The Planet Strappers (2024)

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A Million Miles Beyond the Moon...

... Nelson and Ramos sped on toward Mars intheir tiny plastic-bubble spacecraft. They wereon the alert—it didn't pay to take anythingfor granted in the Big Vacuum....

The way between the worlds was mostlyempty space—except for the outlaws of thevoid who drifted, patiently and vengefullywaiting for a victim, then struck!

Nelsen and Ramos tensed—blips on the radarscreen! Maybe meteors... More blips—andfist-sized chunks of rock flicked through theirfragile vehicles. Air puffed out ... and Nelsonand Ramos were fighting for their lives...

... A Million Miles Beyond the Moon!

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Raymond
Z. Gallun

PYRAMID BOOKS, 444 Madison Avenue, New York 22, New York

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THE PLANET STRAPPERS,
by Raymond Z. Gallun

This book is fiction. No resemblance is intended between anycharacter herein and any person (Here or Out There), living ordead; any such resemblance is purely coincidental.

Published by Pyramid Books
First printing: October 1961

Printed in the United States of America

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I

The Archer Five came in a big packing box,bound with steel ribbons and marked, This end up—handlewith care. It was delivered at a subsidized government surplusprice of fifty dollars to Hendricks' Sports and Hobbies Center,a store in Jarviston, Minnesota, that used to deal mostly inskin diving equipment, model plane kits, parts for souping upold cars, and the like. The Archer Five was a bit obsolete forthe elegant U.S. Space Force boys—hence the fantastic dropin price from two thousand dollars since only last June. It wasstill a plenty-good piece of equipment, however; and the costchange was a real break for the Bunch.

By 4:30 that bright October afternoon, those members whowere attending regular astronautics classes at Jarviston TechnicalCollege had gathered at Hendricks' store. Ramos andTiflin, two wild characters with seldom-cut hair and pipe stempants, who didn't look as if they could be trusted with a delicateunpacking operation, broke the Archer out with a care bornof love, there in Paul Hendricks' big backroom shop, whilethe more stolid members—and old Paul, silent in his swivelchair—watched like hawks.

"So who tries it on first?" Ramos challenged. "Dumb question.You, Eileen—naturally."

Most Bunches have a small, hard, ponytailed member,dungareed like the rest.

Still kidding around, Ramos dropped an arm across EileenSands' shoulders, and got her sharp elbow jabbed with vigorinto his stomach.

She glanced back in a feminine way at Frank Nelsen, a tall,lean guy of nineteen, butch-haircutted and snub featured. Buthe was the purposeful, studious kind, more an observer and apersonal doer than a leader; he hadn't much time for theencouraging smiles of girls, and donning even an Archer Fivenow instead of within a few hours, didn't exactly represent hiskind of hurry.

"I'll wait, Eileen," he said. Then he nodded toward GimpHines. That the others would also pick Gimp was evident atonce. There were bravos and clapping, half for a joke.

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"Think I won't?" Gimp growled, tossing his crutches on aworkbench littered with scraps of color-coded wire, and hoppingforward on the one leg that had grown to normal size.He sort of swaggered, Frank Nelsen noticed. Maybe the wholeBunch swaggered with him in a way, because, right now,he represented all of them in their difficult aim. Gimp Hines,with the nylon patch in his congenitally imperfect heart, andwith that useless right underpinning, had less chance of takingpart in space-development than any of them—even with allhis talent for mechanics and electronics.

Two-and-Two (George) Baines, a large, mild person whowas an expert bricklayer in his spare time, while he struggledto absorb the intricate math that spacemen are supposed toknow—he used to protest that he could at least add two andtwo—bounced forward, saying, "I'll give yuh a hand, Gimp."

Mitch Storey, the lean colored kid with the passion for allplant life, and the specific urge to get somehow out to Mars,was also moving to help Gimp into the Archer. Gimp wavedthem off angrily, but they valeted for him, anyhow.

"Shucks, Gimp," Storey soothed. "Anybody needs assistance—thefirst time..."

They got his good leg, and what there was of the other, intothe boots. They laced carefully, following all they had learnedfrom books. They rolled the wire-braced silicone rubber body-sectionup over his torso, guided his arms into the sleeves,closed the zipper-sealers and centered the chest plate. Whilethe others checked with their eyes, they inspected the nipplesof the moisture-reclaimer and chlorophane air-restorer capsules.They lifted the helmet of clear, darkened plastic overhis head, and dogged it to the gasket with the automatic turnbuckles.By then, Gimp Hines' own quick fingers, in the gloves,were busy snapping this and adjusting that. There was a sleepyhum of aerating machinery.

"It even smells right, in here," Gimp growled muffledly,trying to be nonchalant.

There was loud laughter and clapping. Ramos whistledpiercingly, with two fingers. The huge Kuzak twins, Art andJoe—both had football scholarships at Tech—gave Indianyells. Eileen Sands clasped her hands over her head and wentup on her toes like the ballet dancer she had once meant to be.Old Paul, in his chair, chortled, and slapped his arm. Evenlittle David Lester said "Bravo!" after he had gulped. Theapplause wasn't entirely facetious.

Gimp's whole self had borrowed hard lines and an air ofcompetence from the Archer Five. For a second he looked likesomebody who could really cross millions of miles. There wasa tiny, solar-powered ionic-propulsion unit mounted on thep.7shoulders of the armor, between the water-tank and the beam-typeradio transmitter and receiver. A miniaturized radarsprouted on the left elbow joint. On the inside of the Archer'schest plate, reachable merely by drawing an arm out of asleeve, emergency ration containers were racked. In the sameplace was a small airlock for jettisoning purposes and fortaking in more supplies.

"What do yuh know—toilet facilities, yet!" Ramos chirpedwith spurious naivete, and there were guffaws which soon diedout. After all, this was a serious occasion, and who wanted tobe a jerk? Now that the price had been shoved down into theground, they could probably get their Archer Fives—their all-importantvacuum armor. They were one more hurdle nearerto the stars.

Two regular members of the Bunch hadn't yet shown up.Ten were present, including Gimp in the Archie. All weredifferent. Each had a name.

But Frank Nelsen figured that numbers, names, and individualvariations didn't count for much, just then. They were acrowd with an overall personality—often noisy, sometimesquiet like now, always a bit grim to sustain their nerve beforeall they had to learn in order to reduce their inexperiencedgreenness, and before the thought of all the expensive equipmentthey had to somehow acquire, if they were to take partin the rapid adaptation of the solar system to human uses.Most of all, their courage was needed against fear of a regionthat could be deadly dangerous, but that to them seemedwonderful like nothing else.

The shop smelled of paint, solvent and plastic, like most anyother. Gimp, sitting in the Archer, beside the oil-burning stove,didn't say any more. He forgot to play tough, and seemed tolose himself in a mind-trip Out There—probably as far as hewould ever get. His face, inside the helmet, now lookedpinched. His freckles were very plain in his paled cheeks.Gimp was awed.

So was everybody else, including Paul Hendricks, owner ofthe Hobby Center, who was approaching eighty and was outof the running, though his watery blue eyes were still showingthe shine of boyhood, right now.

Way back, Paul Hendricks used to barnstorm county fairsin a wood-and-fabric biplane, giving thrill rides to sports andtheir girls at five dollars a couple, because he had been bornsixty years too soon.

Much later in his spotty career, he had started the store. Hehad also meant to do general repair work in the backroomshop. But in recent years it had degenerated into an impromptuclub hall, funk hole, griping-arguing-and-planning pit, extracurricularp.8study lab and project site for an indefinite horde ofinterplanetary enthusiasts who were thought of in Jarvistonas either young adults of the most resourceful kind—for whomthe country should do much more in order to insure its futurein space—or as just another crowd of delinquents, more benton suicide and trouble-making than any hot rod group hadever been. Paul Hendricks was either a fine, helpful citizen—amongso many who were disinterested and preoccupied—ora corrupting Socrates who deserved to drink hemlock.

Frank Nelsen knew all this as well as most. He had beenacquainted with Paul ever since, at the age of seven, he hadcome into the store and had tried to make a down payment ona model building kit for a Y-71 ground-to-orbit freight rocket—clearlymarked $49.95 in the display window—with his fortuneof a single dime. Frank had never acquired a Y-71 kit,but he had found a friend in Paul Hendricks, and a place tohang around and learn things he wanted to know. Later on,as now, he had worked in the store whenever he had some freetime.

Frank leaned against a lathe, watching the others, the frostythrill and soul-searching hidden inside himself. Maybe it washard to guess what Eileen Sands, standing near, was thinking,but she was the firm kind who would have a definite direction.Perhaps unconsciously, she hummed a tune under her breath,while her feet toyed with graceful steps. No doubt, her mindwas also on the Big Vacuum beyond the Earth.

But what is there about a dangerous dream? When it is farout of reach, it has a safe, romantic appeal. Bring its fulfillmenta little closer, and its harsh aspects begin to show. Youget a kick out of that, but you begin to wonder nervously ifyou have the guts, the stamina, the resistance to lonelinessand complete strangeness.

Looking at a real Archie—with a friend inside it, even—didthis to Frank Nelsen. But he could see similar reactionsin some of the others.

Mitch Storey sat, bent forward, on a box, staring at his big,sepia hands, in which he tossed back and forth a tiny, clearcapsule containing a fuzzy fragment of vegetation from Mars.He had bought this sealed curio from Paul a year ago for fiftydollars—souvenirs that came from so far were expensive.And now, in view of what was happening to hopeful colonistsof that once inhabited and still most Earth-like other planet,ownership of such a capsule on Earth seemed about to bebanned, not only by departments of agriculture, but by bodiesdirectly concerned with public safety.

Did the color photographs of Mars, among all the othersthat the Bunch had thumbtacked to the shop walls, still appealp.9as strongly to Mitch? Did he still want to go out to that worldof queer, swirled markings, like the fluid flow in the dregs ofa paper coffee cup? Mitch would—more so than ever. He hadplant life in his soul, maybe from wandering in the swampsnear his home in Mississippi. He had been supporting himselfhere at school by fixing gardens. If it was plant life of a different,dangerous sort, with other billions of years of developmentbehind it, that just made the call stronger. Mitch just satand thought, now, the mouth organ he seldom played saggingforward in his frayed shirt pocket.

Ramos—Miguel Ramos Alvarez—only stood with his black-visoredcap pushed back on his head, and a co*cky smirk ofgood humor on his mouth. Reckless Ramos, who went tearingaround the country in an ancient motor scooter, decoratedwith squirrel tails and gaudy bosses, would hardly be disturbedby any risky thing he wanted to do. The thumbtacked picturesof the systems of far, cold Jupiter and Saturn—Saturn still unapproached,except by small, instrumented rockets—would bethe things to appeal to him.

The Kuzak twins stood alertly, as if an extra special homecomingfootball game was in prospect. But they weren't givento real doubts, either. From their previous remarks it was clearthat the asteroids, those fragments of an exploded and oncepopulated world, orbiting out beyond Mars, would be forthem. Osmium, iridium, uranium. The rich, metallic guts ofa planet exposed for easy mining. Thousands of prospectors,hopeful characters, and men brutalized by the life in space,were already drifting around in the Asteroid Belt.

Two-and-Two Baines wore a worried, perplexed expression.He was a massive, rather lost young man who had to keep upwith the times, and with his companions, and was certainlywondering if he was able.

Little David Lester, the pedant, the mother's boy, wholooked eighteen but was probably older, pouted, and his heavylips in his thin face moved. "Cores," Nelsen heard him whisper.He had the habit of talking to himself. Frank knew hisinterests. Drill cores withdrawn from the strata of anotherplanet, and inspected for fossils and other evidences of its longhistory, was what he probably meant. Seeing Gimp in theArchie had set off another scientific reverie in his head. Hewas a whizz in any book subject. Maybe he had the brains tobe a great investigator of the past, in the Belt or on Mars, ifhis mind didn't crack first, which seemed sure to happen if heleft Earth at all.

But it was Glen Tiflin's reactions that were the strangest. Hehad his switch blade out, and was tossing it expertly against awall two-by-four, in which it stuck quivering each time. Thisp.10seemed his one skill, his pride, his proof of manhood. And hewanted to get into space like nobody else around, except maybeGimp Hines. It wasn't hard to sense how his head worked—thewhole Bunch knew.

Tiflin's face seemed to writhe, now, with self-doubt andtruculence; his eyes were on the photos of the heroes, beginningway back; Goddard. Von Braun. Clifford, who had firstlanded on the far side of the Moon. LaCrosse, who hadreached Mercury, closest to the sun. Vasiliev, who had justcome back from the frozen moons of Jupiter, scoring a triumphfor the Tovies—somebody had started calling them that,a few years ago—up in high Eurasia, the other side of anideological rift that still threatened the ever more crowded andcompetitive Earth, though mutual fear had so far kept theflare ups within limits. Bannon, whose expedition was evennow exploring the gloomy cellar of Venus' surface, smotheredin steam, carbon dioxide and poisonous formaldehyde.

To Tiflin, as to the others, even such places were glamorous.But he wanted to be a big shot, too. It was like a compulsion.He was touchy and difficult. Three years back, he had beenin trouble for breaking and entering. Maybe his worship ofspace, and his desire to get there and prove himself, were theonly things that had kept him straight for so long—grimly attentiveat Tech, and at work at his car-washing job, nights.

In his nervousness, now, he stuck a cigarette savagely betweenhis lips, and lighted it with a quick, arrogant gesture,hardly slowing down the continuous toss and recovery of hisknife.

This had begun to annoy big Art Kuzak. For one thing,Tiflin was doing his trick too close to the mass of crinkly,cellophane-like stuff draped over a horizontal wooden polesuspended by iron straps from the ceiling. The crinkly masswas one of the Bunch's major projects—their first space bubble,or bubb which they had been cutting and shaping withmore care and devotion than skill.

"Cripes—put that damn shiv away, Tif!" Art snapped. "Orlose it someplace!"

Ramos, who was a part-time mechanic at the same garagewhere Tiflin worked, couldn't help taunting. "Yeah—smoking,too. Oh-oh. Using up precious oxygen. Better quit, pal. Can'tdo much of that Out There."

This was a wrong moment to rib Tiflin. He was in an instantflare. But he ground out the cigarette at once, bitterly. "Whatdo you care what I do, Mex?" he snarled. "And as for you twoHunky Kuzaks—you oversized bulldozers—how about weightlimits for blastoff? Damn—I don't care how big you are!"

In mounting rage, he was about to lash out with his fists,p.11even at the two watchful football men. But then he lookedsurprised. With a terrible effort, he bottled up even his furiouswords.

The Bunch was a sort of family. Members of families maylove each other, but it doesn't have to happen. For a secondit was as if Ramos had Tiflin spitted on some barb of histaunting smile—aimed at Tiflin's most vulnerable point.

Ramos clicked his tongue. What he was certainly going toremark was that people who couldn't pass the emotional stabilitytests, just couldn't get a space-fitness card. But Ramoswasn't unkind. He checked himself in time. "No sweat, Tif,"he muttered.

"Hey, Gimp—are you going to sit in that Archie all night?"Joe Kuzak, the easy-going twin, boomed genially. "How aboutthe rest of us?"

"Yeah—how about that, Gimp?" Dave Lester put in, tryingto sound as brash and bold as the others, instead of just bookish.

Two-and-Two Baines, still looking perplexed, spoke in ahoarse voice that sounded like sorrow. "What I wanna knowis just how far this fifty buck price gets us. Guess we haveenough dough left in the treasury to buy us each an ArcherFive, huh, Paul?"

Paul Hendricks rubbed his bald head and grinned in a waythat attempted to prove him a disinterested sideliner. "AskFrank," he said. "He's your historian-secretary and treasurer."

Frank Nelsen came out of his attitude of observationenough to warn, "That much we've got, if we want as many astwelve Archies. And a little better than a thousand dollarsmore, left over from the prize money."

They had won twenty-five hundred dollars during the summerfor building a working model of a sun-powered ionicdrive motor—the kind useful for deep-space propulsion, butfar too weak in thrust to be any good, starting from theground. The contest had been sponsored by—of all outfits—abig food chain, Trans-Columbia. But this wasn't so strange.Everybody was interested in, or affected by, interplanetarytravel, now.

On a workbench, standing amid a litter of metal chips andscraps of color-coded wire, was the Bunch's second ionic, full-sizethis time, and almost finished. On crossed arms it mountedfour parabolic mirrors; its ion guide was on a universal joint.Out There, in orbit or beyond, and in full, spatial sunlight, itsjetting ions would deliver ten pounds of continuous thrust.

"A thousand bucks—that's nowhere near enough," Two-and-Twomourned further. "Doggone, why can't we get blastedup off the Earth—that costs the most, all by itself—just in ourp.12Archies? They've got those little ionic drives on their shoulders,to get around with, after we're in orbit. Lots of asteroid hopperslive and ride only in their space suits. Why do they makeus get all that other expensive equipment? Space bubbs, full-sizeionics, lots of fancy instruments!"

"'Cause it isn't legal, otherwise," Mitch Storey pointed out."'Cause new men are green—it isn't safe for them, otherwise—theExtra-Terrestrial Commission thinks. Got to have allthe gear to get clearance. Travelling light isn't even legal inthe Belt. You know that."

"Maybe we'll win us another prize," Ramos laughed, touchingthe crinkly substance of their first bubb, hanging like adeflated balloon over the ceiling pole.

Tiflin sneered. "Oh, sure, you dumb Mex. Too many otherBunches, now. Too much competition. Like companies startingup on the Moon not hiring ordinary help on Earth andshipping them out, anymore—saying contract guys don't stick.Nuts—it's because enough slobs save them the expense byshowing up on their own... Or like most all of us trying toget into the Space Force. The Real Elite—sure. Only 25,000in the Force, when there are over 200,000,000 people in thecountry to draw from. Just one guy from Jarviston—HarvDiamond—ever made it. Choosy? We can get old waiting forthem to review our submitted personal data, only to have achance to take their lousy tests!"

Joe Kuzak grinned. "So down with 'em—down with theworthy old U.S.S.F.! We're on our own—to Serenitatis Baseon the Moon, to the Belt, Pallastown, and farther!"

Ramos still hovered near Eileen Sands. "What do you say,Sweetie?" he asked. "You haven't hardly made a comment."

Eileen remained tough and withdrawn. "I'm just listeningwhile you smart male characters figure out everything," shesnapped. "Why don't you become a listener, too, for a change,and go help Gimp out of that Archer?"

Ramos bowed elegantly, and obeyed the latter half of hersuggestion.

"I have a premonition—a hunch," little Lester offered, tryingto sound firm. "Our request for a grant from the Extra-TerrestrialDevelopment Board will succeed. Because we willbe as valuable as anybody, Out There. Then we will havemoney enough to buy the materials to make most of ourequipment."

Joe Kuzak, the gentler twin, answered him. "You're rightabout one thing, Les. We'll wind up building most of our ownstuff—with our own mitts...!"

Some noisy conversation about who should try the Archernext, was interrupted when the antique customer's bell overp.13the street door of the store, jangled. There was a scrape ofshoe soles, as the two previously absent members of the Bunch,Jig Hollins and Charlie Reynolds, arriving together by chance,came into the shop.

Jig (Hilton) Hollins was a mechanic out at the airport. Hewas lean, co*cky, twenty-four, with a stiff bristle of blond hair.Like Charlie Reynolds, he added up what had just been happening,here, at a glance. Both were older than the others.They had regular jobs. Their educations were completed, exceptfor evening supplementary courses.

"Well, the men have arrived," Jig announced.

Maybe Charlie Reynolds' faint frown took exception to thisremark. He was the only one in a suit, grey and tasteful, witha subdued flash to match the kind of car he drove. Few heldthis against him, nor the fact that he usually spent himselfbroke, nor the further fact that J. John Reynolds, tight-fistedpresident of the Jarviston First National Bank, was his grandfather.Charlie was an engineer at the new nuclear powerhouse,just out of town. Charlie was what is generally knownas a Good Guy. He was brash and sure—maybe too sure. Hehad a slight swagger, balanced by a certain benignancy. Hewas automatically the leader of the Bunch, held most likely tosucceed in their aims.

"Hi, gang," he breezed. "Otto is bringing beer, Pepsi andsandwiches from his joint across the street. Special day—soit's on me. Time to relax—maybe unsnarl. Any new problems?"

"Still plenty of old ones," Frank Nelsen commented laconically.

"Has anybody suddenly decided to back out?" Charliechuckled. "It's tiresome for me always to be asking that." Helooked around, meeting carefully easy grins and grim expressions."Nope—I guess we're all shaggy folk, bent on high andwild living, so far. So you know the only answer we can have."

"Umhmm, Charlie," Art Kuzak, the tough, business-liketwin, gruffed. "We can get the Archers, now. I think Frankhas our various sizes noted down. Let everybody sign up thatwants an Archie. Better hurry, though—there'll be a run onthem now that they're being almost given away... List allthe other stuff we need—with approximate purchase price, orcost of construction materials, attached. Sure—we'll be wayshort of funds. But we can start with the items we can make,ourselves, now. The point is not to lose time. New restrictionsmay turn up, and give us trouble, if we do. We'll have to rideour luck for a break."

"Hell—you know the lists are ready, Art," Frank Nelsenpointed out. "A bubb for everybody—or the stuff to make it.p.14Full-scale ionic drives, air-restorers and moisture-reclaimers,likewise. Some of the navigation instruments we'll almost haveto buy. Dehydrated food, flasks of oxygen and water, andblastoff drums to contain our gear, are all relatively simple.Worst, of course, is the blastoff price, from one of the spaceports.Who could be rich enough to have a ground-to-orbitnuclear rocket of his own? Fifteen hundred bucks—a subsidizedrate at that—just to lift a man and a thousand poundsof equipment into orbit. Five thousand dollars, minimum perperson, is what we're going to need, altogether."

Gimp Hines, who always acted as if he expected to get offthe Earth, too, had yielded his position inside the Archer toTiflin, and had hobbled close.

"The cost scares a guy who has to go to school, too, so hecan pass the tests," he said. "Well, don't worry, Frank. Athousand dollars buys a lot of stellene for bubbs. And wecan scratch up a few bucks of our own. I can find a hundred,myself, saved from my TV repair work, and my noveltiesbusiness. Charlie, here, ought to be able to contribute a thousand.Same for you, Hollins. That'll buy parts and materialsfor some ionic motors, too."

"Oh, certainly, Gimp," Hollins growled.

But Charlie Reynolds grinned. "I can kick in that much, ifI hold down a while," he said. "Maybe more, later. Whatwe've got to have, however, is a loan. We can't expect a grantfrom the Board. Sure they want more people helping to developresources in space, but they're swamped with requests.Let's not sweat, though. With a little time, I'll swing something...Hey, everybody! Proposition! I move that whoeverwants an Archer put his name down for Frank. I furthermove that we have him order us a supply of stellene, andbasic materials for at least three more ionic motors. I alsosuggest that everybody donate as much cash as he can, nomatter how little, and as much time as possible for makingequipment. With luck, and if we get our applications for space-fitnesstests mailed to Minneapolis within a week, at leastsome of us should get off Earth by next June. Now, shall wesign for the whole deal?"

Art Kuzak hunched his shoulders and displayed white teethhappily. "I'm a pushover," he said. "Here I come. I like to seethings roll."

"Likewise," said his brother, Joe. Their signatures wereboth small, in contrast to their size.

Ramos, fully clad in the Archer, clowned his way forwardto write his name with great flourishes, his ball point clutchedin a space glove.

Tiflin made a fierce, nervous scrawl.

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Mitch Storey wrote patiently, in big, square letters.

Gimp chewed his lip, and signed, "Walter Hines," in abeautiful, austere script, with a touch as fine as a master scientist's."I'll go along as far as they let me," he muttered.

"I think it will be the same—in my case," David Lesterstammered. He shook so much that his signature was only aquavering line.

"For laughs," Eileen Sands said, and wrote daintily.

Two-and-Two Baines gulped, sighed, and made a jaggedscribble, like the trail of a rocket gone nuts.

Jig Hollins wrote in swooping, arrogant circles, that came,perhaps, from his extra jobs as an advertising sky writer withan airplane.

Frank Nelsen was next, and Charlie Reynolds was last.Theirs were the most indistinctive signatures in the lot. Justordinary writing.

"So here we all are, on a piece of paper—pledged to victoryor death," Reynolds laughed. "Anyhow, we're out of a rut."

Nelsen figured that that was the thing about Charlie Reynolds.Some might not like him, entirely. But he could get theBunch unsnarled and in motion.

Old Paul Hendricks had come back from waiting on somecasual customers in the store.

"Want to sign, too, Paul?" Reynolds chuckled.

"Nope—that would make thirteen," Paul answered, hiseyes twinkling. "I'll watch and listen—and maybe tell you ifI think you're off beam."

"Here comes Otto with the beer and sandwiches," Ramosburst out.

They all crowded around heavy Otto Kramer and his basket—allexcept Frank Nelsen and Paul Hendricks, and EileenSands who made the ancient typewriter click in the little office-enclosure,as she typed up the order list that Nelsen wouldmail out with a bank draft in the morning.

Nelsen had a powerful urge to talk to the old man who washis long-time friend, and who had said little all during thesession, though he knew more about space travel than any ofthem—as much as anybody can know without ever havingbeen off the Earth.

"Hey, Paul," Frank called in a low tone, leaning his elbowsacross a workbench.

"Yeah?"

"Nothing," Frank Nelsen answered with a lopsided smile.

But he felt that that was the right word, when your thoughtsand feelings became too huge and complicated for you to expresswith any ease.

Grandeur, poetry, music—for instance, the haunting popularp.16song, Fire Streak, about the burial of a spaceman—atorbital speed—in the atmosphere of his native planet. Andfragments of history, such as covered wagons. All sorts ofsubjects, ideas and pictures were swirling inside his head.Wanting to sample everything in the solar system... Homeversus the distance, and the fierce urge to build a wild historyof his own... Gentleness and lust to be fulfilled, sometime.There would be a girl... And there were second thoughts totwist your guts and make you wonder if all your savage driveswere foolish. But there was a duty to be equal to your era—helpingto give dangerously crowded humanity on Earth moreroom, dispersal, a chance for race survival, if some unimaginableviolence were turned loose...

He thought of the names of places Out There. SerenitatisBase—Serene—on the Moon. Lusty, fantastic Pallastown,on the Golden Asteroid, Pallas... He remembered his parents,killed in a car wreck just outside of Jarviston, fourChristmases ago. Some present!... But there was one smallbenefit—he was left free to go where he wanted, without anyfamily complications, like other guys might have. Poor DaveLester. How was it that his mother allowed him to be withthe Bunch at all? How did he work it? Or was she the onethat was right?...

Paul Hendricks had leaned his elbows on the workbench,too. "Sure—nothing—Frank," he said, and his watery eyeswere bland.

The old codger understood. Neither of them said anythingfor a minute, while the rest of the Bunch, except Eileen whowas still typing, guzzled Pepsi and beer, and wolfed hotdogs.There was lots of courage-lifting noise and laughter.

Ramos said something, and Jig Hollins answered him back."Think there'll be any girls in grass skirts out in the AsteroidBelt, Mex?"

"Oh, they'll arrive," Ramos assured him.

Nelsen didn't listen anymore. His and Paul's attention hadwandered to the largest color photo thumbtacked to the wall,above the TV set, and the shelf of dog-eared technical books.It showed a fragile, pearly ring, almost diaphanous, hangingtilted against spatial blackness and pinpoint stars. Its hub wasa cylindrical spindle, with radial guys of fine, stainless steelwire. It was like the earliest ideas about a space station, yet itwas also different. To many—Frank Nelsen and Paul Hendrickscertainly included—such devices had as much beautyas a yacht under full sail had ever had for anybody.

Old Paul smirked with pleasure. "It's a shame, ain't it,Frank—calling a pretty thing like that a 'bubb'—it's an uglyp.17word. Or even a 'space bubble.' Technical talk gets kind ofcheap."

"I don't mind," Frank Nelsen answered. "Our first one,here, could look just as nice—inflated, and riding free againstthe stars."

He touched the crinkly material, draped across its woodensupport.

"It will," the old man promised. "Funny—not so long agopeople thought that space ships would have to be really rigid—allmetal. So how did they turn out? Made of stellene,mostly—an improved form of polyethylene—almost the samestuff as a weather balloon."

"A few millimeters thick, light, perfectly flexible when deflated,"Nelsen added. "Cut out and cement your bubb togetherin any shape you choose. Fold it up firmly, like a parachute—itmakes a small package that can be carried up into orbit in ablastoff rocket with the best efficiency. There, attached flasksof breathable atmosphere fill it out in a minute. Eight poundspressure makes it fairly solid in a vacuum. So, behold—you'vegot breathing and living room, inside. There's nylon cordingfor increased strength—as in an automobile tire—though notnearly as much. There's a silicone gum between the thin doublelayers, to seal possible meteor punctures. A darkening lead-saltimpregnation in the otherwise transparent stellene cutsradiation entry below the danger level, and filters the glareand the hard ultra-violet out of the sunshine. So there youare, all set up."

"Rig your hub and guy wires," old Paul carried on, cheerfully."Attach your sun-powered ionic drive, set up your air-restorer,spin your vehicle for centrifuge-gravity, and you'reready to move—out of orbit."

They laughed, because getting into space wasn't as easy asthey made it sound. The bubbs, one of the basic inventionsthat made interplanetary travel possible, were, for all theiralmost vagabondish simplicity, still a concession in lightnessand compactness for atmospheric transit, to that first andgreatest problem—breaking the terrific initial grip of Earth'sgravity from the ground upward, and gaining stable orbitalspeed. Only a tremendously costly rocket, with a thrustgreater than its own weight when fully loaded, could do that.Buying a blastoff passage had to be expensive.

"Figuring, scrounging, counting our pennies, risking ournecks," Nelsen chuckled. "And maybe, even if we make it,we'll be just a third-rate group, lost in the crowd that's followingthe explorers... Just the same, I wish you could plan togo, too, Paul."

"Don't rub it in, kid. But I figure on kicking in a couple ofp.18thousand bucks, soon, to help you characters along."

Nelsen felt an embarrassed lift of hope.

"You shouldn't, Paul," he advised. "We've overrun andtaken possession of your shop—almost your store, too. You'vewaived any profit, whenever we've bought anything. That'senough favors."

"My dough, my pleasure... Let's each get one of Reynolds'beers and hotdogs, if any are left..."

Later, when all the others had gone, except Gimp Hines,they uncovered the Archer, which everyone else had tried.Paul got into it, first. Then Nelsen took his turn, sitting as ifwithin an inclosed vault, hearing the gurgle of bubbles passingthrough the green, almost living fluid of the air-restorercapsule. Chlorophane, like the chlorophyl of green plants,could break up exhaled carbon dioxide, freeing the oxygenfor re-breathing. But it was synthetic, far more efficient, andit could use much stronger sunlight as an energy source. Likechlorophyl, too, it produced edible starches and sugars thatcould be imbibed, mixed with water, through a tube inside theArcher's helmet.

Even with the Archer enclosing him, Nelsen's mind didn'tquite reach. He had learned a lot about space, but it remainedcuriously inconceivable to him. He felt the frost-fringed thrill.

"Now we know—a little," he chortled, after he stood again,just in his usual garb.

It was almost eight o'clock. Gimp Hines hadn't gone tosupper, or to celebrate decision on one of the last evenings ofany kind of freedom from work. He couldn't wait for that...Under fluorescent lights, he was threading wire through miniaturegrommets, hurrying to complete the full-size ionic drive.He said, "Hi, Frank," and let his eyes drop, again, into absorptionin his labors. Mad little guy. Tragic, sort of. A cripple...

"I'll shove off, Paul," Nelsen was saying in a moment.

Out under the stars of the crisp October night,Nelsen was approached at once by a shadow. "I was waitingfor you, Frank. I got a problem." The voice was hoarse sorrow—almostlugubrious comedy.

"Math again, Two-and-Two? Sure—shoot."

"Well—that kind is always around—with me," Two-and-TwoBaines chuckled shakily. "This is something else—personal.We're liable—honest to gosh—to go, aren't we?"

"Some of us, maybe," Nelsen replied warily. "Sixty thousandbucks for the whole Bunch looks like a royal heap ofcabbage to me."

"Split among a dozen guys, it looks smaller," Two-and-Twop.19persisted. "And you can earn royal dough on the Moon—justfor example. Plenty to pay back a loan."

"Still, you don't pick loans off trees," Nelsen gruffed. "Notfor a shoestring crowd like us. We look too unsubstantial."

"Okay, Frank—have that part your way. I believe therestill is a good chance we will go. I want to go. But I get tothinking. Out There is like being buried in millions of milesof nothing that you can breathe. Can a guy stand it? You hearstories about going loopy from claustrophobia and stuff. AndI got to think about my mother and dad."

"Uh-huh—other people could be having minor secondthoughts—including me," Frank Nelsen growled.

"You don't get what I mean, Frank. Sure I'm scared some—butI'm gonna try to go. Well, here's my point. I'm strong,willing, not too clumsy. But I'm no good at figuring what todo. So, Out There, in order to have a reasonable chance, I'llhave to be following somebody smart. I thought I'd fix it now—beforehand.You're the best, Frank."

Nelsen felt the scared earnestness of the appeal, and theachy shock of the compliment. But in his own uncertainty, hedidn't want to be carrying any dead weight, in the form of adependent individual.

"Thanks, Two-and-Two," he said. "But I can't see myselfas any leader, either. Talk about it to me tomorrow, if youstill feel like it. Right now I want to sweat out a few thingsfor myself—alone."

"Of course, Frankie." And Two-and-Two was gone.

Frank Nelsen looked upward, over the lighted street. Therewas no Moon—site of many enterprises, these days—in thesky, now. Old Jupiter rode in the south. A weather-spottingsatellite crept across zenith, winking red and green. A skipglider, an orbit-to-ground freight vehicle, possibly loadedwith rich metals from the Belt, probably about to land at theNew Mexico spaceport far to the west, moved near it. Frankfelt a deliciously lonesome chill as he walked through the businesssection of Jarviston. From somewhere, dance music lilted.

In front of Lehman's Drug Store he looked skyward again,to see a dazzling white cluster, like many meteors, falling. Thegorgeous display lasted more than a second.

"Good heavens, Franklin Nelsen—what was that?"

He looked down at the slight, aging woman, and stiffenedslightly. Miss Rosalie Parks had been his Latin teacher inhigh school. Plenty of times she used to scold him for nothaving his translations of Caesar worked out. A lot she understoodabout a fella who had to spend plenty of time workingto support himself, while attending school!

"Good evening, Miss Parks," he greeted rather stiffly. "Ip.20think it was that manned weather satellite dumping garbage.It hits the atmosphere at orbital velocity, and is incinerated."

She seemed to be immensely pleased and amused. "Garbagebecoming beauty! That is rather wonderful, Franklin. I'll remember.Thank you and good night."

She marched off with the small purchase she had made, inthe direction opposite his own.

He got almost to the house where he had his room, whenthere was another encounter. But it was nothing new to runinto Nancy Codiss, the spindly fifteen-year-old next door. Hehad a sudden, unbelievably expansive impulse.

"Hi, Nance," he said. "I didn't get much supper. Let's godown to Lehman's for a hamburger and maybe a soda."

"Why—good—Frankie!"

They didn't talk very much, walking down, waiting fortheir orders, or eating their hamburgers. But she wasn't asspindly as he used to think. And her dark hair, even featuresand slim hands were nicer than he recalled.

"I hear you fellas got your space-armor sample, Frank."

"Yep—we did. We're ordering more."

Her expression became speculative. Her brown eyes lighted."I've been wondering if I should look Outward, too. Whetherit makes sense—for a girl."

"Could be—I've heard."

Their conversation went something like that, throughout,with long silences. Finally she smiled at him, very brightly.

"The Junior Fall dance is in two weeks," she said. "But Iguess you'll be too busy to be interested?"

"'Guess' just isn't the word, Nance. I regret that—truly."

He looked and sounded as though he meant it. In somecrazy way, it seemed that he did mean it.

He walked her home. Then he went to the next house, andup to his rented room. He showered, and for once climbedvery early into bed, feeling that he must have nightmares.About strange sounds in the thin winds, over the mysteriousthickets of Mars. Or about some blackened, dried-out body ofa sentient being, sixty million years dead, floating free in theAsteroid Belt. A few had been found. Some were in museums.

Instead, he slept the dreamless sleep of the just—if therewas any particular reason for him to consider himself just.

p.21

II

Gimp Hines put the finishing touches on thefirst full-scale ionic during that next week. The others of theBunch, each working when he could, completed cementingthe segments of the first bubb together.

On a Sunday morning they carried the bubb out into theyard behind the store and test inflated the thirty-foot ringby means of a line of hose from the compressor in the shop.Soapsuds dabbed along the seams revealed a few leaks by itsbubbling. These were fixed up.

By late afternoon the Bunch had folded up the bubb again,and were simulating its practice launching from a ground-to-orbitrocket—as well as can be done on the ground with a deviceintended only for use in a state of weightlessness, whenthe operators are supposed to be weightless, too. The impossibilityof establishing such conditions produced some ludicrousresults:

The two Kuzaks diving with a vigor, as if from a rocket airlock,hitting the dirt with a thud, scrambling up, opening andspreading the great bundle, attaching the air hose. Little Lesterhopping in to help fit wire rigging, most of it still imaginary.A friendly dog coming over to sniff, with a look of mild wonderin his eyes.

"Laugh, you leather-heads!" Art Kuzak roared at the others.He grinned, wiping his muddy face. "We've got to learn, don'twe? Only, it's like make-believe. Hell, I haven't played make-believesince I was four! But if we keep doing it here, all thekids and townspeople will be peeking over the fence to seehow nuts we've gone."

This was soon literally true. In some embarrassment, theBunch rolled up their bubb and lugged it into the shop.

"I can borrow a construction compressor unit on a truck,"Two-and-Two offered. "And there's a farm I know..."

A great roll of stellene tubing, to have a six-feet six-inchinside diameter when inflated, was delivered on Monday.Enough for three bubbs. The Archer Fives were expected tobe somewhat delayed, due to massive ordering. But smallboxes of parts and raw stock for the ionics had begun to arrive,too. Capacitors, resistors, thermocouple units. Magnesiumrods for Storey or Ramos or the Kuzaks to shape in a lathe.p.22Sheet aluminum to be spun and curved and polished. WithEileen Sands helping, Gimp Hines would do most of that.

So the real work began. Nobody in the Bunch denied thatit was a grind. For most, there were those tough courses atTech. And a job, for money, for sustenance. And the timethat must be spent working for—Destiny. Sleep was least important—afew hours, long after midnight, usually.

Frank Nelsen figured that he had it relatively easy—almostas easy as the Kuzak twins, who, during football season, wereunder strict orders to get their proper sack time. He worked atHendricks'—old Paul didn't mind his combining the job withhis labors of aspiration. Ramos, the night-mechanic, Tiflin,the car-washer, and Two-and-Two Baines, the part-time bricklayer,didn't have it so easy. Eileen, a first-rate legal typistemployed for several hours a day by a partnership of lawyers,could usually work from notes, at the place where she lived.

Two-and-Two would lift a big hand facetiously, when hecame into the shop. Blinking and squinting, he would wigglehis fingers. "I can still see 'em—to count!" he would moan."Thanks, all you good people, for coaching me in my math."

"Think nothing of it," Charlie Reynolds or David Lester, ormost any of the others, would tell him. Two-and-Two hadn'tcome near Frank Nelsen very much, during the last fewdays, though Frank had tried to be friendly.

Lester was the only one without an activity to support himself.But he was at the shop every weekday, six to ten p.m.,cementing stellene with meticulous care, while he mutteredand dreamed.

The Bunch griped about courses, jobs, and the stubbornnessof materials, but they made progress. They had built their firstbubb and ionic. The others would be easier.

Early in November, Nelsen collected all available freshcapital, including a second thousand from Paul Hendricksand five hundred from Charlie Reynolds, and sent it in withnew orders.

That about exhausted their own finances for a long time tocome. Seven bubbs, minus most of even their simpler fittings,and five ionics, seemed as much as they could pay for, themselves.Charlie Reynolds hadn't yet lined up a backer.

"We should have planned to outfit one guy completely,"Jig Hollins grumbled on a Sunday afternoon at the shop."Then we could have drawn lots about who gets a chance touse the gear. That we goofed there is your fault, Reynolds. Or—yourGrandpappy didn't come through, huh?"

