CATIOM 



KNOW THIS EMBLEM 
THE DISCHARGED 
VETERAN WEARS 
THIS AS HE WORE 
HIS UNIFORM ... 
WITH HONOR! 







Get after 

Infectious Dandruff 

with 

LISTERINE 

ANTISEPTIC 



Quick Germicidal Action Kills the "Bottle 
Bacillus" by millions, and Helps to Re- 
store Scalp to Normal Condition. 

It there’s a telltale shower of excess flakes 
amt scales when vou cotrih your hair . . . 
take heed 

Thev can he evidence that a case ot infec- 
tious dandruff is getting started anil mav he 
well on its way. 

This is no time for “over-night” remedied, 
that hav e no germ-killing power. I he emer- 
gency calls for real germicidal action and 
massage — right now! 



the germs themselves. Kills literally millions 
ot the threatening “bottle bacillus” before 
thev can multiply further. Meantime those 
nasty flakes ami scales that distress vou so 
begin to disappear, and that painful itching 
is quickly relieved, l our scalp glows and 
tingles with a new feeling ot health. Your 
hair feels wonderfully fresh. The treatment 
is as simple and easy as it is delightful. 

You simply . douse full strength Listerine 
Antiseptic on the scalp and follow with vig- 
orous, rotary, fingertip massage for several 
minutes. Thousands who are not troubled 
with infectious dandruff use Listerine Anti- 



Kills "Bottle Bacillus" 

Start immediately with Listerine Antiseptic 
twice a day, a tested treatment which has 



septic as a precaution against it, making it 
a part ot their usual hair- washing. 

Lambkrt Pharmacal Co., St. Louis, Mo. 



brought help to so many and which 
mav bring help to you. Remember, 
this is the treatment that in clinical 
tests brought improvement, or 
complete relief, to 76% ot dan- 
druff sufferers in 30 days. 

Listerine Antiseptic gets after 



The TREATMENT 

WOMEN: Part the hair at various places, 
and apply Listerine Antiseptic. MEN: 
Douse full strength Listerine on the sculp 
morning and night. Always follow with 
vigorous and persistent massage. Listerine 
is the same anriseptic that has been fa- 
mous tor more than 60 years in the field 
of oral hygiene. 



the tested treatment 



MAKING YOUR WISHES 
COME TRUE . . • 



One wish has been fulfilled. Won by 
years of deadly struggle. With 
God’s help, we have prevailed. 

Now we have a chance to make an* 
other wish come true. For most of us, 
the outlook is a bright one. If we will . 
simply use the brains, the will, the> 
energy, the enterprise... the materials 
and resources ... with which we won 
our war, we can’t fail to win the peace 
and to make this the richest, happiest 
land the world has known. 

Your wishes have been wrapped in 
that bright outlook. Your wish for a 
cottage by a lake. For your boy’s col- 
lege education. For a trip you long to 
take. For a “cushion” against emer- 
gencies and unforeseen needs. 

You cam make those wishes come 
true by buying bonds today ... buying 
them regularly . . . and holding on to 
them in spite of all temptation. 

There’s no safer, surer investment in 




the world. You can count on getting 
back $4 for every $3 you put in — aa 
surely as you can count on being a 
day older tomorrow. 

So why not be patriotic and smart 
at the same time? 



FULFILL YOUR WISH-BUY EXTRA BONDS 

IN THE GREAT VICTORY LOAN! 

STREET & SMITH PUBLICATIONS, INC. 



TMs is anofliciut V. SATreasmy adrertisement — prepared under auspices of Treasury Department 
and War Adcertisini Council 





Editor 

JOHN W. CAMPBELL, JR. 





bi V. A Pat #*. 



CONTENTS 

DECEMBER, 1945 VOL, XXXVI, NO. 5 

NOVELETTES 

BEGGARS IN VELVET, by hcwUt Padgett * * T 
TROUBLE TIMES TWO, by George 0 . Smith . . 125 

SHORT STORY 

ORDERS, by Malcolm Jameson ....... 47 

SERIAL 

THE MULE, by Isaac Asimov iJO 

Conclusion 



ARTICLE 

ATOMIC POWER PLANT 99 

READERS' DEPARTMENTS 

THE EDITOR’S PAGE 0 

IN TIMES TO COME ........ 98 

THE ANALYTICAL LABORATORY .... 98 

BRASS TACKS 169 



COYER BY TIMMINS 

Illnwtratlons by Orban, Raymond and William* 



lb* editorial contests bare not been published before on protected Hr 
copyright end cannot be reprinted without publisher's permission. AH iterleo 
In this magazine an Mon. No osteal genes* art designated by si see or 
character. Ac, similarity la coincidental. 

Monthly publication issued by Street A Smith Publications, bwqcM 
122 Bast 42nd Street, New York 17, N. T. Alien L. Onmanr, President; 
Herald H. Smith, Vice President and Treasurer: Henry W. Balaton, Vice 
President and Secretary. Copyright, 1945, is !>. 8. ,1. and Cheat Britain 
by Street k Sfflitb Publications, Iae. Beentered as Second-claa Matter, 
February 1, 1938, at the Post Office at New York, under Act of Congress 
oi March 3, 1879. Subscriptions to Countiieo in Pan American Union, 
*2.75 per yean elsewhere, $3.26 p« year. We ratines accept responsibility 
for unsolicited manuscripts or artwork. Any Kstalal submitted must includt 
return postage, 

*2.50 per Year I* U.S. A. Printed i* >he 0. 8. A 25s psr Ben 

NEXT ISSUE ON SALE DECEMBER 18, 1945 




Atoms Won’t Do Everything 



There’s a rather wild rash of 
speculation on the atomic age in 
nearly all the magazines now. It’s 
due to a rather curious situation, 
wherein practically no one who 
hasn’t read science-fiction for the 
last ten years has any really long- 
term considered ideas on the sub- 
ject. Since the science-fictioneers 
have, by the nature of the medium, 
covered very long periods of time 
on a rather vaguely undeclared 
time-scale, the relative periods dur- 
ing which different phases of atomic 
equipment might become available 
remains decidedly obscure. 

Let’s try to figure out what atomic 
power can do and when the device 
involved might become available at 
how much cost. 

To begin with, size has very 
peculiar effects in atomic consider- 
ations. Practically any ordinary- 
sized lump of matter contains, to 
all practical purposes, an infinite 
number of atoms. At any rate, the 
number is so high as to make the 
laws of statistical mechanics on 
which atomic reactions depend per- 
fectly applicable. Therefore, gen- 
erally speaking, any ordinary sized 
lump of matter is going to behave 
approximately as an infinite mass 
of that matter would. 

There are two types of excep- 
tions to this. When the atomic re- 
action involves a chain reaction, the 
high velocity atomic particles must 
be utilized, and, since those enor- 
mously fast-moving particles can 
travel considerable distances before 

ATOMS WON’T DO EVERYTHING 



being absorbed, the mass involved 
must be larger than the average 
range of penetration of the released 
particles. The critical-mass effect, 
by which the atomic bomb is de- 
tonated, depends on that factor. But, 
once the critical mass is exceeded, 
all larger masses do precisely the 
same thing — but more heartily. 

The other type of exception is a 
variant of this one really; in the 
uranium pile, the high-speed neu- 
trons must be withdrawn from the 
mixture of uranium isotopes, slowed 
to thermal speed, and only then 
returned to the mixture. The rea- 
son is that at twenty-five-volt ener- 
gies, the neutrons would be ab- 
sorbed in U-238 without producing 
fission ; they must be slowed to five 
volts or less before reacting with 
U-235. In slowing from the high 
speeds of the newly-ejected neu- 
trons to the five-volt speed, the 
speed must at some point pass 
through the twenty-five-volt range. 
If the slowing takes place in 
uranium, the neutrons would be ab- 
sorbed without aiding the continua- 
tion of the fission process. For 
this reason, the fast neutrons must 
be withdrawn from the uranium, 
slowed to five-volt speeds, and then 
returned. This is effected by 
the use of small lumps of uranium 
scattered through large blocks 
of neutron-slowing, nonabsorbing 
graphite. This combination has very 
definite size effects ; if the pile isn’t 
large enough, the escape of neutrons 
from its surfaces exceeds produc- 

5 




tion, and the reaction halts. 

We have the atomic bomb. The- 
oretically at least, we can use the 
atomic pile as a source of heat and 
power — particularly if, instead of 
graphite, we use heavy-water as the 
neutron-slower. The heavy-water 
could be used as the boiler water 
to drive a turbine. The use of 
heavy water makes for a much more 
compact pile, and a more efficient 
one, since heavy hydrogen slows 
neutrons more quickly than the 
more massive graphite atoms. 

But whether you use graphite or 
water, the operation of a uranium 
pile is attended by the most violent 
sort of gamma radiation, and 
quantities of virulently poisonous 
radioactive elements are produced. 
The whole pile must be shielded 
in massive ray-absorbing shielding, 
and neutron-absorbing back-up 
layers beyond that. Since the small- 
est pile is large — an experimental 
pile, too small to be self-maintain- 
ing was set up at Columbia; it was 
an eight-foot cube, and contained 
six tons of uranium — the pile 
method of developing power isn’t 
practicable for any small-scale 
power applications. A somewhat 
smaller pile could be used if purified 
U-235 were used instead of the 
mixed isotopes of natural uranium 
— but if the pile is too small, the 
uncontrollable fast-neutron reaction 
of the atomic bomb might take over, 
instead of the reliable, controllable 
slow-neutron reaction. The neu- 
trons must be slowed between uran- 
ium lumps, and that takes distance. 

So uranium piles could be used 
for powering fixed power plants 

« 



supplying large cities and metropoli- 
tan areas. They will be expensive, 
probably more expensive than coal 
plants of equal installed generation 
capacity. The fuel however will 
probably have the unique distinction 
of being more valuable as an ash 
than as a fuel! For the big, fixed 
power installations will not use 
purified' and separated U-235 or the 
equally vigorous plutonium as fuel; 
they’ll use the natural uranium 
isotopes, and pass on their burned- 
down uranium slugs to extraction 
plants which con extract the even 
more valuable plutonium, and re- 
turn the still-unused portion of the 
uranium. The fixed plants will be 
able to serve as power-generators 
and as plutonium producers. 

The plutonium and to a lesser 
extent, probably, “enriched uran- 
ium,” containing an artificially in- 
creased percentage of U-235, will 
be used for mobile power installa- 
tions, where smaller, less massive 
pile structures are desirable. The 
mobile installations will be mobile 
only in the sense that the Army and 
Navy uses the term. The Army 
classifies anything which can be 
moved in a fleet of trucks as 
“mobile;” the Navy produces high 
mobility in fifty- thousand-ton battle- 
wagons. Uranium pile power may 
well be available in large ships — ten 
thousand tons and larger — and pos- 
sibly in locomotives. At some time 
in the not-immediate future, gigantic 
aircraft, capable of carrying a one 
hundred-ton burden of power plant, 
might be developed to use uranium 
pile power. 

The Editor. 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




Beggars In Velvet 



by LEWIS PADGETT 




The B oldies lived always in the shadow of danger; mutations such 
as they were naturally hated by the normal humans — and to make 
matters worse, the paranoid members of their own type were on 
the warpath! And no one could know when they would be betrayed — 



Illustrated 

I. 

It was like stepping on a snake. 
The thing, concealed in fresh, green 
grass, squirmed underfoot and 
turned and struck venomously. But 
the thought was not that of reptile 
or beast; only man was capable of 
the malignance that was. really, a 
perversion of intellect. 

Burkhalter’s dark face dicf not 
change ; his easy stride did not alter. 



by Orban 

But his mind had instantly drawn 
back from that blind malevolence, 
alert and ready, while all through 
the village Baldies paused imper- 
ceptibly in their work or conversa- 
tion as their minds touched Burk- 
halter’s. 

No human noticed. 

Under bright morning sunlight 
Redwood Street curved cheerful 
and friendly before Burkhalter, But 



BEGGARS IN VELVET 



T 




a breath of uneasiness slipped along 
it, the same cool, dangerous wind 
that had been blowing for days 
through the thottghts of every tele- 
path in Sequoia. Ahead were a 
few early shoppers, some children 
on their way to school, a group 
gathered outside the barber shop, 
one of the doctors from the hospital. 

Where is he? 

The answer came swiftly. Can’t 
locate him. Near you, though — 

Someone — a woman, the over- 
tones of her thought showed — sent 
a message tinged with emotional 
confusion, almost hysterical. One 
of the patients from the hospital — 

Instantly the thoughts of the oth- 
ers closed reassuringly around her, 
warm with friendliness and com- 
fort. Even Burkhalter took time 
to send a clear thought of unity. 
He recognized among the others 
the cool, competent personality of 
Duke Heath, the Baldy priest- 
medic, with its subtle psychological 
shadings that only another telepath 
could sense. 

It’s Self ridge, Heath told the 
woman, while the other Baldies lis- 
tened. He’s just drunk. I think 
I’m nearest, Burkhalter. I’m com- 
ing. 

A helicopter curved overhead, its 
freight-gliders swinging behind it, 
stabilized by their gyroscopes. It 
swept over the western ridge and 
was gone toward the Pacific. As 
its humming died, Burkhalter could 
hear the muffled roar of the cataract 
up the valley. He was vividly con- 
scious of the waterfall’s feathery 
whiteness plunging down the cliff, 
of the slopes of pine and fir and 

8 



redwood around Sequoia, of the 
distant noise of the cellulose mills. 
He focused on these clean, familiar 
things to shut out the sickly foul- 
ness that blew from Selfridge’s 
mind to his own. Sensibility and 
sensitivity had gone hand in hand 
with the Baldies, and Burkhalter 
had wondered more than once how 
Duke Heath managed to maintain 
his balance in view of the man’s 
work among the psychiatric pa- 
tients at the hospital. The race of 
Baldies had come too soon; they 
were not aggressive; but race- 
survival depended on competition. 

He’s in the tavern, a woman’s 
thought said. Burkhalter automa- 
tically jerked away from the mes- 
sage ; he knew the mind from which 
it came. Logic told him instantly 
that the source didn’t matter — in 
this instance. Barbara Pell was a 
paranoid ; therefore an enemy. But 
both paranoids and Baldies were 
desperately anxious to avoid any 
open break. Though their ultimate 
goals lay worlds apart, yet their 
paths sometimes paralleled. 

But already it was too late. Fred 
Selfridge came out of the tavern, 
blinked against the sunlight, and 
saw Burkhalter. The trader’s thin, 
hollow-cheeked face twisted into a 
sour grin. The blurred malignance 
of his thought drove before him as 
he walked toward Burkhalter, and 
one hand kept making little darts 
toward the misericordia swung at 
his belt. 

He stopped before Burkhalter, 
blocking the Baldy’s progress. His 
grin broadened. 

Burkhalter had paused. A dry 

A KTOt’XDlNO SO I BN OB- FICTION 




panic tightened his throat. He was 
afraid, not for himself, but for his 
race, and every Baldy in Sequoia 
knew that — and watched. 

He said “Morning, Fred.” 

Selfridge hadn’t shaved that 
morning. Now he rubbed his 
stubbled chin and let his eyelids 
droop. “Mr. Burkhalter,” he said. 
“Consul Burkhalter. Good thing 
you remembered to wear a cap this 
morning. Skinheads catch cold 
pretty easy." 

Play for time, Duke Heath 
ordered. I’m coming. I’ll fix it. 

“I didn’t pull any wires to get 
this job, Fred,” Burkhalter said. 
"The Towns made me consul. Why 
blame me for it?” 

“You pulled wires, all right,” 
Selfridge said. “I know graft 
when I see it. You were a school- 
teacher from Modoc or some hick 
town. What the devil do you know 
about Hedgehounds ?” 

“Not as much as you do,” Burk- 
halter admitted. “You’ve had the 
experience.” 

"Sure. Sure I have. So they 
take a half-baked teacher and make 
him consul to the Hedgehounds. A 
greenhorn who doesn’t even know 
those bichos have got cannibal 
tribes. I traded with the woods- 
men for thirty years, and I know' 
how to handle ’em. Are you going 
to read ’em pretty little stories out 
of books?” 

“I’ll do what I'm told. I’m not 
the boss.” 

“No. But maybe your friends 
are. Connections! If I’d had the 
same connections you’ve got, I’d be 
sitting on my tail like you, pulling 

BEGGARS IN VELVET 



in credits for the same work. Only 
I’d do that work better — a lot 
better.” 

"I’m not interfering with your 
business,” Burkhalter said. “You’ve 
still trading, aren’t you? I’m mind- 
ing my own affairs.” 

“Are you? How do I know 
what you tell the Hedgehounds?” 
“My records are open to any- 
body.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Sure. My job’s just to promote 
peaceful relations with the Hedge- 
hounds. Not to do any trading, ex- 
cept what they want — and then I 
refer ’em to you.” 

“It sounds fine,” Selfridge said. 
“Except for one thing. You can 
read my mind and tell the Hedge- 
hounds all about my private busi- 
ness.” 

Burkhalter’s guard slipped ; he 
couldn’t have helped it. He had 
stood the man’s mental nearness as 
long as he could, though it was like 
breathing foul air. “Afraid of 
that?” he asked, and regretted the 
words instantly. The voices in his 
mind cried: Careful! 

Selfridge flushed. “So you do 
it after all, eh? All that fine talk 
about you skinheads respecting peo- 
pile’s privacy — sure! No wonder 
you got the consulate! Reading 
minds — ” 

“Hold on,” Burkhalter said. 
“I’ve never read a non-Baldy’s 
mind in my life. That’s the truth.” 
“Is it ?” the trader sneered. “How 
the devil do I know if you’re lying? 
But you can look inside my head 
and see if I’m telling the truth. 
What you Baldies need is to be 

• 




taught your place, and for two coins 
I’d—” 

Burkhalter’s mouth felt stiff. “I 
don’t duel” he said, with an effort. 
“I won’t duel.” 

“Yellow,” Selfridge said, and 
waited, his hand hovering over the 
misericordia’s hilt. 

And there was the usual quan- 
dary. No telepath could possibly 
lose a duel with a non-Baldy, unless 
he wanted to commit suicide. But 
he dared not win, either. The 
Baldies baked their own humble 
pie ; a minority that lives on suffer- 
ance must not reveal its superiority, 
or it won’t survive. One such inci- 
dent might have breached the dyke 
the telepaths had painfully erected 
against the rising tide of intolerance. 

For the dyke was too long. It 
embraced all of mankind. And it 
was impossible to watch every inch 
of that incredible levee of custom, 
orientation and propaganda, though 
the basic tenets were instilled in 
each Baldy from infancy. Some day 
the dyke would collapse, but each 
hour of postponement meant the 
gathering of a little more strength — 

Duke Heath’s voice said “A guy 
like you, Selfridge, would be better 
off dead.” 

Sudden shock touched Burkhal- 
ter. He shifted his gaze to the 
priest-medic, remembering the sub- 
tle tension he had recently sensed 
under Heath’s deep calm, and won- 
dering if this was the blowoff. Then 
he caught the thought in Heath’s 
mind and relaxed, though warily. 

Beside the Baldy was Ralph Self- 
ridge, a smaller, slighter edition of 

10 



Fred. He was smiling rather 
sheepishly. 

Fred Selfridge showed his teeth. 
“Listen, Heath,” he snapped. 
“Don’t try to stand on your posi- 
tion. You haven’t got one. You’re 
a surrogate. No skinhead can be 
a real priest or a medic.” 

“Sure they can,” Heath said. 
“But they don’t.” His round, 
youthful face twisted into a scowl. 
“Listen to me — ” 

“I’m not listening to — ” 

“ Shut up!” 

Selfridge gasped in surprise. He 
was caught flat-footed, undecided 
whether to use his misericordia or 
his fists, and while he hesitated. 
Heath went on angrily. 

“I said you’d be better off dead 
and I meant it! This kid brother 
of yours thinks you’re such a hot- 
shot he imitates everything you do. 
Now look at him! If the epidemic 
hits Sequoia, he won’t have enough 
resistance to work up antibodies, 
and the young idiot won’t let me 
give him preventive shots. I sup- 
pose he thinks he can live on 
whiskey like you !” 

Fred Selfridge frowned at Heath, 
stared at his younger brother, and 
looked back at the priest-medic. 
He shook his head, trying to clear 
it. 

“Leave Ralph alone. He’s all 
right.” 

“Well, start saving for his funeral 
expenses,” Heath said callously. 
“As a surrogate medic, I’ll make a 
prognosis right now —rigor mortis.” 
Sel fridge licked his lips. “Wait 
a minute. The kid isn’t sick, is 
he?” 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




“There’s an epidemic down to- 
ward Columbia Crossing,” Heath 
said. “One of the new virus 
mutations. If it hits us here, 
there’ll be trouble. It’s a bit like 
tetanus, but avertin’s no good. 
Once the nerve centers are hit, noth- 
ing can be done. Preventive shots 
will help a lot, especially when a 
man’s got the susceptible blood-type 
— as Ralph has.” 

Burkhalter caught a command 
from Heath’s mind. 

“You could use some shots your- 
self, Fred,” the priest-medic went 
on. “Still, your blood type is B, 
isn’t it? And you’re tough enough 
to throw off an infection. This 
virus is something new, a mutation 
of the old flu bug — ” 

He went on. Across the street 
someone called Burkhalter’s name, 
and the consul slipped away, un- 
noticed except for a parting glare 
from Selfridge. 

A slini, red-haired girl was wait- 
ing under a tree at the corner, 
Burkhalter grimaced inwardly as 
he saw he could not avoid her. He 
was never quite able to control the 
turmoil of feeling which the very 
sight or thought of Barbara Pell 
stirred up within him. He met her 
bright narrow eyes, full of pin- 
points of light. He saw her round 
slimness that looked so soft and 
would, he thought, be as hard to the 
touch as her mind was hard to the 
thought’s touch. Her bright red 
wig, almost too luxuriant, spilled 
heavy curls down about the square, 
alert face to move like red Medusa- 
locks upon her shoulders when she 



turned her head. Curiously, she 
had a redhead’s typical face, high- 
cheekboned, dangerously alive. 
There is a quality of the red-haired 
that goes deeper than the hair, for 
Barbara Pell had, of course, been 
born as hairless as any Baldy. 

“You’re a fool,” she said softly 
as he came up beside her. “Why 
don’t you get rid of Self ridge?” 
Burkhalter shook his head. “No. 
And don’t you try anything.” 

“I tipped you off that he was in 
the tavern. And I got here before 
anybody else, except Heath. If we 
could work together — ” 

“We can’t.” 

“Dozens of times we’ve saved 
you traitors,” the woman said 
bitterly. “Will you wait until the 
humans stamp out your lives — ” 
Burkhalter walked past her and 
turned toward the pathway that 
climbed the steep ascent leading out 
of Sequoia. He was vividly aware 
of Barbara Pell looking after him. 
He could see heir as clearly as if he 
had eyes in the back of his head, 
her bright, dangerous face, her 
beautiful body, her bright, beau- 
tiful, insane thoughts — 

For behind all their hatefulness, 
the paranoids’ vision was as beauti- 
ful and tempting as the beauty of 
Barbara Pell. Perilously tempting. 
A free world, where Baldies could 
walk and live and think in safety, 
no longer bending the scope of their 
minds into artificial, cramping 
limits as once men bent their backs 
in subservience to their masters. A 
bent back is a humiliating thing, 
but even a serf’s mind is free to 
range. To cramp the mind is to 



BEGGARS IN VELVET 



II 




cramp the soul, and no humiliation 
could surpass the humiliation of 
that. 

But there was no such world as 
the paranoids dreamed of. The 
price would be too high. What 
shall it profit a man, thought Burk- 
halter wryly, if he gain the whole 
world and lose his own soul? The 
words might first have been spoken 
in this connection and no other, so 
perfectly did they apply to it. The 
price must be murder, and whoever 
paid that price would automatically 
sully the world he bought with it 
until, if he were a normal creature, 
he could never enjoy what he had 
paid so high to earn. Burkhalter 
called up a bit. of verse into his 
mind and savored again the bitter 
melancholy of the poet who wrote 
it, perhaps more completely than 
the poet himself ever dreamed. 

/ see the country, far away, 
Where I shall never stand. 

The heart goes where no foot- 
step •may, 

Into the promised land. 

Barbara Pell’s mind shot after 
him an angry, evil shaft of scorn 
and hatred. “You’re a fool, you’re 
all fools you don’t deserve telepathy 
if you degrade it. If you’d only 
join us in — ” The thought ceased 
to be articulate and ran suddenly, 
gloatingly red with spilled blood, 
reeking saltily of it, as if her whole 
mind bathed deliciously in the blood 
of all humans. 

Burkhalter jerked his thoughts 
away from contact with hers, sick- 
ened. It isn't the end of free living 

ja 



they want any more, he told him- 
self in sudden realization — it’s the 
means they’re lusting after now. 
They’ve lost sight of a free world. 
All they want is killing. 

“Fool, fool, fool !’’ Barbara Pell’s 
thoughts screamed after him. “Wait 
and see ! Wait until — one times 
two is two, two times two is four 
three times two — ” 

Burkhalter thought grimly, 
“They’re up to something,” and 
sent his mind probing gingerly past 
the sudden artificial barrier with 
which she had sought to blank out 
a thought even she realized was in- 
discreet. She fought the probing 
viciously. He sensed only vague, 
bloody visions stirring behind the 
barrier. They she laughed without 
a sound and hurled a clear, terrible, 
paranoid thought at him, a picture 
of sickening clarity that all but 
splashed in his face with its over- 
running redness. 

He drew his mind back with 
swiftness that was pure reflex. As 
safe to touch fire as thoughts like 
hers. It was the one way any 
paranoid could shut out the inquisi- 
tive thoughts of a nonparanoid 
when need arose. And of course, 
normally no Baldy would dream of 
probing uninvited into another 
mind. Burkhalter shuddered. 

They were up to something, cer- 
tainly. He must pass the episode 
on to those whose business it was 
to know about the paranoids. Bar- 
bara Pell’s mind was not, in any 
case, likely to yield much informa- 
tion on secret plans. She was an 
executioner, not a planner. He 
withdrew his thoughts from her, 

ASTOUND! XU SOXENCK-F1 OTIOxN 




fastidiously, shaking off the con- 
tamination as a cat shakes water 
from its feet. 

He climbed the steep slope that 
led out of Sequoia to his home, 
deliberately shutting his mind from 
all things behind him. Fifteen 
minutes’ walk brought him to the 
rustic log-and-plastic house built 
near the shadow of the West Cana- 
dian Forest. This was his consu- 
late, and only the cabin of the Self- 
ridge brothers lay farther out in 
the wilderness that stretched north 
to the Beaufort Sea that mingles 
with the Arctic Ocean. 

By his desk a glowing red light 
indicated a message in the terminal 
of the pneumatic that stretched for 
six miles into the forest. He read 
it carefully. A delegation of 
Hedgehounds would arrive soon, 
representatives from three tribal 
groups. Well — 

He checked supplies, televised 
the general store, and sat down be- 
hind his desk to wait. Heath would 
be along soon. Meanwhile he closed 
his eyes and concentrated on the 
fresh smell of pine that blew 
through the open windows. But 
the fresh, clean scent was sullied by 
vagrant thought currents that 
tainted the air. 

Burkhalter shivered. 

II. 

Sequoia lay near the border of old 
Canada, now an immense wilder- 
ness that the forest had largely re- 
claimed. Cellulose by-products 
were its industry, and there was an 
immense psychiatric hospital, which 



accounted for the high percentage 
of Baldies in the village. Other- 
wise Sequoia was distinguished 
from the hundreds of thousands of 
other towns that dotted America 
by the recent establishment of a 
diplomatic station there, the consu- 
late that would be a means of of- 
ficial contact with the wandering 
tribes that retreated into the forests 
as civilization encroached. It was 
a valley town, bordered by steep 
slopes, with their enormous conifers 
and the white-water cataracts racing 
down from snowy summits. Not 
far westward, beyond the Strait of 
Georgia and Vancouver Island, lay 
the. Pacific. But there were few 
highways; transport was aerial. 
And communication was chiefly by 
teleradio. 

Four hundred people, more or 
less, lived in Sequoia, a tight little 
semi-independent settlement, barter- 
ing its specialized products for 
shrimps and pompano from'Lafitte : 
books from Modoc; beryllium-steel 
daggers and motof -plows from 
American Gun ; clothing from 
Dempsey and Gee Eye. The Bos- 
ton Textile mills were gone with 
Boston; that smoking, gray desola- 
tion had not changed since 1950, the 
year of the Blowup. But there was 
still plenty of room in America, no 
matter how much the population 
might increase; war had thinned 
the population. And as technology 
advanced so did improvements in 
reclamation of arid and unfertile 
land, and the hardier strains of the 
kudzu plant had already opened vast 
new tracts for farming. But agri- 
culture was not the only industry. 



BEGGARS IN VELVET 



IS 




The towns specialized, never ex- 
panding into cities, but sending out 
spores that would grow into new 
villages — or, rather, reaching out 
like raspberry canes, to take root 
whenever they touched earth. 

But each town was independent. 
No empire could grow. Decentral- 
ization had been the answer to the 
atomic bombs that were so easy to 
make, and of which each village 
had its cache. One helicopter could 
dust off a town, quite conclusively, 
but it had been decades since such 



Gun could dust off Modoc. And 
there was no defense possible. 

But the towns spread, cell by cell. 
Only the blasted areas were 
shunned, the desolation that had 
been New York and Chicago and a 
hundred other cities, the lifeless 
wastes that held only abnormal life. 
After the Blowup, the fringes of 
the radioactive areas had caused the 
mutations of which the telepaths 
were the only survivors, aside from 
the occasional monsters — reptiles 
and harmless beasts— -that still lived 



a thing had happened. The psy- 
chology was simple and ruthlessly 
accurate. If one man has a sword, 
his opponent won’t provoke a fight. 
Not until he has a pistol, and is 
better armed. 

But atomic bombs were the ulti- 
mate development. Modoc could 
dust off Lafitte — but then American 



near the blasted areas. Until lately, 
there had been human monsters as 
well, unsuccessful mutations warped 
physically or mentally by the radia- 
tions. But they had died out by 
now. Only the telepaths had bred 
true, and even there existed a 
cleavage; true Bald, and antisocial 
paranoid-type. 




14 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 



that the Baldys’ only chance for 
survival would lie in making them- 
selves the equivalent of Franciscan 
friars. They were the minority. 
And minorities can easily arouse 
hatred, especialljy when it possesses 
the incalculable wealth of the tele- 
pathic function. From generation 
to generation of Baldies now the 
indoctrination had gone on: Seek 

no power. Let no nontelepath envy 
you. A T o direct competition. 

They worked, had economic 
security, possessed the luxuries that 
every other man and woman in 
America owned. But their heritage 
was a menace as well as the great- 
est privilage any race on Earth has 
ever known. 

They were beggars in velvet. And 
each Baldy knew that, inevitably, 
the day of the pogrom would come. 

Burkhalter was deliberately not 
thinking of the red-haired woman 
when Duke Heath came in. The 
priest-medic caught the strained, 
negative mental picture, and nodded. 

“Barbara Pell,” he said. “I saw 
her.” Both men blurred the sur- 
face of their minds. That couldn’t 
mask their thoughts, but if any other 
brain began probing, there would 
be an instant’s warning, during 
which they could take precautions. 
Necessarily, however, the conversa- 
tion stayed oral rather than tele- 
pathic. 

“They can smell trouble coming,” 
Burkhalter said. “They’ve been 
infiltrating Sequoia lately, haven’t 
they ?” 

“Yes. The minute you copped 
this consulate, they started to come 



in.” Heath nibbled his knuckles.' 
“In forty years the paranoids have 
built up quite an organization.” 
“Sixty .years,” Burkhalter said. 
“My grandfather saw it coming 
back in ’82. There was a paranoid 
in Modoc — a lone wolf at the time, 
but it was one of the first symp- 
toms. And since then — ” 

“Well, they’ve grown qualitative- 
ly, not quantitatively. There are 
more true Baldies now than para- 
noids. Psychologically they’re 
handicapped. They hate to inter- 
marry with non-Baldies. Whereas 
we do, and the dominant strain 
goes on — spreads out.” 

“For a while,” Burkhalter said. 
Heath frowned. “There’s no 
epidemic at Columbia Crossing. I 
had to get Sel fridge, off your neck 
somehow, and he’s got a strongly 
paternal instinct toward his brother. 
That did it — but not permanently. 
With that so-and-so, the part equals 
the whole. You got the consulate; 
he had a nice little racket gyping 
the Hedgehounds; he hates you — 
so he jumps on your most vulner- 
able point. Also, he rationalizes. 
He tells himself that if you didn’t 
have the unfair advantage of being 
a Baldy, you’d never have landed 
the consulate.” 

“It was unfair.” 

“We had to do it,” Fleath said. 
“Non-Baldies mustn’t find out what 
we’re building up among the Hedge- 
hounds. Some day the woods folk 
may be our only safety. If a non- 
Baldy bad got the consulate — ” 

“I’m working in the dark,” Burk- ’ 
halter said, “All I know is that 



BEGGARS IN VELVET 



15 




I’ve got to do what the Mutes tell 
me.” 

”1 don’t know any more than you 
do. The paranoids have their 
Power — that secret band of com- 
munication we can’t tap — and only 
the Mutes have a method of fight- 
ing that weapon. Don’t forget that, 
while we can’t read a Mute’s mind, 
the paranoids can’t either. If you 
knew their secrets, your mind would 
be an open book — any telepath could 
read it.” 

Burkhalter didn’t answer. Pleath 
sighed and watched pine needles 
glittering in the sunlight outside the 
windows. 

“It’s not easy for me either,” he 
said. “To be a surrogate. No non- 
Baldy has to be a priest as well as 
a medic. But I have to. The doc- 
tors up at the hospital feel more 
strongly about it than I do. They 
know how many psychotic cases 
have been cured because we can 
read minds. Meanwhile — ” He 

shrugged. 

Burkhalter was staring north- 
ward. “A new land is what we 
need,” he said. 

“We need a new world. Some 
day we’ll get it.” 

A shadow fell across the door. 
Both men turned. A small figure 
was standing there, a fat little man 
with close-curling hair and mild 
blue eyes. The misericordia at his 
belt seemed incongruous, as though 
those pudgy fingers would fumble 
ludicrously with the hilt. 

No Baldy will purposely read a 
nontelepath’s mind, but there is an 
instinctive recognition between 



Baldies. So Burkhalter and Heath 
knew instantly that the stranger was 
a telepath — and then, on the heels 
of that thought, came sudden, star- 
tled recognition of the emptiness 
where thought should be. It was 
like stepping on clear ice and find- 
ing it clear water instead. Only a 
few men could guard their minds 
thus. They were the Mutes. 

“Hello,” said the stranger, com- 
ing in and perching himself on the 
desk’s edge. “I see you know me. 
We’ll stay oral, if you don’t mind. 
I can read your thoughts, but you 
can’t read mine.” He grinned. 
“No use wondering why, Burk- 
halter, If you knew, the paranoids 
would find out too. Now. My 
name’s Ben Hobson.” He paused. 
“Trouble, eh ? Well, we’ll kick that 
around later. First let me get this 
ofif my chest.” 

Burkhalter sent a swift glance at 
Heath. “There are paranoids in 
town. Don’t tell me too much, un- 
less — ” 

“Don’t worry. 1 won’t,” Hobson 
chuckled. “What do you know 
about the Hedgehounds ?” 

“Descendants of the nomad tribes 
that didn’t join the villages after 
the Blowup. Gypsies. Woods folk. 
Friendly enough.” 

“That’s right,” Hobson said. 
“Now what I’m telling you is com- 
mon knowledge, even among the 
paranoids. You should know it. 
We’ve spotted a few cells among 
the Hedgehounds — Baldies. It 
started by accident, forty years ago, 
when a Baldy named Line Cody 
was adopted by Hedgehounds and 
reared without knowing his herit- 



A STOVX I>) NO SCIENCE. fiction 




age, Later he found out. He’s 
still liring with the Hedgehounds, 
and so are his sons.” 

“Cody?” Burkhalter said slowly. 
“I’ve heard stories of the Cody — ” 
“Psychological propaganda. The 
Hedgehounds are barbarians. But 
we want ’em friendly and we want 
to clear the way, for joining them, 
if that ever becames necessary. 
Twenty years ago we started build- 
ing up a figurehead in the forests, a 
living symbol who’d be overtly a 
shaman and really a delegate for 
us. We used mumbo-jumbo. Line 
Cody dressed up in a trick suit, we 
gave him gadgets, and the Hedge- 
hounds finally developed the legend 
of the Cody — a sort of benevolent 
woods spirit who acts as super- 
natural monitor. They like him, 
they obey him, and they’re afraid of 
him. Especially since he can appear 
in four places at the same time.” 
“Eh?” Burkhalter said. 

“Cody had three sons,” Hobson 
smiled. “It's one of them you’ll 
see today. Your friend Selfridge 
has fixed up a little plot. You’re 
due to be murdered by one of the 
Hedgehound chiefs when that dele- 
gation gets here. I can’t interfere 
personally, but the Cody will. It’s 
necessary for you to play along. 
Don’t give any sign that you expect 
trouble. When the Cody steps in, 
the chiefs will be plenty impressed.” 
Heath said, “Wouldn’t it have 
been better not to tell Burkhalter 
what to expect?” 

“No. For two reasons. He can 
read the Hedgehounds' minds — I 
give him carte blanche on that — 
and he must string along with the 



Cody. O.K., Burkhalter?" 

“O.K.”, the consul nodded. 
“Then I’ll push off.” Hobson 
stood up, still smiling. “Good 
luck.” 

“Wait a minute,” Heath said. 
“What about Self ridge?” 

“Don’t kill him. Either of you. 
You know no Baldy must ever duel 
a non-Baldy.” 

Burkhalter was scarcely listening. 
He knew he must mention the 
thought he had surprised in Barbara 
Pell’s mind, and he had been putting 
off the moment when he must speak 
her hateful name, open the gates of 
his thoughts wide enough to let her 
image slip back in, beautiful image, 
beautiful slender body, bright and 
dangerous and insane mind — 

“I saw one of the paranoids in 
town awhile ago,” he said. “Bar- 
bara Pell. A nasty job, that 
woman. She let slip something 
about their plans. Covered up too 
fast for me to get much, but you 
might think about it. They’re up 
to something planned for fairly 
soon, I gathered.” 

Hobson smiled at him. “Thanks. 
We’re watching them. We’ll keep 
an eye on the woman too. All right, 
then. Good luck.” 

He went out. Burkhalter and 
Heath looked at one another. 

The Mute walked slowly down 
the path toward the village. His 
mouth was pursed as he whistled ; 
his plump cheeks vibrated. As he 
passed a tall pine he abruptly un- 
sheathed his dagger and sprang 
around the tree. The man lurking 
there was caught by surprise. Steel 



BEGGARS IN VELVET 



IT 




found its mark unerringly. The 
paranoid had time for only one 
desperate mental cry before he died. 

Hobson wiped his dagger and 
resumed his journey. Under the 
close-cropped brown wig a mechan- 
ism, shaped like a skullcap, began 
functioning. Neither Baldy nor 
telepath could receive the signals 
Hobson was sending and receiving 
now. 

“They know I’m here.” 
“Sometimes they do,” a soundless 
voice came back. “They can’t 
catch these modulated frequencies 
the helmets use, but they can notice 
the shield. Still, as long as none 
of ’em know why — ” 

“I just killed one.” 

“One less of the bichos,” came 
the coldly satisfied response. 

“I think I’d better stay here for 
a while. Paranoids have been in- 
filtrating. Both Heath and Burk- 
halter think so. There’s some con- 
tingent plan I can’t read yet; the 
paranoids are thinking about it only 
on their own band.” 

“Then stay. Keep in touch. 
What about Burkhalter?” 

“What we suspected. He’s in 
love with the paranoid Barbara 
Pell. But he doesn’t know it.” 
Both shocked abhorrence and 
unwilling sympathy were in the 
answering thought. “I can’t remem- 
ber anything like this ever happen- 
ing before. He can read her mind ; 
he knows she’s paranoid — ” 

Hobson smiled. “The realization 
of his true feelings would upset 
him plenty, Jerry. Apparently you 
picked the wrong man for this job.” 
“Not from Burkhalter’s record 

18 



Pie’s always lived a pretty secluded 
life, but his character’s above 
reproach. His empathy standing 
was high. And he taught sociology 
for six years at New Yale.” 

“He taught it, but I think it re- 
mained remote. He’s known Bar- 
bara Pell for six weeks now. He’s 
in love with her.” 

“But how — even subconsciously? 
Baldies instinctively hate and dis- 
trust the paranoids. 

Hobson reached Sequoia’s out- 
skirts and kept going, past the ter- 
raced square where the blocky, 
insulated power station sat. “So it’s 
perverse,” he told the other Mute. 
“Some men are attracted only to 
ugly women. You can’t argue with 
a thing like that. Burkhalter’s 
fallen in love with a paranoid, and 
I hope to heaven he never realizes 
it. He might commit suicide. Or 
anything might happen. This is — ” 
His thought moved with slow em- 
phasis. “This is the most danger- 
ous situation the Baldies have ever 
faced. Apparently nobody’s paid 
much attention to Selfridge’s talk, 
but the damage has been done. 
People have listened. And non- 
Baldies have always mistrusted us. 
If there’s a blowoff, we’re auto- 
matically the scapegoats.” 

“Like that, Ben?” 

“The pogrom may start in 
Sequoia.” 

Once the chess game had started, 
there was no way to stop it. It was 
cumulative. The paranoids, the 
warped twin branch of the parallel 
telepathic mutation, were not in- 
sane; there was a psychoneurotic 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




pathology. They had only one basic 
delusion. They were the super 
race. On that foundation they 
built their edifice of planetary 
sabotage. 

Non-Baldies outnumbered them, 
and they could not fight the tech- 
nology that flourished in the days of 
decentralization. But if the culture 
of the non-Baldies were weakened, 
wrecked — 

Assassinations) deftly disguised 
as duels or accidents; secret sabo- 
tage in a hundred branches, from 
engineering to publishing ; propa- 
ganda, carefully sowed in the 
proper places — and civilization 
would have headed for a crack-up, 
except for one check. 

The Baldies, the true, non- 
paranoid mutation, were fighting 
for the older race. They had to. 
They knew, as the blinded paranoids 
could not, that eventually the non- 
Baldies would learn of the chess 
game, and then nothing could stop 
a world-wide pogrom. 

One advantage the paranoids had, 
for a while — a specialized band on 
which they could communicate tele- 
pathically, a wave length which 
could not be tapped. Then, in 2022, 
a Baldy technician had perfected 
the scrambler helmets, with a high- 
frequency modulation that was 
equally untappable. As long as a 
Baldy wore such a helmet under his 
wig, his mind could be read only 
by another Mute. 

So they came to be called, a 
small, tight group of exterminators, 
sworn to destroy the paranoids com- 
pletely — in effect, a police force, 
working in secret and never doffing 



the helmets which shut them out 
from the complete rapport that 
played, so large a part in the psychic 
life of the Baldy race. 

They had willingly given up a 
great part of their heritage. It was 
a curious paradox that only by 
strictly limiting their telepathic 
power could these few Baldies 
utilize their weapon against the 
paranoids. And what they fought 
for was the time of ultimate uni- 
fication when the dominant muta- 
tion had become so numerically 
strong that in all the world, there 
would be no need for mental bar- 
riers or psychic embargoes. 

Meanwhile the most powerful of 
the Baldy race, they could never 
know, except within a limited scope, 
the subtle gratification of the mental 
round-robins, when a hundred or 
a thousand minds would meet and 
merge into the deep, eternal peace 
that only telepaths can know. 

They, too, were beggars in velvet. 

III. 

Burkhalter said suddenly, 
“What’s the matter with you, 
Duke?” 

Heath didn’t move. “Nothing.” 

“Don’t give me that. Your 
thoughts are on quicksand.” 

“Maybe they are,” Heath said. 
“The fact is, I need a rest. I love 
this work, but it does get me down 
sometimes.” 

“Well, take a vacation.” 

“Can’t. We’re too busy. Our 
reputation’s so good we’re getting 
cases from all over. We’re one of 
the first mental sanitariums to go in 



BEGGARS IN VELVET 



Hi 




for all-out Baldy psychoanalysis. 
It’s been going on, of course, for 
years but sub rosa, more or less. 
People don’t like the idea of Baldies 
prying into the minds of their rela- 
tives. However, since we started 
to show results — ” His eyes lit up. 
“Even with psychosomatic illnesses 
we can help a lot, and mood dis- 
orders are our meat. The big 
question, you know, is why. Why 
they’ve been putting poison in the 
patient’s food, why they watch him 
— and so forth. Once that ques- 
tion’s answered fully, it usually 
gives the necessary clues. And the 
average patient’s apt to shut up like 
a clam when the psychiatrist ques- 
tions him. But — ’’ Heath’s excite- 
ment mounted, “this is the biggest 
thing in the history of medicine. 
There’ve been Baldies since 1955, 
and only now are the doctors open- 
ing their doors to us. Ultimate 
empathy. A psychotic locks his 
mind, so he’s hard to treat. But 
we have the keys — ” 

“What are you afraid of ?” Burk- 
halter asked quietly. 

Heath stopped short, tie ex- 
amined his fingernails. 

“It’s not fear,” he said at last. 
“It’s occupational anxiety. Oh, the 
devil with that. Four-bit words. 
It’s simpler, really; you can put it 
in the form of an axiom. You can’t 
touch pitch without getting soiled.” 

“I see.” 

“Do you, Harry? It’s only this, 
really. My work consists of visit- 
ing abnormal minds. Not the way 
an ordinary psychiatrist does it. 
I get into those minds. I see and 
feel their viewpoints. I know all 

20 



their terrors. The invisible horror 
that waits in the dark for them isn’t 
just a word to me. I’m sane, and I 
see through the eyes of a hundred 
insane men. Keep out of my mind 
for a minute, Harry.” He turned 
away. Burkhalter hesitated. 

“O.K.,” Heath said, looking 
around. “I’m glad you mentioned 
this, though. Every so often I find 
myself getting entirely too em- 
pathic. Then I either take my 
copter up, or get in a round robin.” 
For every Baldy, there was a deep, 
relaxing calm in the upper air, 
where the continual subsensory 
bombardment of thoughts was 
lessened almost to the vanishing 
point. “I’ll see if I can promote a 
hook-up tonight. Are you in!” 

“Sure,” Burkhalter said. Heath 
nodded casually and went out. 
His thought came back. 

I’d better not be here when the 
Hedgehounds come. Unless you — 

No. Burkhalter thought. I’ll be 
all right. 

O.K. Here’s a delivery for you. 

Burkhalter opened the door in 
time to admit the grocer’s boy, who 
had parked his trail car outside. He 
helped put the supplies away, saw 
that the beer would be sufficiently 
refrigerated, and pressed a few but- 
tons that would insure a supply of 
pressure-cooked refreshments. The 
Hedgehounds were hearty eaters. 

After that, he left the door open 
and relaxed behind his desk, wait- 
ing. It was hot in the office; he 
opened his collar and made the 
walls transparent. Air condition- 
ing began to cool the room, but 

ASTOUNDING SCIENOE-FI CTI ON 




sight of the broad valley below was 
equally refreshing. Tall pines 
rippled their branches in the wind. 

It was not like New Yale. That 
had been one of the larger towns. 
Only the technological villages cov- 
ered larger areas, and that was a 
matter of necessity; chemists and 
physicists need plenty of room to 
provide a margin of safety. But 
New Yale was intensely specialized 
in education. Sequoia, with its 
great hospital and its cellulose in- 
dustry, was more of a complete, 
rounded unit. Isolated from the 
rest of the world except by air and 
television, it lay clean and attrac- 
tive, sprawling in white and green 
and pastel plastics around the swift 
waters of the river that raced down 
seaward. 

Burkhalter locked his hands be- 
hind his neck and yawned. He felt 
inexplicably fatigued, as he had felt 
from time to time for several weeks. 
Not that this work was hard; on 
the contrary. But reorientation to 
his new job wouldn’t be quite as 
easy as he had expected. In the 
beginning he hadn’t anticipated 
these wheels within wheels. 

Barbara Pell, for example. She 
was dangerous. She, more than 
any of the others, perhaps, was the 
guiding spirit of the Sequoia para- 
noids. Not in the sense of planned 
action, no. But she ignited, like a 
flame. She is a born leader. And 
there were uncomfortably many 
paranoids here now: They had in- 
filtrated — superficially with good 
reason, on jobs or errands or vaca- 
tions; but the town was crammed 
with them, comparatively speaking. 



The nontelepaths still outnumbered 
both Baldies and paranoids as they 
did on a larger scale all over the 
world — 

He remembered his grandfather, 
Ed Burkhalter. If any Baldy had 
ever hated the paranoids, Ed Burk- 
halter had. And presumably with 
good reason, since one of the first 
paranoid plots — a purely individual 
attempt then — had indirectly tried 
to indoctrinate the mind of Ed’s 
son, Harry Burkhalter’s father. 
Oddly, Burkhalter remembered his 
grandfather’s thin, harsh face more 
vividly than his father’s gentler 
one. 

He yawned again, trying to im- 
merse himself in the calm of the 
vista beyond the windows. Another 
world ? Perhaps only in deep space 
could a Baldy ever be completely 
free from those troubling half- 
fragments of vagrant thoughts that 
he sensed even now. And without 
that continual distraction, with 
one’s mind utterly unhampered — 
he stretched luxuriously, trying to 
imagine the feeling of his body 
without gravity, and extending that 
parallel to his mind. But it was 
impossible. 

The Baldies had been born before 
their time, of course — an artificially 
hastened mutation caused by radio- 
activity acting on human genes and 
chromosomes. Thus their present 
environment was wrong. Burk- 
halter toyed idly with the concept 
of a deep-space race, each individual 
mind so delicately attuned that even 
the nearness of any alien personal- 
ity would interfere with the smooth 
processes of perfect thought. 



BEGGARS IN VELVET 



■M 




Pleasant, but impractical. It would 
be a dead end. The telepaths 
weren’t supermen, as the paranoids 
contended; at best they had only 
one fatally miraculous sense — fatal, 
because it had been mingled with 
common clay. With a genuine 
superman, telepathy would be mere- 
ly one sense among a dozen other 
inconceivable ones. 

Whereas Barbara Pell — the name 
and the face slid into his thoughts 
again, and the beautiful body, as 
dangerous and as fascinating as fire 
— whereas Barbara Pell, for in- 
stance, undoubtedly considered her- 
self strictly super, like all the 
warped telepaths of her kind. 

He thought of her bright, nar- 
row gaze, and the red mouth with 
its sneering smile. He thought of the 
red curls moving like snakes upon 
her shoulders, and the red thoughts 
moving like snakes through her 
mind. He stopped thinking of her. 

He was very tired. The sense 
of fatigue, all out of proportion to 
the energy he had expended, swelled 
and enulfed him. If the Hedge- 
hound chiefs weren't coming, it 
would be pleasant to take a copter 
up. The inclosing walls of the 
mountains would fall away as the 
plane lifted into the empty blue, 
higher and higher, till it hung in 
space above a blurred, featureless 
landscape, half-erased by drifting 
clouds. Burkhalter thought of how 
the ground would look, a misty, 
dreamy Sime illustration, and, in 
his daydream, he reached out slow- 
ly to touch the controls. The copter 
slanted down, more and more 
steeply, till it was flashing suicidally 

22 



toward a world that spread hypnot- 
ically, like a magically expanding 
carpet. 

