 60 cc.

In an hour Barlowłs chest
began to pump.

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

“Did it!" muttered Hawkins.

Barlow opened his eyes and
stirred, looked down, turned his hands before his eyes “IÅ‚ll sue!" he
screamed. “My clothes! My fingernails!" A horrid suspicion came over his face
and he clapped his hands to his hairless scalp. “My hair!" he wailed. “IÅ‚ll sue
you for every penny youłve got! That release wonłt mean a damned thing in
courtI didnłt sign away my hair and clothes and fingernails!"

“TheyÅ‚ll grow back," said
Hawkins casually. “Also your epidermis. Those parts of you werenÅ‚t alive, you
know, so they werenłt preserved like the rest of you. Iłm afraid the clothes
are gone, though."

“What is thisthe University
hospital?" demanded Barlow. “I want a phone. No, you phone. Tell my wife IÅ‚m
all right and tell Sam Timmermanhełs my lawyerto get over here right away.
Greenleaf 7-4022. Ow!" He had tried to sit up, and a portion of his pink skin
rubbed against the inner surface of the casket, which was powdered by the
ancient crystallized glass. “What the hell did you guys do, boil me alive? Oh,
youłre going to pay for this!"

“YouÅ‚re all right," said
Hawkins, wishing now he had a reference book to clear up several obscure terms.
“Your epidermis will start growing immediately. YouÅ‚re not in the hospital.
Look here."

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

“Poor Verna," he said at
last. “It doesnÅ‚t say whether she was stuck with the court costs. Do you happen
to know"

“No," said the potter. “All I
know is what was on the plate, and how to revive you. The dentist accidentally
gave you a dose of what we call Levantman shock anesthesia. We havenłt used it
for cen­turies; it was powerful, but too dangerous."

“Centuries . . .“ brooded the
man. “Centuries . . . IÅ‚ll bet Sam swindled her out of her eyeteeth. Poor
Verna. How long ago was it? What year is this?"

Hawkins shrugged. “We call it
7-B-936. Thatłs no help to you. It takes a long time for these metals to
oxidize."

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

 

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

“None yet," sniffed Barlow.
“My first wife didnÅ‚t want them. But Verna wants onewanted onebut weÅ‚re going
to wait untilwe were going to wait until"

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

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

Barlow looked up, outraged.
“How can you be so unfeeling? IÅ‚m a human being like"

The Los Angeles-Chicago
“rocket" thundered overhead and Bar­low broke off in mid-complaint.
“Beautiful!" he breathed, following it with his eyes. “Beautiful!"

He climbed out of the vault,
too interested to be pained by its roughness against his infantile skin. “After
all," he said briskly, “this should have its sunny side. I never was much for
reading, but this is just like one of those stories. And I ought to make some
money out of it, shouldnłt I?" He gave Hawkins a shrewd glance.

“You want money?" asked the
potter. “Here." He handed over a fistful of change and bills. “YouÅ‚d better put
my shoes on. Itłll be about a quarter mile. Oh, and youłreuh, modest?yes,
that was the word. Here." Hawkins gave him his pants, but Barlow was excitedly
counting the money.

“Eighty-five, eighty-sixand itÅ‚s
dollars, too! I thought itÅ‚d be cred­its or whatever they call them. Ä™E
Pluribus Ununił and ęLibertyłjust different faces. Say, is there a catch to
this? Are these real, genuine, honest twenty-two-cent dollars like we had or
just wallpaper?"

“TheyÅ‚re quite all right, I
assure you," said the potter. “I wish youÅ‚d come along. IÅ‚m in a hurry."

The man babbled as they
stumped toward the shop. “Where are we goingThe Council of Scientists, the
World Coordinator or some­thing like that?"

“Who? Oh, no. We call them
ęPresidentł and ęCongress.ł No, that wouldnłt do any good at all. Iłm just
taking you to see some people."

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

“ItÅ‚s about like that. Smart
young fellows. But there arenłt any best sellers any more. People donłt read
much nowadays. WeÅ‚ll find some­thing equally profitable for you to do."

Back in the shop, Hawkins
gave Barlow a suit of clothes, deposited him in the waiting room and called
Central in Chicago. “Take him away," he pleaded. “I have time for one more
firing and he blathers and blathers. I havenłt told him anything. Perhaps we
should just turn him loose and let him find his own level, but therełs a
chance-"

“The Problem," agreed
Central. “Yes, thereÅ‚s a chance."

The potter delighted Barlow
by making him a cup of coffee with a cube that not only dissolved in cold water
but heated the water to boiling point. Killing time, Hawkins chatted about the
“rocket" Bar­low had admired and had to haul himself up short; he had almost
told the real estate man what its top speed really wasalmost, indeed, re­vealed
that it was not a rocket.