Charlie met Hollins' sneering gaze for a moment. "Nevermind the 'Grandpappy', Jig," he said softly. "I knew thatchances weren't good, there. However, there are other prospectsp.23which I'm working on. I remember mentioning that itmight take time. As for your other remarks, what good isequipping just one person? I thought that this was a project forall of us."

"I'm with Charlie," Joe Kuzak commented.

"Don't fight, guys—we've got to figure on training, too,"Ramos laughed. "I've got the problem of an expensive trainingcentrifuge about beat. Out at my old motor scooter club.Come on, Charlie—you, too, Jig—get your cars and let's go!It's only seven miles, and we all need a break."

Paul Hendricks had gone for a walk. So Nelsen locked theshop, and they all tore off, out to the place, Ramos leading theway in his scooter. At the scooter club they found an ancientcarnival device which used to be called a motordrome. It wasa vertical wooden cylinder, like a huge, ironbound, straightsided cask, thirty feet high and wide, standing on its bottom.

Ramos let himself and the scooter through a massive, curveddoor—conforming to the curvature of the walls—at the baseof the 'drome.

"Secure the latch bar of this door from the outside, fellas,"he said. "Then go to the gallery around the top to watch."

Ramos started riding his scooter in a tight circle around thebottom of the 'drome. Increasing speed, he swung outward tothe ramped juncture between floor and smooth, circular walls.Then, moving still faster, he was riding around the verticalwalls, themselves, held there by centrifugal force. He climbedhis vehicle to the very rim of the great cask, body out sideways,grinning and balancing, hands free, the squirrel tailsflapping from his gaudily repainted old scooter.

"Come on, you characters!" he shouted through the noiseand smoke. "You should try this, too! It's good practice forthe rough stuff to come, when we blast out!... Hey, Eileen—youtry it first—ride with me—then alone—when you get thehang of it!..."

This time she accepted. Soon she was riding by herself,smiling recklessly. Reynolds rode after that, then the Kuzaks.Like most of them, Frank Nelsen took the scooter up alone,from the start. He was a bit scared at first, but if you couldn'tdo a relatively simple stunt like this, how could you get alongin space? He became surer, then gleeful, even when the centrifugalforce made his head giddy, pushed his buttocks hardagainst the scooter's seat, and his insides down against hispelvis.

Storey, Hollins and Tiflin all accomplished it. Even GimpHines rode behind Ramos in some very wild gyrations, thoughhe didn't attempt to guide the scooter, himself.

Then it was David Lester's turn. It was a foregone conclusionp.24that he couldn't take the scooter up, alone. Palefaced,he rode double. Ramos was careful this time. But on the downwardcurve before coming to rest, the change of directionmade Lester grab Ramos' arm at a critical instant. Thescooter wavered, and they landed hard, even at reduced speed.Agile Ramos skipped clear, landing on his feet. Lester floppedheavily, and skidded across the bottom of the 'drome.

When the guys got to him, he was covered with frictionburns, and with blood from a scalp gash. Ramos, Storey andFrank worked on him to get him cleaned up and patched up.Part of the time he was sobbing bitterly, more from failure, itseemed, than from his physical hurt. By luck there didn'tseem to be any bones broken.

"Darn!" he choked in some infinite protest, beating theground with his fists. "Damn—that's the end of it for me...!So soon... Pop..."

"I'll drive you to Doc Miller's, Les," Charlie Reynolds saidbriskly. "Then home. You other people better stay here..."

Charlie had a baffled, subdued look, when he returned anhour later. "I thought his mother would chew my ear, sure,"he said. "She didn't. She was just polite. That was worse. She'ssmall—not much color. Of course she was scared, and madclean through. Know her?"

"I guess we've all seen her around," Nelsen answered."Widow. Les was in one of my classes during my first highschool year. He was a senior, then. They haven't been inJarviston more than a few years. I never heard where theycame from..."

Warily, back at the shop, the Bunch told Paul what hadhappened.

For once his pale eyes flashed. "You Bright Boys," he said."Especially you, Ramos...! Well, I'm most to blame. I lethim hang around, because he was so doggone interested. Anddriven—somehow. Lucky nothing too bad happened. LastAugust, when you romantics got serious about space, I madehim prove he was over twenty-one..."

They sweated it out, expecting ear-burning phone calls,maybe legal suits. Nothing happened. Nelsen felt relieved thatLester was gone. One dangerous link in a chain was removed.Contempt boosted his own arrogant pride of accomplishment.Then pity came, and anger for the sneers of Jig Hollins. Thenregret for a fallen associate.

The dozen Archers were delivered—there would be a spare,now. The Bunch continued building equipment, they workedout in the motordrome, they drilled at donning their armorand at inflating and rigging a bubb. Gimp Hines exercised withfierce, perspiring doggedness on a horizontal bar he had riggedp.25in the back of the shop. He meant to compensate for his badleg by improving his shoulder muscles.

Most of the guys still figured that Charlie Reynolds wouldsolve their money problem. But in late November he had abad moment. Out in front of Hendricks', he looked at histrim automobile. "It's a cinch I can't use it Out There," hechuckled ruefully and unprompted. Then he brightened."Nope—selling it wouldn't bring one tenth enough, anyhow.I'll get what we need—just got to keep trying... I don't knowwhy, but some so-called experts are saying that off-the-Earthenterprises have been overextended. That makes finding abacker a bit tougher than I thought."

"You ought to just take off on your own, Reynolds," JigHollins suggested airily. "I'll bet it's in your mind. The carwould pay for that. Or since you're a full-fledged nuclear engineer,some company on the Moon might give you a threeyear contract and send you out free in a comfortable vehicle.Or wouldn't you like to be tied that long? I wouldn't. Maybe Icould afford to be an independent, too. Tough on these shoestringboys, here, but is it our fault?"

Hollins was trying to taunt Reynolds. "You're tiresome,Jig," Reynolds said without heat. "Somebody's going to pokeyou sometime..."

Next morning, before going to classes at Tech, Frank Nelsen,with the possibility of bitter disappointment looming inhis own mind, spotted Glen Tiflin, the switch blade tosser,standing on the corner, not quite opposite the First NationalBank. Tiflin's mouth was tight and his eyes were narrowed.

Nelsen felt a tingle in his nerves—very cold.

"Hi—what cooks, Tif?" he said mildly.

"To you it's which?" Tiflin snapped.

Nelson led him on. "Sometimes I think of all the doughin that bank," he said.

"Yeah," Tiflin snarled softly. "That old coot, Charlie Reynolds'grandpa, sitting by his vault door. Too obvious, though—here.Maybe in another bank—in another town. We couldget the cash we need. Hell, though—be cavalier—it's just athought."

"You damned fool!" Nelsen hissed slowly.

It was harder than ever to like Tiflin for anything at all. Buthe did have that terrible, star-reaching desperation. Nelsenhad quite a bit of it, himself. He knew, now.

"Get up to Tech, Tif," he said like an order. "If you have achance, tell my math prof I might be a little late..."

That was how Frank Nelsen happened to face J. JohnReynolds, who, in a question of progress, would still approveof galley slaves. Nelsen had heard jokes like that laughedp.26about, around Jarviston. J. John, by reputation, was all hardbusiness.

Nelsen got past his secretary.

"Young man—I hope you have something very special tosay."

There was a cold, amused challenge in the old man's tone,and an implication of a moment of casual audience grantedgenerously, amid mountains of more important affairs.

Nelsen didn't waver. The impulse to do what he was doinghad come too suddenly for nervousness to build up. He hadn'tplanned what to say, but his arguments were part of himself.

"Mr. Reynolds—I'm Frank Nelsen, born here in Jarviston.Perhaps you know me on sight. I believe you are acquaintedwith Paul Hendricks, and you must have heard about ourgroup, which is aiming at space, as people like ourselves areapt to be doing, these days. We've made fair progress, whichproves we're at least earnest, if not dedicated. But unless wewait and save for years, we've come about as far as we can,without a loan. Judging from the success of previous earnestgroups, and the development of resources and industries beyondthe Earth, we are sure that we could soon pay you back,with considerable interest."

J. John Reynolds seemed to doze, hardly listening. But atthe end his eyes opened, and sparks of anger—or acid humor—seemedto dance in them.

"I know very well what sort of poetic tomfoolery you aretalking about, Nelsen," he said. "I wondered how long itwould be before one of you—other than my grandson with hisundiluted brass, and knowing me far too well in one sense,anyway—would have the gall to come here and talk to melike this. You'd probably be considered a minor, too, in somestates. Dealing with you, I could even get into trouble."

Nelsen's mouth tightened. "I came to make a propositionand get an answer," he responded. "Thank you for your no. Ithelps clear the view."

"Hold on, Nelsen," J. John growled. "I don't remembersaying no. I said 'gall,' intending it to mean guts. That's whatyoung spacemen need, isn't it? They've almost got to beyoung, so legal viewpoints about the age at which competenceis reached are changing. Oh, there is plenty of brass amongyour generation. But it fails in peculiar places. I was waitingfor one place where it didn't fail. Charlie, my grandson,doesn't count. It has never taken him any courage to talk tome any way he wants."

This whole encounter was still dreamlike to Frank Nelsen.

"Then you are saying yes?"

"I might. Do you foolishly imagine that my soul is so completelyp.27sour milk that in youth I couldn't feel the same drivesthat you feel, now, for the limited opportunity there was,then? But under some damnable pressure toward conformity,I took a desk job in a bank. I am now eighty-one years old...How much does your 'Bunch' need—at minimum, mind you—forthe opportunity to ride in space-armor till the rank smellof their bodies almost chokes them, for developing weirdallergies or going murdering mad, but, in the main, doing theirbest, anyway, pathfinding and building, if they've got the guts?Come on, Nelsen—you must know."

"Fifty thousand," Frank answered quickly. "There are stilleleven in our group."

"Yes... More may quit along the way... Here is myproposition: I would make funds available for your expensesup to that amount—from my personal holdings, separate fromthis bank. The amount due from each individual shall be tenpercent of whatever his gains or earnings are, off the Earth,over a period of ten years, but he will not be required to payback any part of the original loan. This is a high-risk, high-potentialprofit arrangement for me—with an experimentalelement. I will ask for no written contract—only a verbalpromise. I have found that people are fairly honest, and Iknow that, far in space, circ*mstances become too complicatedto make legal collections very practical, anyway, even if Iever felt inclined to try them... Now, if—after I see yourfriends, whom you will send to me for an interview and togive me their individual word, also, I decide to make myproposition effective—will you, yourself, promise to abide bythese terms?"

Nelsen was wary for a second. "Yes—I promise," he said.

"Good. I am glad you paused to think, Nelsen. I am notfabulously rich. But having more or less money hardly mattersto me at this late date, so I am not likely to try to trapyou. Yet there is still a game to play, and an outcome to watch—thefuture. Now get out of here before you become ridiculousby saying more than a casual thanks."

"All right—thanks. Thank you, sir..."

Nelsen felt somewhat numb. But a faint, golden glow wasincreasing inside his mind.

Tiflin hadn't gone up to Tech. He was still waiting on thestreet corner. "What the hell, Frank?" he said.

"I think we've got the loan, Tif. But he wants to see all ofus. Can you go in there, be polite, say you're a Bunch member,make a promise, and—above all—avoid blowing your top?Boy—if you queer this...!"

Tiflin's mouth was open. "You kidding?"

"No!"

p.28

Tiflin gulped, and actually looked subdued. "Okay, Frank.Be cavalier. Hell, I'd croak before I'd mess this up...!"

By evening, everybody had visited J. John Reynolds, includingCharlie Reynolds and Jig Hollins. Nelsen got thebackslapping treatment.

Charlie sighed, rubbed his head, then grinned with immenserelief. "That's a load off," he said. "Glad to have somebodyelse fix it. Congrats, Frank. I wonder if Otto has got any champagneto go with the hotdogs...?"

Otto had a bottle—enough for a taste, all around. Eileenkissed Frank impulsively. "You ought to get real smart," shesaid.

"Uh-huh," he answered. "Now let's get some beer—moreour speed."

But none of them overdid the beer either...

Just after New Year's they had eight bubbs completed,tested, folded carefully according to government manuals, andstowed in an attic they had rented over Otto's place. They hadseven ionics finished and stored. More parts and materialswere arriving. The air-restorers were going to be the toughestand most expensive to make. They were the really vital thingsto a spaceman. Every detail had to be carefully fitted and assembled.The chlorophane contained costly catalytic agents.

A winter of hard work was ahead, but they figured on astretch of clear sailing, now. They didn't expect anyone toshake their morale, least of all a nice, soft-spoken guy inU.S.S.F. greys. Harv Diamond was the one man from Jarvistonwho had gotten into the Space Force. He used to hangaround Hendricks'.

He dropped in on a Sunday evening, when the whole Bunchwas in the shop. They were around him at once, like arounda hero, shouting and questioning. There were mottled patcheson his hands, and he wore dark glasses, but he seemed at easeand happy.

"There have been some changes in the old joint, huh, Paul?"he said. "So you guys are one of the outfits building its owngear... Looks pretty good... Of course you can get somebulky supplies cheaper on the Moon, because everything fromEarth has to be boosted into space against a gravity six timesas great as the lunar, which raises the price like hell. Waterand oxygen, for instance. Peculiar, on the dry, almost airlessMoon. But roasting water out of lunar gypsum rock is an easytrick. And oxygen can be derived from water by simple electrolysis."

"Hell, we know all that, Harv," Ramos laughed.

So Harv Diamond gave them the lowdown on the shortageof girls—yet—in Serenitatis Base, on the Moon. Just the same,p.29it was growing like corn in July, and was already a pretty goodleave-spot, if you liked to look around. Big vegetable gardensunder sealed, stellene domes. Metal refineries, solar powerplants, plastic factories and so forth, already in operation...But there was nothing like Pallastown, on little Pallas, out inthe Asteroid Belt... Mars? That was the heebie-jeebie planet.

Gimp asked Harv how much leave he had on Earth.

"Not long, I guess," Harv laughed. "I've got to check backat the Force Hospital in Minneapolis tomorrow..."

But right away it was evident that his thoughts had beenput on the wrong track. His easy smile faded. He gasped andlooked kind of surprised. He hung onto Paul's old swivel chair,in which he was sitting, as if he was suddenly terribly afraidof falling. His eyes closed tight, and there was a funny gurglein his throat.

The Bunch surrounded him, wanting to help, but he halfrecovered.

"Even a good Space Force bubb, manufactured under rigidgovernment specifications, can tear," he said in a thick tone."If some jerk, horsing around with another craft, bumps youeven lightly. Compartmentation helps, but you can still be unlucky.I was fortunate—almost buttoned into my Archer Six,already. But did you ever see a person slowly swell up andturn purple, with frothy bubbles forming under the skin, whilehis blood boils in the Big Vacuum? That was my buddy, EdKraft..."

Lieutenant Harvey Diamond gasped. Huge, strangling hiccupscame out of his throat. His eyes went wild. The Kuzakshad to hold him, while Mitch Storey ran to phone Doc Miller.A shot quieted Diamond somewhat, and an ambulance tookhim away.

That incident shook up the Bunch a little. A worse onecame on a Tuesday evening, when not everybody was at theshop.

The TV was on, showing the interior of the Far Side, oneof those big, comparatively luxurious tour bubbs that takerubbernecks that can afford it on a swing around the Moon.The Far Side was just coming into orbit, where tending skipgliders would take off the passengers for grounding at the NewMexico spaceport. Aboard the big bubb you could see peoplemoving about, or sitting with drinks on curved benches. A girlwas playing soft music on a tiny, lightweight piano.

There wasn't any sign of trouble except that the TV channelwent dead for a second, until a stand by commercial with singingcartoon figures cut in.

But Frank Nelsen somehow put his hands to his head, as ifto protect it.

p.30

Mitch Storey, with a big piece of stellene in his brown mitts,stood up very straight.

Gimp, at a bench, handed a tiny capacitor to Eileen, andstarted counting, slow and even. "One—two—three—four—five—"

"What's with you slobs?" Jig Hollins wanted to know.

"Dunno—we're nuts, maybe," Gimp answered. "Ten—eleven—twelve—"

Charlie Reynolds and Paul Hendricks were alert, too.

Then a big, white light trembled on the thin snow beyondthe windows, turning the whole night landscape into weirdday. The tearing, crackling roar was delayed. By the time thesound arrived, all of the stellene in the Far Side must havebeen consumed. It had no resistance to atmospheric frictionat five miles per second, or faster. There were just the heaviermetallic details left to fall and burn. Far off, there was athumping crash that seemed to make the ground sag and recover.

"Here we go!" Charlie Reynolds yelled.

In his and Hollins' cars, they got to the scene of the fragment'sfall, two miles out of town, by following a faint, fadingglow. They were almost the first to reach the spot. Tiflin andRamos, who had been working on their jobs, came with theirboss, along with a trailing horde of cars from town.

Flashlights probed into the hot impact pit in the open field,where the frozen soil had seemed to splash like a liquid.Crumpled in the hole was a lump of half-fused sheet steel,wadded up like paper. It was probably part of the Far Side'scentral hub. Magnesium and aluminum, of which the majorportions had certainly been made, were gone; they could neverhave endured the rush through the atmosphere.

Ramos got down into the pit. After a minute, he gave aqueer cry, and climbed out again. His mitten smoked as heopened it, to show something.

"It must have been behind a heavy object," he said veryseriously, not like his usual self at all. "That broke the molecularimpact with the air—like a ceramic nose cone. Kept it fromburning up completely."

The thing was a lady's silver compact, from which a largepiece had been fused away. A bobbypin had gotten weldedto it.

Old Paul Hendricks cursed. Poor Two-and-Two moved offsickly, with a palm clamped over his mouth.

Eileen Sands gasped, and seemed about to yell. But she gotback most of her poise. Women have nursed the messily illand dying, and have tended ghastly wounds during ages oftime. So they know the messier side of biology as well as men.

p.31

Ramos gave the pathetic relic to a cop who was trying totake charge.

"Somebody must have goofed bad on the Far Side, for it tomiss orbit like that," Ramos grated. "Or was something wrong,beforehand? Their TV transmitter went out—we were watching,too, at the garage... You can see the aurora—theNorthern Lights... Those damn solar storms might haveloused up instruments...! But who'll ever know, now...?"

The Kuzaks, who had been to an Athletic Association meetingat Tech, had grabbed a ride out with the stream of carsfrom town. Both looked grim. "No use hanging around here,Charlie," Art urged. "Let's get back to the shop."

Before he drove off, Jig Hollins tried to chuckle mockinglyat everybody, especially Charlie Reynolds. "Time to thinkabout keeping a nice safe job in the Jarviston powerhouse—eh,Reynolds? And staying near granddad?"

"We're supposed not to be children, Hollins," Charlie shotback at him from his car window. "We're supposed to haveknown long ago that these things happen, and to have adjustedourselves to our chances."

"Ninnies that get scared first thing, when the facts beginto show!" Tiflin snarled. "Cripes—let's don't be like soft bugsunder boards!"

"You're right, Tif," Frank Nelsen agreed, feeling that foronce the ne'er-do-well—the nuisance—might be doing themall some good. Frank could feel how Tiflin shamed some ofthe quiver out of his own insides, and helped bring back prideand strength.

The Far Side disaster had been pretty disturbing, however.And next day, Thursday, the blue envelopes came to the membersof the Bunch. A printed card with a typed-in date, wasinside each: "Report for space-fitness tests at Space-MedicineCenter, February 15th..."

"Just a couple of weeks!" Two-and-Two was moaning thatnight. "How'll I get through, with my courses only half-finished.You've gotta help me some more, people! With thatstinking math...!"

So equipment building was almost suspended, while theBunch crammed and sweated and griped and cursed. Butmaybe now some of them wouldn't care so very much if theyflunked.

Two loaded automobiles took off for Minneapolis on thenight before the ordeal. The Bunch put up at motels to be freshthe next morning. Maybe some of them even slept.

At the Center, there were more forms to fill out. Then completephysicals started the process. Next came the written part.Right off, Frank Nelsen knew that this was going a familiarp.32way, which had happened quite often at Tech: Strugglethrough a tough course, hear dire promises of head-crackingquestions and math problems in the final quiz. Then the switch—theeasy letdown.

The remainder of the tests proceeded like assembly-lineoperations, each person taking each alone, in the order of hiscasual position in the waiting line.

First there was the dizzying, mind-blackening centrifugetest, to see if you could take enough Gs of acceleration, andstill be alert enough to fit a simple block puzzle together.

Then came the free fall test, from the top of a thousandfoot tower. A parachute-arrangement broke your speed atthe bottom of the track. As in the centrifuge, instruments incorporatedinto the fabric of a coverall suit with a hood, wererecording your emotional and bodily reactions. The medicswanted to be sure that your panic level was high and cool.Nelsen didn't find free fall very hard to take, either.

Right after that came the scramble to see how fast you couldget into an Archer, unfold and inflate a bubb and rig its gear.

"That's all, Mister," the observer with the camera told Nelsenin a bored tone.

"Results will be mailed to your home within twelve hours—Mr.Nelsen," a girl informed him as she read his name froma printed card.

So the Bunch returned tensely to Jarviston, with more timeto sweat out. Everybody looked at Gimp Hines—and thenlooked away. Even Jig Hollins didn't make any comments.Gimp, himself, seemed pretty subdued.

The small, green space-fitness cards were arriving at Jarvistonaddresses in the morning.

Near the end of the noon hour, Two-and-Two Baines waswaving his around the Tech campus, having gone home tolook, as of course everybody else who could, had also done."Cripes!—Hi-di-ho—here it is!" he was yelling at the frostysky, when Frank came with his own ticket.

The Kuzaks had theirs, and were calm about it. EileenSands' card was tucked neatly into her sweater pocket, as shejoined those who were waiting for the others on the frontsteps of Tech's Carver Hall.

Ramos had to make a noise. "See what Santa brought thelady! But he didn't forget your Uncle Miguel, either—see!We're in, kid—be happy. Yippee!"

He tried to whirl her in some crazy dance, but Gimp wasswinging along the slushy walk on his crutches. His grin wasa mile wide. Mitch Storey was with him, looking almost aspleased.

"Guess legs don't count, Out There," Gimp was saying. "Orp.33patched tickers, either, as long as they work good! I kind offigured on it... Hey—I don't want to ride anybody'sshoulders, Ramos—cut it out...! We won't know aboutCharlie and Jig till tonight, when they come to Paul's fromtheir jobs. But I don't think that there's any sweat for them,either... Only—where's Tif? He should be back by nowfrom where he lives with his father..."

Tiflin didn't show up at Hendricks' at all that evening, orat his garage job either. Ramos phoned from the garage toconfirm that.

"And he's not at home," Ramos added. "The boss sent meto check. His Old Man says he doesn't know where Tif is andcares less."

"Just leave Tif be," Mitch Storey said softly.

"Maybe that's best, at that," old Paul growled. "Only I hopethe darned idiot doesn't cook himself up another jam..."

They all knew then, for sure, what had happened. Rightnow, Glen Tiflin was wandering alone, somewhere, cursingand suffering. As likely as not, he'd start hitchhiking acrossthe country, to try to get away from himself... Somewherethe test instruments—which had seemed so lenient—hadtripped him up, spotting the weakness that he had tried tofight. Temper, nerves—emotional instability. So there was nogreen card for Tif, to whom space was a kind of Nirvana...

The Bunch worked on with their preparations. Things gotdone all right, but the fine edge of enthusiasm had dulled. JigHollins flung his usual remarks, with their derisive undertone,around for a couple of weeks. Then he came into the shopwith a girl who had a pretty, rather blank face, and a mouththat could twist with stubborn anger.

"Meet Minnie," Jig said loudly. "She is one reason why Ihave decided that I've had enough of this kid stuff. I gave ita whirl—for kicks. But who, with any sense, wants to gobatting off to Mars or the Asteroids? That's for the birds, thecrackpots. Wife, house, kids—right in your own home town—that'sthe only sense there is. Minnie showed me that, andwe're gonna get married!"

The Bunch looked at Jig Hollins. He was swaggering. Hewas making sour fun of them, but in his eyes there were othersigns, too. A pleading: Agree with me—back me up—quit!Don't see through me—it's not so, anyhow! Don't say I'mhiding behind a skirt... Above all, don't call me yellow! I'mnot yellow, I tell you! I'm tough Jig Hollins! You're thedopes!...

Frank Nelsen spoke for the others. "We understand, Jig.We'll be getting you a little wedding present. Later on, maybep.34we'll be able to send you something really good. Best ofluck..."

They let Jig Hollins and his Minnie go. They felt their contemptand pity, and their lifting, wild pride. Maybe Jig Hollins,wise guy and big mouth, boosted their own selves quite a bit,by contrast.

"Poor sap," Joe Kuzak breathed. "Who's he kidding—usor himself, or neither...?"

Soon Eileen began to show symptoms: Sighs. A restlessness.Sudden angry pouts that would change as quickly to the secretsmiles of reverie, while she hummed a soft tune to herself, androse on her toes, dancing a few steps. Speculative looks atNelsen, or the other guys around her. Maybe she envied men.Her eyes would narrow thoughtfully for a second. Then shemight look scared and very young, as if her thoughts frightenedher. But the expression of determined planning wouldreturn.

After about ten days of this, Gimp asked, "What's with you,Eileen? You don't usually say much, but now there must besomething else."

She tossed down a fistful of waste with which she had beenwiping her hands—she had been cementing segments of thelast of the ten bubbs they would make—more than theyneeded, now, but spares might be useful.

"Okay, all," she said briskly. "You should hear this, withoutany further delay. I'm clearing out, too. Reasons? Well—atleast since Tif flunked his emotional I've been getting theidea that possibly I've been playing on a third-rate team. Nooffense, please—I don't really believe it's so, and if it isn't soyou're tough enough not to be hurt. Far worse—I'm a girl. Sowhy am I trying to do things in a man's way, when there aremeans that are made for me? I'm all of twenty-two. I've gotnobody except an aunt in Illinois. Meanwhile, out in NewMexico, there's a big spaceport, and a lot of the right peoplewho can help me. I'll bet I can get where you want to go,before you do. Tell Mr. J. John Reynolds that he can havemy equipment—most of which he paid for. But perhaps I'llstill be able to give him his ten percent."

"Eileen! Cripes, what are you talking about?" This wasRamos yelping, as if the clown could be hurt, after all.

"I don't mean anything so bad, Fun Boy," she said moregently. "Lots of men are remarkably chivalrous. But no arguments.Now that I have declared my intentions, I'll pick upand pull out of here this minute—taking some pleasant memorieswith me, as well as a space-fitness card. You're all good,plodding joes—honest. But there'll be a plane west from Minneapolistomorrow."

p.35

She was getting into her blazer. Even Ramos saw that argumentswould be futile. Frank Nelsen's throat ached suddenly,as if at sins of omission. But that was wrong. Eileen Sandswas too old for him, anyhow.

"So long, you characters," she said. "Good luck. Don'tfollow me outside. Maybe I'll see you, someplace."

"Right, Eileen—we'll miss yuh," Storey said. "And we bettersure enough see you that someplace!"

There were ragged shouts. "Good luck, kid. So long,Eileen..."

She was gone—a small, scared, determined figure, dressedlike a boy. On her wrist was a watch that might get pawned fora plane ticket.

Ramos was unbelievably glum for days. But he workedharder building air-restorers than most of the Bunch had everworked before. "We're hardcore, now—we'll last," he wouldgrowl. "Final, long lap—March, April and May—with nomore interruptions. In June, when our courses at Tech are finished,we'll be ready to roll..."

That was about how it turned out. Near the end of May,the Bunch lined up in the shop, the ten blastoff drums theyhad made, including two spares. The drums were just largetubes of sheet magnesium, in which about everything thateach man would need was compactly stowed: Archer Five,bubb, sun-powered ionic drive motor, air-restorer, moisture-reclaimer,flasks of oxygen and water, instruments, dehydratedfoods, medicines, a rifle, instruction manuals, a few clothes,and various small, useful items. Everything was cut to minimum,to keep the weight down. The lined up drums made autilitarian display that looked rather grim.

The gear was set out like this, for the safety inspectors tolook at during the next few days, and provide their stamp ofapproval.

The blastoff tickets had also been purchased—for Junetenth.

"Well, how do you think the Bunch should travel to NewMexico, Paul?" Frank Nelsen joshed.

"Like other Bunches, I guess," Paul Hendricks laughed. "Acouple of moving vans should do the trick..."

p.36

III

On June first, ten days before blastoff, DavidLester came back to the shop, sheepishness, pleasure and worryshowing in his face.

"I cleared up matters at home, guys," he said. "And I wentto Minneapolis and obtained one of these." He held up thesame kind of space-fitness card that the others had.

"The tests are mostly passive," he explained further. "Anybodycan be whirled in a centrifuge, or take a fall. That issomewhat simpler, in its own way, than clinging to a careeningmotor scooter. Though I do admit that I was still almostrejected...! So, I'll join you, again—if I'm permitted? I understandthat my old gear has been completed, as a spare?Paul told me. Of course I'm being crusty, in asking to have itback, now?"

"Uh-uh, Les—I'm sure that's okay," Ramos grunted."Right, fellas?"

The others nodded.

A subdued cheerfulness seemed to possess Lester, themamma's boy, as if he had eased and become less introverted.The Bunch took him back readily enough, though with misgivings.Still, the mere fact that a companion could return,after defeat, helped brace their uncertain morale.

"I'll order you a blastoff ticket, Les," Frank Nelsen said."In one of the two GOs—ground-to-orbit rockets—reservedfor us. The space is still there..."

David Lester had won a battle. He meant to win through,completely. Perhaps some of this determination was transmittedto the others. Two-and-Two Baines, for example,seemed more composed.

There wasn't much work to do during those last days, afterthe equipment had been inspected and approved, the initialsof each man painted in red on his blastoff drum, and all thenecessary documents put in order.

Mitch Storey rode a bus to Mississippi, to say goodbye to hisfolks. The Kuzaks flew to Pennsylvania for the same reason.Likewise, Gimp Hines went by train to Illinois. Ramos rodehis scooter all the way down to East Texas and back, to seehis parents and a flock of younger brothers and sisters. Whenp.37he returned, he solemnly gave his well-worn vehicle to anearnest boy still in high school.

"No dough," Ramos said. "I just want her to have a goodhome."

Those of the Bunch who had families didn't run into anyserious last minute objections from them about their goinginto space. Blasting out was getting to be an accepted destiny.

There was a moment of trouble with Two-and-Two Bainesabout a kid of eight years named Chippie Potter, who had begunto hang around Hendricks' just the way Frank Nelsenhad done, long ago. But more especially, the trouble was aboutChippie's fox terrier, Blaster.

"The lad of course can't go along with us, Out There, onaccount of school and his Mom," Two-and-Two said sentimentally,on one of those final evenings. "So he figures hismutt should go in his place. Shucks, maybe he's right! A ladymutt first made it into orbit, ahead of any people, remember?And we ought to have a mascot. We could make a sealed air-conditionedbox and smuggle old Blaster. Afterwards, he'd beall right, inside a bubb."

"You try any stunt like that and I'll shoot you," Frank Nelsenpromised. "Things are going to be complicated enough."

"You always tell me no, Frank," Two-and-Two mourned.

"I know something else," said Joe Kuzak—he and his toughtwin had returned to Jarviston by then, as had all the otherswho had visited their homes. "There's a desperate individualaround, again. Tiflin. He appealed his test—and lost. Kind ofa good guy—someways..."

The big Kuzaks, usually easy and steady and not too comical,both had a certain kind of expression, now—like amusedand secretive gorillas. Frank wasn't sure whether he got themeaning of this or not, but right then he felt sort of sympatheticto Tiflin, too.

"I didn't hear anything; I won't say or do anything," helaughed.

Afterwards, under the pressure of events, he forgot thewhole matter.

It would take about thirty-six hours to get to the NewMexico spaceport. Calculating accordingly, the Bunch hoistedtheir gear aboard two canvas-covered trucks parked in thedriveway beside Hendricks', just before sundown of their lastday in Jarviston.

People had begun to gather, to see them off. Two-and-Two'sfolks, a solid, chunky couple, looking grave. David Lester'smother, of course, seeming younger than the Bunch rememberedher. Make-up brought back some of her good-looks.She was more Spartan than they had thought, too.

p.38

"I have made up a basket of sandwiches for you and yourcomrades, Lester," she said.

Otto Kramer was out with free hotdogs, beer and Pepsi, hisface sad. J. John Reynolds, backer of the Bunch, had promisedto come down, later. Chief of Police, Bill Hobard, was there,looking grim, as if he was half glad and half sorry to lose thispassel of law-abiding but worrisome young eccentrics. Therewere various cynical and curious loafers around, too. Therewere Chippie Potter and his mutt—a more wistful and worshippingpair would have been hard to imagine.

Sophia Jameson, one of Charlie Reynolds' old flames, wasthere. Charlie had sold his car and given away his wardrobe,but he still managed to look good in a utilitarian white coverall.

"Well, we had a lot of laughs, anyway, you big ape!"Sophia was saying to Charlie, when Roy Harder, the mailmanwith broken-down feet, shuffled up, puffing.

"One for you, Reynolds," he said. "Also one for you, Nelsen.They just came—ordinarily I wouldn't deliver them tilltomorrow morning. But you see how it is."

A long, white envelope was in Frank Nelsen's hands. In itsupper left-hand corner was engraved:

UNITED STATES SPACE FORCE
RECRUITING SECTION
WASHINGTON, D.C.

"Jeez, Frankie—Charlie—you made it—open 'em, quick!"Two-and-Two said.

Frank was about to do so. But everybody knew exactly whatwas inside such an envelope—the only thing that was ever soenclosed, unless you were already in the Force. An officialsummons to report, on such and such a date and such andsuch a place, for examination.

For a minute Frank Nelsen suffered the awful anguish ofindecision over a joke of circ*mstance. Like most of theothers, he had tried to get into the Force. He had given it upas hopeless. Now, when he was ready to move out on his own,the chance came. Exquisite irony.

Frank felt the lift of maybe being one of—well—theChosen. To wear the red, black and silver rocket emblem, touse the finest equipment, to carry out dangerous missions, toexercise authority in space, and yet to be pampered, as thosewho make a mark in life are pampered.

"Que milagro!—holy cow!" Ramos breathed. "Charlie—Frankie—congratulations!"

Frank saw the awed faces around them. They were lookingup to him and Charlie in a friendly way, but already he feltthat he had kind of lost them by being a little luckier. Or wasp.39this all goof ball sentiment in his own mind, to make himselffeel real modest?

So maybe he got sentimental about this impoverished, ragtagBunch that, even considering J. John Reynolds' help, stillwere pulling themselves up into space almost literally by theirown bootstraps. He had always belonged to the Bunch, andhe still did. So perhaps he just got sore.

Charlie's and his eyes met for a second, in understanding.

"Thanks, Postman Roy," Charlie said. "Only you were rightthe first time. These letters shouldn't be delivered until yournext trip around, tomorrow morning."

They both handed the envelopes back to Roy Harder.

The voices of their Bunch-mates jangled in a conflictingchorus.

"Ah—yuh damfools!" Two-and-Two bleated.

"Good for them!" Art Kuzak said, perhaps mockingly.

"Hey—they're us—they'll stay with us—shut up—didn'twe lose enough people, already?" Gimp said.

Frank grinned with half of his mouth. "We always neededa name," he remarked. "How about The Planet Strappers?Hell—if the chairborne echelon of the U.S.S.F. is so slow andpicky, let 'em go sit on a sunspot."

"I need some white paint and a brush, Paul," Ramos declared,running into the shop.

In a couple of minutes more, the name for the Bunch wascrudely and boldly lettered on the sides of both trucks.

"Salute your ladies, shake hands with your neighbors, andthen let's get moving," Charlie Reynolds laughed genially.

And so they did. Old Paul Hendricks, born too soon, blinkeda little as he grinned, and slapped shoulders. "On your way,you lucky tramps...!"

There were quick movements here and there—a kiss, atouch of hands, a small gesture, a strained glance.

Frank Nelsen blew a kiss jauntily to Nance Codiss, theneighbor girl, who waved to him from the background. "Solong, Frank..." He wondered if he saw a fierce envy showingin her face.

Miss Rosalie Parks, his high school Latin teacher, wasthere, too. Old J. John Reynolds appeared at the final momentto smile dryly and to flap a waxy hand.

"So long, sir... Thanks..." they all shouted as the dieselsof the trucks whirred and then roared. J. John still had neverbeen around the shop. It was only Frank who had seen himregularly, every week. It might have been impertinent forthem to say that they'd make him really rich. But some musthave hoped that they'd get rich, themselves.

Frank Nelsen was perched on his neatly packed blastoffp.40drum in the back of one of the trucks, as big tires began toturn. Near him, similarly perched, were Mitch Storey, darkand thoughtful, Gimp Hines with a triumph in his face, Two-and-TwoBaines biting his lip, and Dave Lester with his largeAdam's apple bobbing.

So that was how the Bunch left Jarviston, on a June eveningthat smelled of fresh-cut hay and car fumes—home. Perhapsthey had chosen this hour to go because the gathering darknessmight soften their haunting suspicions of complete follybefore an adventure so different from the life they knew—neatstreets, houses, beds, Saturday nights, dances, strugglingfor a dream at Hendricks'—that even if they survived thechange, the difference must seem a little like death.

Seeking the lifting thread of magical romance again, FrankNelsen looked up at the ribbed canvas top of the truck. "Coveredwagon," he said.

"Sure—Indians—boom-boom," Two-and-Two chuckled,brightening. "Wild West... Yeah—wild—that's a word Ikind of like."

Up ahead, in the other truck, Ramos and Charlie Reynoldshad begun to sing a funny and considerably ribald song. Theymade lots of lusty, primitive noise. When they were finished,Ramos, still in a spirit of humor, corned up an old Mexicannumber about disappointed love.

"Adios, Mujer—

Adios para siempre—

Adios..."

Ramos wailed out the last syllable with lugubrious emphasis.

"Always it's girls," Dave Lester managed to chuckle. "I stilldon't see how they expect to find many, Out There."

"If our Eileen has—or will—make it, she won't be the first—orlast," Frank offered, almost mystically.

"Hey—I was right about the word, wild," Two-and-Twomused. "Yeah—we're all just plum-full of wanting to be wild.Not mean wild, mostly—constructive wild, instead. And,damn, we'll do it...! Cripes—we ought to come back to oldPaul's place in June, ten years from now, and tell each otherwhat we've accomplished."

"Damn—that's a fine idea, Two-and-Two!" David Lesterpiped up. "I'll suggest it to the other guys, first chance Iget...!"

Of course it was another piece of callow whistling in thedark, but it was a buildup, too. Coming home at a fixed, futuretime, to compare glittering successes. Eldorados found andexploited, cities built, giant businesses established, hearts won,real manhood achieved past staggering difficulties. But they allp.41had to believe it, to combat the icy sliver of dread concerningan event that was getting very near, now.

Mitch Storey sat with his mouth organ cupped in his hands.He began to make soft, musing chords, tried a fragment ofOld Man River, shifted briefly to a spiritual, and wound upwith some eerie, impromptu fragments, partly like the drumsand jingling brass of old Africa, partly like a joyful battle,partly like a lonesome lament, and then, mysteriously likeabsolute silence.

Storey stopped, abashed. He grinned.

"Reaching for Out There, Mitch?" Frank Nelsen asked."Music of your own, to tell about space? Got any words forit?"

"Nope," Mitch said. "Maybe it shouldn't have any words.Anyhow, the tune doesn't come clear, yet. I haven't been—There."

"Maybe some more of Otto's beer will help," Frank suggested."Here—one can, each, to begin." For once, Frank hadan urge to get slightly pie-eyed.

"High's a good word," he amended. "High and sky! Marsand stars!"

"Space and race, nuts and guts!" Lester put in, trying tobelong, and be light-minded, like he thought the others were,instead of a scared, pedantic kid. He slapped the blastoff drumunder him, familiarly, as if to draw confidence from its grim,cool lines.

The whole Bunch was quite a bit like that, for a good partof the night, shouting lustily back and forth between the twotrucks, laughing, singing, wise-cracking, drinking up OttoKramer's Pepsi and beer.