Someone was coming. Burkhalter 
blurred his mind instantly and stood 
up. Beyond the open door was 
only the empty forest, but now he 
could hear the faint, rising over- 
tones of a song. The Hedgehounds. 
being a nation of nomads, sang as 
they marched, old tunes and ballads 
of memorable simplicity that had 
come down unchanged from before 
the Blowup, though the original 
meanings had been forgotten. 

Green grow the lilacs, all spar- 
kling with dew; 

I’m lonely, my darling, since 
parting from you — 

Ancestors of the Hedgehounds 
had hummed that song along the 
borders of Old Mexico, long before 
war had been anything but distant- 
ly romantic. The grandfather of 
one of the current singers had been 
a Mexican, drifting up the Cali- 
fornia coast, dodging the villages 
and following a lazy wanderlust 
that led him into the Canadian for- 
ests at last. His name had been 
Ramon Alvarez but his grandson’s 
name was Kit Carson Alvers, and 
his black beard rippled as he sang. 

But by our next meeting I’ll hope 
to prove true. 

And change the green lilacs for 
the red, white and blue. 

There were no minstrels among 
the Hedgehounds — they were all 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




minstrels, which is how folk songs made of soft, tough kidskin. 

are kept alive. Singing, they came Sheathed knives were at their belts, 

down the path, and fell silent at hunting knives, plainer and shorter 

sight of the consul’s house. than the misericordias of the towns- 

Burkhalter watched. It was a folk. And their faces showed a 

chapter of the past come alive be- rakehell vigor, a lean, brown in- 

fore his eyes. He had read of the dependence of spirit that made them 

Hedgehounds, but not until six brothers. For generations now the 

weeks ago had he encountered any Hedgehounds had been wresting 

of the new pioneers. Their bizarre their living from the wilderness 

costumes still had power to intrigue with such rude weapons as the bow 

him. one of them had slung across his 

Those costumes combined func- shoulder, and the ethics of duelling 

tionalism with decoration. The had never developed among them, 

buckskin shirts, that could blend They didn’t duel. They killed, 

into a pattern of forest light and when killing seemed necessary — 

shade, were fringed with knotted for survival. 

tassels ; Alvers had a coonskin cap, Burkhalter came to the threshold, 
and all three men wore sandals, “Come in,” he said. "I’m the consul 




— Harry Burkhalter.” 

“You got our message?” asked 
a tall, Scottish-looking chief with 
a bushy red beard. “That thing 
you got rigged up in the woods 
looked tetchy.” 

“The message conveyor? It 
works, all right.” 

“Fair enough. I’m Cobb Mat- 
toon. This here’s Kit Carson 
Alvers, and this un’s Umpire Vine.” 
Vine was clean-shaven, a barrel of 
a man who looked like a bear, his 
sharp brown eyes slanting wary 
glances all around. He gave a 
taciturn grunt and shook hands 
with Burkhalter. So did the others. 
As the Baldy gripped Alvers’ palm, 
he knew that this was the man who 
intended to kill him. 

He made no sign. “Glad you're 
here. Sit down and have a drink. 
What’ll you have?” 

“Whiskey,” Vine grunted. His 
enormous hand smothered the glass. 
He grinned at the siphon shook his 
head, and gulped a quantity of 
whiskey that made Burkhalter’s 
throat smart in sympathy. 

Alvers, too, took whiskey; Mat- 
toon drank gin, with lemon. “You 
got a smart lot of drinks here,” he 
said, staring at the bar Burkhalter 
had swung out. “I can make out 
to spell some of the labels, but — 
what’s that?” 

“Drambuie. Try it?” 

“Sure,” Mattoon said, and his 
red-haired throat worked. "Nice 
stuff. Better than the corn we cook 
up in the woods.” 

“If you walked far, you’ll be 
hungry,” Burkhalter said. He 

Si 



pulled out the oval table, selected 
covered dishes from the conveyor 
belt, and let his guests help them- 
selvs. They fell to without cere- 
mony. 

Alvers looked across the table. 
“You one of them Baldies?” he 
asked suddenly. 

Burkhalter nodded. “Yes, I am. 
Why?” 

Mattoon said, “So you’re one of 
’em.” He was frankly staring. “I 
never seen a Baldy right close up. 
Maybe I have at that, but with the 
wigs you can’t tell, of course.” 

Burkhalter grinned as he re- 
pressed a familiar feeling of sick 
distaste. He had been stared at be- 
fore, and for the same reason. 

“Do I look like a freak, Mr. 
Mattoon ?” 

“How long you been consul?” 
Mattoon asked. 

“Six weeks.” 

“O.K.,” the big man said, and 
his voice was friendly enough, 
though the tone was harsh. “You 
oughta remember there ain’t no 
Mistering with the Hedgehounds. 
I’m Cobb Mattoon. Cobb to my 
friends, Mattoon to the rest. Nope, 
you don’t look like no freak. Do 
people figger you Baldies are all 
sports?” 

“A good many of them,” Burk- 
halter said. 

“One thing,” Mattoon said, pick- 
ing up a chop bone, “in the woods, 
we pay no heed to such things. If 
a guy’s born funny, we don’t mock 
him for that. Not so long as he 
sticks to the tribe and plays square. 
We got no Baldies among us, but 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




if we did, I kind of think they 
might get a better deal than they do 
now.” 

Vine grunted and poured more 
whiskey. Alvers’ black eyes were 
fixed steadily on Burkhalter. 

‘‘You readin’ my mind?” Mat- 
toon demanded. Alvers drew in 
his breath sharply. 

Without looking at him, Burk- 
halter said, “No. Baldies don’t. 
It isn’t healthy.” 

“True enough. Minding your 
own business is a plenty good rule. 
I can see how you’d have to play 
it. Look. This is the first time we 
come down here Alvers and Vine 
and me. You ain’t seen us before. 
We heard rumors about this con- 
sulate — ” He stumbled over the 
unfamiliar word. “Up to now, we 
traded with Selfridge sometimes, 
but we didn’t have contact with 
townsfolk. You know why.” 
Burkhalter knew. The Hedge- 
hounds had been outcastes, shun- 
ning the villages, and sometimes 
raiding them. They w'ere outlaws. 

“But now a new time’s coming. 
We can’t live in the towns; we 
don’t want to. But there’s room 
enough for everybody. We still 
don’t see why they set up these 
con-consulates ; still, we’ll string 
along. We got a word.” 

Burkhalter knew about that, too. 
It was the Cody’s word, whispered 
through the Hedgehound tribes — a 
word they would not disobey. 

He said, “Some of the Hedge- 
hound tribes ought to be wiped out. 
Not many. You kill them your- 
selves, whenever you find them — ” 



“Th’ cannibals,” Mattoon said. 
“Yeah. We kill them.” 

“But they’re a minority. The 
main group of Hedgehounds have 
no quarrel with the townsfolk. And 
vice versa. We want to stop the 
raids.” 

“How do you figger on doin’ 
that?” 

“If a tribe has a bad winter, it 
needn’t starve. We’ve methods of 
making foods. It’s a cheap method. 
We can afford to let you have grub 
when you’re hungry.” 

Vine slammed his whiskey' glass 
down on the table and snarled some- 
thing. Mattoon patted the air with 
a large palm. 

“Easy, Umpire. He don’t know 
, . . listen, Burkhalter, The Hedge- 
hounds raid sometimes, sure. They 
hunt, and they fight for what they 
get. But they don’t beg.” 

“I’m talking about barter,” Burk- 
halter said. “Fair exchange. We 
can’t set up force shields around 
every village. And we can’t use 
Eggs on nomads. A lot of raids 
would be a nuisance, that’s all. 
There haven’t been many raids so 
far; they’ve been lessening every 
year. But why should there be any 
at all? Get rid of the motivation, 
and the effect’s gone too.” 

Unconsciously he probed at 
Alvers’ mind. There was a thought 
there, a sly crooked hungry thought, 
the avid alertness of a carnivore— 
and the concept of a hidden weapon. 
Burkhalter jerked back. He didn’t 
want to know. He had to wait for 
the Cody to move though the temp- 
tation to provoke an open battle 
with Alvers was dangerously strong. 



BEGGARS IX VELVET 



26 




Yet that would only antagonize the 
other Hedgehounds; they couldn’t 
read Vine’s mind as Burkhalter 
could. 

“Barter what?” Vine grunted. 

Burkhalter had the answer ready. 
“Pelts. There’s a demand for them. 
They’re fashionable.” He didn’t 
mention that it was an artificially 
created fad. “Furs, for one thing. 
And—” 

“We ain’t Red Indians” Mattoon 
said. “Look what happened to them ! 
There ain’t nothing we need from 
townsfolk, except when we’re starv- 
ing. Then — well, maybe we can 
barter.” 

“If the Hegehounds unified — ” 

Alvers grinned. “In the old 
days,” he said in a' high, thin voice, 
“the tribes that unified got dusted 
off with the Eggs. We ain’t unify- 
ing, brother!” 

“He speaks fair, though,” Mat- 
toon said. “It makes sense. It was 
our granddaddies who had a feud 
with the villages. We’ve shaken 
down pretty well. My tribe ain’t 
gone hungry for seven winters now. 
We migrate, we go where the pick- 
in’s are good and we get along.” 

“My tribe don’t raid,” Vine 
growled. He poured more whiskey. 

Mattoon and Alvers had taken 
only two drinks ; Vine kept pouring 
it down, but his capacity seemed un- 
limited. Now Alvers said, “It 
seems on the level. One thing I 
don’t like. This guy’s a Baldy.” 

Vine turned his enormous barrel 
of a torso and regarded Alvers 
steadily. “What you got against 
Baldies?” he demanded. 

2 « 



“We don’t nothing about ’em. I 
heard stories — ” 

Vine said something rude. Mat- 
toon laughed. 

“You ain’t polite, Kit Carson. 
Burkhalter’s playin’ host. Don’t 
go throwing words around.” 

Alvers shrugged, glanced away, 
and stretched. He reached into his 
shirt to scratch himself — and sud- 
denly the thought of murder hit 
Burkhalter like a stone from a sling- 
shot. It took every ounce of his 
will power to remain motionless as 
Alvers’ hand slid back into view, 
a pistol coming into sight with it. 

There was time for the other 
Hedgehounds to see the weapon, 
but no time for them to interfere. 
The death-thought anticipated the 
bullet. A flare of blinding, crim- 
son light blazed through the. room. 
Something, moving like an invisible 
whirlwind, flashed among them ; 
then, as their eyes adjusted, they 
stood where they had leaped from 
their chairs, staring at the figure 
who confronted them. 

He wore a tight-fitting suit of 
scarlet, with a wide black belt, and 
an expressionless mask of silver 
covered his face. A blue-black 
beard emerged from under it and 
rippled down his chest. Enormous 
muscular development showed be- 
neath the skin-tight garments. 

He tossed Alvers’ pistol into the 
air and caught it. Then, with a 
deep, chuckling laugh, he gripped 
the weapon in both hands and broke 
the gun into a twisted jumble of 
warped metal. 

“Break a truce, will you?” he 
said. “You little pipsqueak. What 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




you need is the livin’ daylights 
whaled outa you, Alvers.” 

He stepped forward and smashed 
the flat of his palm against Alvers’ 
side. The sound of the blow rang 
through the room. Alvers was lifted 
into the air and slammed against 
the further wall. He screamed 
once, dropped into a huddle, and lay 
there motionless. 

“Git up,” the Cody said. “You 
ain’t hurt. Mebbe a rib cracked, 
that’s all. If’n I'd smacked your 
head, I’d have broke your neck 
clean. Git up!” 

Alvers dragged himself upright, 
his face dead white and sweating. 
The other two Hedgehounds 
watched, impassive and alert. 

“Deal with you later on. Mat- 
toon, Vine. What you got to do 
with this?” 

“Nuthin’.” Mattoon said. 
“Nuthin’, Cody. You know that.” 

The silver mask was impassive. 
“Lucky fer you I do. Now listen. 
What I say goes. Tell Alvers’ tribe 
they’ll have to find a new boss. 
That’s all” 

He stepped forward. His arms 
closed about Alvers, and the Hedge- 
hound yelled in sudden panic. Then 
the red blaze flared out again. When 
it had died, both figures were gone. 

“Got any more whiskey, Burk- 
halter?” Vine said. 

IV. 

The Cody was in telepathic com- 
munication with the Mute, Hobson. 
Like the other three Codys, this 
one wore the same modulated- fre- 
quency helmet as the Mutes ; it was 

BEGGABS IN VELVET 



impossible for any Baldy or para- 
noid to tune in on that scrambled, 
camouflaged wave length. 

It was two hours after sundown. 

Alvers is dead, Hobson. Telep- 
athy has no colloquialisms that can 
be expressed in language-symbols. 

Necessary f 

Yes. Absolute obedience to the 
Cody — a curiously mingled four-in- 
one concept — is vital. Nobody can 
be allowed to defy the Cody and get 
away with it. 

Any repercussions? 

None. Mattoon and Vine are 
agreeable. They got along with 
Burkhalter. What’s wrong zvith 
him, Hobson? 

The moment the question was 
asked, the Cody knew the answer. 
Telepaths have no secrets but sub- 
conscious ones — and the Mute hel- 
met can even delve a little into the 
secret mind. 

In love zvith a paranoid ?• The 
Cody was shocked. 

He doesn’t know it. He mustn’t 
realise it yet. He’d have to reorient; 
that would take time; we can’t 
afford to have him in the side lines 
just now. Trouble’s bound to pop. 

What? 

Fred Selfridge. He’s drunk. He 
found out the Hedgehound chiefs 
visited Burkhalter today. He’s 
afraid his trading racket is being 
cut from under him. I’ve told 
Burkhalter to stay out of sight. 

I’ll stay near here, then, in case 
I’m needed. I won’t go home yet. 
Briefly Hobson caught sight of 
what home meant to the Cody; a 
secret valley in the Canadian wil- 
derness, its whereabouts known 

27 




only to wearers of the helmets, who 
could never betray it inadvertently. 
It was there that the technicians 
among the Baldies sent their spe- 
cialized products — via the Mutes. 
Products which had managed to 
build up a fully equipped head- 
quarters in the heart of the forest, 
a centralization, it was true, but 
one whose whereabouts were 
guarded very thoroughly from the 
danger of discovery by either friend 
or enemy. From that valley labora- 
tory in the woods came the devices 
that made the Cody the legendary 
figure he was among the Pledge- 
hounds — a Paul Bunyan who com- 
bined incredible physical prowess 
with pure magic. Only such a figure 
could have commanded the respect 
and obedience of the woods runners. 

Is Burkhalter safely hidden, Hob- 
son ? Or can I — 

He’s hidden. There’s a round 
robin on, but Selfridge can’t trace 
him through that. 

O.K. I’ll wait. 

The Cody broke off. Plobson 
sent his thought probing out, across 
the dark miles, to a dozen other 
Mutes, scattered across the conti- 
nent from Niagara to Salton. Each 
one of them was ready for the un- 
derground mobilization that might 
be necessary at any moment now. 

It had taken ninety years for the 
storm to gather; its breaking would 
be cataclysmic. 

Within the circle of the round 
robin was quiet, complete peace that 
only a Baldy can know. Burkhalter 
let his mind slip into place among 
the others, briefly touching and rec- 

38 



ognizing friends as he settled into 
that telepathic closed circuit. He 
caught the faintly troubled unrest 
from Duke Heath’s thoughts; then 
the deep calm of rapport swallowed 
them both. 

At first, on the outer fringes of 
the psychic pool, there were ripples 
and currents of mild disturbance, 
the casual distresses that are in- 
evitable in any gregarious society, 
and especially among hypersensitive 
Baldies. But the purge of the an- 
cient custom of the confessional 
quickly began to be effective. There 
can be no barriers between Baldies. 
The basic unit of the family is far 
more complete than among non- 
telepaths, and by extension, the en- 
tire Baldy group were bound to- 
gether with ties no less strong 
because of their intangible subtlety. 

Trust and friendship: these 

things were certain. There could be 
no distrust when the tariff wall of 
language was eliminated. The 
ancient loneliness of any highly 
specialized, intelligent organism 
was mitigated in the only possible- 
way; by a kinship closer even than 
marriage, and transcending it. 

Any minority group as long as it 
maintains its specialized integrity, 
is automatically handicapped. It is 
suspect. Only the Baldies, in all 
social history, had been able to 
mingle on equal terms with the 
majority group and still retain the 
close bond of kinship. Which was 
paradoxical, for the Baldies, per- 
haps, were the only ones who de- 
sired racial assimilation. They could 
afford to, for the telepathic muta- 
tion was dominant: the children of 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCK-FICTION 




Baldy father and nontelepathic 
mother— or vice versa — are Baldies. 

But the reassurance of the round 
robins was needed ; they were a 
symbol of the passive battle the 
Baldies had been fighting for gen- 
erations. In them the telepaths 
found complete unity. It did not, 
and never would, destroy the vital 
competitive instinct; rather, it en- 
couraged it. There was give and 
take. And, too, it was religion of 
the purest kind. 

In the beginning, with no senses 
that non-Baldies can quite under- 
stand, you touched the minds of 
your friends, delicately, sensitively. 
There was a place for you, and you 
were welcomed. Slowly, as the 
peace spread, you approached the 
center, that quite indescribable 
position in space time that was a 
synthesis of intelligent, vital minds. 
Only by analogy can that locus even 
be suggested. 

It is half-sleep. It is like the mo- 
ment during which consciousness 
returns sufficiently so that you know 
you are not awake, and can appre- 
ciate the complete calm relaxation 
of slumber. I you could retain con- 
sciousness while you slept — that 
might be it. 

For there was no drugging. The 
sixth sense is tuned to its highest 
pitch, and it intermingles with and 
draws from the other senses. Each 
Baldy contributes. At first the 
troubles and disturbances, the emo- 
tional unbalances and problems, are 
cast into the pool, examined, and 
dissolved in the crystal water of 
the rapport. Then, cleansed and 
strengthened, the Baldies approach 



the center, where the minds blend ) 
into a single symphony. Nuances 
of color one member has appre- 
ciated, shadings of sound and light 
and feeling, each one is a grace ( 
note in orchestration. And each 
note is three-dimensional, for it 
carries with it the Baldy ’s personal, 
individual reaction to the stimulus. 

Here a woman remembered the 
sensuous feel of soft velvet against 
her palm, with its corresponding 
mental impact. Here a man gat e 
the crystal-sharp pleasure of solv- 
ing a difficult mathematical equa- 
tion, an intellectual counterpoint to 
the lower-keyed feeling of velvet. 
Step by step the rapport built up, 
until there seemed but a single 
mind, working in perfect cohesion, 
a harmony without false notes. 

Then this single mind began 
building. It began to think. It was 
a psychic colloid, in effect, an in- 
tellectual giant given strength and 
sanity by very human emotions and 
senses and desires. 

Then into that pellucid unity 
crashed a thought-message that for 
an instant made the minds cling to- 
gether in a final desperate embrace 
in which fear and hope and friend- 
ship intermingled. The round 
robin dissolved. Each Baldy waited 
now, remembering Hobson’s 
thought that said : 

The pogrom’s started. 

He hadn’t broadcast the message 
directly. The mind of a Mute, wear- 
ing his helmet, cannot be read ex- 
cept by another Mute. It was Duke 
Heath, sitting with Hobson in the 
moonlit grounds outside the bos- 



BEGGAES IN VELVET 



28 




pital, who had taken the oral warn- 
ing and conveyed it to the other 
Baldies. Now his thoughts con- 
tinued to flash through Sequoia. 

Come to the hospital. Avoid 
non-Baldies. If you’re seen , you 
may he lynched. 

In dozens of homes, eyes met in 
which the terror had leaped in- 
stantly to full flower. All over the 
world, in that moment, something 
electric sparked with unendurable 
tension from mind to sensitive mind. 
No non-Baldy noticed. But, with 
the speed of thought, the knowledge 
girdled the planet. 

From the thousands of Baldies 
scattered through the villages, from 
helicopter and surface car, came a 
thought of reassurance. We are 
one, it said. We are with you. 

That — from the Baldies. From 
the paranoids, fewer in number, 
came a message of hatred and 
triumph. Kill the hairy men! 

But no nontelepath outside Se- 
quoia knew what was happening. 

There was an old plastic house 
near the edge of town where Burk- 
halter had been hiding. He slipped 
out of a side door now into the cool 
quiet of the night. Overhead, a 
full moon hung yellow. A fan of 
diffused light reached upword from 
Redwood Street in the distance, and 
dimmer paths in the air marked 
the other avenues. Burkhalter’s 
muscles were rigid. He felt his 
throat tense with near-panic. Gen- 
erations of anticipation had built 
up a violent phobia in every Baldy, 
and now that the day had come — 

Barbara Pell came dazzlingly into 



his thoughts, and as his mind re- 
called her, so her mind touched his, 
wild and fiery, gloating with a 
triumph his whole being drew back 
from, while against all judgment 
something seemed to force him to 
receive her message. 

He’s dead, Burkhalter, he’s dead ! 
I’ve killed Fred Self ridge! The 
word is “kill,” but in the mind 
of the paranoid it was not a word 
or a thought, but a reeking sensa- 
tion of triumph, wet with blood, 
a screaming thought which the sane 
mind reels from. 

You fool! Burkhalter shouted at 
her across the distant streets, his 
mind catching a little of her wild- 
ness so that he could not wholly 
control it. You crazy fool, did you 
start this ? 

He was starting out to get you. 
He was dangerous. His talk would 
have started the pogrom anyhow — 
people were beginning to think — 

It’s got to be stopped! 

It will he! Her thought had a 
terrible confidence. We’ve made 
plans. 

What happened ? 

Someone saw me kill Selfridge. 
It’s the brother, Ralph, who touched 
things off — the old lynch law. 
Listen. Her thought was giddy 
with triumph. 

He heard it then, the belling yell 
of the mob, far away, but growing 
louder. The sound to Barbara Pell’s 
mind was fuel to a flame. He 
caught terror from her, but a per- 
verted terror that lusted after what 
it feared. The same fury of blood- 
thirst was in the crowd’s yell and 
in the red flame which was Bar- 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




hara Pell’s mad mind. They were 
coming near her, nearer — 

For a moment Burkhalter was a 
woman running down a dim street, 
stumbling, recovering, racing on 
with a lynch mob baying at her 
heels. 

A man— a Baldy — dashed out 
into the path of the crowd. He tore 
off his wig and waved it at them. 
Ralph Selfridge, his thin young face 
dripping with sweat, shrieked in 
wordless hatred and turned the tide 
after this new quarry. The woman 
ran on into the darkness. 

They caught the man. When a 
Baldy dies, there is a sudden gap 
in the ether, a dead emptiness that 
no telepath will willingly touch with 
his mind. But before that blank- 
ness snapped into being, the Baldy’s 
thought of agony blazed through 
Sequoia with stunning impact, and 
a thousand minds reeled for an in- 
stant before it. 

Kill the hairy men! shrieked Bar- 
bara Pell’s thoughts, ravenous and 
mad. This was what the furies 
were. When a woman’s mind lets 
go, it drops into abysses of sheer 
savagery that a man’s mind never 
plumbs. The woman from time im- 
memorial has lived closer to the 
abyss than the male — lias had to, for 
the defense of her brood. The 
primitive woman cannot afford 
scruples. Barbara Pell’s madness 
now was the red, running madness 
of primal force. And it was a 
fiery thing that ignited something 
in every mind it touched. Burk- 
halter felt little flames take hold 
at the edges of his thoughts and the 
whole fabric that was his identity 



shivered and drew back. But he 
felt in the ether other minds, mad 
paranoid minds reach out toward 
her and cast themselves ecstatically 
into the holocaust. 

Kill them, kill — kill! raved her 
mind. 

Everywhere ? Burkhalter won- 
dered, dizzy with the pull he felt 
from that vortex of exultant hate. 
All over the world, tonight ? Have 
the paranoids risen everywhere, or 
only in Sequoia ? 

And then he sensed suddenly the 
ultimate hatefulness of Barbara 
Pell. She answered the thought, 
and in the way she answered he 
recognized how fully evil the red- 
haired woman was. If she had 
lost herself utterly in this flaming 
intoxication of the mob he would 
still, he thought, have hated her. 
but he need not have despised her. 

She answered quite coolly, with 
a part of her mind detached from 
the ravening fury that took its fire 
from the howling mob and tossed it 
like a torch for the other paranoids 
to ignite their hatred from. 

She was an amazing and complex 
woman, Barbara Pell. She had a 
strange, inflammatory quality which 
no woman, perhaps, since Jeanne 
d’Arc had so fully exercised. But 
she did not give herself up wholly 
to the fire that had kindled within 
her at the thought and smell of 
blood. She was deliberately cast- 
ing herself into that blood-bath, de- 
liberately wallowing in the frenzy 
of her madness. And as she wal- 
lowed, she could still answer with 
a coolness more terrible than her 
ardor. 



BEGGAKS IN VELVET 



31 





38 



No, only in Sequoia, said the 
mind that an instant before had 
been only a blind raving exhortation 
to murder. No human must live 
to tell about it, she said in thought- 
shapes that dripped cold venom 
more burning than the hot blood- 
lust in her broadcast thoughts. We 
hold Sequoia. We’ve taken over 
the airfields and the power station. 
We’re armed. Sequoia is isolated 
from the rest of the world. The 
pogrom’s broken loose here — only 
here. Like a cancer. It must be 
stopped here. 

How? 

How do you destroy any cancer ? 
Venom bubbled in the thought. 

Radium Burkhaltcr thought., 
Radioactivity. The atomic bombs — 

Dusting off ? he wondered. 

A burning coldness of affirma- 
tion answered him. No human must 
live to tell about it. Towns have 
been dusted off before — by other 
towns. Pinewood may get the 
blame this time — there’s been rivalry 
between it and Sequoia. 

But that’s impossible. If the Se- 
quoia t deaudios have gone dead — 

We’re sending out faked mes- 
sages. Any copters coming in will 
be stopped. But we’ve got to finish 
if off fast. If one human escapes — 
Her thoughts dissolved into in- 
human, inarticulate yammering, 
caught up and echoed avidly by a 
chorus of other minds. 

Burkhalter shut off the contact 
sharply. He was surprised, a little, 
to find that he had been moving 
toward the hospital all during the 
interchange, circling through the 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 



outskirts of Sequoia. Now he heard 
with his conscious mind the distant 
yelling that grew loud and faded 
again almost to silence, and then 
swelled once more. The mindless 
beast that ran the streets could be 
sensed tonight even by a non- 
telepath. 

He moved silently through the 
dark for awhile sick and shaken as 
much by his contact with a paranoid 
mind as by the threat of what had 
happened and what might still come. 

Jeanne d’Arc, he thought. She 
had it too, that power to inflame 
the mind. She, too, had heard — 
“voices?” Had she perhaps been 
an unwitting telepath born far be- 
fore her time? But at least there 
had been sanity behind the power 
she exercised. With Barbara 
Pell— 

As her image came into his mind 
again her thought touched him, 
urgent, repellently cool and con- 
trolled in the midst of all this holo- 
caust she had deliberately stirred 
up. Evidently something had hap- 
pened to upset their plans, for — 

Burkhalter, she called voicelessly. 
Burkhalter, listen. We’ll co-operate 
with you. 

We hadn’t intended to, but — 
where is the Mute, Hobson? 

I don’t know. 

The cache of Eggs has been 
moved. We can’t find the bombs. 
It’ll take hours before another load 
of Eggs can be down here from the 
nearest town. It’s on the way. But 
every second we waste increases the 
danger of discovery. Find Hobson. 
He’s the only mind we can’t touch 
in Sequoia. We know no one else 

BEGGARS IN VELVET 



has hidden the bombs. Get Hobson 
to tell us where they are. Make 
him understand, Burkhalter. This 
isn’t a matter affecting only us. If 
word of this gets out, every tele path 
in the world is menaced. The cancer 
must be cut out before it spreads. 

Burkhalter felt murderous 
thought-currents moving toward 
him. Pie turned toward a dark 
house, drifted behind a bush, and 
waited there till the mob had poured 
past, their torches blazing. He felt 
sick and hopeless. What he had 
seen in the faces of the men was 
horrible. Had this hatred and fury 
existed for generations under the 
surface — this insane mob-violence 
that could burst out against Baldies 
with so little provocation? 

Common sense told him that the 
provocation had been sufficient. 
When a telepath killed a nontele- 
path, it was not duelling — it was 
murder. The dice were loaded. 
And for weeks now psychological 
propaganda had been at work in 
Sequoia. 

The non-Baldies were not simply 
killing an alien race. They were out 
to destroy the personal devil. They 
were convinced by now that the 
Baldies were potential world-con- 
querors. As yet no one had sug- 
gested that the telepaths ate babies, 
but that was probably coming soon, 
Burkhalter thought bitterly. 

Preview. Decentralization was 
helping the Baldies, because it made 
a temporary communication-em- 
bargo possible. The synapses that 
connected Sequoia to the rest of the 
world were blocked ; they could not 
remain blocked forever. 

*3 




He cut through a yard, hurdled 
a fence, and was among the pines. 
He felt an impulse to keep going, 
straight north, into the clean wilder- 
ness where this turmoil and fury 
could be left behind. But, instead, 
he angled south toward the distant 
hospital. Luckily he would not 
have to cross the river; the bridges 
would undoubtedly be guarded. 

There was a new sound, discord- 
ant and hysterical. The barking of 
dogs. Animals, as a rule, could 
not receive the telepathic thoughts 
of humans, but the storm of mental 
currents raging in Sequoia now had 
stepped up the frequency — or the 
power — to a far higher level. And 
the thoughts of thousands of tele- 
paths, all over the world, were 
focused on the little village on the 
Pacific Slope. 

Hark, hark! The dogs do bark! 

The beggars are coming to 
town — 

But there’s another poem, he 
thought, trying to remember. An- 
other one that fits even better. What 
is it — 

The hopes and fears of all the 
years — 

V. 

The mindless marking of the dogs 
was worst. It set the pitch of yap- 
ping, mad savagery that washed up 
around the hospital like the rising 
waves of a neap tide. And the 
patients were receptive too ; wet 
packs and hydrotherapy, and, in a 
few cases, restraining jackets were 
necessary. 

Hobson stared through the one- 
way window at the village far be- 



low. “They can’t get in here.” he 
said. 

Heath, haggard and pale, but 
with a new light in his eyes, nodded 
at Burkhalter. 

“You’re one of the last to arrive. 
Seven of us were killed. One child. 
There are ten others still on their 
way. The rest — safe here.” 

“How safe?” Burkhalter asked. 
He drank the coffee Heath had pro- 
vided. 

“As safe as anywhere. This place 
was built so irresponsible patients 
couldn’t get out. Those windows 
are unbreakable. It works both 
ways. The mob can’t get in. Not 
easily, anyhow. We’re fireproof, 
of course.” 

“What about the staff? The non- 
Baldies, I mean.” 

A gray-haired man seated at a 
nearby desk stopped marking a 
chart to smile wryly at Burkhalter. 
The consul recognized him : Dr. 
Wayland chief psychiatrist. 

Wayland said, “The medical pro- 
fession has worked with Baldies for 
a long time, Harry. Especially the 
psychologists. If any non-Baldv 
can understand the telepathic view- 
point, we do. We’re noncombat- 
ants.” 

“The hospital work has to go 
on,” Heath said. “Even in the face 
of this. We did something rather 
unprecedented, though. We read 
the minds of every non-Baldy with- 
in these walls. Three men on the 
staff had a preconceived dislike of 
Baldies, and sympathized with the 
lynchings. We asked them to leave. 
There’s no danger of Fifth Column 
work here now.” 



34 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




Hobson said slowly, “There was 
another man — Dr. Wilson. He went 
down to the village and tried to rea- 
son with the mob.” 

Heath said, “We got him back 
here. He’s having plasma pumped 
into him now.” 

Burkhalter set down his cup. “All 
right. Hobson, you can read my 
mind. How about it” 

The Mute’s round face was im- 
passive. “We had our plans, too. 
Sure, I moved the Eggs. The para- 
noids won’t find ’em now.”i 

“More Eggs are being flown in. 
Sequoia’s going to be dusted off. 
You can’t stop that.” 

A buzzer rang; Dr. Wayland 
listened briefly to a transmitted 
voice, picked up a few charts and 
went out, Burkhalter jerked his 
thumb toward the door. 

“What about him? And the rest 
of the staff? They know, now.” 
Heath grimaced. “They know 
more than we wanted them to know. 
Until tonight, no nontelepath has 
even suspected the existence of the 
paranoid group. We can’t expect 
Wayland to keep his mouth shut 
about this. The paranoids are a 
menace to non-Baldies. The trouble 
is, the average man won’t differen- 
tiate between paranoids and Baldies. 
Are those people down there” — he 
glanced toward the window — “are 
they drawing the line?” 

“It’s a problem,” Hobson admit- 
ted. “Pure logic tells us that no 
ngn-Baldy must survive to talk 
about this. But is that the answer?” 
“I don’t see any other way,” 
Burkhalter said unhappily. He 



thought suddenly of Barbara Pell 
and the Mute gave him a sharp 
glance. 

“Plow do you feel about it 
Heath?” 

The priest-medic walked to the 
desk and shuffled case histories. 
“You’re the boss, Hobson. I don't 
know. I’m thinking about my pa- 
tients, Here’s Andy Pell. He’s 
got Alzheimer’s disease — early 
senile psychosis. He’s screwed up. 
Can’t remember things very well. 
A nice old guy. He spills food on 
his shirt, he talks my ear off, and 
he makes passes at the nurses. He’d 
be no loss to the world, I suppose. 
Why draw a line, then? If we’rt 
going in for killing, there can't be 
any exceptions. The non-Baldv 
staff here can’t survive either.” 
“That’s the way you feel?” 
Heath made a sharp, angry ges- 
ture. “No! It isn’t the way 1 
feel! Mass murder would mean 
canceling the work of ninety years, 
since the first Baldy was born. It’d 
mean putting us on the same level 
as the paranoids? Baldies don'i 
kill.” 

“We kill paranoids.” 

“There’s a difference. Para- 
noids are on equal terms with us. 
And . . . oh, I don’t know, Hobson 
The motive would be the same — to 
save our race. But somehow one 
doesn’t kill a non-Baldy.” 

“Even a lynch mob?” 

“They can’t help it,” Heath said 
quietly. “It’s probably casuistry to 
distinguish between paranoids and 
non-Baldies but there is a differ- 
ence. It would mean a lot of differ- 
ence to us. We’re not killers.” 



BEGGiHS IN VELYEI 



AST— 2W 




Burkhalter’s head drooped. The 
sense of unendurable fatigue was 
back again. He forced himself to 
meet Hobson’s calm gaze. 

"Do you know any other reason?” 
he asked. 

"No,” the Mute said. “I’m in 
communication, though. We’re 
trying to figure out a way.” 

Heath said, “Six more got here 
safely. One was killed. Three are 
still on their way.” 

“The mob hasn’t traced us to the 
hospital yet,” Hobson said. “Let’s 
see. The paranoids have infiltrated 
Sequoia in considerable strength, 
and they’re well armed. They’ve 
got the airfields and the power sta- 
tion. They’re sending out faked 
teleaudio messages so no suspicion 
will be aroused outside. They're 
playing a waiting game ; as soon as 
another cargo of Eggs gets here, 
the paranoids will beat it out of 
town and erase Sequoia. And us, 
of course.” 

“Can’t we kill the paranoids? 
You haven’t any compunctions 
about eliminating them, have you, 
Duke?" 

Heath shook his head and smiled ; 
Hobson said, “That wouldn’t help. 
The problem would still exist. Inci- 
dentally, we could intercept the 
copter flying Eggs here, but that 
would just mean postponement. A 
hundred other copters would load 
Eggs and head for Sequoia; some 
of them would be bound to get 
through. Even fifty cargoes of 
bombs would be too dangerous. You 
know how the Eggs work.” 

Burkhalter knew, all right, One 

s* 



Egg would be quite sufficient to 
blast Sequoia entirely from the map. 

Heath said, “Justified murder 
doesn’t bother me. But killing non- 
Baldies — if I had any part in that, 
the mark of Cain wouldn’t be just a 
symbol. I’d have it on my fore- 
head — or inside my head, rather. 
Where any Baldy could see it. If 
we could use propaganda on the 
mob — ” 

Burkhalter shook his head. 
“There’s no time. And even if we 
did cool off the lynchers, that 
wouldn’t stop word of this from 
getting around. Have you listened 
in on the catch-phrases, Duke?” 

“The mob?” 

“Yeah. They’ve built up a nice 
personal devil by now. We never 
made any secret of our round 
robins, and somebody had a bright 
idea. We’re polygamists. Purely 
mental polygamists, but they’re 
shouting that down in the village 
now.” 

“Well,” Heath said, “I suppose 
they’re right. The norm is arbi- 
trary, isn’t it — automatically set by 
the power-group ? Baldies are vari- 
ants from that norm,” 

“Norms change.” 

“Only in crises. It took the 
Blowup to bring about decentraliza- 
tion, Besides, what’s the true 
standard of values? What’s right 
for non-Baldies isn’t always right 
for telepaths.” 

“There’s a basic standard of 
morals — ” 

“Semantics.” Heath shuffled his 
case histories again. “Somebody 
once said that insane asylums won’t 



ASTOUNDING SC IBN CE-FI CT t ON 




find their true function till ninety 
percent of the world is insane. 
Then the sane group can just retire 
to the sanitariums.” He laughed 
harshly. “But you can’t even find 
a basic standard in psychoses. 
There’s a lot less schizophrenia 
since the Blowup; most d. p. cases 
come from cities. The more I work 
with psycho patients, the less I’m 
willing to accept any arbitrary 
standards as the real ones. This 
man — ”he picked up a chart — “he’s 
got a fairly familiar delusion. He 
contends that when he dies, the 
world will end. Well — maybe, in 
this one particular case it’s true.” 

“You sound like a patient, your- 
self,” Burkhalter said succinctly. 

Hobson raised a hand. “Heath, 
I suggest you administer sedatives 
to the Baldies here. Including us. 
Don’t you feel the tension?” 

The three were silent for a mo- 
ment, telepathetically listening. 
Presently Burkhalter was able to 
sort out individual chords in the 
discordant thought-melody that was 
focused on the hospital. 

“The patients,” he said. “Eh?” 

Heath scowled and touched a 
button. “Fernald? Issue seda- 
tives — ” He gave a quick prescrip- 
tion, clicked off the communicator, 
and rose. “Too many psychotic 
patients are sensitive,” he told Hob- 
son. “We’re liable to have a panic 
on our hands. Did you catch that 
depressive thought — ” He formed 
a quick mental image. “I’d better 
give that man a shot. And I’d better 
check up on the violent cases, too.” 
But he waited. 

Hobson remained motionless, 



staring out the window. After a 
time he nodded. 

“That’s the last one. We’re all 
here now, all of Us. Nobody’s left 
in Sequoia but paranoids and non- 
Baldies.” 

Burkhalter moved his shoulders 
uneasily. “Thought of an answer 

yet ?” 

“Even if I had, I couldn’t tell 
, you, you know. The paranoids 
could read your mind.” 

True enough. Burkhalter thought 
of Barbara Pell, somewhere in the 
village— perhaps barricaded in the 
power station, or at the airfield. 
Some confused, indefinable emotion 
moved within him. He caught 
Hobson’s bright glance. 

“There aren’t any volunteers 
among the Baldies,” the Mute said. 
“You didn't ask to be involved in 
this crisis. Neither did I, really. 
But the moment a Baldy’s born, he 
automatically volunteers for dan- 
gerous duty, and stands ready for 
instant mobilization. It just hap- 
pened that the crisis occurred in 
Sequoia.” 

“It would have happened some- 
where. Sometime.” 

“Right. Being a Mute isn’t so 
easy, either. We’re shut out. We 
can never know a complete round 
robin. We can communicate fully 
only with other Mutes. We can 
never resign.” Not even to another 
Baldy could a Mute reveal the ex- 
istence of the Helmet. 

Burkhalter said, “Our mutation 
wasn’t due for another thousand 
years, I guess. We jumped the 
gun.” 

“We didn’t. But we’re paying. 



BEGGARS IN VELVET 



8T 




The Eggs were the fruit of knowl- 
edge, in a way. If man hadn’t used 
atomic power as he did, the tele- 
pathic mutations would have had 
their full period of gestation. 
They’d never have appeared till the 
planet was ready for them. Not 
exactly ready, perhaps,” he quali- 
fied, “but we wouldn’t have had 
quite this mess on our hands.” 

“I blame the paranoids,” Burk- 
halter said. “And ... in a way . . . 
myself.” 

“You’re not to blame.” 

The Baldy grimaced “I think I 
am, Hobson. Who precipitated 
this crisis?” 

“Selfridge — ” Hobson was 

watching. 

“Barbara Pell,” Burkhalter said. 
“She killed Fred Selfridge. Ever 
since I came to Sequoia, she’s been 
riding me.” 

“So she killed Selfridge to annoy 
you? That doesn’t make sense.” 

“It fitted in with the general 
paranoid plan, I suppose. But 
it was what she wanted, too. She 
couldn’t touch me when I was con- 
sul. But where’s the consulate 
now?” 

Hobson’s round face was very 
grave. A Baldy intern came in, 
offered sedatives and water, and 
the two silently swallowed the bar- 
biturates. Hobson went to the win- 
dow and watched the flaring of 
torches from the village. His voice 
was muffled. 

“They’re coming up,” he said. 
“Listen.” 

The distant shouting grew louder 
as they stood there in silence. 



Nearer and louder. Burkhalter 
moved forward to Hobson’s side. 
The town was a flaming riot of 
torches now, and a river of light 
poured up the curved road toward 
the hospital. 

“Can they get in?” someone 
asked in a hushed voice. 

Heath shrugged. “Sooner or 
later.” 

The intern said, with a touch of 
hysteria: “What can we do?” 

Hobson said, “They’re counting 
on the weight of numbers, of course. 
And they’ve got plenty of that. 
They aren’t armed, I suppose, ex- 
cept for daggers — but then they 
don’t need arms to do what they 
think they’re going to do.” 

There was a dead silence in the 
room for a moment. Then Heath 
said in a thin voice, “What they 
think — ?” 

The Mute nodded toward the 
window. “Look.” 

There was a small rush toward 
the glass. Peering over one an- 
other’s shoulders, the men in the 
room stared down the slope of the 
road;- seeing the vanguard of the 
mob so near already that the sep- 
arate torches were clearly distin- 
guishable, and the foremost of the 
distorted, shouting faces. Ugly, 
blind with hatred and the intention 
to kill. 

Hobson said in a detached voice, 
as if this imminent disaster were 
already in the past, “We’ve got the 
answer, you see — we know about 
this. But there’s another problem 
I can’t solve. Maybe it’s the most 
important one of all.” And he 
looked at the back of Burkhalter’s 



38 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




head. Burkhalter was watching the 
road. Now he leaned forward sud- 
denly and said, 

“Look! There in the woods — 
what is it? Something moving — 
people? Listen — what is it?’’ 

No one paid any attention beyond 
the first two or three words he 
spoke, for all of them saw it now. 
It happened very swiftly. One mo- 
ment the mob was pouring un- 
checked up the road, the next a 
wave of shadowy forms had moved 
purposefully out of the trees in 
compact, disciplined order. And 
above the hoarse shouting of the 
mob a cry went terribly up, a cry 
that chilled the blood. 

it was the shrill, falsetto that 
had once been the Rebel Yell. Two 
hundred years ago it echoed over 
the bloody 'battlefields of the Civil 
War. It moved westward with the 
conquered rebels and became the 
cowboy yell. It moved and spread 
with westerners after the Blow-Up, 
the tall, wild men who could not 
endure the regimentation of the 
towns. Now it was the Hedgehound 
yell. 

From the window the hospital 
watchers saw it all, enacted as if 
on a firelit stage below them. 

Out of the shadows the men in 
buckskin came. Firelight flashed 
on the long blades they carried, on 
the heads of the arrows they held 
against the bent bows. Their wild, 
shrill, terrible yell rose and fell, 
drowning out the undisciplined 
screams of the mob. 

The buckskin ranks closed in be- 
hind the mob, around it. The 
townsmen began to huddle together 

BEGGARS IN VELVET 



a little, until the long loosely or- 
dered mob had become a roughly 
compact circle with the woodsmen 
surrounding them. There were 
cries of, “Kill ’em! Get ’em all!” 
from the townsmen, and the dis- 
orderly shouts rose raggedly 
through the undulations of the 
Hedgehound yell, but you could tell 
after the first two or three minutes 
who had the upper hand. 

Not that there was no fighting. 
The men at the front of the mob 
had to do something. They did — 
or tried to. It was little more than 
a scuffle as the buckskin forms 
closed in. 

“They’re only townsmen, you 
see,” Hobson said quietly, like a lec- 
turer explaining some movie scene 
from old newsreel files. “Did you 
ever think before how completely 
the profession of the fighting man 
has died out since the Blow-Up? 
The only organized fighting men 
left in the world are out there, now.” 
He nodded toward the Hedgehound 
ranks, but nobody saw the motion. 
They were all watching with the 
incredulous eagerness of reprieved 
men as the Hedgehounds compe- 
tently dealt with the mob which was 
so rapidly changing into a disor- 
ganized rabble now as the nameless, 
powerful, ugly spirit that had 
welded it into a mob died mysteri- 
ously away among them. 

All it took was superior force, 
superior confidence — the threat of 
weapons in more accustomed hands. 
For four generations these had been 
townsmen whose ancestors never 
knew what war meant. For four 
generations the Hedgehounds had 

as 




lived only because they knew un- 
remitting warfare, against the for- 
est and mankind. 

Competently they went about 
rounding up the mob. 

“It doesn’t solve anything,” 
Burkhalter said at last, reluctantly, 
turning from the window. Then 
he ceased to speak, and sent his 
mind out in rapid thoughts so that 
the nontelepaths might not hear. 
Don’t we have to keep it all quiet ? 
Do we still have to decide about — 
killing them all ? We’ve saved our 
necks , sure — but ivhat about the 
rest of the world? 

Hobson smiled a grim, thin smile 
that looked odd on his plump face. 
He spoke aloud, to everyone in the 
room. 

“Get ready,” he said. “We’re 
leaving the hospital. All of us. The 
non-Baldy staff, too.” 

Heath, sweating and haggard, 
caught his breath. “Wait a minute. 
T know you’re the boss, but — I’m 
not leaving my patients !” 

“We’re taking them, too,” Hob- 
son said. Confidence was in his 
voice, but not in his eyes. He was 
looking at Burkhalter. The last and 
most difficult problem was still to 
be met. 

The Cody’s thought touched Hob- 
son's mind. All ready. 

You’ve got enough Hedge- 
hounds? 

Four tribes. They were all near 
the Fraser Run. The neve consul- 
ate set-up had drawn ’em from the 
north. Curiosity. 

Report to group. 



Scattered across the continent. 
Mutes listened. We’ve cleaned out 
Sequoia. A T o deaths. A good many 
got pretty well beaten up, but they 
can all travel. (A thought of wry 
amusement.) Your townspeople 
ain’t fighters. 

Ready for the march? 

Ready. They’re all rounded up. 
men, women and children, in the 
north valley. Umpire Vine’s in 
charge of that sector. 

Start the march. About the para- 
noids, any trouble there? 

No trouble. They haven’t figured 
it all out yet. They’re still in the 
town, sitting tight. We’ve got to 
move fast, though. If they try to 
get out of Sequoia, my men will kill. 
There was a brief pause. Then — 
The march has started. 

Good. Use the blindfolds when 
necessary. 

There are no stars underground. 
the Cody’s thought said grimly. 

No non-Baldy must die. Remem- 
ber, this is a point of honor. Our 
solution may not be the best one, 
but — » 

None will die . 

We’re evacuating the hospital. Is 
Mattoon ready? 

Ready. Evacuate. 

Burkhalter rubbed a welt on his 
jaw. “What happened?” he asked 
thickly, staring around in the rust- 
ling darkness of the pines. 

A shadow moved among the 
trees. “Getting the patients ready 
for transportation — remember? 
You were slugged. That violent 
case — ” 

“I remember.” Burkhalter felt 



40 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCH-FIOTION 




sheepish. “I should have watched 
his mind closer. I couldn’t. He 
wasn’t thinking — ” He shivered 

slightly. Then he sat up. “Where 
are we?” 

“Quite a few miles north of Se- 
quoia.” 

“My head feels funny.” Burk- 
halter rearranged his wig. He rose, 
steadying himself against a tree, 
and blinked vaguely. After a mo- 
ment he had reoriented. This must 
be Mount Nichols, the high peak 
that rose tall among the mountains 
guarding Sequoia. Very far away, 
beyond intervening lower summits, 
he could see a distant glow of light 
that was the village. 

But beneath him, three hundred 
feet down, a procession moved 
through a defile in the mountain 
wall. They emerged into the moon- 
light and went swiftly on and were 
lost in shadow. 

There were stretcher-bearers, and 



silent procession moved on into the 
wilderness. 

“The Sequoia Baldies,” Hobson 
said. “And the non-Baldy staff — 
and the patients. We couldn’t leave 
them.” 

“But—” 

“It was the only possible answer 
for us, Burkhalter. Listen. For 
twenty years we’ve been preparing 
— not for this, but for the pogrom. 
Up in the woods, in a place only 
Mutes know about, there’s a series 
of interlocking caves. It’s a city 
now. A city without population. 
The Codys — there are four of them, 
really — have been using it as a 
laboratory and a hideout. There's 
material there for hydroponics, 
artificial sunlight, everything a cul- 
ture needs. The caves aren’t big 
enough to shelter all the Baldies, 
but they’ll hold Sequoia’s popula- 
tion.” 

Burkhalter stared. “The non- 



motionless, prone figures being car- Baldies?” 

ried along; there were men who “Yes. They’ll be segregated, for 
walked arm in arm ; there were tall a while, till they can face truth. 



men in buckskin shirts and fur caps, 
bows slung across their shoulders, 
and they were helping, too. The 




BIGGAltS IN VELVET 



« 



They’ll be prisoners; we can’t get 
around that fact. It was a choice 
between killing them and holding 
them incommunicado. In the caves, 
they’ll adapt. Sequoia was a tight, 
independent community. Family 
units won’t be broken up. The 
same social pattern can be followed. 
Only — it’ll be underground, in an 
artificial culture.” 

“Can’t the paranoids find them ?” 

“There are no stars underground. 
The paranoids may read the minds 
of the Sequoians, but you can’t 
locate a mind by telepathic triangu- 
lation. Only Mutes know the loca- 
tion of the caves, and no paranoid 
can read a Mute’s thoughts. They're 
on their way now to join us— 
enough Mutes to take the Sequoians 
on the last lap. Not even the Hedge- 
hounds will know where they’re 
going.” 

“Then the secret will be safe 
among telepaths — except for the 
Hedgehounds. What if they talk ?” 

“They won’t. Lots of reasons. 
For one, they have no communica- 
tion to speak of with the outside 
world. For another, they’re under 
an autocracy, really. The Codys 
know how to enforce their rules. 
Also, have you thought how the 
towns would react if they knew 
Hedgehounds had cleaned out a 
whole village? To save their own 
skins the Hedgehounds will keep 
their mouths shut. Oh, it may leak 
out. With so many individuals in- 
volved you never can be absolutely 
sure. But I think for an extempo- 
raneous plan, it'll work out well 
enough.” Hobson paused and his 
mind brushed with the keenness of 

43 



a quick glance against Burkhalter’s 
mind. “What’s the matter, Burk? 
Still worried about something?” 