He regretted, too, that he
had so casually handed Barlow a couple of hundred dollars. The man seemed
obsessed with fear that they were worthless since Hawkins refused to take a
note or I.O.U. or even a definite promise of repayment. But Hawkins couldnłt go
into details, and was very glad when a stranger arrived from Central.

“Tinny-Peete, from Algeciras,"
the stranger told him swiftly as the two of them met at the door. “Psychist for
Poprob. Polassigned spe­cial overtake Barlow."

“Thank Heaven," said Hawkins.
“Barlow," he told the man from the past, “this is Tinny-Peete. HeÅ‚s going to
take care of you and help you make lots of money."

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

Hawkins, abruptly dismissing
Barlow and The Problem, happily picked the chinking from around the door of the
number two kiln, prying it open a trifle. A blast of heat and the heady, smoky
scent of the reduction fire delighted him. He peered and saw a corner of a
shelf glowing cherry red, becoming obscured by wavering black areas as it lost
heat through the opened door. He slipped a charred wood paddle under a mug on
the shelf and pulled it out as a sample, the hairs on the back of his hand
curling and scorching. The mug crackled and pinged and Hawkins sighed happily.

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

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

“Whataboat!" gasped the man
from the past.

“Boat? No, thatÅ‚s my car."

Barlow surveyed it with awe.
Swept-back lines, deep-drawn com­pound curves, kilograms of chrome. He ran his
hands over the door or was it the door?in a futile search for a handle, and
asked respect­fully, “How fast does it go?"

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

“Wow! My old Chevvy could hit
a hundred on a straightaway, but youłre out of my class, mister!"

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

The psychist climbed down
into the driverłs seat and did something with his feet. The motor started like
lighting a blowtorch as big as a silo. Wallowing around in the cushions, Barlow
saw through a rear­view mirror a tremendous exhaust filled with brilliant white
sparkles.

“Do you like it?" yelled the psychist.

“ItÅ‚s terrific!" Barlow
yelled back. “ItÅ‚s He was shut up as the car pulled out from the bay into the
road with a great voo-ooo-ooom! A gale roared past Barlowłs head, though
the windows seemed to be closed; the impression of speed was ter­rific. He
located the speedometer on the dashboard and saw it climb past 90, 100, 150, 200.

“Fast enough for me," yelled
the psychist, noting that BarlowÅ‚s face fell in response. “Radio?"

He passed over a surprisingly
light object like a football helmet, with no trailing wires, and pointed to a
row of buttons. Barlow put on the helmet, glad to have the roar of air stilled,
and pushed a push­button. It lit up satisfyingly, and Barlow settled back even
farther for a sample of the brave new worldłs supermodern taste in ingenious
entertainment.

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

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

“The show of shows! The supershow!
The super-duper show! The quiz of quizzes! Take It and Stick It!"

There were shrieks of laughter
in the background.

“Here we got the contes-tants
all ready to go. You know how we work it. I hand a contes-tant a
triangle-shaped cutout and like that down the line. Now we got these here
boards, they got cutout places the same shape as the triangles and things, only
theyłre all different shapes, and the first contes-tant that sticks the cutouts
into the boards, he wins.

“Now IÅ‚m gonna innaview the
first contes-tant. Right here, honey. Whatłs your name?"

“Name? Uh"

“Hoddaya like that, folks?
She donłt remember her name! Hah? Would you buy that for a quarter?" The
question was spoken with arch significance, and the audience shrieked, howled
and whistled its appreciation.

It was dull listening when
you didnłt know the punch lines and catch lines. Barlow pushed another button,
with his free hand ready at the volume control.

“latest from Washington.
Itłs about Senator Hull-Mendoza. He is still attacking the Bureau of Fisheries.
The North California Syndi­calist says he got affydavits that John Kingsley-Schultz
is a bluenose from way back. He didnłt publistat the affydavits, but he says
they say that Kingsley-Schultz was saw at bluenose meetings in Oregon State
College and later at Florida University. Kingsley-Schultz says he gotta confess
he did major in fly casting at Oregon and got his Ph.D. in game-fish at
Florida.

“And here is a quote from
Kingsley-Schultz: ęHull-Mendoza donłt know what hełs talking about. He should
drop dead.Å‚ Unquote. Hull­Mendoza says he wonÅ‚t publistat the affydavits to pertect
his sources. He says they was sworn by three former employes of the Bureau
which was fired for in-competence and in-com-pat-ibility by Kingsley-Schultz.