But at last, Gimp Hines, remembering wisdom, spoke up."We're supposed to be under mild sedation—a devil-killer, atranquilizer—for at least thirty hours. It's in the rules for prospectiveground-to-orbit candidates. We're supposed to besleeping good. Here goes my pill—down, with the last of mybeer..."

Faces sobered, and became strained and careful, again. Theguys on the trucks bedded down as best they could, amongtheir gaunt equipment. Soon there were troubled snores fromhuddled figures that quivered with the motion of the vehicles.The mottled Moon rode high. Big tires whispered on dampconcrete. Lights blinked past. The trucks curved around corners,growled up grades, highballed down. There were pausesat all-night drive-ins, coffees misguidedly drunk in a blurred,fur-tongued half wakefulness that seemed utterly bleak. Oh,hell, Frank Nelsen thought, wasn't it far better to be home inbed, like Jig Hollins?

p.42

At grey dawn, there was a breakfast stop, the two truckdrivers and their relief man grinning cynically at the Bunch.Then there was more country, rolling and speeding past. Wakefulnesswas half sleep, and vice-versa. And the hours, throughthe day and another night, dwindled toward blastoff time, ateleven o'clock tomorrow morning.

When the second dawn came, the Bunch were all tautlyand wearily alert again, peering ahead, across dun desert.There wasn't much fallout from the carefully developed hydrogen-fusionengines of the GO rockets, but maybe therewas enough to distort the genes of the cacti a little, makingtheir forms more grotesque.

Along the highway there were arrows and signs. When thetrucks had labored to the top of a ridge, the spaceport installationscame into view all at once:

Barbed-wire fences, low, olive-drab gate buildings, guidancetower, the magnesium dome of a powerhouse reactor, repairand maintenance shops, personnel-housing area carefullyshielded against radiation by a huge stellene bubble, sealed andair-conditioned, with double-doored entrances and exits. Insideit were visible neat bungalows, lawns, gardens, supermarket,swimming pools, swings, a kid's bike left casuallyhere or there.

The first sunshine glinted on the two rockets and theirsingle, attendant gantry tower, waiting on the launching pad.The rockets were as gaunt as sharks. They might almost havebeen natural spires on the Moon, or ruined towers left by theextinct beings of Mars. At first they were impersonal and expectedparts of the scene, until the numbers, ceramic-enamelledon their striped flanks, were noticed: GO-11 and GO-12.

"They're us—up the old roller coaster!" Charlie Reynoldsshouted.

Then everybody was checking his blastoff ticket, as if hedidn't remember the number primly typed on it. Frank Nelsenhad GO-12. GO—Ground-to-Orbit. But it might as wellmean go! glory, or gallows, he thought.

The trucks reached the gate. The Bunch met the bored andcynical reception committee—a half-dozen U.S.S.F. men inradiation coveralls.

Each of the Bunch held his blastoff ticket, his space-fitnessand his equipment-inspection cards meekly in sweaty fingers.It was an old story—the unknowing standing vulnerable beforethe knowing and perhaps harsh.

Nelsen guessed at some of the significance of the looks theyall received: Another batch of greenhorns—to conquer anddevelop and populate the extra-terrestrial regions. They allcome the same way, and look alike. Poor saps...

p.43

Frank Nelsen longed to paste somebody, even in the absenceof absolute impoliteness.

The blastoff drums were already being lifted off the trucks,weighed, screened electronically, and moved toward a loadingelevator on a conveyor. The whole process was automatic.

"Nine men—ten drums—how come?" one of the U.S.S.F.people inquired.

"A spare. Its GO carriage charge is paid," Reynolds answered.

He got an amused and tired smirk. "Okay, Sexy—it's allright with us. And I hope you fellas were smart enough notto eat any breakfast. Of course we'd like to have you say—tentatively—whereyou'll be headed, on your own power, afterwe toss you Upstairs. Toward the Moon, huh, like most fledglingssay? It helps a little to know. Some new folks start toscream and get lost, up there. See how it is?"

Sure—we see—thanks. Yes—the Moon." This was stillCharlie Reynolds talking.

"No problem, then, Sexy. We mean to be gentle. Now let'smove along, in line. Never mind consulting wristwatches—we'vegot over four hours left. Final blood pressure check,first. Then the shot, the devil-killer, the wit-sharpener. And tryto remember some of what you're supposed to have learned.Relax, don't talk too much, and try not to swallow any livebutterflies."

The physician, looking them over, shook his head and madea wry face of infinite sadness, when he came to Gimp andLester, but he offered no comment except a helpless shrug.

The U.S.S.F. spokesman was still with them. "All right—armorup. Let's see how good you are at it."

They scrambled to it grimly, and still a little clumsily. GimpHines had, of course, long ago tailored his Archer to fit thatshrunken right leg. Then they just sat around in the big lockerroom, trying to get used to being enclosed like this, much ofthe time, checking to see that everything was functioning right,listening to the muffled voices that still reached them from beyondtheir protecting encasem*nt. They could still have conversed,by direct sound or by helmet-radio, but the devil-killerseemed to subdue the impulse, and for a while caused a dreaminessthat shortened the long wait...

"Okay—time to move!"

Heavy with their Archies, they filed out into desert sun-glarethat their darkened helmets made feeble. They arose inthe long climb of the gantry elevator and split into two groups,for the two rockets, according to their GO numbers. It didn'tseem to matter, now, who went with whom. Each man had hisp.44own private sweating party. The padded passenger compartmentswere above the blastoff drum freight sections.

"Helmets secure? Air-restorer systems on? Phones working?Answer roll call if you hear me. Baines, George?"

"Here!" Two-and-Two responded, loud and plain in FrankNelsen's phone, from the other rocket.

"Hines, Walter?"

One by one the names were called... "Kuzak, Arthur?...Kuzak, Joseph?..."

"Okay—the Mystic Nine, eh? Lash down!"

They lay on their backs on the padded floors, and fastenedthe straps. Gimp Hines, next to Frank, seemed to have discardedhis crutches, somewhere.

The inspector swaggered around among them, jerking straps,and tapping shoulders and buttocks straight on the floorpadding with a boot toe.

"All right—not good, not too bad. Ease off—shut your eyes,maybe. The next twenty minutes are ours. The rest are yours,except for orders. I hope you remember your jump procedures.Also that there are a lot of wooden nickels Upstairs—in orbit,on the Moon, anyplace. We'll call some of your shots from theground. Good luck—and Glory help you..."

The growl in their phones died away with the muffled footsteps.Doors closed on their gaskets and were dogged, automatically.

Then it was like waiting five minutes more, inside a cannonbarrel. There was a buzzing whisper of nuclear exciters. Theroar of power cut in. A soft lurch told that the rockets wereoff the ground—fireborne. The pressure of accelerationmounted. You closed your eyes to make the blackness seemnatural, instead of a blackout in your optic nerves, and thethreadiness of your mind seem like sleep. But you felt smothered,just the same. Somebody grunted. Somebody gave athick cry.

Frank Nelsen had the strange thought that, by his body'smounting velocity, enough kinetic energy was being pumpedinto it to burn it to vapor in an instant, if it ever hit the air.But it was the energy of freedom from gravity, from theEarth, from home—for adventure. Freedom to wander thesolar system, at last! He tried, still, to believe in the magnificenceof it, as the thrust of rocket power ended, and theweightlessness of orbital flight came dizzily.

He didn't consciously hear the order to leave the orbitingGO-12, which was moving only about five hundred feet fromit's companion, GO-11. But, like most of the others, he workedhis way with dogged purpose through what seemed a fuzzynightmare.

p.45

The doors of the passenger compartments had opened; likewisethe blastoff drums had been ejected automatically, andwere orbiting free.

Maybe it was Gimp who moved ahead of him. Looking out,Frank saw what was certainly Ramos, already straddling adrum marked with a huge red M.R., riding it like a jauntytroll on a seahorse. He saw the Kuzaks dive for their initialleddrums, big men not yet as apt in this new game as in football,but grimly determined to learn fast. The motion was allas silent as a shadow.

Then Frank jumped for his own drum, and found himselfturning slowly end-over-end, seeing first the pearl-mist curvethat was the Earth, then the brown-black, chalk-smeared sky,with the bright needle points and the corona-winged sun in it.Instinct made him grab futilely outward, for the sense ofweightlessness was the same as endless fall. He was falling,around the Earth, his forward motion exactly balancing hisdownward motion, in a locked ellipse, a closed trajectory.

His mind cleared very fast—that must have been anotherphase of the devil-killer shot coming into action. Controllingpanic, he relocated his drum, marked by a splashed red F.N.,set his tiny shoulder ionic in operation, and reached back tomove its flexible guide, first to stop his spin, then to produceforward motion. He got to the drum, and just clung to it fora moment.

But in the next instant he was looking into the embarrassed,anguished face of a person, who, like a drowning man, hadcome to hang onto it for dear life, too.

"Frank, I—I even dirtied myself..."

"So what? Over there is your gear, Two-and-Two—go getit!" Frank shouted into his phone, the receiver of which wasnow full of sounds—a moaning grunt, a vast hiccuping, shouts,exhortations.

"Easy, Les," Reynolds was saying. "Can you reach a pillfrom the rack inside your chest plate, and swallow it? Justfloat quietly—nothing'll happen. We've got work to do for afew minutes... We'll look after you later... Cripes, Mitch—hecan't take it. Jab the knockout needle right through thesleeve of his Archer, like we read in the manuals. The interwallgum will seal the puncture..."

Just then the order came, maddeningly calm and hard abovethe other sounds in Frank's phone: "All novices disembarkedfrom GOs-11 and -12 must clear four-hundred mile take-offorbital zone for other traffic within two hours."

At once Frank was furiously busy, working the darkenedstellene of his bubb from the drum, letting it spread like along wisp of silvery cobweb against the stars, letting it inflatep.46from the air-flasks to a firm and beautiful circle, attaching therigging, the fine, radial spokewires—for which the blastoffdrum itself now formed the hub. To the latter he now attachedhis full-size, sun-powered ionic motor. Then he creptthrough the double sealing flaps of the airlock, to install theair-restorer and the moisture-reclaimer in the circular, tunnel-likeinterior that would now be his habitation.

He wasn't racing anything except time, but he had workedas fast as he could. Still, Gimp Hines had finished rigging hisbubb, minutes ahead of Frank, or anybody else. On secondthought, maybe this was natural enough. Here, where therewas no weight, his useless leg made no difference—as thespace-fitness examiners must have known. Besides, Gimp hadtalented fingers and a keen mechanical sense, and had alwaystried harder than anybody.

Ramos was almost as quick. Frank wasn't much farther behind.The Kuzaks were likewise doing all right. Two-and-Twowas trailing some, but not very badly.

"Spin 'em!" Gimp shouted. "Don't forget to spin 'em forcentrifuge-gravity and stability!"

And so they did, each gripping the rigging at their bubbrims, and using the minute but accumulative thrust of theshoulder ionics of their Archers, to provide the push. The inflatedrings turned like wheels with perfect bearings. In theall but frictionless void, they could go on turning for decades,without additional impetus.

"We've made it—we're Out Here—we're all right!" Ramoswas shouting with a fierce exultation.

"Shut up, Ramos!" Frank Nelsen yelled back. "Don't eversay that, too soon. Look around you!"

Storey and Reynolds were still struggling with their bubbs.They had been delayed by trying to quiet Dave Lester, whonow floated in a drugged stupor, lashed to his blastoff drum.

Slowly, pushed by their shoulder ionics, Gimp, Ramos andFrank Nelsen drifted over to see what they could do forLester.

He was vaguely conscious, his eyes were glassy, his mouthdrooled watery vomit.

"What do you want us to do, Les?" Frank asked gently."We could put you back in one of the rockets. You'd bebrought back to the spaceport, when they are guided back byremote control."

"I don't know!" Lester wailed in a hoarse voice. "Fellas—Idon't know! A little falling is all right... But it goes on allthe time. I can't stand it! But if I'm sent back—I can't everlive with myself!..."

Frank felt the intense anguish of trying to decide somebodyp.47else's quandary that might be a life or death matter whichwould surely involve them all. Damn, weak-kneed kid! Howhad he ever gotten so far?

"We should have set up his bubb first, put him inside, andspun it to kill that sense of fall!" Gimp said. "We'll do it, now!He should be all right. He did pass his space-fitness tests, andthe experts ought to know."

With the three of them at it, and with the Kuzaks joiningthem in a moment, the job was quickly finished.

Meanwhile, the sharp, commanding voice of Ground Controlsounded in their phones, again: "GOs-11 and -12 returningto port. Is all in order among delivered passengers? Soundout if true. Baines, George?..."

David Lester's name was called just before Frank Nelsen's,and he managed to say, "In order!" almost firmly, creating adamnable illusion, Frank thought. But for a moment, mixedwith his anger, Frank felt a strange, almost paternal gentleness,too.

At the end of the roll call, the doors of the GO rocketsclosed. Stubby wings, useful for the ticklish operation of skip-glidedeceleration and re-entry into the atmosphere, slid outof their sheaths. Little, lateral jets turned the vehicles around.Their main engines flamed lightly; losing speed, they dippedin their paths, beginning to fall.

Watching the rockets leave created a tingling sense of beingleft all alone, at an empty, breathless height from which youcould never get down—a height full of dazzling, unnaturalsunshine, that in moments would become the dreadful darknessof Earth's shadow.

"Hey—our spare drum—it'll drift off!" Ramos shouted.

The Kuzaks dived to retrieve the cylinder. Others followed.But there was a peculiar circ*mstance. The friction cover atone of its ends hung open. There was a trailing wisp of stellene—partof the bubb packed inside—and a thin, angry facewith rather hysterical eyes, within the helmet of an ArcherFive.

"Shhh—it ain't safe for me to come out yet," Glen Tiflinhissed threateningly. "Damn you all—if you dare queerme...!"

"Cripes—another Jonah!" Charlie Reynolds growled.

Frank Nelsen looked at the Kuzaks, floating near.

"Well—what could we do?" Joe Kuzak, the gentler twin,whispered. "He came back to Jarviston, to our rooming house,one night. We promised to help him a little. What are you goingto do with a character nuts enough about space to armorup and stuff himself inside a blastoff drum? Of course hedidn't come that way from home. There's that electronic checkp.48of drum contents at the gate of the port. But he was there ona visitor's pass, waiting—having hitchhiked all the way to here.After the electronic check, he figured on stowing away, whilethe drums were waiting to be loaded. The only thing we didto help was to take a little of the stuff out of the spare drumand stow it in our two drums, to leave him some room. Wethought sure he'd be caught, quick. But you can see how hegot away with it. Those U.S.S.F. boys at the port don't reallygive a damn who gets Out Here."

"Okay—I'll buy it," Reynolds sighed heavily. "Good luckwith the stunt, Tif."

Tiflin only gave him a poisonous glare, as the nine fragile,gleaming rings, the drifting men and the spare drum, orbitedon into the Earth's shadow, not nearly as dark as it might havebeen because the Moon was brilliant.

"We'd better rig the parabolic mirrors of the ionics to catchthe first sunshine in about forty minutes, so we can start movingout of orbit," Ramos said. "We'll have to think of food,sometime, too."

"Food, yet—ugh!" Art Kuzak grunted.

Frank felt the fingers of spasm taking hold of his stomach.Most everybody was getting fall-sick, now, their insides notfinding any up or down direction. But the guys wavered backto their bubbs. The shoulder ionics of their Archers, thoughnormally sun-energized, could draw power from the small nuclearbatteries of the armor during the rare moments whenthere could be darkness anywhere in solar space.

The Planet Strappers stood in the rigging of their fragilevehicles, setting the full-sized ionics to produce increased accelerationwhich would gradually push the craft beyond orbit.Joe Kuzak ran a steel wire from a pivot bolt at the hub of hisring, to tow Tiflin and his drum.

Then everybody crawled into their respective bubbs, mostof them needing the centrifugal gravity to help straighten outtheir fall-sickness.

"My neck is swelling, too," Frank Nelsen heard CharlieReynolds say. "Lymphatic glands sometimes bog down in theabsence of weight. Don't worry if it happens to some of you.We know that it straightens out."

For a few minutes it seemed that they had a small respitein their struggle for adjustment to a fantastic environment.

"Well—I got cleaned up, some—that's better," Two-and-Twosaid. "But look at the fuzzy lights down on Earth. Hell, isit right for a fella to be looking down on the lights of Paris,Moscow, Cairo, and Rangoon—when he hasn't ever been anyfarther than Minneapolis?" Two-and-Two sounded fabulouslybefuddled.

p.49

David Lester started screaming again. They had left himalone and apparently unconscious, inside his ring, because allionics, including his, had had to be set. Then, in the pressureof events, they had almost forgotten him.

"I'll go look," Frank Nelsen said.

Mitch Storey was there ahead of him. Mitch's helmet wasoff; his dark face was all planes and hollows in the moonlightcoming through the thin, transparent walls of the vehicle."Should we call the U.S.S.F. patrol, Frank?" he asked anxiously."Have them take him off? 'Cause he sure can't standanother devil-killer."

"We'd better," Frank answered quickly.

But now Tiflin, having deserted his blastoff drum, was comingthrough the airlock flaps, too. He stepped forward gingerly,along the spinning, ring-shaped tunnel.

"Poor bookworm," he growled in a tone curiously soft forGlen Tiflin. "Think I don't understand how it is? And how doyou know if he wants to get sent back?"

Mitch had removed Lester's helmet, too. Tiflin knelt. Hisarm moved with savage quickness. There was the crack ofknuckles, in a rubberized steel-fabric space glove, against Lester'sjaw. His hysterical eyes glazed and closed; his face relaxed.

For a second of intolerable fury, Frank wanted to tearTiflin apart.

But Mitch half-grinned. "That might be an answer," he said.

They plopped where they were, and tried to rest until theorbiting cluster of rings emerged from Earth's shadow intoblazing sunshine, again. Then Mitch and Frank returned totheir own bubbs to check on the acceleration.

It was soon plain that Joe Kuzak's bubb, towing Tiflin'sdrum, would lag.

"Hell!" Art Kuzak snapped. "Get that character out hereto help us inflate and rig his own equipment! We did enoughfor him! So if the Force notices that there are ten bubbs insteadof nine, the extra is still just our spare... Hey—Tiflin!"

"Nuts—I'm looking after Pantywaist," Tiflin growled back.

"Awright," Art returned. "So we just cast your junk adrift!Come on, boy!" There was no kidding in the dry tone.

Tiflin snarled but obeyed.

Ions jetting from the Earthward hub-ends of the rotatingrings, yielded their steady few pounds of thrust. The gradualoutward spiral began.

"Cripes—I'm not sure I can even astrogate to the Moon,"Two-and-Two was heard to complain.

"I'll check your ionic setting for you, Two-and-Two," Gimpanswered him. "After that the acceleration should continuep.50properly without much attention. So how about you and metaking first watch, while the others ease off a little...?"

Frank Nelsen crept carefully back into his own rotatingring, still half afraid that an armored knee or elbow might goright through the thin, yielding stellene. Prone, and with hishelmet still sealed, he slipped into the fog which the tranquilizernow induced in his brain, while the universe of stars,Moon, sun and Earth tumbled regularly around him.

He dreamed of yelling in endless fall, and of climbing overmetal-veined chunks of a broken world, where once there hadbeen air, sea, desert and forest, and minds not unlike those ofmen, but in bodies that were far different. Gurgling thickly,he awoke, and snapped on his helmet phone to kill the uttersilence.

Someone muttered a prayer in a foreign tongue:

"... Nuestra Dama de Guadalupe—te pido, por favor...Tengo miedo—I'm scared... Pero pienso mas en ella—Ithink more of her. Mi chula, mi linda... My beautiful Eileen...Keep her—"

The prayer broke off, as if a switch was turned. It had beenbrash Ramos... Now there were only some fragments ofharmonica music...

Frank slipped into the blur, again, awakening at last withTwo-and-Two shaking his shoulder. "Hey, Frankie—we're fivehours out, by the chronometers—look how small the Earthhas got...! We're all gonna have brunch in Ramos' vehicle...Know what that goof ball Mex was doing, before?Stripped down to his shorts, and with the spin stopped forzero-G, he was bouncing back and forth from wall to wall insidehis bubb! The sun makes it nice and warm in there. ThinkI might try it, myself, sometime. Shucks, I feel pretty good,now... Frankie, ain't you hungry?"

Frank felt limp as a rag, but he felt much better than before,and he could stand some nourishment. "Lead on, Two-and-Two,"he said.

Ramos' bubb was spinning once more, but he was wearingjust dungarees. The Bunch—the Planet Strappers—with onlytheir helmets off, were crouched, evenly spaced, around thecircular interior of the ring. Dave Lester was there, too—staring,but fairly calm, now. In this curious place, there wasa delicious and improbable aroma of coffee—cooked by mirror-reflectedsunlight on a tiny solar stove.

"So that's the way it goes," Charlie Reynolds commentedprofoundly. "We reach out for strangeness. Then we try tomake it as familiar as home."

"Stew, warmed in the cans, too," Ramos declared. "Enoughfor a light one-time-around. I brought the stew along. Hopep.51you birds remember. Then we're back on dehydrates. Hell,except for that weight problem and consequent cost of stufffrom Earth, we'd have it made, Out Here. The Big Vacuumain't so tough—no storms in it, even, to tear our bubbs apart.I guess we won't ever have a bigger adventure than findingout for ourselves that we can get along with space."

"If we had a beef roast, we'd put it in a sealed container ofclear plastic," Gimp laughed. "Set it turning, outside thebubb, on a swiveled tether wire. It would rotate for hours likeon a spit—almost no friction. Rig some mirrors to concentratethe sun's heat. Space Force men do things like that."

"Shut up—I'm getting hong-gry!" Art Kuzak roared.

Ramos poured the coffee in the thin magnesium cups thateach of the Bunch had brought. Their squeeze bottles, forzero-G drinking, were not necessary, here. Their skimpy portionsof stew were spooned on magnesium plates. Knife andfork combinations were brought out. An apple purée whichhad been powder, followed the stew. Brunch was soon over.

"That's all for now, folks," Ramos said ruefully.

Tiflin snaked a cigarette out from inside the collar of hisArcher.

"Hey!" Reynolds said mildly. "Oxygen, remember? Shouldn'tyou ask our host, first?"

Ramos had eased up on ribbing Tiflin months ago. "It'sokay," he said. "The air-restorers are new."

But Tiflin's explosive nerves, under strain for a long time,didn't take it. He threw down the unlighted fa*g. He snickedhis switch blade from a thigh pocket. For an instant it seemedthat he would attack Reynolds. Then the knife flew, andpenetrated the thin, taut wall, to its handle. There was afrightening hiss, until the sealing gum between the doublelayers, cut off the leak.

The Kuzaks had Tiflin helpless and snarling, at once.

"Get a patch, somebody—fix up the hole," Joe, the mildone, growled. "Tiflin—me and my brother helped you. Nowwe're gonna sit on you—just to make sure your funny businessdoesn't kill us all. Try anything just once, and we'll feedyou all that vacuum—without an Archer. If you're a good boy,maybe you'll live to get dumped on the Moon as we pass by."

"Nuts—let's give this sick rat to the Space Force rightnow." Art Kuzak hissed. "Here comes their patrol bubb."

The glinting, transparent ring with the barred white starwas passing at a distance.

"All is well with you novices?" The enquiring voice was agruff drawl, mingled with crunching sounds of eating—perhapsa candy bar.

"No!" Tiflin whispered, pleading. "I'll watch myself!"

p.52

The United Nations patrol was out, too, farther off. Another,darker bubb, with other markings, passed by, quiteclose. It had foreign lines, more than a bit sinister to theBunch's first, startled view. It was a Tovie vehicle, representingthe other side of the still—for the most part—passively opposedforces, on Earth, and far beyond. But through thedarkened transparency of stellene, the armored figures—againsomewhat sinister—only raised their hands in greeting.

In a minute, Frank Nelsen emerged from Ramos' ring.Floating free, he stabilized himself, fussed with the radioantenna of his helmet-phone for a moment, making its transmissionand reception directional. On the misty, shrinkingEarth, North America was visible.

"Frank Nelsen to Paul Hendricks," he said. "Frank Nelsento Paul Hendricks..."

Paul was waiting, all right. "Hello, Frankie. Some of theguys talked already—said you were asleep."

"Hi, Paul—yeah! Terra still looks big and beautiful. We'reokay. Amazing, isn't it, how just a few watts of power, beamedout in a thin thread, will reach this far, and lots farther?Hey—will you open and shut your front door? Let's hear theold customer's bell jingle... Best to you, to J. John, to NanceCodiss, Miss Parks—everybody..."

The squeak of hinges and the jingling came through, clearand nostalgically.

"Come on, Frank," Two-and-Two urged. "Other guys wouldlike to talk to Paul... Hey, Paul—maybe you could get myfolks down to the store to say hello to me on your transmitter.And I guess Les would appreciate it if you got his mother..."

When the talk got private, Frank went to Mitch Storey'sbubb.

"I wanted to show you," Mitch said. "I brought seeds, andthese little plastic tubes with holes in them, that you can stringaround inside a bubb. The weight is next to nothing. Put theseeds in the tubes, and water with plant food in solution. Theplants come up through the holes. Hydroponics. Gotta almostdo it, if I'm going way out to Mars without much supplies.Maybe, before I get there, I'll have even ripe tomatoes! 'Cause,with sun all the time, the stuff grows like fury, they say. I'llhave string beans and onions and flowers, anyhow! Helps keepthe air oxygen-fresh, too. Wish I had a few bumble bees!'Cause now I'll have to pollenate by hand..."

Nope—Mitch couldn't get away from vegetation, even inspace.

The Planet Strappers soon established a routine for theirjourney out as far as the Moon. There were watches, to besure that none of the bubbs veered, while somebody was asleepp.53or inattentive. Always at hand were loaded rifles, because younever knew what kind of space-soured men—who might oncehave been as tame as neighbors going for a drive on Sundayswith their families—might be around, even here.

Neither Kuzak slept, if the other wasn't awake. They werewatching Tiflin, whose bubb rode a little ahead of the others.He was ostracized, more or less.

Everybody took to Ramos' kind of , bouncingaround inside a bubb—even Lester, who was calmer, now,but obviously strained by the vast novelty and uncertaintyahead.

"I gave you guys a hard time—I'm sorry," he apologized."But I hope there won't be any more of that. The Bunch willbe breaking up, soon, I guess—going here and there. And ifI get a job at Serenitatis Base, I think I'll be okay."

Frank Nelsen hoped that he could escape any further partof Lester, but he wasn't sure that he had the guts to deserthim.

It wasn't long before the ionics were shut off. Enoughvelocity had been attained. Soon, the thrust would be neededin reverse, for braking action, near the end of the sixty hourjourney into a circumlunar orbit.

Sleep was a fitful, dream-haunted thing. Food was nowmostly a kind of gruel, rich in starches, proteins, fats andvitamins—each meal differently flavored, up to the number often flavors, in a manufacturer's attempt to mask the sameness.Add water to a powder—heat and eat. The spaceman's usualdiet, while afield...

One of the functions of the moisture-reclaimers was a roughjoke, or a squeamishness. A man's kidneys and bowels functioned,and precious water molecules couldn't be wasted, herein the dehydrated emptiness. But what difference did it reallymake, after the sanitary distillation of a reclaimer? Accept,adjust...

Decision about employment or activity in the immediatefuture, was one thing that couldn't be dismissed. And announcements,beamed from the Moon, emphasized it:

"Serenitatis Base, seventeenth month-day, sixteenth hour.(There was a chime) Lunar Projects Placement is here to serveyou. Plastics-chemists, hydroponics specialists, machinists,mechanics, metallurgists, miners, helpers—all are urgentlyneeded. The tax-free pay will startle you. Free subsistence andquarters. Here at Serene, at Tycho Station or at a dozen otherexpanding sites..."

Charlie Reynolds sat with Frank Nelsen while he listened."The lady has a swell voice," said Charlie. "Otherwise, itsounds good, too. But I'm one that's going farther. To Venus—justp.54being explored. All fresh, and no man-made booby traps,at least. Maybe they'll even figure out a way to make it rotatefaster, give it a reasonably short day, and a breathable atmosphere—makea warmer second Earth out of it... Sometimes,when you jump farther, you jump over a lot of trouble.Better than going slow, with the faint-hearts. Their muddlingmisfortunes begin to stick to you. I'd rather be Mitch, headedfor heebie-jeebie Mars, or the Kuzaks, aiming for the crazyAsteroid Belt."

That was Charlie, talking to him—Frank Nelsen—like anolder brother. It made a sharp doubt in him, again. But thenhe grinned.

"Maybe I am a slow starter," he said. "The Moon is nearand humble, but some say it's good training—even harsherthan space. And I don't want to bypass and miss anything.Oh, hell, Charlie—I'll get farther, soon, too! But I really don'teven know what I'll do, yet. Got to wait and see how the cardsfall..."

Several hours before the rest of the Bunch curved into aslow orbit a thousand miles above the Moon, Glen Tiflin setthe ionic of his bubb for full acceleration, and arced away,outward, perhaps toward the Belt.

"So long, all you dumb slobs!" his voice hissed in theirhelmet-phones. "Now I get really lost! If you ever cross mypath again, watch your heads..."

Art Kuzak's flare of anger died. "Good riddance," hebreathed. "How long will he last, alone? Without a space-fitnesscard, the poor idiot probably imagines himself a big, dangerousrenegade, already."

Joe Kuzak's answering tone almost had a shrug in it. "Don'tjinx our luck, twin brother," he said. "For that matter, howlong will we last...? Mex, did you toss Tiflin back his shiv?"

"A couple of hours ago," Ramos answered mildly.

Everybody was looking down at the Moon, whose crater-pockedugliness and beauty was sparsely dotted with the bluespots of stellene domes, many of them housing embryo enterprisesthat were trying to beat the blastoff cost of necessitiesbrought from Earth, and to supply spacemen and colonistswith their needs, cheaply.

The nine fragile rings were soon in orbit. One worker-recruitingrocket and several trader-rockets—much less powerfulthan those needed to achieve orbit around Earth—becauselunar gravity was only one-sixth of the terrestrial—werefloating in their midst. On the Moon it had of course beenknown that a fresh Bunch was on the way. Even telescopescould have spotted them farther off than the distance of their240,000 mile leap.

p.55

Frank Nelsen's tongue tasted of brassy doubt. He didn'tknow where he'd be, or what luck, good or bad, he mightrun into, within the next hour.

The Kuzaks were palavering with the occupants of twoheavily-loaded trader rockets. "Sure we'll buy—if the price isright," Art was saying. "Flasks of water and oxygen, medicines,rolls of stellene. Spare parts for Archies, ionics, air-restorers.Food, clothes—anything we can sell, ourselves..."

The Kuzaks must have at least a few thousand dollars,which they had probably managed to borrow when they hadgone home to Pennsylvania to say goodbye.

Out here, free of the grip of any large sphere, there washardly a limit to the load which their ionics could eventuallyaccelerate sufficiently to travel tremendous distances. Streamlining,in the vacuum, of course wasn't necessary, either.

Now a small, sharp-featured man in an Archie, drifted closeto Ramos and Frank, as they floated near their bubbs. "Hello,Ramos, hello, Nelsen," he said. "Yes—we know your names.We investigate, beforehand, down on terra firma. We evenhave people to snap photographs—often you don't even notice.We like guys with talent who get out here by their own efforts.Shows they got guts—seriousness! But now you've arrived.We are Lunar Projects Placement. We need mechanics, processtechnicians, administrative personnel—anything you can name,almost. Any bright lad with drive enough to learn fast, suitsus fine. Five hundred bucks an Earth-week, to start, mealsand lodging thrown in. Quit any time you want. Plenty of differentworking sites. Mines, refineries, factories, construction..."

"Serenitatis Base?" Ramos asked almost too quickly, Frankthought. And he sounded curiously serious. Was this the Ramoswho should be going a lot farther than the Moon, anyway?

"Hell, yes, fella!" said the job scout.

"Then I'll sign."

"Excellent... You, too, guy?" The scout was looking atFrank. "And your other friends?"

"I'm thinking about it," Frank answered cagily. "Some ofthem aren't stopping on the Moon, as you can see."

Mitch Storey was lashing a few flasks of oxygen and waterto the rim of his bubb, being careful to space them evenlyfor static balance. He didn't have the money to buy muchmore, even here.

The Kuzaks were preparing two huge bundles of supplies,which they intended to tow. Reynolds was also loading up afew things, with Two-and-Two helping him.

"I'm all set, Frank!" Two-and-Two shouted. "I'm goingp.56along with Charlie, maybe to crash the Venus explorationparty!"

"Good!" Frank shouted back, glad that this large, unsureperson had found himself a leader.

Now he looked at Gimp Hines, riding the spinning rim ofhis ring with his good and bad leg dangling, an expectant,quizzical, half-worried look on his freckled face.

But Dave Lester was more pathetic. He had stopped therotation of his bubb. He looked down first at the pitted, jaggedface of the Moon, with an expression in which rapture andterror may have been mingled, glanced with the hope ofdesperation toward the job scout, and then distractedly continueddismantling the rigging of his vehicle, as if to repackit in the blastoff drum for a landing.

"Hey—hold on, Les!" Two-and-Two shouted. "You gottaknow where you're going, first!"

"Make up your mind, Nelsen," said the job scout, gettingimpatient. "We handle just about everything lunar—exceptin the Tovie areas. Without us, you're just a lost, fresh punk!"

But another man had approached from another lunar GOrocket, which had just appeared. He had a thin intellectualface, dark eyes, trap mouth, white hair, soft speech that wasalmost shy.

"I'm Xavier Rodan," he said. "I search out my own employees.I do minerals survey—for gypsum, bauxite—anything.And site survey, for factories and other future developments.I also have connections with the Selenographic Institute of theUniversity of Chicago. It is all interesting work, but in a ratherremote region, I'm afraid—the far side of the Moon. And Ican pay only three hundred a week. Of course you can resignwhenever you wish. Perhaps you'd be interested—Mr. Nelsen,is it?"

Frank had an impulse to jump at the chance—though therewas a warning coming to him from somewhere. But howcould you ever know? You would always have to go downto that devils' wilderness to find out.

"I'll try it, Mr. Rodan," he said.

"Selenography—that's one of my favorite subjects, sir!"David Lester burst out, making a gingerly leap across the horriblevoid of spherical sky—stars in all directions except wherethe Moon's bulk hung. "Could I—too?" His trembling mouthlooked desperate.

"Very well, boy," Rodan said at last. "A hundred dollarsfor a week's work period."

Frank was glad that Lester had a place to go—and furiousthat he would probably have to nursemaid him, after all.

Gimp Hines kept riding the rim of his ring like a merry-go-round,p.57his face trying to show casual humor and indifferenceover ruefulness and scare. "Nobody wants me," he said cheerfully."It's just prejudice and poor imagination. Well—I don'tthink I'll even try to prove how good I am. Of course I couldshoot for the asteroids. But I'd like to look around SerenitatisBase—some, anyway. Will fifty bucks get me and my rigdown?"

"Talk to our pilot, Lame Fella," said the job scout. "Butyou must be suicidal nuts to be around here at all."

The others leapt to help Nelsen, Ramos, Gimp and Lesterstrip and pack their gear. Ramos' and Gimp's drums wereloaded into the job scout's rocket. Nelsen's and Lester's wentinto Rodan's.

Gloved hands clasped gloved hands all around. The Bunch,the Planet Strappers, were breaking up.

"So long, you characters—see you around," said Art Kuzak."It won't be ten years, before you all wind up in the Belt."

"Bring back the Mystery of Mars, Mitch!" Frank was saying.

"When you get finished Mooning, come to Venus, LoverLad," Reynolds told Ramos. "But good luck!"

"Jeez—I'm gonna get sentimental," Two-and-Two moaned."Luck everybody. Come on, Charlie—let's roll! I don't wantto slobber!"

"I'll catch up with you all—watch!" Gimp promised.

"So long, Frank..."

"Yeah—over the Milky Way, Frankie!"

"Hasta luego, Gang." This was all Ramos, the big mouth,had to say. He wasn't glum, exactly. But he was sort of preoccupiedand impatient.

The five remaining rings—a wonderful sight, Frank thought—beganto move out of orbit. Ships with sails set for far ports.No—mere ships of the sea were nothing, anymore. But wouldall of the Bunch survive?

Charlie Reynolds, the cool one, the most likely to succeed,waved jauntily and carelessly from his rotating, acceleratingring. Two-and-Two wagged both arms stiffly from his.

Mitch Storey's bubb, lightest loaded, was jumping ahead.But you could hear him playing Old Man River on his mouthorgan, inside his helmet.

The Kuzaks' bubbs, towing massive loads, were acceleratingslowest, with the ex-gridiron twins riding the rigging. But theirrings would dwindle to star specks before long, too.

The job scout's rocket, carrying Ramos and Gimp, beganto flame for a landing at Serene.

In the airtight cabin of Xavier Rodan's vehicle, Frankp.58Nelsen and David Lester had read and signed their contractsand had received their copies.

Rodan didn't smile. "Now we'll go down and have a lookat the place I'm investigating," he said.

IV

Frank Nelsen's view of empire-building onthe Moon was brief, all encompassing, and far too sketchy to bevery satisfying, as Rodan—turned about in his universal-gimbaledpilot seat—spiralled his battered rocket down backwards,with the small nuclear jets firing forward in jerky, tooth-crackingbursts, to check speed further.

It was necessary to go around the abortive sub-planet thathad always accompanied the Earth, almost once, to reducevelocity enough for a landing.

Thus, Nelsen glimpsed much territory—the splashed, irregularshape of Serenitatis, the international base on themare, the dust sea of the same name; the radiating threads oftrails and embryo highways, the ever-widening separation ofisolated domes and scattered human diggings and workingsfaintly scratched in the lunar crust, as, at a still great height,Frank's gaze swept outward from the greatest center of humanendeavor on the Moon.

It was much the same around Tycho Station, except thatthis base was smaller, and was built in a great, white-rayedcrater, whose walls were pierced by tunnels for exit and entry.

The Tovie camp, glimpsed later, and only at the distanthorizon, seemed not very different from the others, exceptfor the misleading patterns of camouflage. That the Toviesshould have an exclusive center of their own was not evenlegal, according to U.N. agreements. But facts were facts, andwhat did anyone do about them?

Frank was not very concerned with such issues just then,for there was an impression that was overpowering: Theslightness of the intrusion of his kind on a two thousand-somethingmiles-in-diameter globe of incredible desert, overlappingring-walls, craters centered in radiating streaks ofwhite ash, mountain ranges that sank gradually into dust,which once, two billion years ago, after probable ejection fromvolcanoes, had no doubt floated in a then palpable atmosphere.p.59But now, to a lone man down there, they would be bleakplains stretching to a disconcertingly near horizon.

Frank Nelsen's view was one of fascination, behind whichwas the chilly thought: This is my choice; here is where I willhave to live for a short while that can seem ages. Space lookstame, now. Can I make it all right? Worse—how about Lester?

Frank looked around him. Like Rodan, Lester and he hadboth pivoted around in their gimbaled seats—to which theyhad safety-strapped themselves—to face the now forward-pointingstern jets.

Rodan, looking more trap-mouthed than before, had saidnothing further as he guided the craft gingerly lower. Lesterwas biting his heavy lip. His narrow chin trembled.

A faint whisper had begun. As far back as the 1940s,astronomers had begun to suspect that the Moon was, afterall, not entirely airless. There would be traces of heavy gases—argon,neon, xenon, krypton, and volcanic carbon dioxide. Itwould be expanded far upward above the surface, becausethe feeble lunar gravity could not give it sufficient weight tocompress it very much. So it would thin out much less rapidlywith altitude than does the terrestrial atmosphere. From adensity of perhaps 1/12,000th of Earth's sea level norm at theMoon's surface, it would thin to perhaps 1/20,000th at aheight of eighty miles, being thus roughly equivalent in densityto Earth's gaseous envelope at the same level! And at thisheight was the terrestrial zone where meteors flare!

This theory about the lunar atmosphere had proven to becorrect. The tiny density was still sufficient to give the Moonalmost as effective an atmospheric meteor screen as theEarth's. The relatively low velocity needed to maintain vehiclesin circumlunar orbits, made its danger to such vehicles small.It could help reduce speed for a landing; it caused that innocuoushiss of passage. But it could sometimes be treacherous.