“The people, I suppose,” Burk- 
halter admitted. “The humans. It 
doesn’t seem exactly fair, you know. 
I’d hate to be cut off forever from 
all contact with the rest of the 
world. They — ” 

Hobson thought an explosive 
epithet. It was much more violent 
thought than voiced. He said, 
“Fair ! Of course it isn’t fair ! You 
saw that mob coming up the road, 
Burk — did they have fairness in 
mind then? If anyone ever deserved 
punishment that mob does!” His 
voice grew milder. “One thing we 
tend to lose sight of, you see. We 
grow up with the idea of indulgence 
toward humans pounded into us to 
such an extent we almost forget 
they’re responsible people, after all. 
A pogrom is the most indefensible 
concerted action a group can be 
guilty of. It’s always an attack 
by a large majority on a defense- 
less minority. These people would 
have killed us all without a qualm, 
if they could. They’re lucky we 
aren’t as vicious as they were. They 
deserve a lot worse than they’re 
getting, if you ask me. We didn’t 
ask to be put in a spot like this. 
There’s unfairness involved all 
around, but I think this solution is 
the best possible under the circum- 
stances.” 

They watched the procession be- 
low moving through the moonlight. 
Presently Flobson went on. “An- 
other angle turned up after we put 
this thing in motion, too. A mighty 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




good one. By sheer accident we’re 
going to have a wonderful labora- 
tory experiment going on in human 
relations. It won’t be a dead-end 
community in the caves. Eventually, 
we think the Baldics and the non- 
Baldies will intermarry there. The 
hospital staff are potential good-will 
ambassadors. It’ll take careful 
handling, but I think with our facili- 
ties for mind reading and the propa- 
ganda we can put out adjusted by 
the readings, things will work out. 
ft may be the basis for the ultimate 
solution of the whole Baldy-hutnan 
problem. 

‘‘You see, this will be a micro- 
cosm of what the whole world ought 
to be — would have been if the Blow- 
Up hadn’t brought us tclepaths into 
being ahead of our normal muta- 
tion time. It will be a community 
of humans dominated by telepaths, 
controlled by them benevolently. 
We’ll learn how to regulate rela- 
tions with humans, and there’ll be 
no danger while we learn. It’ll be 
trial and error without punishment 
for error. A little hard on the 
humans, perhaps, but no harder 
than it’s been for generations on 
the Baldy minority all over the 
world. We might even hope that 
in a few years’ time the experiment 
may go well enough that even if 
the news leaked out, the community 
members would elect to stay put. 
Well, we'll have to wait and see. 
It can’t be solved any better way 
that we know of. There is no solu- 
tion, except adjustment between 
the races. If every Baldy on earth 
committed voluntary suicide, there’d 
still be Baldies born. You can’t stop 

BEGGARS IN VELVET 



it. The Blow-Up’s responsible for 
that, not us. We . . . wait a minute.” 

Hobson turned his head sharply, 
and in the rustling night silences 
of the forest, broken only by the 
subdued noises of the proposition 
far below, they listened for a sound 
not meant for ears. 

Burkhalter heard nothing, but in 
a moment Hobson nodded. 

“The town’s about to go,” he 
said. 

Burkhalter frowned. “There’s 
another loose end, isn’t there ? What 
if they blame Pinewood for dusting 
Sequoia off?” 

“There won’t be any proof either 
way. We’ve about decided to spread 
rumors indicating two or three 
other towns along with Pinewood, 
enough to confuse the issue. Maybe 
we’ll say the explosion might have 
come from an accident in the Egg 
dump. That’s happened, you know. 
Pinewood and the rest will just 
have to get along under a slight 
cloud for awhile. They’ll have an 
eye kept on them, and if they should 
show any more signs of aggression 
. . . but of course, nothing will 
happen. I think . . . look, Burk- 
halter ! There she goes !” 

Far away below them the glow 
that was Sequoia lay like a lake of 
light in the mountains’ cup. As they 
watched, it changed. A nova 
flamed in incandescent splendor, 
whitening the men’s faces and show- 
ing the pines in starkly black sil- 
houette. 

For an instant the soundless ether 
was full of a stunning, mindless cry 
that rocked the brain of every tele- 
path within its range. Then there 

43 




was that terrible void, that blank- 
ness of cessation into which no 
Baldy cares to look. This time it 
was a mighty vortex, for .a great 
many telepathic minds perished to- 
gether in that nova. It was a vortex 
that made the mind reel perilously 
near its great, sucking brink. Para- 
noid they may have been, but they 
were telepathic too, and their going 
shook every brain that could per- 
ceive the passing. 

In Burkhalter’s mind a reeling 
blindness struck. He thought, Bar- 
bara, Barbara, . . . 

It was an utterly unguarded cry. 
He made no effort to hush it from 
Hobson’s perception, 

Hobson said, as if he had not 
heard, "That’s the finish. Two 
Mutes in copters dropped the Eggs. 
They’re watching now. No sur- 
vivors. Burkhalter — ” 

He waited. Slowly Burkhalter 
pulled himself out of that blind 
abyss into which the beautiful, ter- 
rible, deadly image of Barbara Pell 
whirled away toward oblivion. 
Slowly he brought the world back 
into focus around him. 

"Yes?” 

"Look. The last of the Sequoians 
are going by. You and I aren’t 
needed here any more, Burk.” 
There was significance in that 
statement. Burkhalter shook him- 
self mentally and said with painful 
bewilderment, 

“I don’t . . . quite get it. Why 
did you bring me up here? Am 
I — ” He hesitated. “I’m not going 
with the others?” 

"You can’t go with them,” the 

u 



Mute said quietly. There was a 
brief silence ; a cool wind whispered 
through the pine needles. The 
pungent fragrance and freshness of 
the night' washed around the two 
telepaths. “Think, Burkhalter,” 
Hobson said. "Think.” 

"I loved her,” Burkhalter said. 
“I know that now.” There was 
shock and self-revulsion in his mind, 
but he was too stunned by the 
realization for much emotion to 
come through yet. 

“You know what that means, 
Burkhalter? You’re not a true 
Baldy. Not quite.” He was silent 
for a moment. “You’re a latent 
paranoid, Burk,” Hobson said. 

There was no sound or thought 
between them for a full minute. 
Then Burkhalter sat down suddenly 
on the pine needles that carpeted 
the forest floor. 

“It isn’t true,” he said. The trees 
were reeling around him, 

“It is true, Burk.” Hobson’s 
voice and mind were infinitely 
gentle. “Think. Would you — 
could you — have loved a paranoid, 
and such a paranoid as that, if you 
were a normal telepath ?” 

Dumbly Burkhalter shook his 
head. He knew it was true. Love 
between telepaths is a far more 
unerring thing than love between 
blind and groping humans. A tele- 
path can make no mistake about 
the quality of the beloved’s charac- 
ter. He could not if he wished. No 
normal Baldy could feel anything 
but utter revulsion toward the thing 
that had been Barbara Pell. No 
normal Baldy — 

“You should have hated her. You 

ASTOUNDING SCIKNCH-PICTION 




did hate her. But there was some- 
thing more than hate. It’s a para- 
noid quality, Burk, to feel drawn 
toward what you despise. If you’d 
been normal, you’d have loved some 
normal telepathic woman, someone 
your equal. But you never did. 
You had to find a woman you could 
look down on. Someone you could 
build up your ego by despising. No 
paranoid can admit any other being 
is his equal. I’m sorry, Burk. I hate 
to say these things.” 

Hobson’s voice was like a knife, 
merciless and merciful, excising dis- 
eased tissue. Burkhalter heard him, 
and trod down the latent hatred 
which the truth — and he knew the 
truth of it — brought out in his 
double mind. 

“Your father’s mind was warped 
too, Burk,” Hobson went on. “He 
was born too receptive to paranoid 
indoctrination—” 

“They tried their tricks on him 
when he was a kid,” Burkhalter 
said hoarsely. “I remember that.” 

“We weren’t sure at first about 
what ailed you. The symptoms 
didn’t show till you took on the 
consulate. Then we began to 
build up a prognosis, of sorts. You 
didn’t really want that job, Burk- 
halter. Not subconsciously. Those 
heavy fatigues were a defense. I 
caught that daydream of yours to- 
day — not the first one you’ve had. 
Daydreams concerned with suicide 
— another symptom, and another 
means of escape. And Barbara Pell 
—that was the payoff. You couldn’t 
let yourself know what your real 
feelings were, so you projected the 
opposite emotion — hatred. You 

BEGGARS IN VELVET 



believed she was persecuting you, 
and you let your hatred have full 
freedom. But it wasn’t hatred, 
Burk.” 

“No. It wasn’t hatred. She . . . 
she was horrible, Hobson ! She was 
horrible !” 

“I know.” 

Burkhalter’s mind boiled with 
violent emotions, too tangled to sort 
out. Hatred, intolerable grief, 
bright flashes of the paranoid world, 
memory of Barbara Pell’s wild 
mind like a flame in the wind. 

“If you’re right, Hobson,” he said 
with difficulty, “you’ve got to kill 
me. I know too much. If I’m really 
a latent paranoid some day I might 
betray — Us.” 

“Latent,” Plobson said. “There’s 
a world of difference — if you can 
be honest with yourself.” 

“I’m not safe if I live. I can 
feel — disease — back in my mind 
right now. I — hate you, Hobson. 
I hate you for showing me myself. 
Some day the hate may spread to 
all Mutes and all Baldies. How 
can I trust myself any more?” 

“Touch your wig, Burk,” Hob- 
son said. 

Bewildered, Burkhalter laid a 
shaking hand upon his head. He 
felt nothing unusual. He looked at 
Hobson in complete confusion. 

“Take it off, Burk.” 

Burkhalter lifted off the wig. It 
came hard, the suction caps that 
held it in place giving way with re- 
luctance. When it was off, Burk- 
halter was amazed to feel that there 
was still something on his head. He 
lifted his free hand and felt with 

45 




unsteady fingers a fine cap of wires trained minds from hundreds of 
like silk, hugging his skull. He other Mutes, all speaking as if in 
looked up in the moonlight and met a chorus that echoed and amplified 
Hobson’s eyes. He could see the all Hobson said, 
fine wrinkles around them, and the But I .. . I'm a latent — 
look of kindness and compassion on The hundreds of minds blended 
the Mute’s round face. For an into a cohesive unit, the psychic 
instant he forgot even the mystery colloid of the round robin, but a 
of the strange cap on hjs head, different, more intense union. 
He cried voicelessly, wrought into something new by the 

Help me, Hobson! Don’t let me caps that filtered all their thoughts. 
hate you! The unit became a single mind. 

Instantly into his mind came a strong and sane and friendly, wel- 
firm, strong, compassionate locking coming the newcomer. He did not 
of thoughts from many, many find miraculous healing there — he 
minds. It was a communion more found something better, 
intimate and of a different quality Truth. Honesty, 
than anything he had ever felt be- Now the warp in his mind, the 
fore. And it was to the mind as the paranoid quirk and its symptoms 
clasp of many supporting hands'- and illogic, became very clear. It 
would be to the body when the body was the highest kind of psycho- 
is weary and in infinite need of analysis, which only a Baldy can 
support. know. 

You’re one of us now, Burk- He thought, It will ta&e time, 
halter. You wear the Helmet. You The cure will take — 
are a Mute. No Paranoid can ever Hobson was standing behind him. 
read your mind. I’ll be with you. Until you can 

It was Hobson’s thought that stand alone. And even then — we’ll 
spoke to him, but behind it spoke all be zvith you. You are one of 
the thoughts of many others, many us. No Baldy is ever alone. 

THE END. 




49 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 



Orders 



by 

VI A L C O M J A At ES ON 



This is the last Malcolm J ameson story that we can publish, a bit of the 
Commander Bullard saga found among Jameson’s papers after his death. 

Illustrated by Williams 

Being the world's worst thumb There was nothing to do. There 
twiddler, Bullard was unhappy. He could be nothing to do. And if 
was restless, disgusted and bored, there should be, by any chance, 



ORDERS 



47 




there was nothing to do it with. 
That he temporarily bore the rank 
of admiral while acting as com- 
mandant of the great Lunar Base 
helped him not at all. He had little 
taste for brass-hattism and an im- 
mense loathing for swivel chairs. 
He got up from the one he was sit- 
ting in and paced the floor of his 
sumptuous office for awhile. Then 
he planted himself before its big 
window and stared gloomily at the 
dreary scene outside. 

The uncanny silence in that 
former bustling place was depress- 
ing, No longer was heard the shrill 
whistles of traveling cranes, the 
whir of fabricating machines, or 
the boom-boom of heavy stamps. 
The shops were closed ; the men 
laid off; the ships away. Ships! 
Bullard’s mouth tightened. Yes, 
there were ships present, rows upon 
row's of them — dead hulls of what 
had once been proud worships, now 
rusting away until the wrecking 
crews should come and go to work 
on them. What remnants of the 
Fleet that had escaped the ax 
wielded by the gang of pacifists now 
in control were dispersed to the far 
corners of the System, their crews 
enjoying themselves on leisurely, 
junketing “good-will cruises.” His 
own good ship, the Pollux, was the 
sole exception. She lay at the mo- 
ment over in the remodeling dock 
in Gobi Crater, her machinery torn 
out and the bulk of her crew dis- 
banded. The amazing new astral 
drive units that were meant to go 
in her still lay unboxed in the store- 
house, the nullochrons were not 
even on order. It might be a year 

4 * 



before work was resumed. Bul- 
lard sighed. So this was the peace 
he had fought hard for. Bah ! 

Peace reigned from the flaming 
face of Sol to the outermost reaches 
of the Plutonian orbit. All was 
serene. Some claimed it would al- 
ways be serene hereafter; the hu- 
man race was fed up with war. 
There was never to be another one. 
Yes, peace. It was supposed to be 
wonderful, but Bullard felt other- 
wise, It was not that he was a 
war-loving man; far from it. But 
he knew his Martians, and his Cal- 
listans, and his Venusians, and all 
the rest, not forgetting some schem- 
ing Tellurians who dwelt down 
below on Earth. It was too much 
to expect that they would stay bound 
forever by the lofty phrases and 
noble sentiments expressed in the 
Treaty of Juno. It is true that they 
had forsworn the use of force in 
interplanetary relations, but the 
paths of history are littered with the 
torn scraps of similar treaties, 
though men seemed to have forgot- 
ten it. At any rate, the peace had 
borne heavily on the armed services. 
Officers and men were retired in 
droves, battleships and cruisers were 
enthusiastically scrapped, new con- 
struction came to a dead halt. 
There was nothing to look forward 
to but dull routine and inaction. 
Bullard sighed again, and gnawed 
his low'er lip. 

He was about to turn away from 
the window, weary from the bleak 
view and his own depressing 
thoughts, when his eye caught the 
glint of sunlight on burnished gold. 
The glitter came from a small sky- 



ASTOTTNDINO SOTKN0 E -FICTION 




cycle that had just entered the dome 
through the southwest portal and 
was skimming to a stop in the mid- 
dle of the parade ground. Bullard 
knew at once from its dark-green 
color that it belonged to the State 
Department, and from the golden 
insignia it sported that it was the 
personal car of a very high official. 
He frowned speculatively at that, 
for experience had taught him that 
unscheduled visits from diplomatic 
bigwigs invariably meant trouble. 
Their contempt for the Service was 
notorious — they haughtily ignored 
the uniformed men until their own 
muddlings sometimes brought af- 
fairs to such a pass that there was 
nothing left but to call* in men of 
action to strengthen their hand. 

“Wonder what this bird wants?” 
growled Bullard, watching the man 
alight from the machine. “If it’s 
a snappy warship for a dirty job, 
he won’t get it. There aren’t any.” 
Then he put on his best poker face, 
recrossed the room, and sat down to 
await his caller. 

“I,” announced the caller, exud- 
ing pomposity and incompetence 
from every pore, “am Lionel Wal- 
lowby, Undersecretary of State for 
Asteroidal Affairs. My calling on 
you, rather than sending for you, 
though unprecedented — ” 

“I am honored,” said Bullard, 
bowing stiffly, but without a quiver 
of expression. Now he knew whom 
he had to deal with, for Wallowby’s 
name was a byword, and he knew 
that the interview was not going 
to be an easy one. Fellow officers 
who had dealt with the man com- 



plained afterward that the strain 
of holding themselves in was almost 
intolerable. Not that Wallowby 
was a villain, or even malicious. He 
was simply smug, vain, useless — 
an outstanding example of what 
nepotism at its worst can foist upon 
a suffering public. 

“I come about a matter of great 
urgency which will require your 
immediate intervention.” 

“How can anything be urgent in 
these placid times?” asked Bullard 
bitterly, “and if so what can I do 
about it? Article VIII of the 
Treaty of Juno — of which, if my 
memory is not at fault, you were 
one of the drafters — forbids for- 
ever the use of force or the threat 
of force in any situation whatever, 
regardless of provocation. Isn’t 
that correct ?” 

“Uh, yes,” admitted Mr. Wal- 
lowby, squirming in his seat, “but 
there are aspects of the situation in 
hand that make it exceptional. You 
see, it is the attitude of the Trojans. 
It is distressing. Humiliating. 
They sidestep, fence, and quibble. 
We have reached an impasse. An 
exasperating people, really.” 

“Quite !” said Bullard. He could 
think of a hundred adjectives ap- 
plicable to them, all harsher. Ex- 
asperating, indeed! On the gray 
rocks of those far-off groups of 
asteroids lived the lowest and mean- 
est dregs of mankind. Their rulers 
were fugitive shyster lawyers, dis- 
barred from more decent planets. 
Their “aristocracy” were retired 
pirates and gamblers, their “work- 
ing” populace a medley of every 
type of petty crook from pickpocket 

4® 



ORDERS 




to cutthroat. Their very existence 
as a quasi-independent nation was a 
reproach to civilization. 

“They take every advantage of 
their privileged international status,” 
complained Mr. Wallowby. 

“They would,” said Bullard, dry- 
ly. “And why not?” 

It was a dig at his caller, for it 
was Undersecretary Wallowby who 
had held out at the peace conference 
for the continued autonomy of the 
Trojans, alleging that to leave them 
as they were was the simplest 
evasion of the age-old rivalry be- 
tween the Martians and the colon- 
ists on the Saturnian satellites. And 
so it might have been had the 
Trojans been populated by any 
other kind of people. But as it 
turned out, "autonomy,” as con- 
strued by the bosses of the Trojans 
meant license to thumb their nose3 
at the rest of the civilized world. 
They owed their immunity to sub- 
jugation to their peculiar location 
in the Solar System. Both groups 
rode the orbit of Jupiter, one a half 
billion miles ahead, the other an 
equal distance behind the master 
planet. Therefore, the Jovians 
periodically made claim for jurisdic- 
tion. But there are years when 
Saturn is actually closer to one or 
the other of them, and often Mars 
is closer to both. From the earliest 
asteroid-grabbing days Mars and 
Saturn had quarreled over which 
had the primary interest. The 
nearsighted framers of the Treaty 
of Juno had ducked the issue by 
leaving the Trojan groups autono- 
mous, but yet under the joint pro- 
tection of both squabbling claim- 

90 



ants. Whereupon the Trojans 
promptly made the most of it. 

Bullard knew the rocky planet- 
oids well, for he had visited them 
often in the days when manhunters 
were not handicaped by paralyzing 
rules. He knew the men who ran 
them, particularly the swashbuck- 
ling fourfiusher who styled himself 
the Boss of Nestor. Since he had 
defied him more than once in cut- 
ting out some wanted man. But 
those good old days were gone. 
Nowadays the Trojans wrapped 
themselves in the blessing of the 
no-violence terms of the fatuous 
treaty. No one could enter their 
ports forcibly, or remove any crimi- 
nal fugitive without their consent — 
not even one of their own protect- 
ors. Should Mars make harsh 
claims, the ’Trojans would appeal 
to the Saturnians, who in turn, 
could be counted upon to declare 
the Martians in the wrong. Or 
they would work it the other way 
around. On the other hand if the 
Earth or any other outside planet 
presented a claim or grievance, both 
protectors would be called in. The 
Trojans played both ends against 
the middle with great skill. Their 
position resembled that of certain 
small Balkan countries at an earlier 
period in history — they were of 
little intrinsic worth but of high 
nuisance value. The least upset- 
ting of the status quo could easily 
initiate another general war. The 
Trojan situation, in short, was 
dynamite. 

“What is your difficulty with 
the Trojans?” Bullard asked, see- 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




ing that Wallowby seemed at a loss 
to proceed. “What do you want 
of me?” 

“I . . . uh, that is we ... or the 
Department, I meant to say,” 
stammered Wallowby, “find we are 
compelled to ask you to extricate 
. . . no, that isn’t what I mean . . . 
execute a delicate diplomatic mis- 
sion. It has to do with a notorious 
criminal known as Grory the Groat. 
We have extradited him and now 
want to secure custody.” 

“I have no ships in commission 
here,” remarked Bullard, “whereas 
skyliners make the trip every 
month. Furthermore, you have a 
large staff of marshals who are 
maintained for just such missions. 
The apprehension of a civil prisoner 
is outside my jurisdiction.” He had 
not missed Wallowby’s fumbling of 
the word “extricate,” and already 
guessed the civil arm had made a 
try for Grory and messed it up. 
Wallowby’s capacity for bungling 
was unsurpassed. 

“The Trojans do not treat our 
marshals with respect,” whined 
Wallowby. He was not used to be- 
ing talked back to, and he did not 
like to admit what he had to. “We 
have sent several, but they are al- 
days turned back on one legalistic 
pretext or another. In our first 
requisition we claimed Grory on 
charges of treason, sabotage, fo- 
menting rebellion, and gun-running. 
They accepted it, but when our of- 
ficer got there they told him that 
they had reconsidered. It appears 
that the crimes enumerated were 
not sufficient in view of the blanket 
amnesty clause in the Treaty,” 



“Of course not,” said Bullard 
bluntly. “They have a political 
tinge. You should have known 
better. Isn’t that general amnesty 
clause known widely as the Wal- 
lowby Provision?” 

Wallowby flushed, then turned 
huffy. 

“It was never intended to give 
immunity to common scoundrels of 
the Grory stripe,” he said stiffly. 
“Moreover the treaty is not what 
I came to discuss.” 

Bullard shrugged. Wallowby 
went on. 

“Since then we have submitted 
other requests. Five, to be exact. 
We have presented evidence of 
piracy, murder and embezzlement. 
We have demanded him for smug- 
gling drugs and white slaves, for 
counterfeiting, and a score of other 
crimes. Each time they say we may 
have him if we only send. Each 
time our marshal arrives there they 
send him back emptyhanded, al- 
ways with a different excuse. To 
make the story short, they are eva- 
sive and unco-operative. They have 
persistently refused to arbitrate. 
They flout us, admiral they flout 
us !” It was a wail. 

“Maybe they don’t want to give 
up Mr. Grory the Groat,” said 
Bullard. 

Wallowby looked momentarily 
startled as if that suggestion was 
entirely novel to him. Then he 
rallied himself and completed his 
oration. 

“We have been correct, consider- 
ate and courteous throughout. They 
repay us with legal sophistries. We 
have dilly-dallyed overlong. My 



OSDEKS 



61 




patience is at its end. The hour 
for action has struck. Now the 
time has come when we must reveal 
the iron hand that lies beneath the 
velvet glove — ” 

“What iron hand?” asked Bul- 
lard brutally. 

Wallowby blinked and swallowed 
hard. 

‘‘Why, uh, the potential iron 
hand, of course. We must be more 
impressive. We must be more stern. 
We must cease making request and 
make demands. You will at once 
send a warship to Nestor and secure 
the person of this Grory for us.” 

“That,” said Bullard, rising, “is 
absolutely absurd. The only ships 
we have that can take the void have 
been thoroughly demilitarized. Even 
if they were armed, we are still 
forbidden by the terms of your 
ridiculous treaty from using them. 
What, I ask, can a gunless battle- 
ship do that a letter can’t do?” 

“You are impertinent. Acting 
Admiral Bullard,” said Wallowby 
with what was meant to be cutting 
sarcasm. He, too, was on his feet, 
and his face aflame. “I have wasted 
words enough on you. Here are 
your orders. Carry them out.” 

He jerked a long official envelope 
from an inner pocket and hurled 
it onto Bullard’s desk. Then, after 
venting one contemptuous sniff, 
stalked haughtily out. 

“Well, I’ll be—” whistled Bul- 
lard as the door closed on the back 
of his departing caller. 

He sat for long, staring down at 
those silly orders and marveling at 
the incredible stupidity of a man 

*2 



such as Wallowby. Yet, he asked 
himself after a time, was he so 
stupid after all ? However he might 
bungle jobs, he had cunning enough 
to find an out. The suspicion was 
growing in Bullard’s mind that this 
time it was he who had been chosen 
for the goat. He glanced through 
the orders again. 

They were official enough, hav- 
ing been signed in open council by 
no lesser personage than the Direc- 
tor himself. And they were simple. 
They directed that a demilitarized 
man-of-war be put in commission 
at once and sent under the command 
of a competent officer to the port 
of Nestor in the Anterior Trojans. 
Upon arrival the ship’s captain was 
to make peremptory demand upon 
the Boss of Nestor for the person 
of one Grory the Groat, receive him 
into custody, and deliver him to the 
appropriate authorities on Earth. 
The demand was to be made in the 
name of interplanetary law only 
and was not to be accompanied by 
threatening words or gestures. If 
refused, no efforts were to be made 
to apprehend Grory by force. In 
the latter event, the visiting officer 
was to politely withdraw and return 
to Luna. 

“Nuts !” snorted Bullard, kicking 
his swivel chair out from under 
him and beginning a feverish pac- 
ing of the room. For five minutes 
he angrily strode up and down, 
cursing Wallowby without cessa- 
tion. For now his dilemma was 
crystal clear. Wallowby, the louse, 
didn’t matter any longer. He had 
adroitly ducked from under. The 
thing was official now. Whatever 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




the stupidities and ineptness of the 
Office of Asteroidal Affairs, they 
had been buried, white-washed, 
glossed-over, or what have you. 
The mess had been laid in Bullard’s 
lap. It was his baby now. Worse, 
it was the Service’s baby. 

If and when the affair was ever 
made public, the story would run 
thus : Justice located their man ; 
State put through the necessary re- 
quests and papers ; Space Service 
was assigned to execute the ulti- 
mate act of physical possession. 
Whether or not they got the man 
would be irrelevant. The two civil 
departments had done their stuff, 
if blame was due it was due some- 
where else. 

“Heads he wins, tails I lose,” 
growled Bullard, “If we get Grory, 
it is no more than we are expected 
to do — a routine matter : if we don’t 
get Grory, we’re a pack of bums. 
There isn’t but one answer. No 
stuffed shirt like Wall© why is going 
to make this outfit a laughingstock 
as long as I’m giving the orders. 
I’m going to get Grory, " 

He sat down to gather himself 
together and think of ways and 
means. The more he contemplated 
the problem, the thicker it got. 
Wallowby’s legal sharks had done 
their best — and failed ; his diplo- 
mats had made representations, ar- 
gued and pleaded — and had failed; 
his marshals had been received with 
ridicule, and sent back defeated 
But that, after all, was the Wallow- 
by crowd. Bullards’ eyes grew 
hard. He knew offhand of at least 
forty officers on the Moon he could 
send who would bring back Grory 



dead or alive, and the blustering 
Boss of Nestor, too, if it came to 
that, if only told to do so. But 
Bullard could not order them out. 
His hands were bound by the let- 
the- lamb -lie - down - with -the -lion 
platitudes of the accursed Treaty of 
Juno. No longer could a Guards- 
man look a hardboiled criminal in 
the eye and say, “Put ’em up, or 
else.” Oh, no. You should ap- 
proach the rogue politely and re- 
quest he accompany you to the jail. 
Bah ! That time Bullard picked up 
his chair and hurled it clear across 
the room. After that he took up his 
tigerish rug tramping again. 

All the answers were negative. 
If he didn’t bring Grory back, he 
would have furnished Wallowby 
with the alibi he sought. If he 
brought him back through the use 
of, or by the barest hint of force, 
a delicate interplanetary situation 
would be provoked. The Martians 
and Saturnians would be certain to 
protest it as a violation of the 
treaty, and again the blame would 
fall upon Bullard’s man for having 
been over zealous. It might not 
result in a resumption of the war, 
but it was as risky as smoking in 
a powder magazine. 

Spent from his excited pacing, 
Bullard sat down again. This time 
he discarded all the usual ap- 
proaches and went at the problem 
in his own way. There had been 
other times in his life that he had 
received asinine, if not impossible 
orders, and had managed somehow 
to carry them into execution, though, 
it must be admitted in all frank- 
ness, not always to the perfect satis - 



ORDERS 



S3 





faction of those who had issued 
them. Now he must wrack his 
brains again. 

He scanned the list of ships pres- 
ent and the roster of personnel. 
The choice of ships was easy. He 
selected the ex-cruiser Llerdyx, a 
prize of war, for the vessel. Her 
guns had been pulled and the ports 
blanked off, and her torpedo tubes 
plugged beyond repair, but she was 
handy and fast and that was all he 
wanted. Bullard sent orderlies 
scurrying with word to various de- 
partments. The Llerdyx was to be 
renamed the Texas Ranger, pro- 
visioned and fueled and made ready 
for departure the following day. 



Her crew was to be made up of 
Pollux men then waiting in the 
lonely barracks by the Gobi dock. 

All of Bullard’s best officers were 
away on extended leave, but at 
length he found a notation on the 
roster that gave him comfort. Lieu- 
tenant Benton, whom he had fleeted 
up from tubeman, was due back 
on Luna that very night. Benton 
then was the man, for Benton could 
be relied upon. That disposed of 
the expedition except provision for 
what it was to do. That was the 
hardest task. 

He sat down at the ordergraph. 
His fingers flew as he pecked out 
part one of the orders. They were 
largely a paraphrase of the set 
Wallowby brought. Then the go- 
ing got hard ; Bullard bogged down. 
He swore softly to himself, scowled, 
wrote pages and pages of drafts, 
only to tear them up and feed them 
into the maw of his wastebasket. 
He would light one cigarette on the 
butt of its predecessor, then grind 
it angrily under his heel. It was 
one thing to write orders that could 
be complied with, another to com- 
pose a set in the face of almost cer- 
tain failure. It was like ordering 
a faithful follower to go up against 
a ruthless killer with nothing but 
an empty gun. 

Dark was almost at hand when 
Bullard finally wrote out the words 
he dreaded to put down. But he 
did write them out, for his duty 
was plain. They wpuld be painful 
for Benton to execute, and disgrace- 
ful for Bullard if they were ever 
made known. But the feelings and 
reputations of two men did not 



84 



4STOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




count in the grander scheme of 
things. Very reluctantly Bullard 
inserted the paper in an envelope, 
sealed it with a sigh, then typed 
on the cover these words: 

To be opened and put into effect only in 
the event that the Boss of Nestor refuses 
to hand over the person of Grory the 
Groat. Otherwise this must be returned to 
signer intact 

Bullard. 

An hour later Benton reported 
for duty, brisk, cheerful and ruddy 
after his vacation. But his grin 
faded when he saw the somber mood 
of his skipper. Bullard hardly 
spc^ke. Instead he handed over part 
one of the orders. 

“Gee!” said Benton, delighted. 
“I get a command. And do a cruise 
all on my own. That’s great !” 

“Evidently you do not under- 
stand what you are to do,” said 
Bullard, gravely. 

“Sure. It’s clear enough. I hop 
off tomorrow, go out to Nestor, tell 
’em I want this bird Grory, slap 
him in the brig, and then come back. 
What’s the catch?” 

“They aren’t going to give Grory 
up.” 

“Huh?” Benton was astonished. 
Then his face widened as his old 
grin came back. Now he knew — 
Bullard was having a little private 
fun, he was pulling his leg. “Why 
that flea-bitten little so-called re- 
public. For two cents I’d blast ’em 
out of the ether, no matter what 
they’ve got.” 

“That,” said Bullard, “is the hard 
part. You aren’t permitted to do any 
blasting. You haven’t any arms but 



sidearms. And they know it.” 

“All right. They say no. Then 
what do I do? Come home like 
a whipped hound?” 

Bullard drew the secret portion 
of the orders out of his desk 
drawer and fondled its envelope 
thoughtfully. 

“You will find the answer 
here,” he said. “This will tell you 
all you need to know.” 

Bullard got up abruptly and 
walked to the window, where he 
stood for a moment looking out into 
the dim night, his hands clasped 
behind him. Benton saw that his 
fingers were twitching nervously, 
and was surprised, for he had sel- 
dom seen the celebrated captain of 
the Pollux display strong emotion. 
Then Bullard began speaking again, 
but still facing out the window. 
His itone was low and his voice 
solemn. 

“Benton, lad, there is something 
I want you to remember when you 
get out there on Nestor. That is 
that I am sending you on this mis- 
sion only because I am forbidden to 
take it myself. The darkest hours 
in any senior’s life come when he is 
compelled to delegate a job so dirty 
that he would shrink from touching 
it himself. This job, Benton, is 
that kind of job. If the worst comes 
and you have to open this envelope, 
you will have no choice but comply 
with its harsh instructions. You 
will want to squirm out from under, 
you will want to rebel, you will 
hate me — ” 

“Oh, no, skipper,” exclaimed 
Benton. “I can carry out orders. 
You know it!” 



ORDERS 



05 




“To the letter, whatever the cost, 
whatever your opinion of the or- 
ders themselves or the man who 
wrote them ?” 

“Why, yes, sir. What proper 
officer would not?” 

Bullard whirled, and Benton 
thought he caught a twinkle in his 
eyes, though the mouth still held its 
grim set. 

“There have been times, Benton,” 
Bullard said softly, with a faint 
smile, “when officers have not al- 
ways adhered to the letter. In fact, 
on several such occasions I believe 
you acted as an accomplice.” Then 
his face grew stern again, and the 
voice peremptory and commanding. 
“In this instance you are to attempt 
nothing of the sort. Orders are 
orders.” 

He handed Benton the sealed 
package. Then he shook him 
warmly by the hand. Benton 
looked so crestfallen that Bullard 
was beginning to wonder if he had 
not overplayed his hand. 

“If you work things right,” said 
Bullard, in a more confident tone, 
“you will bring this back unopened 
along with Grory. I cannot tell you 
in advance what my instructions 
are, but I assure you that I have 
prepared for every conceivable con- 
tingency. The only hints I can give 
you are these: be cool and civil; 
do not bluster or enter into a debate. 
But be bold, be confident when you 
make your demand. If it is refused, 
go back quietly to the ship and wait. 
If nothing happens by the expira- 
tion of four hours, then you will 
have to do what I have written here. 
Good luck !” 



Many times on the trip out Ben- 
ton took the mysterious envelope 
out of the safe and examined it 
hopefully. There was no clue to 
what it contained. As often he 
put it back, more curious than ever. 
His confidence in Bullard was un- 
bounded ; he was sure of one thing, 
and that was that those hidden or- 
ders did have the answer to any- 
thing that might come up. But 
what? Bullard had intimated that 
carrying them out would be distaste- 
ful, perhaps hazardous. Oh, well ! 

Benton went through the ship 
with a fine-toothed comb, looking 
for secret gadgets that might have 
been planted there. He found 
nothing. Whatever Bullard ex- 
pected him to do was probably in 
the strictly Bullardian manner — a 
pulling of rabbits out of a hat. He 
was still puzzling over the teaser 
when the Trojan group showed up 
on his screen. A little later he was 
setting the newly christened Texas 
Ranger down on Nestor. 

When he stepped out of the space 
lock he saw to his surprise that he 
had company. A Martian gunboat, 
bristling with long Zordich guns, 
lay to his left; a Saturnian sloop 
of war, studded with tube openings, 
lay to the right. An armed yacht, 
sporting the triple-cross emblem of 
the Trojans, was a little way ahead 
of where he lay. It was apparent 
that the denizens on the outer 
planets were not taking disarma- 
ment as seriously as the gullible 
Earth people. It was very discon- 
certing. 

Then Benton thought of his or- 
ders inside in the safe. It bucked 



oe 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




him up. No doubt the presence 
of these vessels was one of the con- 
tingencies that Bullard had pro- 
vided for. Bullard was a careful 
man. Benton walked on toward 
the port. 

His interview with the Boss of 
Nestor was short and to the point. 
He stated what he had come for; 
the answer was a curt no. That 
was all there was to it. 

“Very well,” said Benton, calmly. 
Bullard’s words still rang in his 
ears — “be confident, be cool, be 
bold.” 

Someone in the audience cham- 
ber snickered, but Benton ignored 
it. He walked down the aisle and 
out the door with a firm step but 
without haste. At the door the 
Nestorian captain of the port who 
had escorted him to the palace took 
him back in tow. 

“You take it easier than the mar- 
shals did,” he said, in an offhand 
way. “They raved and swore. But 
it didn’t get ’em anywhere. Our 
Boss is tough.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yes. Are you shoving off now?” 

“Oh, no,” said Benton. “I 
haven’t finished vet.” 

They walked along for a hun- 
dred yards while the beetle-browed 
captain mulled that cryptic remark 
over. At length he asked for en- 
lightenment. 

“You came for Grory and the 
Boss said you couldn’t have him? 
So what? Bluffs don’t work on 
Nestor.” 

“I wouldn’t know.” 

“Then what? What have you 
got up your sleeve?” 



“You’ll find out in just four 
hours from now — if I don’t get 
Grory.” 

“Oh, a threat, huh ?” 

“Nope. A statement.” 

The port captain left Benton at 
his ship, then walked across to the 
Martian vessel and said something 
to its* skipper. Then Benton saw 
him making his way toward the 
Saturnian. Benton called for his 
steward. 

“Bring out that fancy deck chair 
we found in the cabin,” he directed. 

Ten minutes later Benton was 
stretched out in a luxurious silken 
chair over which a striped awning 
made a canopy against the weak 
Nestorian sun. By his side stood 
a taboret and on it a tall, cool drink. 
Benton relaxed. It was his way 
of displaying confidence. 

Presently the Martian captain 
came over, read the name of his 
ship, looked enviously at the fancy 
chair layout, then opened the con- 
versation. 

“Sticking around awhile?” 

“Dunno,” said Benton. “That’s 
up to the Boss. When I get Grory, 
I shove off.” 

The Martian asked several more 
questions, but the answers were 
vague and noncommittal. The con- 
versation languished. Benton 
glanced at his watch. An hour had 
gone. He took a sip of his drink, 
closed his eyes and pretended to 
doze. 

The Martian went away. Half 
an hour later Benton had a new 
visitor. It was Nestor’s deputy 
Boss, a scarred, one-eyed ex-burg- 
lar named Fraggin, 



OROBRS 



#T 




“What's this about an ulti- 
matum?” he demanded roughly. 
“Captain Zeeter said you said you 
were going to get Grory inside of 
four hours or else.” 

“He quoted me inaccurately, but 
that was the substance of it.” 

“Or else what?” Fraggin looked 
like he was about to swing. 

“When the time limit expires I 
shall carry out the uncompleted por- 
tion of my orders. That’s all. 
What’s in ’em is my business.” 
“Who wrote any such orders?” 
growled Fraggin. 

“That’s none of your business 
either, but I don’t mind telling you. 
Bullard did — Admiral Bullard, 
Commandant of Lunar Base and 
captain of the Pollux. You ought 
to know him. He pulled the raid 
on Titania.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I know him,” said 
Fraggin, rubbing one of his scars 
thoughtfully. There was not a man 
in all the Trojans that didn’t know 
him. Most had been arrested by 
him at one time or another. 

“Well,” said Fraggin after a long 
and what must have been for him 
a painful silence, “I gotta be goin’ !” 
“O.K.,” said Benton, serenely, 
and reaching for his drink. “I’ll be 
seeing you.” Then he settled down 
to do some concentrated, if well 
concealed, worrying. At that mo- 
ment he would gladly have given 
a pair of fingers for some advanced 
knowledge of what that sealed en- 
velope held. He felt that he should 
be making preparations, not daw- 
dling in a silky chair. But he knew 
he was being watched intently from 
three ships, and now that he had 

as 



chosen his role he must stick it out 
to the bitter end. 

It still lacked ten minutes to the 
deadline when the squad of soldiers 
approached. Fraggin led them. Ben- 
ton glanced up with a pretense of 
indifference, and then a great weight 
rolled off his soul. Struggling and 
cursing in the midst of the squad 
was the man Grory, handcuffed to 
the soldiers on either side of him. 
Benton turned his head and called 
the steward. 

“Ask the master-at-arms to come 
out,” he said. “Here comes our 
prisoner.” 

The exchange of formal papers 
took only a few minutes. Then the 
T ex as Ranger’s tubes began to glow 
and a little later she was in the void, 
headed home. Benton decided to 
while the time away by refreshening 
his astragation. Working out the 
sights made the days of the voyage 
pass quickly. Almost before he 
realized it, he was making his land- 
ing on Luna. 

A prison van from Justice was 
there to meet him, and Benton took 
the receipt for Grory from an 
astonished looking chief marshal. 
He declined to answer any questions, 
but the moment he was rid of his 
prisoner, he hurried over to the 
Administration Building. 

“Well done,” said Bullard, meet- 
ing him at the door. “I knew you 
could do it. Any trouble?” 

“Not a bit,” said Benton, proudly, 
then to make the most of his brief 
spot in the limelight, produced the 
envelope still bearing its seals. “I 
didn’t even have to use this, sir.” 



astounding science-fiction 




“Ah, splendid,” said Bullard, 
taking it and dropping it in the 
drawer. “You may go back to 
your regular duties now, Benton, 
and thank you.” 

“Yes, sir, of course. But I am 
a little curious. You may not know 
it, sir, but I was worried. I'm 
itching to know what those orders 
were.” 

Bullard looked at him quizzically. 
Should he tell him? After all he 
had been put in an awful hole and 
had come through with flying colors. 
Bullard felt he rated something. 
He would have preferred that 
Benton never knew, but he had 
asked, and it was a request that was 
hard to deny. 

“All right, Benton, here you are. 
Here is the shameful thing you 
might have had to do.” 

THE 



“Shameful ?” said the amazed 
Benton, taking the envelope and 
pulling off its seals. Bullard 
watched him intently as he shook 
out the contents and fished through 
them. Benton had expected to find 
several pages of closely written in- 
structions. Instead he found only 
sheets of blank paper. Then, in 
the middle, he found a little slip of 
paper on which were written three 
brief words. 

“Great God!” he cried, as the 
enormity of it hit him. He stared 
at the terse sentence in frank dis- 
belief. Then he laughed. The 
paper fluttered onto Bullard’s desk 
where the three little words lay 
until Bullard tore them into fine 
little bits. The words were : 

RETURN TO BASE. 

END. 




OKDEBS 



59 





by ISAAC ASIMOV 



Second of two parts. Across the ruined, dying Galactic Empire , 
fleeing from a conquered Foundation, three frightened people and 
the hunted jester of the new conqueror, the Mule, sought the 
Second Foundation — the only hope, but it must be warned! 



Illustrated by Orban 



SYNOPSIS 

The Foundation, having defeated 
the Empire in the final Imperial at- 
tempt at conquest nearly a century 
earlier , has developed, meanwhile, 
into a tight oligarchy. The mayor’s 
office has become hereditary, and 
Indbur III, the weakling autocrat 
zvho now rules, is merely a tool 
in the hands of the huge financial 
■magnates. 



Against this state of affairs stand 
the twenty-six small, disunited In- 
dependent Trading Worlds ivhich 
were established by the feeing rebels 
after the unsuccessful Traders Re- 
bellion eighty years before. These 
worlds have not abandoned thoughts 
of revolt but are far too weak to 
change thoughts to action. 

Meanwhile, the old Empire has 
fallen quite to pieces, with the vari- 
ous splinters under the shifting, 



60 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 



incoherent control of success-ions of 
warlords, whose ephemeral military 
rule waxes and wanes chaotically. 
It is to these warlords that certain 
elements of the Independent Traders 
look for help against the Founda- 
tion. However, none of these war- 
lords are at all anxious to tangle 
with a Foundation known to have 
defeated the Empire singlehanded 
and known to be invincible by the 
established laws of psychohistory. 

There is only “The Mule.” The 
Mule is an unknown figure who, 
in the space of a few years has 
sprung to the forefront of the war- 
lord ranks and whose realm has 
grown with startling speed, though 
he himself is as much a mystery 
as ever. As the story opens, he 
has just captured the planet of Kal- 
gan without a fight, though its 
former warlord was known to be 
a capable zvarrior, entirely un-given 
to surrender. 

ft is upon the Mule, then, that 
the eyes of Haven , largest of the 
Independent Trading Worlds, are 
fixed. Tor an, nephezv of one of 
Haven’s leaders, and his Founda- 
tion bride, Bayta, travel to Kalgan, 
ostensibly for a honeymoon, actu- 
ally to establish contact with the 
Mule. There, they rescue a run- 
away dozen of the Mule's from im- 
minent recapture in defiance of the 
Mule’s men. Through him, they 
hope to reach the Mule. 

That night, however. Captain 
Han Pritcher, of the Foundation 
Intelligence, meets them, reveals his 
own pro-democratic sympathies 
convincingly, and adifances his 
theory that the Mule is a mutant 



of unknozm powers zvlto is a great 
potential menace to the entire Gal- 
axy, and who may have been un- 
accounted for in the original 
master-plan of the Foundation’s 
psycho-history as set up three cen- 
turies earlier by the great scientist, 
Hari Seldom Captain Pritcher sug- 
gests the union of the Foundation 
and the Independent Traders 
against the common menace. 

Tor an and Bayta leave Kalgan 
with Captain Pritcher and the 
Mule’s clown, zvithout any interfer- 
ence at all from the Mule, but upon 
arriving at the Foundation find that 
the Mule has used the abduction of 
his clown as a pretext to declare 
war on the Foundation. This sud- 
denly bears out the theories of the 
pro-democratic Ebling Mis, the 
Foundation’s greatest psychologist . 
who has predicted an imminent ap- 
pearance in the Time Vault of the 
recorded figure of Hari Seldon, 
founder of the Foundation. This 
is rightly taken to mean the ap- 
proach of a severe crisis and every 
effort is made, but unsuccessfully, 
to obtain information concerning 
the nature of the Mule’s mutant 
pozvers from the limited mental 
faculties of the Mule’s grotesque 
clown. 

The Independent Trading Worlds 
have, in the meantime, convened, 
and are trying to form an alliance 
with the Mule. Efforts to reach 
him fail, however, and zvhen he at- 
tacks one of the Independent Trad- 
ing Worlds zvithout provocation, the 
Trading Worlds realise the real 
power and danger of the Mule and 



THE MULB 



SI 




hastily throw in with the Founda- 
tion. 

Surprisingly, the Mule, with new 
ships and weapons of his own, wins 
initial victories. 

All depends nozu upon the Time 
Vault. In the past, Hari Seldon 
has always appeared at times of 
crises to explain his psychohistorical 
laws, which have so set up the 
Foundation, as to force it through 
a series of crises on to eventual 
galaxy-wide Empire a thousand 
years later. These laws are con- 
sidered, and have so far proved to 
be, foolproof. 

This time, unfortunately, with the 
enemy at the approaches to the 
Foundation’s home planet, the simu- 
lacrum of Hari Seldon makes no 
mention of the Mule, but discusses 
instead a Traders Rebellion — which 
had never occurred — which he re- 
fers to as being safely beaten down. 
It is obvious that Seldon’ s psycho- 
history had not foreseen the current 
crisis correctly and great consterna- 
tion arises among the assembled 
notables of the Foundation. 

In the middle of Seldon’ s speech, 
all atomic power on the Foundation 
is shut off by a newly-developed de- 
vice of the Mule and in the despair 
that follozvs, Indbur III surrenders 
the Foundation to the Mule. 

Toran and Bayta, together zvith 
their uncle, Randu, the clown, Mag- 
nifico, and the Foundation psychol- 
ogist, Ebling Mis, escape to Haven, 
which in common with most of the 
Independent Worlds still resists. 

The next day the forces of the 
Mule land, and for the first time in 
its history, the Foundation is actu- 
al 



ally conquered and placed under 
foreign domination. 

IX. 

The lonely planet, Haven — only 
planet of an only sun of a Galactic 
Sector that trailed raggedly off into 
intcrgalactic vacuum — was under 
siege. 

In a strictly military sense, it was 
certainly under siege, since no area 
of space on the Galactic side further 
than twenty parsecs distance was 
outside range of the Mule’s advance 
bases. In the four months- since 
the shattering fall of the Founda- 
tion, Haven’s communications had 
fallen apart like a spiderweb under 
the razor’s edge. The ships of 
Haven converged inwards upon the 
home world, and only Haven itself 
was now a fighting base. 

And in other respects, the siege 
was even closer ; for the shrouds of 
helplessness and doom had already 
invaded — 

Bayta plodded her way down the 
pink-waved aisle past the rows of 
milky plastic-topped tables and 
found her seat by blind reckoning. 
She eased on to the high, armless 
chair, answered half-heard greet- 
ings mechanically, rubbed a wearily- 
itching eye with the back of a weary 
hand, and reached for her menu. 

She had time to register a violent 
mental reaction of distaste to the 
pronounced presence of various cul- 
tured-fungus dishes, which were 
considered high delicacies at Haven, 
and which her Foundation taste 
found highly inedible — and then she 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




was aware of the sobbing near her 
and looked up. 

Until then her notice of Juddee, 
the plain, snub-nosed, indifferent 
blonde at the dining unit diagonally 
across had been the superficial one 
of the nonacquaintance. And now 
Juddee was crying, biting woefully 
at a moist handkerchief, and chok- 
ing back sobs until her complexion 
was blotched with turgid red. Her 
shapless radiation-proof costume 
was thrown back upon her shoul- 
ders, and her transparent face 
shield had tumbled forward into her 
dessert, and there remained. 

Bayta joined the three girls who 
were taking turns at the eternally 
applied and eternally inefficacious 
remedies of shoulder-patting, hair- 
smoothing, and incoherent murmur- 
ing. 

“What’s the matter?” she whis- 
pered. 

One turned to her and shrugged 
a discreet, “I don’t know.” Then, 
feeling the inadequacy of the ges- 
ture, she pulled Bayta aside. 

“She’s had a hard day, I guess. 
And she’s worrying about her hus- 
band.” 

“Is he on space patrol?” 

“Yes.” 

Bayta reached a friendly hand 
out to Juddee. 

“Why don’t you go home, Jud- 
dee?” Her voice was a cheerfully 
businesslike intrusion on the soft, 
flabby inanities that had preceded. 

Juddee looked up half in resent- 
ment, “I’ve been out once this week 
already — ” 

“Then you’ll be out twice. If 
you try to stay on, you know, you’ll 



just be out three days next week — 
so going home now amounts to 
patriotism. Any of you girls w'ork 
in her department? Well, then, sup- 
pose you take care of her card. 
Better go to the washroom first, 
Juddee, and get the peaches and 
cream back where it belongs. Go 
ahead ! Shoo !” 

Bayta returned to her seat and 
took up the menu again with a dis- 
mal relief. These moods were con- 
tagious. One weeping girl would 
have her entire department in a 
frenzy these nerve-torn days. 

She made a distasteful decision, 
pressed the correct buttons at her 
elbow and put the menu back into 
its niche. 

The tall, dark girl opposite her 
was saying, “Isn’t much any of us 
can do except cry, is there?” 

Her amazingly full lips scarcely 
moved, and Bayta noticed that their 
ends were carefully touched to ex- 
hibit that artificial, just-so half- 
smile that was the current last word 
in sophistication. 

Bayta investigated the insinuating 
thrust contained in the words with 
lashed eyes and welcomed the diver- 
sion of the arrival of her lunch, 
as the tile-top of her unit moved 
inward and the food lifted. She 
tore the wrappings carefully off her 
cutlery and handled them gingerly 
till they cooled. 