“Elsewhere they was the usual
run of traffic accidents. A three-way pileup of cars on Route 66 going outta Chicago
took twelve lives. The Chicago-Los Angeles morning rocket crashed and exploded
in the Mo-haveMo-javvywhatever-you-call-it Desert. All the 94 people aboard
got killed. A Civil Aeronautics Authority investigator on the scene says that
the pilot was buzzing herds of sheep and didnłt pull out in time.

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

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

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

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

A glowing sign said:

MOOGS!

WOULD YOU BUY IT

FOR A QUARTER?

He didnłt know what Moogs was
or were; the illustration showed an incredibly proportioned girl, 99.9 percent
naked, writhing pas­sionately in animated full color.

The roadside jingle was still
with him, but with a new feature. Radar or something spotted the car and
alerted the lines of the jingle. Each in turn sped along a roadside track, even
with the car, so it could be read before the next line was alerted.

 

IF THEREÅ‚S A GIRL

YOU WANT TO GET

DEFLOCCULIZE

UNROMANTIC SWEAT.

“A*R*M*P*I*T*T*O"

 

Another animated job, in two
panels, the familiar “Before and After." The first said, “Just Any Cigar?" and
was illustrated with a two-person domestic tragedy of a wife holding her nose
while her coarse and red-faced husband puffed a slimy-looking rope. The sec­ond
panel glowed, “Or a VUELTA ABAJO?" and was illustrated with Barlow blushed and
looked at his feet until they had passed the sign.

“Coming into Chicago!" bawled
Tinny-Peete.

Other cars were showing up,
all of them dreamboats.

Watching them, Barlow began
to wonder if he knew what a kilo­meter was, exactly. They seemed to be
traveling so slowly, if you ig­nored the roaring air past your ears and didnÅ‚t
let the speedy lines of the dreamboats fool you. He would have sworn they were
really crawling along at twenty-five, with occasional spurts up to thirty. How
much was a kilometer, anyway?

The city loomed ahead, and it
was just what it ought to be: tower­ing skyscrapers, overhead ramps, landing
platforms for helicopters He clutched at the cushions. Those two copters. They
were going tothey were going tothey He didnłt see what happened because
their apparent collision courses took them behind a giant building.

Screamingly sweet blasts of
sound surrounded them as they stopped for a red light. “What the hell is going
on here?" said Barlow in a shrill, frightened voice, because the braking time
was just about zero, and he wasnÅ‚t hurled against the dashboard. “WhoÅ‚s kidding
who?"

“Why, whatÅ‚s the matter?"
demanded the driver.

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

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

Theyłll track me down, he thought, panting. itłs a secret
police thing. TheyÅ‚ll get youmind-reading machines, television eyes every­where,
afraid youłll tell their slaves about freedom and stuff. They donłt let anybody
cross them, like that story I once read.

Winded, he slowed to a walk
and congratulated himself that he had guts enough not to turn around. That was
what they always watched for. Walking, he was just another business-suited back
among hundreds. He would be safe, he would be safe A hand gripped his shoulder
and words tumbled from a large, coarse, handsome face thrust close to his: “Wassamatta
bumpinninna people likeya owna sidewalk gotta miner slamya jima mushya bassar!"
It was neither the mad potter nor the mad driver.

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

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

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

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

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

“Aaah!" snarled the stranger,
with more contempt and disgust than ferocity. He added an obscenity current in
Barlowłs time, a standard but physiologically impossible directive, and
strutted off hulking his shoulders and balling his fists.

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

The signal changed to green;
the cars kept on coming for about thirty seconds and then dwindled to an
occasional light runner. Bar­low crossed warily and leaned against a vending
machine, blowing big breaths.

Look natural, he told himself. Do something normal.
Buy some­thing from the machine. He fumbled out some change, got a newspaper
for a dime, a handkerchief for a quarter and a candy bar for another
quarter.

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

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

The shop windows wereshop
windows. People still wore and bought clothes, still smoked and bought tobacco,
still ate and bought food. And they still went to the movies, he saw with
pleased surprise as he passed and then returned to a glittering place whose
sign said it was THE BIJOU.

The place seemed to be
showing a triple feature, Babies Are Ter­rible, DonÅ‚t Have Children, and
The Canali Kid.

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

He caught the tail end of The
Canali Kid in three-dimensional, full-color, full-scent production. It
appeared to be an interplanetary saga winding up with a chase scene and a
reconciliation between es­tranged hero and heroine. Babies Are Terrible and
DonÅ‚t Have Chil­dren were fantastic arguments against parenthoodthe
grotesquely exaggerated dangers of painfully graphic childbirth, vicious
children, old parents beaten and starved by their sadistic offspring. The audi­ence,
Barlow astoundedly noted, was placidly chomping sweets and showing no
particular signs of revulsion.