Frank thought of these things as the long minutes dragged.Perhaps Rodan, hunched intently over his controls, had reasonenough, there, to be silent...

The actual landing still had to be made in the only waypossible on worlds whose air-covering was so close to a completevacuum as this—like a cat climbing down a tree backwards.With flaming jets still holding it up, and spinning gyroskeeping it vertical, the rocket lowered gradually. The seatsswung level, keeping their occupants right side up. There wasa hovering pause, then the faint jolt of contact. The jet growlstopped; complete silence closed in like a hammer blow.

"Do you men know where you are?" Rodan asked after amoment.

"At the edge of Mare Nova, I think," Frank answered, hisp.60eyes combing the demons' landscape beyond the thick,darkened glass of the cabin's ports.

The dazzling sun was low—early morning of two weeks ofdaylight. The shadows were long, black shafts.

"Yes—there's Tower Rock," Lester quavered. "And theArabian Range going down under the dust of the plain."

"Correct," Rodan answered. "We're well over the rim ofthe Far Side. You'll never see the Earth from here. The nearestsettlement is eight hundred miles away, and it's Tovie at that.This is a really remote spot, as I intimated before."

He paused, as if to let this significant information be appreciated."So that's settled," he went on. "Now I'll enlightenyou about what else you need to know... Come along."

Frank Nelsen felt the dust crunch under the rubberizedboot-soles of his Archer. There was a brief walk, then a pause.

Rodan pointed to a pit dynamited out of the dust and lavarock, and to small piles of greyish material beside six-inchborings rectangularly spaced over a wide area.

"There is an extensive underlying layer of gypsum, here,"he said. "The water-bearing rock. A mile away there's anample deposit of graphite—carbon. Thus, there exists a completelocal source of hydrogen, oxygen and carbon, ideal forsynthesizing various hydrocarbonic chemicals or making complicatedpolyethylene materials such as stellene, so useful inspace. Lead, too, is not very far off. Silicon is, of course,available everywhere. There'll be a plant belonging to HoffmanChemicals here, before too long. I was prospecting for them,for a site like this. Actually I was very lucky, locating thisspot almost right away—which is fortunate. They think I'mstill looking, and aren't concerned..."

Rodan was quiet for a moment before continuing. The pupilsof his eyes dilated and contracted strangely.

"Because I found something else," he went on. "It was luckbeyond dreams, and it must be my very own. I intend toinvestigate it thoroughly, even if it takes years! Come along,again!"

This time the walk was about three hundred yards, pastthree small stellene domes, the parabolic mirrors of a solar-powerplant, a sun-energized tractor, and onward almost tothe mountain wall, imbedded in the dust of the mare. ThereFrank noticed a circular, glassy area.

Strips of magnesium were laid like bridging planks acrosschunks of lava, and in the dust all around were countlesscurious scrabbled marks.

Rodan stood carefully on a magnesium strip, and lookedback at Nelsen and Lester, his brows crinkling as if he wassuspicious that he had already told them too much. Frankp.61Nelsen became more aware of the heavy automatic pistol atRodan's hip, and felt a tingling urge to get away from hereand from this man—as if a vast mistake had been made.

"It is necessary for you to be informed about some matters,"Rodan said slowly. "For instance, unless it is otherwise disturbed,a footprint, or the like, will endure for millions ofyears on the Moon—as surely as if impressed in granite—becausethere is no weather left to rub it out. You will beworking here. I am preserving some of these markings. Soplease walk on these strips, which Dutch and I have laiddown."

Rodan indicated a large, Archer-clad man, who also carriedan automatic. He had the face of a playful but dangerousmastiff. He was hunkered down in a shallow pit, scanning theground with a watch-sized device probably intended for locatingobjects hidden just beneath the surface, electronically.Beside him was a screen-bottomed container, no doubt meantfor sifting dust.

"Greetings, Novices!" he gruffed with genial contempt. Buthis pale eyes, beyond the curve of his helmet, had a maskedpuzzlement, as if something from the lunar desolation hadgotten into his brain, leaving the realization of where he was,permanently not altogether clear to him.

Rodan pulled a shiny object from his thigh pouch, and heldit out in a gloved palm for his new employees to peer at.

"One of the things we found," he remarked. "Incomplete.If we could, for instance, locate the other parts..."

Frank saw a little cylinder, with grey coils wrapped insideit—a power chamber, perhaps, to be lined with magnetic force,the only thing that could contain what amounted to a tinytwenty-million degree piece of a star's hot heart. It was afamiliar principle for releasing and managing nuclear power.But the device, perhaps part of a small weapon, was subtlymarked by the differences of another technology.

"I believe I have said enough," Rodan stated with a thinsmile. "Though some facts will be unavoidably obvious to you,working here. But at least I will let you figure them out foryourselves, since you are well-informed young men, by yourown statement." Here Rodan looked hard at the pale, unsteadyLester. "We will go back, now, so I can show you the camp,its routine, and your place in it. We have three domes—gardenand living quarters, with a workshop and supply dome betweenthem..."

Quarters proved to be okay—two bunks and the usual compactaccessories.

"Leave your Archers in the lockers outside your door—hereare your keys," Rodan suggested. "Helen will have a mealp.62ready for you in the adjacent dining room. Afterwards, takea helpful tranquilizer, and sleep. No work until you awaken.I shall leave you, now..."

It was a good meal—steak cultured and grown in a nourishingsolution, on the Moon, perhaps at Serene, much as Dr.Alexis Carrel had long ago grown and kept for years a livingfragment of a chicken's heart. Potatoes, peas and tomatoes,too—all had become common staples in hydroponic gardensoff the Earth.

"What do you make of what Rodan was talking about, Les?"Frank asked conversationally.

But David Lester was lost and vague, his food almost untouched."I—I don't know!" he stammered.

Scared and embittered further by this bad sign, Frank turnedto Helen. "And how are you?" he asked hopefully.

"I am all right," she answered, without a trace of encouragement.

She was in jeans, maybe she was eighteen, maybe she wasRodan's daughter. Her face was as reddened as a peasant's. Itwas hard to tell that she was a girl at all. She wasn't a girl. Itwas soon plain that she was a zombie with about ten words inher vocabulary. How could a girl have gotten to this impossibleregion, anyway?

Now Frank tried to delay Lester's inevitable complete crackupby encouraging his interest in their .

"It's big, Les," he said. "It's got to be! An expedition camehere to investigate the Moon—it couldn't be any more recentlythan sixty million years ago, if it was from as close as Mars,or the Asteroid Planet! Two adjacent worlds were competing,then, the scientists know. Both were smaller than the Earth,cooled faster, bore life sooner. Which sent the party? I sawwhere there rocket ship must have stood—a glassy, spot wherethe dust was once fused!... From all the markings, they musthave been around for months. Nowhere else on the Moon—thatI ever heard of—is there anything similar left. So maybethey did most of their survey work by gliding, somehow, abovethe ground, not disturbing the dust... I think the little indentationswe saw look Martian. That would be a break! Marsstill has weather. Archeological objects wouldn't stay new therefor millions of years, but here they would! Rodan is right—he'sgot something that'll make him famous!"

"Yes—I think I'll have a devil-killer and hit the sack,Frank," Lester said.

"Oh—all right," Frank agreed wearily. "Me, likewise."

Frank awoke naturally from a dreamless slumber. After abreakfast of eggs that had been a powder, Lester and he werep.63at the diggings, sifting dust for the dropped and discardeditems of an alien visitation.

Thus Frank's job began. In the excitement of a hunt, as iffor ancient treasure, for a long time, through many ten hourshifts, Frank Nelsen found a perhaps unfortunate Lethe offorgetfulness for his worries, and for the mind-poisoning effectsof the silence and desolation in this remote part of the Moon.

They found things, thinly scattered in the ten acre area thatRodan meant tediously to sift. The screws and nuts, brightand new, were almost Earthly. But would anyone ever knowwhat the little plastic rings were for? Or the sticks of cellulose,or the curved, wire device with fuzz at the ends? But then,would an off-Earth being ever guess the use of—say—a toothbrushor a bobbypin?

The metal cylinders, neatly cut open, might have containedfood—dried leaf-like dregs still remained inside. There weresmall bottles made of pearly glass, too—empty except forgummy traces. They were stoppered with a stuff like rubber.There were also crumpled scraps, like paper or cellophane,most of them marked with designs or symbols.

After ten Earth-days, in the lunar afternoon, Frank foundthe grave. He shouted as his brushing hands uncovered aglassy, flexible surface.

Rodan took charge at once. "Back!" he commanded. Thenhe was avidly busy in the pit, working as carefully as a finejeweller. He cleared more dust away, not with a trowel, notwith his gloved fingers, but with a little nylon brush.

The thing was like a seven-pointed star, four feet across.And was the ripped, transparent casing of its body and limbsanother version of a vacuum armor? The material resembledstellene. As in an Archer, there were metal details, mechanical,electronic, and perhaps nuclear.

In the punctured covering, the corpse was dry, of course—stomach,brain sac, rough, pitted skin, terminal tendrils—somecoarse, some fine, almost, as thread, for doing the most delicatework, half out of protecting sheaths at the ends of its armsor legs.

In the armor, the being must have walked like a toe dancer,on metal spikes. Or it might even have rolled like a wheel.The bluish tint of its crusty body had half-faded to tan. Perhapsno one would ever explain the gaping wound that musthave killed the creature, unless it had been a rock fall.

"Martian!" Lester gasped. "At least we know that they werelike this!"

"Yes," Rodan agreed softly. "I'll look after this find."

Moving very carefully, even in the weak lunar gravity, hep.64picked up the product of another evolution and bore it awayto the shop dome.

Frank was furious. This was his discovery, and he was noteven allowed to examine it.

Still, something warned him not to argue. In a little while,his treasure hunter's eagerness came back, holding out throughmost of that protracted lunar night, when they worked theirten hour periods with electric lamps attached to their shoulders.

But gradually Frank began to emerge from his single lineof attention. Knowing that Lester must soon collapse, andwaiting tensely for it to happen, was part of the cause. Butthere was much more. There was the fact that direct radiocommunication with the Earth, around the curve of the Moon,was impossible—the Tovies didn't like radio-relay orbiters,useful for beamed, short-wave messages. They had destroyedthe few unmanned ones that had been put up.

There were the several times when he had casually sent aslender beam of radio energy groping out toward Mars andthe Asteroid Belt, trying to call Storey or the Kuzaks, and hadreceived no answer. Well, this was not remarkable. Thoseregions were enormous beyond imagining; you had to pinpointyour thread of tiny energy almost precisely.

But once, for an instant, while at work, he heard a voicewhich could be Mitch Storey's, call "Frank! Frankie!" in hishelmet phone. There was no chance for him to get an instrument-fixon the direction of the incoming waves. And of coursehis name, Frank, was a common one. But an immediate attemptto beam Mars—yellow in the black sky—and its vicinity,produced no result.

His trapped feeling increased, and nostalgia began to boreinto him. He had memories of lost sounds. Rodan tried tocombat the thick silence with taped popular music, broadcaston very low power from a field set at the diggings. But the girlvoices, singing richly, only made matters worse for FrankNelsen. And other memories piled up on him: Jarviston,Minnesota. Wind. Hay smell, car smell. Home... Cripes...!Damn...!

Lester's habit of muttering unintelligibly to himself wasmuch worse, now. Frank was expecting him to start screamingat any minute. Frank hadn't tried to talk to him much, andLester, more introverted than ever, was no starter of conversations.

But now, at the sunrise—S.O.B., was it possible that theyhad been here almost a month?—Frank at the diggings,indulged in some muttering, himself.

"Are you all right, Frank?" Lester asked mildly.

p.65

"Not altogether!" Frank Nelsen snapped dryly. "How aboutyou?"

"Oh, I believe I'm okay at last," Lester replied with startlingbrightness. "I was afraid I wouldn't be. I guess I had aninferiority complex, and there was also something to live upto. You see, my dad was here with the original Clifford expedition.We always agreed that I should become a space-scientist,too. Mom went along with that—until Dad was killed, here...Well, I'm over the hump, now. You see, I'm so interested ineverything around me, that the desolation has a cushion ofromance that protects me. I don't see just the bleakness. Iimagine the Moon as it once was, with volcanoes spitting, andwith thundrous sounds in its steamy atmosphere. I see it whenthe Martians were here—they surely visited Earth, too, thoughthere all evidence weathered away. I even see the Moon as itis, now, noticing details that are easy to miss—the little ballsof ash that got stuck together by raindrops, two billion yearsago. And the pulpy, hard-shelled plants that you can still find,alive, if you know where to look. There are some up on theridge, where I often go, when offshift. Carbon dioxide and alittle water vapor must still come out of the deep crackthere... Anyhow, they used to say that a lonesome person—withperhaps a touch of schizophrenia—might do better offthe Earth than the more usual types."

Frank Nelsen was surprised as much by this open, self-analyticalexplanation, and the clearing up of the family historybehind him, as by the miracle that had happened. Cripes,was it possible that, in his own way, Lester was more ruggedthan anybody else of the old Bunch? Of course even Lesterwas somewhat in wonder, himself, and had to talk it all outto somebody.

"Good for you, Les," Nelsen enthused, relieved. "Only—well,skip it, for now."

Two work periods later, he approached Rodan. "It will takemonths to sift all this dust," he said. "I may not want to staythat long."

The pupils of Rodan's eyes flickered again. "Oh?" he said."Per contract, you can quit anytime. But I provide no transportation.Do you want to walk eight hundred miles—to aTovie station? On the Moon it is difficult to keep hired help.So one must rely on practical counter-circ*mstances. Besides,I wouldn't want you to be at Serenitatis Base, or anywhere else,talking about my discovery, Nelsen. I'm afraid you're stuck."

Now Nelsen had the result of his perhaps incautious teststatement. He knew that he was trapped by a dangerous tyrant,such as might spring up in any new, lawless country.

p.66

"It was just a thought, sir," he said, being as placating as hedared, and controlling his rising fury.

For there was something that hardened too quickly inRodan. He had the fame-and-glory bug, and could be savageabout it. If you wanted to get away, you had to scheme byyourself. There wasn't only Rodan to get past; there wasDutch, the big ape with the dangling pistol.

Nelsen decided to work quietly, as before, for a while...There were a few more significant finds—what might havebeen a nuclear-operated clock, broken, of course, and somediamond drill bits. Though the long lunar day dragged intolerably,there was the paradox of time seeming to escape,too. Daylight ended with the sunset. Two weeks of darknesswas no period for any moves. At sunup, a second month wasalmost finished! And ten acres of dust was less than half-sifted...

In the shop and supply dome, David Lester had beenchemically analyzing the dregs of various Martian containersfor Rodan. In spare moments he classified those scarce andincredibly hardy lunar growths that he found in the foothillsof the Arabian Range. Some had hard, bright-green tendrils,that during daylight, opened out of woody shells full of spongyhollows as an insulation against the fearsome cold of night.Some were so small that they could only be seen under amicroscope. Frank's interest, here, however, palled quickly.And Lester, in his mumbling, studious preoccupation, was nocompanionable antidote for loneliness.

Frank tried a new approach on Helen, who really wasRodan's daughter.

"Do you like poetry, Helen? I used to memorize Keats,Frost, Shakespeare."

They were there in the dining room. She brightened a little."I remember—some."

"Do you remember clouds, the sound of water? Trees,grass...?"

She actually smiled, wistfully. "Yes. Sunday afternoons. Ablue dress. My mother when she was alive... A dog I had,once..."

Helen Rodan wasn't quite a zombie, after all. Maybe hecould win her confidence, if he went slow...

But twenty hours later, at the diggings, when Dutch stumbledover Frank's sifter, she reverted. "I'll learn you to leavejunk in my way, you greenhorn squirt!" Dutch shouted. Thenhe tossed Frank thirty feet. Frank came back, kicked him inhis thinly armored stomach, knocked him down, and tried toget his gun. But Dutch grabbed him in those big arms. Helenwas also pointing a small pistol at him.

p.67

She was trembling. "Dad will handle this," she said.

Rodan came over. "You don't have much choice, do you,Nelsen?" he sneered. "However, perhaps Dutch was crude.I apologize for him. And I will deduct a hundred dollars fromhis pay, and give it to you."

"Much obliged," Frank said dryly.

After that, everything happened to build his tensions to thebreaking point.

At a work period's end, near the lunar noon, he heard avoice in his helmet-phone. "Frank—this is Two-and-Two...!Why don't you ever call or answer...?"

Two-and-Two's usually plaintive voice had a special quality,as if he was maybe in trouble. This time, Frank got a directionalfix, adjusted his antenna, and called, "Hey, Two-and-Two...!Hey, Pal—it's me—Frank Nelsen...!"

Venus was in the sky, not too close to the sun. But still,though Nelsen called repeatedly, there was no reply.

He got back to quarters, and looked over not only his radiobut his entire Archer. The radio had been fiddled with,delicately; it would still work, but not in a narrow enoughbeam to reach millions of miles, or even five hundred. Anintricate focusing device had been removed from a waveguide.

That wasn't the worst that was wrong with the Archer. Thesmall nuclear battery which energized the moisture-reclaimer,the heating units, and especially the air-restorer—not only forturning its pumps but for providing the intense internal illuminationnecessary to promote the release of oxygen in thephotosynthetic process of the chlorophane when there was nosun—had been replaced by a chemical battery of a far smalleractive life-span! The armor locker! Rodan had extra keys, andcould tamper and make replacements, any time he consideredit necessary.

Lester had wandered afield, somewhere. When he showedup, Nelsen jarred him out of his studious preoccupations longenough for them both to examine his armor. Same, identicalstory.

"Rodan made sure," Frank gruffed. "That S.O.B. put us on areal short tether!"

David Lester looked frightened for a minute. Then heseemed to ease.

"Maybe it doesn't make any difference," he said. "ThoughI'd like to call my mother... But I'm doing things that I like.After a while, when the job is finished, he'll let us go."

"Yeah?" Frank breathed.

There was the big question. Nelsen figured that an old, cornypattern stuck out all over Rodan. Personal glory emphasizedp.68to a point where it got beyond sense. And wouldn't that unreasonbe more likely to get worse in the terrible lunar desertthan it ever would on Earth?

Would Rodan ever release them? Wouldn't he fear encroachmenton his archeological success, even after all his data hadbeen made public? This was all surmise-prediction, of course,but his extreme precautions, already taken, did not look good.On the Moon there could easily be an arranged accident,killing Lester, and him—Frank Nelsen—and maybe evenDutch. Rodan's pupils had that nervous way of expanding andcontracting rapidly, too. Nelsen figured that he might be readingthe signs somewhat warpedly himself. Still...?

At the end of another shift, Nelsen took a walk, farther thanever before, up through a twisted pass that penetrated to theother side of the Arabian Mountains. He still had that muchfreedom. He wanted to think things out. In bitter, frustratingreversal of all his former urges to get off the Earth, he wanted,like a desperate weakling, to be back home.

Up beyond the Arabians, he saw the tread marks of a smalltractor vehicle in a patch of dust. There was a single bootprint. A short distance farther on, there was another. Heexamined them with a quizzical excitement. But there weren'tany more. For miles, ahead and behind, unimpressable lavarock extended.

Another curious thing happened, only minutes later. Athousand miles overhead, out of reach of his sabotaged transmitter,one of those around the Moon tour bubbs, like the unfortunateFar Side, was passing. He heard the program theywere broadcasting. A male voice crooned out what must be anew, popular song. He had heard so few new songs.

"Serene...

Found a queen...

And her name is Eileen..."

Nelsen's reaction wasn't even a thought, at first; it wasonly an eerie tingle in all his flesh. Then, realizing what hissuspicion was, he listened further, with all his nerves taut.But no explanation of the song's origin was given... Heeven tried futilely to radio the pleasure bubb, full of Earthtourists. In minutes it had sunk behind the abrupt horizon,leaving him with his unanswered wonder.

Girls, he thought, in the midst of his utter solitude. All girls,to love and have ... Eileen? Cripes, could it be little oldEileen Sands, up on her ballet-dancing toes, sometimes, atHendricks', and humming herself a tune? Eileen who had desertedthe Bunch, meaning to approach space in a feminineway? Holy cow, had even she gotten that far, so fast?

Suddenly the possibility became a symbol of what the othersp.69of the Bunch must be accomplishing, while here he was,trapped, stuck futilely, inside a few bleak square miles on thefar side of Earth's own satellite!

So here was another force of Frank Nelsen's desperation.

He made up his mind—which perhaps just then was a bitmad.

With outward calm he returned to camp, slept, worked, sleptand worked again. He decided that there was no help to behad from Lester, who was still no man of action. Better towork alone, anyway.

Fortunately, on the Moon, it was easy to call deadly forcesto one's aid. Something as simple as possible, the trick shouldbe. Of course all he wanted to do was to get the upper handon Rodan and Dutch, take over the camp, get the missingparts of his radio and Archer, borrow the solar tractor, andget out of here. To Serenitatis Base—Serene.

His only preparation was to sharpen the edges of a diamond-shapedtrowel used at the diggings, with a piece of pumice.Then he waited.

Opportunity came near sundown, after a shift. Rodan,Dutch, and he had come into the supply and shop dome,through its airlock. Lester and Helen—these two introvertshad somehow discovered each other, and were getting alongwell together—were visible through the transparent wall,lingering at the diggings.

Nelsen saw Rodan and Dutch unlatch the collars of theirhelmets, preparatory for removing them, as they usually didif they stayed here a while, to pack new artifacts or stow tools.Nelsen made as if to unlatch his collar, too. But if he did it,the gasket would be unsealed, and his helmet would no longerbe airtight.

Now!—he told himself. Or would it be better to wait fourteenmore Earth-days, till another lunar dawn? Hell no—thatwould be chickenish procrastination. Rodan and Dutch were agood ten feet away from him—he was out of their reach.

With the harmless-looking trowel held like a dagger, hestruck with all his might at the stellene outer wall of thedome, and then made a ripping motion. Like a monster gaspingfor breath, the imprisoned air sighed out.

Taking advantage of the moment when Rodan's andDutch's hands moved in life-saving instinct to reseal theircollars, Frank Nelsen leaped, and then kicked twice, as hardas he could, in rapid succession. At Dutch's stomach, first.Then Rodan's.

They were down—safe from death, since they had managedto re- their collars. But with a cold fury that hadlearned to take no chances with defeat, Nelsen proceeded top.70kick them again, first one and then the other, meaning tomake them insensible.

He got Dutch's pistol. He was a shade slow with Rodan."You won't get anything that is mine!" he heard Rodan grunt.

Frank managed to deflect the automatic's muzzle from himself.But Rodan moved it downward purposefully, lined it upon a box marked dynamite, and fired.

Nelsen must have thrown himself prone at the last instant,before the ticklish explosive blew. He saw the flash and feltthe dazing thud, though most of the blast passed over him.Results far outstripped the most furious intention of his plan,and became, not freedom, but a threat of slow dying, ordeal,as the sagging dome was torn from above him, and supplies,air-restorer equipment, water and oxygen flasks, the vitals andthe batteries of the solar-electric plant—all for the most parthopelessly shattered—were hurled far and wide, along withthe relics from Mars. The adjacent garden and quarters domeswere also shredded and swept away.

Dazed, Nelsen still got Rodan's automatic, picked himselfup, saw that Dutch and Rodan, in armor, too, had apparentlysuffered from the explosion no worse than had he. He glancedat the hole in the lava rock, still smoking in the high vacuum.Most of the force of the blast had gone upward. He looked atHelen's toppled tomatoes and petunias—yes, petunias—wherethe garden dome had been. Oddly, they didn't wilt at once,though the little water in the hydroponic troughs was boilingaway furiously, making frosty rainbows in the slanting lightof the sun. Fragments of a solar lamp, to keep the plantsgrowing at night, lay in the shambles.

Rodan and Dutch were pretty well knocked out from FrankNelsen's footwork. Now Dave Lester and Helen Rodan camerunning. Lester's face was all stunned surprise. Helen wasyelling.

"I saw you do it—you—murderer!"

When she kneeled beside her father, Frank got her gun, too.He felt an awful regret for a plan whose results far surpassedhis intentions, but there was no good in showing it, now.Someone had to be in command in a situation which alreadylooked black.

"Frank—I didn't suppose—" Lester stammered. "Now—whatare we going to do?"

"All that we can do—try to get out of here!" Frank snappedback at him.

With some shreds of stellene, he tied Dutch's arms behindhis back, and lashed his feet together. Then he pulled Helenaway from Rodan.

"Hold her, Les," he ordered. "Maybe I overplayed my hand,p.71but just the same, I still think I'm the best to say what's to bedone and maybe get us out of a jam, and I can't have Helenor Rodan or anybody else doing any more co*ckeyed thingsto screw matters up even worse than they are."

Nelsen trussed Rodan up, too, then searched Rodan's thighpouch and found a bunch of keys.

"You come along with me, Les and Helen," he said. "Firstwe'll find out what we've got left to work with."

He investigated the rocket. That the blast had toppled itover, wasn't the worst. When he unlocked its servicing doors,he found that Rodan had removed a vital part from the nuclearexciters of the motors. His and Lester's blastoff drumswere still in the freight compartment, but the ionics and air-restorershad been similarly rendered unworkable. Their oxygenand water flasks were gone. Only their bubbs were intact,but there was nothing with which to inflate them.

When Frank examined the sun-powered tractor, he foundthat tiny platinum plates had been taken from the thermocoupleunits. It was clear that, with paranoid thoroughness,Rodan had concentrated all capacity to move from the camp'svicinity in himself. He had probably locked up the missingitems in the supply dome, and now the exploding dynamitehad ruined them.

Exploring the plain, Nelsen even found quite a few ofthe absent parts, all useless. Only one oxygen flask and onewater flask remained intact. Here was a diabolical backfiringof schemes, all around.

Returning to Rodan and Dutch, he examined their Archersthrough their servicing ports. Rodan's was as the manufacturerintended it. But Dutch's was jimmied the same as hisand Lester's.

Nelsen swung Helen around to face him, and unlatched aport at her Archer's shoulder.

"He put even you on a short string, kid," he pronouncedbitterly, after a moment. "Well, at least we can give you hisnuclear battery for a while, and let him have his chemical cellback."

Helen seemed about to attack him. But then her look wavered;confusion and pain came into her face.

Nelsen was aware that he was doing almost all of the talking,but maybe this had to be.

"So we've got a long walk," he said. "Toward the Tovie

settlement. In Archers of mostly much-reduced range. Whosefault the situation is, can't change anything a bit. This is alife-or-death proposition, with lasting-time the most importantfactor. So let's get started. Has anybody got any suggestionsto increase our chances?"

p.72

Both Rodan and Dutch had come to. Rodan said nothing.His look was pure poison.

Dutch sneered. "Smart damn kid you are, huh, Nelsen?You think! Wait till you and your mumblin' crackpot pal getout there! I'll watch both of you go bust, squirt!"

Lester seemed not to hear these remarks. "All that gypsum,Frank," he said. "The water-and-oxygen mineral. But this isfor real. There's no gimmick—no energy-source—to releaseit and save us..."

Frank Nelsen untied Rodan's and Dutch's feet, and, at pistolpoint, ordered them to move out ahead. From the chartshe knew the bearing—straight toward the constellation ,at this hour, across an arm of Mare Nova, then along apass that cut through the mountains. Eight hundred hopelessmiles...! Well, how did he know, really? How much coulda human body take? How fast could they go? How longwould the chemical batteries actually last? What breaks mightappear?

They loped along, even Rodan hurrying. They made a hundredmiles in the hours before darkness. With just Helen'sshoulder lamp showing the way, they continued onwardthrough the mountains.

Was there truly much to tell, in that slow, losing struggle?Nelsen attached the oxygen flask to his air system for a while,relieving the drain on his battery. Then he gave the flask toLester. Later he began to move the nuclear battery around toall the Archers, to conserve all of the other batteries a little.Soon they filled the drinking-water tanks of their armor, sothat they could discard the flask, whose slight weight seemedto have tripled.

After twenty hours, the power of the chemical batteries beganto wane. David Lester, hovering close to Helen, mutteredto himself, or to her. Rodan, still marching quite strongly, retreatedinto an unreality of his own.

"Have another scotch on the rocks, Ralph," he said genially."I knew I'd make it... Nobel Prize... Oh, you have noidea what I went through... Most of my staff dead... Butit's over, now, Ralph... Another good, stomach-warmingscotch..."

"Damn, loony squirt's crackin' up!" Dutch screamed suddenly.

He began to run, promptly falling into a volcanic crack, thebottom of which couldn't even be found with the light. Fortunatelyhe wasn't wearing the nuclear battery just then.

Somehow, Lester remained cool. It was as if, with everyoneelse scared, too, and nobody to show superior courage, hehad found himself.

p.73

The batteries waned further. The cold of the inky lunarnight—much worse than that of interplanetary space, wherethere is practically always sunshine, began to bite throughthe insulation of the Archers, and power couldn't be wastedon the heating coils.

Worst was the need for rest. They all lay down at last, exceptFrank Nelsen, who moved around, clipping the nuclearbattery into one Archer for a minute, to freshen the air, andthen into another. It was the only trick—or gimmick—thatthey found. After a while, Lester made the rounds, whileNelsen rested.

They got a few more miles by swapping batteries in quicksuccession. But the accumulating carbon dioxide in the airthey breathed, made them sleepier. They had to sit down,then lie down. Frank figured that they had come somethingover a quarter of the eight hundred miles. This was about theend of Frank Nelsen, would-be Planet Strapper from Jarviston,Minnesota. Well—his coffin would be a common one—anArcher Five... Somehow, he thought of a line fromKipling: "If you can keep your head when all about you arelosing theirs and blaming it on you..."

He tried to clip the nuclear battery back in Helen's armor,again. She might make the remaining five hundred-somethingmiles, alone...! He just barely managed to accomplish it...There was still a little juice, from his chemical cell, feedinghis helmet phone... Now, he thought he heard someonesinging raucously one of those improvised doggerel songs ofspacemen and Moonmen... Folklore, almost...

"If this goddam dust

Just holds its crust,

I'll get on to hell

If my gear don't bust..."

"Hey!" Nelsen gurgled thickly into his phone. "Hey..."Then it was as if he sort of sank...

Hell was real, all right, because, with needles in his eyesand all through his body, Nelsen seemed to be goaded on byimps to crawl, in infinite weariness, through a hot steel pipe,to face Old Nick himself—or was it somebody he'd met before?

Maybe he asked, because he got an answer—from the grinning,freckled face bending over him, as he lay, armorless, ona sort of pallet, under the taut stellene roof of a Moontent.

"Sure Frankie—me, Gimp Hines, the itinerant trader andrepairman of the lunar wilderness... What a —didn'tthink you'd goof! The Bunch—especially Two-and-Two—couldn'tcontact you. So I was sort of looking, knowing aboutwhere you'd be. Just made it in time. Les and the girl, andp.74that ornery professor-or-whatever, are right here, too—stillknocked out with a devil-killer. You've been out twenty hours,yourself. I'll fill you in on the news. Just shut up and drinkup. Good Earth whiskey—a hundred bucks just to shoot afifth into orbit."

Frank gulped and coughed. "Thanks, Gimp." His voicewas like pumice.

"Shut up, I said!" Gimp ordered arrogantly. "About me—first.When I got to Serene, I could have convinced them Iwas worth a job. But I'm independent. I hocked my gear,bought some old parts, built myself a tractor and trailer, loadedit with water, oxygen, frozen vegetables, spare parts, cigarettes,pin-up pictures, liquor and so forth, and came travelling.I didn't forget tools. You'd be astonished by what you can selland fix—and for what prices—out in the isolated areas, orwhat you can bring back. I even got a couple of emeralds asbig as pigeon eggs. I'm getting myself a reputation, besides.What difference does just one good leg make—at only one-sixthEarth grav? You still hop along, even when you don'tride. And everywhere I go, I leave that left boot print behindin the dust, like a record that could last a thousand ages.I'm getting to be Left Foot, the legend."

Nelsen cleared his throat, found his voice. "co*cky, aren'tyou, Pal?" he chuckled. So another thing was happening inreverse from what most people had expected. Gimp Hineswas finding a new, surer self, off the Earth.

"It's all right, Gimp," Nelsen added. "I figured that I sawyour tracks and your tractor tread marks, up in the hills, justbefore I decided to break away from Rodan..."

Then he was telling the whole story.

"Yes, I was there," Gimp said at the end. "I missed you onthe first pass, prospected for a couple of Earth-days, founda small copper deposit. High ground gave me a good positionto receive short-wave messages—thought I heard your voicesa couple of times. So I doubled back, and located what is leftof Rodan's camp, and yours and Les' initialed blastoff drums,which I've brought along in my trailer. Lucky a trader needsan atom-powered tractor that can move at night. I followedyour tracks, though going through rough country, you werescreened from my radio calls until I was almost on you.Though on my first pass, when you were still in camp, I guessI could have reached you by bouncing a beam off a mountaintop, had I known... Well, it doesn't matter, now. I'm out ofstock, again, and full of money—got to head back to Serene...You were trying for the Tovie station, eh?"

"What else could we do?"

"I see what you mean, Frank. If you could have made it,p.75and missed getting shot by some trigger-happy guard—wherea frontier isn't even supposed to exist—they probably wouldhave held you for a while, and then let you go."

"About the rest of the Bunch?" Frank Nelsen prompted.

"The Kuzaks got to the Belt okay—though they had to fightoff some rough and humorous characters. Storey reachedhis Mars. Charlie Reynolds and Two-and-Two got to Venus,and hooked up with the exploring expedition. Tiflin? Whoknows?"

"Ramos?"

"Ah—a real disappointing case, Frank. Darn wild idiotwho ought to be probing the farther reaches of the solar system,got himself a job in a chemical plant in Serene. A synthesizingretort exploded. He was burned pretty bad. Just out ofthe hospital when I last left. It was on account of a womanthat he was on the Moon at all."

"Eileen, the Queen of Serene? Gimp!—is that so, too?"

"Yep—sort of. Our Eileen. Back in Jarviston, Ramos foundout that she was there. She's a good kid. Even admits that shehasn't got much competition, on a mostly—yet—masculineworld... Well, I guess we start rolling, eh? I didn't want tojolt any of you poor sick people, so I camped. Let's get youall into Archers, for which I have a few spare parts left. Then,after we roll up this sealed, air-conditioned tent of a familiarmaterial, we can be on our way."

"Just let's watch Rodan—that's all," Frank Nelsen warned.

"Sure—we'll keep him good and with a tranquilizer..."

They aroused Dave Lester and Helen Rodan, helped themarmor up, explained briefly what the situation was, stuffedXavier Rodan into his Archer, and climbed with him into thesealable cab of the tractor. Here they could all remove theirhelmets.

After several hours of bumping over rugged country, withthe tractor's headlights blazing through the star-topped blackness,they reached a solid trail over a mare. Then they couldzip along, almost like on a highway. There were other roughstretches, but most of the well selected route was smooth. Halfthe time, Nelsen drove, while Gimp rested or slept. They atespaceman's gruel, heated on a little electric stove. And aftera certain number of hours, they climbed over the side of theMoon, and made their own sunrise. After that, the goingseemed easier.

Gimp and Frank were just about talked out, by then. HelenRodan looked after her slumbering father. Otherwise, sheand Lester seemed wrapped up in each other. Frank hardlylistened to the few words they exchanged. They kept peeringp.76eagerly and worriedly along the trail, that wound past fantasticscenery.

Nelsen was eager and tense, himself. Serene, he was thinkingwith gratitude. Back to some of civilization. Back to freedom—ifthere wasn't too much trouble on account of all thathad happened. Speeding along, they passed the first scattereddomes, a hydroponic garden, an isolated sun-power plant.

It was another hour before they reached the checking-gateof one of the main airlocks. Frank Nelsen didn't try any tricksbefore the white-armored international guards.

"There have been some difficulties," he said. "I think youwill want all of our names."

"I am Helen Rodan," Helen interrupted. "My father, XavierRodan, here, is sick. He needs a hospital. I will stay with him.These are our friends. They brought us all the way from FarSide."

Within the broad airlock compartment, Lester also gotdown from the tractor. "I'll stay, too," he said. "Go ahead,Frank. You and Gimp have had enough."

"A moment," gruffed one of the guards with a slight accent."We shall say who shall do what—passing this lock. Difficulties?Very well. Names, and space-fitness cards, please, fromeverybody. And where you will be staying, here in Serene..."

Gimp and Frank got permission to pass the lock afterabout fifteen minutes. Without Helen and Les agreeing tostay, it might have been tougher. They spoke their thanks. Forthe time being, Frank was free to breathe open air under big,stellene domes. But he didn't know in what web of questioningand accusation he might soon be entangled.

Looking back to his first action against Rodan—with asharpened trowel that had pierced the wall of a stellene dome—eventuallyleading up to Dutch's death, and very nearlyprecipitating his own demise and that of his other companions,he wondered if it wouldn't be regarded as criminal. Now hewasn't absolutely sure, himself, that it hadn't been criminal—orMoonmad. Yet he didn't hate Xavier Rodan any less.

"The S.O.B. might just get sent to a mental hospital—at theworst," Gimp growled loyally. "Well, come on, Frank—let'sforget it, ditch our Archies at the Hostel, get a culture steak,and look around to see what you've missed..."

So that was how Frank Nelsen began to get acquaintedwith Serene—fifteen thousand population, much of it habituallytransient; a town of vast aspirations, careful discipline,little spotless cubicles for living quarters, pay twenty dollarsa day just for the air you breathe, Earth-beer twenty dollarsa can, a dollar if synthesized locally. Hydroponicsunflowers, dahlias, poppies, tomatoes, cabbages, all grownp.77enormous in this slight gravity. New chemical-synthesis plants,above ground and far below; metal refineries, shops makingelectronic and nuclear devices, and articles of fabric, glass,rubber, plastic, magnesium. A town of supply warehousesand tanks around a great space port; a town of a thousandunfinished enterprises, and as many paradoxes and inconveniencies.No water in fountains, water in toilets only during partof an Earth-day. English, French, Spanish, German, Greekand Arabic spoken, to mention a few of the languages. Anastronomical observatory; a selenographic museum, alreadyopen, though less than half completed. And of course it wasagainst the law not to work for more than seventy-two consecutivehours. And over the whole setup there seemed tohang the question: Can Man really live in space, or does hisinvasion of it signal his final downfall?

At a certain point, Nelsen gave up trying to figure out allof the aspects of Serene. Of course he and Gimp had oneinevitable goal. There was a short walk, Gimp hopping alonglightly; then there was an elevator ride downward, for theplace, aggressively named The First Stop, was nestled cosilyin the lava-rock underlying the dust of Mare Serenitatis.

It had an arched interior, bar, stage, blaring jukebox, tables,and a shoulder-to-shoulder press of tough men, held in curiousorderliness in part by the rigid caution needed in their dangerousand artificial existences, in part by the presence of police,and in part perhaps by a kind of stored-up awe andtenderness for girls—all girls—who had been out of theirlives for too long. In a way, it was a crude, tawdry joint; butit was not the place that Frank and Gimp—or even many ofthe others—had come to see.

Eileen Sands was there, dancing crazy, swoopy stuff, possibleat lunar gravity, as Frank and Gimp entered. Her costumewas no feminine fluff; cheesecake, of which she presumablydidn't have much, was not on display, either. Dungarees, still?No, not quite. Slender black trousers, like some girls use forballet practice, instead.

Maybe she wasn't terribly good, or sufficiently drilled, yet,in her routines. But she had a pert, appealing face, a quicksmile; her hair was brushed close to her head. She was a cute,utterly bold pixy to remember smiling at you—just you—likea spirit of luck and love, far out in the thick silence.

Her caper ended. She was puffing and laughing and bowing—andmaybe sweating, some, besides. The clapping was. She came out again and sang Fire Streak in ahaunting, husky voice.

Meanwhile, a barman touched Frank's and Gimp's shoulders.p.78"Hines and Nelsen? She has spotted you two. She wantsto see you in her quarters."

"Hi, lads," she laughed. "Beer for old times?... You looklike hell, Frank. Brief me on the missing chapter. You hadeverybody scared."

"Uh-uh—you first, Your Majesty," Nelsen chuckled in return.

She wrinkled her nose at him. "Well, I got here. Therewas a need. Somebody decided that I was the best availabletalent. This is the first step. Maybe I'll have my own spot—biggerand better. Or get back to my own regular self, workingOut There with the men."