She said, “Can’t you think of 
anything else to do, Hella?” 

“Oh,' yes,” said Hella. “1 can!” 
She flicked her cigarette with a 
casual and expert finger-motion into 
the little recess provided and the 



THE MULE 



83 




tiny atom-flash caught it before it 
hit shallow bottom. 

“For instance,” and Hella clasped 
slender, well-kept hands under her 
chin, “I think we could make a 
very nice arrangement with the 
Mule and stop all this nonsense. 
But then I don’t have the . . . uh 
. . . facilities to manage to get out 
of places quickly when the Mule 
takes over.” 

Bayta’s clear forehead remained 
clear. Her voice was light and 
indifferent. “You don’t happen to 
have a brother or husband in the 
fighting ships, do you?” 

“No. All the more credit that 
I see no reason for the sacrifice 
of the brothers and husbands of 
others.” 

“The sacrifice will come the more 
surely for surrender.” 

“The Foundation surrendered and 
is at peace. Our men are away and 
the Galaxy is against us.” 

Bayta shrugged, and said sweetly, 
“I’m afraid it is the first of the pair 
that bothers you.” She returned 
to her vegetable platter and ate it 
with the clammy realization of the 
silence about her. No one in ear- 
shot had cared to answer Hella’s 
cynicism. 

She left quickly, after stabbing 
at the button which cleared her din- 
ing unit for the next shift’s occu- 
pant. 

A new girl, three seats away, 
stage-whispered to Hella, “Who was 
she?” 

Hella’s mobile lips curled in in- 
difference, “She’s our co-ordinator’s 
niece. Didn’t you know that ?” 

“Yes ?” Her eyes sought out the 



last glimpse of disappearing back. 
“What’s she doing here?” 

“Just an assembly girl. Don’t 
you know it’s fashionable to be 
patriotic? It’s all so democratic, 
it makes me retch.” 

“Now, Hella,” said the plump girl 
to her right. “She’s never pulled 
her uncle on us yet. Why don’t 
you lay off?” 

Hella ignored her neighbor with 
a glazed sweep of eyes and lit an- 
other cigarette. 

The new girl was listening to the 
chatter of the bright-eyed account- 
ant opposite. The words were com- 
ing quickly, “ — and she’s supposed 
to have been in the Vault — actu- 
ally in the Vault, you know — when 
Seldon spoke — and they say the 
mayor was in frothing furies and 
there were riots, and all of that sort 
of thing, you know. She got away 
before the Mule landed, and they 
say she had the most tha-rilling 
escape — had to go through the 
blockade, and all — and I do wonder 
she doesn’t write a book about it, 
these war books being so popular 
these days, you know. And she 
was supposed to be on this world 
of the Mule’s, too — Kalgan, you 
know — and — ” 

The time bell shrilled and the din- 
ing room emptied slowly. The ac- 
countant’s voice buzzed on, and 
the new girl interrupted only with 
the conventional and wide-eyed, 
“Really-y-y-y ?” at appropriate 
points. 

The huge cave lights were being 
shielded group-wise in the gradual 
descent towards the darkness that 



64 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




meant sleep for the righteous and 
hard-working, when Bayta returned 
home. 

Toran met her at the door, with 
a slice of buttered bread in his hand. 

“Where’ve you been?” he asked, 
food-muffled. Then, more dearly. 
“I've got a dinner of sorts rassled 
up. If it isn’t much, don’t blame 
me. 

But she was circling him, wide- 
eyed, “Torie! Where’s your uni- 
form? What are you doing in 
civvies ?” 

“Orders, Bay. Randu is holed up 
with Ebling Mis right now, and 
what it’s all about, I don’t know. 
So there you have everything.” 

“Am I going?” She moved to- 
wards him impulsively. 

He kissed her before he an- 
swered, “I believe so. It will prob- 
ably be dangerous.” 

“What isn’t dangerous?” 

“Exactly. Oh, yes, and I've al- 
ready sent for Magnifico, so he’s 
probably coming, too.” 

“You mean his concert at the 
Engine Factory will have to be can- 
celed." 

“Obviously.” 

Bayta passed into the next room 
and sat down to a meal that defi- 
nitely bore signs of having been 
“rassled-up.” She cut the sand- 
wiches in two with quick efficiency 
and said: 

“That’s too bad about the con- 
cert. The girls at the factory were 
looking forward to it. Magnifico, 
too, for that matter. Darn it, he’s 
such a queer thing.” 

“Stirs your mother-complex. 
Bay. that’s what he does. Some 

THE MUM 



day we’ll have a baby, and then 
you’ll forget Magnifico.” 

Bayta answered from the depths 
of her sandwich, "Strikes me that 
you’re all the stirring my mother- 
complex can stand.” 

And then she laid the sandwich 
down, and was gravely serious in a 
moment. 

“Torie.” 

“Mm-m-m?” 

“Torie, I was at City Hall today 
— at the Bureau of Production. 
That’s why I was so late today.” 
“What were you doing there?" 
“Well . . .” she hesitated, uncer- 
tainly. "It’s been building up. I 
was getting so I couldn’t stand it 
at the factory. Morale — just doesn’t 
exist. The girls go on crying jags 
for no particular reason. Those 
who don’t get sick become sullen. 
Even the little mousie types pout. 
In my particular section, production 
isn’t a quarter what it was when 
I came, and there isn’t a day that 
we have a full roster of workers.” 
"All right,” said Toran, “tie in 
the B, of P. What did you do 
there?” 

“Asked a few questions. And 
it’s so, Torie, it’s so all over Haven. 
Dropping production, increasing 
sedition and disaffection. The bu- 
reau chief just shrugged his shoul- 
ders — after I had sat in the ante- 
room an hour to see him, and only 
got in because I was the co-ordi- 
nator’s niece — and said it was be- 
yond him. Frankly, I don’t think 
lie cared." 

“Now, don’t go off base, Bay." 

“I don’t think he did.” She was 
strenuously fiery. “I tell you there’s 

•8 




something wrong. It’s that same 
horrible frustration that hit me in 
the Time Vault when Seldon de- 
serted us. You felt it yourself.” 

“Yes, I did.” 

“Well, it’s back,” she continued 
savagely. “And we’ll never be able 
to resist the Mule. Even if we 
bad the materiel, we lack the heart, 
the spirit, the will — Torie, there’s 
no use fighting — ” 

Bayta never had cried in Toran’s 
memory, and she did not cry now. 
Not really. But Toran laid a light 
hand on her shoulder and whis- 
pered, "Suppose you forget it, baby. 
I know what you mean. But there’s 
nothing—” 

“Yes, there’s nothing we can do ! 
Everyone says that — and we just sit 
and wait for the knife to come 
down.” 

She returned to what was left 
of her sandwich and tea. Quietly, 
Toran was arranging the beds. It 
was quite dark outside. 

Randu, as newly-appointed co- 
ordinator — in itself a wartime post 
— of the confederation of cities on 
Haven, had been assigned, at his 
own request, to an upper room, out 
of the window of which he could 
brood over the roof tops and green- 
ery of the city. Now, in the fading 
of the cave lights, the city receded 
into the level lack of distinction 
of the shades. Randu did not care 
to meditate upon the symbolism. 

He said to Ebling Mis — whose 
clear, little eyes seemed to have no 
further interest than the red-filled 
goblet in his hand — “There’s a say- 
ing on Haven that when the cave 



lights go out, it is time for the right- 
eous and hard-working to sleep.” 
“Do you sleep much lately?” 
“No! Sorry to call you so late, 
Mis. I like the night better some- 
how these days. Isn’t that strange? 
The people on Haven condition 
themselves pretty strictly on the 
lack of light meaning sleep. My- 
self, too. But it’s different, now — ” 
“You’re hiding,” said Mis, flatly. 
“You’re surrounded by people in 
the waking period, and you feel 
their eyes and their hopes on you. 
You can’t stand up under it. In the 
sleep period, you’re free.” 

“Do you feel it, too, then ? This 
miserable sense of defeat?” 

Ebling Mis nodded slowly, “I do. 
It’s a mass psychosis, an unprint- 
able mob panic. Ga-LAX-y, Randu, 
what do you expect ? Here you have 
a whole culture brought up to a 
blind, blubbering belief that a folk 
hero of the past has everything all 
planned out and is taking care of 
every little piece of their unprint- 
able lives. The thought-pattern 
evoked has characteristics ad religio, 
and you know what that means.” 
“Not a bit.” 

Mis was not enthusiastic about 
the necessity of explanation. He 
never was. So he growled, stared 
at the long cigar he rolled thought- 
fully between his fingers and said, 
“Characterized by strong faith re- 
actions. Beliefs can’t be shaken 
short of a major shock, in which 
case, a fairly complete mental dis- 
ruption results. Mild cases — hys- 
teria, morbid sense of insecurity. 
Advanced cases — madness and sui- 
cide.” 



ee > 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




Randu bit at a thumbnail, “When 
Seldon fails us, in other words, our 
prop disappears, and we’ve been 
leaning- upon it so long, our muscles 
are atrophied to where we cannot 
stand without it.” 

“That’s it. Sort of a clumsy 
metaphor, but that’s it.” 

“And you, Ebling, what of your 
own muscles?’’ 

The psychologist filtered a long- 
draught of air through his cigar, 
and let the smoke laze out, “Rusty, 
but not atrophied. My profession 
has resulted in just a bit of inde- 
pendent thinking.” 

“And you see a way out?” 

“No, but there must be one. 
Maybe Selclon made no provisions 
for the Mule. Maybe he didn’t 
guarantee our victory. But, then, 
neither did he guarantee defeat. 
He’s just out of the game and we’re 
on our own. The Mule, can be 
licked.” 

“How?” 

“By the only way anyone can be 
licked — by attacking in strength at 
weakness. See here, Randu, the 
Mule isn’t a superman. If he is 
finally defeated, everyone will see 
that for himself. It’s just that he’s 
an unknown, and the legends cluster 
quickly. He’s supposed to be a mu- 
tant. Well, what of that? A mu- 
tant means a ‘superman’ to the ig- 
noramuses of humanity. Nothing 
of the sort. 

“It’s been estimated that several 
million mutants are born in the 
Galaxy every day. Of the several 
million, all but one or two percent 
can be detected only by means of 
microscopes and chemistry. Of the 



one or two percent macromutants, 
that is, those with mutations detect- 
able to the naked eye or naked mind, 
all but one or two percent are 
freaks, fit for the amusement cen- 
ters, the laboratories, and death. 
Of the few macromutants whose 
differences are to the good, almost 
all are harmless curiosities, unusual 
in some single respect, normal— 
and often subnormal — in most 
others. You see that, Randu?” 

“I do. But what of the Mule?” 

“Supposing the Mule to be a 
mutant then, we can assume that he 
has some attribute, undoubtedly 
mental, which can be used to con- 
quer worlds. In other respects, he 
undoubtedly has his shortcomings, 
which we must locate. He would 
not be so secretive, so shy of other’s 
eyes, if these shortcomings were 
not apparent and fatal. If he’s a 
mutant.” 

“Is there an alternative?” 

“There might be. Evidence for 
mutation rests on Captain Plan 
Pritcher of what used to be Foun- 
dation’s Intelligence. He drew his 
conclusions from the feeble mem- 
ories of those who claimed to know 
the Mule — or somebody who might 
have been the Mule — in infancy 
and early childhood. Pritcher 
worked on slim pickings there, and 
what evidence he found might easily 
have been planted by the Mule for 
his own purposes, for it’s certain 
that the Mule has been vastly aided 
by his reputation as a mutant-super- 
man.” 

“This is interesting. How long 
have you thought that ?” 

“I never thought that, in the 



•turn MOLE 



AST— 3W ST 




sense of believing it. It is merely 
an alternative to be considered. For 
instance, Randu, suppose the Mule 
has discovered a form of radiation 
capable of depressing mental energy 
just as he is in possession of one 
which depresses atomic reactions. 
What then, eh ? Could that explain 
what’s hitting us now — and what 
did hit the Foundation?” 

Randu seemed immersed in a 
near-wordless gloom. 

He said, “What of your own re- 
searches on the Mule’s clown.” 

And now Ebling Mis hesitated, 
“Useless as yet. I spoke bravely to 
the mayor previous to the Foun- 
dation’s collapse, mainly to keep his 
courage up — partly to keep my own 
up as well. But, Randu, if my 
mathematical tools were up to it, 
then from the clown alone I could 
analyze the Mule completely. Then 
we would have him. Then we could 
solve the queer anomalies that have 
impressed me already.” 

“Such as?” 

"Think, man. The Mule defeated 
the navies of the Foundation at 
will, but he has not once managed 
to force the much weaker fleets of 
the Independent Traders to retreat 
in open combat. The Foundation 
fell at a blow ; the Independent 
Traders hold out against all his 
strength. He first used his Extin- 
guishing Field upon the atomic 
weapons of the Independent 
Traders of Mnemon. The element 
of surprise lost them that battle but 
they countered the Field. He was 
never able to use it successfully 
against the Independents again. 

08 



“But over and over again, it 
worked against Foundation forces. 
It worked on the Foundation itself. 
Why? With our present knowl- 
edge, it is all illogical. So there 
must .be factors of which we are 
not aware.” 

“Treachery?” 

“That’s rattle-pated nonsense, 
Randu. Unprintable twaddle. 
There wasn’t a man on the Foun- 
dation who wasn’t sure of victory. 
Who would betray a certain-to-win 
side.” 

Randu stepped to the curved win- 
dow and stared unseeingly out into 
the unseeable. He said, “But we’re 
certain to lose now, if the Mule 
had a thousand weaknesses; if he 
were a network of holes — ” 

He did not turn. It was as if the 
slump of his back, the nervous 
groping for one another of the 
hands behind him that spoke. He 
said, “We escaped easily after the 
Time Vault episode, Ebling. Oth- 
ers might have escaped as well. A' 
few did. Most did not. The Ex- 
tinguishing Field could have been 
counteracted. It asked ingenuity 
and a certain amount of labor. All 
the ships of the Foundation Navy 
could have flown to Haven or other 
nearby planets to continue the fight 
as we did. Not one percent did so. 
In effect, they deserted to the 
enemy. 

“The Foundation underground, 
upon which most people here seem 
to rely so heavily, has thus far done 
nothing of consequence. The Mule 
has been politic enough to piomise 
to safeguard the property and 
profits of the great Traders and 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




they have gone over to him." 

Ebling Mis said stubbornly, “The 
plutocrats have always been against 
us.” 

“They always held the power, too. 
Listen, Ebling. We have reason to 
believe that the Mule or his tools 
have already been in contact with 
powerful men among the Independ- 
ent Traders. At least ten of the 
twenty-six Trading Worlds are 
known to have gone over to the 
Mule. Perhaps ten more waver. 
There are personalities on Haven 
itself who would not be unhappy 
over the Mule’s domination. It’s 
apparently an insurmountable 
temptation to give up endangered 
political power, if that will maintain 
your hold over economic affairs.” 

“You don’t think Haven can fight 
the Mule?" 

“I don’t think Haven will.” And 
now Randu turned his troubled 
face full upon the psychologist. “I 
think Haven is waiting to surrender. 
It’s what I called you here to tell 
you. I want you to leave Haven.” 

Ebling Mis puffed up his plump 
cheeks in amazement. “Already?” 

Randu felt horribly tired, 
“Ebling, you are the Foundation’s 
greatest psychologist. The real 
master-psychologists went out with 
Seldon, but you’re the best we have. 
You’re our only chance of defeating 
the Mule. You can’t do that here ; 
you’ll have to go to what’s left of 
the Empire?" 

“To Tranto?” 

“That’s right. What was once 
the Empire is bare bones today, but 
something must still beat at the 
center. They’ve got the records 

THE MULE 



there, Ebling. You may learn more 
of mathematical psychology; per- 
haps enough to be able to interpret 
the clown’s mind. He will go with 
you, of course.” 

Mis responded dryly, “I doubt if 
he’d be willing to, even for fear of 
the Mule, unless your niece went 
with him.” 

“I know that. Toran and Bayta 
are leaving with you for that very 
reason. And, Ebling, there’s an- 
other, greater purpose. Hari Sel- 
don founded two Foundations three 
centuries ago; one at each end of 
the Galaxy. You must find that 
Second Foundation!” 

X. 

The mayor’s palace — what was 
once the mayor’s palace — was a 
looming smudge in the darkness. 
The city was quiet under its con- 
quest and curfew, and the hazy milk 
of the great Galactic Lens, with 
here and there a lonely star, dom- 
inated the sky of the Foundation. 

In three centuries the Foundation 
had grown from a private project 
of a small group of scientists to a 
tentacular trade empire sprawling 
deep into the Galaxy and half a 
year had flung it from its heights 
to the status of another conquered 
province. 

Captain Han Pritcher refused to 
grasp that. 

The city’s sullen nighttime quiet, 
the darkened palace, intruder- 
occupied, were symbolic enough, 
but Captain Han Pritcher, ■ just 
within the outer gate of the palace, 
with the tiny atomic bomb under 

«8 




his tongue, refused to understand. 

A shape drifted closer — the cap- 
tain bent his head. 

The whisper came deathly low, 
“The alarm system is as it always 
was, captain. Proceed! It will 
register nothing.” 

Softly, the captain ducked 
through the low archway, and down 
the fountain-lined path to what had 
been Indbur’s garden. 

Four months ago had been the 
day in the Time Vault, the fullness 
of which his memory balked at. 
Singly and separately, the impres- 
sions would come back, unwelcome, 
mostly at night. 

Old Seldon speaking his bene- 
volent words that were so shatter- 
ingly wrong — the jumbled con- 
fusion — Indbttr, with his mayorial 
costume incongruously bright about 
his pinched, unconscious face — the 
frightened crowds gathering quick- 
ly, waiting noiselessly for the in- 
evitable word of surrender — the 
young man, Toran, disappearing out 
of a side door with the Mule’s 
clown dangling over his shoulder. 

And himself, somehow out of it 
all afterward, with his car un- 
workable. 

Shouldering his way along and 
through the leaderless mob that was 
already leaving the city — destination 
unknown. 

Making blindly for the various 
rat holes which were — which had 
once been — the headquarters for a 
democratic underground that for 
eighty years had been failing and 
dwindling. 

And the rat holes were empty. 



The next day, black alien ships 
were momentarily visible in the sky, 
sinking gently into the clustered 
buildings of the nearby city. Cap- 
tain Han Pritcher felt an accumu- 
lation of helplessness and despair 
drown him. 

He started his travels in earnest. 

In thirty days, he had covered 
nearly two hundred miles on foot, 
changed to the clothing of a worker 
in the hydroponic factories whose 
body he found newly-dead by the 
side of the road, grown a fierce 
beard of russet intensity — 

And found what was left of the 
underground. 

The city was Newton, the district 
a residential one of one-time ele- 
gance slowly edging towards 
squalor, the house an undistin- 
guished member of a row, and the 
man a small-eyed, big-bones whose 
knotted fists bulged through his 
pockets and whose wiry body re- 
mained unbudgingly in the narrow 
door opening. 

The captain mumbled, “I come 
from Miran.” 

The man returned the gambit, 
grimly, “Miran is early this year.” 

The captain said, “No earlier than 
last year.” 

But the man did not step aside. 
He said, “Who are you?” 

“Aren’t you Fox?” 

“Do you always answer by ask- 
ing?” 

The captain took an imperceptibly 
longer breath, and then said calmly, 
“I am Han Pritcher, Captain of the 
Fleet, and member of the Demo- 
cratic Underground Party. Will 
you let me in?” 



70 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




The Fox stepped aside. He said, 
“My real name is Orum Palley.” 

He held out his hand. The cap- 
tain took it. 

The room was well-kept, but not 
lavish. In one corner stood a 
decorative book-film projector, 
which to the captain’s military eyes, 
might easily have been a camou- 
flaged blaster of respectable caliber. 
The projecting lens covered the 
doorway, and such could be remote- 
ly controlled. 

The Fox followed his bearded 
guest’s eyes, and smiled tightly. He 
said, “Yes! But only in the days 
of Indbur and his lackey-hearted 
vampires. It wouldn’t do much 
against the Mule, eh? Nothing 
would help against the Mule. Are 
you hungry?” 

The captain’s jaw muscles 
tightened beneath his beard, and he 
nodded, 

“It’ll take a minute if you don’t 
mind waiting.” The Fox removed 
cans from a cupboard and placed 
two before Captain Pritcher. “Keep 
your finger on it, and break them 
when they’re hot enough. My 
heat-control unit’s out of whack. 
Things like that remind you there’s 
a war on — or was on, eh?” 

His quick words had a jovial 
content, but were said in anything 
but a jovial tone — and his eyes were 
coldly thoughtful. He sat down 
opposite the captain and said, 
“There’ll be nothing but a burn-spot 
left where you’re sitting, if there’s 
anything about you I don’t like. 
Know that?” 

The captain did not answer. The 




cans before him opened at a 
pressure. 

The Fox said, shortly, “Stew! 
Sorry, but the food situation is 
short.” 

“I know,” said the captain. He 
ate quickly ; not looking up. 

The Fox said, “I once saw you. 
)’m trying to remember, and the 
beard is definitely out of the pic- 
ture.” 

“1 haven’t shaved in thirty days.” 
Then, fiercely, “What do you want? 
1 had the correct passwords. I 
have identification.” 

The other waved a hand, "Oh, 
I'll grant you’re Pritcher all right. 
But there are plenty who have the 
passwords, and the identifications, 
and the identities — who are with 
the Mule. Ever hear of Levvaw, 
eh ?” 

"Yes." 

“He’s with the Mule.” 

“What? He—” 

“Yes. He was the man they 
called ‘No Surrender.’ ” The Fox’s 
lips made laughing motions, with 
neither sound nor humor. “Then 
there’s Willig. With the Mule ! 
Garre and Noth. With the Mule! 
Why not Pritcher as well, eh ? How 
would I know r ?” 

The captain merely shook his 
head. 

“But it doesn’t matter,” said the 
Fox, softly. “They must have my 
name, if Noth has gone over — so 
if you’re legitimate, you’re in more 
new danger than I am over our 
acquaintanceship.” 

The captain had finished eating. 
He leaned back, “If you have no 

72 



organization here, where can I find 
one? The Foundation may have 
surrendered, but I haven’t.” 

“So! You can’t wander forever, 
captain. Men of the Foundation 
must have travel permits to move 
from town to town these days. You 
know that? Also identity cards. 
You have one? Also, all officers 
of the old Navy have been requested 
to report to the nearest occupation 
headquarters. That’s you, eh?” 
“Yes.” The captain’s voice was 
hard. “Do you think I run through 
fear. I was on Kalgan not long 
after its fall to the Mule. Within 
a month, not one of the old war- 
lord’s officers was at large, because 
they were the natural military 
leaders of any revolt. It’s always 
been the underground’s knowledge 
that no revolution can be successful 
without the control of at least part 
of the Navy. The Mule evidently 
knows it, too.” 

The Fox nodded thoughtfully, 
“Logical enough. The Mule is 
thorough.” 

“I discarded the uniform as soon 
as I could. I grew the beard. 
Afterwards there may be a chance 
that others have taken the same 
action.” 

“Are you married ?” 

“My wife is dead. I have no 
children.” 

“You’re hostage-immune, then.” 
“Yes.” 

“You want my advice?” 

“If you have any.” 

“I don’t know what the Mule’s 
policy is or what be intends, but 
skilled workers have not been 
harmed so far. Pay rates have gone 

ASTOUND! NO SO 1 RN 0 E PICT J ON 




up. Production of all sorts of 
atomic weapons is booming.” 

‘‘Yes? Sounds like a continuing 
offensive.” 

“I don’t know. The Mule’s a 
subtle son of a drab, and he may 
merely be soothing the workers into 
submission. If Seldon couldn’t fig- 
ure him out with all his psycho- 
history, I’m not going to try. But 
you’re wearing work clothes. That 
suggests something, eh?” 

“I’m not a skilled worker.” 
“You’ve had a military course in 
atomics, haven’t you?” 

“Certainly.” 

“That’s enough. The Atom-Field 
Bearings, Inc. is located here in 
town. Tell them you’ve had experi- 
ence. The stinkers who used to run 
the factory for Indbur are still 
running it — for the Mule. They 
won’t ask questions, as long as they 
need more workers to make their 
fat hunk. They’ll give you an 
identity card and you can apply for 
a room in the Corporation’s housing 
district. You might start now.” 

In that manner, Captain Han 
Pritcher of the National Fleet be- 
came Shield-man Lo Moro of the 
45 Shop of Atom-Field Bearings, 
Inc. And from an Intelligence 
agent, he descended the social scale 
to “conspirator” — a calling which 
led him months later to what had 
been Indbur’s private garden. 

In the garden, Captain Pritcher 
consulted the radometer in the palm 
of his hand. The inner warning 
field was still in operation, and he 
waited. Half an hour remained to 
the life of the atomic bomb in his 



mouth. He rolled it gingerly with 
his tongue. 

The radometer died into an omi- 
nous darkness and the captain ad- 
vanced quickly. 

So far, matters had progressed 
well. 

He reflected objectively that the 
life of the atomic bomb was his as 
well ; that its death was his death — 
and the Mule’s death. 

And the grand climacteric of a 
four-month’s private war would be 
reached ; a war that had passed from 
flight through a Newton factory — 

For two months, Captain Pritcher 
wore leaden aprons and heavy face 
shields, till all things military had 
been frictioned off his outer bear- 
ing. He was a laborer, who col- 
lected his pay, spent his evenings 
in town, and never discussed 
politics. 

For two months, he did not see 
the Fox. 

And then, one day, a man stum- 
bled past his bench, and there was 
a scrap of paper in his pocket. The 
word “Fox” was on it. He tossed 
it into the atom chamber where it 
vanished in a sighless puff, sending 
the energy output up a millimi- 
crovolt — and turned back to his 
work. 

That night he was at the Fox’s 
home, and took a hand in a game 
of cards with two other men he 
knew by reputation and one by name 
and face. 

Over the cards and the passing 
and repassing tokens, they spoke. 

The captain said, “It’s a funda- 
mental error. You live in the 

78 



THE MULE 




exploded past. For eighty years, 
our organization has been waiting 
for the correct historical moment. 
We’ve been blinded by Seldon’s 
psychohistory, one of the first pro- 
positions of which is that the in- 
dividual does not count, does not 
make history, and that complex 
social and economic factors over- 
ride him, make a puppet out of him.” 
He adjusted his cards carefully, 
appraised their value and said, as he 
put out a token, “Why not kill the 
Mule?” 

“Well, now, and what good would 
that do?” demanded the man at his 
left, fiercely. 

“You see,” said the captain, dis- 
carding two cards, “that’s the atti- 
tude. What is one man out of 
trillions. The Galaxy won’t stop 
rotating because one man dies. But 
the Mule is not a man, he is a 
Mutant. Already, he had upset 
Seldon’s plan, and if you’ll stop to 
analyze the implications, it means 
that he — one man — one mutant — 
upset all of Seldon’s psychohistory. 
If he had never lived, the Foun- 
dation would not have fallen. If 
he ceased living, it would not re- 
main fallen. 

“Come, the democrats have 
fought the mayors and the traders 
for eighty years by connivery. Let’s 
try assassination.” 

“How?” interposed the Fox, with 
cold common sense. 

The captain said, slowly, “I’ve 
spent three months of thought on 
that with no solution. I came here 
and had it in five minutes.” He 
glanced briefly at the man whose 
broad, pink melon of a face smiled 

T4 



from the place at his right. “You 
were once Mayor Indbur’s cham- 
berlain. I did not know you were 
of the underground.” 

“Nor I, that you were.” 

“Well, then, in your capacity as 
chamberlain, you periodically 
checked the working of the alarm 
system of the palace.” 

“I did.” 

“And the Mule occupies the 
palace now.” 

“So it has been announced — 
though he is a modest conqueror 
who makes no speeches, proclama- 
tions nor public appearances of any 
sort.” 

“That’s an old story, and affects 
nothing. You, my ex-chamberlain, 
are all we need.” 

The cards were shown and the 
Fox collected the stakes. Slowly, 
he dealt a new hand. 

The man who had once been 
chamberlain picked up his cards, 
singly. “Sorry, captain. I checked 
the alarm system, but it was routine. 
I know nothing about it.” 

“I expected that, but your mind 
carries an eidetic memory of the 
controls if it can be probed deeply 
enough — with a psychic probe.” 

The chamberlain’s ruddy face 
paled suddenly and sagged. The 
cards in his hand crumpled under 
sudden fist-pressure, “A psychic 
probe ?” 

“You needn’t worry,” said the 
captain, sharply. “I know how to 
use one. It will not harm you past 
a few days’ weakness. And if it 
did, it is the chance you take and 
the price you pay. There are some 
among us, no doubt, who from the 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




controls ot the alarm could deter- 
mine the wave-length combinations. 
There are some among us who could 
manufacture a small bomb under 
time-control and I mysel f will carry 
it to the Mule.” 

The men gathered over the table. 

The captain continued, “On a 
given evening, a riot will start in 
Terminus City in the neighborhood 
of the palace. No real fighting. 
Disturbance — then flight. As long 
as the palace guard is attracted . . . 
or, at the very least, distracted — ” 

From that day for a month the 
preparations went on, and Captain 
Han Pritcher of the National Fleet 
having become conspirator, de- 
scended further in the social scale 
and became an “assassin.” 

Captain Pritcher, assassin, was 
in the palace itself, and found him- 
self grimly pleased with his psy- 
chology. A thorough alarm system 
outside meant few guards within. 
In this case, it meant none at all. 

The floor plan was clear in his 
mind. He was a blob moving noise- 
lessly up the well-carpeted ramp. 
At its head, he flattened against the 
wall and waited. 

The small closed door of a private 
room was before him. Behind that 
door must be the mutant who had 
beaten the unbeatable. He was 
earh' — the bomb had ten minutes of 
life in it. 

Five of these passed, and still in 
all the world there was no sound. 
The Mule had five minutes to live — 
So had Captain Pritcher — 

He stepped forward on sudden 
impulse. The plot could no longer 



fail. When the bomb went, the 
palace would go with it — all the 
palace. A door between— ten yards 
between — was nothing. But he 
wanted to see the. Mule as they died 
together. 

in a last, insolent gesture, he 
thundered upon the door — 

And it opened and let out the 
blinding light. 

Captain Pritcher staggered, then 
caught himself. The solemn man, 
standing in the center of the small 
room before a suspended fish bowl, 
looked up mildly. 

His uniform was a somber black, 
and as he tapped the bowl in an 
absent gesture, it bobbed quickly 
and the feather-finned orange and 
vermilion fish within, darted wildly. 

Pie said, “Come in, captain 1” 

To the captain’s quivering tongue, 
the little metal globe beneath was 
swelling ominously— a physical im- 
possibility, the captain knew. But 
it was in its last minute of life. 

The uniformed man said, “You 
had better spit out the foolish pellet 
and free yourself for speech. It 
won’t blast.” 

The minute passed and with a 
slow, sodden motion the captain 
bent his head and dropped the 
silvery globe into his palm. With 
a furious force it was flung against 
the wall. It rebounded with a tiny, 
sharp clangor, gleaming harmlessly 
as it flew. 

The uniformed man shrugged. 
“So much for that, then. It would 
have done you no good in any case, 
captain. I am not the Mule. You 
will have to be satisfied with his 
viceroy.” 



THE MUIjK 



75 




“How did you know?” muttered 
the captain, thickly. 

"Blame it on an efficient counter- 
espionage system. I can name every 
member of your little gang, every 
step of their planning — ” 

“And you let it go this far ?” 
“Why not? It has been one of my 
great purposes here to find you and 
some others. Particularly you. I 
might have had you some months 
ago, while you were still a worker 
at the Newton Bearings Works, but 
this is much better. If you hadn’t 
suggested the main outlines of the 
plot yourself, one of my own men 
would have advanced something of 
much the same sort for you. The 
result is quite dramatic, and rather 
grimly humorous.” 

The captain’s eyes were hard, “I 
find it so, too. Is it all over now ?” 
“Just begun. Come, captain sit 
down. Let us leave heroics for the 
fools who are impressed by it. Cap- 
tain, you are a capable man. Ac- 
cording to the information I have, 
you were the first on the Foundation 
to recognize the power of the Mule. 
Since then you have interested 
yourself, rather daringly, in the 
Mule's early life. You have been 
one of those who carried off his 
clown, who, incidentally, has not 
yet been found, and for which there 
will yet be full payment. Naturally, 
your ability is recognized, and the 
Mule is not of those who fears the 
ability of his enemies as long as he 
can convert it into the ability of a 
new friend.” 

“Is that what you’re hedging up 
to ? Oh, no !” 

“Oh. yes ! It was the purpose of 

76 



tonight’s comedy. You are an 
intelligent man, yet your little con- 
spiracies against the Mule fail 
humorously. You can scarcely 
dignify it with the name of con- 
spiracy. Is it part of your military 
training to waste ships in hopeless 
actions ?” 

“One must first admit them to be 
hopeless.” 

“One will,” the viceroy assured 
him, gently. “The Mule has con- 
quered the Foundation. It is rapid- 
ly being turned into an arsenal for 
accomplishment of his greater 
aims.” 

“What greater aims?” 

“The conquest of the entire 
Galaxy. The reunion of all the 
torn worlds into a new Empire. 
The fulfillment, you dull-witted 
patriot, of your own Seldon’s dream 
seven hundred years before he 
hoped to see it. And in the fulfill- 
ment, you can help us.” 

“I can, undoubtedly. But I 
won’t, undoubtedly.” 

“I understand,” reasoned the 
viceroy, “that only three of the 
Independent Trading Worlds yet 
resist. They will not last much 
longer. It will be the last of all 
Foundation forces. You still hold 
out.” 

“Yes.” 

“Yet you won’t. A voluntary 
recruit is the most efficient. But 
the other kind will do. Unfortu- 
nately, the Mule is absent. He 
leads the fight, as always, against 
the resisting Traders. But he is in 
continual contact with us. You 
will not have to wait long.” 

“For what?” 

ASTOUNDING SOS BNOB-PI CT I ON 




"For your conversion.” 

“The Mule,” said the captain, 
frigidly, “will find that beyond his 
ability.” 

“But he won’t. I was not beyond 
it. You don’t recognize me? Come, 
you were on Kalgan, so you have 
seen me. I wore a monocle, a fur- 
lined scarlet robe, a high-crowned 
hat—" 

The captain stiffened in dismay. 
“You were the warlord of Kal- 
gan.” 

“Yes. And now I am the loyal 
viceroy of the Mule. You see, he 
is persuasive.” 

XI. 

The blockade was run success- 
fully. In the vast volume of space, 
not all the navies ever in existence 
could keep their watch in tight 
proximity. Given a single ship, 
a skillful pilot, and a moderate de- 
gree of luck, and there are holes 
and to spare. 

With cold-eyed calm, Toran 
drove a protesting vessel from the 
vicinity of one star to that of an- 
other. If the neighorhood of great 
mass made an interstellar jump 
erratic and difficult, it also made the 
enemy detection devices useless or 
nearly so. 

And once the girdle of ships had 
been passed the inner sphere of dead 
space, through whose blockaded 
sub-ether no message could be 
driven, was passed as well. For the 
first time in over three months 
Toran felt unisolated. 

A week passed before the enemy 
news programs dealt with anything 



more than the dull, self-laudatory 
details of growing control over the 
Foundation. It was a week in 
which Toran’s armored trading 
ship fleeted in from the Periphery 
with hasty jumps. 

Ebling Mis called out to the pilot 
room and Toran rose blink-eyed 
from his charts. 

“What’s the matter?” Toran 
stepped down into the small central 
chamber which Bayta had inevita- 
bly devised into a living room. 

Mis shook his head, “Bescuppered 
if I know. The Mule’s newsmen 
are announcing a special bulletin. 
Thought you might want to get in 
on it.” 

“Might as well. Where’s Bayta?” 

“Setting the table in the diner 
and picking out a menu — or some 
such frippery.” 

Toran sat down upon the cot that 
served as Magnifico’s bed, and 
waited. The propaganda routine 
of the Mule’s “special bulletins” 
were monotonously similar. First 
the martial music, and then the 
buttery slickness of the announcer. 
The minor news items would come, 
following one another in patient 
lock step. Then the pause. Then 
the trumpets and the rising excite- 
ment and the climax. 

Toran endured it. Mis muttered 
to himself. 

The newscaster spilled out, in 
conventional war - correspondent 
phraseology, the unctuous words 
that translated into sound the mol- 
ten metal and blasted flesh of a 
battle in space. 

“Rapid cruiser squadrons under 



THE MULE 



7T 




Lieutenant General Sammin hit 
back hard today at the task force 
striking out from Iss — ” The care- 
fully expressionless face of the 
speaker upon the screen faded into 
the blackness of a space cut through 
by the quick swaths of ships reeling 
across emptiness in deadly battle. 
The voice continued through the 
soundless thunder — 

“The most striking action of the 
battle was the subsidiary combat of 
the heavy cruiser Cluster against 
three enemy ships of the ‘Nova’ 
class — ” 

The screen’s view veered and 
closed in. A great ship sparked 
and one of the frantic attackers 
glowed angrily, twisted out of 
focus, swung back and rammed. 
The Cluster bowed wildly and sur- 
vived the glancing blow that drove 
the attacker off in twisting reflec- 
tion. 

The newsman’s smooth unimpas- 
sioned delivery continued to the last 
blow and the last hulk. 

Then a pause, and a largely 
similar voice-and-picture of the 
light off Mnemon, to which the 
novelty was added of a lengthy 
description of a hit-and-run landing 
— the picture of a blasted city — 
huddled and weary prisoners — and 
off again. 

Mnemon had not long to live. 

The pause again — and this time 
the raucous sound of the expected 
brasses. The screen faded into 
the long, impressively soldier-lined 
corridor up which the government 
spokesman in councilor’s uniform 
strode quickly. 

The silence was oppressive. 

78 



The voice that came at last was 
solemn, slow and hard: 

“By order of our sovereign, it is 
announced that the planet, Haven, 
hitherto in warlike opposition to his 
will, has submitted to the acceptance 
of defeat. At this moment, the 
forces of our sovereign are occupy- 
ing the planet. Opposition was 
scattered, unco-ordinated, and 
speedily crushed.” 

The scene faded out, the original 
newsman returned to state impor- 
tantly that other developments 
would be transmitted as they oc- 
curred. 

Then there was dance music, and 
Ebling Mis threw the shield that 
cut the power. 

Toran rose and walked unsteadily 
away, without a word. The psy- 
chologist made no move to stop 
him. 

When Bayta stepped out of the 
kitchen, Mis motioned silence. 

He said “They’ve taken Haven.” 

And Bayta said, “Already?” Her 
eyes were round, and sick with dis- 
belief. 

“Without a fight. Without an 
unprin — ” He stopped and swal- 
lowed. “You’d better leave Toran 
alone. It’s not pleasant for him. 
Suppose we eat without him this 
once.” 

Bayta looked once toward the 
pilot room, then turned hopelessly, 
“Very well!” 

Magnifico sat unnoticed at the 
table. He neither spoke nor ate 
but stared ahead with a concentrated 
fear that seemed to drain all the 
vitality out of his thread of a body. 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




Ebling Mis pushed absently at 
his iced-fruit dessert and said, 
harshly, “Two Trading worlds 
fight. They fight, and bleed, and 
die and don’t surrender. Only at 
Haven — Just as at the Founda- 
tion—'’ 

“But why? Why?” 

The psychologist shook his head. 
“It’s of a piece with all the prob- 
lem. Every queer facet is a hint 
at the nature of the Mule. First, 
the problem of how he could con- 
quer the Foundation, with little 
blood, and at a single blow essen- 
tially — while the Independent 

Trading Worlds held out. The 
blanket on atomic reactions was a 
puny weapon — we’ve discussed that 
back and forth till I’m sick of it 

and it did not work on any but the 

Foundation. 

“Randu suggested,” and Ebling’s 
grizzly eyebrows pulled together, 
“it might have been a radiant Will - 
Depresses It’s what might have 
done the work on Haven. But then 
why wasn’t it used on Mnemon and 
Iss — which even now light with 
such demonic intensity that it is 
taking half the Foundation fleet in 
addition to the Mule’s forces to 
beat them down. Yes, I recognized 
Foundation ships in the attack.” 

Bayta whispered, “The Founda- 
tion, then Haven. Disaster seems 
to follow us, without touching. We 
always seem to get out by a hair. 
Will it last forever?” 

Ebling Mis was not listening. To 
himself, he was making a point, 
“But there’s another problem — an- 
other problem. Bayta, you remem- 
ber the news item that the Mule’s 



clown was not found on Terminus ; 
that it was suspected he had fled to 
Haven, or been carried there by his 
original kidnapers. There is an 
importance attached to him, Bayta, 
that doesn’t fade; and we have not 
located it yet. Magnifico must know 
something that is fatal to the Mule. 
I’m sure of it.” 

Magvsifico, white and stuttering, 
protested, “Sire . . . noble lord 
. . . indeed, I swear it is past my 
poor reckoning to penetrate your 
wants. I have told what I know 
to the utter limits, and with your 
probe, you have drawn out of my 
meager wit that which I knew, but 
knew not that I knew.” 

“I know ... I know. It is 
something small. A hint so small, 
that neither you nor I recognize it 
for what it is. Yet I must find it 
— for Mnemon and Iss will go soon, 
and when they do, we are the last 
remnants, the last droplets of the 
independent Foundation.” 

The stars begin to cluster closely 
when the core of the Galaxy is pene- 
trated. Gravitational fields begin 
to overlap at intensities sufficient to 
introduce perturbations in an inter- 
stellar jump that cannot be over- 
looked. 

Toran became aware of that when 
a jump landed their ship in the full 
glare of a red giant which clutched 
viciously, and whose grip was 
loosed, then wrenched apart, only 
after twelve sleepless, soul-battering 
hours. 

With charts limited in scope, and 
an experience not at all fully devel- 
oped, either operationally or mathe- 



THE MULE 



7 * 




matically, Toran resigned himself to 
days of careful plotting between 
jumps. 

It became a community project 
of a sort. Ebling Mis checked 
Toran’s mathematics and Bayta 
tested possible routes, by the various 
generalized methods, for the pres- 
ence of real solutions. Even Mag- 
nifico was put to work on the cal- 
culating machine for routine com- 
putations, a type of work, which, 
once explained, was a source of 
great amusement to him and at 
which he was surprisingly profi- 
cient. 

So at the end of a month, or 
nearly, Bayta was able to survey the 
red line that wormed its way 
through the ship’s trimensional 
model of the Galactic Lens halfway 
to its center, and say with satiric 
relish, “You know what it looks 
like. It looks like a ten-foot earth- 
worm with a terrific case of indiges- 
tion. Eventually, you'll land us 
back in Haven.” 

“I will,” growled Toran, with a 
fierce rustle of his chart, “if you 
don’t shut up.” 

“And at that,” continued Bayta, 
“there is probably a route right 
through, straight as a meridian of 
longitude.” 

“Yeah? Well, in the first place, 
dimwit, it probably took five hun- 
dred ships five hundred years to 
work out that route by hit-and-miss, 
and my lousy half-credit charts 
don’t give it. Besides, maybe those 
straight routes are a good thing to 
avoid. They’re probably choked 
up with ships. And besides — ” 

"Qh, for Galaxy’s sake, stop 



driveling and slavering so much 
righteous indignation.” Her hands 
were in his hair. 

He yowled, “Ouch! Let go!” 
seized her wrists and whipped 
downward, whereupon Toran, 
Bayta, and chair formed a tangled, 
threesome on the floor. It de- 
generated into a panting wrestling 
match, composed mostly of choking 
laughter and various foul blows. 

Toran broke loose at Magnifico’s 
breathless entrance. 

“What is it?” 

The lines of anxiety puckered 
the clown’s face and tightened the 
skin whitely over the enormous 
bridge of his nose. “The instru- 
ments are behaving queerly, sir. I 
have not, in the knowledge of my 
ignorance, touched anything — ” 

In two seconds, Toran was in 
the pilot room. He said quietly to 
Magnifico, “Wake up Ebling Mis. 
Have him come down here.” 

He said to Bayta, who was trying 
to get a basic order back to her hair 
by use of her fingers, “We’ve been 
detected, Bay.” 

“Detected?” And Bayta’s arms 
dropped. “By whom?” 

“Galaxy knows,” muttered 
Toran, “but I imagine by someone 
with blasters already ranged and 
trained.” 

He sat down, and in a low voice, 
was already sending into the sub- 
ether the ship’s identification code. 

And when Ebling Mis entered, 
bath-robed and blear-eyed, Toran 
said with a desperate calm, “It 
seems we’re inside the borders of a 
local Inner Kingdom which is 
called the Autarchy of Filia.” 



8 © 



ASTOUNDING SO JEN CH - FI CT I ON 




“Never heard of it,” said Mis, 
abruptly. 

“Well, neither did I,” replied 
Toran, “but we’re being stopped by 
a Filian ship just the same, and I 
don’t know what it will involve.” 

The captain-inspector of the 
Filian ship crowded aboard with 
six armed men following him. He 
was short, thin-haired, thin-lipped, 
and dry-skinned. He coughed a 
sharp cough as he sat down and 
threw open the folio under his arm 
to a blank page. 

“Your passports and ship’s clear- 
ance, please.” 

“We have none,” said Toran. 
“None, hey?” he snatched up a 
microphone suspended from his belt 
and spoke into it quickly, “Three 
men and one woman. Papers not 
in order.” He made an accompany- 
ing notation in the folio. 

He said, “Where are you from?” 
“Siwenna,” said Toran warily. 
“Where is that?” 

“A hundred thousand parsecs, 
eighty degrees west Trantor, forty 
degrees — ” 

“Never mind, never mind!” 
Toran could see that his inquisitor 
had written down: “Point of 

origin — Periphery.” 

The Filian continued. “Where 
are you going?” 

Toran said, “Trantor sector.” 
“Purpose ?” 

“Pleasure trip.” 

“Carrying any cargo?” 

“No.” 

“Hm-m-rn. We’ll check on that.” 
He nodded and two men jumped 



to activity. Toran made no move to 
interfere. 

“What brings you into Filian ter- 
ritory ?” The Filian’s eyes gleamed 
unamiably. 

“We didn’t know we were. I 
lack a proper chart.” 

“You will be required to pay a 
hundred credit for that lack — and, 
of course, the usual fees required 
for tariff duties, et cetera.” 

He spoke again into the micro- 
phone — but listened more than he 
spoke. Then, to Toran, “Know 

anything about atomic technology?” 

“A little,” replied Toran, 

guardedly. 

“Yes ?” the Filian closed his folio, 
and added. “The men of the 
Periphery have a knowledgeable 
reputation that way. Put on a suit 
and come with me.” 

Bayta stepped forward. “What 
are you going to do with him?” 

Toran put her aside gently, and 
asked coldly, “Where do you want 
me to come ?” 

“Our power plant needs minor 
adjustments. He’ll come with you.” 
His pointing finger aimed directly at 
Magnifico, whose brown eyes 
opened wide in a blubbery dismay. 

“What’s he got to do with it?” 
demanded Toran fiercely. 

The official looked up coldly. “I 
am informed of pirate activities in 
this vicinity. A description of one 
of the known thugs tallies roughly. 
It is a purely routine matter of 
identification.” 

Toran hesitated, but six men and 
six blasters are eloquent arguments. 
He reached into the cupboard for 
the suits. 



THE MULE 



•1 




An hour later, he rose upright 
in the bowels of the Filian ship and 
raged, “There’s not a thing wrong 
with the motors that I can see. The 
busbars are true, the L-tubes are 
feeding properly and the reaction 
analysis checks. Who’s in charge 
here?” 

The head engineer said quietly, 
“I am.” 

“Well, get me out of here — ” 

He was led to the officers’ level 
and the small anteroom held only 
an indifferent ensign. 

“Where’s the man who came 
with me ?” 

"Please wait,” said the ensign. 

It was fifteen minutes later that 
Magnifico was brought in. 

“What did they do to you ?” asked 
Toran quickly. 

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” 
Magnifico’s head shook a slow, 
negative. 

It took two hundred and fifty 
credits to fulfill the demands of 
Fili — fifty credits of it for instant 
release — and they were in free space 
again. 

Bayta said with a forced laugh. 
“Don’t we rate an escort? Don’t 
we get the usual figurative boot 
over the border?” 

And Toran replied, grimly, “That 
was no Filian ship — and we’re not 
leaving for awhile. Come in here.” 

They gathered about him. 

He said, whitely, “That was a 
Foundation ship, and those were 
the Mule’s men aboard.” 

Ebling bent to pick up the cigar 
he had dropped. Fie said, “Here? 

83 



We’re thirty thousand parsecs from 
the Foundation.” 

“And we’re here. What’s to 
prevent them from making the same 
trip. Galaxy, Ebling, don’t you 
think I can tell ships apart. I saw 
their engines, and that’s enough for 
me. I tell you it was a Foundation 
engine in a Foundation ship.” 
“And how did they get here?” 
asked Bayta, logically, “What are 
the chances of a random meeting 
of two given ships in space.” 
“What’s that to do with it?” de- 
manded Toran, hotly. “It would 
only show we’ve been followed.” 
“Followed ?” hooted Bayta. 
“Through hyperspace ?” 

Ebling Mis interposed wearily, 
“That can be done — given a good 
ship and a great pilot. But the pos- 
sibility doesn't impress me.” 

“I haven’t been masking my 
trail,” insisted Toran. “I’ve been 
building up take-off speed on the 
straight. A blind man could have 
calculated our route.” 

“The blazes he could,” cried 
Bayta. “With the cockeyed jumps 
you were making, observing our 
initial direction didn’t mean a thing. 
We came out of the jump wrong- 
end forwards more than once.” 
“We’re wasting time,” blazed 
Toran, with gritted teeth. “It’s a 
Foundation ship under the Mule. 
It’s stopped us. It’s searched us. 
It’s had Magnifico — alone — with 
me as hostage to keep the rest of 
you quiet, in case you suspected. 
And we’re going to burn it out of 
space right now.” 

“Hold on, now,” and Ebling Mis 
clutched at him.. “Are you going 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




to destroy us for one ship you think 
is an enemy. Think, man, would 
those scuppers chase us over an 
impossible route half through the 
bestinkered Galaxy, look us over, 
and then let us got” 

“They’re still interested in where 
we’re going.” 

“Then why stop us and put us 
on our guard? You can't have it 
both ways, you know.” 

“I’ll have it my way. Let go of 
me, Ebling, or I’ll knock you down.” 
Magnifico leaned forward from 
his balanced perch on his favorite 
chair back. His long nostrils flared 
with excitement. “I crave your 
pardon for my interruption, but my 
poor mind is of a sudden plagued 
with a queer thought.” 

Bayta anticipated Toran’s ges- 
ture of annoyance, and added her 
grip to Ebling’s. “Go ahead and 
speak, Magnifico. We will ail lis- 
ten faithfully.” 

Magnifico said, “In my stay in 
their ship what addled wits I have 
were bemazed and bemused by a 
chattering fear that befell me. Of 
a truth I have a lack of memory of 
most that happened. Many men 
staring at me, and talk I did not 
understand. But towards the last 
— as though a beam of sunlight had 
dashed through a cloud rift — there 
was a face I knew. A glimpse, 
the merest glimmer — and yet it 
glows in my memory ever stronger 
and brighter.” 

Toran said, “Who was it?” 
“That captain who was with us 
so long a time ago, when first you 
saved me from slavery.” 

It had obviously been Magnifico’s 

TGE MULE 



intention to create a sensation, and 
the delighted smile that curled 
broadly in the shadow of his 
proboscis, attested to his realization 
of the intention’s success. 