The Coming Attractions drove
him into the lobby. The fanfares were shattering, the blazing colors blinding,
and the added scents stomach heaving.

When his eyes again became
accustomed to the moderate lighting of the lobby, he groped his way to a bench
and opened the newspaper he had bought. It turned out to be The Racing
Sheet, which afflicted him with a crushing sense of loss. The familiar
boxed index in the lower-left-hand corner of the front page showed almost
unbearably that Churchill Downs and Empire City were still in business Blinking
back tears, he turned to the Past Performance at Church­ill. They werenÅ‚t using
abbreviations any more, and the pages because of that were single-column
instead of double. But it was all the sameor was it?

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

What the hell had happened
to everything?

He studied the form of a
five-year-old brown mare in the second and couldnłt make head or tail of it.
Shełd won and lost and placed and showed and lost and placed without rhyme or
reason. She looked like a front runner for a couple of races and then she
looked like a no-good pig and then she looked like a mudder but the next time
it rained she wasnłt and then she was a stayer and then she was a pig again. In
a good five-thousand-dollar allowances event, too!

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

Somebody sat down beside him
and said, “ThatÅ‚s the story."

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

“I was in doubts about telling
you," said the psychist, “but I see you have some growing suspicions of the
truth. Please donÅ‚t get ex­cited. ItÅ‚s all right, I tell you."

“So youÅ‚ve got me," said
Barlow.

“Got you?"

“DonÅ‚t pretend. I can put two
and two together. Youłre the secret police. You and the rest of the aristocrats
live in luxury on the sweat of these oppressed slaves. Youłre afraid of me
because you have to keep them ignorant."

There was a bellow of bright
laughter from the psychist that got them blank looks from other patrons of the
lobby. The laughter didnłt sound at all sinister.

“LetÅ‚s get out of here," said
Tinny-Peete, still chuckling. “You couldnÅ‚t possibly have it more wrong." He
engaged BarlowÅ‚s arm and led him to the street. “The actual truth is that the
millions of workers live in luxury on the sweat of the handful of aristocrats.
I shall probably die before my time of overwork unless" He gave Barlow a
speculative look. “You may be able to help us."

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

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

He yanked Barlow into an
office building lobby and an elevator that, disconcertingly, went whoosh loudly
as it rose. The real estate manłs knees were wobbly as the psychist pushed him
from the ele­vator, down a corridor and into an office.

A hawk-faced man rose from a
plain chair as the door closed be­hind them. After an angry look at Barlow, he
asked the psychist, “Was I called from the Pole to inspect thisthis?"

“Unget updandered. IÅ‚ve deeprobed
etfind quasichance exhim Poprobattackline," said the psychist soothingly.

“Doubt," grunted the
hawk-faced man.

“Try," suggested Tinny-Peete.

“Very well. Mr. Barlow, I
understand you and your lamented had no children."

“What of it?"

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

“As far as I can see," said
Barlow, “youÅ‚re running down the best features of your time. Are you crazy?"

“The rockets arenÅ‚t rockets.
Theyłre turbojetsgood turbojets, but the fancy shell around them makes for a
bad drag. The automobiles have a top speed of one hundred kilometers per houra
kilometer is, if I recall my paleolinguistics, three-fifths of a mileand the
speedom­eters are all rigged accordingly so the drivers will think theyÅ‚re
going two hundred and fifty. The cities are ridiculous, expensive, unsanitary,
wasteful conglomerations of people whoÅ‚d be better off and more pro­ductive if
they were spread over the countryside.

“We need the rockets and
trick speedometers and cities because, while you and your kind were being
prudent and foresighted and not having children, the migrant workers, slum
dwellers and tenant farm­ers were shiftlessly and shortsightedly having
childrenbreeding, breeding. My God, how they bred!"

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

“The attrition of accidents,
illness, wars and such took care of that. Your intelligence was bred out. It is
gone. Children that should have been born never were. The just-average,
theyłll-get-along majority took over the population. The average IQ now is 45."

“But thatÅ‚s far in the
future"

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

“But who are you people?"

“Just peoplereal people.
Some generations ago, the geneticists realized at last that nobody was going to
pay any attention to what they said, so they abandoned words for deeds.
Specifically, they formed and recruited for a closed corporation intended to
maintain and improve the breed. We are their descendants, about three million
of us. There are five billion of the others, so we are their slaves.

“During the past couple of
years IÅ‚ve designed a skyscraper, kept Billings Memorial Hospital here in
Chicago running, headed off war with Mexico and directed traffic at LaGuardia
Field in New York."

“I donÅ‚t understand! Why
donłt you let them go to hell in their own way?"