Maybe it was bad taste, but Nelsen felt like teasing. "Everhear of a person named Miguel Ramos?

That didn't bother her. She shrugged. "Still around, thoughI hope not for long, the buffoon! Who could ever put up witha show-off small boy like that for more than ten minutes? Besides,he's wasting himself. Why should he pick me for a badinfluence...? Now, your chapter, Frank."

He told her the story, briefly.

At last she said, "Frank, you must be spiritually all jammedup. Gimp is set, I know..."

In a few minutes more, Eileen introduced him to a girl.Jennie Harper had large dark eyes, and a funny, achy sort ofvoice. Gimp discreetly with his date. Frank andJennie sat a table in a private booth, high up in the archesof The First Stop, and watched Eileen do another number.

Jennie explained herself. "I'm another one. I've got to gowhere the heroes go. That's me—Frankie, is it? So I'mhere..."

She had a perfume. While he was Rodan's prisoner fortwo and a half months, there were special things that haddriven him almost wild. Now he made hints, inevitably.

"I don't need Eileen to tell me you're a good guy, Frank,"she said with a small, warm smile. " just entertainers.They wouldn't let us be anything else—here..."

It hardly mattered what else they said. Maybe it was fifteenhours later that Frank Nelsen found himself walking along astellene-covered causeway, looking for Left Foot Gimp Hines.He had memories of a tiny room, very neat and compact,with even a single huge rose in a vase on the bed table. Butthe time had a fierce velvet-softness that tried to draw him toit forevermore. It was like the grip of home, and the lostEarth, and the fear that he would chicken out and return.

He found Gimp, who seemed worried. "You might getstuck, here, on account of Rodan," he said. "Even I might.We'd better go see."

p.79

Nelsen had bitter, vengeful thoughts of Rodan being setat liberty—with himself the culprit.

The official at the police building was an American—a gruffone, but human. "I got the dope from the girl, Nelsen," hesaid. "And from Lester. You're lucky. Rodan confessed to amurder—another employee—just before he hired you. Apparentlyjust before he made his discovery. He was afraid thatthe kid would try to horn in. Oh, he's not insane—not enoughto escape punishment, anyhow. Here the official means ofexecution is simple exposure to the vacuum. Now, if you wantto leave Serene, you'd better do so soon, before somebodydecides to subpoena you as a witness..."

Frank felt a humbled wonder. Was Rodan really accountable,or was it the Moon and space, working on people'semotions?

Leaving the building, Frank and Gimp found Dave Lesterand Helen Rodan entering. They talked for a moment. ThenLester said:

"Helen's had lots of trouble. And we're in love. What do wedo, guys?"

"Dunno—get married?" Nelsen answered, shrugging. "Itmust happen here, too. Oh, I get it—living costs, off theEarth, are high. Well—I've got what Helen's father paid me.Of course I have to replace the missing parts of my equipment.But I'll loan you five hundred. Wish it could be more."

"Shucks, I can do better," Gimp joined in. "Pay us sometime,when you see us."

"I—I don't know..." Lester protested worriedly, like anhonest man.

But Gimp and Frank were already shelling out bills, likevagabonds who happened to be flush.

"Poor simpletons," Gimp wailed facetiously afterwards,when they had moved out of earshot. "Even here, it happens.But that's worse. And if her Daddy had stayed human, shemight almost have been an heiress... Well, come on, Frank.I've got my space gear out of hock, and my tractor sold. Andan old buddy of ours is waiting for us at a repair and outfittingshop near the space port. I hope we didn't jump the gun, assumingyou want to get out into the open again, too?"

"You didn't," Nelsen answered. "You sure you don't wantto look at Rodan's site—see if we can find any more Martianstuff?"

Gimp looked regretful for a second. "Uh-uh—it's jinxed,"he said.

Ramos, scarred, somewhat, along the neck and left cheek,and a bit stiff of shoulder, was rueful but very eager. Frank'sgutted gear was out of the blastoff drum, and spread aroundp.80the shop. Most of it was already fixed. Ramos had been helping.

"Well, Frankie—here's one loose goose who is really gladto be leaving Luna," he said. "Are the asteroids all rightwith you for a start?"

"They are," Nelsen told him.

"Passing close to Mars, which is lined up orbitally alongour route," Gimp put in. "Did you beam Two-and-Two andCharlie on Venus?"

"Uh-huh—they're just kind of bored," Ramos said. "I evengot Storey at the Martian Survey Station. But he's going outinto those lousy thickets, again. Old Paul, in Jarviston, soundsthe same. Can't get him right now—North America is turnedaway... I couldn't pinpoint the Kuzaks in the Belt, butthat's not unusual."

"I'll finance a load of trade stuff for them," Gimp chuckled."We ought to be able to move out in about five hours, eh?"

"Should," Ramos agreed. "Weapons—we might need 'emthis trip—and everything else is about ready."

"So we'll get a good meal, and then buy our load," Frankenthused.

He felt the texture of his deflated bubb. The hard lines ofdeep-space equipment quickened his pulses. He forgot the callof Earth. He felt as free and easy as a hobo with cosmic dustin his hair.

Blastoff from Serene's port, even with three heavily loadedtrader rockets, was comparatively easy and inexpensive.

Out in orbit, three reunited Bunch members inflated andrigged their bubbs. For Nelsen it seemed an old, splendidfeeling. They lashed the supplies from the trader rockets intogreat bundles that they could tow.

Before the rockets began to descend, the trio of beautiful,fragile rings, pushed by ions streaming from their centers,started to accelerate.

V

"It's the life of Reilly, Paul," Ramos wasbeaming back to Jarviston, Minnesota, not many hours afterFrank Nelsen, Gimp Hines and he started out from the Moon,with their ultimate destination—after the delivery of theirp.81loads of supplies to the Kuzaks—tentatively marked in theirminds as Pallastown on Pallas, the Golden Asteroid.

Ramos was riding a great bale, drawn by his spinning andstill accelerating ring, to the hub of which it was attached bya thin steel cable, passed through a well-oiled swivel bolt. Oneof his booted feet was hooked under a bale lashing, to keephim from drifting off in the absence of weight. He held a riflecasually, but at alert, across his knees. Its needle-like bulletswere not intended to kill. They were tiny rockets that couldflame during the last second of a long flight, homing in on atarget by means of a self-contained and marvelously miniaturizedradar guidance system. Their tips were anesthetic.

The parabolic antenna mounted on the elbow of Ramos'Archer, swung a tiny bit, holding the beam contact with PaulHendricks automatically, after it was made. Yet Ramos kepthis arm very still, to avoid making the slender beam swingwide. Meanwhile, he was elaborating on his first statement:

"... Not like before. No terrestrial ground-to-orbit weightproblem to beat, this trip, Paul. And we've got some of abouteverything that the Moon could provide, thanks to Gimp, whopaid the bill. Culture steak in the shadow refrigerators. That'sall you need, Out Here, to keep things frozen—just a shadow... We'vegot hydroponic vegetables, tinned bread, chocolate,beer. We've got sun stoves to cook on. We've got numerousluxury items not meant for the stomach. We're living high fora while, anyhow. Of course we don't want to use up too muchof the fancy stuff. Tell Otto Kramer about us..."

Frank Nelsen and Gimp Hines, who were riding the riggingof their respective bubbs, which were also hauling big balesof supplies, were part of the trans-spatial conversation, too.There was enough leakage from Ramos' tightened beam,here at its source, for them to hear what he said.

But when, after a moment, Paul Hendricks answered fromthe distance, "Easy with the talk, fella—overinterested peoplemight be listening," they suddenly forgot their own enthusiasms.They realized. Their hides tingled unpleasantly.

Ramos' dark face hardened. Still he spoke depreciatingly."Shucks, Paul, this is a well-focused beam. Besides it's pointingEarthward and sunward; not toward the Belt, where mostof the real mean folks are..." But he sounded defensive,and very soon he said, "'Bye for now, Paul."

A little later, Frank Nelsen contacted Art , out inthe Asteroid Belt, across a much greater stretch of space. Hethought he was cautious when he said, "We're riding a bitheavy—for you guys..." But after the twenty minute intervalit took to get an answer back over ten light-minutes of distancetraversed twice—186,000 miles for every second, spanned byp.82slender threads of radio energy which were of low-power butof low-loss low-dispersal, too, explaining their tremendousrange—Art Kuzak's warning was carefully cryptic, yet plainto Nelsen and his companions.

"Thanks for all the favors," he growled dryly. "Now keepstill, and be real thoughtful, Frankie Boy. That also goes foryou other two naive boneheads..."

Open space, like open, scarcely touched country, had producedits outlaws. But the distances were far greater. Thepressures of need were infinitely harsher.

"Yeah, there's a leader named Fessler," Gimp rasped, withhis phone turned low so that only his companions could hearhim. "But there are other names... Art's right. We'd betterkeep our eyes open and our mouths shut."

Asteroid miners who had had poor luck, or who had beenforced to kill to win even the breath of life; colonists whohad left Mars after terrible misfortunes, there; adventurerssoured and maddened by months in a vacuum armor, smellingthe stench of their own unwashed bodies; men flush withgains, and seeking merely to relieve the tensions of their restrained,artificial existences in a wild spree; refugees fromrigid Tovie conformism—all these composed the membershipof the wandering, robbing, hijacking bands, which, thoughnot numerous, were significant. Once, most of these menhad been reasonably well-balanced individuals, easily lost ina crowd. But the Big Vacuum could change that.

Ramos, Hines, and Nelsen had heard the stories. Now, theirwatchfulness became almost exaggerated. They felt their inexperience.They made no more radio beam contacts. One ofthem was always on lookout, clutching a rifle, peering allaround, glancing every few seconds at the miniaturized radarscreen set inside the collar of his helmet. But the sphericalsky remained free of any unexplained blip or luminous speck.Fragments of conversations picked up in their phones—widelyseparated asteroid-miners talking to each other, for the mostpart—obviously came from far away. There was a U.S.S.F.bubb cruising a few million miles off. Otherwise, the enormousemptiness was safely and perversely empty, all around.

They kept accelerating. For a planned interval, they enjoyedall the good things. They found that masculine guardednessand laziness went well together. They ate themselves full.Like Mitch Storey had once done, they all started hydroponicgardens inside their bubbs. In the pleasant, steamy sun-warmthof those stellene interiors, they bounced back and forth fromelastic wall to elastic wall, with gravity temporarily at zerobecause they had stopped the spin of their bubbs. Thus theyloosened their muscles, worked up a sweat. Afterwards theyp.83dozed, slept, listened to beamed radio music or taped recordingsof their own. They smiled at pin-up pictures, read microfilmedbooks through a viewer, looked at the growing plantsaround them.

There was an arrogance in them, because they had succeededin bringing so much of home out here. There was evena mood like that of a lost, languid beach in the tropics. Andhow was that possible, with only a thin skin of stellene betweenthem and frigid nothing?

Ramos said just about what he had said—long ago, itseemed, now. "Nuts—the Big Vacuum ain't so tough." But heamended quickly, "Yeah, I know, Frank—don't scowl. Whenyou aren't looking, it can up and kill you. Like with my UncleJosé, only worse. He was a powder monkey in Mexico. It gotso he thought dynamite was his friend. Well, there wasn'teven anything to put in his coffin..."

The luxurious interlude passed, and they reverted mostlyto Spartan meals of space-gruel, except for some fresh-grownlettuce. Mars became an agate bead, then a hazy sphere withthose swirled, almost fluid markings, where the spores of aperhaps sentient vegetable life followed the paths of thinwinds, blowing equatorward from the polar caps of hoarfrost.

The three stellene rings bumped lightly on the ten milechunk of captured asteroidal rock and nickel-iron that wasPhobos, Mars' nearer moon. Gravitation was almost nil.There was no need, here, for rockets, to land or take off. Thesun-powered ionics were more than enough.

A small observatory, a U.N.-tended between ground-and-orbitrocket port, and a few hydroponic garden domes nestledin the jaggedness were about all that Phobos had—other thanthe magnificent view of the Red Planet, below.

Gimp Hines' freckled face shone in the ruddy light. "I'mgoing down," he declared. "Just for a few days, to lookaround near the Survey Station. You guys?"

Ramos shrugged, almost disinterested. "People have beenthere—some still are. And what good is poking around theStation? But who wants to goof up, going into the thickets?Others have done that, often enough. Me for Pallastown, andmaybe lots farther, pal."

Frank Nelsen wasn't that blasé. On the Moon, he had seensome of the old Mars of advanced native technology, nowlong extinct. But there was also the recent Mars of explorersand then footloose adventurers, wondering what they couldfind to do with this quiet, pastel-tinted world of tremendoushistory. Then had come the colonists, with their tractors andtheir rolls of stellene to make sealed dwellings and coveredfields in that thin, almost oxygenless atmosphere.

p.84

But their hopes to find peace and isolation from the crowdedand troubled Earth by science and hard work even in so harsha place, had come into conflict with a third Mars that musthave begun soon after the original inhabitants had been destroyed.Though maybe it had had its start, billions of yearsbefore, on the planets of another star. The thickets had seemedharmless. Was this another, different civilization, that hadrisen at last in anger, using its own methods of allergy, terriblerepellant nostalgia, and mental distortions?

Frank felt the call of mystery which was half dread. Butthen he shrugged. "Uh-uh, Gimp. I'd like to go down, too.But the gravity is twice that of the Moon—getting up anddown isn't so easy. Besides, once when I made a stopover inspace, after a nice short hop, I got into trouble. I'll pass thisone up. I'd like to talk to Mitch Storey, though."

They all tried to reach him, beaming the Survey Station atthe edge of Syrtis Major, the great equatorial wedge of blue-greengrowths on the floor of a vanished ocean, first.

"Mitchell Storey is not around right now," a young man'svoice informed them. "He wandered off again, three days ago.Does it often... No—we don't know where to reach him..."

Widening their beams over the short range of considerablyless than four thousand miles, they tried to call Mitch directly.No luck. Contact should have been easy. But of course hecould be wandering with his Archer helmet-phone turned off.

Considering the reputation of Mars, Nelsen was a bit worried.But he had a perhaps treacherous belief that Mitch wasspecial enough to take care of himself.

Ramos was impatient. "We'll hook old Mitch on our partyline, sometime, Frank," he said. "Right now we ought to getstarted. Space is still nice and empty ahead, toward the Kuzaksand Pallastown. That condition might not last... Gimp, areyou honest-to-gosh set on going down to this dried-up,museum-world?"

"Umhmm. See you soon, though," Gimp answered, grinning."I'll leave my bubb and my load of supplies up here onPhobos. Be back for it probably in a week. And there'll be afreight-bubb cluster, or something, for me to join up with,and follow you Out..."

Nelsen and Ramos left Gimp Hines before he boarded thewinged skip-glide rocket that would take him below. Partingwords flew back and forth. "See you... Take care... Overthe Milky Way, suckers..."

Then they were standing off from Mars and its two moons.During the next several Earth-days of time, they acceleratedwith all the power that their bubb ionics could wring out ofthe sunshine, weakened now, with distance. They knew aboutp.85where to find the Kuzaks. But contact was weeks off. Whenthey were close enough, they could radio safely, checking theexact position of Art's and Joe's supply post. And they knewenough to clear of Ceres, the largest Asteroid, whichwas Tovie-occupied. All the signs were good. They were well-armedand watchful. They should have made the trip withouttrouble.

Ahead, dim still with distance, but glinting with a pinkish,metallic shine which made it much brighter than it wouldotherwise have been, was Pallas, which Ramos watched likea beacon.

"Eldorado," he said once, co*ckily, as if he rememberedsomething from the Spanish part of his background.

They got almost three-quarters across that unimaginablestretch of emptiness before there was a bad sign. It was acatcall—literally—in their helmet phones. "Meow!" It wasfalsely plaintive and innocuous. It was a maliciously childishpromise of trouble.

A little later, there was a chuckle. "Be cavalier, fellas.Watch yourselves. I mean it." The tone had a strange intensity.

Ramos was on lookout, then, with eyes, radar and rifle. Butthe spoken message had been too brief to get a fix on the directionof its radio waves.

Ramos stiffened. With his phone power turned very low, hesaid, "Frank—lots of people say 'Be cavalier', nowadays. Butthat includes one of the old Bunch. The voice might match,too."

"Uh-huh—Tiflin, the S.O.B.," Nelsen growled softly.

For ten hours, nothing else happened. Then there were sometiny radar-blips, which could have indicated meteors. Nelsenand Ramos changed the angle of the ion guides of their ionicmotors to move their bubbs from course, slightly, and dodge.During the first hour, they were successful. But then therewere more blips, in greater numbers.

Fist-sized chunks flicked through their vehicles almost simultaneously.Air puffed out. Their rings collapsed underthem—the sealer was no good for holes of such size. At once,the continued spin of the bubbs wound them, like limp laundry,into knots.

While Nelsen and Ramos were trying to untangle the mess,visible specks appeared in the distance. They fired at them.Then something slammed hard into the fleshy part of Nelsen'ship, penetrating his armor, and passing on out, again. Thesealing gum in the Archer's skin worked effectively on theneedle-like punctures, but the knockout drug had been delivered.

As his awareness faded, Nelsen fired rapidly, and sawp.86Ramos doing the same—until his hand slapped suddenly athis side...

After that there was nothing, until, for a few seconds, FrankNelsen regained a blurred consciousness. He was lying, unarmored,inside a bubb—perhaps his own, which had beenpatched and reinflated. All around him was loud laughter andtalk, the gurgle of liquor, the smells of cooked meat, a chokingconcentration of tobacco smoke. Music blared furiously.

"Busht out shummore!" somebody was hollering. "We gotjackpot—the whole fanshy works! I almost think I'm back inSputtsberg—wherever hell that is... But where's the wimmin?Nothing but dumb, prissy pitchers! Not even good pitchers...!"

There were guys of all sizes, mostly young, some armored,some not. One with a pimply face stumbled near. Frank Nelsenchoked down his fury at the vandalism. He had a blurredurge to find a certain face, and almost thought he succeeded.But everything, including his head, was a fuzzy jumble.

"Hey!" the pimply guy gurgled. "Hey—Boss! Our benefactors—they'rehalf awake! You should shleep, baby greenhorns...!"

A large man with shovel teeth ambled over. Frank managedhalf to rise. He met the blow and gave some of it back. Ramoswas doing likewise, gamely. Then Nelsen's head zeroed outagain in a pyrotechnic burst...

He awoke to almost absolute silence, and to the turning ofthe whole universe around him. But of course it was himselfthat was rotating—boots over head. There was a bad smell ofold sweat, and worse.

His hip felt numb from the needle puncture. In all exceptthe most vital areas, those slim missiles would not usuallycause death, or even serious injury; but soon the wound wouldache naggingly.

First, Frank Nelsen hardly knew where he was. Then heunderstood that he was drifting free in space, in an armor. Hethought it was his own until he failed to recognize the scuffed,grimy interior. Even the workshirt he was wearing wasn't thenew blue one he had put on, it seemed only hours ago. It wasa greasy grey.

Etched into the scratched plastic of the helmet that coveredhis head, he saw "Archer III—ser. no. 828211." And casuallystuck into the gasketted rim of the collar, was a note, pencilledjaggedly on a scrap of paper:

"Honest, Greenie, your a pal. All that nice stuff. Thanks a1,000,000! Couple of my boys needed new Archies, bad.Thanks again. You and your buddie are not having so bada brake. These old threes been all over hell. They will showp.87you all about Asteroid hopping and mining. So will the load-haulingnet and tools. Thanks for the little dough, too. Findyour space fitness card in shirt pocket. We don't need it. Havelots of fun. Just remember me as The Stinker."

Frank Nelsen was quivering with anger and scare. He sawthat a mended steel net, containing a few items, had gotwrapped around him with his turning. He groped for the ion-guideof the ancient shoulder-ionic, and touched a control.Slowly his spin was checked. Meanwhile he untangled himself,and saw what must be Ramos, adrift like himself in abattered Archer Three, doing the same.

Gradually they managed to ion glide over to each other.Their eyes met. They were the butts of a prank that no doubthad been the source of many guffaws.

"Did you get a letter, too, Frank?" Ramos asked. For closecommunication, the old helmet-phones still worked okay.

"I did," Nelsen breathed. "Why didn't they just knock usoff? Alive, we might tell on them."

"Not slow and funny enough, maybe," Ramos answereddolefully. "In these broken-down outfits, we might not live totell. Besides, even with these notes for clues, who'd ever findout who they are, way out here?"

Nelsen figured that all this was probably the truth. In theBelt, life was cheap. Death got to be a joke.

"There was an ox of a guy with big teeth!" he hissed furiously."Thought I saw Tiflin, too—the S.O.B.! Cripes, do Ialways land in the soup?"

"The bossman with the teeth, I remember," Ramos grated."Tiflin I don't know about. Could be... Hell, though—whatnow? I suppose we're going in about the same direction andat the same speed as before? Have to watch the sun and planetsto make sure. Did they leave us any instruments? Meanwhile,we might try to decelerate. I'd like to get out to Pluto sometime,but not equipped like this."

"We'll check everything—see how bad off they left us,"Nelsen said.

So that was what they did, after they had set their decrepitshoulder-ionics to slow them down in the direction of the Belt.

Each of their hauling nets contained battered chisels, hammers,saws for metal, a radiation counter, a beaten-up-lookingpistol, some old position-finding instruments, including a wristwatchthat had seen much better days to be used as a chronometer.There were also two large flasks of water and twomonth-supply boxes of dehydrated space-gruel—these lastitems obviously granted them from their own, now vanishedstores. Here was weird generosity—or perhaps just more ghoulishfun to give them the feeble hope of survival.

p.88

Now they checked each other's Archer Threes as well asthey could while they were being worn. No use even to try tocommunicate over any distance with the worn-out radio transmitters.The nuclear batteries were ninety-percent used up,which still left considerable time—fortunately, because theyhad to add battery power to the normally sun-energizedshoulder-ionics, in order to get any reasonable deceleratingeffect out of them. Out here, unlike on the Moon at night, theair-restorers could also take direct solar energy through theirwindows. They needed current only for their pumps. But thegreen chlorophane, key to the freshening and re-oxygenationof air, was getting slightly pale. The moisture-reclaimers were—byluck—not as bad as some of the other vital parts.

Ramos touched his needled side. His wry grin showed someof his reckless humor. "It's not utterly awful, yet," he said."How do you feel?"

Nelsen's hip hurt. And he found that he had an awful hangoverfrom the knockout drug, and the slapping around he hadreceived. "Bad enough," he answered. "Maybe if we ate something..."

They took small, sealed packets of dehydrated food inthrough their chest airlocks, unsleeved their arms, emptied thepackets into plastic squeeze bottles from the utensil racks beforethem, injected water from the pipettes which led to theirshoulder tanks, closed the bottles and let the powdered gruelswell as it reabsorbed moisture. The gruel turned out hot allby itself. For it was a new kind which contained an exothermicingredient. They ate, in the absence of gravity, by squeezingthe bottles.

"Guess we'll have to become asteroid-hoppers—miners—likethe slob said," Nelsen growled. "Well—I did want to tryeverything..."

This was to become the pattern of their lives. But not rightaway. They still had an incomplete conception of the vastdistances. They hurtled on, certainly decelerating considerably,for days, yet, before they were in the Belt. Even that lookedlike enormous emptiness.

And the brightened speck of Pallas was too far to one side.Tovie Ceres was too near on the other side—left, it would be,if they considered the familiar northern hemisphere stars ofEarth as showing "up" position. The old instruments had putthem off-course. Still, they had to bear even farther left to tryto match the direction and the average orbital speed—abouttwelve miles per second—of the Belt. Otherwise, small piecesof the old planet, hurtling in another direction—and/or at adifferent velocity—than themselves, could smash them.

Maybe they thought that they would be located and pickedp.89up—the gang that had robbed and dumped them had foundthem easily enough. But there, again, was a paradox of enormity.Bands might wait for suckers somewhere beyond Mars.Elsewhere, there could be nobody for millions of miles.

They saw their first asteroid—a pitted, mesoderm fragmentof nickel-iron from middle-deep in the blasted planet. It wasjust drifting slightly before them. So they had achieved thecorrect orbital speed. They ion-glided to the chunk, and beganto search clumsily for worthwhile metal. It was fantastic thatsomebody had been there before them, chiselling and sawingout a greyish material, of which there was a little left thatmade the needles of their radiation counters swing wildly.

They got a few scraps of the stuff to put into the nets whichthey were towing.

"For luck," Ramos laughed. "Without it we'll never payJ. John."

"Shut up. Big deal," Nelsen snapped.

"Okay. Shut up it is!" Ramos answered him.

So they stayed silent until they couldn't stand that, either.Everything was getting on their nerves.

Their next asteroids were mere chips a foot long—corefragments of the planet, heavy metals that had sunk deep. Nocrust material of any normally formed world could ever showsuch wealth. It gleamed with a pale yellow shine, and madeRamos' sunken eyes light up with an ancient fever, until heremembered, and until Nelsen said:

"Not for the gold, anymore, pal. Common, out here. So it'salmost worthless, everywhere. Not much use as an industrialmetal. But the osmium and uranium alloyed with it are somethingelse. One hunk for each of our nets. Too bad there isn'tmore."

The uranium was driving their radiation-counters wild.

"Could we drag it, if there was more?" Ramos growled."With just sun-power on these lousy shoulder-ionics?"

Everything was going sour, even Ramos. After a longdeceleration they were afraid to draw any more power forpropulsion from their weakened batteries. They needed theremaining current for the moisture-reclaimers and the pumpsof the air-restorers—a relatively much lighter but vital drain.The sunlight was weak way out here. Worse, the solar thermocouplesto power the ionics were almost shot. They tried tofix them up, succeeding a little, but using far more time thanthey had expected. Meanwhile, the changed positions of thevarious large asteroids, moving in their own individual orbits,lost them any definite idea of where the supply postwas, and the dizzying distance to Pallas, with only half-functioningp.90ionics to get them there, fuddled them in their inexperience.

Soon their big hope was that some reasonable asteroid-hopperswould come within the few thousand mile range oftheir weakened transmitters. Then they could call, and bepicked up.

Mostly to keep themselves occupied, they hunted paymetal,taking only the very best that they could find, to keep the towagemass down. Right from the start they cut their food ration—agood thing, because one month went, and then two, asnear as they could figure. Cripes, how much longer could theylast?

Often they actually encouraged their minds to create illusions.Frank would hold his body stiff, and look at the stars.After a while he would get the soothing impression that hewas swimming on his back in a lake, and was looking up atthe night sky.

Mostly, they were out of the regular radio channels. Butsometimes, because of the movement of distant bubb clustersthat must be kept in touch, they heard music and news briefly,again. They heard ominous reports from the ever more populousEarth. Now it was about areas of ocean to becomeboundaried and to be "farmed" for food. Territorial disputeswere now extending far beyond the land. Once more, the weaponswere being uncovered. Of course there were repercussionsout here. Ceres Station was beaming pronouncements, too—rattlingthe saber.

Nelsen and Ramos listened avidly because it was life, becauseit was contact with lost things, because it was not deadsilence.

Their own tribulations deepened.

"Cripes but my feet stink!" Ramos once laughed. "Theymust be rotten. They're sore, and they itch something awful,and I can't scratch them, or change my socks, even. The fungus,I guess. Just old athlete's foot."

"The stuff is crawling up my legs," Nelsen growled.

They knew that the Kuzaks, maybe Two-and-Two, Reynolds,Gimp, Storey, must be trying to call them. They kept listeningin their helmet-phones. But this time Frank Nelsen knewthat he'd gotten himself a real haystack of enormity in whichto double for a lost needle. The slender beams could comb itfutilely and endlessly, in the hope of a fortunate accident.Only once they heard, "Nelsen! Ra..." The beam swept on.It could have been Joe Kuzak's voice. But inevitably, somewhere,there had to be a giving up point for the searchers.

"This is where I came in," Nelsen said bitterly. "Damnthese beam systems that are so delicate and important!"

p.91

They did pick up the voices of scattered asteroid-hoppers,talking cautiously back and forth to each other, far away."... Got me pinpointed, Ed? Coming in almost empty, thistrip. Not like the last... Stake me to a run into Pallastown...?"Most of such voices sounded regular, friendly.

Once they heard wild laughter, and what could have beena woman's scream. But it could have been other things, too.

On another occasion, they almost believed that they hadtheir rescue made. Even their worn-out direction and distancefinders could place the ten or so voices as originating not muchover a hundred miles away. But they checked their tremblingenthusiasm just in time. That was sheerest luck. The curses,and the savage, frightened snarls were all wrong. "If we don'tcatch us somebody, soon..."

Out here, the needs could get truly primitive. Oxygen, water,food, repair parts for vital equipment. Cannibalism and blood-drinkingcould also be part of blunt necessity.

Nelsen and Ramos were fortunate. Twenty miles off was ahaze against the stars—a cluster of small mesoderm fragments.Drawing power for their shoulder-ionics from their almostspent nuclear batteries, they glided toward the cluster, andgot into its midst, doubling themselves up to look as muchlike the other chunks as possible. They were like hiding ratsfor hours, until long after the distant specks moved past.

While he waited, Frank Nelsen's mind fumbled back to thelost phantom of Jarviston, Minnesota, again. To a man namedJig Hollins who had got married, stayed home. Yellow?Hell...! Nelsen imagined the comforts he might have hadin the Space Force. He coaxed up a dream girl—blonde, dark,red-headed—with an awful wistfulness. He thought of NanceCodiss, the neighbor kid. He fumbled at the edge of a vast,foggy vision, where the wanderlust and spacelust of a man,and needs of the expanding race, seemed to blend with hishome-love and love-love, and to become, impossibly, a balancedunit...

Later—much later—he heard young, green asteroid-hoppersyakking happily about girls and about how magnificent it was,out here.

"Haw-haw," he heard Ramos mock.

"Yeah," Nelsen said thickly. "Lucky for them that theyaren't near us—being careless with their beams, that way..."

Frank Nelsen sneered, despising these innocent novices, surethat he could have beaten and robbed them without compunction.That far he had come toward understanding the outlaws,the twisted men of the Belt.

Ramos and he seemed to go on for an indefinite periodlonger. In a sense, they toughened. But toward the last theyp.92seemed to blunder slowly in the mind-shadows of their weakeningbody forces. They had a little food left, and water fromthe moisture-reclaimers. At zero-gravity, where physical exertionis slight, men can get along on small quantities of food.The sweetish, starchy liquid that they could suck through atube from the air-restorers—it was a by-product of the photosyntheticprocess—might even have sustained them for a considerableinterval.

But the steady weakening of their nuclear batteries wasanother matter. The pumps of their air-restorers and moisture-reclaimerswere dependent on current. Gradually the atmospherethey breathed was getting worse. But from reports theyhad read and TV programs they had seen long ago, they foundthemselves another faint hope, and worked on it. With onlysolar power—derived through worn-out thermocouple units—tofeed their uncertain ionics, they could change course onlyvery slowly, now.

Yet maybe they had used up their bad luck. At last theycame to a surface-fragment a couple of hundred yards long.They climbed over its edge. The thin sunshine hit dried soil,and something like corn-stubble in rows. Ahead was a solidstone structure, half flattened. Beside it a fallen trunk showedits roots. Vegetation was charred black by the absolute drynessof space. There was a fragment of a road, a wall, a hillside.

Here, there must have been blue sky, thin, frosty wind. Thesmall, Mars-sized planet had been far from the sun. Yet perhapsthe greenhouse effect of a high percentage of carbondioxide in its atmosphere and the radioactive heat of its interiorhad helped warm it. At least it had been warm enoughto evolve life of the highest order, eons ago.

Poof had gone the blue sky and this whole world, all in amoment, the scattered pieces forming the . Accident?More likely it was a huge, interplanetary missile from competingMars. The Martians had died, too—as surely, thoughless spectacularly. Radioactive poison, perhaps... Here, therehad been an instant of unimaginable concussion, and of swift-passingflame. The drying out was soon ended. Then, what wasleft had been preserved in a vacuum through sixty millionsof years.

Frank Nelsen had glimpsed ancient Mars, preserved on theMoon. Now he glimpsed its opponent culture, about whichmore was generally known.

"It's real," Ramos grunted. "Hoppers find surface-fragmentslike this, quite often."

Nelsen hardly cared about the archeological aspects justp.93then. Excitement and hope that became certainty, enlivenedhis dulled brain.

"An energy source," he grated joyfully. "The Big Answer toEverything, out here! And it's always self-contained in theirbuildings..."

They pushed the collapsed and blackened thing with theslender bones, aside. They crept into the flat, horizontal spacesof the dwelling—much more like chinks than the rooms thathumans would inhabit. They shoved away soft, multi-coloredfabrics spun from glass-wool, a metal case with graduateddials and a lens, baubles of gold and glinting mineral.

In a recess in the masonry, ribboned with glazed copperstrips that led to clear globes and curious household appliances,they found what they wanted. Six little oblong boxesbunched together. Their outsides were blue ceramic.

Frank Nelsen and Miguel Ramos began to work gingerly,though the gloves of their old Archer Threes were insulated.Here, sixty million years of stopped time had made no differenceto these nuclear batteries, that, because of the universalcharacter of physical laws, almost had to be similar in principleto their own. They had almost known that it would makeno difference. There had been no drain of power through theautomatic safety switches.

"DC current, huh?" Ramos said, breathing hard of the rottenair in his helmet.

"Yeah—gotta be," Frank answered quickly. "Same as froma thermocouple. Voltage about two hundred. Lots of current,though. Hope these old ionics'll take it."

"We can tap off lower, if we have to... Here—I'll fix you,first... Grab this end..."

They had a sweating two hours of rewiring to get done.

With power available, they might even have found a way todistill and collect the water, usually held in the form of frost,deep-buried in the soil of any large surface-fragment. Theymight have broken down some of the water electrolytically,to provide themselves with more oxygen to breathe. But perhapsnow such efforts were not necessary.

When they switched in the new current, the pumps of theirequipment worked better at once. The internal lights of theirair-restorers could be used again, augmenting the action of thepale sunshine on the photosynthetic processes of the chlorophane.The air they breathed improved immediately. Theytested the power on the shaky ionics, and got a good thrustreaction.

"We can make it—I think," Frank Nelsen said, speakinglow and quick, and with the boldness of an enlivened bodyand brain. "We'll shoot up, out of the Belt entirely, then movep.94parallel to it, backwards—contrary to its orbital flow, that is.But being outside of it, we won't chance getting splattered byany fragments. Probably avoid some slobs, too. We'll decelerate,and cut back in, near Pallas. There'll be a way to find theKuzak twins."

Ramos chuckled recklessly. "Let's not forget to pack thesehistorical objects in our nets. Especially that camera, or whateverit is. Money in the bank at last, boy..."

But after they set out, it wasn't long before they knew thattwo people were following them. There was no place to hide.And a mocking voice came into their phones.

"Hey, Nelsen... Oh, Mex... Wait up... I've beenlooking for you for over three months..."

They tried first to ignore the hail. They tried to speed up.But their pursuers still had better propulsion. Nelsen grittedhis teeth. He felt the certainty of disaster closing in.

"There's just two of them—so far," Ramos hissed. "Maybehere's our chance, Frank, to really smear that rat!" Ramos'eyes had a battlelight. "All right, Tiflin—approach. These gunsare lined up and loaded."

"Aw—is that friendship, Mex?" the renegade seemed towheedle. But insolently, he and his larger companion came on.

"Toss us your pistols," Ramos commanded, as they driftedclose, checking speed.

Tiflin flashed a smirk that showed that his front teeth weremissing. "Honest, Mex—do you expect us to do that? Becavalier—I haven't even got a pistol, right now. Neither hasIgor, here. Come look-see... Hi, Frankie!"

"Just stay there," Nelsen gruffed.

Tiflin co*cked his head inside the helmet of a brand-newArcher Six, in a burlesqued pose for inspection. He lookedbad. His face had turned hard and lean. There were scars onit. The nervous, explosive-tempered kid, who couldn't havesurvived out here, had been burned out of him. For a second,Nelsen almost thought that the change could be for the good.But it was naive to hope that that could happen. Glen Tiflinhad become passive, yielding, mocking, with an air of secretknowledge withheld. What did an attitude like that suggest?Treachery, or, perhaps worse, a kind of poised—and poisonous—mentaljudo?

Nelsen looked at the other man, who wore a Tovie armor.Tall, starvation-lean. Horse-faced, with a lugubrious, bumpkinishsmile that almost had a whimsical appeal.

"Honest—I just picked up Igor—which ain't his real name—inthe course of my travels," Tiflin offered lightly. "He usedto be a comic back in Eurasia. He got bored with life onCeres, and sort of tumbled away."

p.95

With his body stiff as a stick, Igor toppled forward, hismouth gaping in dismay. He turned completely over, his greatboots kicking awkwardly. His angular elbows flapped likecrow-wings. He righted himself, looked astonished, then beatificallyself-approving. He burped delicately, patted his chestplate, then sniffed in sad protest at the leveled pistols.

Now Nelsen and Ramos cast off the loaded nets they hadbeen towing, and closed in on this strange pair. Nelsen didthe searching, while Ramos pointed the guns.

"Haven't even got my shiv anymore, Frankie," Tiflin remarked,casually. "Threw it at a guy named Fessler, once.Missed by an inch. Guess it's still going—round and round thesun, for millions of years. Longest knife throw there ever was."

"Fessler!" Frank snapped. "Now we're getting places, youS.O.B.! The funny character that robbed and dumped Ramosand me, I'll bet. Probably with your help! You know him,huh?"

"Knew—for a while—past tense," Tiflin chuckled wickedly."Nope—it wasn't me that stripped off his armor in space. Hewasn't even around, anymore, when you beauties got caught.They come and they go."

"But you were around, Tiflin!"

"Maybe not. Maybe I was twenty million miles off."

"Like hell!" Nelsen gritted his teeth, grabbed Tiflin'sshoulder, and swung his gloved fist as hard as he could againstthe thin layer of rubber and wire over Tiflin's stomach. Hestruck three times.

"Damn you!" Nelsen snarled. "I promised myself I'd getyou good, Tiflin! Now tell us what else you and your friendsare cooking for us, or by the Big Silence, you'll be a drifting,explosively decompressed mummy!"

Frank Nelsen didn't know till now, after exerting himself,how weak privations had made him. He felt dizzy.

Tiflin's eyes had glazed slightly, as he and Frank did a slowroll, together. He gasped. But that insulting smirk came back.

"Haven't had your Wheaties lately, have you, Frank? Goahead—hit, knock yourself out. You, too, Mex. I've beenslugged before, by big men, in shape...! Could be I'm notcooking anything. Except I notice that you two have foundyourselves some very interesting local objects of ancient history,worth a little money. Also, some good, raw metal...Well, I suppose you want to get the load and yourselves tothe famous twins, Art and Joe. That's easy—with luck. Thoughthe region is a trifle disturbed, right now. But I can tell youwhere they are. You won't have to fiddle around, hunting."

"Here, hold these guns, Frank. Lemme have a couple ofpokes at the slob," Ramos snapped.

p.96

"Aw-right, aw-right—who's asking you guys to believe me?"Tiflin cut in. "I'll beam the twins for you—since I'd guessyour transmitter won't reach. You can listen in, and talk backthrough my set. Okay?"

"Let's see what happens—just for kicks," Ramos said softly."If you're calling some friends to come and get us, or anything,Tif—well, you've had it!"

They watched Tiflin spin and focus the antenna. "Kuzak...Kuzak... Kuzak... Kuzak..." he said into his phone."Missing boys alive and coming to you. Mex and old GuessWhich... Kicking and independent, but very hungry, I think...Put on the coffee pot, you storekeepers... Kuzak...Kuzak... Kuzak... Talk up, Frank and Miguel. Yourvoices will relay through my phone..."

"Hi, Art and Joe—it's us," Ramos almost apologized.

"Yeah—we don't quite know yet what Tiflin is pulling. Buthere we are—if it's you we're talking to..."

There was the usual long wait as impulses bridged the light-minutes.

Then Art Kuzak's voice snarled guardedly. "I hear you, Ramand Nel. Come in, if you can...! Tif, you garbage! Someday...!This is all. This is all..." The message broke off.

Tiflin smirked. "Third quadrant of the Belt," he said, givinga position in space almost like latitude and longitude on Earth."About twenty minutes of the thirty-first degree. Three degreesabove median orbital plane. Approximately two hundredhours from here. Can Igor and I leave you, now, or doyou want us to escort you in?"