“Captain . . . Han . . . Pritcher ?” 
demanded Mis, sternly. “You’re 
sure of that? Certain sure now?” 
“Sir, I swear,” and he laid a 
bone-thin hand upon his narrow 
chest. “I would uphold the truth 
of it before the Mule and swear it 
in his teeth, though all his power 
were behind him to deny it.” 

Bayta said in pure wonder, “Then 
what’s it all about?” 

The clown faced her eagerly, 
“My lady, I have a theory. It came 
upon me, ready made, as though 
the Galactic Spirit had gently laid 
it in my mind.” He actually raised 
his voice above Toran’s interrupt- 
ing objection. 

“My lady,” he addressed himself 
exclusively to Bayta, “if this captain 
had, like us, escaped with a ship; 
if he, like us, were on a trip for a 
purpose of his own devising ; if he 
blundered upon us — he would sus- 
pect us of following and waylaying 
him, as we suspect him of the like. 
What wonder he played this comedy 
to enter our ship.” 

“Why would he want us in his 
ship, then,” demanded Toran. 
“That doesn’t fit.” 

“Why, yes, it does,” clamored the 
clown, with a flowing inspiration. 
“He sent an underling who knew 
us not, but who described us into 
his microphone. The listening cap- 
tain would be struck at my own 
poor likeness — for, of a truth there 
are not many in this great Galaxy 

S3 




who bear a resemblance to my 
scantiness. I was the proof of the 
identity of the rest of you.” 

“And so he leaves, us?” 

“What do we know of this mis- 
sion, and the secrecy thereof. He 
has spied us out for not an enemy 
and having it done so, must he 
needs think it wise to risk his plan 
by widening the knowledge there- 
of.” 

Bayta said .slowly, “Don’t be stub- 
born, Torie. It does explain things.” 
“It could be,” agreed Mis. 

Toran seemed helpless in the face 
of united resistance. Something in 
the clown’s fluent explanations 
bothered him. Something was 
wrong. Yet he was bewildered and, 
in spite of himself, his anger ebbed. 

“For a while,” he whispered, “I 
thought we might have had one of 
the Mule’s ships.” 

And his eyes were dark with the 
pain of Haven’s loss. 

The others understood. 



XII. 

Neotrantor was the name! New 
Trantorl And when you have saiu 
the name you have exhausted at a 
stroke all the resemblances of the 
new Trantor to the great original. 
Two parsecs away, the sun of Old 
Trantor still shone and -the Galaxy’s 
Imperial Capital of the previous 
century still cut through space in 
the silent and eternal repetition of 
its orbit. 

Men even inhabited Old Trantor. 
Not many — a hundred million, per- 
haps, where fifty years before, forty 

84 



billions had swarmed. The huge, 
metal world was in jagged splinters. 
The towering thrusts of the multi- 
towers from the single world- 
girdling base were torn and empty 
— still bearing the original blast- 
holes and firegut-shards of the 
Great Sack of forty years earlier. 

It was strange that a world which 
had been the center of a Galaxy for 
two thousand years — that had ruled 
limitless space and been home to 
legislators and rulers whose whims 
spanned the parsecs — could die in 
a month. It was strange that a 
world which had been untouched 
through the vast conquering sweeps 
and retreats of a millennium, and 
equally untouched by the civil wars 
and palace revolutions of another 
millennium — should lie dead at last. 
It was strange that the Glory of 
the Galaxy should be a rotting 
corpse. 

And pathetic! 

For centuries would yet pass be- 
fore the mighty works of fifty 
generations of humans would decay 
past use. Only the declining 
powers of men, themselves, ren- 
dered them useless now. 

The millions left after the bil- 
lions had died tore up the gleaming 
metal base of the planet and ex- 
posed soil that had not felt the touch 
of sun in a thousand years. 

Surrounded by the mechanical 
perfections of human efforts, en- 
circled by the industrial marvels of 
mankind freed of the tyranny of 
environment — they returned to the 
land. In the huge traffic clearings, 
wheat and corn grew. In the 
shadow of the towers, sheep grazed. 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




But Neotrantor existed — an ob- 
scure village of a planet drowned 
in the shadow of mighty Trantor, 
until a heart-throttled royal family, 
racing before the fire and flame of 
the Great Sack sped to it as its last 
refuge — and held out there, barely, 
until the roaring wave of rebellion 
subsided. There it ruled in ghostly 
splendor over a cadaverous rem- 
nant of Imperium. 

Twenty agricultural worlds were 
a Galactic Empire ! 

Dagobert IX, ruler of twenty 
worlds of refractory squires and 
sullen peasants, was Emperor of 
the Galaxy, Lord of the Universe. 

Dagobert IX had been twenty- 
five on the bloody day he arrived 
with his father upon Neotrantor. 
His eyes and mind were still alive 
with the glory and the power of the 
Empire that was. But his son, who 
might one day be Dagobert X, was 
horn on Neotranto'r. 

Twenty worlds were all he knew. 

jord Commason’s open air car 
was the finest vehicle of its type on 
all Neotrantor — and, after all, justly 
so. It did not end with the fact 
that Commason was the largest 
landowner on Neotrantor. It began 
there. For in earlier days he had 
been the companion and evil genius 
of a young crown prince, restive in 
the dominating grip of a middle- 
aged emperor. And now he was the 
companion and still the evil genius 
of a middle-aged crown prince who 
hated and dominated an old 
emperor. 

So Jord Commason, in bis air 
car, which in mother-of-pearl finish 

THE MULE 



and gold-and-lumetron ornamenta- 
tion needed no coat of arms as 
owner’s identification, surveyed the 
lands that were his, and the miles 
of rolling wheat that were his, and 
the huge threshers and harvesters 
that were his, and the tenant- 
farmers and machine-tenders that 
were his — and considered his prob- 
lems cautiously. 

Beside him, his bent and withered 
chauffeur, guided the ship gently 
through the upper winds, and 
smiled. 

Jord Commason spoke to the 
wind, the air, and the sky, “You 
remember what I told you, Inch- 
ney?” 

Inchney’s thin gray hair wisped 
lightly in the wind. His gap- 
toothed smile widened in its thin- 
lipped fashion and the vertical 
wrinkles of his cheeks deepened as 
though he were keeping an eternal 
secret from himself. The whisper 
of his voice whistled between his 
teeth. 

“I remember, sire, and I have 
thought.” 

“And what have you thought, 
Inchney?” There was an impa- 
tience about the question. 

Inchney remembered that he had 
been young and handsome, and a 
lord on Old Trantor. Inchney re- 
membered that he was a disfigured 
ancient on Neotrantor, who lived 
by grace of Squire Jord Commason. 
and paid for that grace by lending 
his subtlety on request. He sighed 
very softly. 

He whispered again, “Visitors 
from the Foundation, sire, are a 
convenient thing to have. Espedal- 

*0 





lv. sire, when they come with but a 
single ship, and but a single fighting 
man. How welcome they might 
be?" 

''Welcome?" said Commason, 
gloomily. “Perhaps so. But those 
men are magicians and may be 
powerful." 

“Pugh,” muttered Inchney, “the 
mistiness of distance hides the 
truth. The Foundation is but a 
world. Its citizens are but men. If 
you blast them, they die.” 

Inchney held the ship on its 
course. A river was a winding 
sparkle below. He whispered, 
“And is there not a man they speak 
of now who stirs the worlds of the 
Periphery ?” 

Commason was suddenly sus- 
picious, “What do you know of 
this?” 

There was no smile on his chauf- 



feur’s face, “Nothing, sire. It was 
but an idle question.” 

The squire’s hesitation was short. 
He said, with brutal directness, 
“Nothing you ask is idle, and your 
method of acquiring knowledge will 
have your scrawny neck in a vise 
yet. But — have it! This man is 
called the Mule, and a subject of 
his had been here some months ago 
on a . . . matter of business. I 
await another . . . now . . . for its 
conclusion.” 

“And these newcomers? They 
are not the ones you want, per- 
haps ?” 

“They lack the identification they 
should have.” 

“It has been reported that the 
Foundation has been captured — ” 
“I did not tell you that.” 

“It has been so reported,” con- 
tinued Inchney, coolly,” and if that 



s« 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




is correct, then these may be 
refugees from the destruction, and 
may be held for the Mule’s man out 
of honest friendship.” 

“Yes?” Commason was uncer- 
tain. 

"And, sire, since it is well-known 
that the friend of a conqueror is 
but the last victim, it would be but 
a measure of honest self-defense. 
For there are such things as psychic 
probes, and here we have four 
Foundation brains. There is much 
about the Foundation it would be 
useful to know, much even about 
the Mule. And then the Mule’s 
friendship would be a trifle the less 
overpowering." 

Commason, in the quiet of the 
upper air, returned with a shiver 
to his first thought, “But if the 
Foundation has not fallen. If the 
reports are lies. It is said that it 
has been foretold it cannot fall.” 

“We are past the age of sooth- 
sayers, sire.” 

“And yet if it did not fall, Inch- 
ney. Think! If it did not fall. 
The Mule made me promises, in- 
deed — ” He had gone too far, and 
backtracked. “That is, he made 
boasts. But boasts are wind and 
deeds are hard.” 

Inchney laughed noiselessly, 
“Deeds are hard indeed, until be- 
gun. One could scarcely find a 
further fear than a Galaxy-end 
Foundation.” 

“There is still the prince,” mur- 
mured Commason, almost to him- 
self. 

“He deals with the Mule also, 
then, sire ?” 



Commason could not quite choke 
down the complacent shift of fea- 
tures, “Not entirely. Not as I do. 
But he grows wilder, more uncon- 
trollable. A demon is upon him. 
If I seize these people and he takes 
them away for his own use — for 
he does not lack a certain shrewd- 
ness — I am not yet ready to 
quarrel with him.” He frowned 
and his heavy cheeks bent down- 
wards with dislike. 

“I saw those strangers for a few 
moments yesterday,” said the gray 
chauffeur, irrelevantly, “and it is a 
strange woman, that dark one. She 
walks with the freedom of a man 
and she is of a startling paleness 
against the dark luster of hair.” 
There w T as almost a warmth in the 
husky whisper of the withered 
voice, so that Commason turned to- 
ward him in sudden surprise. 

Inchney continued, “The prince, 
I think, would not find his shrewd- 
ness proof against a reasonable com- 
promise. You could have the rest, 
if you left him the girl — ” 

A light broke upon Commason, 
“A thought! Indeed a thought! 
Inchney, turn back! And Inchney, 
if all turns well, we will discuss 
further this matter of your free- 
dom.” 

It was with an almost supersti- 
tious sense of symbolism that Com- 
mason found a Personal Capsule 
waiting for him in his private study 
when he returned. It had arrived 
by a wave length known to few. 
Commason smiled a fat smile. The 
Mule’s man was coming and the 
Foundation had indeed fallen. 



THE MULE 



87 




Bayta’s misty visions, when she 
had them, of an Imperial palace, 
did not jibe with the reality, and 
inside her, there was a vague sense 
of disappointment. The room was 
small, almost plain, almost ordinary. 
The palace did not even match the 
mayor’s residence back at the Foun- 
dation — and Dagobert IX — 

Bayta had definite ideas of what 
an emperor ought to look like. He 
ought not look like somebody’s 
benevolent grandfather. He ought 
not he thin and white and faded — • 
or serving cups of tea with his own 
hand in an expressed anxiety for 
the comfort of his visitors. 

But so it was. 

Dagobert IX chuckled as he 
poured tea into her stiffly outheld 
cup. 

“This is a great pleasure for me, 
tny dear. It is a moment away from 
ceremony and courtiers. I have not 
had the opportunity for welcoming 
visitors from my outer provinces 
for a time now. My son takes care 
of these details now that I’m older. 
You haven’t met my son? A fine 
boy. Headstrong, perhaps. But 
then he’s young. Do you care for 
a flavor capsule? No?” 

Toran attempted an interruption, 
“ Your imperial majesty — ” 

“Yes?” 

“Your imperial majesty, it has 
not been our intention to intrude 
upon you — ” 

“Nonsense, there is no intrusion. 
Tonight there will be the official 
reception, but until then, we are 
free. Let’s see, where did you say 
you were from? It seems a long 
time since we had an official recep- 

s* 



tion. You said you were from the 
Province of Anacreon?” 

“From the Foundation, your 
imperial majesty!” 

“Yes, the Foundation. I remem- 
ber now. I had it located. It is in 
the Province of Anacreon. 1 have 
never been there. My doctor for- 
bids extensive traveling. I don’t 
recall any recent reports from my 
viceroy at Anacreon. How are 
conditions there,” he concluded 
anxiously. 

“Sire,” mumbled Toran, “I bring 
no complaints.” 

“That is gratifying. I will com- 
mend my viceroy.” 

Toran looked helplessly at Ebling 
Mis, whose brusque voice rose, 
“Sire, we have been told that it will 
require your permission for us t<* 
visit the Imperial University 
Library on Trantor.” 

“Trantor ?” questioned the em- 
peror, mildly, “Trantor?” 

Then a look of puzzled pain 
crossed his thin face. “Trantor 
he whispered. “I remember now. 
I am making plans now to return 
there with a flood of ships at iny 
back. You shall come with me. 
Together we will destroy the rebel. 
Gilmer. Together we shall restore 
the empire !” 

His bent back had straightened. 
His voice had strengthened. For a 
moment his eyes were hard. Then, 
he blinked and said softly. “But 
Gilmer is dead. I seem to remem- 
ber — Yes. Yes! Gilmer is dead! 
Trantor is dead — For a moment, it 
seemed — Where was it you said 
you came from?” 

Magniiico whispered to Bayta. 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




“'Is this really an emperor? For 
somehow I thought emperors were 
greater and wiser than ordinary 
men.” 

Bayta motioned him quiet. She 
said, “If your imperial majesty 
would but sign an order permitting 
us to go to Tranter, it would avail 
greatly the common cause,” 

“To Trantor?” The emperor 
was blank and uncomprehending. 

“Sire, the Viceroy of Anacreon, 
in whose name we speak, sends 
word that Gilmer is yet alive — 

“Alive ! Alive !” thundered 
Dagobert. “Where? It will be 
war !” 

“Your imperial majesty, it must 
not yet be known. His whereabouts 
are uncertain. The viceroy sends 
us to acquaint you of the fact, and 
it is only on Trantor that we may 
find his hiding place. Once dis- 
covered — ” 

“Yes, yes — He must be 
found — ” The old emperor 
doddered to the wall and touched 
the little photocell with a trembling 
linger. He muttered, after an in- 
effectual pause, “My servants do not 
come. I cannot wait for them.” 

He was scribbling on a blank 
sheet, and ended with a flourished 
"D.” He said, “Gilmer will yet 
learn the power of his emperor. 
Where was it you came from? 
Anacreon ? What are the conditions 
there? Is the name of the emperor 
powerful ?” 

Bayta took the paper from his 
loose fingers, “Your imperial ma- 
jesty is beloved by the people. Your 
love for them is widely known.” 

“I shall have to visit my good 

Tit* MULE 



people of Anacreon, but my doctor 
says ... I don’t remember what 
he says, but — ” He looked up, his 
old gray eyes sharp, “Were you 
saying something of Gilmer?” 

“No, your imperial majesty.” 
“He shall not advance further. 
Go back and tell your people that. 
Trantor shall hold! My father 
leads the fleet now, and the rebel 
vermin Gilmer shall freeze in space 
with his regicidal rabble.” 

He staggered into a seat and his 
eyes were blank once more, “What 
was I saying?” 

Toran rose and bowed low, 
“Your imperial majesty has been 
kind to us, but the time allotted us 
for an audience is over.” 

For a moment, Dagobert IX 
looked like an emperor indeed as 
he rose and stood stiff-backed while, 
one by one, his visitors retreated 
backward through the door — 

— to where twenty armed men 
intervened and locked a circle about 
them. 

A hand-weapon flashed — 

To Bayta, consciousness returned 
sluggishly, but without the “Where 
am I?” sensation. She remembered 
clearly the odd old man who called 
himself emperor, and the other men 
who waited outside. The arthritic, 
tingle in her finger joints meant a 
stun pistol. 

She kept her eyes closed, and lis- 
tened with painful attention to the 
voices. 

There were two of them. One 
was slow and cautious, with a sly- 
ness beneath the surface obsequitv. 
The other was hoarse and thick, al- 
so 




most sodden, and blurted out in 
viscous spurts. Bayta liked neither. 

The thick voice was predominant. 

Bayta caught the last words, “He 
will live forever that old madman. 
It wearies me. It annoys me. Corn- 
mason, I will have it. I grow older, 
too.” 

"Your highness, let us first see of 
what use these people are.. It may 
be we shall have sources of strength 
other than your father still 
provides.” 

The thick voice was lost in a 
bubbling whisper. Bayta caught 
only the phrase,— -“the girl — ” but 
the other, fawning voice was a 
nasty, low, running chuckle fol- 
lowed by a comradely, near-patron- 
izing, “Dagobert, you do not age. 
They lie who say you are not a 
youth of twenty.” 

They laughed together, and 
Bayta’s blood was an icy trickle. 
Dagobert — your highness — The 
old emperor had spoken of a head- 
strong son, and the implication of 
the whispers now beat dully upon 
her. But such things didn’t happen 
to people in real life— 

Toran’s voice broke upon her in 
a slow, hard current of cursing. 

She opened her eyes, and Toran’s, 
which were upon her, showed open 
relief. He said, fiercely, “This 
banditry will be answered by the 
emperor. Release us.” 

It dawned upon Bayta that her 
wrists and ankles were fastened to 
wall and floor by a tight attraction 
field. 

Thick Voice approached Toran. 
He was paunchy, his lower eyelids 
puffed darkly and his hair was 

90 



thinning — out there .was a gay 
feather in his peaked hat, and the 
edging of his doublet was em- 
broidered with silvery metal-foam. 

He sneered with a heavy amuse- 
ment, “The emperor? The poor, 
mad emperor?” 

“I have his pass. No subject may 
hinder our freedom." 

“But I am no subject, space- 
garbage. I am the regent and 
crown prince and am to be ad- 
dressed as such. As for my poor 
silly father, it amuses him to see 
visitors occasionally. And we 
humor him. It tickles his mock- 
imperial fancy. But, of course, it 
has no other meaning.” 

And then he was before Bayta, 
and she looked up at him con- 
temptuously. He leaned close and 
his breath was overpoweringlv 
minted. 

He said, “Her eyes suit well, 
Commason — she is even prettier 
with them open. I think she’ll do. 
It will be an exotic dish for a jaded 
taste, eh?” 

There was a futile surge upwards 
on Toran’s part, which the crown 
prince ignored and Bayta felt the 
iciness travel outward to the skin. 
Ebling Mis was still out : head loll- 
ing weakly upon his chest, but. with 
a sensation of surprise, Bayta noted 
that Magnifico’s eyes were open, 
sharply open, as though awake for 
many minutes. Those large brown 
eyes swiveled towards Bayta and 
stared at her out of a doughy face. 

He whimpered, and nodded with 
his head towards the crown prince, 
“That one has my Visi-Sonor.” 

The crown prince turned sharply 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




toward the new voice, “This is 
yours, monster?” He swung the 
instrument from his shoulder where 
it had hung, suspended by its green 
strap, unnoticed by Bayta. 

He fingered it clumsily, tried to 
sound a chord and got nothing for 
his pains, “Can you play it, mon- 
ster ?” 

Magnifico nodded once, 

Toran said suddenly, “You’ve 
rifled a ship of the Foundation. If 
the emperor will not avenge, the 
Foundation will.” 

It was the other, Commason, who 
answered slowly, “ What Founda- 
tion? Or is the Mule no longer 
the Mule?” 

There was no answer to that. 
The prince’s grin showed large un- 
even teeth. The clown’s binding 
field was broken and he was nudged 
ungently to his feet. The Visi- 
Sonor was thrust into his hand. 

“Play for us, monster,” said the 
prince. “Play us a serenade of love 
and beauty for our foreign lady 
here. Tell her that my father’s 
country prison is no palace, but that 
I can take her to one where she can 
swim in rose water — and know what 
a prince’s love is. Sing of a 
prince’s love, monster.” 

He placed one thick thigh upon a 
marble table and swung a leg idly, 
while his fatuous smiling stare 
swept Bayta into a silent rage. 
Toran’s sinews strained against the 
field, in painful, perspiring effort. 
Ebling Mis stirred and moaned. 

Magnifico gasped, “My fingers 
are of useless stiffness — ” 

“Play, monster !” roared the 



prince. The lights dimmed at a 
gesture to Commason, and in the 
dimness, he crossed his arms and 
waited. 

Magnifico drew his fingers in 
rapid, rhythmic jumps from end to 
end of the multi-keyed instrument 
— and a sharp, gliding rainbow of 
light jumped across the room. A 
low, soft tone sounded — throbbing, 
tearful. It lifted in sad laughter, 
and underneath it there sounded a 
dull tolling. 

The darkness seemed to intensify 
and grow thick. Music reached 
Bayta through the muffled folds of 
invisible blankets. Gleaming light 
reached her from the depths, as 
though a single candle glowed at 
the bottom of a pit. 

Automatically, her eyes strained. 
The light brightened, but remained 
blurred. It moved fuzzily, in con- 
fused color, and the music was sud- 
denly brassy, evil — flourishing in 
high crescendo. The light flickered 
quickly, in swift motion to the 
wicked rhythm. Something writhed 
within the light. Something with 
poisonous metallic scales writhed 
and yawned. And the music 
writhed and yawned with it. 

Bayta struggled with a strange 
emotion and then caught herself in 
a mental gasp. Almost, it reminded 
her of the time in the Time Vault, 
of those last days on Haven. It 
was that horrible, cloying, clinging 
spiderweb of horror and despair. 
She shrunk beneath it, oppressed. 

The music dinned upon her, 
laughing horribly, and the writhing 
terror at the wrong end of the tele- 
scope in the small circle of light 



THE MULE 



81 




was lost as she turned feverishly 
away. Her forehead was wet and 
cold. 

The music died. It must have 
lasted fifteen minutes, and a vast 
pleasure at its absence flooded 
Bayta. Light glared, and Mag- 
nifico’s face was close to hers, 
sweaty, wild-eyed, lugubrious. 

“My lady,” he gasped, “how fare 
you ?” 

“Well enough,” she whispered, 
“but why did you play like that?” 

She became aware of the others 
in the room. Toran and Mis were 
limp and helpless against the wall, 
but her eyes skimmed over them. 
There was the prince, lying strange- 
ly still at the foot of the table. 
There was Commason, moaning 
wildly through an open, drooling 
mouth. 

Commason flinched, and yelled 
mindlessly, as Magnifico took a step 
towards him. 

Magnifico turned, and with a leap, 
turned the others loose. 

Toran lunged upwards and with 
eager, taut fists seized the land- 
owner by the neck, “You come with 
us. We’ll want you — to make sure 
we get to our ship.” 

Two hours later, in the ship’s 
kitchen, Bayta served a walloping 
homemade pie, and Magnifico cele- 
brated the return to space by at- 
tacking it with a magnificent dis- 
regard of table manners. 

“Good, Magnifico?” 

“Um-m-m-m !” 

“Magnifico?” 

“Yes, my lady?” 



“What was it you played back 
there.” 

The clown writhed, “I . . . I’d 
rather not say. I learned it on6e, 
and the Visi-Sonor is of an effect 
upon the nervous system most pro- 
found. Surely, it was an evil 
thing, and not for your sweet 
innocence, my lady.” 

“Oh now, come, Magnifico. I’m 
not as innocent as that. Don’t flat- 
ter so. Did I see anything like 
what they saw?” 

“I hope not. I played it for 
them only. If you saw, it was but 
the rim of it — from afar.” 

“And that was enough. Do you 
know you knocked the prince out?” 
Magnifico spoke grimly through 
a large, muffling piece of pie. “T 
killed him, my lady.” 

“What?” She swallowed, pain- 
fully. 

“He was dead when I stopped, 
or I would have continued. I cared 
not for Commason. His greatest 
threat was death or torture. But, 
my lady, this prince looked upon 
you wickedly, and — ” he choked in 
a mixture of indignation and em- 
barrassment. 

Bayta felt strange thoughts come 
and repressed them sternly, “Mag- 
nifico, you’ve got a gallant soul.” 
“Oh, my lady.” He bent a red 
nose into his pie, but, somehow did 
not eat. 

Ebling Mis stared out the port. 
Trantor was near — its metallic 
shine fearfully bright. Toran was 
standing there, too. 

He said with dull bitterness, 
“We've come for nothing, Ebling. 



93 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




The Mule’s rnan precedes us,” 
Ebling Mis rubbed his forehead 
with a hand that seemed shriveled 
out of its former plumpness. His 
voice was an abstracted mutter. 

Toran was annoyed. “I say those 
people know the Foundation has 
fallen. I say — ” 

'‘Eh?" Mis looked up, puzzled. 
Then, he placed a gentle hand upon 
Toran’s wrist, in compete oblivion 
of any previous conversation, 
"Toran, T . . , I've been looking 
at Trantor. Do you know ... I 
have the queerest feeling . . . ever 
since we arrived on Neotrantor. 
It’s an urge, a driving urge that’s 
pushing and pushing inside. Toran, 
I can do it; I know I can do it. 
Things are becoming 'clear in my 
mind — they have never been so 
clear.” 

Toran stared— and shrugged. 
The words brought him no con- 
fidence. 

He said, tentatively, "Mis?” 
"Yes?” 

"You didn’t see a ship come down 
on Neotrantor as we left.” 

Consideration was brief, “No.” 

“’] did. Imagination, I suppose, 
but it could have been that Filian 
ship.” 

“The one with Captain Han 
Pritcher on it?” 

"The one with space knows who 
upon it. Magnifico’s informa- 
tion — It followed us here, Mis.” 
Ebling Mis said nothing. 

Toran said strenuously, “Is there 
anything wrong with you ? Aren’t 
you well?” 

Mis’ eyes were thoughtful, 



luminous, and strange. He did not 
answer. 

XIII. 

The location of an objective upon 
the great world of Trantor pre- 
sents a problem unique in the 
Galaxy. There are no continents or 
oceans to locate from a thousand 
miles distance. There are no rivers, 
lakes, and islands to catch sight of 
through the cloud rifts. 

The metal-covered world was— - 
had been — one colossal city, and 
only the old Imperial palace could 
be identified readily from outer 
space by a stranger. The Bayta 
circled the world at almost air-car 
height in repeated painful search. 

From polar regions, where the 
icy coating of the metal spires were 
somber evidence of the breakdown 
or neglect of the weather-condition- 
ing machinery, they worked south- 
wards. Occasionally they could ex- 
periment with the correlations — (or 
presumable correlations) — between 
what they saw and what the in- 
adequate map obtained at Neotran- 
tor showed. 

But it was unmistakable when it 
came. The gap in the metal coat 
of the planet was fifty miles. The 
unusual greenery spread over hun- 
dreds of square miles, inclosing the 
mighty grace of the ancient Imperial 
residences. 

The Bayta hovered and slowly 
oriented itself. There were only 
the huge super-causeways to guide 
them. Long straight arrows on the 
map ; smooth, gleaming ribbons 
there below them. 

What the map indicated to be 



THE MUI.E 







the University area was reached by 
dead reckoning, and upon the flat 
area of what once must have been 
a busy landing-field, the ship low- 
ered itself. 

It was only as they submerged 
into the welter of metal that the 
smooth beauty apparent from the 
air dissolved into the broken, 
twisted near-wreckage that had been 
left in the wake of the Sack. Spires 
were truncated, smooth walls gouted 
and twisted, and just for an instant 
there was the glimpse of a shaven 
area of earth — perhaps several hun- 
dred acres in extent — dark and 
plowed. 

Lee Senter waited as the ship 
settled downward cautiously. It 
was a strange ship, not from Neo- 
trantor, and inwardly he sighed. 
Strange ships and confused dealings 
with the men of outer space could 
mean the end o'f the short days of 
peace, a return to the old grandiose 
times of death and battle. Senter 
was leader of the Group ; the old 
books were in his charge and he 
had read of those old days. lie 
did not want them. 

Perhaps ten minutes spent them- 
selves as the strange ship came down 
to nestle upon the flatness, but long 
memories telescoped themselves in 
that time. There was first the great 
farm of his childhood— that re- 
mained in his mind merely as busy- 
crowds of people. Then there was 
the trek of the young families to 
new lands. He was ten, then; an 
only child, puzzled, and frightened. 

Then the new buildings ; the great 
metal slabs to be uprooted and torn 

§4 



aside; the exposed soil to be turned, 
and freshened, and invigorated ; 
neighboring buildings to be torn 
down and leveled ; others to be 
transformed to living quarters. 

There were crops to be grown 
and harvested; peaceful relations 
with neighboring farms to be estab- 
lished — 

There was growth and expansion, 
and the quiet efficiency of self-rule. 
There was the coming of a new 
generation of hard, little youngsters 
born to the soil. There was the 
great day when he was chosen 
leader of the Group and for the first 
time since his eighteenth birthday 
he did not shave and saw the. first 
stubble of his Leader’s Beard ap- 
pear. 

And now the Galaxy might 
intrude and put an end to the brief 
idyll of isolation — 

The ship landed. He watched 
wordlessly as the port opened. 
Four emerged, cautious and watch- 
ful. There were three men, varied, 
old, young, thin and beaked. And a 
woman striding among them like an 
equal. His hand left the two glassy 
black tufts of his beard as he 
stepped forward. 

He gave the universal gesture of 
peace. Both hands were before 
him ; hard, calloused palms upward. 

The young man approached two 
steps and duplicated the gesture, 
“I come on peace.” 

The accent was strange, but the 
words were understandable, and 
welcome. He replied, deeply, “In 
peace be it. You are welcome to 
the hospitality of the Group. Are 
you hungry? You shall eat. Are 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE -FI CT ION 




you thirsty? You shall drink.” 

Slowly, the reply came, “We 
thank you for your kindness, and 
shall bear good report of your 
Group when we return to our 
world.” 

A queer answer, but good. Be- 
hind him, the men of the Group 
were smiling, and from the recesses 
of the surrounding structures, the 
women emerged. 

In his own quarters, he removed 
the locked, mirror-walled box 
from its hidden place, and offered 
each of the guests the long, plump 
cigars that were reserved for great 
occasions. Before the woman, he 
hesitated. She had taken a seat 
among the men. The strangers 
evidently allowed, even expected, 
such effrontery. Stiffly, he offered 
the box. 

She accepted one with a smile, 
and drew in its aromatic smoke, 
with all the relish one could expect. 
Lee Senter repressed a scandalized 
emotion. 

The stiff conversation, in advance 
of the meal, touched politely upon 
the subject of farming on Trantor. 

It was the old man who asked, 
“What about hydroponics? Surely, 
for such a world as Trantor, 
hydroponics would be the answer.” 

Senter shook his head slowly. 
He felt uncertain. His knowledge 
was the unfamiliar matter of the 
books he had read, “Artificial 
farming in chemicals, I think? No, 
not on Trantor. This hydroponics 
require a world of industry — for in- 
stance, a great chemical industry. 
And in war or disaster, when indus- 
try breaks down, the people starve. 



Nor can all foods be grown arti- 
ficially. Some lose their food value. 
The soil is still cheaper, still better 
— always more dependable.” 

“And your food supply is suf- 
ficient ?” 

“Sufficient. Perhaps monotonous. 
We have fowl that supply eggs, and 
milk-yielders for our dairy prod- 
ucts — but our meat supply rests 
upon our foreign trade.” 

“Trade.” The young man seemed 
roused to sudden interest. “You 
trade then. But what do you 
export ?” 

“Metal,” was the curt answer. 
“Look for yourself. We have an 
infinite supply, ready processed. 
They come from Neotrantor with 
ships, demolish an indicated area — 
increasing our growing space — and 
leave us in exchange meat, canned 
fruit, food concentrates, farm ma- 
chinery and so on. They carry off 
the’ metal and both sides profit.” 

They feasted on bread and cheese, 
and a vegetable stew that was un- 
reservedly delicious. It was over 
the dessert of frosted fruit, the only 
imported item on the menu, that, 
for the first time, the Outlanders 
became other than mere guests. 
The young man produced a map of 
Trantor. 

Calmly, Lee Senter studied it. 
He listened — and said gravely, “The 
University Grounds are a static 
area. We farmers do not grow 
crops on it. We do not, by pref- 
erence, even enter it. It is one of 
our few relics of another time we 
would keep undisturbed.” 

“We are seekers after knowl- 



THE MOLE 



is 




edge. We would disturb nothing. 
Our ship would be our hostage.” 
The old man offered this — eagerly, 
feverishly. 

“I can take you there then,” said 
Senter. 

That night the strangers slept, 
and that night Lee Senter sent a 
message to Neotrantor, 

XIV. 

The thin life of Trantor trickled 
to nothing when they entered 
among the wide-spaced buildings of 
the University grounds. There was 
a solemn and lonely silence over it. 

The strangers of the Foundation 
knew nothing of the swirling days 
and nights of the bloody Sack that 
had left the University untouched. 
They knew nothing of the time 
after the collapse of the Imperial 
power, when the students, with their 
borrowed weapons, and their pale- 
faced inexperienced bravery, 
formed a protective volunteer army 
to protect the central shrine of the 
science of the Galaxy. They knew 
nothing of the Seven Days Fight, 
and the armistice that kept the Uni- 
versity free, when even the Im- 
perial palace clanged with the boots 
of Gilmer and his soldiers, during 
the short interval of their rule. 

Those of the Foundation, ap- 
proaching for the first time, real- 
ized only that in a world of transi- 
tion from a gutted old to a strenu- 
ous new, this area was a quiet, 
graceful museum-piece of ancient 
greatness. 

They were intruders in a sense. 



The brooding emptiness rejected 
them. The academic atmosphere 
seemed still to live and to stir an- 
grily at the disturbance. 

1'he library was a deceptively 
small building which broadened out 
vastly underground into a mammoth 
volume of silence and reverie. Eb- 
ling Mis paused before the elab- 
orate murals of the reception room. 

He whispered — one had to whis- 
per here : “I think we passed the 

catalog rooms back a wav. I’ll stop 
there.” 

His forehead was flushed, his 
hand trembling, “I mustn’t be dis- 
turbed, Torati. Will you bring my 
meals down to me?” 

“Anything you say. We’ll do all 
we can to help. Do you want us 
to work under you — ” 

“No. I must be alone — ” 

“You think you will get what you 
want.” 

And Ebling Mis replied with a 
soft certainty, “I know I will !” 

Toran and Bayta came closer to 
“setting up housekeeping” in nor- 
mal fashion than at any time in 
their year of married life. It was 
a strange sort of “housekeeping." 
They lived in the middle of 
grandeur with an inappropriate 
simplicity. Their food was drawn 
largely from Lee Senter’s farm and 
was paid for in the little atomic- 
gadgets that may he found on any 
Trader’s ship. 

Magnifico taught himself how to 
use the projectors in the library 
reading room, and sat over adven- 
.ture novels and romances to the 
point where he was almost as for- 



ASTOUNDING SC IENCE -FI CT ION 




getful of meals and sleep as was 
Ebling Mis. 

Ebling himself was completely 
buried. He had insisted on a ham- 
mock being slung up for him in 
the Psychology Reference Room. 
His face grew thin and white. His 
vigor of speech was lost and his 
favorite curses had died a mild 
death. There were limes when the 
recognition of either Toran or 
Bayta seemed a struggle. 

He was more himself with Mag- 
nifico who brought him his meals 
and often sat watching him for 
hours at a time, with a queer, fas- 
cinated absorption, as the aging 
psychologist transcribed endless 
equations, cross-referred to end- 
less book-films, scurried endlessly 
about in a wild mental effort to- 
wards an end he alone saw. 

Toran came upon her in the 
darkened room, and said sharply, 
“Bayta!” 

Bayta started guiltily, “Yes? 
You want me, Torie?” 

“Sure I want you. What in space 
are you sitting there for? You’ve 
been acting all wrong since we got 
to Trantor. What’s the matter 
with you?” 

"Oh. Torie, stop.” she said, 
wearily. 

And “Oh, Torie. stop!” he mim- 
icked impatiently. Then, with sud- 
den softness, “Won’t you tell me 
what’s wrong, Bay ? Something’s 
bothering you.” 

“No! Nothing is, Torie. If you 
keep on just nagging and nagging, 
you’ll have me mad. I'm just — 
thinking.” 



“Thinking about what?” 

“About nothing. Well, about the 
Mule, and Haven, and the Founda- 
tion, and everything. About Eb- 
ling Mis and whether he’ll find any- 
thing about the Second Founda- 
tion, and whether it will help us 
when he does find it — and a million 
other things. Are you satisfied ?” 
Her voice was agitated. 

“If you’re just brooding, do you 
mind stopping? It isn’t pleasant 
and it doesn’t help the situation.” 
Bayta got to her feet and smiled 
weakly, “All right. I’m happy. 
See, I’m smiling and jolly.” 

Magnifico’s voice was an agitated 
cry outside, “My lady — ” 

“What is it? Come — ” 

Bayta’s voice choked off sharply 
when the opening door framed the 
large, hard-faced — 

“Pritcher,” cried Toran. 

Bayta gasped. “Captain ! How 
did you find us?” 

Ilan Pritcher stepped inside. His 
voice was dear and level, and ut- 
terly dead of feeling, “My rank is 
colonel now — under the Mule.” 
“Under the . . . Mule!” Toran's 
voice trailed off. They formed a 
tableau there, the three. 

Magnifico stared wildly and 
shrank behind Toran. Nobody 
stopped to notice him. 

Bayta said, her bands trembling 
in each other’s tight grasp, “You are 
arresting us? You have really gone 
over to them?” 

The colonel replied quickly, “l 
have not come to arrest you. My 
instructions make no mention of 
you. With regard to you. 1 am 
( Continued on page 148) 



THE MU LB 



»7 




IN TIMES TO COME 

New month’s issue starts off Lewis Padgett’s new two-parter, “The Fairy 
Chessmen.” It’s a yarn with one of the most intriguing set-ups in a long time. 
It involves a war that has reached a stalemate of advanced technology — until 
one side shows up with a completely new technique. But the new technique 
is so unmanageable that, as a physical weapon, it can’t be used. 

But as a psychological weapon — ! 

The first of the technicians on the other side who tries to tackle it winds 
up by going mad. One of the nest few shows up at the asylum, floating four 
feet off the ground, with the conviction that he’s Mohammed, which is wrong, 
floating halfway between Heaven and Earth — which is right! 

Normally, the attacks of one side were parried by equal advances on the 
part of the technologists of the other side. But this time — the technologists 
who might stop the new attack are being knocked over like a string of dom- 
inoes, one after the other. The department of psychology lias to be called in. 

At that point, the story opens. It opens, incidentally, with a doorknob, a 
doorknob which suddenly acquires, and opens, a large, feminine blue eye— 
and winks at the man who was about to open the door. 

Thk Editor. 



THE ANALYTICAL LABORATORY 

July, 1945 



Place 


Story 


Author 


Points 


1. 


Last Outpost 


Ross Rocklynne 


2.20 


2. 


The Code 


Lawrence O’Donnell 


2.55 


3. 


Lion And the Unicorn 


Lewis Padgett 




4. 


Tie : 








Disappearance 


Chester S. Geier 


4.00 




Tight Place 


Murray Leinster 


4.00 


5. 


Resonance 


Eric F. Russel! 


4.57 




August, 1945 




1. 


World Of A 


A. E. van Vogt 


1.01 


O 

L,. 


Paradoxical Escape 


Isaac Asimov 


2.91 


3. 


Gift Horse 


Ross Rocklynne 


3.20 


4. 


Into Thy Hands 


Lester del Rev 


3.33 


5. 


Pipeline To Pluto 


Murray Leinster 


4,00 




September, 1945 




1. 


World of A 


A. E. van Vogt 


1.000 


2, 


Camouflage 


Lewis Padgett 


2.12 


3. 


The Power 


Murray Leinster 


3.70 


4. 


Tie: 








Deadly Host 


Raymond F. Jones 


4.00 




The Infidels 


Ross Rocklynne 




5. 


Uncommon Sense 


Hal Clement 


4.50 








The Editor. 



9* ASTOUNDING SC TKNCU- UTCT ION 








I < Arrtr h far- to frfitt I: Se%f Pfcvtl* 



J' H K M A K I NO o F T H E HO M I J 



i'l 


r 


§ 


i 




sr J 


► 


L 


jlj 




rTu/Sv 


N | 1 ■* 


«• i 

jj 








The 
Making 
of the 
Bomb 

This excerpt from the Smyth Report discusses the last stage of the 
problem of producing the atomic bomb; the mechanism whereby the 
uranium isotope U- l d3o, or the synthetic element, plutonium, Pu-239, 
could be detonated. May we calfto your attention that the essential prin- 
ciples employed in the bomb were described as the arming mechanism of 
the atomic bomb in the story “Deadline” in the March, 1944 Astounding. 



The following material is a direct 
quotation of the chapter “The Work 
On the Atomic Bomb” from the re- 
port of Dr. Smyth. The entire 
report is written with a precise and 
careful understatement, and with 
a clarity aiid easy understandability 
that makes it first-class reading, it 
also represents the most important 
historical document in the history 
of Mankind; unfortunately the dis- 
coverers of tire were unable to re- 
cord their researches that must have 
led them, gradually, to the realiza- 
tion that fire was a force tojie 
tamed and used. Had those re- 
searches been recorded, there would 
have been a second document of 
importance comparable to that of 
the Smyth Report. 

Since science-fiction specializes 
in the long-term view, 1 think our 

100 



readers can appreciate that the 
Magna Carta, the Constitution of 
the United States, and all the other 
great documents of Man’s history 
can be classified as temporary 
material. 

Since the Smyth Report is more 
than sixty thousand words long, we 
cannot print it in one piece. The 
integration of the material is such 
that it needs to be read in one, or 
at most two, sittings — certainly not 
with month-long lapses between. 
Therefore, Astounding cannot prop- 
erly present the Report in full. This 
piece we do present is, essentially, 
a subsector report, concerning one 
of the side-issue researches into the 
possibilities and engineering meth- 
ods of applying the power of the 
atom in one particular application. 

That the particular application — 

A S T O U N L> 1 N O SCIENCE - FICTION 




U. S. Army Pboto from International News Photos 

The Oak Ridge, Tennessee plant shown above was devoted to the separci - 
tion of the fissionable isotope II -235 from the natural mixture of U-235 
and U-238. Two methods were used, diffusion through barriers, and 
electromagnetic, each method working successfully and independently, 
each constituting a complete solution of the pr'oblem of getting atomic fuel 
for the bomb. On page 99 is shown fart of the Hanford, Washington 
plant where U-238 zvas transmuted to plutonium, Pu-239 by the atomic 
by-products of U-235 fission. This process constituted a third complete 
solution. The United States actually solved the problem of the atomic 
bomb not once, but three separate times. 



the atomic bomb — happened to be 
the immediate goal of the vast effort 
is quite beside the point. The main 
course of the development was di- 
rected toward achieving controlled 
use of atomic energy to produce 
the effect Man wanted, at the time 
and at the place Man wanted it, and 
to the degree Man wanted it. 

In brief, the great objective was 
to learn how to turn the atom on 
and off at will. 

THE MAKING OF THE BOMB 



The atomic bomb first tested on 
July 16, 1945, in New Mexico was 
not the first time men had turned 
atomic energy on and off at will ; 
they had been doing that for two 
and a half years. The first atomic 
engine on Earth was built in the 
City of Chicago, and has been run- 
ning regularly for nearly all the 
time since. It started operation 
on December 2, 1942. That first 
Jay, it was operated at a power 

mi 



level of one half watt. On Decem- 
ber 12th, the power was increased 
to two hundred watts. This tirst 
atomic engine was simply a heat 
engine, a uranian fire, and burned, 
as its fuel, the naturally-occurring 
mixture of uranium isotopes. 

The design of the uranium pile 
is remarkably simple — blocks of 
special, high-purity graphite with 
lumps of high-purity uranium metal 
or oxide scattered through the pile 
in a latticework arrangement. Ex- 
cept tor the special requirements 
of extreme purity, it seems rather 
surprising that someone somewhere 
didn’t just accidentally come up 
with a uranium pile that mysteri- 
ously got hot. 

The uranium atomic heat-engine, 
is controlled very handily by 
dampers. The dampers are slabs 
of neutron-absorbing material, 
either cadmium or boron in the 
form of boron-steel bars. Since 
the fission of uranium is initiated 
by neutrons, and produces the neu- 
trons needed to maintain it. absorb- 
ing them cuts down the reaction. 

There are many chapters to be 
written still, on the terrible' chemical 
problem of extracting plutonium 
metal from the transmuted uranium 
in the uranium piles. The chemical 



problem of handling any material 
so unimaginably deadly in its radio- 
activity was something as new on 
Earth as the uranium pile itself. 

It is interesting to note that the 
transmutation of uranium to pro- 
duce plutonium was the first atomic- 
power job tackled. The reaction 
is fairly simple, and was carried 
out on a minute scale — only a mat- 
ter of pounds, not tens of thousands 
of tons — were transmuted. But 
even this appreciably raised the 
tenqjerature of the Columbia River. 
Nuclear transmutations involving v 
massive quantities of materials don't 
seem too practical, as Astounding 
mentioned once, long ago, because 
of the problem of disposing of the 
heat. 

But by transmuting Uranium-238 
into Plutonium-239, by extracting 
U-235 from other masses of uran- 
ium. using three different isotope- 
separation methods — a total of four 
different workable answers to the 
question of how to make an atomic 
bomb— the material needed for the 
Doomsday Bomb was gathered. 

While it was gathering, another 
group was working on the problems 
involved in making it do as in- 
tended — explode. 

This is the story of their work: 



CHAPTER XII 

THE WORK ON THE ATOMIC BOMB 

The Objective 

The entire purpose of the work described in the 
preceding chapters was to explore the possibility of 
creating atomic bombs and to produce the concentrated 
fissionable materials which would be required in such 
bombs. In the present chapter, the last stage of the 



102 



A S T O V M»l NO SC I E X 0 K - V I C T TO X 



work will be described--the development at Los Alamos 
of the atomic bomb itself. As in other parts of the 
project, there are two phases to be considered: the 
organization, and the scientific and technical work 
itself. The organization will be. described briefly; 




Press Association, Inc. 

The test bomb explodes in New Mexico. This serieS’Of photographs was 
made by a battery of telescopic movie cameras at a distance of six miles. 
The appearance of the prints indicates that this shot and the one on page 
105 were taken by one camera, set for somewhat greater exposure than 
the camera which took the succeeding pictures. Some detail shows in the 
sky and desert, indicating the exposure was sufficient for ordinary daylight 
to register. The black hole in the center of this shot, and the black measles 
on the next, are due to solarization — a photographic phenomenon. If film 
is exposed to a little light, it develops up gray; more light causes it to 
develop black. Much more light, and- it is simply a ntore solid black. But 
if an enormous overexposure — thousands of times normal — will cause the 
photographic process to reverse itself, and bleach out the image. The black 
measles in the second photograph are due to this reversal, brought about 
by radiation from fragments of the bomb itself, radiating away the stu- 
pendous thermal energy of atomic disruption. 

108 



THE MAKING OF THE BOMB 





Press Association, me. 

The fragments of the bomb, at temperatures found in the heart of a star, 
are separating and cooling down to hundreds of thousands of degrees. 

the remainder of the chapter will be devoted to the 
scientific and technical problems. Naturally, securi- 
ty considerations prevent a discussion of many of the 
most important phases of this work. 

History and Organization 

The project reorganization that occurred at the 
beginning of 1942, and the subsequent gradual 'transfer 
of the work from OSRD auspices to the Manhattan Dis- 
trict have been described in Chapter V. It will be 
recalled that the responsibilities of the Metallurgi- 
cal Laboratory at Chicago originally included a pre- 
liminary study of the physics of the atomic bomb. 

Some preliminary studies were made in 1941; and early 
in 1942- G. Breit got various laboratories (see Chapter 
VI) started on the experimental study of problems that 
had to be solved before progress could be made on bomb 
design. As has been mentioned in Chapter VI, J. R. 
Oppenheimer of the University of California gathered 
a group together in the summer of 1942 for further 

104 A ST OU N I) I X (4 SCIKNCK-FICTION 




theoretical investigation and. also undertook to co- 
ordinate this experimental work. This work was of- 
fically under the Metallurgical Laboratory, but the 
theoretical group did most of its work at the Uni- 
versity of California. By the end of- the s-ummer of 
1942, when General L. R. Groves took charge of the 
entire project, it was decided to expand the work con- 
siderably, and, at the earliest possible time, to set 
up a separate laboratory. 

In the choice of a site of this atomic-bomb labo- 
ratory, the all-important considerations were secrecy 
and safety. It was therefore decided to establish the 
laboratory in an isolated location and to sever un- 
necessary connection with the outside world. 

By November 1942 a site had been chosen — at Los 
Alamos, New Mexico. It was located on a mesa about 
twenty miles from Santa Pe . One asset of this site 
was the availability of considerable area for proving 
grounds, but initially the only structures on the site 
consisted of a handful of buildings which once con- 
stituted a small boarding school. There was no- labo- 
ratory, no library, no shop, no adequate power plant. 
The sole means of approach was a winding mountain ' 
road. That the handicaps of the site were overcome to 
a considerable degree is a tribute to the unstinting 
efforts of the scientific and military personnel.- . 

J. R. Oppenheimer has been director of the labo- 
ratory from the start. He arrived at the site in, 
March 1943, and. was soon joined by groups and indi- 
viduals from Princeton University, University of Chi- 
cago, University of California, University of Wiscon- 
sin, University of Minnesota, and elsewhere. With the 
vigorous support of General L. R. Graves, J. B. 

Conant, and others, Oppenheimer continued to gather 
around him scientists of recognized ability, so that 
the end of 1944 found an extraordinary galaxy of sci- 
entific stars gathered on this New Mexican mesa, The 
recruiting of junior scientific personnel and tech- 
nicians was more difficult, since for such persons the 
disadvantages of the site were not always counter- 
balanced by an appreoiation of the magnitude of the 
goal; the use of Special Engineer Detachment personnel 
improved the situation considerably. \ 

Naturally, the task of assembling the necessary 
apparatus, machines, and equipment was an enormous 
one. Three carloads of apparatus from the Princeton 
project filled some of the most urgent requirements. 

A cyclotron ' from Harvard, two Van de Graaff generators 
from Wisconsin, and a Cockcrof t-Walton high-voltage 



THE MAKING OF THE BOM H 



105 



Another camera takes over. Note jet sky and landscape. White ghost at 
right is due to light reflected between the surfaces of the camera lens. 

Press Association. In*'. 

The blast, spreading outward at the ultimate speed possible to air atoms, 
shows a nearly speiical shape distorted by minor, secondary explosion. 




Further spread retains the shape, the skirt effect being due to the wave 
rebounding from the ground. Ordinary turbulence beginning at the edges. 

Press Association. Inc. 



The turbulence spreads, and mushroom is beginning to form. Black sur- 
roundings represent relative intensity of atomic light brilliant desert sunlight ! 





Prtaa Association. Inc. 



The mushroom takes 
off for the stratosphere. 
Composed of enormously 
hot gases, it will rise 
40,000 to 60,000 feet. 
Dark areas, and dark 
turbulence at base are 
cooler — but still brighter 
by far than full sunlight. 



device from Illinois soon arrived. As an illustration 
of the speed with which the laboratory was set up, we 
may record that the bottom pole piece of the cyclotron 
magnet was not laid until April 14, 1943, yet the 
first experiment was performed in early July. Other 
apparatus was acquired in quantity; subsidiary labora- 
tories were built. Today this is probably the best- 
equipped physics research laboratory in the world. 