The man grimaced. “We tried
it once for three months. We holed up at the South Pole and waited. They didnłt
notice it. Some drafting room people were missing, some chief nurses didnłt
show up, minor government people on the nonpolicy level couldnłt be located. It
didnłt seem to matter.

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

“But why didnÅ‚t you
let them kill each other off?"

“Five billion corpses mean
about five hundred million tons of rot­ting flesh."

Barlow had another idea. “Why
donłt you sterilize them?"

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

“I see. Like the marching
Chinese!"

“Who the devil are they?"

“It was auhparadox of my
time. Somebody figured out that if all the Chinese in the world were to line up
four abreast, I think it was, and start marching past a given point, theyłd
never stop because of the babies that would be born and grow up before they
passed the point."

“ThatÅ‚s right. Only instead
of ęa given point,ł make it ęthe largest conceivable number of operating rooms
that we could build and staff.Å‚ There could never be enough."

“Say!" said Barlow. “Those
movies about babieswas that your propaganda?"

“It was. It doesnÅ‚t seem to
mean a thing to them. We have aban­doned the idea of attempting propaganda
contrary to a biological drive."

“So if you work with a
biological drive?"

“I know of none which is
consistent with inhibition of fertility." Barlowłs face went poker blank, the
result of years of careful dis­cipline. “You donÅ‚t, huh? YouÅ‚re the great
brains and you canłt think of any?"

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

“That depends. I sold ten
thousand acres of Siberian tundrathrough a dummy firm, of courseafter the
partition of Russia. The buyers thought they were getting improved building
lots on the out­skirts of Kiev. IÅ‚d say that was a lot tougher than this job."

“How so?" asked the
hawk-faced man.

“Those were normal,
suspicious customers and these are morons, born suckers. You just figure out a
con theyłll fall for; they wonłt know enough to do any smart checking."

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

“You seem to have something
in mind," said the psychist. BarlowÅ‚s poker face went blanker still. “Maybe I
have. I havenłt heard any offer yet."

“ThereÅ‚s the satisfaction of
knowing that youłve prevented Earthłs resources from being so plundered," the
hawk-faced man pointed out, “that the race will soon become extinct."

“I donÅ‚t know that," Barlow
said bluntly. “All I have is your word."

“If you really have a method,
I donłt think any price would be too great," the psychist offered.

“Money," said Barlow.

“All you want."

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

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

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

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

“ItÅ‚s not too much to ask,"
the psychist agreed.

Barlow, sensing a sellerłs
market, said, “Power!"

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

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

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

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

“Ever hear of lemmings?"

“No."

“They arewere, I guess,
since you havenłt heard of themlittle animals in Norway, and every few years
theyłd swarm to the coast and swim out to sea until they drowned. I figure on
putting some lemming urge into the population."

“How?"

“IÅ‚ll save that till I get
the right signatures on the deal."

The hawk-faced man said, “IÅ‚d
like to work with you on it, Barlow. My namełs Ryan-Ngana." He put out his
hand.

Barlow looked closely at the
hand, then at the manÅ‚s face. “Ryan what?"

“Ngana."

“That sounds like an African
name."

“It is. My motherÅ‚s father
was a Watusi."

Barlow didnłt take the hand.
“I thought you looked pretty dark. I donÅ‚t want to hurt your feelings, but I
donłt think Iłd be at my best working with you. There must be somebody else
just as well qualified, IÅ‚m sure."

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

“Very well," Ryan-Ngana told
Barlow. “WeÅ‚ll see what arrange­ment can be made."

“ItÅ‚s not that IÅ‚m
prejudiced, you understand. Some of my best friends"

“Mr. Barlow, donÅ‚t give it
another thought. Anybody who could pick on the lemming analogy is going to be
useful to us."

And so he would, thought
Ryan-Ngana, alone in the office after Tinny-Peete had taken Barlow up to the
helicopter stage. So he would. Poprob had exhausted every rational attempt and
the new Poprobat­tacklines would have to be irrational or subrational. This
creature from the past with his lemming legends and his improved building lots
would be a fountain of precious vicious self-interest.

Ryan-Ngana sighed and
stretched. He had to go and run the San Francisco subway. Summoned early from
the Pole to study Barlow, hełd left unfinished a nice little theorem. Between
interruptions, he was slowly constructing an n-dimensional geometry whose
founda­tions and superstructure owed no debt whatsoever to intuition.

Upstairs, waiting for a
helicopter, Barlow was explaining to Tinny-­Peete that he had nothing against
Negroes, and Tinny-Peete wished he had some of Ryan-Nganałs imperturbability
and humor for the ordeal.

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

The man from the past wasnłt
sure hełd like a dreary waste of ice and cold.