"We'll escort you," Ramos said.

So it was, until, near the end of a long ride, a cluster ofbubbs was in view in the near distance, and Ramos and Nelsencould contact Art Kuzak themselves.

"We've got Tiflin and his Tovie pal with us, Art," FrankNelsen said. "They showed us the way, more or less becausewe made them. But Tif did give us the right position at thestart. A favor, maybe. I don't know. And now he's saying,'Be cavalier—it might be awkward for me to meet Art andJoe just at present.' Do you want to fix this character's wagonbad enough? Your customers could get mean—if he ever didthem dirt."

"Just one thing I've got against Tiflin!" Art snarled back."Every time I hear his voice, it means trouble. But I've neverseen the crumb face-to-face since that Moonhop. Okay, let'snot spoil my stomach. Turn him loose. It can't make muchdifference. Or maybe I'm sentimental about the old Bunch.He was our cracked, space-wild punk."

"Thanks, Art," Tiflin laughed.

p.97

In a minute he, and his comic, scarecrow pal who originatedfrom the dark side of trouble, on Earth and out here, too, werefading against the stars.

Nelsen and Ramos, the long-lost, glided in, past some grimhoppers. A bubb and sweet air were around them once more.They shed their stinking Archer Threes. Hot showers—miraculousluxury—played over them. They rubbed disinfectantsalves into their fungus-ridden hides.

Then there was a clean, white table, with plates, knives,forks. They had to treat their shrunken stomachs gently—justa little of everything—beer, steak, vegetables, fruit... Somewhereduring the past, unmarked days Frank Nelsen had gottento be twenty years old. Only twenty? Well—maybe thiswas his celebration.

Ramos and he told their story very briefly. Little time waswasted on congratulations for survival or talk of losses longpast. The Kuzaks looked leaner and tougher, now, and therewere plenty of present difficulties to worry them. Joe Kuzakhurried out to argue with the miners at the raw metal receivingbins and at the store bubbs. Art stayed to explain thepresent situation.

"Three big loads of supplies were shipped through to usfrom the Moon," he growled. "We did fine, trading for metal.We sent J. John Reynolds his percentage—a fair fraction of hisentire loan. We sent old Paul five thousand dollars. But thefourth and fifth loads of trade stuff got pirated en route. Whenthere's trouble on Earth, it comes out here, too. Ceres, colonizedby our socialist Tovie friends of northern Eurasia, helpsstir up the bums, who think up plenty of hell on their own.It's a force-out attempt aimed at us or at anybody who thinksour way. After two lost shipments, and a lot of new installationshere at the Post, we're about broke, again. Worse, we'vegot the asteroid-hoppers expecting us to come through withpay for the new metal in their nets, and with stuff they need.Back home, some people used to raise hell about a trifle like adelayed letter. How about a spaceman's reaction, when whatis delayed may be something to keep him alive? They couldget really annoyed, and kick this place apart."

Art Kuzak blew air up past his pug nose, and continued."Finance—here we go again, Frank!" he chuckled. "GimpHines is helping us. After Mars, he came here without trouble.He's in Pallastown, now, trying to raise some fast cash, andto rush supplies through from there, under Space Force guard.You know he's got a head for commerce as well as science.But our post, here, perhaps isn't considered secure enoughto back a loan, anymore."

Art grinned wryly at Nelsen and Ramos. His hint was plain.p.98He had seen the museum pieces that they had brought in.

"Should we, Frank?" Ramos chuckled after a moment.

"Possibly... We've got some collateral, Art. Lots morevaluable per unit mass than any raw metal, I should think."

"So you might want to work for us?" Art inquired blandly.

"Not 'for'," Nelsen chuckled. "We might say 'with'."

"Okay, Cuties," Art laughed.

Joe Kuzak had just come back into the dwelling and officebubb.

"Don't let my twin sell you any rotten apples, fellas," hewarned lightly. "He might be expecting you to transport yourcollateral to Pallastown. Naturally anybody trying to stranglethis Post will be blocking the route. You might get robbedagain. Also murdered."

Ramos' gaunt face still had its daring grin. "Frank and Iknow that," he said. "I'm past bragging. But we've had experience.Now, we might be smart enough to get through. Afew more days out there won't hurt. How about it, Frank?"

"Ten hours sleep and breakfast," Frank said. "Then a littlecamouflage material, new weapons, a pair of Archers in condition—gotany left?"

"Five in stock," Joe answered.

"Settled, then?" Art asked.

"Here, it is," Ramos answered, and Nelsen nodded.

It would have been rough going for them to try to sleep inbeds. They had lost the habit. They slept inside their newArcher Fives.

Afterwards they painted their armor a dark grey, like chunksof mesoderm stone. They did likewise to the two bundles inwhich they wrapped their relics.

They were as careful as possible to get away from the postwithout being observed, visually or by radar. But of courseyou could never be sure.

Huddled up to resemble stray fragments, they curved out ofthe Belt—toward the Pole Star, north of its orbital plane.Moving in a parallel course, they proceeded toward Pallastown.The only thing that would seem odd was that they weremoving contrary to the general orbital rotation of most of thepermanent bodies of the solar system. Of course they andtheir bundles might have been stray meteors from deep inspace.

Four watchful, armored figures seemed to notice the peculiarityof their direction, and to become suspicious. Thesefigures seemed too wary for honesty as they approached.They got within twenty-five miles.

Even without the memory that Tiflin might make guessesabout what they meant to do, Nelsen and Ramos would havep.99taken no chances. They had to be brutal. Homing darts piercedarmor. The four went to sleep.

VI

The asteroid, Pallas, was a chunk of rich corematerial, two hundred-some miles in its greatest dimension.It had a mottled, pinkish shine, partly from untarnished lead,osmium, considerable uranium, some iron, nickel, silver, copper.The metals were alloyed, here; almost pure, there. Therewas even a little rock. But thirty-five percent of Pallas' roughlyspherical mass was said to be gold.

Gold is not rare at the cores of the worlds, to which mostof the heavy elements must inevitably sink, during the moltenstage of planetary developments. On Earth it must be thesame, though who could dig three thousand miles into a zoneof such heat and pressure? But the asteroid world had exploded.Pallas was an exposed and cooled piece of its heart.

Pallas had a day of twenty-four hours because men, workingwith great ion jets angling toward the stars, had adjustedits natural rate of rotation for their own convenience to matchthe terrestrial. A greater change was Pallastown.

Frank Nelsen and Miguel Ramos made the considerablejourney to it without further incident. Because he was tensewith hurry, Nelsen's impressions were superficial: Somethinglike Serene, but bigger and more fantastic. A man weighed onlya few ounces, here. Spidery guidance towers could loom impossiblyhigh. There were great storage bins for raw metalbrought in from all over the Belt. There were rows of watertanks. As on the Moon, the water came mostly from gypsumrock or occasionally from soil frost, both found on nearbycrustal asteroids. Beyond the refineries bulged the domes of thecity itself, housing factories, gardens, recreation centers, andsections that got considerably lost and divergent trying to imitatethe apartment house areas of Earth.

Frank Nelsen's wonder was hurried and dulled.

Gimp Hines and David Lester were waiting inside the stellenereception dome when Nelsen and Ramos landed lightlyat the port on their own feet, with no more braking assistancethan their own shoulder-ionics.

p.100

Greetings were curiously breathless yet casual, but withoutany backslapping.

"We'd about given you two up," Gimp said. "But an hourago Joe Kuzak beamed me, and said you'd be along with somemuseum stuff... Les lives here, now, working with the newArcheological Institute."

"Hi-hi—good to see you guys," Ramos said.

"Likewise. Hello, Les," Frank put in.

While Frank was gripping David Lester's limp, diffidenthand, which seemed almost to apologize for his having comeso far from home, Gimp teased a little. "So you latched ontoArt Kuzak, too. Or was it the other way around?"

Frank's smile was lopsided. "I didn't analyze motives. Art'sa pretty good guy. I suppose we just wanted to help Joe andhim out. Or maybe it was instinct. Anyhow, what's wrong withlatching onto—or being latched onto by—somebody whomyou feel will get himself and you ahead, and make you botha buck?"

"Check. Not a darn thing," Gimp laughed. "Now let's goto my hotel and have a look at what you brought in. Did youreally examine it, yet?"

"Some—on the way. Not very much," Ramos said. "There'sa camera."

In the privacy of Gimp's quarters, the bundles were opened;the contents, some of them dried and gruesome, all of themrather wonderful, were exposed.

David Lester and Gimp Hines were both quietly avid. Lesterknew the most about these things, but Gimp's hands, onthe strange camera, were more skillful. The cautious scrutinyof dials and controls marked with cryptic numerals and symbols,and the probing of detail parts and their functions, tookabout an hour.

"What do you think, Les?" Gimp asked.

"I'm not an expert, yet," Lester answered. "But as far as Iknow, this is the first undamaged camera that has yet beenfound. That makes it unique. Of course by now, hoppers arebringing in quite a lot of artifacts from surface-asteroids. Butthere's not much in the way of new principle for our cameramanufacturers to buy. Lens systems, shutters, shock mountings,self-developing, integral viewing, projecting and sonicfeatures, all turn out to be similar to ours. It's usually that waywith other devices, too. It's as if all their history, and ours,were parallel."

"Well, dammit—let's see what the thing can show!" Ramosgruffed.

In the darkened room, the device threw a rectangle of lighton the wall. Then there was shape, motion, and color, keptp.101crystallized from sixty million years before. A cloud, pinkedby sunrise, floating high in a thin, expanded atmosphere. Didclouds everywhere in the universe always look much thesame? Wolfish, glinting darts, vanishing away. Then a mountainsidecovered with spiny growths that, from a distance,seemed half cactus and half pine. A road, a field, a dull-huedcylinder pointing upward. Shapes of soft, bluish grey, toppedlike rounded roofs, unfolding out of a chink, and swaying offin a kind of run—with little clinkings of equipment, for therewere sounds, too. Two eyelike organs projecting upward, thepupils clear and watchful. A tendril with a ridged, dark hide,waving what might have been a large, blue flower, which wasattached to the end of a metal tube by means of a bit of fibretied in a granny knot. A sunburst of white fire in the distance...

It could have gone on, perhaps for many hours. Reality, withevery detail sharp. Parallels with Earthly life. Maybe even sentimentwas there, if you only knew how it was shown. But inthe differences you got lost, as if in a vivid dream that youcouldn't fully understand. Though what was pictured here wascertainly from the last beautiful days of a competing planet.

Frank Nelsen's mouth often hung open with fascination.But his own realities kept intruding. They prodded him.

"I hate to break this off," he said. "But a lot of asteroid-hoppersare out at the post, waiting for Ramos and me to bringstuff back. It's a long ride through a troubled region. There'splenty to get arranged beforehand... So first, what do we doto realize some quick funds out of these relics?"

Hines terminated the pictured sequence. "Frank—Ramos—I'dkeep this camera," he said urgently. "It's a little bit special,at least. History is here, to be investigated. Offers—bids—couldcome up. Okay—I'm talking about dough, again. Still,who wants to detach himself, right away, from somethingpretty marvelous, by selling it? I'd dump most of the otherthings. Getting a loan—the hock-shop approach—is no good...Am I telling it right, Les?"

Lester nodded. "More of the same will be brought in. Priceswill drop. Archeological Survey has a buying service for museumsback home. I've been working for them for a month.I don't claim to love them entirely, but they'll give you thesafest break. You should get enough, for your purposes, withoutthe camera. With a load like this, you can see Doc Linford,the boss, any time."

"Right now, then," Frank said.

"Hey, you impolite slobs!" Ramos laughed. "When do youconsult me, co-discoverer and -owner? Awright, skip it—you'rethe Wizards of Oz. I'll just grab out a few items for myp.102Ma and the kids, and maybe a girl or two I'll meet someplace.You guys might as well do the same."

He took some squares of fabric, silken-soft, though spunfrom fibre of colored glass. And some wheeled devices, whichmight have been toys. Lester and Hines picked up only tokenpieces of the fabric. Frank took a three inch golden ring thatglinted with mineral. Except that it looked decorative, he hadno idea of its original purpose.

The broken, fine-boned mummy and the other items wereappraised and bought in a large room across the city. It wasalready cluttered with queer fossils and objects. The numbersprinted on the two equal checks, and on the cash in theirhands, still looked slightly mythical to Nelsen and Ramos, towhom a thousand dollars had seemed a fortune.

Later, at the U.S.S.F. headquarters, he was prepared toargue grimly. Words were in his mind: A vital matter of supply...Without an escort, we'll still have to try to get through,alone. You have been informed, therefore, if anything happens,you will be responsible...

He didn't have to say anything like this. They knew. Maybean old bitterness had made him misjudge the U.S.S.F. Ayoung colonel smiled tiredly.

"This has been happening," he said. "We have limited facilitiesfor this purpose. The U.N.S.F. even less. However, anescort is due in, now. We can move out again, with you, inseven hours."

"Thank you, sir," Nelsen responded.

Gimp Hines had the better part of the supplies to be purchasedalready lined up at the warehouses.

Nelsen counted the money he had left. "Figuring losses andgains, I have no idea how much I owe J. John—if anything,"he laughed. "So I'll make it a grand—build up my ego...But we owe old Paul more than dough."

"All right, I'm another idiot—I'll mail J. John a similardraft," Ramos gruffed. "Paul's a problem. He can use money,but he never lived for it. And you can't buy a friend. We'llhave to rig something."

"Yeah—we will," Gimp said. "Couple of times I forgot J.John. But I lost my shirt on those loads that were lifted off youboneheads. The Kuzaks reimbursed me for half. Do you twowant to cover the other half? Aw—forget it! Who's got timeto figure all this? That old coot doped himself out a nice catch-dollarscheme, making us promise. Or was it a leg pull on ahighly elusive proposition, where big sums and the vastnessof space seem to match? Hell—I'm getting mixed up again..."

Dave Lester had wandered off embarrassedly, there in thep.103warehouse. But now he returned, clearing his throat for attention.

"Fellas," he said. "Helen and I want you to come out toour apartment, now, for dinner."

"Shucks, that's swell, Les," Ramos responded, suddenlycurious.

"Here, also," Nelsen enthused.

"Sure," Gimp said. But his smile thinned.

In this gravity, going to Lester's place was a floating gliderather than a walk. Along a covered causeway, into a hugedome, up a wall with handholds, onto a wispy balcony. Nelsenand Ramos brought liquor and roses.

Much of what followed was painful and familiar—in a fantasticsetting. Two young people, recently married, strugglingwith problems that they hadn't been able to plan for very well.

While his wife was out of earshot, Lester put his hand onthe back of a chair constructed entirely of fine golden wire—laterit developed that he had made it, do-it-yourself fashion,to be economical—and seemed more intent on holding itdown than to rest his hand.

"Gimp... Frank..." he began nervously. "You helpedHelen and me to get married and get set up out here. TheArcheological Institute paid our way to Pallastown. But therewere other expenses... Her—my father-in-law, died by hisown hand while still awaiting trial... Everything he ownedis still tied up... Now, well—you know human biology...I hope you can wait a little longer for us to begin paying backyour loan..."

Nelsen had a vagrant thought about how money now had tostand on its own commercial value, rather than rely on theancient witchcraft of a gold standard. Then he almost suspectedthat Lester was being devious and clever. But he knewthe guy too well.

"Cripes, Les!" he burst out almost angrily. "How aboutyour services, just now, as an archeological consultant? If youwon't consider that we might have meant to make you a gift.Pretty soon you'll have us completely confused!"

"What a topic for an evening of fun," Gimp complained."Hey, Helen—can I mix the drinks?"

"Yes—of course, Mr. Hines. I'll get you the things," shesaid with apology in her eyes and voice, as if fussy celebritieshad descended on her small, unsettled, and poor household.

"On the Moon you were a swell cook, Helen," Frank remindedher.

She flashed a small smile. "It was different, there. Thingsweighed something, and stayed in place. Here—just breathehard and you have a kitchen accident. Besides, I had a garden.p.104We'd like one here, but there's no room... And in themarket...

"Shucks—it's new here to us, too," Ramos soothed. "Ridingan Archer in space, at zero-G, is different from this..."

Things were a bit less strained, after that, through theskimpy meal, with its special devices, unique to the asteroidsand their tiny gravity. Clamps to fasten plates to tables andvictuals to plates. Drinking vessels that were half-squeeze bottles.Such equipment was now available in what might oncehave been called a dime store—but with another price-level.

The visitors made a game of being awkward and inept, together.It was balm for Helen's sensitivity.

"Somebody's got to keep the camera for us, Mex," FrankNelsen said presently.

"Yeah—I know. Les'll do it for us," Ramos answered. "He'sthe best, there. He can run through all the pictures—makecopies with an ordinary camera... See if he can marketthem. Twenty percent ought to be about right for his cut."

Lester tried to interrupt, but Frank got ahead of him. "Weowe Gimp for those loads we lost. Got to cut him into this,as a consultant. You'll be around Pallastown for a while, helpingout with this end of the Twin's enterprises, won't you,Gimp?"

Hines grinned. "Probably. Glad you slobs got memories.Glad to be of assistance, anytime. Les is no louse—he'll helpold friends. I'll bring him the camera, out of the safe at myhotel, as soon as we leave here..."

Lester smiled doubtfully, and then happily. That was howthey worked the fabulous generosity of spacemen in the chipson him.

Nelsen, Ramos and Hines escaped soon after that.

"Three hours left. I guess you guys want to get lost—separately,"Gimp chuckled. "I'll say so long at the launching catapults,later. I've got some tough guards, fresh from the Moon,who will go along with you. Art and Joe need them..."

Frank Nelsen wandered alone in the recreation area. Heheard music—Fire Streak, Queen of Serene... He searchedfaces, looking for an ugly one with shovel teeth. He thought,with an achy wistfulness, of a small hero-worshipping girlnamed Jennie Harper, at Serene.

He found no one he had ever seen before. In a joint hewatched a girl with almost no clothes, do an incredible numberof spinning in mid-air. He thought he oughtto find himself a friend—then decided perversely, to hell withit.

He thought of the trouble on Earth, of Ceres, of Tiflin andIgor, of Fanshaw, the latest leader of the Asteroid Belt toughs—thep.105Jolly Lads—that you heard about. He thought abouthow terribly vulnerable to attack Pallastown seemed, even withits encirclement of outriding guard stations. He thought ofPaul Hendricks, Two-and-Two Baines, Charlie Reynolds, OttoKramer, Mitch Storey, and Miss Rosalie Parks who was hisold Latin teacher.

He thought of trying to beam some of them. But hell, theyall seemed so long-lost, and he wasn't in the mood, now. Heeven thought about how it was, trying to give yourself a dryshave with a worn-out razor, inside an Archer. He thoughtthat sometime, surely, perhaps soon, the Big Vacuum wouldfinish him.

He wound up with a simple sentimental impulse, full of nostalgiaand tenderness for things that seemed to stay steady andput. The way he felt was half-hearted apology for humanmoods in which murder would have been easy. He even had astrange envy for David Lester.

Into the synthetic cellulose lining of a small carton bought ata souvenir shop, he placed the sixty million-year old goldenband with its odd arabesques and its glinting chips of mineral.Regardless of its mysterious intentional function, it could bea bracelet. To him, just then, it was only a trinket that he hadpicked up.

Before he wrapped and addressed the package, he put a noteinside:

"Hi, Nance Codiss! Thinking about you and all the neighbors.This might reach you by Christmas. Remember me?Frank Nelsen."

Postage was two hundred dollars, which seemed a trifle.And he didn't quite realize how like a king's ransom a giftlike this would seem in Jarviston, Minnesota.

On leaving the post office, he promptly forgot the wholematter, as hard, practical concerns took hold of him, again.

At the loading quays, special catapults hurled the giganticbales of supplies clear of Pallas. To the Kuzaks, this shipmentwould now have seemed small, but it was much larger than theloads Ramos and Nelsen had handled before. Gimp and Lestersaw them off. Then they were in space, with extra ionics pushingthe bales. The guard of six new men was posted. Nelsenwasn't sure that they'd be any good, or whether he could trustthem all, but they looked eagerly alert. Riding a mile off wasthe Space Force patrol bubb.

All through the long journey—beam calls ahead wereavoided for added safety—Nelsen kept wondering if he'd findthe post in ruins, with what was left of Art and Joe driftingand drying. But nothing like that happened yet, and the shipmentp.106was brought through. Business with the asteroid-hopperswas started at once.

When there was a lull, Art Kuzak talked expansively in hisoffice bubb:

"Good work, Frank. Same to you, Ramos—except that Iknow you're itching with your own ideas, and probably won'tbe around long. Which is your affair... Never mind whatanybody says about Venus, or any other place. The Belt, withits history, its metals, and its possibilities, is the best part ofthe solar system. Keep your defenses up, your line of communicationcovered, and you can't help but make money.There are new posts to set up, help to recruit and bring out,stellene plants and other factories to construct. There'll begarden bubbs, repair shops—everything. Time, work, and alittle luck will do it. You listening, Frank?"

Nelsen got a bit cagy with Art, again. "Okay, Art—youseem like a formal fella. Mex and I joined up and helped outpretty much as informal company members. But as long aswe've put in our dough, let's make it official, in writing andsigned. The KRNH Enterprises—Kuzak, Ramos, Nelsen andHines. The 'H' could also stand for Hendricks—Paul Hendricks."

"I like it that way, you suspicious slob," Art Kuzak chuckled.

So another phase began for Nelsen. Offices bored him.Amassing money, per se, meant little to him, except as a successsymbol that came out of the life he had known. Hefigured that a man ought to be a success, even a rough-and-tumbleromantic like Ramos, or Joe Kuzak. Or himself, withboth distance and home engrained confusingly into his nature.

One thing that Nelsen was, was conscientious. He couldchoose and stick to a purpose for even longer than it seemedright for him.

Mostly, now, during the long grind of expansion, he wasafield. Disturbances on Earth quieted for a while, as had alwayshappened, so far. The Belt responded with relative peace.Tovie Ceres, the Big Asteroid, which, like the others, shouldhave been open to all nations, but wasn't, kept mostly to itsown affairs. There were only the constant dangers, natural,human, and a combination. There was always a job—a convoyto meet, a load of supplies to rush to a distant point, JollyLads to scare off. Reckless Ramos might be with Nelsen, orJoe Kuzak who usually operated separately, or a few guards,or several asteroid-hoppers, most of whom were tough andsteady and good friends to know. Often enough, Nelsen wasalone.

At first, KRNH just handled the usual supplies. But whenfactory and hydroponic equipment began to arrive, Joe Kuzakp.107and Frank Nelsen might be out establishing a new post. There'dbe green help, bubbing out from the Moon, to break in. Nelsenwould see new faces that still seemed familiar, becausethey were like those of the old Bunch, as it had been. Grim,scared young men, full of wonder. But the thin stream of theadventurous was thickening, as more opportunities opened.Occasionally there was a young couple. Oh, no, you thought.Then—well, maybe. That is, if somebody didn't crack up, orget lymph node swellings that wouldn't reduce, and if youdidn't have to try to play nursemaid.

Now and then Nelsen was in Pallastown—for business, forrelief, for a bit of hell-raising; to see Gimp and the David Lesters.Pretty soon there was an heir in the Lester household.Red, , and male. Cripes—Out Here, too? Okay—joshthe parents along. The most wonderful boy in the solar system!Otherwise, matters, there, were much better than before.The camera was in a museum in Washington. The pictures ithad contained were on TV, back home. Just another anti-warfilm, maybe. But impressive, and different. The earnings didn'tchange Nelsen's life much, nor Gimp's, nor Ramos'. But itsure helped the Lesters.

David Lester had resigned from Archeological Survey. Hewas getting actually sharp. He was doing independent research,and was setting up his own business in Belt antiques.

Frank Nelsen had another reason for coming to Pallastown.Afield, you avoided beam communication, nowadays, wheneveryou could. Someone might trace your beam to its source,and jump you for whatever you had. But Gimp Hines couldtell Nelsen about the absent Bunch members and the oldfriends, while they both sat in the little KRNH office in Town.

"... Paul Hendricks is still the same, Frank. New buncharound him... Too bad we can't call him, now—becausethe Earth is on the far side of the sun. Mitch Storey just vanishedinto the Martian thickets, during one of his jaunts. Almosta year ago, now... I didn't see him when I stoppedover on Mars, but he was back at the Station once, after that.Take it easy, Frank. They've looked with helicopters, and evenon the ground; you couldn't do any more. I'll keep in touch,to see if anything turns up..."

After a minute, Nelsen relaxed, slightly. "Two-and-Two?I guess he's okay—with Charlie Reynolds looking after him?"

"Peculiar about Charlie," Gimp answered, looking awedand puzzled. "Got the news from old J. John, his granddad,when he acknowledged the receipt of our latest draft, by letter.Hold your hat. Charlie got himself killed... I'll dig theletter out of the file."

p.108

Nelsen sat up very straight. "Never mind," he said. "Justtell me more. Anything can happen."

"Our most promising member," Gimp mused. "He didn'tget much. The Venus Expedition had to move some heavyequipment to the top of a mountain, to make some electrostatictests before a storm. Charlie had just climbed downfrom the helicopter. A common old lightning bolt hit him.Somebody played Fire Streak on the bagpipes—inside a sealedtent—while they buried him. Otherwise, he didn't even get aproper spaceman's funeral. Venus' escape velocity is almostas high as Earth's. Boosting a corpse up into orbit, just for atmosphericcremation, would have been too much of a wastefor the Expedition's rigid economy."

Nelsen had never really been very close to Charlie Reynolds,though he had liked the flamboyant Good Guy. Now, it wasall a long ways back, besides. Nelsen didn't feel exactly grief.Just an almost mystical bitterness, a shock and an uncertainty,as if he could depend on nothing.

"So what about Two-and-Two?" he growled, rememberinghow he used to avoid any responsibility for the big, good-heartedlug; but now he felt surer about himself, and thingsseemed different.

"I guess the Expedition medic had to straighten him outwith devil-killers," Hines answered. "He bubbed all the wayback to Earth, alone, to see J. John about Charlie. I beamedhim, there, before the Earth hid behind the sun. He was stillpretty shaken up. Funny, too—Charlie's opportunity-ladenVenus has turned out to be a bust, for two centuries, at least,unless new methods, which aren't in sight, yet, turn up. Sure—atstaggering expense, and with efforts on the order of fantasy,reaction motors could be set up around its equator, tomake it spin as fast as the Earth. Specially developed greenalgae have already been seeded all over the planet. They'rerugged, they spread fast. But it will take the algae about twohundred years to split the carbon dioxide and give the atmospherea breathable amount of free oxygen, to say nothing ofcracking the poisonous formaldehyde."

"Two-and-Two's back in Jarviston, then?" Nelsen demanded.

"No—not anymore—just gimme breath," Hines went on."He and Charlie had figured another destination of opportunity—Mercury,the planet nearest the sun, everlasting frozennight on one side, eternal, zinc-melting sunshine on the other.But there's the fringe zone between the two—the TwilightZone. If you can live under stellene, you've got a better placethere than Mars might have been. Colonists are going there,to quit the Earth, to get away from it all. Two-and-Two wasabout to leave for Mercury, when I last spoke to him. By nowp.109he's probably almost there. And even under the most favorableconditions, Mercury is hard to beam—too much solarmagnetic interference."

"That poor sap," Nelsen gruffed.

"It probably isn't that bad, anymore," Hines commented."Sometime I might go to Mercury, myself—when I get goodand sick of sitting on my tail, here—when I always was a manof action! Mercury does have possibilities—plenty of solarpower, certainly; plenty of frozen atmosphere on the dark face.Interesting, Frank... Oh, hell, I forgot—there's a letter herefor you. And a package. Just arrived... I'll scram, now. Gotto go down to the quays. Hold the fort, here, will you?"

Gimp Hines grinned as he left.

Nelsen was glad to be alone. The lonesomeness of the BigVacuum was getting grimed into him. When he saw the returnname and address on the package, and the two hundred-tendollar postage sticker, he thought, Cripes—that poor kid—whatdid I start? Then the awful wave of nostalgia for Jarviston,Minnesota, hit him, as he fumbled to open the microfilmedletter capsule, and put it in the viewer.

"Hello, Frank—it has to be that, doesn't it, and not Mr.Nelsen, since you've sent me this miraculous bracelet—whichI don't dare wear very much, since I don't want to lose an armto some international—or even interstellar—jewel thief! Itmakes me feel like the Queen of Something—certainly notSerene, since it implies calmness and repose, which I certainlydon't feel—no offense to our Miss Sands, whom I admireenormously. In a very small way I am repaying to you in kind—anitem which I made, myself, and which I know that somespacemen use inside their Archers. You see, we are all informedin details. Paul, Otto, Chippie Potter and his dog, andother characters whom you won't remember, send their bestgreetings. Oh, I've got Stardust fever, too, but I'll yield to myfolks' wishes and wait, and learn a profession that will be ofsome use Out There. May you wear what I'm sending in goodhealth, safety and fortune. Send no more staggering gifts,please—I couldn't stand it—but please do write. Tell me howit really is in the Belt. You simply don't realize how much—"

Nance Codiss' missive rattled along, and the scrawled wordsgot to be like small, happy bells inside Nelsen's skull. Hiscrooked grin came out; he unpacked the sweater—creylonwool, very warm, bright red, a bit crude in workmanship hereand there—but imagine a girl bothering, these days! He donnedthe garment and decided it fit fine.

Then he tried to write a letter:

"Hi, Nance! I've just put it on—first time—beautiful! It'llstay right with me. Thanks. Talk about being staggered..."

p.110

There he bogged down, some, wondering how much shehad changed, wondering just what he ought to say to her, andwho these characters that he wouldn't remember, might be.Cripes, how old was she, now? Seventeen? He ended up takingher at her word. He described Pallastown rather heavy-handedly,and bought some microfilm postcards to go alongwith his missive, as soon as he went out to mail it.

But a few hours later, from deep in space, he looked backat the Town, shining in the distance, and in the blue mood ofthinking about Charlie Reynolds, Mitch Storey, and Two-and-Two,he wondered how much longer it, or Nance, or anythingelse, could last. Then he glanced down at the bright sweater,and chuckled...

Unexpectedly, Ramos remained an active member of KRNHEnterprises for over a year. But the end had to come. "I toldArt I'd let my dough ride, Frank," he said to Nelsen in thelounge of Post One. "I'll only draw enough earnings to buildme a real, deep-space bubb, nuclear-propelled, and with certainextra gadgets. A few guys have tried to follow the unmanned,instrumented rockets, out to the system of Saturn.Nobody got back, yet. I think I know what they figured wrong.The instruments showed—well, skip it... I'm going intoTown to prepare. It'll take quite a while, so I'll have some fun,too."

Ramos' eyes twinkled with a secret triumph—before thefact.

"You don't argue a fighting rooster out of fighting," Nelsenlaughed. "Besides, it wouldn't be Destiny—or any fun—tosucceed. So accept the complimentary comparison—if it fits—whichmaybe it doesn't, you egotistical bonehead. Goodluck—buena suerte, amigo. I'll look you up in Town, if I geta chance..."

Nelsen was always busy to the gills. Progress was so smoothfor another couple of years, that the hunch of Big Troublebuilding up, became a gnawing certainty in his nerves.

Of course there were always the Jolly Lads to watch out for—theextreme individualists, space-twisted and wild. Robbingand murdering could seem easier than digging. Take your lootinto Pallastown—who knew you hadn't grubbed it, yourself?Sell it. Get the stink blown off you—forget some terriblethings that had happened to you. Have yourself a time. StrikeOut again. Repeat...

Nelsen knew that, through the months, he had killed defensivelyat least twice. Once, with a long-range homing bullet—weaponssanctioned by pious and cautious internationalagreement, were more lethal, now, to match the weapons ofthe predatory. Once by splitting a helmet with a rifle barrel.p.111When he was out alone, exploring a new post site on a smallasteroid, a starved Tovie runaway had jumped him. Maybehe should regret the end of that incident.

Trips to Pallastown were increasingly infrequent. But therewas one time when he almost had come specially to see Ramos'new bubb, still under wraps, supposedly. Well—that erraticcharacter had it out on a long test run. Damn him! As usual,time was crowding Nelsen. He had to get back on the job. Hehad just a couple of hours left.

He wrote a letter to Nance Codiss, answering one of hers—funny,he'd never yet tried to contact her vocally. Being busy,being cautious about using a beam—these were good reasons.Now there was hardly enough spare time to reach twice acrossthe light-minutes. Maybe the real truth was that men gotstrangely shy in the silences of the Belt.

"Dear Nance: You seem to be making fine headway in yournew courses. All the good words, for that..."

There were plenty of good words, but he didn't put manyof them down. He didn't know if the impulse to write Darling,was just his own loneliness, which any girl with a kind wordwould have filled. He didn't know her, or that part of himself,very well. He kept remembering her as she had been. Thenhe'd realize that memory wasn't a stable thing to hang onto.Everything changed—how well he had learned that! She wasolder, now, intelligent, and at school again, studying some kindof medical laboratory technology. Certainly she had becomemore sophisticated and elusive—her gay letters were just asuperficial part of what she must be. And certainly there weredates and boyfriends, and all the usual phases of getting outof step with a mere recollection, like himself. Nelsen had someachy emotions. Should he ask for her picture? Should he sendone of himself?

He just scribbled on, ramblingly, as usual. Yep, in a newArcher Seven, you could undo a few clamps, pull a foot upout of a boot, and actually change your socks... Inconsequentialnonsense like that. He ended by telling her not toworry about any knicknacks he might send—that they cameeasy, out here. He microposted the letter, and mailed a squareof soft glass-silk of many colors.

Then he pronounced a few cuss words, laughed at himselffor getting so serious, shrugged, and with the casualness ofhopper with his pockets loaded, moved toward the rec area,which was some distance off.

It was night over this part of rapidly growing Pallastown.Moving along a lighted causeway, he saw the man with theshovel teeth. Glory, had he managed to survive so long? Hismere presence, here, seemed like a signal of the end of peace.p.112Nelsen and Ramos used to practice close-contact tactics atzero-G, in space. So Nelsen didn't even wait for the man tonotice him. He leaped, and sped like an arrow, thudding intothe guy's stomach with both of his boot heels. Shovel Teethwas hurled fifty yards backward, Nelsen hurtling with him allthe way. Unless Nelsen wanted to kill him, there wasn't anymore to do. Partial revenge.

He wasn't worried about anybody except the guy's Jolly Ladhenchmen. There was nobody close by. Now he did a quickfade, sure that nobody had seen who he was, during the entireepisode. No use to call the cops—there were too many uncertaintiesabout the setup in wild, polyglot Pallastown. Nelsenmoved on to the rec area.

He didn't go into a garishly splendid place, named TheSecond Stop. Thus, he didn't see its owner, whose identity hehad already heard about, of course. Not that he wouldn't haveliked to. But there wasn't any time to get involved in a longchat with a woman... Nor did he see the tall, skinny, horse-facedcomic, known only as Igor, go through slapstick acrobaticsthat once would have been impossible...

By a round-about route he proceeded to the catapults,where Gimp Hines was waiting for him. They had been conversingjust a short while ago.

"Did you drop in on Eileen?" Gimp asked right away.

"No. There'll be other occasions," Nelsen laughed. "Someday,if we live, she'll own all the joints in the solar system."

"Uh-huh—I'd bet on it... By the way, there's a grapevineyarn around. Somebody kicked Fanshaw—the Jolly Lad big-shot—inthe belly. You, perhaps?"

"Don't listen to gossip," Nelsen said primly. "Are youserious about going to Mercury?"

"Of course. There are people to take over my office duties.I'll be on my way in a couple of weeks. I think you'd like tocome along, Frank."

Nelsen felt an urge that was like a crying for freedom.

"Sure I would. But I'm bound to the wheel. Cripes, though—watchyourself, fella. Don't you get into a mess!"

"Hell—you're the mess specialist, Frank. Fanshaw isn't herefor fun. And there's been that new trouble at home..."

A Tovie bubb, loaded with people, and a Stateside bubb,both in orbit around the Earth, had collided. No survivors.But there was plenty of blaming and counter-blaming. Anotherdangerous incident. Glory—with all the massed destructivepower there was, could luck really last forever?

Frank Nelsen got back to Post One, okay. But later, ridingin to Post Three, just in an Archer Six, with a couple of guardsp.113for company, he picked up a long-lost voice, falsely sweet,then savage at the end:

"I'm a Jinx, aren't I, Frankie? A vulture. Nice and cavalier,you are. I bet you hoped I was dead. Okay—Sucker...!"

Tiflin didn't even answer when Nelsen tried to beam him.

Nelsen was able to save Post Three. The guards and mostof the personnel were experienced and tough. They drove theJolly Lads back and deflected some chunks of aimed and acceleratedasteroid chips, with new defense rockets.

Joe Kuzak, at Post Seven, wasn't so lucky, though Frankhad tipped him off. Half of the post was scattered and pirated.Six fellas and the wife of one of them—a Bunch from Baltimore—werejust drying shreds that drifted in the wreckage.Big Joe, though he had a rocket chip through his chest, hadbeen able to beat off the attackers, with the help of a few-hoppers and his novice crew which turned out to bemore rugged than some people might have expected.

Frank got to them just as it was over—except for the cursing,the masculine tears of grief and rage, the promises of revenge.Luckily, none of the women had been captured.

Joe Kuzak, full of new antibiotics and coagulants, was stillup and around. "So we knocked off a few of them, Frank," hesaid ruefully in his office bubb. "Several were in Tovie armor.Runaways, or agents? They're crowding us, boy. Hell, whata junk heap this post is going to be, to sort out..."

"Get to it," Nelsen commented.

"You've got something in mind?"

"Uh-huh. Coming in, I heard somebody address somebodyelse as Fan. Fanshaw, that would be. And I kind of rememberedhis voice, as he cracked out orders. He was with thisgroup. I'm going after him."

"Good night...! I'll send some of my crowd along."

"Nope, Joe. They'd spot two or more guys. One, they won'teven believe in. This is a lone-wolf deal. Besides, it's personal...Shucks—I don't even think there's a risk..."

There, he knew he exaggerated—especially as, huddled up toresemble a small asteroid-fragment, he followed the retreatingspecks. His only weapon was a rapid-fire launcher, usingsmall rockets loaded only with chemical explosive. He felt atingle all through him. Scare, all right.

Ahead, as he expected, he saw three stolen bubbs blossomout. There'd be a real pirates' party, like he'd seen, once.They'd have a lookout posted, of course. But the enormityof the Belt made them co*cky. Who could ever really policevery much of it? One other advantage was that Jolly Ladswere untidy. Around the distant bubbs floated a haze of jettisonedp.114refuse. Boxes, wrappings, shreds of stellene. Nelsen hadfigured on that.

Decelerating, he draped a sheet of synthetic cellulose thathe'd brought along, loosely over his armored shape. Then hedrifted unobtrusively close. At a half-mile distance, he peeredthrough the telescope sight of his launcher. The bubbs wereclose together. The lookout floated free. Him, he got first, witha careful, homing shot.

Immediately he fired a burst into each bubb, saw them collapsearound their human contents. The men inside were likecats in limp bags, the exits of which could no longer be found.Calmly he picked the biggest lumps of struggling forms, andfired again and again, until there was no more motion left exceptan even rotation.

He soon located Fanshaw. His unarmored body was bloatedand drying, his mouth gaped, his shovel teeth were exposedto the stars and the distant, naked sun. Nelsen had to thinkback to six dead young men and a girl, to keep from feelinglousy. Had Fanshaw been just another guy invading a regionthat was too big and terrible for humans?

With something like dread, Nelsen looked for Tiflin, too.But, of course, that worthy wasn't around.

Nelsen picked up some space-fitness cards. Quite a few nationswere represented. Joe would have to turn in the cardsto the respective authorities. Noting its drift course, Nelsenleft the wreckage, and hurried back to Post Seven, beforeother Jolly Lads could catch up and avenge their pals.

"Fanshaw's groups will fight it out for a new leader, Joe,"he said. "That should keep them busy, for a while..."

Succeeding months were quieter. But the Tovies had lostno advantage. They had Ceres, the biggest of the asteroids, andtheir colonies were moving in on more and more others thatwere still untouched, closing them, against all agreements, toany competition.