The laboratory was financed under a contract be- 
tween the Manhattan District and the University of 
California . 



State of Knowledge in April 1-943 
General Discussion of the Problem 

In Chapter II we stated the general conditions 
required to produce a self-sustaining chain reaction. 
It was pointed out that there are four processes com- 
peting for neutrons: (1) the -capture of neutrons by 

uranium which results in fission; (2) non-fission cap- 
ture by uranium; (3) non-fission capture by impuri- 
ties; and (4) escape of neutrons from the system. 
Therefore the condition for obtaining such a chain 
reaction is that process (1) shall produce as many 
new neutrons as are consumed or lost in all four of 



108 



A S T O U XDINO S 0 1 E N C K -FICTION 



the processes. It was pointed out that (2) may be 
reduced by removal of U-238 or by the use of a lattice 
and moderator, that (3) may be reduced by achieving a 
high degree of chemical purity, and that (4) may be 
reduced (relatively) by increasing the size of the 
system. In our earlier discussions of chain reactions 
it was always taken for granted that the chain- react- 
ing system must not blow up. Now we want to consider 
how to make it blow up r 

By definition, an explosion Is a sudden and vio- 
lent release--in a 'small region--of a large amount of 
energy. To produce an efficient explosion in an 
atomic bomb, the parts of the bomb must not become 
appreciably separated before a substantial fraction of 
the available nuclear energy has been released. (Bor 
expansion leads to increased escape of neutrons from 
the system and thus to premature termination of the 
chain reaction.) Stated differently, the efficiency 
of the atomic bomb will, depend on the ration of (a> 
the speed with which neutrons generated by the first 
fissions get into other nuclei and- produce further 
fission, and (b) the speed with which the bomb flies 
apart. Using known principles of energy generation, 
temperature and pressure rise, and expansion of solids 
and vapors, it was possible to estimate the order of 
magnitude of the time interval between the beginning 
and end of the nuclear chain react ion': "' "Almost all the 
technical difficulties of the project cdme from the 
extraordinary brevity of, this time interval. 

In earlier chapters we stated that no self-sus- 
taining chain reaction could be produced in a block of 
pure uranium metal, no matter how large, because of 
parasitic capture of the neutrons by U-238. This con- 
clusion has been borne out by 1 various theoretical cal- 
culations and also by direct experiment: Bor purposes 

of producing a non-explosive pile, the trick of using 
a lattice and a moderator suffices--by reducing para- 
sitic capture sufficiently. Bor purposes of producing 
an explosive unit, however, it turns out that this 
process is unsatisfactory on two counts. Birst,- the 
thermal neutrons take so long (so many micro-seconds) 
to act that only a feeble explosion would result. 
Second, a pile is ordinarily far too big to be trans- 
ported. It is therefore necessary to cut down para- 
sitic capture by removing the greater part of the 
U-238--or to use plutonium. 

Naturally, these general principles--and others-- 
had been well established before the Los Alamos proj- 
ect was set up . 



THE MAKING OF THE BOMB 



109 




Hiroshima , before. The fine detail of individual factories, offices and 
houses is clearly visible in the original print. A city of 318,000, it was a 
important army port of embarkation in this and the Russo-Japanese war. 



International News Pboto 



110 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE -PICT ION 




After the atomic bomb's dust had cleared. Notice particularly the effect 
on the moated castle, where the emperor stayed during the Russo-Japanese 
tear a generation ago. A few concrete buildings remain as husks. 



Press Association, Inc. 



THE MAKING OF THE BOMB 



111 




Press Association, Inc. 

Scraps of Hiroshima left after the blast. Hiroshima suffered even more 
than Nagasaki because, being a city on a river delta, it was table-flat, and 
perfectly exposed to the blast. Reinforced concrete buildings in background 
shpw astonishing resistance to the destruction. 

Critical Size 

The calculation of the critical size of a chain- 
reacting unit is a problem that has already been dis- 
cussed in connection with piles. Although the calcu- 
lation is simpler for. a homogeneous metal unit than 
for a lattice, inaccuracies remained in the course of 
the early work, both because of lack of accurate 
knowledge of constants and because of mathematical 
difficulties. For example, the scattering, fission, 
and absorption cross sections of th'e nuclei involved 
all vary with neutron velocity. The details of such 
variation were not known experimentally and were dif- 
ficult to take into account in making calculations. 

By the spring of 1943 several estimates of critical 
size had been made using various methods of calcula- 
tion and using the best available nuclear constants, 
but the limits 'of error remained large. 

in* astounding science-fiction 



The Reflector or Tamper 

In a uranium-graphite chain-reacting pile the 
critical size may be considerably reduced by surround- 
ing the pile with a layer of -graphite, since such an 
envelope "reflects" many neutrons back into the pile. 

A similar envelope can be used to reduce the critical 
size of the bomb, but here the envelope has an addi- 
tional role: its Very inertia delays the expansion of 
the reacting material. For. this reason such an envel- 
ope is often called a tamper. Use of a tamper clearly 
makes for a longer lasting, more energetic, and more 
efficient explosion. The most effective tamper is the 
one having the highest density; high tensile strength 
turns out to be unimportant. It is a fortunate co- 
incidence that materials of high density are also ex- 
cellent as reflectors of neutrons 

Efficiency 

As has already been remarked, the bomb tends to 
fly to bits as the reaction proceeds and this tends to 
stop the reaction. To calculate how much the bomb has 
to expand before the reaction stops is relatively sim- 
ple. The calculation of how long this expansion takes 
and how far the reaction goes in that time is much 
more difficult. 

While the effect of a tamper is to increase the 
efficiency both by reflecting neutrons and by delaying 
the expansion of the bomb, the effect on the effi- 
ciency is not as great 'as on the critical mass. The 
reason for this is that the process of reflection is 
relatively time-consuming and may not occur exten- 
sively before the chain reaction is terminated. 

Detonation and Assembly 

As stated in Chapter II, it is impossible to pre- 
vent a chain reaction from occurring when the size 
exceeds the critical size. For there are always, 
enough neutrons (from cosmic rays, from spontaneous 
fission reactions, or from alpha.-par-ticle- induced re- 
actions in impurities) to initiate the chain. Thus 
until detonation is desired, the bomb must consist of 
a number of separate pieces each one of which is below 
the critical size (either by reason of small size or 
unfavorable shape) . To produce detonation, the parts 
of the bomb must be brought together rapidly. In the 
course of this assembly process the chain reaction is 
likely to start--because’ of the presence of stray 
neutrons - -be fore the bomb has reached its most compact 
(most reactive) form. Thereupon the explosion tends 



THE MAKING OK THE BOMB 



113 




Press Association, lnc. 



Remains of a barber shop in Hiroshima. A tiled washstand and a few 
metal bits remain. Most rubble seems smashed to remarkably uniform sice, 
as though some selective grinding action had been at work. 



to prevent the bomb from reaching that most compact 
form. Thus it may turn out that the explosion is so 
inefficient as to be relatively useless. The problem, 
therefore, is twofold: (1) to reduce the time of as- 
sembly to a minimum; and (2) to reduce the number of 
stray (pre-detonation) neutrons to a minimum. 

Some consideration was given to the danger of 
producing a "dud" or a detonation so inefficient that 
even the bomb- itself would hot be completely de- 
stroyed. This would, pf course, be an undesirable 
outcome since it would present the enemy with a supply 
of highly valuable material. 



Effectiveness 

In Chapters II and IV it was pointed out that the 
amount of energy released was not the sole criterion 
of the value of a bomb. There was no assurance that 
one uranium bomb releasing energy equal to the energy 



m 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 



released by 20,000 tons of TNT would be as effective 
in producing military destruction as, say, 10,000 
two- ton "bombs. In fact, there were good reasons to 
believe that the destructive effect per calorie re- 
leased decreases as the total amount of energy re- 
leased increases. On the other hand, in atomic bombs 
the total amount of energy released per kilogram of 
fissionable material (i.e., the efficiency of energy 
release) increases with the size of the bomb. Thus 
the optimum size of the atomic bomb was not easily de- 
termined. A tactical aspect that complicates the 
matter further is the advantage of simultaneous de- 
struction of a large area of enemy territory. In a 
complete appraisal of the effectiveness of an atomic 
bomb, attention must also be given to effects on 
morale . 

Method of Assembly 

Since estimates had been made of the speed that 
would bring together subcritical masses of U-235 
rapidly enough to avoid predetonation, a good deal of 
thought had been given to practical methods of doing 
this. The obvious method of very rapidly assembling 
an atomic bomb was to shoot one part as a projectile 
in a gun against a second part as a target. The pro- 
jectile mass, projectile speed, and gun caliber re- 
quired were not far from the range of standard ord- 
nance practice, but novel problems were introduced by 
the importance of achieving sudden and perfect contact 
between projectile and target, by the use of tampers, 
and by the requirement of portability. None of these 
technical problems had been studied to any appreciable 
extent prior to the establishment of the Los Alamos 
laboratory. 

It had also been realized that schemes probably 
might be devised whereby neutron absorbers could be 
incorporated in the bomb in such a way that they would 
be rendered less effective by the initial stages of 
the chain reactions. Thus the tendency for the bomb 
to detonate prematurely and inefficiently would be 
minimized. Such devices for increasing the efficiency 
of the bomb are called auto-catalytic . 

Summary of Knowledge as of April 1943 

In April 1943 the available information of in- 
terest in connection with the design of atomic bombs 
was preliminary and inaccurate. Further and extensive 
theoretical work on critical size, efficiency, effect 
of tamper, method of detonation, and effectiveness was 



THE MAKING OF THE BOMB 



AST— 5W 115 



urgently needed. Measurements of the nuclear con- 
stants of U-235, plutonium, and tamper material had 
to he extended and improved. In the cases of U-235 
and plutonium, tentative measurements had to he made 
using only minute quantities until larger quantities 
became available. 

Besides these problems in theoretical and experi- 
mental physics, there was a host of chemical, metal- 
lurgical, and technical problems that had hardly been 
touched. Examples were the purification and fabrica- 
tion of U-235 and plutonium, and the fabrication of 
the tamper. Finally, there were problems of instan- 
taneous assembly of the bomb that were staggering in 
their complexity. 

The Work of the Laboratory 
Introduction 

Eor administrative purposes the scientic staff 
at Los Alamos was arranged in seven divisions ,, which 
have been rearranged at various times. During the 
spring of 1945 the divisions were: Theoretical 
Physics Division under H. Bethe, Experimental Nuclear 
Physics Division under R. R. Wilson, Chemistry and 
Metallurgy Division under J. W. Kennedy and C. S. 
Smith, Ordnance Division under Capt. W. S. Parsons 
(USN) , Explosives Division under G. B. Kistiakowsky , 
Bomb Physics Division under R. 3?. Bacher, and an Ad- 
vanced Development Division under E. Eermi. All the 
divisions reported to J. R. Oppenheimer, Director 
of the Los Alamos Laboratory who has been assisted 
in co-ordinating the research by S. K. Allison since 
December 1944. J. Chadwick of England and N. Bohr 
of Denmark spent a great deal of time at Los Alamos 
and gave invaluable advice, Chadwick was the head of 
a British delegation which contributed materially to 
the success of the laboratory. Eor security reasons, 
most of the work of^the laboratory can be described 
only in part 

Theoretical Physics Division 

There were two considerations that gave unusual 
importance to the work of the theoretical physics 
division under H. Bethe. The first of these was the 
necessity for effecting simultaneous development 
of .everything from the fundamental materials to the 
j method of putting them to use_all despite the virtual 
unavailability of the principal materials (U-235 and 
plutonium) and the complete novelty of the processes. 
The second consideration was the impossibility of 

lie 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE - FICTION 



producing (as for experimental purposes) a "small 
scale" atomic explosion by making use of only a small 
amount of fissionable material. (Ho explosion occurs 
at all unless the mass of the fissionable material 
exceeds the critical mass.) Thus it was necessary 
to proceed from data obtained in experiments on 
infinitesimal quantities of materials and to combine 
it with the available theories as accurately as possi- 
ble in order to make estimates as to what would 
happen in the bomb. Only in this way was it possible 
to make sensible plans for the other parts of the 
project, and to make decisions on design and construc- 
tion without waiting for elaborate experiments on 
large quantities of material. To take a few examples, 
theoretical work was required in making rough determi- 
nations of the dimensions of the gun, in guiding the 
metallurgists .in the" choice of tamper materials, and 
in determining the influence of the purity of the 
fissionable material on the efficiency of the bomb. 

The determination of the critical size of the 
bomb was one of the main problems of the theoretical 
physics division. In the course of time, several im- 
provements were made in the theoretical approach, 
v/hereby it was possible to take account of practically 
all of the complex phenomena involved. It was at 
first considered that the diffusion of neutrons was 
similar to the diffusion of heat, but this naive 
analogy had to be forsaken. In the early theoretical 
work the assumptions were made that the neutrons all 
had the same velocity and all were scattered iso- 
tropically. A method was thus developed which per- 
mitted calculation of the critical size for various 
shapes of the fissionable material provided that the 
mean free path of the neutrons was the same in the 
tamper material as in the fissionable material. This 
method was later improved first by taking account 
of the angular dependence of the scattering and 
secondly by allowing for difference in mean free path 
in core and tamper materials. Still later, means were 
found of taking into account the effects of the dis- 
tribution in velocity of the neutrons, the variations 
of cross sections with velocity and inelastic scat- 
tering in the core and tamper materials. Thus it 
became possible to compute critical sizes assuming 
almost any kind of tamper material. 

The rate at which the neutron density decreases 
in bomb models which are smaller than the critical 
size can be calculated, and all the variations men- 
tioned above can be taken into account. The rate of 

THE MAKING OF THE BOMB U7 



approach to the critical condition as the projectile 
part of the bomb moves toward the target part cf the 
bomb has been studied by theoretical methods. Fur- 
thermore, the best distribution of fissionable mate- 
rial in projectile and target was determined by theo- 
retical studies. 

Techniques were developed for dealing with set- 
ups in which the number of neutrons is so small that 
a careful statistical analysis must be made of the 
effects of the neutrons. The most important problem 
in this connection was the determination of the prob- 
ability that, when a bomb is larger than critical 
size, a stray neutron will start a continuing chain 
reaction. A related problem was the determination 
of the magnitude of the fluctuations in neutron densi- 
ty in a bomb whose size is close to the critical size. 
By the summer of .1945 many such calculations had been 
checked by experiments. 

A great deal of theoretical work was done on 
the equation of state of matter at the high tempera- 
tures and pressures to be expected in the exploding 
atomic bombs. The expansion of the various con- 
stituent parts of the bomb during and after the moment 
of chain reaction has been calculated. The effects 
of radiation have been investigated in considerable 
detail. •• 

Having calculated the energy that is released 
in the explosion of an atomic bomb, one naturally 
wants to estimate the military damage that will be 
produced. This involves analysis of the shock waves 
in air and in earth, the determination of the effec- 
tiveness of a detonation beneath the surface of the 
ocean, etc. 

In addition to all the work mentioned above, a 
considerable amount of work was done in evaluating 
preliminary experiments. Thus an analysis was made 
of the back-scattering of neutrons by the various 
tamper materials proposed. An analysis was also made 
of the results of experiments on the multiplication 
of neutrons in subcritical amounts of fissionable 
material . 

Experimental Nuclear Physics Division 

The experiments performed by the Experimental 
Nuclear Physics group at Los Alamos were of two kinds: 
"differential" experiments as for determining the 
cross section for fission of a specific isotope by 
neutrons of a specific velocity, and "integral" 
experiments as for determining the average scattering 



118 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 



of fission neutrons from an actual tamper. 

Many nuclear constants had already been deter- 
mined at the University of Chicago Metallurgical 
Laboratory and elsewhere, hut a number of important 
constants were still undetermined--especially those 
involving high neutron velocities. Some of the out- 
standing questions were the following: 

1. What are the fission cross sections of U-234, 
U-235 , U-238, Pu-239, etc.? 

2. What are the elastic scattering cross sections 
for the same nuclei (also for nuclei of tamper ma- 
terials)? How do they vary with neutron velocity? 

3. What are the inelastic cross sections for the 
nuclei referred to above? 

4. What are the absorption cross sections for 
processes other than fission? 

5. How many neutrons are emitted per fission in 
the case of each of the nuclei referred to above? 

6. What is the full explanation of the fact that 
the number of neutrons emitted per fission is not a 
whole number? 

7. What is the initial energy of the neutrons 
produced by fission? 

8. Does the number or energy of 'such neutrons 
vary with the speed of the incident neutrons? 

9. Are fission neutrons emitted immediately? 

10. What is the probability of spontaneous fission 
of the various fissionable nuclei? 

In addition to attempting to find the answers 
to these questions the Los Alamos Experimental Nuclear 
Physics Division investigated many problems of great 
scientific interest which were expected to play a 
role in their final device. Whether or not this 
turned out to be the case, the store of knowledge, 
thus accumulated by the Division forms an integral and 
invaluable part of all thinking on nuclear problems. 

Experimental Methods. The earlier chapters con- 
tain little or no discussion of experimental tech- 
niques except those for the observing of fast 
(charged) particles (See Appendix 1.). To obtain 
answers to the ten questions posed above, we should 
like to be able to: 

(1) determine the number of neutrons of any given 
energy; 

(2) produce neutrons of any desired energy; 

(3) determine the angles of deflection of scat- 
tered neutrons; 

(4) determine the number of fissions occurring; 



THU MAKING OF THE BOMB 



lift 



(5) detect other consequences of neutron absorp- 
tion, e.g., artificial radioactivity. 

We shall indicate briefly how such observations are 
made . 



Detection of Neutrons. There are three ways in 
which neutrons can be detected: by the ionization 
produced by light atomic nuclei driven forward at 
high speeds by elastic collisions with neutrons, by 
the radioactive disintegration of unstable nuclei 
formed by the absorption of neutrons, and by fission 
resulting from neutron absorption. All three pro- 
cesses lead to the production of ions and the result- 
ing ionization may be detected using electroscopes, 
ionization chambers, Geiger-Miller counters, Wilson 
cloud chambers, tracks in photographic emulsion, etc. 

While the mere detection of neutrons is not 
difficult, the measurement of the neutron velocities 
is decidedly more so. The Wilson cloud chamber 
method and the photographic emulsion method give the 
most direct results but are tedious to apply. More 
'often various combinations of selective absorbers are 
used. Thus, for example, If a foil known to absorb 
neutrons of only one particular range of energies is 
inserted in the path of the neutrons and is then re- 
moved, its degree of radioactivity is presumably 
proportional to the number of neutrons in the particu- 
lar energy range concerned. Another scheme is to 
study the induced radioactivity known to be produced 
only by neutrons whose energy lies above a certain 
threshold energy. 

One elegant scheme for studying the effects of 
neutrons of a single, arbitrarily-selected velocity 
is the "time of flight" method. In this method a 
a neutron source is modulated, i.e., the source is 
made to emit neutrons in short "bursts" or "pulses." 
(In each pulse there are a great many neutrons--of a 
very wide range of velocities.) The target material 
and.fthe detector are situated a considerable distance 
from the source (several feet or yards from it). The 
detector is "modulated" also, and with the same peri- 
odicity. The timing or phasing is made such that the 
detector is responsive only for a short interval 
beginning a certain time after the pulse of neutrons 
leaves the source. Thus any effects recorded by the 
detector (e.g., fissions in a layer of uranium de- 
posited on an inner surface of an ionization chamber) 
are the result only of neutrons that arrive just at 
the moment of responsivity and therefore have trav- 



120 



A ST (HINDI NO SOI RNCK FI CT I ON 



elled from the source in a certain time interval. In 
other words, the measured effects are due only to the 
neutrons having the appropriate velocity. 

.'Production of Neutrons. All neutrons are pro- 
duced as the result of nuclear reactions, and their 
initial speed depends on the energy balance of the 
particular reaction. If the reaction is endothermic, 
that is, if the total mass of the resultant particles 
is greater than that of the initial particles, the 
reaction does not occur unless the bombarding particle, 
has more than the "threshold" kinetic energy. At 
higher bombarding energies the kinetic energy of the 
resulting particles, specifically of the neutrons, 
goes up with the increase of kinetic energy of the 
bombarding particle above the threshold value. Thus 
the Li7 (p,n) Be7 reaction absorbs 1.6 Mev energy 
since the product particles are heavier than the 
initial particles. Any further energy of the incident 
protons goes into kinetic energy of the products so 
that the maximum speed of the neutrons produced goes 
up with the speed of the incident protons. However, 
to get neutrons of a narrow range of speed, a thin 
target must be used, the neutrons must all come off 
at the same angle, and the protons must all strike 
the target with the same speed. 

Although the same energy and momentum conserva- 
tion laws apply to exothermic nuclear reactions, the 
energy release is usually large compared to the 
kinetic energy of the bombarding particles and there- 
fore essentially determines the neutron speed. Often 
there are several ranges of speed from the same reac- 
tion. There are some reactions that produce very 
high energy neutrons (nearly 15 Mev) . 

Since there is a limited number of nuclear re- 
actions usable for neutron sources, there are only 
certain ranges of neutron speeds that can be produced 
originally. There is no difficulty about slowing 
them down uniformly, that is, without spreading out 
the velocity distribution. The most effective slow- 
ing-down scheme is the use of a moderator, as in the 
graphite pile; in fact, the pile itself, is an ex- 
cellent source (i.e., very low speed) or nearly 
thermal neutrons. 

Determination of Angles of Deflection. The 
difficulties in measuring the angles of deflection 
of neutrons are largely of intensity and interpreta- 
tion. The number of neutrons scattered in a particu- 



THE MAKING OP THE BOMB 



121 



lar direction may be relatively small, and the 
"scattered 1 * neutrons nearly always include many strays 
not coming from the intended : target. 

Determination of Number of Fissions. The 
determination of the number of fissions which are pro- 
duced by neutrons or occur spontaneously is relatively 
simple. Ionization chambers, counter tubes, and. many 
other types of detectors can be used. 

Detection of Products of Capture of Neutrons. 
Often it is desirable to find in detail what has 
happened to neutrons that are absorbed but have not 
produced fission, e.g., resonance or "radiative" 
capture of neutrons by U-239 which leads to the 
production of plutonium. Such studies usually involve 
a combination of micro chemical separations and radio- 
activity analyses. 

Some Experiments on Nuclear Constants. By the 
time that the Los Alamos laboratory had been 
established, a large amount of work had been done on 
the effects of slow neutrons on the materials then 
available. For example, the thermal-neutron fission 
cross section of natural uranium had been evaluated, 
and similarly for the separated isotopes of uranium 
and for plutonium. Some data on high-speed-neutron 
fission cross sections had been published, and addi- 
tional information was available in project labora- 
tories. To extend and improve such data, Los Alamos 
perfected the use of the Van de Graaff generator for 
the Li7 (p,n) Be7 reaction, so as to produce neutrons 
of any desired energy lying in the range from 3000 
electron volts to two million electron volts. Suc- 
cess was also achieved in modulating the cyclotron 
beam and developing the neutron time-of- flight method 
to produce (when desired) effects of many speed inter- 
vals at once. Special methods were devised for 
filling in the gaps in neutron energy range. Particu- 
larly important was the refinement of measurement made 
possible as greater quantities of U-235, U-238 and 
plutonium began to be received. On the whole, the 
values of cross section for fission, as a function of 
neutron energy from practically zero electron volts 
to three million electron volts is now fairly well 
known for these materials. 

Some Integral Experiments. Two "integral 
experiments" (experiments on assembled or integrated 



122 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 



systems comprising fissionable material, reflector, 
and perhaps moderator also) may be described. In the 
first of these integral experiments a chain- reacting 
system was constructed which included a relatively 
large amount of U-235 in liquid solution. It was 
designed to operate at a very low power level, and it 
had no cooling system. Its purpose 'was to provide 
verification of the effects predicted for reacting 
systems containing enriched U-235. The results were 
very nearly as expected. 

The second integral experiment was carried out 
on a pile containing a mixture of uranium and a hydro- 
genous moderator. In this first form, the pile was 
thu^ a slow-neutron chain- reacting pile. The pile 
was then rebuilt using less hydrogen. In this version 
of the pile, fast-neutron fission became important. 

The pile was rebuilt several more times, less hydrogen 
being used each time. By such a series of recon- 
structions, the reaction character was successively 
altered, so that thermal neutron fission became less 
and less important while fast neutron fission became 
more and more important--approaching the conditions to 
be found in the bomb. 

Summary of Results on Nuclear Physics. The 
nuclear constants of U-235. U-23S, and plutonium 

have been measured with a reasonable degree of 
accuracy over the range of neutron energies from 
thermal to three million electron volts. In other 
words, questions 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5 of the ten ques- 
tions posed at the beginning of this section have 
been answered. The fission spectrum (question 7) for 
U-235 and Pu-239 is reasonably well known. Spon- 
taneous fission (question 10) has been studied for 
several types of nuclei. Preliminary results on 
questions 6, 8, and 9, involving details of the 
fission process, have been obtained. 

Chemistry and Metallurgy Division 

The Chemistry and Metallurgy Division of the Los 
Alamos Laboratory was under the joint direction of 
I. W. Kennedy and C. S. Smith. It was responsible for 
final purification of the enriched fissionable ma- 
terials, for fabrication of the bomb core, tamper, 
etc., and for various other matters. In all this 
division's work on enriched fissionable materials 
especial care had to be taken not to lose any appre- 
ciable amounts of the materials (which are worth much 
more than gold) . Thus the procedures already well- 



133 



THE MAKING OF THE BOMB 



established at Chicago and elsewhere for purifying 
and fabricating natural uranium were often not satis- 
factory for handling highly-enriched samples of U-235. 

Ordnance, Explosives, and Bomb Physics Divisions 

The above account of the work of the Theoretical 
Physics, Experimental Nuclear Physics, and Chemistry 
and Metallurgy Divisions is somewhat incomplete 
because important aspects of this work cannot be 
discussed for reasons of security. Eor the same 
reasons none of the work of the Ordnance, Explosives, 
and Bomb Physics Divisions can- be discussed at all. 

Summary 

In the spring of 1943 an entirely new laboratory 
was established at Los Alamos, New Mexico, under 
J. R. Oppenheimer for the purpose of investigating the 
design and construction of the atomic bomb, from the 
stage of receipt of U-235 or plutonium to the stage 
of use of the bomb. The new laboratory improved the 
theoretical treatment of design and performance prob- 
lems, refined and extended the measurements of the 
nuclear constants involved, developed methods of 
purifying the materials to be used, and, finally, 
designed and constructed operable atomic bombs. 

THE END 




124 



ASTOUNDING SCIHNCB-FICTION 





Trouble Times Two 

by GEORGE O. SMITH 



A schizophrenic is a man with txvo personalities . Thomas Lionel was a 
physicist; Tom Lionel teas an engineer. Unfortunately, they inhabited 
the same body — and 'Tom’s objection was they used, the same bank 



Illustrated 

Thomas Lionel Ph.D., M.M. 
bounded out of bed with a cheerful 
bit of off-tune song. He glanced 
at the calendar and then the clock 
and he grinned because life was just 
too good to be true. 

Everything was according to plan. 



by Raymond 

He’d won his first battle. LJp to 
now it had been touch and go; at 
last he had established his right to 
co-occupy the mind along with the 
engineer. No longer could the 
engineer claim that he was an ex- 
pensive detriment. He had forced 



TROUBLE TIMES TWO 



125 



the engineer into agreeing that his 
offering, though not directly pro- 
ductive, was. a causative factor in 
the development of success. Then 
to top it all, he retained enough 
technology to be a necessary item. 
He must be permitted to remain 
if only for a source of information. 

The engineer’s trap had been ex- 
cellent. But the trap had turned 
and caught the engineer. Those 
reams of data on the poltergeist ef- 
fect had been the basis for an en- 
tirely new science that only a real 
physicist could appreciate — and no 
engineer could hope to thread his 
way through them without a re- 
search physicist’s assistance. 

He stood over the chessboard in 
the living room for a few minutes. 
The engineer was not making any 
great moves. Therefore the physi- 
cist thought that he might best con- 
solidate his position. He castled to 
the queen’s side, burying his king 
behind a bulwark of defenses that 
would defy a master chess player 
to penetrate in less than ten or 
fifteen moves. 

During breakfast, he perused a 
thin volume of recent publication. 
He did not entirely agree with the 
theories presented; after all, the 
book had been written for the ex- 
press purpose of getting reader’s 
viewpoints and Thomas knew it. 
In fact, the book was not too in- 
teresting to Thomas but he knew 
that the engineer would fume, fret, 
and howl at the idea of having a 
well-thumbed volume of “Theory of 
Multi-Resonant Wave Guides ” in 
the library. 

Thomas wouldn’t look at the en- 



gineer’s volume, laying on the table 
opposite. It was too un-physical. 
It was un-erudite. It was '‘Basic 
Theory in Micro-Wave Transmis- 
sion” and the edges of the pages 
were loaded with application 
formulas, diagrams, and working 
sketches. 

He was near the end of breakfast 
when the glint of reflected sunshine 
arrowed through the window and 
caught his eye. He looked, and 
wondered who was landing on his 
lawn in a helicopter. 

Then he did a double take. 

“Helicopter” stemmed from 
Greek, the “helix” or screw plus 
the “opter” a machine. This con- 
trivance did not. It was not oper- 
ated with air screws. 

It looked like a three-wheeled 
coupe. It looked like the industrial 
designer’s dream of the Plan For 
Tomorrow, excepting those three 
wheels. The Plan For Tomorrow 
should, by all rights, have four 
wheels. And, if the thing is going 
to fly, it should have some sort of 
overhead vanes, or wings, or 
engines, or jets, or even a skyhook. 
But there it was, coming down as 
light as a feather to make a neat 
landing on the back lawn. 

By the time the door was open, 
and the passenger stepped to the 
ground, Thomas was standing be- 
fore the little sky car, looking some- 
what dazed at the name: 

POLTERGEIST 

“Like a dream,” said the driver 
of the sky car. 

“It should,” said Thomas, cover- 



128 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




mg his ignorance with monosyllabic 
agreement, 

“Handles well, too. I think we 
could stand a bit move positivity of 
control, though,” 

“I’ll look into it.” 

“1 wish you would. We’ve got 
the jump on the whole world with 
this. We’d like to keep it. But the 
thing doesn’t answer to the wheel 
too solidly.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“The chief engineer said, 'Jim, 
take that crate over to Lionel and 
see if he will beef up the control 
force a bit.’ So here I am.” 

“O.K., Jim,” said Thomas, offer- 
ing a prayer for the name that had 
been given unwittingly. The en- 
gineer must have been a busy boy ! 
“How are you going to get back?” 
Jim looked up into the sky. 
"Jerry is following in the pilot 
model. He’ll pick me up and we’ll 
go on back thataway.” 

Jim nodded skyward, and Thomas 
looked at the growing speck that 
must have been the pilot model. 

Thomas forgot about the pilot 
model. What he wanted to know 
was the whereabouts of the five 
tons of equipment that had been an 
integral part of this idea. He looked 
at the model. He wondered wheth- 
er the engineer had installed the 
whole thing, stepping up the power 
and using the main part of the 
power to support the equipment. 
That did not seem possible. Any 
failure would cause the little sky 
car to collapse of its own dead 
weight. Besides there was not 
enough room in the little crate to 
pack all that equipment-tonnage. 

TROUBLE TIMES TWO 



The engineer had achieved the 
impossible. He had done away 
with the main part while retaining 
the effect. 

The pilot model landed. It was 
not the finished job of the prototype. 
The cabin was squarely functional 
and the landing wheels were not 
faired into the hull. The rear end. 
instead of tapering gently into a 
narrow paraboloid of revolution, 
was a truncated four-sided pyramid. 

Jerry did not emerge. He merely 
tossed the door open and shouted: 
“Come on — we ain’t got all day!” 

Thomas nodded. “I’ll call you 
when I get it fixed.” 

Call who f the physicist wondered, 
and then forgot about it. He 
wanted desperately to dig into the 
sky car. He wanted to find out 
where the engineer had packed five 
tons of equipment. He wanted to 
see what made the wheels go 
around. No doubt the thing could 
be returned to its owners without 
calling in the police. The thing 
was probably recorded in the 
precisely kept engineering notebook 
of the physicist’s alter ego. 

The pilot model was not com- 
pletely out of sight before Thomas 
had the power cowls off, and the 
whole model stripped of its servic- 
ing doors. They had done an ex- 
cellent job of design; the sky car 
without its servicing panels was but 
a skeleton frame, with every line, 
every connection, and every control 
rod open for easy servicing. 

And it was then and there that 
the physicist understood what the 
engineer had been doing. 

127 




Instead of the low- voltage high- 
current supply lines, with their at- 
tendant heavy busbars, thin pipes 
ran about the sky car. Seamless 
aluminum tubing carried the 
energizing current. Or, rather the 
space inside of the tubing carried 
it. At the generator end, a ten 
megawatt microwave generator 
supplied high power at ultra high 
frequency. At the terminus, recti- 
fiers brought the ultra high fre- 
quency down to direct current for 
operation of the force-field genera- 
tors. 

Thomas nodded. It was not the 
final tenth of one percent job. It 
was not direct current. The 
diagravitic force was not constant. 
It operated only seven tenths of 
the time, and was turned off and 
on fifteen or twenty million million 
times per second. Nothing short 
of high-definition test equipment 
would ever tell the difference, how- 
ever. 

Gone were the massive electro- 
magnetic deflection field coils. In 
their place was a set of seventy 
kilovolt electrostatic plates. 

Missing entirely were the vari- 
able-speed motor generators. In 
their place was a simple crystalline 
formation under permanent mag- 
netic stress. “Artificial radio- 
activated crystals,” muttered 
Thomas. “Good for a couple of 
years.” 

But the feed lines. The feed 
lines. The cut rent carrying ability 
of space itself— -not the metallic 
conductor — did the trick. Using the 
ultra high frequency bands, the 
busbars had been replaced with 

128 



cylindrical wave guides. The depth 
of penetration was measured in 
microns at those frequencies— and 
as long as the guides were properly 
designed, they offered little loss in 
power. The current went down the 
wave guides by virtue of the mag- 
netic fields created throughout the 
guides — magnetic fields generated in 
the space inside of the tubular 
guides. 

The generator itself was one of 
the new crystal microwave genera- 
tors and the rectifiers at the receiv- 
ing end were of the same ilk. 

And the five tons of equipment 
had vanished in a puff of tubular 
guides, electrostatic plates, and in- 
termittent operation. 

Thomas hit a snag for a moment. 
The engineer had answered his 
challenge. So he’d come up with 
the answer to the five-ton-per-fifty- 
pound answer — and had gone fur- 
ther, Thomas knew that there was 
no apparent limit to the maximum 
power or lift. It merely set a fifty 
pound minimum — actually it was 
49.87 pounds by measurement — 
under which limit no amount of 
tinkering would produce the effect. 

He smiled. There must be some- 
thing beyond. After all, small 
stones moved quietly in natural 
poltergeist manifestation; they 
would be able to reproduce that 
eventually. But for now, the en- 
gineer was willing to accept the 
limitation whereas the physicist 
would not. 

He knew now. And he'd leave 
the sky car until the engineer re- 
turned. Let him beef up the con- 
trol force. Tt was his baby. 

ASTOQNPTNf? 8CTHNCW -FI <’T ( ON 




Thomas put the panels back on 
the sky car and stood off to admire 
it. It was a neat job, just what 
the public wanted. The urge to 
get in and drive was a most com- 
pelling one, and Thomas succumbed. 
He sat for a moment, inspecting the 
dashboard until he had the pattern 
well set. Then he snapped on the 
power, took the wheel and pulled 
back gently. The sky car lifted its 
nose slightly, and as Thomas 
pressed the foot pedal, it took off 
on a side-line straight into the sky. 
He leveled off at a thousand feet 
and he did some scurrying back and 
forth in midair. It did handle a 
little sloppy but not enough to make 
the physicist uncomfortable. Yet 
it wouldn’t stand any hedge-hopping 
or bridge-undercutting without a 
prayer on the part of the driver. 
Butter the controls a bit and you 
could thread a needle with it on the 
first try. 

Yes, the engineer had done it 
again — all of which made Thomas 
chuckle. A bit more of this and 
the engineer would have such an 
income that he’d no longer worry 
himself into engineering. Then — 

Thomas turned the sky car and 
drove across the city toward Dr. 
Hamilton’s place. He landed on 
the psychiatrist’s lawn and startled 
the doctor out of a week’s growth. 

“I’ve won,” he told the doctor. 

“Good,” laughed Hamilton. 
“Mind if I ask which you are to- 
day — and how do you know you’ve 
won ?” 

“I’m Thomas Lionel, Ph.D. And 
the engineer has worked himself 
out of a job.” 



“Interesting. But how ?” 

“He dropped me a mess of 
cockeyed data, remember? Well, I 
unraveled it into a most interesting 
field of science. From it I handed 
him a slab full of theories and ex- 
periments that are just inefficient 
enough to make him fume. He’s 
come up with several things that 
make money in vatfuls.” 

“That, I know and understand. 
Go on.” 

“Remember, I am his ideal per- 
sonality. I am a physicist, a type 
of person he has always wanted to 
be. He couldn’t be a physicist be- 
cause of financial reasons and so he 
went into the engineering field to 
bolster up his bank account. That 
was eminently practical. But now 
that the worry about the bankroll 
is over, he can turn to theoretical 
physics and physical research. 
That’s me — and I’ve won!” 

“Suppose he, himself, takes the 
gradual retreat from engineering 
into physical research?” 

“Urn — I don’t think he’s capable 
of it. He’s been too well condi- 
tioned.” 

“Might well be,” admitted the 
doctor. “Well, as I said before, I’m 
just a referee. Both of you are 
well adjusted and good, worthy 
additions to society. Either one of 
you that wins will be a credit to 
civilization.” 

“You’re a great help,” laughed 
Thomas. “But I don’t mind. This 
is mv round, and it’s my game. 
He’s licked himself.” 

“I’ll tell him that when I see 
him,” said Dr. Hamilton. “But 
there is one thing that I must know. 



TKOUBI.E TIMES TWO 



129 





I want to know what makes that 
little tungsten box work.” 

“I cast the tungsten in — ” 

“I don’t care how you made it,” 
said Hamilton flatly, “unless it has 
a definite bearing on how it works.” 
“I made it of tungsten because 
the engineer would rip it apart if 
it weren’t too tough,” grinned 
Thomas. “Being of tungsten it 
doesn’t matter how it works ex- 
cepting it would have been more 

130 



efficient if I’d made it of silver." 

“Look, Thomas, stay on the sub- 
ject. I want to know what’s with 
the works.” 

Lionel laughed. “What’s so im- 
portant ?” 

“Look, man, I’m a psychiatrist. 
The functioning of the human mind 
is my baby. Or,” he added bitterly, 
“it should be. But, darn it, all we 
can do is to surmise, theorize, hope 
and pray. We don’t know what 
makes schizophrenics, or manic- 
depressives or any of the other 
mental quirks. We aren’t even 
certain why some people are well 
liked while others, of almost iden- 
tical get-together are heartily dis- 
liked. But you’ve come up with a 
little dingus that causes a switch- 
over from one personality to an- 
other merely by pushing a button. 
Find out why and we psychiatrists 
may some day get to first base in 
psychoanalysis.” 

“Um — I suppose a real patho- 
phone would be a help.” 

“Pathophone is a good word,” 
smiled the psychiatrist, “but to dig 
into a warped mind without having 
the erroneous impressions and false 
evaluation clouding the only entry 
. . . we'd be able to clear up al- 
most any mental condition. Now, 
how does it work?” 

“I am not prepared to say. I was 
seeking experimental data on the 
‘epicenter’ of the poltergeist phe- 
nomena — the poltergeist usually 
manifests in the vicinity of or be- 
cause of some central influence — 
usually a person who is unaware of 
his potentiality. At any rate, I was 
setting up a series of local magnetic 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 



and electrostatic fields and then try- 
ing the micro-microwave spectrum 
for response. I was running up 
through the region between long 
heat radiation and micro-micro 
radio waves when — blooey ! — I 
was the engineer. I switched back 
eventually and consolidated my 
findings into that little tungsten 
box.” 

“I want the dope on it.” 

“I’ll give it to you,” nodded 
Thomas. “As soon as I make some 
final measurements and consolidate 
my data.” 

“Fine. Mind telling me what 
causes the poltergeist?” 

“As best I can. The present 
concept of space is that space itself 
is under internal strain. Force 
vectors in cancellation prevail, re- 
sulting in a stable continuum. Space 
is warped by electrostatic effects, 
magnetic effects, and gravitic ef- 
fects. These local effects do not 
create a discontinuity in the space 
strain, and therefore no eruption 
takes place. Now enters the 
epicenter. Radiation from his mind 
or brain in thinking goes out and 
starts a very minor sympathetic 
oscillation in the warps and strains 
of space. If these strains are in 
the right vectorial situation, the 
minor oscillation builds up the 
response amplitude — ” 

“That doesn’t make sense,” ob- 
jected the doctor. “Mental radia- 
tion must be weak. How can it 
induce high power?” 

“It can’t. But if you know radio 
at all, you’ll recall that a high ‘Q’ 
circuit will develop very high volt- 



ages across the terminals with a 
very small driving voltage. Well, 
this is analogous to the epicenter 
effect. The epicenter wave causes 
instability in the space strains be- 
cause the brain wave is not a nat- 
ural phenomena of space. Then — 
like two sticks end to end under 
compression, it takes very little 
sidewise thrust to make the com- 
pression-force collapse, forcing the 
sticks out at right angles. Follow ?” 
“But where did this energy or 
force come from?” puzzled Hamil- 
ton. “Isn’t that a violation of the 
Law of Conservation of Energy?” 
“Not at all. The law is still valid. 
It does state that you cannot get 
more out of anything than is put 
into it. The guesswork comes in 
deciding how the energy got there. 
Coal, for instance, is just a black 
stone. It has potential energy 
which was put into it by the eons 
of solar energy shining on the car- 
boniferous forests. A stone has 
potential energy for falling. Where 
did it get it? It may have been 
carried up the hill ; it may have been 
dropped from space — put out there 
by the cosmic eruption that caused 
Creation. Or it may have been on 
the edge of a gully and the potential 
drop made by the stream eroding 
the ground out from under it.” 
“How about atomic power?” 
“You mean, how did the power 
get locked in the atom?” 

“Yes.” 

“The power in the atom was put 
there by the universe’s atom fac- 
tories. Sol, and the other suns,” 
explained Hamilton. 

“But where did the earth — ?” 



TROUBLE TIMES TWO 



181 




“Creation,” murmured Thomas. 
'Who knows? I don’t. Every time 
.somebody comes up with a perfect 
answer, someone else comes up with 
perfect data that proves that the 
answer couldn’t be anything that 
anybody has ever used before. 

“The atom factory is the Solar 
Phoenix. You start with hydrogen 
and carbon. The solar heat is such 
that they combine atomically to an 
unstable isotope of nitrogen which 
immediately becomes a stable iso- 
tope of nitrogen. More hydrogen 
gets in, making it unstable oxygen 
and so forth. Oxygen breaks down, 
releasing energy, helium, and, what 
do you know, carbon again, which 
begins to take on hydrogen again, 
and here we go again. But the 
thing is uncontrolled hell on wheels. 
Things go wrong due to the vari- 
ances of pressure and temperature, 
and the oxygen doesn’t always 
break down into helium and carbon. 
It takes offshoots and sidetracks. 
It’ll add hydrogen and become 
fluorine, for instance, which then 
adds more and becomes something 
else, some of which trails off like 
the branches of a tree and do not 
break down into recurrent reactions. 
Hence the other atoms.” 

“I’ll read about it and get the 
real picture. Know a good book?” 
Thomas scratched his chin. “If 
you can find a copy of ‘The Days of 
Creation,’ by Willy Ley, the first 
part of the book has a description 
of the Solar Phoenix.” 

“Well, good enough,” said Dr. 
Hamilton. “But just bear one thing 
in mind. You think you’ve beaten 
the engineer. Your basic trouble 

138 



is just that the engineer is you, 
too. He has your ability and your 
knowledge and your experience 
upon which to work. He is no fool, 
and you can take that as a back- 
handed compliment if you want to. 
He is just as capable an engineer 
as you are a physicist. He thinks 
in different channels, I will admit. 
But, Thomas, remember that his 
extra-channellar thinking is done 
with the same thinking equipment 
as yours is, and it is no less efficient 
because of being divergent from 
your own thought-track. Your 
battle was won too easily to be con- 
clusive.” 

“What do you expect?” 

“I wouldn’t know. I’m no 
scientist in physics.” Hamilton held 
up a hand as Thomas started to 
protest. “I use ‘scientist’ despite 
your dislike of the word only be- 
cause there is no term that describes 
both of the attributes of practical 
engineer and research physicist. 
Frankly, I’m hoping for an eventual 
coalition, but I fear not.” 

“Why view no-coalition with dis- 
taste?” demanded Thomas. 

“Because both personalities offer 
much to the world, to science in 
general, and to the body that houses 
both of them.” 

“I heartily dislike all aspects 
of practical engineering,” stated 
Thomas flatly. “To be everlast- 
ingly forced to retrace your own 
steps, again and again and again, 
working out the most insignificant 
details — bah !” 

“The engineer has another view- 
point.” 

“I know. But the engineer in 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




this case is here only because of 
his own necessity — which he him- 
self has removed. I am the real 
entity; I am the desire of the en- 
gineer. I am what lie wants to be. 
1 ant what he zvill become!'’ 

“Good morning. Frank." 

. “Morning, Miss Elaine. Mr, 
Lionel isn't here." 

“He’ll be back?" asked the girl. 

“Oh yes. He went over to see 
Dr. Hamilton." 

“Oh, Frank, the usual question?" 

“This morning he is Thomas 
Lionel. Pb.D., M.M.” 

“Oh," 

“He went to bed Tom Lionel, 
Consulting Engineer." 

“1 wonder if be remembers.” 
smiled Elaine. 

The Poltergeist landed on the 
lawn, It was silent, but a flash 
of sunshine caught the sleek side 
and attracted Elaine's attention. 

“Hi." she called as she emerged 
from the house. 

“Howdy," he answered. "What 
brings you out?" 

“Never ask a girl a question like 
that." she laughed. “You'll never 
get the right answer." 

“Why ?" 

“If she says ‘you’ it's either a lie 
or she's the kind of girl your mother 
tried to protect you from. If she 
says anything else, it's either a lie 
or she’s the kind of girl your mother 
tried to protect you from." 

“A man can’t win," snorted 
Thomas. 

“Docs a man really want to win?" 

“Nope." admitted Thomas. “I 

T R O IT Bt.R TIMES TWO 



won’t ask questions, Elaine. I'll 
just be glad you came.” 

“I’m glad you’re glad." 

Elaine flirted with him shame- 
lessly, and then turned toward the 
laboratory building. He followed, 
and they kept up a running fire of 
light talk all the way, 

“The first thing I have to do is 
to see what the engineer was doing 
last,” remarked Thomas as he 
opened the laboratory door. 

“You are a strange fellow,” 
smiled Elaine. “You respect each 
other’s possessions and beliefs, 
though you argue madly through 
impersonal mediums. Still writing 
nasty letters?” 

“Uh-huh. And playing chess.” 
“What’s he been doing?” asked 
Elaine innocently. 

“Don’t really know. Aside from 
some experiments on the poltergeist 
effect— reducing them to practice — 
I wouldn’t know. I doubt that he’s 
been doing much else. I do happen 
to know that he’s deeply interested 
in the epicenter effect. He may 
find the key to it, too.” 

The laboratory was about as he 
remembered it. There were some 
changes. A few of the pieces of 
equipment were moved : some of 
them were converted ; and a couple 
of them had been built in to other, 
larger pieces. All of the work- 
manship was clean and shining. 

The eyclospectrograph had been 
worked on with a vengeance. It 
bad lost its haywire appearance. 
The D plates were all neatly ma- 
chined and the high frequency 
plumbing was all rearranged into 
mathematical and technical sym - 

IT; 




metry. The hours-use counter 
showed constant operation for sev- 
eral days solid, which interested 
the physicist. 

“He’s found a use for it,” he 
grinned at Elaine. 

“He finds a use for most every- 
thing,” she said. “He’s a pretty 
sharp man.” 

“Thanks,” grinned Thomas, re- 
calling what the psychiatrist had 
said regarding the mutual efficiency 
of the mind in Thomas Lionel’s 
body. 

“Wonder what this crystal is,” 
muttered Thomas. 

“Looks like a natural quartz” 

“Might be — though I doubt it.” 

“Can you find out?” 

“Eventually. If it is interesting, 
t will. What bothers me mostly, 
though,” said Thomas thoughtfully, 
“are two things. One of them is 
that open drum of gooey tar. The 
other one is that vat of used motor 
oil.” 

“The oil I understand. But what 
is the tar like goo?” 

“I forget its name. It is one 
of the natural asphalt family and 
it ranks high — along with chewing 
gum — among those substances in 
which I would least like to bathe.” 

“Um. I detect a tone of dis- 
taste” laughed Elaine. “Here’s an- 
other little tricky gadget. Looks 
sort of like your tungsten box.” 

“Oh ?” asked Thomas. 

“Yes . . . say, Tommy, what’s an 
epicenter?” 

“Ah . . . why?” asked the physi- 
cist, his attention on the cyclospec- 
trograph. 

“This box has a little sign on it. 
134 



It says : ‘Be an epicenter’ and some 
other stuff.” 

“The epicenter is the main fea- 
ture around which the phenomena 
revolves,” explained Thomas idly. 

“Oh.” 

Elaine fondled the little box. Her 
forefinger touched the button, felt 
its smoothness. In her mind was 
knowledge of the dire effects caused 
by tyros who push strange buttons, 
Certainly there was no curiosity 
deep enough to override her own 
good sense. But subconsciously 
the natural impulse to touch wet 
paint, to kick the package on the 
sidewalk, came to the fore and 
Elaine stood there, looking the box 
over with her forefinger set against 
the button. 

“ ‘Be an epicenter’,” she repeated. 

It registered. Like a swift mon- 
tage, events past, present and future 
sped through Thomas Lionel's mind. 
He went from the basic idea to 
the foregone conclusion in three 
lightning-quick steps. 

'"NO !” he yelled. 

But it was too late. 

And through his mind there 
passed a vision that made him 
swallow. Elaine — dressed in a 

simple frock of printed silk, gar- 
nished from the top of her beauti- 
fully coiffed hair to the bottoms of 
her exquisitely shod feet in an 
awful mixture of used crankcase 
oil and a tar-asphaltum — 

In vain he tried to cross the 
twenty feet that separated him from 
the girl. In vain he tried to get 
there, to snatch that devilish box 
from her hand, to grab it and hurl 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




it far enough away so that the effect 
wouldn’t even cause a bad splash. 

The idea of seeing her all gooed 
up. That made him shout hoarsely. 

It shouldn’t happen to a dog — 

And then it hit him. lie was 
fully fifteen feet from the girl and 
her little instrument. A half-hour’s 
observational time went into milli- 
seconds in Thomas Lionel’s mind 
as he watched the open drum of 
asphaltum compound rise out of the 
open top in a parabolic arc. It 
arched high, just missing the ceil- 
ing, and passing in an ogee curve 
to miss a stanchion. Forward it 
came, to curve downward upon his 
own bare head. 

Simultaneously, he was drenched 
from behind by the arching column 
of oil from the vat behind him. 

In twin, converging arches, 
Thomas was inundated and thor- 
oughly soaked from head to toe with 
a whirling mixture of oil and tar. 