“ItÅ‚s all tight," said the psychist.
“A civilized layout. Warm, pleas­ant. YouÅ‚ll be able to work more efficiently
there. All the facts at your fingertips, a good secretary"

“IÅ‚ll need a pretty big
staff," said Barlow, who had learned from thousands of deals never to take the
first offer.

“I meant a private,
confidential one," said Tinny-Peete readily, “but you can have as many as you
want. Youłll naturally have top-primary-top priority if you really have a
workable plan."

“LetÅ‚s not forget this
dictatorship angle," said Barlow.

He didnłt know that the psychist
would just as readily have prom­ised him deification to get him happily on the
“rocket" for the Pole. Tinny-Peete had no wish to be torn limb from limb; he
knew very well that it would end that way if the population learned from this anachronism
that there was a small elite which considered itself head, shoulders, trunk and
groin above the rest. The fact that this assump­tion was perfectly true and the
fact that the elite was condemned by its superiority to a life of the most
grinding toil would not be con­sidered; the difference would.

The psychist finally put
Barlow aboard the “rocket" with some thirty peoplereal peopleheaded for the
Pole.

Barlow was airsick all the
way because of a posthypnotic sugges­tion Tinny-Peete had planted in him. One
idea was to make him as averse as possible to a return trip, and another idea
was to spare the other passengers from his aggressive, talkative company.

Barlow during the first day
at the Pole was reminded of his first day in the Army. It was the same
now-where-the-hell-are-we-going-to-put-you? business until he took a firm line
with them. Then instead of acting like supply sergeants they acted like hotel
clerks.

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

At dayłs end he reclined in a
snug underground billet with the sixty-mile gales roaring yards overhead and
tried to put two and two to­gether.

It was like old times, he
thoughtlike a coup in real estate where you had the competition by the throat,
like a fifty-percent rent boost when you knew damned well there was no place
for the tenants to move, like smiling when you read over the breakfast orange
juice that the city council had decided to build a school on the ground you had
acquired by a deal with the city council. And it was simple. He would just sell
tundra building lots to eagerly suicidal lemmings, and that was absolutely all
there was to solving The Problem that had these double-domes spinning.

Theyłd have to work out most
of the details, naturally, but what the hell, that was what subordinates were
for. Hełd need specialists in advertising, engineering, communicationsdid they
know anything about hypnotism? That might be helpful. If not, therełd have to
be a lot of bribery done, but hełd make suredamned surethere were unlimited
funds.

Just selling building lots to
lemmings.

He wished, as he fell asleep,
that poor Verna could have been in on this. It was his biggest, most stupendous
deal. Verna--that sharp shyster Sam Immerman must have swindled her.

It began the next day with
people coming to visit him. He knew the approach. They merely wanted to be
helpful to their illustrious visitor from the past and would he help fill them
in about his era, which unfortunately was somewhat obscure historically, and
what did he think could be done about The Problem? He told them he was too old
to be roped any more, and they wouldnłt get any information out of him until he
got a letter of intent from at least the Polar President and a session of the
Polar Congress empowered to make him dictator.

He got the letter and the
session. He presented his program, was asked whether his conscience didnłt
revolt at its callousness, explained succinctly that a deal was a deal and
anybody who wasnłt smart enough to protect himself didnłt deserve
protection"Caveat emptor," he threw in for scholarship, and had to translate
it to “Let the buyer be­ware." He didnÅ‚t, he stated, give a damn about either
the morons or their intelligent slaves; hełd told them his price and that was
all he was interested in.

Would they meet it or
wouldnłt they?

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

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

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

“YouÅ‚ve got the proposition,"
Barlow said. “IÅ‚m not knocking off even ten percent."

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

“Then you can stay up here at
the Pole and try to work it out your­selves. IÅ‚ll get what I want from the
morons. A shrewd operator like me doesnłt have to compromise; I havenłt got a
single competitor in this whole cockeyed moronic era."

Congress waived debate and
voted by show of hands. Barlow won-unanimously.

“You donÅ‚t know how close you
came to losing me," he said in his first official address to the joint Houses.
“IÅ‚m not the boy to haggle; either I get what I ask, or I go elsewhere. The
first thing I want is to see designs for a new palace for menothing
un-ostentatious, either and your best painters and sculptors to start working
on my portraits and statues. Meanwhile, IÅ‚ll get my staff together."

He dismissed the Polar
President and the Polar Congress, telling them that hełd let them know when the
next meeting would be.