The new Archer Seven which Nelsen presently acquired, hada miniature TV screen set in its collar. Afield, he was able topick up propaganda broadcasts from Ceres. They showedneat, orderly quarters, good food, good facilities, everythingdone by command and plan. He wondered glumly if that wasbetter for men who were pitted against space. The rigid disciplinesheltered them. They didn't have to think in a mediumthat might be too huge for their brains and emotions. Maybeit was more practical than rough-and-tumble individualism.He had a bitter picture of the whole solar system without afree mind in its whole extent—that is, if another giganticblowup didn't happen first...

Nelsen didn't see Ramos' new bubb, nor did he see him leavep.115for Saturn and its moons. The guy had avoided him, and gonesecretive. But over a year later, the news reached Nelsen atPost Eight. A man named Miguel Ramos had got back, moredead than alive, after a successful venture, alone, to the immediatevicinity of the Ringed Planet. His vehicle was riddled.He was in a Pallastown hospital.

Frank Nelsen delegated his duties, and went to see Ramos.The guy seemed hardly more than half-conscious. He had nohands left. His legs were off at the knee. Frostbite. Only thenew antibiotics he had taken along, had kept the gangrenefrom killing him. There was a light safety belt across his bed.But somehow he knew Nelsen. And his achievement seemedlike a mechanical record fixed in his mind.

"Hi, Frank," he whispered hurriedly. "I figured it right. Outthere, near Saturn, clusters of particles of frozen methane gasare floating free like tiny meteors. The instrumented rocketsdidn't run into them, and they were too light to show clearly onradar. But a bubb with a man in it is lots bigger, and can behit and made like a sieve. That's what happened to those whowent first. Their Archers were pierced too. I had mine speciallyarmored, with a heavy helmet and body plating... Theparticles just got my gloves and my legs. Cripes, I got pictures—rightfrom the rim of the Rings! And lots of data..."

Ramos showed the shadow of a reckless grin of triumph.Then he passed out.

Later, Nelsen saw the photographs, and the refrigerated boxwith the clear, plastic sides. Inside it was what looked likedirty, granular snow—frozen water. Which was all it was.Unless the fact that it was also the substance of Saturn's Ringsmade a difference.

Saturn—another of the great, cold, largely gaseous planets,where it would perhaps always be utterly futile for a manto try to land... Ramos, the little Mex who chased the girls.Ramos, the hero, the historical figure, now...

Cursing under his breath, Nelsen wandered vaguely to TheSecond Stop. There, he saw what probably every spacemanhad dreamed of. Lucette of Paris swimming nude in a giganticdewdrop—possible where gravity was almost nil. Musicplayed. Beams of colored light swung majestically, with effects through the great, flattened, shimmering ovoidof water, while Lucette's motions completed a beautifullegend...

Two figures moved past Nelsen in the darkened interior.The first one was tall and lean. Then he saw the profile of alean face with a bent nose, heard a mockingly apologetic"Oh-oh..." and didn't quite realize that this was Tiflin, theharbinger of misfortune, before it was too late to collar him.p.116Nelsen followed as soon as he could push his way from thepacked house. But pursuit was hopeless in the crowded causewayoutside.

A few minutes later, he was in Eileen Sands' apartment.It was not his first visit. Eileen seldom danced or sang, anymore,herself. She was different, now. She wore an eveningdress—soft blue, tasteful. Here, she was the cool, poisedowner, the lady.

"Tiflin hasn't been around here for a long time, Frank," shewas saying. "You know that his buddy entertained for me fora while. I have an interested nature, but Tiflin never gave meanything but wisecracks. There are lots of Tovies around—there'seven a center for runaways. I don't ask questions ofcustomers usually. And technically, all I can require of acomic is talent. This Igor had a certain kind. What is the difficultynow?"

Frank Nelsen looked at Eileen almost wearily for a second."Just that Tiflin is somehow involved with most of the badluck that I've ever had out here," he said, grimly. "And ifPallastown were destroyed, everybody but the Tovies might aswell go home from the Belt. The timing seems to me to beabout right. They'd risk it, feeling we're too scared to strikeback at home. The Jolly Lads—who are international—couldbe encouraged to do the job for them."

Sudden hollows showed in Eileen's cheeks. "What are yougoing to do?" she asked.

"Nothing much for me to do," he answered. "I only happenedto notice, while I was coming in to Pallas, that all theguard stations, extending way out, were quietly very alert. Butis that enough? Well, if they can't cope with an attack, whatgood am I? We're vulnerable, here. I guess we just sit tightand wait."

She smiled faintly. "All right—let's. Sit, relax, converse.Stop being the Important Personage for a while, Frank."

"Look who's talking. Okay—what do you know that's newto tell?"

"A few things. I keep track of most everybody."

He took her slender hand, brown in his angular fist, thatwas pale from his space gloves. "Gimp, first," he said.

"Still on Mercury, with Two-and-Two. Two-and-Two wasa bricklayer, a good beginning for a construction man. Thatseems to be paying off, as colonists move in. Gimp is settingup solar power stations."

"Encouraging information, for once. Here's a hard one—JigHollis. The real intelligent man who stayed home. I've enviedhim for years."

"Hmmm—yes, Frank. Intelligent, maybe—but he neverp.117quite believed it, himself. His wife stayed with him, even afterhe turned real sour and reckless. One night he hit a big oaktree with his car. Now, he is just as dead as if he had crashedinto the sun at fifty miles per second. He couldn't take knowingthat he was scared to do what he wanted."

"Hell!" Nelsen said flatly.

"Now who else should I gossip about?" Eileen questioned."Oh, yes—Harv Diamond, hero of our lost youth, who gotspace fatigue. Well, he recovered and returned to active dutyin the U.S.S.F. Which perhaps leaves me with just my ownlove life to confess." She smiled lightly. "Once there was a kidnamed Frankie Nelsen, who turned out to be a very conscientiousjerk. Since then, there have been scads of rugged, romanticcharacters on all sides... You're going to ask aboutMiguel Ramos."

She paused, looked unhappy and tired. "The celebrity," shesaid. "Mashed up. But he'll recover—this time. I've seen him—senthim flowers, sat beside him. But what do you do with aclown like that? Lock him in the closet or look at him througha telescope? Goodbye—hello—goodbye. A kid with gaudybanners flying, if he lives to be forty—which he never will.They'll be giving him artificial hands and feet, and he'll betrying for Pluto. A friend. I guess I'm proud. That's all. Anythingelse you want to know?"

"Yeah. There was a cute little girl at Serene."

"Jennie Harper. She married one of those singing Moonprospectors. Somebody murdered them both—way out on FarSide."

Frank Nelsen's mouth twisted. "That's enough, pal," hesaid. "I better go do my sitting tight someplace else. Keepyour Archer handy. Thanks, and see you..."

Within forty minutes David Lester was showing him somepictures that a hopper had brought in from a vault in a surface-asteroid.

On the screen, great, mottled shapes moved through a lushforest. Thousands of tiny, flitting bat-like creatures—miniaturepterodactyls of the terrestrial Age of Reptiles—hovered overa swamp, where millions of insects hung like motes in thelight of the low sun. A much larger pterodactyl, far above,glided gracefully over a cliff, and out to sea, its long, beakedhead turning watchfully.

"Hey!" Nelsen said mildly, as his jaded mind responded.

Lester nodded. "They were on Earth, too—as the Martiansmust have been—exploring and taking pictures, during theCretaceous Period. Oh, but there's a perhaps even better sequence!Like the Martians, they had a world-wrecking missile,p.118which they were building in space. Spherical. About six milesin diameter, I calculate. Shall I show you?"

"No... I think I'll toddle over to the offices, Les. Keepwearing those Archers, people. Glad the kid likes to play inhis..."

Nelsen had donned his own Seven, with the helmet fastenedacross his chest by a strap. At the KRNH office, there was aletter, which luckily hadn't been sent out to Post Eight. Thetone was more serious than that of any that Nance Codiss hadsent before.

"Dear Frank: I'm actually coming your way. I'll be stoppingto work at the Survey Station Hospital on Mars for two monthsen route..."

He read that far when he heard the sirens and saw theflashes of defending batteries that were trying to ward off missilesfrom Pallastown. He latched his helmet in place. He washeaded for the underground galleries when the first impactscame. He saw four domes vanish in flashes of fire. Then hedidn't run anymore. He had his small rocket launcher, fromthe office. If they ever came close enough... But of coursethey'd stay thousands of miles off. He got to the nearest fallendome as fast as he could. Everybody had been in armor, butthere were over a hundred dead. Emergency and rescue crewswere operating efficiently.

He glanced around for indications. No explosive, chemicalor nuclear, had yet been used. But there was the old JollyLad trick: Accelerate a chunk of asteroid-material to a speedof several miles per second by grasping it with your glovedhands, while the shoulder-ionic of your armor was at fullpower. Start at a great distance, aim your missile with yourbody, let it go... Impact would be sheer, blasting incandescence.A few hundred chunks of raw metal could finishPallastown... Were these just crazy, wild slobs whooping itup, or real crud provided with a purpose and reward? Eitherway, here was the eternal danger to any Belt settlement.

Nelsen could have tried to reach an escape-exit into openspace, but he helped with the injured while he waited for moreimpacts to come. There was another series of deflecting flashesfrom the defense batteries. Two more domes vanished...Then—somehow—nothing more. Evidently some of the attackershad been only half hearted, this time. Reprieve...

Almost four hundred people were dead. It could have beenthe whole Town. Then spreading disaster. All Nelsen's friendswere okay. The Posts called in—okay, too. Nelsen waited threedays. He wanted to help defend, if the attack was renewed.But now the U.N.S.F. was concentrating in the vicinity. Fora while, things would be quiet, Out Here. Just the same, hep.119felt kind of fed up. He felt as if the end of everything he knewhad crept inevitably a little closer.

He beamed Mars—the Survey Station. He contacted Nance.He had known that she should have arrived already. He wasrelieved. He knew what the region between here and therecould be like when there was trouble.

"It's me—Frank Nelsen—Nance," he said into his helmet-phone,as he stood beyond the outskirts of the Town, on thebarren, glittering surface of Pallas. "I'm still wearing thesweater. Stay where you are. I've never been on Mars, either.But I'll be there, soon..."

His old uncertainties about talking to her evaporated nowthat he was doing it.

"For Pete's sake—Frank!" he heard her laugh happily, stillsounding like the neighbor kid. "Gosh, it's good to hear you!"

He left for Post One, soon after that. Nowadays, it was almosta miniature of the ever more magnificent—if insecure—Pallastown.He kept thinking angrily of Art Kuzak, getting alittle overstuffed, it seemed. The hunkie kid, the ex-footballplayer who had become a big commercial and industrial baronof the Belt. Easy living. Cuties around. And poor twin Joe—justanother stooge...

Nelsen went into the office, his fists clenched overdramatically."I'm taking a leave, Art—maybe a long one," he said.

Art Kuzak stared at him. "You damned, independent bums—you,too, Nelsen!" he began to growl. But when he sawNelsen's jaw harden, he got the point, and grinned, instead."Okay, Frank. Nobody's indispensible. I might do the samewhen you come back—who knows...?"

Frank Nelsen joined a KRNH bubb convoy—Earthbound,but also passing fairly close to Mars—within a few hours.

VII

Frank Nelsen meant the journey to be vagabondescape, an interlude of to hell with it relief from thegrind, and from the increasingly uncertain mainstream of thethings he knew best.

He rode with a long train of bubbs and great sheaves ofsmelted metal rods—tungsten, osmium, uranium 238. Thesheaves had their own propelling ionic motors. He lazed likep.120a tramp. He talked with asteroid-hoppers who meant to spendsome time on Earth. Several had become almost rich. Mosthad strong, quiet faces that showed both distance- and home-hunger.A few had broken, and the angry sensitivity wasvisible.

Nelsen treated himself well. He was relieved of the dutyof eternal vigilance by men whose job it was. So, for a while,his purpose was almost successful.

But the memory—or ghost—of Mitch Storey was neverquite out of his mind. And, as a tiny, at first telescopic crescentwith a rusty light enlarged with lessened distance ahead,the ugly enigma of present-day Mars dug deeper into hisbrain.

Every twenty-four hours and thirty-eight minutes—thelength of the Martian day—whenever the blue-green wedgeof Syrtis Major appeared in the crescent, he beamed the SurveyStation, which was still maintained for the increase ofknowledge, and as a safeguard for incautious adventurers whowill tackle any dangerous mystery or obstacle. His object wasto talk to Nance Codiss.

"I thought perhaps you and your group had gotten restlessand had started out for the Belt already," he laughed duringtheir first conversation.

"Oh, no—a lab technician like me is far too busy here, forone thing," she assured him, her happy tone bridging the distance."We came this far with a well-armed freight caravan,in good passenger quarters. If we went on, I suppose it wouldbe the same... Anyway, for years you didn't worry muchabout me. Why now, Frank?"

"A mystery," he teased in return. "Or perhaps because Iconsidered Earth safe—instinctively."

But he was right in the first place. It was a mystery—somethingto do with the startling news that she was on the way,that closer friendship was pending. The impulse to go meet herhad been his first, almost thoughtless impulse.

He was still glad that she wasn't out between Mars and theBelt, where disaster had once hit him hard. But now he wonderedif the Survey Station was any better for anybody, eventhough it was reputed to be quite secure.

The caravan he rode approached his destination no closerthan ten million miles. Taking cautious note of radar datawhich indicated that space all around was safely empty, hecast off in his Archer with a small, new, professional-type bubbpacked across his hips. Inside his helmet he lighted a cigarette—quitean unusual luxury.

It took a long time to reach Phobos. They gave him shotsthere—new preventative medicine that was partially effectivep.121against the viruses of Mars. Descent in the winged rocket wasrough. But then he was gliding with a sibilant whistle througha natural atmosphere, again. Within minutes he was at theStation—low, dusty domes, many of them deserted, now, atthe edge of the airfield, a lazily-spinning wind , tractors,auto-jeeps, several helicopters.

He stepped down with his gear. Mars was all around him:A few ground-clinging growths nearby—harmless, locallyevolved vegetation. Distant, coppery cliffs reflecting the settingsun. Ancient excavations notched them. Dun desert to the east,with little plumes of dust blowing. Through his Archer—anecessary garment here not only because the atmosphere wasonly one-tenth as dense as Earth-air and poor in oxygen, butbecause of the microscopic dangers it bore—Nelsen couldhear the faint sough of the wind.

The thirty-eight percent of terrestrial gravity actually seemedstrong to him now, and made him awkward, as he turned andlooked west. Perhaps two miles off, past a barbed-wire fenceand what must be an old tractor trail of the hopeful days ofcolonization, he saw the blue-green edge of Syrtis Major, thegreatest of the thickets, with here and there a jutting spur ofit projecting toward him along a gully. Nelsen's hide tingled.But his first glimpse was handicapped by distance. He sawonly an expanse of low shagginess that might have been scrubgrowths of any kind.

Dug into the salt-bearing ground at intervals, he knew, werethe fire weapons ready to throw oxygen and synthetic napalm—jelliedgasoline. Never yet had they been discharged, alongthis defense line. But you could never be sure just what mightbe necessary here.

A man of about thirty had approached. "I meet the new arrivals,"he said. "If you'll come along with me, Mr. Nelsen..."

He was dark, and medium large, and he had a genial way.He looked like a hopper—an asteroid-miner—the tough, level-headedkind that adjusts to space and keeps his balance.

"Name's Ed Huth," he continued, as they walked to the receptiondome. "Canadian. Good, international crowd here—howeverlong you mean to stay. Most interesting frontier inthe solar system, too. Probably you've heard most of the rulesand advice. But here's a paper. Refresh your memory by readingit over as soon as you can. There is one thing which I amrequired to show everybody who comes here. Inside this peekbox. You are instructed to take a good look."

Huth's geniality had vanished.

The metal box was a yard high, and twice as long and wide.It stood, like a memorial, before the reception dome entrance.p.122A light shone beyond the glass-covered slot, as Nelsen bent topeer.

He had seen horror before now. He had seen a pink mistdissolve in the sunshine as a man in armor out in the Belt wash*t by an explosive missile, his blood spraying and boiling.Besides, he had read up on the thickets of Mars, watched motionpictures, heard Gimp Hines' stories of his brief visithere. So, at first, he could be almost casual about what he sawin the peek box. There were many ghastly ways for a man todie.

Even the thicket plant in the box seemed dead, though Nelsenknew that plant successors to the original Martians had therugged power of revival. This one showed the usual paper-drywhorls or leaves, and the usual barrel-body, perhaps commonto arid country growths, everywhere. Scattered over thebarrel, between the spines, were glinting specks—vegetable,light-sensitive cells developed into actual visual organs. Theplant had the usual tympanic pods of its kind—a band ofmuscle-like tissue stretched across a hollow interior—by whichit could make buzzing sounds. Nelsen knew that, like anyEarthly green plant, it produced oxygen, but that, instead ofreleasing it, it stored the gas in spongy compartments withinits horny shell, using it to support an animal-like tissue combustionto keep its vitals from freezing during the bitterlyfrigid nights.

Nelsen also knew that deeper within the thing was a networkof whitish pulp, expanded at intervals to form littleknobs. Sectioned, under a microscope, they would look likefibred masses of animal or human nerve and brain cells, exceptthat, chemically, they were starch and cellulose ratherthan protein.

Worst to see was the rigid clutch of monster's tactile organs,which grew from the barrel's crown. It was like a powerfulman struggling to uproot a rock, or a bear or an octopuscrushing an enemy. It was dark-hole drama, like somethingfrom another galaxy. Like some horribly effective piece ofsculpture, the tableau in the box preserved the last gasp of anincautious youth in armor.

The tendrils of the thicket plant were furred with erectspines of a shiny, russet color. They were so fine that theylooked almost soft. But Nelsen was aware that they weresharper than the hypodermic needles they resembled—in anotherapproach to science. Now, Nelsen felt the tingling revulsionand hatred.

"Of course you know that you don't have to get caught likethat poor bloke did," Huth said dryly. "Just not to disinfectthe outside of your Archer well enough and then leave it nearp.123you, indoors, is sufficient. I was here before there was anytrouble. When it came, it was a shambles..."

Huth eyed Nelsen for a moment, then continued on anothertack. "Biology... Given the whole universe to experimentin, I suppose you can never know what it will come upwith—or what is possible. These devils—you get to hate themin your sleep. If their flesh—or their methods—were somethinglike ours, as was the case with the original Martians orthe people of the Asteroid Planet, it wouldn't seem so bad.Still, they make you wonder: What would you do, if, in yourown way, you could think and observe, but were rooted to theground; if you were denied the animal ability of rapid motion,if you didn't have hands with which to fashion tools or buildapparatus, if fire was something you could scarcely use?..."

Nelsen smiled. "I am wondering," he said. "I promise to doa lot more of it as soon as I get squared away. I could inflatemy bubb, and sleep in the yard in it, if I had to. Then, asusual, off the Earth, you'll expect me to earn my breathing airand keep, after a couple of days, whether I can pay instead ornot. That's fine with me, of course. There's another matterwhich I'd like to discuss, but that can be later."

"No sleeping out," Huth laughed. "That's just where peopleget careless. There are plenty of quarters available sincethe retreat of settlers almost emptied this world of terrestrial intrusion—exceptfor us here and the die-hard desert rats, andthe new, screwball adventurers... By the way, if it ever becomesimportant, the deserts are safe—at least from what youjust saw—as you probably know..."

Nelsen passed through an airlock, where live steam and aspecial silicone oil accomplished the all-important disinfectionof his Archer, his bubb, and the outside of his small, sealedbaggage roll. Armor and bubb he left racked with rows ofothers.

It wasn't till he got into the reception dome lounge that hesaw Nance Codiss. She didn't rush at him. Reserve had droppedover them both again as if in reconsideration of a contact madeimportant too suddenly. He clasped her fingers, then just stoodlooking at her. Lately, they had exchanged a few pictures.

"Your photographs don't lie, Nance," he said at last.

"Yours do, Frank," she answered with complete poise. "Youlook a lot less grim and tired."

"Wait," he told her. "I'll be right back..."

He went with Ed Huth to ditch his roll in his sleepingcubicle, get cleaned up and change his clothes.

She was beautiful, she had grave moods, she was wearing hisfabulous bracelet—if only not to offend him. But when he returned,he met two of the girls who had come out to Mars withp.124her—a nurse and another lab technician. They were the bubblytype, full of bravado and giggles for their strange, new surroundings.For a moment he felt far too old at twenty-fourfor Nance's twenty. He wondered regretfully if her being herewas no more than part of his excuse for getting away from theBelt and from the sense of ultimate human disaster buildingup.

But much of his feeling of separation from her disappearedas they sat alone in the lounge, talking—first about Jarviston,then about here. Nance had available information about thethickets pretty well down pat.

"You can't keep those plants alive here at the Station,Frank," she said quietly. "They make study difficult by dying.It's as if they knew that they couldn't win here. So they retreat—tokeep their secrets. But Dr. Pacetti, our head of MedicalResearch, says that we can never know that they won't find away to attack us directly. That's what the waiting napalm lineis for. I don't think he is exaggerating."

"Why do you say that?" Nelsen asked.

He was encouraging her, of course. But he wasn't beingpatronizing. Frost tingled in his nerves. He wanted to knowher version.

"I'll show you the little museum we have," she replied, hereyes widening slightly. "This is probably old hat to you—butit's weird—it gives you the creeps..."

He followed her along a covered causeway to another dome.In a gallery there, a series of dry specimens were set up, insidesealed boxes made of clear plastic.

The first display was centered around a tapered brass tube—perhapsone of the barrels of an antique pair of fieldglasses.Wrapping it was a spiny brown tendril from which grew twosucker-like organs, shaped like acorn tops. One was firmly attachedto the metal. The other had been pulled free, its originalposition on the barrel marked by a circular area of corrosion.The face of the detached sucker was also shown—a honeycombstructure of waxy vegetable tissue, detailed with thousandsof tiny ducts and hairlike feelers.

"Some settler dropped the piece of brass out on a trail inSyrtis Major," Nance explained. "Later, it was found like this.Brass is something that people have almost stopped using. So,it was new to them. They wouldn't have been interested inmagnesium, aluminum, or stainless steel anymore. The suckersaren't a usual part of them either. But the suckers grow—fora special purpose, Dr. Pacetti believes. A test—perhaps ananalysis. They an acid, to dissolve a little of the metal.It's like a human chemist working. Only, perhaps, better—moredirectly—with specialized feelers and sensing organs."

p.125

Nance's quiet voice had a slight, awed quaver at the end.

Frank Nelsen nodded. He had examined printed picturesand data before this. But here the impact was far more realand immediate; the impact of strange minds with an approachof their own was more emphatic.

"What else?" he urged.

They stood before another sealed case containing a horny,oval pod, cut open. It had closed around a lump of greenishstone.

"Malachite," Nance breathed. "One kind of copper ore.They reduced it, extracted some of the pure metal. See all thelittle reddish specks shining? It is pretty well established thatthe process is something like electroplating. There's a dissolvingacid—then a weak electric current—from a kind of battery... Oh,nobody should laugh, Frank—Dr. Pacetti keepspointing out that there are electric eels on Earth, with specializedmuscle-tissue that acts as an electric cell... But thisis somewhat different. Don't ask me exactly how it functions—Ionly heard our orientation lecture, while we toured thismuseum. But see those small compartments in the thick shellsof the pod—with the membranes separating them? All of themcontained fluids—some acid, others alkaline. Mixed in with thecellulose of the membranes, you can see both silvery and reddishspecks—as if they had to incorporate both a conductorand a difference of metals to get a current. At least, that waswhat was suggested in the lecture..."

Frank Nelsen and Nance Codiss moved on from displaycase to display case, each of which showed another kind ofpod cut in half. The interiors were all different and all complicated...Membranes with a faint, metallic sheen—laminatedor separated by narrow air spaces as in a capacitor, forinstance... Balls of massed fibre, glinting... Curious, spiralformations of waxy tissue...

"They use electricity as a minor kind of defense," Nancewent on, her tone still low with suppressed excitement that wasclose to dread. "We know that some of them can give you ashock—if you're fool enough to get so close that you cantouch them. And they do emit radio impulses on certain wavelengths.Signals—communication...? As for the rest, perhapsyou'd better do your own guessing, Frank. But thedifference between us and them seems to be that we make ourapparatus. They grow them, build them—with their own livingtissue cells—in a way that must be under their constant, precisecontrol. I suppose they even work from a carefullythought-out design—a kind of cryptic blueprint... Go alongwith the idea—or not—as you choose. But our experts suspectthat much of what we have here represents research apparatus—physical,p.126chemical, electrical. That they may get closer tounderstanding the ultimate structure of matter than we can,because their equipment is part of themselves, in which theycan develop senses that we don't possess... Well, I'll skipany more of that. Because the best—or the worst—is stillcoming. Right here, Frank..."

The case showed several small, urn-like growths, sectionedlike the other specimens.

Frank Nelsen grinned slightly. "All right—let me tell it,"he said. "Because this is something I really paid attention to!Like you imply, their equipment is alive. So they work bestwith life—viruses, germs, vegetable-allergy substances. Theseare their inventing, developing and brewing bottles—for thenumerous strains of Syrtis Fever virus. The living moleculechains split off from the inner tissue walls of the bottles, andgrow and multiply in the free fluid. At least, that's how I readit."

"And that is where my lab job begins, Frank," she told him."Helping develop anti-virus shots—testing them on bits of humantissue, growing in a culture bath. An even partially effectiveanti-virus isn't found easily. And when it is, another virusstrain will soon appear, and the doctors have to start over...Oh, the need isn't as great, any more, as when the Great Rushaway from Mars was on. There are only half a dozen reallysick people in the hospital now. Late comers and snoopers whogot careless or curious. You've got to remember that the virusblows off the thickets like invisible vapor. There's one guyfrom Idaho—Jimmy—James Scanlon. Come along. I'll showyou, Frank..."

He lay behind plastic glass, in a small cubicle. A red rash,with the pattern of frostwork on a Minnesota windowpane inJanuary, was across his lean, handsome face. Maybe he wastwenty—Nance's age. His bloodshot eyes stared at terrors thatno one else could see.

Nance called softly through the thin infection barrier."Jimmy!"

He moaned a little. "Francy..."

"High fever, Frank," Nance whispered. "Typical Syrtis. Hewants to be home—with his girl. I guess you know that nostalgia—yearningterribly for old, familiar surroundings—is amajor symptom. It's like a command from them—to get outof Mars. The red rash is something extra he picked up. Anallergy... Oh, we think he'll survive. Half of them now do.He's big and strong. Right now, even the nurses don't go inthere, except in costumes that are as infection-tight as armor.Later on, when the fever dwindles to chronic intermittence, itwill no longer be contagious. Even so, the new laws on Earthp.127won't let him return there for a year. I don't know whethersuch laws are fair or not. We've got a hundred here, who weresick, and are now stranded and waiting, working at small jobs.Others have gone to the Belt—which seems terrible for someonenot quite well. I hope that Jimmy bears up all right—he'ssuch a kid... Let's get out of here..."

Her expression was gently maternal. Or maybe it was somethingmore?

Back in the lounge, she asked, "What will you do here,Frank?"

"Whatever it is, there is one thing I want to include," heanswered. "I want to try to find out just what happened toMitch Storey."

"Natch. I remember him. So I looked the incident up. Hedisappeared, deep in Syrtis Major, over three years ago. Hehad carried a sick settler in—on foot. He always seemed luckyor careful, or smart. After he got lost, his wife—a nurse fromhere whose name had been Selma Washington—went lookingfor him. She never was found either."

"Oh?" Nelsen said in mild startlement.

"Yes... Talk to Ed Huth. There still are helicopter patrols—watchingfor signs of a long list of missing people, and keepingtabs on late comers who might turn out to be screwballs.You look as though you might be Ed's type for that kind ofwork... I'll have to go, now, Frank. Duty in half an hour..."

Huth was grinning at him a little later. "This departmentdoesn't like men who have a vanished friend, Nelsen," he said."It makes their approach too heroically personal. On the otherhand, some of our lads seem underzealous, nowadays... Ifyou can live up to your successful record in the Belt, maybeyou're the right balance. Let's try you."

For a week, about all Nelsen did was ride along with Huthin the heli. At intervals, he'd call, "Mitch... Mitch Storey...!"into his helmet-phone. But, of course, that was no use.

He couldn't say that he didn't see Mars—from a safe altitudeof two thousand feet: The vast, empty deserts where,fairly safe from the present dominant form of Martian life,a few adventurers and archeologists still rummaged amongthe rust heaps of climate control and other machines, andamong the blasted debris of glazed ceramic cities—still faintlytainted with radioactivity—where the original inhabitants haddied. The straight ribbons of thicket growths, crossing eventhe deserts, carrying in their joined, hollow roots the irrigationwater of the otherwise mythical "canals." The huge south polarcap of hoarfrost melting, blackening the soil with brief moisture,while the frost line retreated toward the highlands. Syrtis,itself, where the trails, once burned out with oxygen andp.128gasoline-jelly to permit the passage of vehicles, had againbecome completely overgrown—who could hope to stampout that devilishly hardy vegetation, propagating by means ofmillions of windblown spores, with mere fire? The broken-downtrains of tractors and trailers, now almost hidden. Thestellene garden domes that had flattened. Here were the relicsleft by people who had sought to spread out to safety, to findold goals of freedom from fear.

Several times in Syrtis, Huth and Nelsen descended, usinga barren hillock or an isolated spot of desert as a landing area.That was when Nelsen first heard the buzzing of the growths.

Twice, working warily with machetes, and holding theirflame weapons ready, they chopped armored mummies fromenwrapping tendrils, while little eye cells glinted at thembalefully, and other tendrils bent slowly toward them. Theysearched out the space-fitness cards, which bore old dates,and addresses of next of kin.

In a few more days, Nelsen was flying the 'copter. Then hewas out on his own, watching, searching. For a couple ofweeks he hangared the heli at once, after each patrol, andNance always was there to meet him as he did so.

Inevitably the evening came when he said, "We could flyout again, Nance. For an hour or two. It doesn't break anyrules."

Those evening rides, high over Syrtis Major, toward thesetting sun, became an every other day custom, harmless initself. A carefully kept nuclear-battery motor didn't conk;the vehicle could almost fly without guidance. It was good tolook down at the blue-green shagginess, below... Familiaritybred, not contempt, but a decline of dread to the point whereit became a pleasant thrill—an overtone to the process offalling in love. Otherwise, perhaps they led each other on,into incaution. Out in the lonely fastnesses of Mars theyseemed to find the sort of peace and separation from dangeron the hectic Earth that the settlers had sought here.

"We always pass over that same hill," Nance said duringone of their flights. "It must have been a beautiful little islandin the ancient ocean, when there was that much water. Nowit belongs to us, Frank."

"It's barren—we could land," Nelsen suggested quickly.

They visited the hill a dozen times safely, breaking noprinted rule. But maybe they shouldn't have come so oftento that same place. In life there is always a risk—which isfood for a fierce soul. Frank Nelsen and Nance Codiss werefierce souls.

They'd stand by the heli and look out over Syrtis, theirgloved fingers entwined. If they couldn't kiss, here, throughp.129their helmets, that was merely comic pathos—another thingto laugh and be happy over.

"Our wind-blown hill," Nance chuckled on that last evening."Looking down over a culture, a history—maybe arguments,lawsuits, jokes, parties; gossip too, for all we know—disguisedas a huge briar patch that makes funny noises."

"Shut up—I love you," Nelsen gruffed.

"Shut up yourself—it's you I love," she answered.

The little sun was half sunk behind the Horizon. The 'copterwas only a hundred feet away, along the hillcrest. That waswhen it happened. Two dull, plopping sounds came almosttogether.

If a thinking animal can use the pressure of a confined gasto propel small missiles, is there any reason why other intelligencescan't do the same? From two bottle-like pods theclusters of darts—or long, sharp thorns—were shot. Only afew of them struck their targets. Fewer, still, found puncturableareas and struck through silicone rubber and fine steelwirecloth into flesh. Penetration was not deep, but deep enough.

Nance screamed. Nelsen wasn't at all sure that he didn'tscream himself as the first anguish dizzied and half blindedhim.

From the start it was really too late. Nelsen was as hardyand determined as any. He tried to get Nance to the 'copter.Less than halfway, she crumpled. With a savage effort of willhe managed to drag her a few yards, before his legs refusedto obey him, or support him.

His blood carried a virus to his brain about as quickly as itwould have carried a cobra's venom. They probably could havemade such protein-poisons, too; but they had never used themagainst men, no doubt because something that could spreadand infect others was better.

For a while, as the black, starshot night closed in, Nelsenknew, or remembered, nothing at all—unless the mental distortionswere too horrible. Then he seemed to be in a pit ofstinking, viscous fluid, alive with stringy unknowns that wereboring into him... Unreachable in another universe was atown called Jarviston. He yelled till his wind was gone.

He had a half-lucid moment in which he knew it was night,and understood that he had a raging fever. He was still clingingto Nance, who clung to him. So instinct still worked. He sawthat they had blundered—its black bulk was visible againstthe stars. Phobos hadn't risen; Deimos, the farther moon, wastoo small to furnish appreciable light.

Something touched him from behind, and he recoiled, pushingNance back. He yanked the machete from his belt, andstruck blindly... Oh, no!—you didn't get caught like this—notp.130usually, he told himself. Not in their actual grip! Theywere too slow—you could always dodge! It was only when youwere near something not properly disinfected that you gotSyrtis Fever, which was the worst that could happen—wasn'tit...?

He heard an excited rhythm in the buzzing. Now he rememberedhis shoulder-lamp, fumbled to switch it on, failed, andstumbled a few steps with Nance toward the hill. Somethingcaught his feet—then hers. Trying to get her free, he droppedhis machete...

Huth's voice spoke in his helmet-phone. "We hear you,Nelsen! Hold out... We'll be there in forty minutes..."

Yeah—forty minutes.

"It's—it's silly to be so scared, Frankie..." he heard Nancestammer almost apologetically. Dear Nance...

Screaming, he kicked out again and again with his heavyboots, and got both her and himself loose.

It wasn't any good. A shape loomed near them. A thingthat must have sprung from them—someway. A huge, zombieform—the ugliest part of this night of anguish and distortion.But he was sure that it was real.

The thing struck him in the stomach. Then there was a bitingpain in his shoulder...

There wasn't any more, just then. But this wasn't quite theend, either. The jangled impressions were like split threads ofconsciousness, misery-wracked and tenuous. They were widelyseparated. His brain seemed to crack into a million needle-pointedshards, that made no sense except to indicate thepassage of time. A month? A century...?

It seemed that he was always struggling impossibly to gethimself and Nance somewhere—out of hot, noisesome holesof suffocation, across deserts, up endless walls, and pastbuzzing sounds that were mixed incongruously with strangeharmonica music that seemed to express all time and space...He could never succeed though the need was desperate. Butsometimes there was a coolness answering his thirst, or rubbedinto his burning skin, and he would seem to sleep... Often,voices told him things, but he always forgot...

It wasn't true that he came out of the hot fog suddenly, butit seemed that he did. He was sitting in dappled sunshine in anordinary lawn chair of tubular magnesium with a back andbottom of gaudy fabric. Above him was a narrow, sealed roofof stellene. The stone walls showed the beady fossils of prehistoricMars. More than probably, these chambers had beencut in the living rock, by the ancients.

Reclining in another lawn chair beside his was Nance, hereyes closed, her face thin and pale. He was frightened—untilp.131he remembered, somehow, that she was nearly as well as hewas. Beyond her was a doorway, leading into what seemeda small, modern kitchen. There was a passage to a small, neatgarden, where Earthly vegetables and flowers grew. It wasceiled with stellene; its walls were solid rock. Looking upthrough the transparent roof above him, he saw how a thinmesh of fuzzy tendrils and whorls masked this strangeShangri-la.

Nelsen closed his eyes, and thought back. Now he rememberedmost of what he had been told. "Mitch!" he calledquietly, so as not to awaken Nance. "Hey, Mitch...!Selma...!"

Mitch Storey was there in a moment—dressed in dungareesand work shirt like he used to be, but taller, even leaner, andunsmiling.

Nelsen got up. "Thanks, Mitch," he said.

Their voices stayed low and intense.

"For nothing, Frank. I'm damned glad to see you, but youstill shouldn't have come nosing. 'Cause—I told you why.Looking for you, Huth burned out more than five square miles.And if folks get too smart and too curious, it won't be anygood for what's here..."

Nelsen felt angry and exasperated. But he had a hauntingthought about a lanky colored kid in Jarviston, Minnesota. Aguy with a dream—or perhaps a prescient glimpse of his ownfuture.

"What's a pal supposed to do?" he growled. "For a helluvalong time you've answered nobody—though everyone in theBunch must have tried beaming you."

"Sure, Frank... Blame, from me, would be way out of line.I heard you guys lots of times. But it was best to get lost—maybehelp keep the thickets like they are for as long aspossible... A while back, I began picking up your voice inmy phones again. I figured you were heading for trouble whenyou kept coming with your girl to that same hill. So I wasaround, like I told you before... Sorry I had to hit you andgive you the needle, but you were nuts—gone with Syrtis.Getting you back here, without Huth spotting the old heliI picked up once at a deserted settlers' camp was real toughgoing. I had to land, hide it and wait, four or five times. Andyou were both plenty sick. But there are a few medical gimmicksI learned from the thickets—better than those at theStation."

"You've done all right for yourself here, haven't you,Mitch?" Nelsen remarked with a dash of mockery. "All themodern conveniences—in the middle of the forbidden wilds ofSyrtis Major."

p.132

"Sure, Frank—'cause maybe I'm selfish. Though it's juststuff the settlers left behind. Anyway, it wasn't so good atthe start. I was careful, but I got the fever, too. Light. ThenI fell—broke my leg—out there. I thought sure I was finishedwhen they got hold of me. But I just lay there, playing on mymouth organ—an old hymn—inside my helmet. Maybe it wasthe music—they must have felt the radio impulses of mytooting before. Or else they knew, somehow, that I was ontheir side—that I figured they were too important just to disappearand that I meant to do anything I could, short of killing,to keep them all right... Nope, I wouldn't say that theywere so friendly, but they might have thought I'd be useful—aguinea-pig to study and otherwise. For all I know, examiningmy body may have helped them improve their weapons...Anyhow—you won't believe this—'cause it's sort of fantastic—butyou know they work best with living tissue. They fixedthat leg, bound it tight with tendrils, went through the steelcloth of my Archer with hollow thorns. The bone knit almostcompletely in four days. And the fever broke. Then they letme go. Selma was already out looking for me. When I foundher, she had the fever, too. But I guess we're immune now."

Storey's quiet voice died away.

"What are you going to do, Mitch? Just stay here for good?"

"What else—if I can This is better than anything I remember.Peaceful, too. If they study me, I study them—not likea real scientist—but by just having them close around. I evengot to know some of their buzzing talk. Maybe I'll have to betheir ambassador to human folks, sometime. They are fromthe planets of the stars, Frank. Sirius, I think. Tough littlespores can be ejected from one atmosphere, and drift in spacefor millions of years... They arrived after the first Martianswere extinct. Now that you're here, Frank, I wish you'd stay.But that's no good. Somebody lost always makes people pokearound."

Nelsen might have argued a few points. But for one thing,he felt too tired. "I'll buy it all, your way, Mitch," he said."I hope Nance and I can get out of here in a couple moredays. Maybe I shouldn't have run out on the Belt. Can't run—thoughtsfollow you. But now—dammit—I want to go home!"

"That's regular, Frank. 'Cause you've got Syrtis. Chronic,now—intermittent. But it'll fade. Same with your girl. Meanwhile,they won't let you go Earthside, but you'll be okay. I'llfly you out, close enough to the Station to get back, any morningbefore daylight, that you pick... Only, you won't tell,will you, Frank?"

"No—I promise—if you think secrecy makes any difference.p.133Otherwise—thanks for everything... By the way—do youever listen in on outside news?"

"Enough. Still quiet... And a fella named Miguel Ramos—withnerve-controlled clamps for hands—got a new, specialbubb and took off for Pluto."

"No! Damn fool... Almost as loony as you are, Mitch."

"Less... Wake up, Nance. Dinner... Chicken—raisedright here..."

That same afternoon, Frank Nelsen and Nance Codiss satin the garden. "If I blur, just hold me tight, Frankie," she said."Everything is still too strange to quite get a grip on—yet...But I'm not going home, Frank—not even when it is allowed.I set out—I'm sticking—I'm not turning tail. It's what peoplehave got to do—in space more than ever..."