He cleared his eyes with squee- 
geeing fingers. Elaine, holding in 
her laughter with effort, showed 
him the box. 

Above the button it said : 

BE AN EPICENTER! 

Control that mysterious power. Exert 
the forces of hidden nature in your be- 
half! 

PRESS HERE! 

“He’s found it,” croaked Thomas. 
“He’s found it!” 

“And you’re a mess.” 

“That I am,” said Thomas shak- 
ing off some of the gluck that was 

trickling down his arm. “That I 
>» 

am. 

TROUBLE TIMES TWO 



“Don’t you mind ?” 

“I have my own revenge. My 
own, particular means of revenge. 
1’Ai sorry, Elaine. I must now leave 
you. The engineer has had his fun 
— now, my sweet, he may have the 
compensating task of cleaning up !” 
Thomas turned and found the 
little tungsten box with its label: 
BE AN ENGINEER! and pressed 
the button. 

Tom Lionel, Consulting Engi- 
neer, removed his finger from the 
button, and turned to see Elaine. 
“Was it funny?” he asked. 

“Very much so,” she laughed. 
“Who pushed it?” 

“I did.” 

“Too bad. I’d rather he got it 
by his own machinations.” 

“He tried to stop me — ” 
“Uh-huh. Maybe it's better the 



DON’T WAIT . . . 

Until there isn't on available copy 
of your favorite magazine. A whole 
year of reading pleasure, thrills 
and chills, can be had by just fill- 
ing in this coupon and sending it 
to us immediately. Don't wait — 
act now! 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 
122 EAST 42nd STREET 
NEW YORK 17, N. Y. 

Enclosed Is $2.50. , Kindly send me a 
year's subscription to ASTOUNDING 
SCIENCE-FICTION. 

NAME 

ADDRESS 

CITY STATE 



ass 




way it is,” Tom laughed in spite 
of the load of uncomfort he was 
carrying. He wiped some of the 
oil and tar mixture from his face 
and continued. “The instantaneous 
feeling of horror at the idea of see- 
ing you glucked over with this mess 
must have given him some shock. 
No doubt he thought that whatever 
would happen would happen to the 
holder of the epicenter locator ” 
“Now what are you going to do ?” 
“Me?” 

“Yes. You’re going to clean up, 
aren’t you?” 

“Not me.” 

“How are you going to . . . to — ?” 
“Cause his return?” 

“Yes.” 

Tom considered. “I guess I’m 
licked. He’ll just use this box of 
his.” 

“Can’t you undo it?” 

“Nope, It’s just too tough. I’d 
go to work on the insides with acid 
if I could get inside of it. The 
outside is possible, but I haven’t 
enough acid to react with the whole 
darned box. But I’m going to get 
something. Well, I’m going inside 
and take myself a shower. Wait — 
I’ll be back.” 

An hour later, Tom Lionel 
emerged from the bathroom. Frank, 
the houseboy went in with a humor- 
ous shake of the head. He’d seen 
the embryonic mess and knew what 
there was to do. 

“Now what?” asked Elaine. 
“Well, you see, the thing is 
slightly out of hand,” exclaimed 
Tom. “I started this thing because 
my physicist friend got out of line 



and shot the entire bankroll on a pile 
of scientific flapdoodle.” He took 
a cigarette case from his pocket 
that glinted and iridesced as lie 
opened it. “I’ve been able to use 
nearly everything,” he grinned, “in- 
cluding the ruling engine,” he 
waved the grating-ruled cigarette 
case at the girl. “Marten shelled 
out about ten thousand bucks for 
the secret of the finish on this case. 
He’s ruling jewelry now and it is 
the largest thing since the discovery 
of diamond- faceting. I’m also get- 
ting a five percent royalty on every 
grating-ruled piece that’s made. It 
ain’t hay. 

“Anyway, it backfired on me be- 
cause I presented him with some- 
thing that offered him, not frustra- 
tion, but instead, he proceeded to 
make something of it that no sens- 
ible engineer could ignore. And,” 
he continued ruefully, “it did two 
more drastic things. One, it made 
his continued influence necessary. 
There are too many things that he 
knows to dispense with his type of 
thinking. Number two, my success 
in reducing bis discoveries to prac- 
tice has resulted in the generation 
of a good income. That has been 
the basis of our argument. He’s 
impractical to the extreme, but as 
long as the body is fed, both ma- 
terially and intellectually, so what? 
So instead of finding myself the 
winner, I’m actually fighting for my 
own existence.” Tom went bitter. 
“A fine thing. To be forced to 
fight for one’s existence because of 
factors that emanate from his own 
success.” 

Elaine put a hand on his shoulder. 



13 * 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




“‘Don't be bitter,” she said softly. 
“I . . , I’ll miss you — ” 

“Oh, don’t worry,” he told her in 
a strained voice. “I don’t intend 
to give up.” He cradled her face 
between his hands and looked her 
straight in the eyes. "If, as, and 
when, I — though the concept is 
purely hypothetical — might possibly 
lose — mind, I have no intention of 
losing since I intend to win uncon- 
ditionally and maintaining the pres- 
ent status is intolerable — the other 
guy will have been in such a mad 
battle that he’ll be forced into ac- 
cepting some practical tenets as a 
factor. Then he’ll be more like 
me.” 

“This may hurt,” she said seri- 
ously, “but you are not as different 
as you might think.” 

“He hates the thought of prac- 
ticality.” 

“And yet,” said Elaine, “if all 
were engineers who would take time 
to seek out the little-known facts?” 
“And,” snorted Tom, “if all were 
physicists, we would still be hang- 
ing from trees, tossing coconuts at 
one another whilst a few bright 
dawn-men were contemplating 
the possibilities of using fire— but, 
of course, doing nothing about it. 
After all, once the physicist has 
considered all the angles, he’s 
through. He doesn’t give a howl- 
ing hoot whether what he’s con- 
sidered is practical — after all, it is 
interesting and that’s all he cares 
about.” 

“But—” 

“Since the physicist’s thinking is 
actually based upon past proof — 
made by practical engineers — the 



contemplation of fire would be as 
far as they’d get. For there would 
be no engineer to ever use it to 
show its practical possibilities ! 
That’s based on my horribly hypo- 
thetical world where all were 
physicists and none were engineers.” 
“Who invented the bow and 
arrow?” asked Elaine. 

“Ab, Ug, or Unguh. He, she. 
or it was an experimenter. Y’see, 
Elaine, at one time there were 
neither engineers nor physicists. 
Alexander Graham Bell was not — in 
our present day sense— a physicist 
nor was Morse, or Edison or Lodge. 
Nor were they engineers. Some- 
where since then the line has been 
divided. In them days they were 
basement geniuses. But now,” he 
said bitterly, “There is one set of 
people who think up cockeyed things 
and another set that figures out what 
to do with them.” 

“Y’know,” smiled Elaine, “I 
think that getting together would 
be the finest thing that ever hap- 
pened to you and the physicist.” 
Tom backed up three steps. 
“Look,” he snapped, “I’ve heard 
a lot. I can stand for a lot. But 
that’s something that I can’t even 
consider.” 

“Both of you offer so much to — ” 
“Yeah,” he sneered, “and we’re 
both solid citizens! Hooey.” 

Tom stalked over to the chess- 
board and looked down. “Over- 
confidence is a dangerous thing,” he 
said with a smile. He moved a 
bishop halfway across the board. 
“There,” he said with a satisfied 
air, “that should be obscure enough 



53# 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




to fool anybody, even Lasker." 
“Who’s Lasker?” asked the girl. 
“One of the chess masters.” 
“Oh.” 

“Now,” he said, "I’m going to ask 
you a favor.” 

“Yes.” 

He grinned. “It might be quite 
personal.” 

“In which case I’d ask you a 
favor, too.” 

“What kind?” 

“That depends on the nature of 
the original request. What’s 
yours ?” 

“I’d like you to write a few let- 
ters for me.” 

“In which case there’ll be no 
counterproposition.” 

For three solid hours, Elaine sat 
at the typewriter. At the end of 
that time, Tom smiled, patted her 
on the top of the head and said: 
“You’ve been a good girl, kiddo.” 
“Thanks,” she mumbled. “But 
there are things about your physicist 
that I do admire. He never makes 
his women work.” 

“Impractical lad,” laughed Tom. 
“Impractical, but fun.” 

“Bah. You, too, huh?” 

“Well fun is—” 

“Impractical.” 

“When you find time to be im- 
practical,” said Elaine, rising, “you 
may invite me over long enough to 
find out just exactly how practical 
an impractical batch of fun can be. 
Practically, I am an impractical as- 
set with indispensable attributes.” 
She arched one eyebrow' at him and 
leered in a ladylike fashion. “You’ll 
find out,” she told him. 

“Dinner?” he suggested, 

TROUBLE! TIMES TWO 



“That I cook? Ah-ahhh,” She 
touched his cheek lightly and then 
said: “I gotta go. I'm late as it 
is. Sorry, Tommy. But that’s how 
it stands. Take it easy — and I’ll 
be seein’ you.” 

Tom Lionel, Consulting Engineer, 
saw her away, and then returned to 
his desk full of work. He sorted 
papers, did some computations, 
manipulated some theory, and then 
sat still, thinking out his plan. 

His evening was full. He ex- 
perimented in the laboratory until 
the wee small hours, and then spent 
another two hours contemplating, 
with relish, the results. He finished 
by writing another letter, taking a 
last look at the chessboard, and 
then retired with a final look at 
the calendar. 

Thomas Lionel, Ph.D., M.M., 
awoke wdth a feeling of self-satis- 
faction. The world was his onion 
and he knew it. There was nothing 
to detract from his success. After 
all, every time he returned it was 
because the engineer had been frus- 
trated. The same thing had hap- 
pened again. 

He breakfasted lazily, reading the 
mail and the notes made by the 
engineer. The notes satisfied him. 
He added some notations and made 
some calculations himself that would 
further frustrate the engineer when 
again possession of the body 
changed minds. He noted with 
relish that the bank account was 
growing by leaps and bounds — a 
backfired result of the engineer’s 
own machinations. 

How long it would be before the 

139 




engineer was completely vanished 
he did not know, but it would not 
be too long. 

A few more developments of the 
poltergeist effect, another series of 
new sciences — with their attendant 
publicity, sales, and, of course, 
royalty and licensing fees — and the 
engineer would find nothing in his 
life worth living for. He then would 
turn, bending his naturally curious 
mind to the more obscure realm of 
physics. 

In other words, the mind of Tom 
Lionel would become congruent 
with the mind of Thomas Lionel. 
Tom Lionel would vanish. Thomas 
Lionel, the ultimate desire of the 
engineer’s mind would take control 
and the period of schizophrenia 
would end. 

It was more than just logical. 
The consulting engineer wanted to 
be a physicist. Now that all bar- 
riers were removed, he would. 

The hearty dislike of physicists 
that characterized the mind of the 
engineer was sheer jealousy; psy- 
chological block: that factor of the 
mind which, when denied a desire, 
bates all others who successfully 
achieve it. 

Aesop called it “Sour Grapes.” 

He noted the calendar for the 
day. He nodded. Pie was to see 
a group of physicists from one of 
the government bureaus. That 
would be O.K. Later in the after- 
noon there was a conference be- 
tween a group of production super- 
intendents who were about to start 
producing items using the polter- 
geist effect. He made a notation 
to investigate the epicenter effect 

140 



and see what could be generated 
out of it. 

The latter was interesting, and 
presented a problem. 

He arose from the breakfast 
table and sought the chessboard. He 
laughed quietly and advanced a 
knight to cover his opponent’s 
bishop. That was in accordance 
with a well-known theory of chess. 
If, after several moves, no apparent 
pattern is manifest, attack with a 
minor piece — or even capture or 
exchange minor pieces. The plan 
of attack may be obscure to you, 
but the chances are that a bold 
counterattack or exchange of minor 
pieces will disrupt the attack. 

Well, all was well. 

His plans? They were simple 
enough. He would carry on. He 
would do more research, and con- 
found the engineer whenever next 
he returned. It was as simple as 
that. 

“The poltergeist effect,” said 
Thomas, facing the group of gov- 
ernment physicists, “is still in the 
field of research and development — 
and wide open on all sides. Much is 
still unknown about it, in spite of 
the fact,” he added distastefully, 
“that certain aspects of it have al- 
ready been put to work. 

“You are all familiar with the 
initial theories, though I shall touch 
upon them briefly here again. The 
spatial strains, when under the in- 
fluence of solar gravity, lunar 
gravity, and terrestrial gravity all 
in proper vectorial relationship, add 
to the spatial strains caused by the 
magnetic fields of the three main 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




bodies mentioned. The electrostatic 
fields in the terrestrial atmosphere 
— the same which cause lightning in 
another manifestation — also add to 
the spatial strain. These are all 
natural phenomena. 

“The radiation of a thinking 
brain, gentlemen, is not a natural 
phenomena — not a natural charac- 
teristic warp in space,” he cor- 
rected with a slight smile. “It 
causes a vibration in the region of 
the end-hysteresis loop of space 
itself when space is saturated to 
that threshold by the natural warps 
and strains. It exerts a triggering 
action that releases a more power- 
ful nonphysical radiation, which in 
turn releases the space strain that 
causes — things — to move. Also 
this final buckling of the space 
strain releases a component of the 
initial wave which again exerts the 
triggering action. The proposition 
is self-sustaining as long as the 
gravitic, magnetic, and electrostatic 
effects are such as to maintain the 
saturation of space at the hystere- 
sis-loop level. 

“However,” continued Thomas, 
“it has been discovered that these 
potentials are not only released, but 
are dirigible, under the complex 
force-fields generated by the equip- 
ment so far developed. Some effects 
are akin to gravitic effects — the real 
nature of which none of us can 
state, or even guess.” 

“Your statements border on the 
fantastic/' smiled the head visitor, 
Lowell Johnstown. “Were it not 
for the fact that your statements 
have been accompanied by experi- 
mental proof, we would be forced 




TROUBLR TIMMS TWO 



141 





to discount them as the ravings of 
an insane mind. However, your 
paper before the American Physical 
Society plus your experimental data 
— which we all have duplicated — 
gives proof. The nullification of 
gravity — ” 

“Not nullification,” insisted 
Thomas. “I do not claim nullifi- 
cation. The effect is a develop- 
ment of diagravitic force.” 

“The difference — ?” 

“Does exist. The generation of 
a counter-force may, in some cases 
be considered nullification. Tut nulli- 
fication does not describe all aspects 
of counter-force. I prefer to use 
the counter-force definition, since 
vectorial components may be gen- 
erated in the object under observa- 
tion. These forces have no relation 
to the force of gravity acting upon 
the object, other than can be simi- 
larly observed in the free flight of a 
projectile, where both the forward 
motion and the gravitic attraction 
cause summation of forces into a 
parabolic path.” 

"I’ll accept your remarks. But 
we are here to discuss the epicenter 
effect.” 

“The epicenter is a generator of 
the radiation which causes release 
of the potentials indigenous to all 
material bodies. This radiation is 
of a complex nature. It requires 
both physical, electrostatic, electro- 
magnetic generators to produce the 
radiation that triggers the polter- 
geist potential. 

“Incidentally, gentlemen, this may 
be why some people always seem 
to be getting into accidents. I be- 

142 



iieve that we have the true answer 
to the ‘Accident-Prone’ within our 
grasp.” 

“How does this manifest in 
experimental work?” asked Johns- 
town. 

“By crystallographic generation 
of the force-fields coupled with the 
radiation of the brain in question. 
The effect is probably more pro- 
nounced with a man whose preva- 
lence toward poltergeist effects and 
accident prone-ness is higher than 
normal. I am seeking such a man 
now. By further filtering through 
crystals the random release of pol 
tergeist energy is directed and con- 
trolled so that a desired object may 
be moved almost at will.” 

“This equipment — can we hope 
to get it in practical size?” 

Thomas considered and then said 
with a touch of disinterest: “It is 
possible. No doubt the practical 
viewpoint wall appeal to many.” 
“To sum up your statements,” 
interjected Johnstown, “we have an 
effect that will cause the movement 
of any desired object by the use of 
nonmaterial supporting and actu- 
ating means.” 

“Right. And one other interest- 
ing effect. The generation of direct 
current electricity is also possible 
in the same manner. I might even 
add,” he concluded with a smile, 
“that manifestation of any physical 
effect is possible.” 

Johnstown packed the pages of 
data in his briefcase. “You have 
unlocked a veritable universe of 
basic study,” he said. “You should 
feel gratified. We’ll keep in touch 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE -FICTION 




with you, Lionel. And, we’ll re- 
turn once we have had a chance to 
digest this information. Also, we’ll 
furnish you with whatever observa- 
tions we make.” 

Thomas watched them leave. He 
smiled. Adding to the discomfiture 
of the engineer at really having 
nothing left to work for — the bank 
account being filled daily — he was 
tossing his discoveries to the world 
of physicists, and other engineers 
and scientists would take over, more 
than likely leaving the engineer 
foundering in a sea of uncertainty. 

The group of production super- 
intendents entered and seated them- 
selves. Their spokesman, Charles 
Norden said : “We are here because 
of certain difficulties we are hav- 
ing in making your effect operate 
satisfactorily.” 

“I can, of course, assist you,” 
smiled Thomas, affably. 

“Good,” answered Norden. “Here 
is the first difficulty.” He pulled 
from his case a sheaf of blueprints, 
and he spread them out across the 
desk. “Our design department 
claims that the arrangement of 
knobs on the panel is inconvenient. 
A suggested change is to put them 
like this.” 

Franklen, who was one of Nor- 
den’s associates objected : “That 
means you’ll have to shunt the 
snivvy over here. That lengthens 
the leads and cause instability.” 

“But we can reinstate the stability 
by running the leads through a 
dingink.” 

“That won’t help. Shielding the 

TROUBLE TIMES TWO 



leads only adds distributed 
capacity,” 

“It works. Only one percent loss 
in efficiency and better stability, be- 
lieve it or not.” 

“Well,” said Norden, “I’ll leave it 
up to Lionel, here. What do you 
think?” 

“I’ll have to consider it,” an- 
swered Lionel. 

“You understand that it is im- 
portant,” urgd Norden. 

“But why?” 

“Why?” exploded Norden, 
“Great Scott! Look Lionel, the 
arrangements of these knobs are 
such that the operator must cross 
the calibration-scale with his hand 
while adjusting the output. That 
means that he must either assume 
a cramped position or he must ad- 
just, observe, adjust, observe, and 
so on, taking the adjustment of out- 
put by increments instead of a step- 
less arrival at the precise value.” 

“Urn.” 

“Look, Lionel, we aren’t toying 
with the job of lifting a standard 
weight. We are hoisting three 
hundred tons of semirigid struc- 
ture that mustn’t be joggled too 
much.” 

“I see. Well under the circum- 
stances I’ll take quick action and 
give you the answer within twenty- 
four hours.” 

“We can’t have it immediately?” 

"I’m afraid not. I must make 
some tests before I can pass judg- 
ment on the matter.” 

“We are more or less forced to 
accept your time-limit,” said Nor- 
den glumly. “Please understand 
that time is essential because every 

143 




minute that our production line is 
down costs the company about 
twenty dollars.” 

‘Til get your answer in twenty- 
four hours,” Thomas faced another 
man. “And your trouble?” 

He was Mawson, of Technical 
Manufacturing, Inc. 

“You specify this part,” indicat- 
ing another set of blueprints, “as 
pure copper. Anything else do?” 
“It carries high frequency. Cop- 
per is best-— unless you could get 
silver. If that is — ” 

“Look we’re making production 
and hope to hit fifteen thousand 
completed assemblies per day. That 
piece would weigh about two 
pounds. Silver is out.” 

“What’s the matter with copper?” 
asked Lionel. 

“It cuts like cheddar cheese, 
gums up the tools, and is generally 
not good for close tolerance work.” 
“The first one was all right.” 
“Listen,” said Mawson, "you 
carved the first one out by hand 
and I’ll bet it took you four or five 
hours. We’re going to 'run ’em on 
an automatic screw machine at the 
rate of ten per minute.” 

“So?” 

“I want to use free cutting 
brass.” 

“You’ll lose conductivity — ” 
“The rig will be only seven per- 
cent less efficient. Tests — ” 

“Your tests may be right. But 
seven percent loss is pretty bad,” 
grumbled Thomas. “I’d say no.” 
“Then I’m going to ask you to 
name a substitute. What alloy 
would suffice? I want a free cut- 



ting alloy that’ll come off of the 
tools clean.” 

Will White spoke up at this point. 
“We’ve got a bit of regeneration 
in our driver system,” he said. 

“That’s easy. Have one of your 
engineers remove it.” 

"Can’t. Anything they do to re- 
move regeneration also destroys 
the driver’s efficiency.” 

“Efficiency,” said Thomas, “is 
the inverse function of the fre- 
quency of drive divided by the 
number of full-phase poles in the 
genedyne. Expressed by the quad- 
ratic equation in which A equals the 
number of full-phase poles — ” 

“But we can't get rid of the re- 
generation !” exploded White. 

“Look, that driver is as simple 
as ABC. It has and will be a 
standard assembly for seven gen- 
erations past and forward. Now 
don’t tell me — ” 

“I’m telling you that we’re burn- 
ing up our test stands left and right. 
How long can you take a forty per- 
cent regeneration in a hundred kilo- 
watt genedyne?” 

“Well, not long,” admitted 
Thomas. “You understand the 
principles involved ?” 

“Not entirely.” 

‘Til explain. The force-fields 
created by the full-phase poles un- 
der the power output from the 
driver create a nonelectromagnetic 
field radiation. The intensity of this 
field is a function of the driver out- 
put, derived tertially through the 
pole system. Now the develop- 
ment of the field radiation creates a 
space hysteresis that — ” 



144 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 





give a care about field theory. It f 

doesn't apply in my job. I merely Thomas with a sneer, 
want to know what to do about “How can a musician play a pipe 
the regeneration.” organ without a course in first year 

“How can you work without tin- physics?" shouted White. “Just 
derstanding the theory?” asked tell me what to do !” 



TROTTBf/S} TIMMS TWO 



145 




“Tell ’em to retune the driver to 
another band." 

"They aren’t certain that the pick- 
up loop is itself tuned or not.” 

“It is.” 

“Then that means tuning the en- 
tire feeder line.” 

“Naturally.” 

“But the feeder line is a silver 
plated die casting.” 

“Change the dies,” said Thomas. 
“May we charge you for them ?” 
asked White, sweetly. “And also 
for scrapping the three hundred and 
seventy thousand parts we have cast 
already ?” 

“Why get so far ahead?” 

“Look, Thomas Lionel, we did it 
because it was cheaper not to tie up 
the die-caster’s shop in weekly drib- 
lets rather than get the whole order 
in a lump. Now — what do we do 
about regeneration?” 

“Anybody can clear up regenera- 
tion,” snapped Lionel. 

“Good — you show us how. That’s 
what we’re retaining you for. Your 
developments and whatever tech- 
nical assistance is required.” 

Thomas Lionel looked up, and 
scanned each face at the big table. 
“From left to right, can you state 
your problems?” he asked. 

“Plating specs on the genedyne,” 
“Problem in suspension during 
process.” 

“Can plus or minus fifteen per- 
cent electrical .components be used 
in place of ten percents?” 

“We still require the alignment 
procedure.” 

Thomas held up a hand. "O.K.. 
fellow’s. Submit your problems in 

14 « 



writing and I’ll furnish the answers 
in twenty-four hours.” 

Norden bobbed his head in agree- 
ment. “I fear that I shall call for 
cancellation of contract and the for- 
feit sum if your answers are not 
forthcoming.” 

Thomas nodded silently. The for- 
feit — if this whole gang bopped 
their contracts back he’d lose his 
shirt. 

He watched them file out. And 
his eyes dropped from their stare 
out of the window to the pile of 
questions on the desk. A pile of 
production problems! 

Sheer, unadulterated hell. 

Well, he might as w’ell call the 
engineer and let him handle this. 
It was one of the things that the 
engineer got a kick out of. As a 
physicist, this was not his job — and 
as an intelligent physicist, he did 
know how to get things done. 
Everything for its own use; if he 
didn’t know, he knew where to find 
out. 

Thomas went out to the labora- 
tory and faced his tungsten box. 
A twinge of wonder flashed through 
his mind. It bothered him. 

Was this an admission of partial 
defeat? 

Not at all. This was good sense. 
Call in the engineer to clear up this 
mess, since his income and well- 
being depended upon it. Once these 
contracts were clear and closed — 
well, time enough! 

He pressed the button. 

And Thomas Lionel, Ph.D,, 
M.M., pressed it again. 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




And again-- 

And again. 

And then took a suspicious glance 
at the oxy-hydrogen torch on the 
table. A growing fear hit him. 
Tungsten wouldn't budge under an 
acetylene torch. Acids were not 
too effective, and plain, old- 
fashioned cutting tools were sheer 
foolishness. But heat the block 
white hot and hit it with an oxygen 
lance — • 

Thomas looked on the back side. 

Uh-huli. The engineer had en- 
joyed himself. The back side of 
his little tungsten wave generator 
had been poked full of ragged 
holes ; cut in ribbons with the oxy- 
gen lance, and generally made 
messy. The wave-guides and chan- 
nels were all un-tenninated and 
laid open. Pushing the button 
wouldn’t do a thing. 

It definitely would not call the 
engineer. 

He had twenty-four hours to 
solve the production people’s prob- 
lems. 

And Thomas Lionel understood. 
The engineer had his„own little trap. 
No doubt the engineer would go 
fishing if called, and only the physi- 
cist was really interested in fighting 
this thing out to the bitter end. The 
engineer, losing already, had only 
a bank account to throw away by 
not working. And the engineer 
could get another one soon enough 
if permitted to do so. 

Twenty-four hours. 

Thomas headed in toward the 
house to get his notebook and his 
engineering notes. He’d have to 



take over the engineer's job, no 
matter how distasteful. 

Out of one comer of his eye he 
saw the chessboard and he stopped 
short. It had been the odd angle 
that gave the trap away but his mov- 
ing of the knight had opened a line 
right down into his own defenses. 
On the next move there would be 
a severe attack against his queen, 
and in saving that, he’d lose the 
bishop. If he sacrificed the queen, 
he was as good as lost. In fact, 
it was checkmate no matter how 
long he fought; no matter what he 
did, it was only a question of three 
moves minimum or seven moves 
maximum. 

Well, might as well give up. This 
game was gone and there was no 
use in fighting a losing battle — 
whipping a dead cat — 

He opened the drawer and re- 
moved the little sign normally used 
to terminate a game without going 
through the formality of a check- 
mate. 

But the sign had been augmented. 
It read: 




THE END. 



TltOUBI.K TIMES TWO 



ast — ew m 



The Mule 

( Continued from page 9 7) 

fret*, and I choose to exercise our 
old friendship, if you will let me,” 
Toran’s face was a twisted sup- 
pression of fury, “How did you 
find us? You were in the Filian 
ship, then? You followed us?” 
The wooden lack of expression 
on Pritcher’s face might have 
flickered in embarrassment, “l was 
on the Filian ship! I met you in 
the first place . . . well ... by 
chance,” 

“It is a chance that is mathemati- 
cally impossible.” 

“No. Simply rather improbable, 
so my statement will have to stand. 
In any case, you admitted to the 
Filians — there is, of course, no such 
nation as Fili actually — that you 
were heading for the Trantor sec- 
tor, and since the Mule already has 
his contacts upon Neotrantor, it 
was easy to have you detained there. 
Unfortunately, you got away be- 
fore I arrived, but not long before. 
I had time to have the farms on 
Trantor ordered to report your ar- 
rival. It was done and I am here. 
May I sit down? I come in friend- 
liness, believe me.” 

He sat, Toran bent his head 
and thought futilely. With a 
numbed lack of emotion, Bayta 
prepared tea. 

Toran looked up harshly, “Well, 
what are you waiting for — colonel? 
What’s your friendship ? If it’s not 
arrest, what is it then? Protective 
custody? Call in your men and 
give your orders.” 

Patiently, Pritcher shook his 

148 



head, “No, Toran. I conic of my 
own will to speak to you, to per- 
suade you of the uselessness of what 
you are doing. If I fail I shall 
leave. That is all.” 

“That is all? Well, then peddle 
your propaganda, give us your 
speech, and leave. I don’t want 
any tea. Bavta.” 

Pritcher accepted a cup, with a 
grave word of thanks. He looked 
at Toran with a clear strength as he 
sipped lightly. Then he said, “The 
Mule is a mutant. He cannot be 
beaten in the very nature of the 
mutation — ” 

“Why ? What is the mutation ?” 
asked Toran, with sour humor, “1 
suppose you’ll tell us now, eh ?” 

“Yes, I will. Your knowledge 
won't hurt him. You see — he is 
capable of adjusting the emotional 
balance of human beings. It sounds 
like a little trick, but it’s quite un- 
beatable,” 

Bayta broke in, “The emotional 
balance?" She frowned, “Won't 
you explain that? I don’t quite 
understand.” 

“I mean that it is an easy mat- 
ter for him to instill into a capable 
general, say, the emotion of utter 
loyalty to the Mule and complete 
belief in the Mule’s victory. His 
generals are emotionally controlled. 
They cannot betray him; they can- 
not weaken — and the control is per- 
manent. His most capable enemies 
become his most faithful subordi- 
nates. The warlord of Kalgan sur- 
renders his planet and becomes his 
viceroy for the Foundation.” 

“And you,” added Bayta, bitterly, 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




“betray your cause and become 
Mule’s envoy to Trantor. I see!” 
“I haven’t finished. The Mule’s 
gift works in reverse even more 
effectively. Despair is an emotion! 
At the crucial moment, keymen.on 
the Foundation; keymen on Haven 
despaired. Their worlds fell with- 
out too much struggle.” 

“Do you mean to say,” demanded 
Bayta, tensely, “that the feeling I 
had in the Time Vault was the 
Mule juggling my emotional con- 
trol.” 

“Mine, too. Everyone’s. How 
was it on Haven towards the end?” 
Bayta turned away. 

Colonel Pritcher continued earn- 
estly, “As it works for worlds, so 
it works for individuals. Can you 
light a force which can make you 
surrender willingly when it so de- 
sires ; can make you a faithful serv- 
ant when it so desires?” 

Toran said slowly “Flow do I 
know this is the truth?” 

“Can you explain the fall of the 
Foundation and of Haven other- 
wise? Can you explain — my con- 
version otherwise? Think, man! 
What have you — or I — or the 
whole Galaxy accomplished against 
the Mule in all this time? What 
one little thing?” 

Toran felt the challenge, “By the 
Galaxy, I can!” With a sudden 
touch of fierce satisfaction, he 
shouted, “Your wonderful Mule 
had contacts with Neotrantor you 
say that were to have detained us, 
eh? Those contacts are dead or 
worse. We killed the crown prince 
and left the other a whimpering 
idiot. The Mule did not stop us 



there, and so much has been un- 
done.” 

“Why, no, not at all. Those 
weren’t our men. The crown prince 
was a wine-soaked mediocrity. The 
other man, Commason, is phenome- 
nally stupid. He was a power on 
liis world but that didn’t prevent 
him from being vicious, evil, and 
completely incompetent. We had 
nothing really to do with them. 
They were, in a sense, merely 
feints — ” 

“It was they who detained us, or 
tried.” 

“Again, no. Commason had a 
personal slave — a man called Incli- 
ney. Detention was his policy. He 
is old, but will serve our temporary 
purpose. You would not have killed 
him, you see.” 

Bayta whirled on him. She had 
not touched her own tea, “But, by 
your very statement, your own emo- 
tions have been tampered with. 
You’ve got faith and belief in the 
Mule, an unnatural, a diseased faith 
in the Mule. Of what value are 
your opinions? You’ve lost all 
power of objective thought.” 

“You are wrong.” Slowly, the 
colonel shook his head. “Only my 
emotions are fixed. My reason is 
as it always was. It may be in- 
fluenced in a certain direction by 
my conditioned emotions, but it is 
not forced. And there are some 
things I can see more clearly, now 
that I am freed of my earlier emo- 
tional trend. 

“I can see that the Mule’s pro- 
gram is an intelligent and worthy 
one. In the time since I have been 
— converted, I have followed his 



THE MULE 



140 




career from its start seven years 
ago. With his mutant mental 
power, he began by winning over a 
condottiere and his band. With 
that — and his power — he won a 
planet. With that — and his power 
— he extended his grip until he 
could tackle the warlord of ICal- 
gan. Each step followed the other 
logically. With Kalgan in his 
pocket, he had a first-class fleet, and 
with that — and his power — he could 
attack the Foundation. 

“The Foundation is the key. It 
is the greatest area of industrial 
concentration in the Galaxy, and 
now that the atomic techniques of 
the Foundation are in his hands, he 
is the actual master of the Galaxy.- 
With those techniques — and his 
power — he can force the remnants 
of the Empire to acknowledge his 
rule, and eventually — with the 
death of the old emperor, who is 
mad and not long for this world — 
to crown him emperor. He will 
then have the name as well as the 
fact. With that — and his power — 
where is the world in the Galaxy 
that can oppose him? 

“In these last seven years, he has 
established a new Empire. In seven 
years, in other words, he will have 
accomplished what all Seldon’s psy- 
chohistory could not have done in 
less than an additional seven hun- 
dred. The Galaxy will have peace 
and order at last. 

“And you could not stop it — any 
more than you could stop a planet’s 
rush with your shoulders.” 

A long silence followed Pritch- 
er’s speech. What remained of 



his tea had grown cold. He emp- 
tied his cup, filled it again, and 
drained it slowly. Toran bit vi- 
ciously at a thumbnail. Bayta’s 
face was cold, and distant, and 
white. 

Then, Bayta said in a thin voice, 
“We are not convinced. If the 
Mule wishes us to be, let him come 
here and condition us himself. You 
fought him until the last moment 
of your conversion, I imagine, 
didn’t you?” 

“I did,” said Colonel Pritcher, 
solemnly. 

“Then allow us the same privi- 
lege.” 

Colonel Pritcher arose. With a 
crisp air of finality, he said, “Then 
I leave. As I said earlier, my mis- 
sion at present concerns you in no 
way. Therefore, I don’t think it 
will be necessary to report your 
presence here. That is not too great 
a kindness. If the Mule wishes 
you stopped, he no doubt has other 
men assigned to the job, and you 
will be stopped. But, for what it is 
worth, I shall not contribute more 
than my requirement.” 

“Thank you,” said Bayta faintly. 

“As for Magnifico. Where is he? 
Come out, Magnifico, I won’t hurt 
you — ” 

“What about him?” demanded 
Bayta, with sudden animation. 

“Nothing. My instructions make 
no mention of him, either. I have 
heard that he is searched for, but 
the Mule will find him when the 
time suits him. I shall say nothing. 
Will you shake hands?” 

Bayta shook her head. Toran 
glared his frustrated contempt. 



150 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 





There was the slightest lowering In the recesses of the library, 
of the colonel’s iron shoulders. He Ebling Mis, unaware of all, 
strode to the door, turned and said : crouched under the one spark of 

“One last thing. Don’t think I light amid the murky spaces, and 
am not aware of the source of your mumbled triumphantly to himself, 
stubbornness. It is known that you 

search for the Second Foundation. jjV. 

The Mule, in his time, will take his 

measures. Nothing will help you — After that there were only two 

But I knew you in other times; per- weeks left to the life of Ebling Mis. 

haps there is something in my con- And in those two weeks, Bayta 

science that urged me to this ; at any was with him three times. The first 

rate, I tried to help you and remove time was on the night after the eve- 

you from the final clanger before it ning upon which they saw Colonel 

was too late. Good by.” Pritcher. The second was one week 

He saluted sharply — and was later. And the third was again a 

gone. week later — on the last day — the 

„ , „ day Mis died. 

Bayta turned to a silent loran, 

and whispered, “They even know First, there was the night of 
about the Second Foundation.” Colonel Pritcher’s evening, the first 



THE MULE 



151 




hour of which was spent by a 
stricken pair in a brooding, un- 
merry merry-go-round. 

Bayta said, “Torie, let’s tell 
Ebling.” 

Toran said dully, “Think he can 
help?’’ 

“We’re only two. We’ve got to 
take some of the weight off. Maybe 
he can help.” 

Toran said, “He’s changed. He’s 
lost weight. He’s a little feathery; 
a little woolly.” His fingers groped 
in air, metaphorically. “Sometimes, 
I don’t think he’ll help us much — 
ever. Sometimes, I don’t think 
anything will help.” 

“Don’t!” Bayta's voice caught 
and escaped a break, “Torie, don’t! 
When you say that, I think the 
Mule’s getting us. Let’s tell Ebling, 
Torie — now !” 

Ebling Mis raised his head from 
the long desk, and bleared at them 
as they approached. His thinning 
hair was scuffed up, his lips made 
sleepy, smacking sounds. 

“Eh?” he said, “Someone want 
me ?” 

Bayta bent to her knees, “Did we 
wake you? Shall we leave?” 

“Leave? Who is it? Bayta? 
No, no, stay! Aren’t there chairs? 
I saw them — ” His finger pointed 
vaguely. 

Toran pushed two ahead of him. 
Bayta sat down and took one of 
the psychologist’s flaccid hands in 
hers, “May we talk to you, doctor?” 
She rarely used the title. 

“Is something wrong?” A little 
sparkle returned to his abstracted 
eyes. His sagging cheeks regained 

152 



a touch of color. “Is something 
wrong ?” 

Bayta said, “Captain Pritcher has 
been here. Let me talk. Torie. You 
remember Captain Pritcher, - doc- 
tor ?” 

“Yes — Yes — ” His fingers 

pinched his lips and released them. 
“Tall man. Democrat.” 

“Yes, he. He’s -discovered the 
Mule’s mutation. He was here, 
doctor, and told us.” 

“But that is nothing new. The 
Mule’s mutation is straightened 
out.” In honest astonishment, 
“Haven’t I told you? Have I for- 
gotten to tell you?” 

“Forgotten to tell us what?” put 
in Toran, quickly. 

“About the Mule's mutation, of 
course. He tampers with emotions. 
Emotional control ! I haven’t told 
you? Now what made me forget?” 
Slowly, he sucked in his under lip 
and considered. 

Then, slowly, life crept into his 
voice and his eyelids lifted wide, 
as though his sluggish brain had 
slid onto a well-greased single track. 
He spoke in a dream, looking be- 
tween the two listeners rather than 
at them, “It is really so simple. It 
requires no specialized knowledge. 
In the mathematics of psychohis- 
tory, of course, it works out prompt- 
ly, in a third-level equation involv- 
ing no more — Never mind that. 
It can be put into ordinary words— 
roughly — and have it make sense, 
which isn’t usual with psychohis- 
torical phenomena. 

“Ask yourselves — What can 

upset Hari Seldon’s careful scheme 
of history, eh?” He peered from 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




one to the other with a mild, ques- 
tioning anxiety, “What were Sel- 
dons’ original assumptions? First, 
that there would be no fundamental 
change in human society over the 
next thousand years. 

“For instance, suppose there were 
a major change in the Galaxy’s 
technology, such as finding a new 
principle for the utilization of 
energy, or perfecting the study of 
electronic neurobiology. Social 
changes would render Seldon’s 
original equations obsolete. But 
that hasn’t happened, has it now? 

“Or suppose that a new weapon 
were to be invented by forces out- 
side the Foundation, capable of 
withstanding all the Foundation’s 
armaments. That might cause a 
ruinous deviation, though less cer- 
tainly. But even that hasn’t hap- 
pened. The Mule’s Atomic Field- 
Depressor was a clumsy weapon 
and could be countered. And that 
was the only novelty he presented, 
poor at it was. 

“But there was a second assump- 
tion, a more subtle one ! Seldon as- 
sumed that human reaction to 
stimuli would remain constant. 
Granted, that the first assumption 
held true, then the second must 
have broken down! Some factor 
must be twisting and distorting the 
emotional responses of human be- 
ings or Seldon couldn’t have failed 
and the Foundation couldn’t have 
fallen. And what factor but the 
Mule? 

“Am I right? Is there a flaw in 
the reasoning?” 

Bayta’s plump hand patted his 
gently, “No flaw, Ebling.” 



Mis was joyful, like a child, 
“This and more comes so easily. 
I tell you I wonder sometimes what 
is going on inside me. I seem to 
recall a time when so much was a 
mystery to me and now things are 
so clear. Problems are absent. I 
come across what might be one, and 
somehow, inside me, I see and un- 
derstand. And my guesses, my 
theories, seem always to be borne 
out. There’s a drive in me . . . 
always onward ... so that I can't 
stop . . . and I don’t want to cat or 
sleep . . . but always go on . . . and 
on . . . and on — ” 

His voice was a whisper ; his 
wasted, blue-veined hand rested 
tremblingly upon his forehead. 
There was a frenzy in his eyes 
that faded and went out. 

He said more quietly, “Then I 
never told you about the Mule’s 
mutant powers, did I? But then 
. . . did you say you knew about 
it?” 

“It was Captain Pritcher, Ebling,” 
said Bayta. “Remember ?” 

“He told you?” There was a 
tinge of outrage in his tone. “But 
how did he find out?” 

“He’s been conditioned by the 
Mule. He’s a colonel now, a Mule’s 
man. He came to advise us to sur- 
render to the Mule, and he told 
us — what you told its.” 

“Then the Mule knows we’re 
here? I must hurry — Where’s 
Magnifico? Isn’t he with you?” 
“Magnifico’s sleeping,” said 
Toran, impatiently. “It’s past mid- 
night, you know.” 

"It is? Then — Was I sleeping 
when you came in?” 



THE MULE 



tea 




“You were,” said Bayta de- 
cisively, “and you’re not going back 
to work, either. You’re getting 
into bed. Come on, Torie, help me. 
And you stop pushing at me, Ebling, 
because it’s just your luck I don’t 
shove you under a shower first. 
Pull off his shoes, Torie, and to- 
morrow you come down here and 
drag him out into the open air be- 
fore he fades completely away. 
Look at you, Ebling, you’ll be grow- 
ing cobwebs. Are you hungry?” 
Ebling Mis shook his head and 
looked up from his cot in a peevish 
confusion. “I want you to send 
Magnifico down tomorrow,” he 
muttered. 

Bayta tucked the sheet around his 
neck, “You’ll have me down to- 
morrow, with washed clothes. 
You’re going to take a good bath, 
and then get out and visit the farm 
and feel a little sun on you.” 

“I won’t do it,” said Mis weakly. 
“You hear me? I’m too busy.” 

His sparse hair spread out on 
the pillow like a silver fringe about 
his head. His voice was a con- 
fidential whisper, “You want that 
Second Foundation, don’t you?” 
Toran turned quickly and squat- 
ted down on the cot beside him, 
“What about the Second Founda- 
tion, Ebling?” 

The psychologist freed an arm 
from beneath the sheet and his tired 
fingers clutched at Toran’s sleeve, 
“The Foundations were established 
at a great Psychological Convention 
presided over by Hari Seldon. 
Toran, I have located the published 
minutes of that Convention. 
Twenty-five fat films. I have al- 
ii 54 



ready looked through various sum- 
maries.” 

“Well?” 

“Well, do you know that it is 
very easy to find from them the ex- 
act location of the First Founda- 
tion, if you know anything at all 
about psychohistory. It is frequent- 
ly referred to, when you under- 
stand the equations. But Toran, 
nobody mentions the Second Foun- 
dation. There has been no refer- 
ence to it anywhere?” 

Toran’s eyebrows pulled into a 
frown, “It doesn’t exist?” 

"Of course it exists,” cried Mis, 
angrily, “who said it didn’t? But 
there’s less talk of it. Its signifi- 
cance — and all about it — are better 
hidden, better obscured. Don’t you 
see ? It’s the more important of the 
two. It’s the critical one; the one 
that counts! And I’ve got the min- 
utes of the Seldon Convention. The 
Mule hasn’t won yet — ” 

Quietly, Bayta turned the lights 
down, “Go to sleep!” 

Without speaking, Toran and 
Bayta made their way up to their 
own quarters. 

The next day, Ebling Mis bathed 
and dressed himself, saw the sun 
of Trantor and felt the wind of 
Trantor for the last time. At the 
end of the day he was once again 
submerged in the gigantic recesses 
of the library, and never emerged 
thereafter. 

In the week that followed, life 
settled again into its groove. The 
sun of Neotrantor was a calm, 
bright star in Trantor ’s night sky. 
The farm was busy with its spring 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




planting. The University grounds 
were silent in their desertion. The 
Galaxy seemed empty. The Mule 
might never have existed. 

Bayta was thinking that as she 
watched Toran light his cigar care- 
fully and look up at the sections 
of blue sky visible between the 
swarming metal spires that en- 
circled the horizon. 

“It’s a nice day,” he said. 

“Yes, it is. Have you everything 
I mentioned on the list, Torie?” 

“Sure. Half pound butter, dozen 
eggs, string beans — Got it all down 
here, Bay. I’ll have it right.” 

“Good. And make sure the 
vegetables are of the last harvest 
and not museum relics. Did you 
see Magnifico anywhere, by the 
way ?” 

“Not since breakfast. Guess he’s 
down with Ebling, watching a book- 
film.” 

“All right. Don't waste any 
time, because I’ll need the eggs for 
dinner.” 

T oran left with a backward smile 
and a wave of the hand. 

Bayta turned away as Toran slid 
out of sight among the maze of 
metal. She hesitated before the 

kitchen door, about-faced slowly, 
and entered the colonnade leading 
to the elevator that burrowed down 
into the recesses. 

Ebling Mis was there, head bent 
down over the eyepieces of the pro- 
jector, motionless, a frozen, quest- 
ing body. Near him sat Magnifico, 
screwed up into a chair, eyes sharp 
and watching — a bundle of slatty 
limbs with a nose emphasizing his 
scrawny face. 

THE MULE 



Bayta said softly, “Magnifico — ” 

Magnifico scrambled to his feet. 
His voice was an eager whisper. 
“My lady !” 

“Magnifico,” said Bayta, “Toran 
has left for the farm and won’t be 
back for a while. Would you be 
a good boy and go out after him 
with a message that I’ll write for 
you ?” 

“Gladly, my lady. My small serv- 
ices are but too eagerly yours, for 
the tiny uses you can put them to.” 

She was alone with Ebling Mis, 
who had not moved. Firmly, she 
placed her hand upon his shoulder, 
“Ebling—” 

The psychologist started, with a 
peevish cry, “What is it?” He 
wrinkled his eyes, “Is it you, Bayta? 
Where’s Magnifico?” 

“I sent him away. I want to be 
alone with you for a while.” She 
enunciated her words with exag- 
gerated distinctness, “I want to talk 
to you, Ebling.” 

The psychologist made a move to 
return to his projector, but her 
hand on his shoulder was firm. She 
felt the bone under the sleeve 
clearly. The flesh seemed to have 
fairly melted away since their ar- 
rival on Trantor. His face was 
thin, yellowish, and bore a half- 
week stubble. His shoulders were 
visibly stooped, even in a sitting 
position. 

Bayta said, “Magnifico isn’t 
bothering you, is he, Ebling? He 
seems to be down here night and 
day.” 

“No, no, no! Not at all. Why, 
I don’t mind him. He is silent and 
never disturbs me. Sometimes he 

too 




carries the films back and forth for 
me ; seems to know what I want 
without my speaking. Just let him 
be.” 

‘ Very well — but, Ebling, doesn’t 
he make you wonder ? Do you hear 
me, Ebling? Doesn’t he make you 
wonder ?” 

She jerked a chair close to his 
and stared at him as though to pull 
the answer out of his eyes. 

Ebling Mis shook his head, “No. 
What do you mean?” 

“I mean that Colonel Pritcher 
arid you both say the Mule can con- 
dition the emotions of human be- 
ings. But are you sure of it? Isn’t 
Magnifico himself a flaw in the 
theory ?” 

There was silence. 

Bayta repressed a strong desire 
to shake the psychologist, “What’s 
•wrong with you, Ebling? Mag- 
nifico was the Mule’s clown. Why 
wasn’t he conditioned to love and 
faith ? Why should he, of all those 
in contact with the Mule, hate him 
so.” 

“But . . . but he was conditioned. 
Certainly, Bay!” He seemed to 
gather certainty as he spoke. “Do 
you suppose that the Mule treats his 
clown the way he treats his gen- 
erals? He needs faith and loyalty 
in the latter, but in his clown he 
needs only fear. Didn’t you ever 
notice that Magnifico’s continual 
state of panic is pathological in 
nature? Do you suppose it is nat- 
ural for a human being to be as 
frightened as that all the time ? Fear 
to such an extent becomes comic. 
It was probably comic to the Mule 



— and helpful, too, since it obscured 
what help we might have gotten 
earlier from Magnifico.” 

Bayta said, “You mean Mag- 
nifico’s information about the Mule 
was false?” 

“It was misleading. It was 
colored by pathological fear. The 
Mule is not the physical giant Mag- 
nifico thinks. He is more probably 
an ordinary man outside his mental 
powers. But if it amused him to 
appear a superman to poor Mag- 
nifico — ” The psychologist 
shrugged, “In any case, Magnifico’s 
information is no longer of im- 
portance.” 

“What is, then ?” 

But Mis shook himself loose and 
and returned to his projector. 

“What is, then?" she repeated. 
“The Second Foundation?” 

The psychologist’s eyes jerked 
towards her, “Have I told you any- 
thing about that? I don’t remem- 
ber telling you anything. I’m not 
ready yet. What have I told you ?" 

“Nothing,” said Bayta, intensely. 
“Oh, Galaxy, you’ve told me 
nothing, but I wish you would be- 
cause I’m deathly tired. When will 
it be over?” 

Ebling Mis peered at her. vaguely 
rueful, “Well, now, my . . . my 
dear, I did not mean to hurt you. 
I forget sometimes . . . who my 
friends are. Sometimes it seems 
to me that I must not talk of all 
this. There's a need for secrecy — 
but from the Mule, not from you. 
my dear.” He patted her shoulder 
with a weak amiability. 

She said, “What about the Second 
Foundation?” 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




His voice was automatically a 
whisper, thin and sibilant, “Do you 
know the thoroughness with which 
Seldon covered his traces? The 
proceedings of the Seldon Conven- 
tion would have been of no use to 
me at all as little as a month ago, 
before this strange insight came. 
Even now, it seems — tenuous. The 
papers put out by the Convention 
are often apparently unrelated ; 
always obscure. More than once 
I wondered if the members of the 
Convention, themselves, knew all 
that was in Seldon’s mind. Some- 
times I think he used the Conven- 
tion only as a gigantic front, and 
single-handed erected the struc- 
ture — ” 

“Of the Foundations?” urged 
Bayta. 

“Of the Second Foundation! 
Our Foundation was simple. But 
the Second Foundation was only a 
name. It was mentioned, but if 
there was any elaboration, it was 
hidden deep in the mathematics. 
There is still much I don’t even 
begin to understand, but for seven 
days, the bits have been clumping 
together into a vague picture. 

“Foundation Number One was 
a world of physical scientists. It 
represented a concentration of the 
dying science of the Galaxy under 
the conditions necessary to make it 
live again. No psychologists were 
included. It was a peculiar distor- 
tion, and must have had a purpose. 
The usual explanation was that 
Seldon’s psychohistory worked best 
where the individual working units 
— human beings — had no knowl- 
edge of what was coming, and could 



therefore react naturally to all situ- 
ations. Do you follow me, my 
dear--” 

“Yes, doctor.” 

“Then listen carefully. Founda- 
tion Number Two was a world of 
mental scientists. It was the mirror 
image of our world. Psychology, 
not physics, was king.” Trium- 
phantly, “You see?” 

“I don’t.” 