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

Mrs. Garvy was resting after
dinner before the ordeal of turning on the dishwasher. The TV, of course, was
on and it said, “Oooh!" long, shuddery and ecstatic, the cue for the Parfum
Assault Criminale spot commercial. “Girls," said the announcer hoarsely,
“do you want your man? ItÅ‚s easy to get himeasy as a trip to Venus."

“Huh?" said Mrs. Garvy.

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

“Ja hear that?" “WhaÅ‚?"

“He said Ä™easy like a trip to
Venus."

“So?"

“Well, I thought ya couldnÅ‚t
get to Venus. I thought they just had that one rocket thing that crashed on the
Moon."

“Aah, women donÅ‚t keep up
with the news," said Garvy righteously, subsiding again.

“Oh," said his wife
uncertainly.

And the next day, on Henryłs
Other Mistress, there was a new character who had just breezed in: Buzz Rentshaw,
Master Rocket Pilot of the Venus run. On HenryÅ‚s Other Mistress, “the
broadcast drama about you and your neighbors, folksy people, ordinary
people, real people!" Mrs. Garvy listened with amazement over a
cooling cup of coffee as Buzz made hay of her hazy convictions.

 

MONA: Darling, itłs so good
to see you again!

BUZZ: You donłt know how
IÅ‚ve missed you on that dreary Venus run.

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

MONA: Was it very dull,
dearest?

BUZZ: Letłs not talk
about my humdrum job, darling. Letłs talk about us.

SOUND: Creaking bed.

 

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

She was still rocking with
laughter at the gag line, “Would you buy it for a quarter?" when the commercial
went on for the detergent pow­der she always faithfully loaded her dishwasher
with on the first of every month.

The announcer displayed
mountains of suds from a tiny piece of the stuff and coyly added, “Of course, Cleano
donłt lay around for you to pick up like the soap root on Venus, but itłs
pretty cheap and itłs almost pretty near just as good. So for us plain folks
who ainłt lucky enough to live up there on Venus, Cleano is the real cleaning
stuff!"

Then the chorus went into
their “Cleano-is-the-stuff" jingle, but Mrs. Garvy didnÅ‚t hear it. She was a
stubborn woman, but it occurred to her that she was very sick indeed. She
didnÅ‚t want to worry her hus­band. The next day she quietly made an appointment
with her family freud.

In the waiting room she
picked up a fresh new copy of Readers Pablum and put it down with a
faint palpitation. The lead article, ac­cording to the table of contents on the
cover, was titled “The Most Memorable Venusian I Ever Met."

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

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

He chanted the antiphonal, “Tut,
my dear girl, what seems to be the trouble?"

“I got like a hole in the
head," she quavered. “I seem to forget all kinds of things. Things like
everybody seems to know and I donłt."

“Well, that happens to
everybody occasionally, my dear. I suggest a vacation on Venus."

The freud stared,
openmouthed, at the empty chair. His nurse came in and demanded, “Hey, you see
how she scrammed? What was the matter with her?"

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

“ItÅ‚s right there," he said.

The nurse looked. “It sure
is," she agreed. “Why shouldnÅ‚t it be?"

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

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

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

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

 

Like many cures of mental
disorders, Mrs. Garvyłs was achieved largely by self-treatment. She disciplined
herself sternly out of the crazy notion that there had been only one rocket
ship and that one a failure. She could join without wincing, eventually, in any
conversa­tion on the desirability of Venus as a place to retire, on its
fabulous floral profusion. Finally she went to Venus.

All her friends were trying
to book passage with the Evening Star Travel and Real Estate Corporation, but
naturally the demand was crushing. She considered herself lucky to get a seat
at last for the two ­week summer cruise. The spaceship took off from a place
called Los Alamos, New Mexico. It looked just like all the spaceships on tele­vision
and in the picture magazines but was more comfortable than you would expect.

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

There was the expected
momentary discomfort at takeoff and then two monotonous days of droning travel
through space to be whiled away in the lounge at cards or craps. The landing
was a routine bump and the voyagers were issued tablets to swallow to immunize
them against any minor ailments.

When the tablets took effect,
the lock was opened, and Venus was theirs.

It looked much like a
tropical island on Earth, except for a blanket of cloud overhead. But it had a
heady, otherworldly quality that was intoxicating and glamorous.

The ten days of the vacation
were suffused with a hazy magic. The soap root, as advertised, was free and
sudsy. The fruits, mostly trop­ical varieties transplanted from Earth, were
delightful. The simple shelters provided by the travel company were more than
adequate for the balmy days and nights.

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

Vacationing was one thing.
Power politics was another.

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

In the American Senate
Chamber, Senator Hull-Mendoza (Synd., N. Cal.) was saying, “Mr. President and
gentlemen, I would be re­miss in my duty as a legislature ifÅ‚n I didnÅ‚t bring
to the attention of the au-gust body I see here a perilous situation which is
fraught with peril. As is well known to members of this au-gust body, the
perfec­tion of space flight has brought with it a situation I can only describe
as fraught with peril. Mr. President and gentlemen, now that swift American
rockets now traverse the trackless void of space between this planet and our
nearest planetarial neighbor in spaceand, gen­tlemen, I refer to Venus, the
star of dawn, the brightest jewel in fair Vulcanłs diadomenow, I say, I want
to inquire what steps are being taken to colonize Venus with a vanguard of
patriotic citizens like those minutemen of yore.

“Mr. President and gentlemen!
There are in this world nations, envious nationsI do not name Mexicowho by
fair means or foul may seek to wrest from Columbiałs grasp the torch of freedom
of space; nations whose low living standards and innate depravity give them an
unfair advantage over the citizens of our fair republic.

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

“Objections will be raised,
for carping critics we have always with us. They will say there isnłt enough
steel. They will call it a cheap giveaway. I say there is enough steel
for one cityłs population to be transferred to Venus, and that is all
that is needed. For when the time comes for the second city to be transferred,
the first, emptied city can be wrecked for the needed steel! And is it a
giveaway? Yes! It is the most glorious giveaway in the history of mankind! Mr.
Presi­dent and gentlemen, there is no time to wasteVenus must be Amer­ican!"

Black-Kupperman, at the Pole,
opened his eyes and said feebly, “The style was a little uneven. Do you think anybodyÅ‚ll
notice?"

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

Hull-Mendozałs bill became
law.

Drafting machines at the
South Pole were busy around the clock and the Pittsburgh steel mills spewed
millions of plates into the Los Alamos spaceport of the Evening Star Travel and
Real Estate Cor­poration. It was going to be Los Angeles, for logistic reasons,
and the three most accomplished psychokineticists went to Washington and
mingled in the crowd at the drawing to make certain that the Los Angeles capsule
slithered into the fingers of the blindfolded Senator.

Los Angeles loved the idea
and a forest of spaceships began to blossom in the desert. They werenłt very
good spaceships, but they didnłt have to be.

A team at the Pole worked at
Barlowłs direction on a mail setup. There would have to be letters to and from
Venus to keep the slightest taint of suspicion from arising. Luckily Barlow
remembered that the problem had been solved once beforeby Hitler. Relatives of
persons incinerated in the furnaces of Lublin or Majdanek continued to get
cheery postal cards.

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

Wreckers from San Francisco,
whose capsule came up second, moved immediately into the city of the angels for
the scrap steel their own flight would require. Senator Hull-Mendozałs
constituents could do no less.

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

Sam and Alma were on their
way shortly.

Poprob got a dividend in
every nation after the emigration had passed the halfway mark. The lonesome
stay-at-homes were unable to bear the melancholy of a low population density;
their conditioning had been to swarms of their kin. After that point it was
possible to foist off the crudest stripped-down accommodations on would-be
emigrants; they didnłt care.

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

Hull-Mendoza, panic stricken
by his presidency over an emptying nation, joined his constituents. The Independence,
aboard which traveled the national government of America, was the most
elaborate of all the spaceshipsbigger, more comfortable, with a lounge that was
handsome, though cramped, and cloakrooms for Senators and Representatives. It
went, however, to the same place as the others and Black-Kupperman killed
himself, leaving a note that stated he “couldnÅ‚t live with my conscience."

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

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

While Rogge-Smith was still
at the door, Barlow snapped, “WhatÅ‚s the meaning of this? Why havenÅ‚t I been
consulted? How far have you people got and why have you been working on
something I havenłt authorized?"

“DidnÅ‚t want to bother you,
Chief," said Rogge-Smith. “It was really a technical matter, kind of a final
cleanup. Want to come and see the work?"

Mollified, Barlow followed
his statistician down the corridor.

“You still shouldnÅ‚t have
gone ahead without my okay," he grumbled. “Where the hell would you people have
been without me?"

“ThatÅ‚s right, Chief. We
couldnłt have swung it ourselves; our minds just donłt work that way. And all
that stuff you knew from Hitlerit wouldnłt have occurred to us. Like poor Black-Kupperman."

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

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

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

“But IÅ‚m the World Dictator!"

“You bet, Chief. YouÅ‚ll be in
history, all rightbut this is neces­sary, IÅ‚m afraid."

The door was closed.
Acceleration slammed Bariow cruelly to the metal floor. Something broke, and
warm, wet stuff, salty tasting, ran from his mouth to his chin. Arctic sunlight
through a port suddenly became a fierce lancet stabbing at his eyes; he was out
of the at­mosphere.

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

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








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