“But think, Bayta, use your head. 
Ilari Seldon knew that his psycho- 
history could predict only prob- 
abilities, and not certainties. There 
was always a margin of error, and 
as time passed that margin increases 
in geometric progression. Seldon 
would naturally guard as well as he 
could against it. Our Foundation 
was scientifically vigorous. It could 
conquer armies and weapons. It 
could pit force against force. But 
what of the mental attack of a 
mutant such as the Mule ?” 

“That would be for the psycholo- 
gists of the Second Foundation!” 
Bayta felt excitement rising within 
her. 

“Yes, yes, yes! Certainly!” 

“But thev have done nothing so 
far.” 

“How do you know they 
haven’t ?” 

Bayta considered that, “I don’t. 
Do you have evidence that they 
are ?” 

“No. There are many factors 
I know nothing of. The Second 
Foundation could not have been 
established full-grown, any more 
than we were. We developed slowly 
and grew in strength ; they must 
have also. The stars know at what 



THE MULE 



1»7 




stage their strength is now. Are 
they strong enough to fight the 
Mule ? Are they aware of the dan- 
ger in the first place? Have they 
capable leaders?” 

“But if they follow Seldon’s plan, 
then the Mule must be beaten by the 
Second Foundation.” 

“Ah,” and Ebling Mis’ thin face 
wrinkled thoughtfully, “is it that 
again? But the Second Foundation 
was a more difficult job than the 
First. Its complexity is hugely 
greater; and consequently so is its 
possibility of error. And if the 
Second Foundation should not beat 
the Mule, it is bad — ultimately bad. 
It is the end, maybe, of the human 
race as we know it.” 

“No.” 

“Yes. If the Mule’s descendants 
inherit his mental powers — You 
see? Homo sapiens could not com- 
pete. There would be a new domi- 
nant race — a new aristocracy — with 
homo sapiens demoted to slave labor 
as an inferior race. Isn’t that so ?” 
“Yes, that is so.” 

“And even if by some chance, the 
Mule did not establish a dynasty, 
he would still establish a distorted 
new Empire upheld by his personal 
power only. It would die with his 
death; the Galaxy would be left 
where it was before he came, ex- 
cept that there would no longer be 
Foundations around which a real 
and healthy Second Empire could 
coalesce. It would mean thousands 
of years of barbarism. It would 
mean no end in sight.” 

“What can we do ? Can we warn 
the Second Foundation?” 

“We must, or they may go under 



through ignorance, which we cannot 
risk. But there is no way of warn- 
ing them.” 

“No way.” 

“I don’t know where they are 
located. They are ‘at the other end 
of the Galaxy’ but that is all, and 
there are millions of worlds to 
choose from.” 

“But Ebling, don’t they say?” 
She pointed vauely at the films that 
covered the table. 

“No, they don’t. Not where I can 
find it — yet. The secrecy must 

mean something. There must be a 
reason — ” A puzzled expression 

returned to his eyes, “But I wish 
you’d leave. I have wasted enough 
time, and it’s growing short — it’s 
growing short,” 

He tore away, petulant and 
frowning. 

Magnifico’s soft step approached. 
“Your husband is home, my lady.” 

Ebling Mis did not greet the 
clown. He was back at his pro- 
jector. 

That evening, Toran having lis- 
tened, spoke, “And you think he’s 
really right. Bay? You think he 
isn’t — ” He hesitated. 

“He is right, Torie. He’s sick, 
I know that. The change that’s 
come over him, the loss in weight, 
the way he speaks — he’s sick. But 
as soon as the subject of the Mule 
or the Second Foundation, or any- 
thing he is working on, comes up, 
listen to him. He is ‘lucid and dear 
as the sky of outer space. He 
knows what he’s talking about. I 
believe him.” 



158 



ASTOUNDING S C IE NCE-F I CT ION 




“Then there's hope." it was half 
a question. 

“I ... I haven't worked it out. 
Maybe ! Maybe not ! I’m carrying 
a blaster from now on.” The shiny- 
barreled weapon was in her hand as 
she spoke. “Just in case, Torie, 
just in case.” 

“In case what? 1 ' 

Bayta laughed with a touch of 
hysteria, “Never mind. Maybe I’m 
a little crazy, too— -like Ebling Mis.” 

Ebling Mis at that time had seven 
days to live, and the seven days 
slipped by, one after the other, 
quietly. 

To Toran, there was a quality of 
stupor about them. The warming 
days and the dull silence covered 
him with lethargy.' All life seemed 
to have lost its quality of action, 
and changed into an infinite sea of 
hibernation. 

Mis was a hidden entity whose 
burrowing work produced nothing 
and did not make itself known. He 
had barricaded himself. Neither 
Toran nor Bayta could see him. 
Only Magnifico’s go-between char- 
acteristics were evidence of his ex- 
istence. Magnifico, grown silent 
and thoughtful, -with his tiptoed 
trays of food, and his still, watchful 
witness in the gloom. 

Bayta was more and more a crea- 
ture of herself. The vivacity died, 
the self-assured competence 
wavered. She, too, sought her own, 
worried, absorbed company, and 
once Toran had come upon her, 
fingering her blaster. She had put 
it away quickly, forced a smile. 




DOC SAVAGE 

RETIRES 



Or does he? 

It started with some counterfeit 
lecture tickets that were free, 
anyway — an exploding gasoline 
truck — a swathe of bandages 
that all but hid a face. 

Then there was the private eye 
who was shipped off to Mexico 

What did it all odd up to? Read 
MEASURES FOR A COFFIN in 
the January issue of 

DOC SAVAGE 

AT ALL NEWSSTANDS 



THE M D LB 



189 




“What are you doing with it, 
Bay?” 

“Holding it. Is that a crime?” 

“You’ll blow your fool head off.” 

“Then I’ll blow it off. Small 
loss !” 

Married life had taught Toran the 
futility of arguing with a female 
in a dark-brown mood. He shrugged, 
and left her. 

On the last day, Magnifico 
scampered breathless into their pres- 
ence. He clutched at them, fright- 
ened, “The learned doctor calls for 
you. Fie is not well.” 

And he wasn’t well. He was in 
bed, his eyes unnaturally large, un- 
naturally bright. He was dirty, un- 
recognizable. 

• “Ebling!” cried Bayta. 

"Let me speak,” croaked the 
psychologist, lifting his weight to 
a thin elbow with an effort. “Let 
me speak. I am finished ; the work 
I pass on to you. I have kept no 
notes; the scrap-figures I have de- 
stroyed. No other must know. All 
must remain in your minds.” 

“Magnifico,” said Bayta, with 
rough directness. “Go upstairs!” 

Reluctantly, the clown rose and 
took a backward step. His sad eyes 
were on Mis. 

Mis gestured weakly, “He won’t 
matter; let him stay. Stay, Mag- 
nifico.” 

The clown sat down quickly. 
Bayta gazed at the floor. Slowly, 
slowly, her lower lip caught in her 
teeth. 

Mis said, in a hoarse whisper, 
“I am convinced the Second Foun- 
dation can win, if it is not caught 
prematurely by the Mule. It has 

is» 



kept itself secret; the secrecy must 
be upheld; it has a purpose. You 
must go there; your information is 
vital . . . may make all the difference. 
Do you hear me?” 

Toran cried in near-agony, “Yes. 
yes! Tell us how to get there, 
Ebling? Where is it?” 

“I can tell you,” said the faint 
voice. 

He never did. 

Bayta, face frozen white, lifted 
her blaster and shot, with an echo- 
ing clap of noise. From the waist 
upward, Mis was not, and a ragged 
hole was in the wall behind. From 
numb fingers, Bayta’s blaster 
dropped to the floor. 

XVI. 

There was not a word to be said. 
The echoes of the blast rolled away 
into the outer rooms and rumbled 
downward into a hoarse, dying 
whisper. Before its death, it had 
muffled the sharp clamor of Bayta’s 
falling blaster, smothered Mag- 
nifico’s high-pitched cry, drowned 
out Toran’s inarticulate roar. 

There was a silence of agony. 

Bayta’s head was bent into ob- 
scurity. A droplet caught the light 
as it fell. Bayta had never wept 
before. 

Toran’s muscles almost cracked 
in their spasm, but he did not relax 
— he felt as if he would never un- 
clench his teeth again. Magnifico’s 
face was a faded, lifeless mask. 

Finally, from between teeth still 
tight, Toran choked out in an un- 
recognizable voice, “You’re a Mule’s 
woman, then. He got to you !” 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




Bayta looked up, and her mouth 
twisted with a painful merriment, 
“I, a Mule’s woman? That’s 
ironic.” 

She smiled — a brittle effort — and 
tossed her hair back. Slowly, her 
voice verged back to the normal, 
or something near it. “It’s over, 
Toran ; I can talk now. How much 
I will survive, I don’t know. But 
I can start talking — ” 

Toran’s tension had broken of its 
own weight and faded into a flaccid 
dullness, “Talk about what, Bay? 
What's there to talk about ?” 
“About the calamity that’s fol- 
lowed us. We’ve remarked about 
it before, Tone. Don’t you remem- 
ber? flow defeat has always bitten 
at our heels and never actually man- 
aged to nip us? We were on the 
Foundation, and it collapsed while 
the Independent Traders still fought 
— but we got out in time to go to 
Haven. We were on Haven, and 
it collapsed while the others still 
fought— and again we got out in 
time. We went to Neotrantor, and 
by now it’s undoubtedly joined the 
Mule.” 

Toran listened and shook his 
head, “I don’t understand.” 

“Torie, such things don’t happen 
in real life. You and I are insig- 
nificant people; we don’t fall from 
one vortex of politics into another 
continuously for the space of a 
year— unless w r e carry the vortex 
with us. Unless we carry the source 
of infection with us! Now do you 
see?” 

Toran’s lips tightened. His glance 
fixed horribly upon the bloody 
remnants of what had once been 



a human, and his eyes sickened. 

“Let’s get out of here, Bay. Let’s 
get out into the open.” 

It was cloudy outside. The wind 
scudded about them in drab spurts 
and disordered Bayta’s hair. Mag- 
nifico had crept after them and now 
he hovered at the edge of their con- 
versation. 

Toran said tightly, “You killed 
Ebling Mis because you believed 
him to be the focus of infection?” 
Something in her eyes struck him. 
He whispered, “He was the Mule?” 
He did not — could not — believe the 
implications of his oven words. 

Bayta laughed sharply, “Poor 
Ebling the Mule? Galaxy, no! I 
couldn’t have killed him if he were 
the Mule. He would have detected 
the emotion accompanying the move 
and changed it for me to love, devo- 
tion, adoration, terror, whatever he 
pleased. No, I killed Ebling be- 
cause he was not the Mule. I killed 
him because he knew where the 
Second Foundation was, and in two 
seconds would have told the Mule 
the secret.” 

“Would have told the Mule the 
secret,” Toran repeated stupidly. 
“Told the Mule—” 

And then he emitted a sharp cry, 
and turned to stare in horror at the 
clown, who might have been crouch- 
ing unconscious there for the appar- 
ent understanding he had of what 
he heard. 

“Not Magnifico?” Toran whis- 
pered the question. 

“Listen!” said Bayta. “Do you 
remember what happened on Neo- 



THE MU.LB 



161 




trantor? Oh, think for yourself, 
Torie — ” 

But he shook his head and mum- 
bled at her. 

She went on, wearily, “A man 
died on Neotrantor. A man died 
with no one touching him. Isn’t 
that true ? Magnifico played on his 
Visi-Sonor and when he was fin- 
ished, the crown prince was dead. 
Now isn’t that strange? Isn’t it 
queer that a creature afraid of 
everything, apparently helpless with 
terror, has the capacity to kill at 
will.” 

“The music and the light-effects,” 
said Toran, “have a profound emo- 
tional effect — ” 

“Yes, an emotional effect. A 
pretty big one. Emotional effects 
happen to be the Mule’s specialty. 
That, I suppose, can be considered 



a coincidence. And a creature who 
can kill by suggestion is so full of 
fright. Well, the Mule tampered 
with his mind, supposedly, so that 
can be explained. But, Toran, I 
caught a little of that Visi-Sonor 
selection that killed the crown 
prince. Just a little — but it was 
enough to give me that same feeling 
of despair I had in the Time Vault 
and on Haven. Toran, I can’t mis- 
take that particular feeling.” 

Toran’s face was darkening, “I 
. . . felt it, too. I forgot. I never 
thought — ” 

“It was then that it first occurred 
to me. It was just a vague feeling 
— intuition, if you like. I had 
nothing to go on. And then Pritcher 
told us of the Mule and his muta- 
tion, and it was clear in a moment. 
It was the Mule who had created 




188 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE -FICTION 




the despair in the Time Vault; it 
was Magnifico who had created the 
despair on Neotrantor. It was the 
same emotion. Therefore, the Mule 
and Magnifico were the same per- 
son. Doesn’t it work out nicely, 
Torie? Isn’t it just like an axiom 
in geometry — things equal to the 
same thing are equal to each other ?” 

She was at the edge of hysteria, 
but dragged herself back to sobriety 
by main force. She continued, 
“The discovery scared me to death. 
If Magnifico were the Mule, he 
could know my emotions — and cure 
them for his own purposes. I dared 
not let him know. I avoided him. 
Luckily, he avoided me also; he 
was too interested in Ebling Mis. 
I planned killing Mis before he 
could talk. I planned it secretly — 
as secretly as I could — so secretly 
I didn’t dare tell it to myself. If 
I could have killed the Mule him- 
self — But I couldn’t take the 

chance. He would have noticed, 
and I would have lost everything.” 

She seemed drained of emotion. 

Toran said harshly and with 
finality, “It’s impossible. Look at 
the miserable creature. He the 
Mule? He doesn’t even hear what 
we’re saying.” 

But when his eyes followed his 
pointing finger, Magnifico was erect 
and alert, his eyes sharp and darkly 
bright. His voice was without a 
trace of an accent, “I hear her, my 
friend. It is merely that I have been 
sitting here and brooding on the 
fact that with all my cleverness 
and forethought, I could make a 
mistake, and lose so much.” 

Toran stumbled backward as if 



afraid the clown might touch him 
or that his breath might contami- 
nate him. 

Magnifico nodded, and answered 
the unspoken question, "I am the 
Mule.” 

He seemed no longer a grotesque ; ■ 
his pipestem limbs, his beak of a 
nose lost their humor-compelling 
qualities. His fear was gone; his 
bearing was firm. 

He was in command of the situa- 
tion with an ease born of usage. 

He said, tolerantly, “Seat your- 
selves. Go ahead; you might as 
well sprawl out and make your- 
selves comfortable. The game’s 
over, and I’d like to tell you a 
story. It’s a weakness of mine — I 
want people to understand me.” 

And his eyes as he looked at 
Bayta were still the old, soft sad 
brown ones of Magnifico, the 
clown. 

“There is nothing really to my 
childhood,” he began, plunging 
bodily into quick, impatient speech, 
“that I care to remember. Per- 
haps you can understand that. My 
meagerness is glandular; my nose 
I was born with. It was not pos- 
sible for me to lead a normal child- 
hood. My mother died before she 
saw me. I do not know my father. 

I grew up haphazard ; wounded and 
tortured in mind, full of self-pity 
and hatred of others. I was known 
then as a queer child. All avoided 
me; most out of dislike; some out 
of fear. Queer incidents occurred — 
Well, never mind! Enough hap- 
pened to enable Colonel Pritcher, in 
his investigation of my childhood, 



THE MULE 



168 




to realize that I was a mutant, 
which was more than 1 ever realized 
until I was in my twenties.” 

Toran and Bayta listened dis- 
tantly. The wash of his voice 
broke over them, seated on the 
ground as they were, almost un- 
heeded. The clown — or the Mule 
— paced before them with little 
steps, speaking downward to his 
own folded arms. 

“The whole notion of my un- 
usual power seems to have broken 
on me so slowly, in such sluggish 
steps. Even toward the end, I 
couldn’t believe it. To me, men’s 
minds are dials, with pointers that 
indicate the prevailing emotion. It 
is a poor ’picture, but how else can 
I explain it ? Slowly, I learned 
that I could reach into those minds 
and turn the pointer to the spot 
I wished, that I could nail it there 
forever. And then it took even 
longer to realize that others 
couldn’t. 

“But the consciousness of power 
came, and with it, the desire to 
make up for the miserable position 
of my earlier life. Maybe you can 
understand it. Maybe you can try 
to understand it. It isn’t easy to 
be a freak — to have a mind and an 
understanding, and be a freak. 
Laughter and cruelty ! To be differ- 
ent! To be an outsider! 

“You’ve never been through it!” 

Magnifico looked up to the sky 
and teetered on the balls of his feet 
and reminisced stonily, “But I 
eventually did learn, and I decided 
that the Galaxy and I could take 
turns. Come, they had had their 
innings, and I had been patient 

184 



about it — for twenty-two years. My 
turn! It would be up to the rest 
of you to take it! And the odds 
would be fair enough for the 
Galaxy. One of me! Trillions of 
them !” 

He paused to glance at Bayta 
swiftly, “But I had a weakness. I 
was nothing in myself. If I could 
gain power, it could only be by 
means of others. Success came to 
me through middlemen. Always! 
It was as Pritcher said. Through a 
pirate, 1 obtained my first asteroidal 
base of operations. Through an 
industrialist I got my first foothold 
on a planet. Through a variety of 
others ending with the warlord of 
Kalgan, I won Kalgan itself and 
got a navy. After that, it was the 
Foundation — and you two come 
into the story. 

“The Foundation,” he said, 
softly, “was the most difficult task 
I had met. To beat it, I would 
have to win over, break down, or 
render useless an extraordinary pro- 
portion of its ruling class. I could 
have done it from scratch — but a 
short cut was possible, and I looked 
for it. After all, if a strong man 
can lift five hundred pounds, it does 
not mean that he is eager to do so 
continuously. My emotional control 
is not an easy task, I prefer not 
to use it, where not fully necessary. 
So I accepted allies in my first at- 
tack upon the Foundation. 

“As my clown, I looked for the 
agent, or agents, of the Foundation 
that must inevitably have been sent 
to Kalgan to investigate my humble 
self. I know now it was Han 
Pritcher I was looking for. By a 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




stroke of fortune, I found you in- 
stead, I am a telepath, but not a 
complete one, and, my lady, you 
were from the Foundation. I was 
led astray by that. It was not fatal, 
for Pritcher joined us afterward, 
but it was the starting point of an 
error which zvas fatal.” 

Torati stirred for the first time. 
He spoke in an outraged tone, 
“Hold on, now. You mean that 
when I outfaced that lieutenant on 
Kalgan with only a stun pistol, and 
rescued you — that you had emo- 
tionally-controlled me into it.” He 
was spluttering, “You mean I’ve 
been tampered with all along.” 

A thin smile played on Mag- 
nifico’s face, “Why not? You don’t 
think it’s likely? Ask yourself 
then — Would you have risked 
death for a strange grotesque you 
had never seen before, if you had 
been in your right mind ? I imagine 
you were surprised at events in cold 
after-blood.” 

“Yes,” said Bayta, distantly, “he 
was. It’s quite plain.” 

“As it was,” continued the Mule, 
“Toran was in no danger. The 
lieutenant had his own strict in- 
structions to let us go. So the 
three of us and Pritcher went to the 
Foundation — and see how my cam- 
paign shaped itself instantly. When 
Pritcher was court-martialed and 
we were present, I was busy. The 
military judges of that trial later 
commended their squadrons in the 
war. They surrendered rather 
easily, and my Navy won the battle 
of Horleggor, and other lesser 
affairs. 



“Through Pritcher, I met Dr. 
Mis, who brought me a Visi-Souor, 
entirely of his own accord, and sim- 
plified my task immensely. Only it 
wasn’t entirely of his own accord,” 

Bayta interrupted, “Those con- 
certs! I’ve been trying to fit them 
in. Now I see.” 

“Yes,” said Magnifico, “the Visi- 
Sonor acts as a focusing device. 
In a way, it is a primitive device 
for emotional-control in itself. With 
it, I can handle people in quantity 
and single people more intensively. 
The concerts I gave on Terminus 
before it fell and Haven before it 
fell contributed to the general de- 
featism. I might have made the 
crown prince of Neotrantor very 
sick without the Visi-Sonor, but I 
could not have killed him. You see? 

“But it was Ebling Mis who was 
my most important find. He might 
have been — ” Magnifico said it with 
chagrin, then hurried on, “There 
is a special facet to emotional con- 
trol you do not know about. In- 
tuition or insight or hunch-tendency, 
whatever you wish to call it, can be 
treated as an emotion. At least, 
I can treat it so. You don’t under- 
stand it, do you?” 

He waited for no negative, “The 
human mind works at low efficiency. 
Twenty percent is the figure usually 
given. When, momentarily, there 
is a flash of greater power, it is 
termed a hunch, or insight, or intui- 
tion. I found early that I could 
induce a continual use of high 
brain-efficiency. It is a killing 
process for the person affected, but 
it is useful — The atomic field- 
depressor which I used in the war 



THE MBF.H 



165 




against the Foundation was the re- 
sult of high-pressuring a Kalgan 
technician. Again I work through 
others. 

“Ebling Mis was the bull’s-eye. 
His potentialities were high, and 
I needed him. Even before my 
war with the Foundation had 
opened, I had already sent delegates 
to negotiate with the Empire. It 
was at that time I began my search 
for the Second Foundation. Nat- 
urally, I didn’t find it. ' Naturally, 
I knew I must find it — and Ebling 
Mis was the answer. With his mind 
at high efficiency, he might possibly 
have duplicated the work of I~Iari 
Seldon. 

“Partly, he did. I drove him 
to the utter limit. The process was 
ruthless, but had to be completed. 
He was dying at the end, but he 
lived — ” Again, his chagrin inter- 
rupted him, “Fie would have lived 
long enough. Together, we three 
could have gone onward to the 
Second Foundation. It would have 
been the last battle — but for my 
mistake.” 

Toran stirred his voice to hard- 
ness, “Why do you stretch it out 
so? What was your mistake, and 
. . . and have done with your 
speech.” 

“Why, your wife was the mis- 
take. Your wife was an unusual 
person. I had never met her like 
before in my life. I . . . I — ” Quite 
suddenly, Magnifico’s voice broke. 
He recovered with difficulty. There 
was a grimness about him as he 
continued. “She liked me without 
my having to juggle her emotions. 
She was neither repelled by me 

106 



nor amused by me. She pitied me. 
She liked me ! 

“Don’t you understand? Can’t 
you see what that would mean to 
me? Never before had anyone — 
Well, I . . . cherished that. My 
own emotions played me false, 
though I was master of all others. 
I stayed out of her mind, you see; 
I did not tamper with it. I cher- 
ished the natural feeling too greatly. 
It was my mistake — the first. 

“You, Toran, were under con- 
trol. You never suspected me; 
never questioned me ; never saw 
anything peculiar or strange about 
me. As for instance, when the 
‘Filian’ ship stopped us. They 
knew our location, by the way, be- 
cause I was in communication with 
them, as I’ve remained in communi- 
cation with my generals at all times. 
When they stopped us, I was taken 
aboard to adjust Han Pritcher, who 
was on it as a prisoner. When I 
left, he was a colonel, a Mule’s 
man, and in command. The whole 
procedure was too open even for 
you, Toran. Yet you accepted my 
explanation of the matter, which 
was full of fallacies. See what I 
mean ?” 

Toran grimaced, and challenged 
him, “Flow did you retain com- 
munications with your generals?” 

“There was no difficulty to it. 
Ultra-wave senders are easy to 
handle and eminently portable. Nor 
could I be detected in a real sense ! 
Anyone who did catch me in the act, 
would leave me with a slice gapped 
out of his memory. It happened, 
on occasion. 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




“On Neotrantor, my own foolish 
emotions betrayed me again. Bayta 
was not under my control, but even 
so might never have suspected me 
if I had kept my head about the 
crown prince. His intentions to- 
wards Bayta — annoyed me. I 
killed him. It was a foolish gesture. 
An unobtrusive fight would have 
served as well, 

“And still your suspicions would 
not have been certainties, if I had 
stopped Pritcher in his well-inten- 
tioned babbling, or paid less atten- 
tion to Mis and more to you — ” 
He shrugged. 

“That’s the end of it?” asked 
Bayta. 

“That’s the end.” 

“What now, then ?” 

“I’ll continue with my program. 
That I’ll find another as adequately 
brained and trained as Ebling Mis 
in these degenerate days, I doubt. 
I shall have to search for the Sec- 
ond Foundation otherwise. In a 
sense you have defeated me.” 

And now Bayta was upon her 
feet, triumphant, “In a sense? Only 
in a sense? We have defeated you 
entirely! All your victories outside 
the Foundation count for nothing, 
since the Galaxy is a barbarian 
vacuum now. The Foundation it- 
self is only a minor victory, since 
it wasn’t meant to stop your variety 
of crisis. It’s the Second Founda- 
tion you must beat — the Second 
Foundation — and it’s the Second 
Foundation that will defeat you. 
Your only chance was to locate it 
and strike it before it was prepared. 
You won’t do that now. Every 
minute from now on. they will be 




— In a resort town, out of season, 
that was full of death and in- 
trigue and sinister plans! 

A curio collection, a bunch of 
keys, and a blue-green cab led 
The Shadow to one of the most 
gripping adventures of his career 
—THE STARS PROMISE DEATH, 
in the December issue of 

THE 

SHADOW 

AT ALL NEWSSTANDS 



THE MULE 



187 



readier tor you. At this moment, 
at this moment, the machinery may 
have started. You’ll know — when 
it strikes you, and your short term 
of power will be over, and you’ll 
be just another strutting conqueror, 
flashing quickly and meanly across 
the bloody face of history.” 

She was breathing hard, nearly 
gasping in her vehemence, “And 
we’ve defeated you, Toran and I. I 
am satisfied to die.” 

But the Mule’s sad, brown eyes 
were the sad, brown — loving — eyes 
of Magnifico, “I won’t kill you or 
your husband. It is, after all, im- 
possible for you two to hurt me 
further ; and killing you won’t bring 
back Ebling Mis. My mistakes were 
my own, and I take responsibility 
for them. Your husband and your- 
self may leave! Go in peace, for 
the sake of what I call — friendship.” 
Then, with a sudden touch of 
pride, “And meanwhile I am still 
the Mule, the most powerful man in 
the Galaxy. I shall still defeat the 



Second Foundation.” 

And Bayta shot her last arrow 
with a firm, calm certitude, “You 
won’t ! I have faith in the wisdom 
of Seldon yet. You shall be the 
last ruler of your dynasty, as well 
as the first.” 

Something caught Magnifico, 
“Of my dynasty? Yes, 1 had 
thought of that, often. That I 
might establish a dynasty. That I 
might have a suitable consort.” 

Bayta suddenly caught the mean- 
ing of the look in his eyes and froze 
horribly. 

Magnifico shook his head, “I 
sense your revulsion, but that’s silly. 
If things were otherwise, I could 
make you happy very easily. It 
would be an artificial ecstasy, but 
there would be no difference be- 
tween it and the genuine emotion. 
But things are not otherwise. I call 
myself the Mule — but not because 
of my strength — obviously — ” 

He left them, never looking back. 



THE END. 




lflS 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 



Brass Tacks 



The newer “Mother Goose ” will 
probably start zvith “ A is for 
Atom — ” 

Dear Mr. Campbell ; 

The August Astounding with 
“World of A” came recently and 
I picked up Van Vogt’s 550 volt 
A.C, power line, as you put it, and 
I couldn’t let it go until the juice 
was turned off on page 178. I know 
know Van Vogt is an excellent 
writer, but I suspect that fifty per- 
cent of the reason I couldn’t put the 
story down was due to a hypnotic 
suggestion which you planted in my 
subconscious in the June issue. “In 
Times to Come” carried your state- 
ment, “you can’t let go of it.” I 
believed you. Before I even started 
reading “World of A” I found my- 
self thinking, “I can’t stop reading 
it. I can’t stop reading it.” 

Whether you know it or not, Mr, 
Campbell, you have a good psycho- 
logical weapon for getting reader 
interest in a story — or the whole 
magazine for that matter. 

But I know I would have liked 



“World of A” even if you had said 
nothing. I believe Van Vogt is way 
up there at the top among your best 
writers if not the best. I don’t 
instinctively like every piece that 
Van Vogt puts out, but if he writes 
on a subject that interests me I 
know the story will have a very 
powerful effect. 

The illustrations for “World of 
A” were the only good ones in the 
whole magazine. The rest were 
poor ; Kramer’s drawings for “Pipe- 
line to Pluto” were pretty sloppy 
and sketchy. 

I was really downhearted when 
you wrote me of the tragic ending 
of Probability Zero. Beside the 
fact that I was trying to get piece 
published there, I loved to read it. 

As I write this now I can see 
from here the headlines of the 
Tucson paper announcing the un- 
leashing of the new “Atomic 
Bomb” which was dropped on 
Hiroshima on Western Honshu. 
The article states that nothing much 
is left of the city or its three hun- 
dred eighteen thousand inhabitants. 



BRASS TACKS 



160 




One bomb is supposed to be equal in 
destructive power to two thousand 
B-29 loads of TNT, and the total 
explosive charge is, at its biggest, 
the size of a golf ball; the rest of 
the bomb is apparatus for detonat- 
ing it. Nothing is said about the 
nature of the charge, but here and 
there uranium is mentioned. 

All I know about it is what I 
read in the papers. When more 
facts are released, what I have said 
above may turn out to be false 
and extravagant. 

The newspapers print a lot and 
say nothing and make the whole 
thing seem very mysterious. Of 
course, atomic bombs are old stuff 
to Astounding fans and I’m willing 
to bet that the average science en- 
thusiast who has made any study 
at all of atomic physics really 
knows a lot more about these bombs 
and their operation than he thinks 
he does, but officials won’t admit it. 

I’m looking forward to Astound- 
ing for the first really informative 
article on this “new” “secret” 
weapon, and when the cloud of 
secrecy is removed, it probably 
won’t be so mysterious after all. — 
William Vietinghoff, 526 S. Ros- 
kruge Avenue, Tucson, Arizona. 



F oreword — if men will learn not to 
use Atoms for weapons! 

To The Editor: 

The official revelation that Atomic 
Energy is at last a practical reality 
vividly demonstrates the value of 
science-fiction beyond mere “escape” 
reading. 

170 



For who can be better prepared 
than science-fiction readers for the 
discovery, or more aware of the 
social and scientific significance of 
the Atomic Age now upon us? 

Far removed from that category 
of unprofitable fantasy into which 
it is so often placed, science-fiction 
is much more even than a leisure- 
hour pastime for the technically in- 
clined from the layman to the 
scientist: it is an education of a 
public for a future which is now, 
as it has always been, amazing to 
consider. 

And even those who are most 
skeptical of this have been shattered 
and rocked on their foundations like 
Hiroshima, and must make an ad- 
mission — an admission of more 
"than the value of science-fiction: a 
realization, indeed, of the inevita- 
bility of man’s progress. 

What the skeptic will probably 
never acquire, and much he will 
suffer instead, is a confidence that 
this future will be for the better. 

For, despite the fact that the 
“Atomic Bomb” could very easily 
wipe out civilization — the public has 
only just discovered what ASF 
readers have known for years — I 
for one cannot help having an ex- 
hilarating feeling that it is a tre- 
mendous step for the betterment of 
mankind. 

A deep insight into the future 
and the ways of progress, an intro- 
duction to an understanding of con- 
cepts and worlds in the outer 
reaches of man’s imagination — these 
are the offerings of great science- 
fiction. 

The most astounding story you 
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




will ever print will not be fiction 
but the awesome fact that the one 
big step separating our civilization, 
our times, from some of the most 
fantastic prospects ever contem- 
plated by man — finding the key to 
Atomic Energy — has been taken. 

And this story will be incontro- 
vertible proof of the value of 
science-fiction. — J. M. B. Churchill, 
Jr., 20 Chapel Street, Brookline 46, 
Massachusetts. 



Personally, I think you are over- 
conservative. I’d say we should 
reach the Moon by 1950. 

Dear Mr. Campbell: 

Science-fiction has hit it on the 
nose again. When the announce- 
ment came over the radio last night, 
I was as surprised as my parents 
who definitely are not fans of your 
magazine. After the initial shock 
the first thing I thought was, “We’ll 
be on the Moon before ’60.” The 
second thing was “Solution Unsatis- 
factory.” Actual events are too 
blame close to agreement to that 
story to suit me. If I remember 
right no one could supply a better 
answer to the question than the one 
in the story and it doesn’t seem 
that that one is likely to come into 
use. 

The announcement of atomic 
power, which brings into dramatic 
truth so many of the dreams of 
science-fiction, was the thing that 
jogged me loose from my long 
silence but as long as I have started 
the letter I may as well tear the 
past issue into shreds. 



1. “Into Thy Hands” — Lester 
del Rey. This is not the best piece 
of work by del Rey, by any means. 
It is light-years behind “The Day 
Is Done” or “Wings of Night,” but 
still it is a capable work. The end- 
ing was a trifle hazy, since I couldn’t 
exactly fit the time element in, but 
the mood was excellent. 

2. “Paradoxical Escape” — Isaac 
Azimov. The humor was excellent. 
I still can’t see how the author can 
get so many plots out of merely 
three little rules. The characters 
were poorly drawn. Despite the 
fact that I have met them before 
I could not always keep them sep- 
arate. It is well for the authors 
to remember that there are many 
readers that merely skim a story 
and have a hard time following a 
dozen characters in a short. It im- 
proved with rereading. — B. 

3. “Gift Horse” — Ross Rock- 
lynne. I liked the idea and the style 
of writing. However, I never did 
quite get the solution. Maybe I’m 
dumb, but too many of these stories 
seem to lack clarity. — B. 

4. “The World of A”— A. E. Van 
Vogt. After reading this I went 
back and reread for the dozenth 
time “Sian.” How the mighty have 
fallen. There was no comparison 
between the clear-cut action of 
“Sian” and the complexity of this 
story. With the exception of 
“Asylum” and “The Weapon Shop,” 
Van Vogt hasn’t written an A class 
story since 1940. — C. 

5. “Pipeline to Pluto” — Murray 
Leinster. This was the clearest 
story in the issue, but it lacked pur- 
pose. — C. 



BRASS TACKS 



m 




As a whole the issue was good. 
There were no outstanding stories 
in either direction. The illustrations 
were poor. It will be a good thing 
when we can once again have 
Rogers’ covers and Schneeman as 
work artist. Orban’s work is accept- 
able and Kramer’s was better than 
bis average. 

Before I leave you I’ll put in my 
personal selections for the best 
stories since the middle of ’37. 

1. ‘’Final Blackout” — Hubbard. 

2. “Sian” — Van Vogt. 

.5. “Who Goes There ?”— Stuart. 

4. “Greater than Gods” — Moore. 

5. “Clash by Night”— O’Donnell. 

6. “Roads Must Roll” — Heinlein. 

7. “Admiral’s Inspection” — 

Jameson. 

8. “Asylum” — Van Vogt. 

9. “Blowsups Happen” — Hein- 

lein. 

10. “The Master Shall Not Die” 

—Miller. 

Below third place the choices are 
as dose as the destinction between 
Watson and Henderson, but the 
first three are out and away in the 
lead. The thing that tells the quality 
of the stories in this magabine is 
not so much the ones that are on but 
the ones that are left off. — James 
Bourne. 



The highest frequencies recorded 
on records run about 15,000 
cycles. Television requires at 
least 4 , 000,000 cycles per second! 

Dear Campbell : 

1 have just finished reading a 
popular article in the Toronto Star 

172 



Weekly on John Logie Baird. One 
paragraph interested me vastly as 
recently I wrote a pseudo-scientific 
article for one of the west coast 
fanzines in which I discussed re- 
cording television or any motion 
picture on disks and went into de- 
tails on how I thought it might be 
done. 

Anyway, in this article on Baird, 
this paragraph said that in 1928, in 
London, Baird, while working on 
his early television experiments, 
stumbled, by accident on “Phono- 
vision.” The paragraph went on 
to say that if a television trans- 
mitter is coupled to a loud-speaker 
— through a receiver I presume— 
sounds are heard. If these sounds 
are recorded, and then played back 
through a television receiver — the 
article said screen, but I take this 
to infer the use of a complete re- 
ceiver — the original picture is re- 
produced. 

I was wondering what you 
thought of this. 

The thought also struck me that 
if this is possible, and I think it is, 
and it was developed, might it not 
be possible that some day we could 
buy movies, not on the present day 
film, but on disks, like phonograph 
records, only, perhaps, made of 
some more substantial material? 
Might it not be possible these disks 
would in time replace the present 
method of motion picture films? 

Naturally, some other thoughts 
pop up, as I am trying this: the 
material used would have to be per- 
fect from the standpoint of “sur- 
face noise.” Surface noise in the 
modern record is known as needle 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




scratch. In radio transcriptions this 
is reduced to almost the vanishing 
point. But in such “plionovision,” 
what would it do to the picture? 
Would it be marred by “static” as 
television is at times by ignition 
interference? Bright flashes, streaks, 
spots, and so forth flicking across 
the screen 

Another thing : as television takes 
in such a broad range of fre- 
quencies, at what speed would such 
a disk have to run to allow of per- 
fect recording and reproduction ? 
Wouldn’t it have to be many times 
the standard 33 1/3 — for radio 
transcriptions — and 78 rpm — for 
the regular disk? Would the land 
between the grove have to be wider 
to permit of higher percentages of 
modulation of the, grove and yet 
prevent overcutting? Mightn’t it 
be better to not use lateral cutting, 
but use vertical, or hill and dale, 
method ? 

This is, naturally, all in the order 
of theorizing, but I think there is 
some basis in it, don’t you ? — Leslie 
A. Croutch, Box 121, Parry Sound, 
Ontario, Canada, 



First sale of Astounding on the 
Moon by IQ55, I’m betting! 

Dear Mr. Campbell: 

It might be of some interest to 
you to know of the popularity of 
your magazine in such a far off 
place as Australia. (Sorry, it has 
no popularity in the Philippines, 
because it just isn’t available!) 

On the last Friday of each month, 



in the West Australian city of 
Perth, about seventy-five copies of 
your magazine are distributed to 
the three or four major book shops. 
(The rest can’t get them at all.) 
Before Friday evening, none are 
left, which is only natural. 

Furthermore, when the magazine 
reaches Australia, it has gone 
through England, where, as you 
know, it is reprinted entirely, leav- 
ing out all illustrations, and ending 
up with about the thickness of the 
Liberty magazine. By the time it 
gets to Australia, it is about four 
or five months old. But it's news 
to us! 

The biggest market for your 
magazine, though, is in the second- 
hand bookstores. Here, it brings 
three times it’s new price, even 
though I think I remember seeing 
various SF magazines as old as 
1933 ! And don’t think it’s easy to 
buy one of these fifteen-year-old 
magazines, either! Like cigarettes, 
you have to be a personal friend of 
the management. 

That’s why I’ve just subscribed 
to your magazine — I am too far 
away from Australia to be friendly 
with the management ! — Norman E. 
Cook, RMlc. 



The Atomic Bomb does use Solar 
Power! 

Dear Mr. Campbell: 

This atomic bomb business ties in 
amazingly well with a remark I 
made on page 126 in my article 
“Prominences.” 

In discussing theories to account 



BRASS TACKS 



1T8 




for high ionization in the corona I 
said that the “East Indian physicist, 
Saji a, who in 1920 at one stroke 
gave us a complete explanation of 
conditions in the chromosphere, has 
advanced a theory based upon re- 
sults observed when uranium is 
bombarded by neutrons.” 

To be precise, here is what Saha 
said (The Observatory, February 
1945, page 20) : 

“I believe it to be more likely that 
some process occurs near the Sun’s 
surface which is akin to uranium 
fission, discovered by Hahn and 
Strassemann in 1939, and discussed 
by Bohr and Wheeler. In the labo- 
ratory experiments on this phe- 
nomenon it is found that neutron 
bombardment of the uranium 
nucleus may result in a reaction of 
the type 

U M * + „n‘ = xA Ml + yB Ml Z, nl + Q ' 

where M 1 +M 2 =236-Z ; x-fy=92 ; 
Qs=200,000,000 electron volts ( !) ; 
and Z is the number of neutrons 
evaporated.” 

Of course, U 235 we now know is 
the element that splits into barium 
and presumably krypton with enor- 
mous evolution of energy. 

When President Truman said 
that the atomic bomb derives its 
enormous energy from the same 
source that keeps the sun shining, 
I doubt whether he had this in mind, 
but the remark is certainly sugges- 
tive. — Robert S. Richardson, 813 
Santa Barbara Street, Pasadena 4, 
California. 

I’ll bet you’ll soon be deluged by 



stories in which mad scientists blow 
up the world by atomic fission. 



We arc printing one part of the 
Smyth report — but every reader of 
this magazine should, somehow, buy 
a copy of that report. It is the 
most important document in human 
history. 

Dear Mr. Campbell: 

Now that the news has broken on 
Oak Ridge, it is possible for me to 
write you and ask several questions 
without getting tangled up with 
Security regulations. 

In what issues of Astounding did 
you print the stories “Blowups 
Happen” and one called, I think, 
“Nerves ?” 

And do you know of any place 
where I might be able to get hold of 
these back copies? I used to have 
them, but when one has moved 
around the country as much as I 
have in the past several years. . , , 

I don’t know if you had any of 
your regular writers working in 
connection with the Project — I do 
know that you had a large'* number 
of your regular readers. In this 
section, Astounding outsold all 
other science-fiction magazines by 
a ratio of about 5 to 1, and for good 
reason. 

One of the most interesting docu- 
ments of recent times is the Smyth 
report, excerpts of which have ap- 
peared in some of the newspapers. 
You ought to be able to get hold of 
it; but from whom I do not know. 
If you could get it and print parts 



174 



ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 





/tom under their daily mountains of paper work, many a secret 
tary, and many an executive, has paid conscious or uncon- 
scious tribute to the wartime efficiency of the Smith -Corona 



typewriter. Its easy "write,” speed in action and freedom from 
repairs have earned it a special place in the affections of its users. 






Groton 



l C SMITH & CORONA TYPEWRITERS INC SYRACUSE J N Y &«»• 



SMITH- CORONA 



or all of it, which might be possible, 
I know that it as a factual account 
of the development of the atomic 
bomb should certainly be as inter- 
esting as the earlier fictional ac- 
counts of the same thing. Most of 
the fiction seems pretty dull and 
unimaginative now, doesn’t it? And 
how many years will it be before 
interplanetary travel is feasible? 

If you desire to print this letter, 
you may, but please withhold ray 
name. — Clinton Engineer Works, 
Tennessee Eastman Corporation, 
Oak Ridge, Tennessee. 



Theodore Sturgeon, 

Apt. 5 A, 151 8th Ave., 
New York 11, N. Y. 

AUGUST SIXTH 
1945 

(There is music; it is Sibelius and 
Bach , it is richness and exacti- 
tude, a rushing bass and a wrench- 
ing treble, the bass aimed for the 
belly and the treble for the tear- 
ducts . . , 

There is a man asleep. He walks 
and moves and builds but he is 
asleep. His eyes are closed be- 
cause he is asleep. He does not 
knozv how big he is because he is 
asleep. He is made of scar tissue. 

There are voices. They are all his 
voice. The places where the 
voices are heard are all here 
where he is.) 

Magazine Store: 

Who buys this crap? 

That kind of thing is ridiculous. 

178 



Just to settle it for. once and for 
all, where would they get the power? 
(The echo begins. It whispers 
‘'power power power ” until the 
whisper is a sheet, a screen, a 
thing all one color getting 
brighter. It never stops again. 
It gets behind the music and 
brings the music forward .) 
School : 

I am trying to be reasonable about 
this, children. I must make you 
understand that it harms you to 
escape into such tripe. Confine 
yourself to the books I give you. 
You must not clutter up your 
minds with such impossible non- 
sense. 

Home : 

Pulp magazines again ! Must 
you read stories 
About rockets 
About space flight 
About space warps 
About new sociologies 
Silly ! Where would they get the 
power ? 

(The echo deepens ) 

Cemetery : 

... to finally prove the impos- 
sibility of the railroad’s replacing 
the canal. How can you expect 
the smooth wheels of a locomo- 
tive resting with only the locomo- 
tive’s weight on a smooth track — 
only one point for each wheel, 
gentlemen — to yield traction 
enough to move a train? Who 
wants a means of transportation 
which would prohibit a man’s 
using bis own carriage as he now 
may use his own canal boat ? 

. . . these dreamers who want 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 




to build flying machines heavier 
than the air that supports them 
have not faced the issue. What 
would be the status of shipping 
today if ships depended upon 
their engines, not only to drive 
them, but to keep them afloat? 

'(From somewhere, the fingers of 
Langley, Lilienthal, Stephenson, 
Fulton (ouch the mein’s sealed 
eyelids. He rubs them, and rubs 
again, and finds that scars have 
not covered his eyes. He is 
afraid and keeps them closed.) 

Newstand : 

Who writes this crap? 

Places with typewriters: 

I wrote a story about decentral- 
ization, because cities could not 
dare exist when each city had 
bombs that . . , 

I wrote a story about a meteor 
detector that worked controls 
when it received the reflection of 
a radio signal . . , 

I wrote a story about a reaction 
engine . , . 

I wrote a story about a rocket 
projectile . , . 

I wrote a story about a robot 
flying bomb , , , 

Subway : 

The heck with that stuff, I 
druther read stories about real 
life. I druther read something 
that has to do with me. 

Place with a typewriter; 

I am afraid, I tell you that deep 
down inside I have a cold lump 
about this thing. I know we 
must be doing something about it 
because although it is old stuff to 
us have been asked not to mention 



} <S2C 4h\i \ '! 


in 


pi; 1 . ; 


■ V i 

if / 



Pmident 



Vicfl-PrftsidM* 



MIDWEST 

RADIO CORPORATION 

C&lebrates Us 

25 th 

Anniversary Year 



The year 1045 completes a quarter- 
century of pioneering and achieve- 
ment in the field of radio for Mid- 
west. Few manufacturers can match, 
this record of continuous radio 
manufacture or Midwest's faithful 
adherence to high qualify stand- 
ards. 



Although present production is 
exclusively devoted to the manu- 
facture of radio and radfer instru- 
ments for our Armed Forces, Mid- 
west is planning new and finer 
radios for tomorrow. 



Plan to Buy Your Postwar Radio 
Direct from the Midwest Factory 

That’s how thousands of Midwest 
.Radio owners, for 25 years, have 
enjoyed the finest in radio . . , 
and at 

SAVINGS UP TO 50% 
WRITE FOR CATALOG NOWt 



There is already a heavy advance 
demand for the Midwest Radio 
Catalog to be issued after Victory. 
To be sure that you will receive 
one of the first copies, we urge 
you to send us your request TO- 
DAY, Write direct to Mr. A. C. 
Hoffman, President. 



MIDWEST RADIO CORPORATION 

DEPT. 42-BB CINCINNATI 2,.OHIO 



Bit A 98 TACKS 



ITT 



it in our stories for security rea- 
sons. It is too big for us. It can 
be good — it can give us power so 
cheap it would be free. It can 
give us a four-day work week, 
five hours a day. It can give us 
riches. But we are not old 
enough for it yet. I pray God 
that it will be discovered and used 
before this war is finished, so that 
everyone will know how big it 
is, how good, how horrible. 
Atomic power 

( The " atomic ” -finds its place in the 
echo, in the interstices between 
“power power power” and gives 
a staccato tone to the sheet of 
sound. The man’s eyes open a 
crack and now he sees, but he 
sees death, because death came to 
stand before him when his eyes 
opened. He is afraid and tries 
to close them but a whisper, a 
transparent whisper, creeps be- 
tween his eyelids and holds them 
open.) 

Whisper : 

On December 7, 1944, the news- 
paper said there was no bombing 
activity over Japan. Somewhere 
else the newspaper said there was 
a small B-29 reconnaissance 
flight off the Japanese coast, just 
where the Japan deep is. The 
Japanese islands sit on the edge 
of the Japan deep, like houses on 
the edge of a cliff. Somewhere 
else the newspaper said there was 
quite an earthquake that clay. 
That day was December 7th, 
December 7th. Remember ? 

(The whisper slips away to the fig- 
ure of death, and the man who 

m 



can see now realises that death 
is transparent like the whisper, 
and through death he can see how 
big he is. He stretches his body 
and feels haw strong he is. He 
opens his eyes a little more.) 

Radio : 

The president says that the bomb 
that struck Hiroshima on August 
6, 1945 was atomic. The presi- 
dent does not call it atomic ex- 
plosive. The president calls it 
atomic p®wer. 

(The echo is greater than the music 
now; greater than anything else 
but the man now.) 

Places with typewriters: 

We are writing stories about the 
future 

About machines 'that can think 
creatively 

About interstellar flight 
About the psychological fulfill- 
ment of mankind 
About mutations caused by hard 
radiation from atomic bombs 
About empathy, second-order 
space, contra-terrene matter, 
levitation, astral separation, telep-' 
athy, the intuitive mutation, uni- 
versal syntheses, time-travel, 
silicon life, and the evolution of 
intelligence in rats. 

Street corner : 

Why do you read that crap? 

( But the man with the open eyes 
does not hear that. II e is looking 
at himself , on the other side of 
death. He knows— he learned on 
August 6, 1945, that he alone is 
big enough to kill himself, or to 
live forever.) 

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION 





"Clancy, I think you done that on purpose!" 



The. word “Evercadtr" is a r roistered trade-mark of National Carbon Company , Inc . 



m/MfflWMmtm 



At LAST— you cun buy all the Fresh, dated 
“Eveready” flashlight batteries you need! Your 
fouler has them now, in the si/e that fits your 
flashlight. 

Naturally, they’re still on the job with 1 lie 
Armed Forces— but there are plenty for civilian 
use, as well. 

So be sure and ask for fresh, dated “Eveready” 
flashlight batteries. The famous date-line proves 
(that you get a fresh, full-power battery every 
time . . . your very best assurance <:f depend- 
able service and long battery life. 



EVEREADY 

FLASHLIGHT BATTERIES 







Color photograph by Leon De Vos 



For pocket or purse... 

the TRIUMPH" TUCKA WAY 

Sheaffer's new "TRIUMPH” TUCKAWAY is "at home” wher- 
ever it’s carried — in trousers pocket or lady’s purse — and safe 
in any position! For conventional carrying, its new "Fast-On” 
clasp automatically adjusts itself to heaviest suitings or thinnest 
shirting. Diminutive when closed, but a good-sized pen opened 
for writing . . . you’ll like its size, capacity, transparent barrel 
and smooth Ufa Ume* POINT. Here’s new convenience com- 
bined with new writing ease — with extreme durability and 
fine materials crafted to the highest standards. 

W. A. Sheaffer Pen Co., Fort Madison, Iowa, U. S. A., 
and Toronto, Ontario, Canada. 



THE NEW 

JLfoUnte 

POINT 



THE WHITE DOT 

°D£N l rfms <V /r/ Sheaffer’s are still scarce, but supplies are increasing daily 



CREST TUCKAWAY DELUXE pen, $17.50; pencil, $6; complete set, $23.50. Other sets, 
$3.95 to $150. Other pens, $2.75 to $100. Colors: Golden Brown, Marine Green, Carmine, 
Grey Pearl and Black, Federal excise taxes additional. 



LISTEN EVERY SUNDAY »o 
SHEAFFER’S WORLD PARADE— 



c Hew 



TRIUMPH 






NBC Complete Network , 

3 P.M. E.W.T.; 2 P.M. C.W.T.; 
1P.M. M.W.T.; 12 P.M. P.W.T. 



SHEAFFER3 



. 



Copyright 1645, W. A. Sheaffer Pen Co. 
♦Trademark Reg. U. S. Pat. Off.