Even when the seizure of fever came, and the sweat gatheredon her lips, and her eyes went wild, she gritted her teeth andjust clung to him. She had spunk—admirable, if perhapsdestructive. "Love yuh," Frank kept saying. "Love yuh,Sweetie..."

Two days later, before the frigid dawn, they saw the last ofMitch Storey and his slender, beautiful wife with her challengingbrown eyes.

"Be careful that you do right for Mitch and—these folks,"she warned almost commandingly as the old heli landed in thedesert a few miles from the Station. "What would you do—ifoutsiders came blundering into your world by the hundreds,making trails, killing you with fire? At first, they didn't evenfight back."

The question was ancient but valid. In spite of his experiences,Nelsen agreed with the logic and the justice. "We'llmake up a story, Selma," he said solemnly.

Mitch looked anxious. "Human people will find a way,won't they, Frank?" he asked. "To win, to come to Mars andlive, I mean—to change everything. Sure—some will be sympathetic.But when there's practical pressure—need—danger—economics...?"

"I don't know, Mitch," Nelsen answered in the same toneas before. "Your thickets do have a pretty good defense."

But in his heart he suspected that fierce human persistencecouldn't be stopped—as long as there were humans left. Mitchand his star folk couldn't withdraw from the mainstream ofcompetition—inherent in life—that was spreading again acrossthe solar system. They could only stand their ground, taketheir fearful chances, be part of it.

One of the last things Mitch said, was, "Got any cigarettes,Frank? Selma likes one, once in a while."

p.134

"Sure. Three packs here inside my Archer. Mighty smallhospitality gift, Mitch..."

After the 'copter drifted away, it seemed that a curtain drewover Nelsen's mind, blurring the whole memory. It was asthough they had planned that. It was almost as though Mitch,and Selma, as he had just seen them, were just another mind-fantasyof the Heebie-Jeebie Planet, created by its presentmasters.

"Should we believe it?" Nance whispered.

"My cigarettes are gone," Frank told her.

At the Survey Station they got weary looks from Ed Huth."I guess I picked a wrong man, Nelsen," he said.

"It looks as though you did, Ed," Frank replied. "I'm reallysorry."

They got worse hell from a little doctor from Italy, whosename was Padetti. They were asked a lot of questions. Theyfibbed some, but not entirely.

"We sort of blanked out, Doctor," Nance told him. "I supposewe spent most of our time in the desert, living in ourArchers. There were the usual distorted hallucinations ofSyrtis Fever. A new strain, I suspect... Four months gone?Oh, no...!"

She must have had a time evading his questions for the nextmonth, while she worked, again, in the lab. Maybe he diddivine half of the truth, at last. Maybe he even was sympathetictoward the thickets that he was trying to defeat.

Nelsen wasn't allowed to touch another helicopter. Duringthat month, between brief but violent seizures of the fever,he was employed as a maintenance mechanic.

Then the news came. There had been an emergency callfrom Pallastown. Rescue units were to be organized, androcketed out in high-velocity U.N.S.F. and U.S.S.F bubbs.There had been sabotage, violence. The Town was three-quartersgone, above the surface. Planned attack or—almostworse—merely the senseless result of space-poisoned menkicking off the lid in a spree of hell-raising humor and fun?

Nelsen was bitter. But he also felt the primitive excitement—almostan eagerness. That was the savage paradox in life.

"You still have the dregs of Syrtis Fever," a recruitingphysician told him. "But you know the Belt. That makes abig difference... All right—you're going..."

Nance Codiss didn't have that experience. Her lab backgroundwasn't enough. So she was stuck, on Mars.

Nelsen had been pestering her to marry him. Now, in acorner of the crowded lounge, he tried again.

She shook her head. "You'd still have to leave me, Frank,"she told him. "Because that's the way strong people have top.135be—when there's trouble to be met. Let's wait. Let's know alittle better where we're at—please, darling. I'll be all right.Contact me when you can..."

Her tone was low and tender and unsteady. He hugged herclose.

Soon, he was aboard a GO-rocket, shooting up to Phobosto join the assembling rescue team. He wondered if this wasthe beginning of the end...

VIII

Frank Nelsen missed the first shambles at Pallastown,of course, since even at high speed, the rescue unitwith which he came did not arrive until days after the catastrophe.

There had been hardly any warning, since the first attackhad sprung from the sub-levels of the city itself.

A huge tank of liquid oxygen, and another tank of inflammablesynthetic hydrocarbons to be used in the manufactureof plastics, had been simultaneously ruptured by chargesof explosive, together with the heavy, safety partition betweenthem. The resulting blast and fountain of fire had jolted eventhe millions of tons of Pallas' mass several miles from its usualorbit.

The sack of the town had begun at once, from within, evenbefore chunks of asteroid material, man-accelerated and—aimed,had begun to splatter blossoms of incandescence intothe confusion of deflating domes and dying inhabitants. Othervandal bands had soon landed from space.

The first hours of trying to regain any sort of order, duringthe assault and after it was finally beaten off, must have beenheroic effort almost beyond conception. Local disaster units,helped by hoppers and citizens, had done their best. Thenmany had turned to pursuit and revenge.

After Nelsen's arrival, his memory of the interval of acuteemergency could have been broken down into a series of pictures,in which he was often active.

First, the wreckage, which he helped to pick up, like anyof the others. Pallastown had been like froth on a stone, acastle on a floating, golden crag. It had been a flimsy, hastily-builtmushroom city, with a beautiful, tawdry splendor thatp.136had seemed out of place, a target shining for thousands ofmiles.

Haw, haw...! Nelsen could almost hear the coarse laughterof the Jolly Lads, as they broke it up, robbed it, raped it—becausethey both sneered at its effeteness, and missed what itrepresented to them... Nelsen remembered very well how aman's attitudes could be warped while he struggled for meresurvival in an Archer drifting in space.

Yet even as he worked with the others, to put up temporarydomes and to gather the bloated dead, the hatred arose in him,and was strengthened by the fury and grief in the grim, strongfaces around him. To exist where it was, Pallastown could notbe as soft as it seemed. And to the hoppers—the rugged, level-headedones who deserved the name—it had meant much,though they had visited it for only a few days of fun, now andthen.

The Jolly Lads had been routed. Some must have fledchuckling and cursing almost sheepishly, like infants the magnitudeof whose mischief has surpassed their intention, and hasawed and frightened them, at last. They had been followed,even before the various late-coming space forces could getinto action.

Nelsen overheard words that helped complete the pictures:

"I'll get them... They had my wife..."

"This was planned—you know where..."

It was planned, all right. But if Ceres, the Tovie colony,had actually been the instigator, there was evidence that thescheme had gotten out of hand. The excitement of destructionhad spread. Stories came back that Ceres had been attacked,too.

"I killed a man, Frank—with this pre-Asteroidal knife. Hewas after Helen and my son..."

This was timid David Lester talking, awed at himself, proud,but curiously ashamed. This made another picture. By luckthe Lesters lived in the small above-the-surface portion ofPallastown that had not been seriously damaged.

Frank Nelsen also killed, during a trip to Post One of theKRNH Enterprises, to get more stellene and other materials toexpand the temporary encampments for the survivors. Hekilled two fleeing men coldly and at a distance, because theydid not answer his hail. The shreds of their bodies and the lootthey had been carrying were scattered to drift in the vacuum,adding another picture of retribution to thousands like it.

Belt Parnay was the name of the leader whom everybodyreally wanted to get. Belt Parnay—another Fessler, anotherFanshaw. That was a curious thing. There was another nameand face; but as far as could be told, the personality was veryp.137similar. It was as if, out of the darker side of human nature, akind of reincarnation would always take place.

They didn't get Parnay. Inevitably, considering the enormityof space, many of the despoilers of Pallastown escaped. Theshrewdest, the most experienced, the most willing to shout andlead and let others do the dangerous work, had the advantage.For they also knew how to run and hide and be prudentlyquiet. Parnay was one of these.

Some captives were recovered. Others were found, murdered.Fortunately, Pallastown was still largely a man's city.But pursuit and revenge still went on...

Post One was intact. Art Kuzak had surrounded it with acordon of tough and angry -hoppers. It was the samewith the other posts, except Five and Nine, which were wipedout.

"Back at last, eh, Nelsen?" Art roared angrily, as soon asFrank had entered his office.

"A fact we should accept, not discuss," Nelsen respondeddryly. "You know the things we need."

"Um-hmm—Nelsen. To rescue and restore Pallastown—whenit's pure nonsense, only inviting another assault! Whenwe know that dispersal is the only answer. The way things are,everywhere, the whole damned human race needs to be dispersed—ifsome of it is to survive!"

It made another picture—Art Kuzak, the old friend, gonesomewhat too big for his oversized britches, perhaps... Nodoubt Art had had to put aside some grandiose visions, consideringthe turn that events had taken: Whole asteroidsmoved across the distance, and put into orbit around theEarth, so that their mineral wealth could be extracted moreconveniently. Space resorts established for tourists; new sportsmade possible by zero-gravity, invented and . ArtKuzak had the gift of both big dreaming and of practice. He'dtalked of such things, before.

Nelsen's smirk was wry. "Dispersal for survival. I agree,"he said. "When they tried to settle Mars, it was being mentioned.Also, long before that. Your wisdom is not new, Art.It wasn't followed perhaps because people are herding animalsby instinct. Anyhow, our side has to hold what it hasreally got—one-fourth of Pallastown above the surface, andconsiderably more underground, including shops, installations,and seventy per cent of its skilled inhabitants, determined tostay in the Belt after the others were killed or wounded, or ranaway. Unless you've quit claiming to be a practical man, Art,you'll have to go along with helping them. You know whatkind of materials and equipment are needed, and how muchwe can supply, better than I do. Or do I have to withdraw myp.138fraction of the company in goods? We'll take up the dispersalproblem as soon as possible."

Art Kuzak could only sigh heavily, grin a lopsided grin, andproduce. Soon a great caravan of stuff was on the move.

There was another picture: Eileen Sands, the old Queen ofSerene in a not-yet-forgotten song, sitting on a lump of yellowalloy splashed up from the surface of Pallas, where a chunk ofmixed metal and stone had struck at a speed of several milesper second, fusing the native alloy and destroying her splendidSecond Stop utterly in a flash of incandescence. Back in Archer,she looked almost as she used to look at Hendricks'. Hersmile was rueful.

"Shucks, I'm all right, Frank," she said. "Even if Insurance,with so many disaster-claims, can't pay me—which theyprobably still can. The boys'll keep needing entertainment, ifit's only in a stellene space tent. They won't let me just sit...For two bits, though, I'd move into a nice, safe orbit, out ofthe Belt and on the other side of the sun from the Earth, andbuild myself a retreat and retire. I'd become a spacewoman,like I wanted to, in the first place."

"I'll bet," Nelsen joshed. "Otherwise, what have you heardand seen? There's a certain fella..."

Right away, she thought he meant Ramos. "The damfool—whyask me, Frank?" she sniffed, her expression sour and sad."How long has he been gone again, now? As usual he wasproposing—for the first few days after he set out. After that,there were a few chirps of messages. Then practically nothing.Anyway, how long does it take to get way out to Pluto andback, even if a whole man can have the luck to make it. Andis there much more than half of him left...? For two bitsI'd—ah—skip it!"

Nelsen smiled with half of his mouth. "I wanted to knowabout Ramos, too, Eileen. Thanks. But I was talking aboutTiflin."

"Umhmm—you're right. He and Pal Igor were both aroundat my place about an hour before we were hit. I called himsomething worse than a bad omen. He was edgy—almost likehe used to be. He said that, one of these days—be cavalier—Iwas going to get mine. He and Igor eeled away before mycustomers could break their necks."

Nelsen showed his teeth. "Thanks again. I wondered," hesaid.

He stayed in Pallastown until, however patched it looked, itwas functioning as the center of the free if rough-and-tumblepart of the Belt once more—though he didn't know for howlong this would be true. Order of one kind had been fairlyrestored. But out of the disaster, and something very similarp.139on Ceres, the thing that had always been most feared hadsprung. It was the fact of opposed organized might in closeproximity in the region between Pallas and Ceres. Again therewas blaming and counter-blaming, about incidents the exactsources of which never became clear. What each of the spaceforces, patrolling opposite each other, had in the way ofweapons, was of course no public matter, either; but how doyou rate two inconceivables? Nor did the threat stay out inthe vastness between the planets.

From Earth came the news of a gigantic, incandescentbubble, rising from the floor of the Pacific Ocean, and spreadingin almost radioactivity-free waves and ripples, disruptingpenned-in areas of food-producing sea, and lapping at last atfar shores. Both sides disclaimed responsibility for the blast.

Everybody insisted hopefully that this latest danger woulddie down, too. Statesmen would talk, official tempers would becalmed, some new working arrangements would be made. Butmeanwhile, the old Sword of Damocles hung by a thinner hairthan ever before. One trigger-happy individual might snap itfor good. If not now, the next time, or the next. A matter ofhours, days, or years. The mathematics of probabilities deniedthat luck could last forever. In this thought there was a senseof helplessness, and the ghost of a second Asteroid Belt.

Frank Nelsen might have continued to make himself usefulin Pallastown, or he might have rejoined the Kuzaks, whohad moved their mobile posts back into a safer zone on theother side of Pallas. But his instincts, now, all pointed alonganother course of action—the only course that seemed tomake any sense just then.

He approached Art Kuzak at Post One. "About deployment,"he began. "I've made up some sketches, showing whatI'd like the factories to turn out. The ideas aren't new—nowthey'll spring up all around like thoughts of food in a famine.If anything will approach answering all problems, they will.And KRNH is as well able to put them into effect as anybody...So—unless you've got some better suggestions?"

Art Kuzak looked the sketches over shrewdly for half anhour.

"All right, Frank," he said after some further conversation."It looks good enough. I'll chip in. Whether they're sucker baitor not, these things will sell. Only—could it be you're runningaway?"

"Perhaps," Nelsen answered. "Or following my nose—by akind of natural compulsion which others will display, too. Twohundred of these to start. The men going with me will pay fortheirs. I'll cover the rest of this batch: You'll be better than Iam at figuring out prices and terms for later batches. Just on ap.140hunch, I'll always want a considerable oversupply. Post One'sshops can turn them out fast. All they are, mostly, is juststellene, arranged in a somewhat new way. The fittings—whatevercan't be supplied now, can follow."

Fifty asteroid-hoppers, ten of them accompanied by wives,went with Nelsen as he started out with a loaded caravantoward an empty region halfway between the orbits of Earthand Mars. Everyone in the group was convinced by yearningsof his own.

Thinking of Nance Codiss, Nelsen planned to keep withinbeam range of the Red Planet. He had called Nance quiteoften. She was still working in the Survey Station hospital,which was swamped with injured from Pallastown.

Nelsen could tag all of the fierce drives in him with singlewords.

Home was the first. After all his years away from Earth, themeaning of the word would have been emphatic in him, evenwithout the recurrent spasms of hot-cold weakness, which,though fading, still legally denied him the relief of going backto old familiar things. Besides, Earth seemed insecure. So hecould only try to make home possible in space. Rememberinghis first trip, long ago, from the Moon to Mars, he knew howgentle the Big Vacuum could sometimes seem, with just a skinof stellene between it and himself. Home was a plain longing,too, in the hard, level eyes around him.

Love. Well, wasn't that part of the first item he had tagged?

Wanderlust. The adventurous distance drive—part of anywild-blooded vagabond male. Here in his idea, this other sideof a human paradox seemed possible to answer, too. Youcould go anywhere. Home went with you. Your friends couldgo along, if they wished.

Freedom. In the billions of cubic miles could any systemever be big enough to pen you in, tell you what to think or do,as long as you hurt no one? Well—he thought not, but perhapsthat remained to be seen.

Safety. Deployment was supposed to be the significant factor,there. And how could you make it any better than it wasgoing to be now? Even if there were new dangers?

The future. There was no staying with the past. The Earthwas becoming too small for its expanding population. It was astifling, dangerous little world that, if the pressures were notrelieved, might puff into fire and fragments at any moment duringany year. And the era of prospecting and exploration inthe Asteroid Belt seemed destined soon to come to an end, inany event.

Frank Nelsen's drives were very strong, after so much hadpassed around him for so long a time. Thus, maybe he becamep.141too idealistic and—at moments—almost fanatically believing,without enough of the saving grain of doubt and humor. Thehoppers with him were much like himself—singly directed bywhat they had lacked for years.

The assembly operation was quickly accomplished, as soonas they were what they considered a safe distance from theBelt. On a greater scale, it was almost nothing more than thefirst task that Nelsen had ever performed in space—the jockyingof a bubb from its blastoff drum, inflating it, rigging it,spinning it for centrifugal gravity, and fitting in its internal appointments.

Nelsen looked at the fifty-odd stellene rings that they hadbroken out of their containers—the others, still packed, wereheld in reserve. Those that had been freed glistened translucentlyin the sunlight. Nelsen had always thought that bubbswere beautiful. And these were still bubbs, but they were bigger,safer, more complicated.

A bantam-sized hopper named Hank Janns spoke from besideNelsen as they floated near each other. "Pop—sizzle—andit's yours, Chief. A prefab, a house, a dwelling. A kitchen, aterrace, a place for a garden, a place for kids, even... Witha few personal touches, you've got it made. Better than thehouse trailer my dad used to hook onto the jalopy when I wasten... My Alice likes it, too, Chief—that's the real signal!Tell your pals Kuzak that this is the Idea of the Century."

Frank Nelsen kind of thought so, too, just then. The firstthing he did was to beam the Survey Station on Mars, like hewas doing twice a week—to communicate more often wouldhave courted the still dangerous chance of being pinpointed.For similar reasons he couldn't explain too clearly what hisproject was, but he hoped that he had gotten a picture ofwhat it was like across to his girl.

"Come see for yourself, Nance," he said enthusiastically."I'll arrange for a caravan from Post One to stop by on Phobosand pick you up. Also—there's my old question... So,what'll it be, Nance? Maybe we can feel a little surer of ourselves,now. We can work the rest out. Come and look, hangaround—see how everything shakes down, if you'd rather."

He waited for the light-minutes to pass, before he could hearher voice. "Hello, Frank..." There was the same eagerquaver. "Still pretty jammed, Frank... But we know about ithere—from Art... Some of the Pallastown convalescentswill be migrating your way... I'll wrangle free and comealong... Maybe in about a month..."

He didn't know quite whether to take her at her word—orwhether she was somehow hedging. In the Big Vacuum, thehuman mind seemed hard put, quite, to know itself. Distancesp.142and separations were too great. Emotions were too intense ortoo stunned. This much he had learned to understand. Perhapshe had lost Nance. But maybe, still—in some bleak, fatalisticway—it would be just as well in the end, for them both.

"Sure, Nance," he said gently. "I'll call again—the regulartime..."

Right after that he was talking, over a much greater span, toArt Kuzak. "First phase about completed, Art... Finger tothumb—in spite of the troubles elsewhere. So let it roll...!"

Art Kuzak's reply had an undercurrent of jubilance, as ifwhatever he knew now was better than he had expected. "Secondphase is en route. Joe will be along... Don't be surprised..."

Joe Kuzak's approach, a few hundred hours later, made aluminous cluster in the sky, like a miniature galaxy. It resolveditself into vast bales, and all of the stellene rings—storage andfactory—of Post Three. Also there were over a hundred menand thirty-three wives. Many of them were Pallastown refugees.

Nelsen helped Joe through the airlock of the ring that hehad hoped would be his and Nance's. "Bubbtown, huh,Frank?" Joe chuckled. "The idea is spreading faster than wehad believed, and we aren't the only ones that have got it. Thetiming is just right. People are scared, fed up. Out Here—andon Earth, too... Most of the guys that are single in thiscrowd have girls who will be on the way soon. Some of thetougher space-fitness tests are being junked. We're evenscreening a small batch of runaways from Ceres—to be includedin the next load. An experiment. But it should workout. They're just like anybody... Art is all of sudden sort ofliberal—the way he gets when things seem to break right."

Everything went fine for quite a while. Art Kuzak was outplaying his hunches, giving easy terms to those who couldn'tpay at once.

"Might as well gamble," he growled from the distance."Space and terrestrial forces are still poised. If we lose at all,we lose the whole works, anyway. So let's bring them from allaround the Belt, from Earth, Venus and from wherever they'llcome. Give them a place to work, or let them start their owndeal. It all helps... You know what I hear? The Tovies areletting men do things by themselves. To hold their own inroom as big as this, they have to. Their bosses are over abarrel. Just organized discipline ain't gonna work. A guy hasto want things his own way..."

In a more general view, doubts were sneaking up on FrankNelsen, though as far as KRNH was concerned, he had startedthe ball rolling. "We'll keep our fingers crossed," he said.

p.143

It was only a couple of Earth-days later that another memberof the old Bunch showed up. "I had to bubb all the wayfrom Mercury to Post One to get your location from Art,Frankie," he complained. "Cripes—why didn't anybody evertry to beam Gimp and me, anymore? Solar radiation ain't thathard to get past... So I had to come sneak a look for myself,to see what the Big Deal on the grapevine is."

"We left the back door unlatched for you, Two-and-Two,"Nelsen laughed. "And you crept in quietly. Swell to see you."

Sitting showered and in fresh clothes on Frank Nelsen'ssundeck, any changes in Two-and-Two Baines were less evidentthan one might have supposed. His eyes had a muchsurer, farther look. Otherwise he was still the same large hulkwith much the same lugubrious humor.

"Mercury's okay, Frankie," he said. "About four thousandpeople are living in the Twilight Zone, already. I could showyou pictures, but I guess you know. Whole farms and littletowns under stellene. Made me some dough doing lots of thebuilding. Could have been more, but who cares? Oh, Gimp'llbe along out here sometime, soon. He was putting up anothersolar powerhouse. But he's beginning to say, what the hell, thefuture ain't there, or on any planet... So this is how it'sgonna be, huh? With some additions, sure. Factories, supermarkets, cornfields, pig farms, parks, playgrounds, beautyparlors, all encased in stellene, and orbiting in clusters aroundthe sun, eh...? 'Hey, Pop!' some small fry will say to his oldman. 'Gimme ten bucks, please, for an ice cream cone downat the soda bubb?' And his mom'll say to his dad, 'George,Dear—is the ionocar nice and shiny? I have to go play bridgewith the girls over in Nelsenville...' No, I'm not ribbing you,Frankie. It'll be kind of nice to hear that type of talk, again—ifthey only include a place for a man to be a little bit himself."

Two-and-Two (George) Baines sighed rapturously and continued."Figure it out to the end, Frankie. No planets left—allthe materials in them used up to build these bubbtowns.There'll be just big shining, magnificent rings made up ofcountless little floating stellene houses all around the sun. Azillion people, maybe more. Gardens, flowers, everythingbeautiful. Everybody free to move anywhere. Uh-uh—I'm notmaking fun, Frankie. I'm joining in with all the relief andhappiness of my heart. Only, it'll be kind of sad to see theold planets go—to be replaced by a wonderful super-suburbia.Or maybe we should say, superbia."

Nelsen burst out laughing, at last. "You sly slob...! Anyhow,that extreme is off—if it has a chance of happening,at all. Even so, our descendants, if any, will be goingto the stars by then. There won't be any frustration of theirp.144thirst for danger... Just as there isn't any, now, for us. Exceptthat we can keep our weapons handy, and hope... Me—I'ma bit bored with adventure, just at present."

"So am I," Two-and-Two affirmed fervently. "Now, haveyou got me a job, Frankie?"

"There'll be something," Nelsen answered him. "Meanwhile,to keep from feeling regimented by civilization, you couldtake your rocket launcher and join the perimeter watchersthat range out a thousand miles..."

Nance Codiss arrived a week later, with a group of recentPallastown convalescents. Bad signs came with her, but thatfact got lost as she hugged Nelsen quickly there in the dwellinghe had set up with the thought it would be their home. Atonce she went on a feminine exploring expedition of the prefab'sinterior, and its new, gleaming appointments. Kitchen,living room, sundeck. Nelsen's garden was already well along.

"Like the place?" he asked.

"Love it, Frank," she answered quietly.

"It could have been more individual," he commented. "Butwe were in a hurry. So they are all identical. That can be fixed,some, soon. You're thinking about improvements?"

Her eyes twinkled past the shadow in her expression. "Alwayssome," she laughed. Then her face went solemn. "Letthem ride, for now, Frank. It's all wonderful and unbelievable.Hug me again—I love you. Only—all this is even more fantasticallynew to me than it is to you. Realize that, please,Frank. I'm a month late in getting here and I'm still gropingmy way. A little more time—for us both... Because youmight be fumbling, some, too."

Her tone was gentle. He saw that her eyes, meeting his,were honest and clear. He felt the careful strength behindthem, after a moment of hurt. There was no rushing, one-wayenthusiasm that might easily burn out and blow up in a shorttime.

He held her close. "Sure, Nance," he said.

"You probably know that our group from Mars was followed,Frank. I hope I'm not a jinx."

"Of course you're not. Somebody would have followed—sometime.We're watching and listening. Just keep your Archerhandy..."

The faint, shifting blips in the radar screens was an oldstory, reminding him that certain things were no better thanbefore, and that some were worse. Somewhere there wereother bubbtowns. There were policing space forces, too. Butfor millions of miles around, this cluster of eight hundredprefabs and the numerous larger bubbs that served them, wereall alone.

p.145

Nelsen looked out from his sundeck, and saw dangerouscontrasts. The worst, perhaps, was a spherical bubble of stellene.Inside it was a great globe of water surrounded by air—acolossal dewdrop. Within it, a man and two small boys—nodoubt father and sons from Pallastown, were swimming, horsingaround, having a swell time—only a few feet from nothing.Nelsen spoke softly into his radio-phone. "Leland—closedown the pool..."

It wasn't long before the perimeter watch, returning froma patrol that had taken them some distance out, brought in amakeshift dwelling bubb made from odds and ends of stellene.They had also picked up its occupant, a lean comic characterwith an accent and a strange way of talking.

"Funny that you'd turn up, here—Igor, is it?" Nelsen saiddryly.

Igor sniffed, as if with sorrow. He had been roughed up,some. "Very funny—also simple. You making a house, so Iam making a house for this identical purpose. People fromCeres are already being here; in consequence, I am also arriving.Nobody are saying what are proper doing and thinking—soI am informed. I am believing—okay, Igor. When beingnot true, I am going away again."

The tone was bland. The pale eyes looked naive and artless,except, perhaps, for a hard, shrewd glint, deep down.

Joe Kuzak was present. "We searched him, Frank," he said."His bubb, too. He's clean—as far as we can tell. Not even aweapon. I also asked him some questions. I savvy a little of hisreal lingo."

"I'll ask them over," Nelsen answered. "Igor—a friendnamed Tiflin wouldn't be being around some place, wouldhe?"

The large space comedian didn't even hesitate. "I am thinkingnot very far—not knowing precisely. Somebody more isbeing here, likewise. Belt Parnay. You are knowing this one?Plenty Jollies—new fellas—not having much supplies—onlymany new rocket launchers they are receiving from someplace.You are understanding this? Bad luck, here, it is meaning."

Nelsen eyed the man warily, with mixed doubt and liking."I don't think you can be going away again, right now, Igor,"he said. "We don't have a jail, but a guard will be as good..."

The watch didn't give the alarm for several hours. Threehisses in the phones, made vocally. Then one, then two more.North, second , that meant. Direction of first attack.Ionic drives functioned. The cluster of bubbs began to scatterfurther. Nelsen knew that if Igor had told the truth, the outlookwas very poor. Too much deployment would thin thedefenses too much. And against new, homing rockets—ifp.146Parnay really had them—it would be almost useless. A relativelysmall number of men, riding free in armor, could smashthe much larger targets from almost any distance.

Nelsen didn't stay in his prefab. Floating in his Archer, hecould be his own, less easily identifiable, less easily hit commandpost, while he fired his own homing missiles at the far-offradar specks of the attackers. He ordered everyone notspecifically needed inside the bubbs for some defense purposeto jump clear.

In the first half-minute, he saw at least fifty compartmentedprefabs partly crumple, as explosives tore into them. A dozen,torn open, were deflated entirely. The swimming pool globewas punctured, and a cloud of frosty vapor made rainbows inthe sunshine, as the water boiled away. Far out, Nelsen sawthe rockets he and his own men had launched, sparkling soundlessly,no doubt scoring, some, too.

The attackers didn't even try to get close yet. Far greaterdamage would have to be inflicted, before panic and disorganizationmight give them sufficient advantage. But such damagewould take only minutes. Too much would reduce the loot.So now there was a halt in the firing, and another componentof fear was applied. It was a growling, taunting voice.

"Nelsen! And all of you silly bladder-brains...! This isBelt Parnay...! Ever hear of him? Come back from hell, eh?Not with just rocks, this time! The latest, surest equipment!Want to give up, now, Nelsen—you and your nice, civilizedpeople? Cripes, what will you cranks try next? Villages builtin nothing and on nothing! Thanks, though. Brother, what ablowout this is gonna provide!"

Parnay's tone had shifted, becoming mincingly mocking,then hard and joyful at the end.

Maybe he shouldn't have suggested so plainly what wouldhappen—unless something was done, soon. Maybe heshouldn't have sounded just a little bit unsure of himselfunder all his bluff. Because Nelsen had made preparations thatmatched a general human trend. Now, he saw a conditionthat fitted in, making an opportunity... So he began to tauntParnay back.

"We've got a lot of the latest type rockets to throw, too,Parnay. You'd have quite a time, trying to take us. But there'smore... Just look behind you, Parnay. And all around. Nottoo far. Who's silly? Who's the jerk? Some new guys are inyour crowd, I hear? Then they won't have much against them—theyaren't real outlaws. Do you think they want to keepfollowing you around, stinking in their armor—when whatwe've got is what they're bound to want, right now, too? Theycan hear what I'm saying, Parnay. Every one of them mustp.147have a weapon in his hands. Why, you stupid clown, you're ina trap! We will give them what they need most, without themhaving to risk getting killed. In space, there'll have to be a lotof things forgotten, but not for you or for the rough old-timerswith you... Come on, you guys out there. There's a foldedbubb right here waiting for each of you. Take it anywhereyou want—away from here, of course... Parnay—big, importantBelt Parnay—are you still alive...?"

Nelsen had his own sneering tone of mockery. He used itto best advantage—but with fear in his heart. Plenty of his actwas only counter-bluff. But now, as he paused, he heard Two-and-TwoBaines' mournful voice continue the barrage of persuasion.

"Flowers, Parnay? We ain't got many, yet. But you won'tcare... Fellas—do you want to keep being pushed around bythis loud mouth who likes to run and lets you sweat for him,because he's mostly alone and needs company? Believe me, Iknow what it's like out there, too. At a certain point, all youreally want is something a little like home. And the Chief ain'tkidding. It was all planned. Try us and see. Send a couple ofguys in. They'll come out with the proof..."

Other voices were shouting. "Wake up, you suckers...!You'll never take us, you stupid slobs...! Come on and tryit, if that's what you want to be..."

What happened, could never have happened so quickly ifParnay's doubtless considerably disgruntled following hadn'tbeen disturbed further by intrigue beforehand. Nelsen heardParnay roar commands and curses that might have awed manya man. But then there was a cluster of minute sparks in thedistance, as rockets, not launched by the defenders, homedand exploded.

There was a pause. Then many voices were audible, shoutingat the same time, with scarcely any words clear... Severalminutes passed like that. Then there was almost silence.

"So—has it happened?" Nelsen growled into his phone.

"It has," came the mocking answer. "Be cavalier, Nelsen.Salute the new top outlaw... Don't faint— I knew I'd makeit... And don't try anything you might regret... I'm comingin with a couple of my Jolly Lads. You'd better not welshon your promises. Because the others are armed and waiting..."

The guys with Tiflin looked more tired than tough. Out fromunder their fierce, truculent bravado showed the fiercer hungerfor common things and comforts. Nelsen knew. The recordwas in his own memory.

"You'll get your bubbs right away," he told them. "Thensend the others in, a pair at a time. After that, go and get lost.p.148Make your own place—town—whatever you want to callit... Leland, Crobert, Sharpe—fit these guys out, willyou...?"

All this happened under the sardonic gaze of Glen Tiflin,and before the puzzled eyes of Joe Kuzak and Two-and-TwoBaines. A dozen others were hovering near.

Nelsen lowered his voice and called, "Nance?"

She answered at once. "I'm all right, Frank. A few peopleto patch. Some beyond that. I'm in the hospital with DocForbes..."

"You guys can find something useful to do," Nelsen snappedat the gathering crowd.

"Well, Frankie," Tiflin taunted. "Aren't you going to inviteme into your fancy new quarters? Joe and Two-and-Two alsolook as though they could stand a drink."

On the sundeck, Tiflin spoke again. "I suppose you've gotit figured, Nelsen?"

Nelsen answered him in clipped fashion. "Thanks. But let'snot dawdle too much. I've got a lot of wreckage to put backtogether... Maybe I've still got it figured wrong, Tiflin. Butlately I began to think the other way. You were always aroundwhen trouble was cooking—like part of it, or like a good cop.The first might still be right."

Tiflin sneered genially. "Some cops can't carry badges. Andthey don't always stop trouble, but they try... Anyhow, whatside do you think I was on, after Fessler kicked me aroundfor months...? Let Igor go. He's got law and order in hissoul. I kind of like having him around... But keep yourmouths buttoned, will you? I'm talking to you, Mr. Baines, andyou, Mr. Kuzak, as well as to you, Nelsen. And I'm take mybubb along, the same as the other ninety or so guys who areleft from Parnay's crowd. I've got to look good with them...Cheers, you slobs. See you around..."

Afterwards, Joe growled, "Hell—what do you know!Him...! Special Police. Undercover. U.N., U.S., or what?"

"Shut up," Nelsen growled.

Though he had sensed it coming and had met it calmly, theTiflin switch was something that Frank Nelsen had troublegetting over. It confused him. It made him want to laugh.

Another thing that began to bother him even more was therealization that the violence, represented by Fessler, Fanshaw,Parnay, and thousands of others like them back through history,was bound to crop up again. It was part of the complicatedparadox of human nature. And it was hard to visualize atime when there wouldn't be followers—frustrated slobs whowanted to get out and kick over the universe. Nelsen had feltsuch urges cropping up within himself. So this wasn't the endp.149of trouble—especially not out here in raw space, that was stillfar too big for man-made order.

So it wasn't just the two, opposed space navies patrolling,more quietly now, between Ceres and Pallas. That conditioncould pass. The way people always chose—or were born to—differentsides was another matter. Or was it just the naturalcompetition of life in whatever form? More disturbing, perhaps,was the mere fact of trying to live here, so close tonatural forces that could kill in an instant.

For example, Nelsen often saw two children and a dogracing around inside one of the rotating bubbs—having funas if just in a back yard. If the stellene were ripped, the happypicture would change to horror... How long would it taketo get adjusted to—and accept—such a chance? Thoughtslike that began to disturb Nelsen. Out here, in all this enormousfreedom, the shift from peaceful routine to tragedy couldbe quicker than ever before.

But is wasn't thinking about such grim matters that actuallythrew Frank Nelsen—that got him truly mixed up. In Parnay'sattack, ten men and two women had been killed. There werealso twenty-seven injured. Such facts he could accept—theydidn't disturb him too much, either. Yet there was a curioussort of straw that broke the camel's back, one might have said.

The incident took place quite a while after the assault. Outon an inspection tour in his Archer, he happened to glancethrough the transparent wall of the sundeck of a prefab hewas passing...

In a moment he was inside, grinning happily. Miss RosalieParks was lecturing him: "... You needn't be surprised that Iam here, Franklin. 'O, tempora O, mores!' Cicero once said.'O, the times! O, the customs!' But we needn't be so pessimistic.I am in perfect health—and ten years below retirement age.Young people, I suspect, will still be taught Latin if theychoose... Or there will be something else... Of course Ihad heard of your project... It was quite easy for you not tonotice my arrival. But I came with the latest group, straightfrom Earth..."

Nelsen was very pleased that Miss Parks was here. He toldher so. He stayed for cakes and coffee. He told her that itwas quite right for her to keep up with the times. He believedthis, himself...

Afterwards, though, in his own quarters, he began tolaugh. Her presence was so incongruous, so fantastic...

His laughter became wild. Then it changed to great raspinghiccups. Too much that was unbelievable by old standards hadhappened around him. This was delayed reaction to space. Hehad heard of such a thing. But he had hardly thought that itp.150could apply to him, anymore...! Well, he knew what todo... Tranquilizer tablets were practically forgotten thingsto him. But he gulped one now. In a few minutes, he seemedokay, again...

Yet he couldn't help thinking back to the Bunch, thePlanet Strappers. To the wild fulfillment they had sought...So—most of them had made it. They had become men—thehard way. Except, of course, Eileen—the distaff side...They had planned, callowly, to meet and compare adventuresin ten years. And this was still less than seven...

How long had it been since he had even beamed old Paul,in Jarviston...? Now that most of the Syrtis Fever had lefthim, it seemed futile even to consider such a thing. It involvedmemories buried in enormous time, distance, change, andunexpectedness.

Glen Tiflin—the sour, space-wild punk who had become acop. Had Tiflin even saved his—Frank Nelsen's—life, once,long ago, persuading a Jolly Lad leader to cast him adriftfor a joke, rather than to kill him and Ramos outright...?

Charlie Reynolds—the Bunch-member whom everybodyhad thought most likely to succeed. Well, Charlie was deadfrom a simple thing, and buried on Venus. He was unknown—exceptto his acquaintances.

Jig Hollins, the guy who had played it safe, was just asdead.

Eileen Sands was a celebrity in Serene, in Pallastown andthe whole Belt.

Mex Ramos—of the flapping squirrel tails on an old motorscooter—now belonged to the history of exploration, thoughhe no longer had real hands or feet, and, very likely, was nowdead, somewhere out toward interstellar space.

David Lester, the timid one, had become successful in hisown way, and was the father of one of the first children to beborn in the Belt.

Two-and-Two Baines had won enough self-confidence tomake cracks about the future. Gimp Hines, once the saddestcase in the Whole Bunch, had been, for a long time, perhapsthe best adjusted to the Big Vacuum.

Art Kuzak, one-time hunkie football player, was a poweramong the asteroids. His brother, Joe, had scarcely changed,personally.

About himself, Nelsen got the most lost. What had he become,after his wrong guesses and his great luck, and the factthat he had managed to see more than most? Generally, hefigured that he was still the same free-wheeling vagabond byintention, but too serious to quite make it work out. Sometimeshe actually gave people orders. It came to him as ap.151surprise that he must be almost as rich as old J. John Reynolds,who was still drawing wealth from a comparatively small loan—futilelyat his age, unless he had really aimed at the idealof bettering the future.

Nelsen's busy mind couldn't stop. He thought of threeother-world cultures he had glimpsed. Two had destroyedeach other. The third and strangest was still to be reckonedwith...

There, he came to Mitch Storey, the colored guy with theromantic name. Of all the Planet Strappers, his history wasthe most fabulous. Maybe, now, with a way of living in openspace started, and with the planets ultimately to serve onlyas sources of materials, Mitch's star people would be left inrelative peace for centuries.

Frank Nelsen began to chuckle again. As if something,everything, was funny. Which, perhaps, it was in a way. Becausethe whole view, personal and otherwise, seemed toohuge and unpredictable for his wits to grasp. It was as ifneither he, nor any other person, belonged where he was atall. He checked his thoughts in time. Otherwise, he wouldhave commenced hiccuping.

That was the way it went for a considerable succession ofarbitrary twenty-four hour day-periods. As long as he kept hisattention on the tasks in hand, he was okay—he felt fine.Still, the project was proceeding almost automatically, justnow. The first cluster of prefabs had grown until it had beensplit into halves, which moved a million miles apart, circlingthe sun. And he knew that there were other clusters, built byother outfits, growing and dividing into widely separated portionsof the same great ring-like zone.

Maybe the old problems were beat. Safety? If deploymentwas the answer to that, it was certainly there—to a degree, atleast. Room enough? Check. It was certainly available. Freedomof mind and action? There wasn't much question thatthat would work out, too. Home, comfort, and a kind of lifenot too unfamiliar? In the light of detached logic and observation,that was going fine, too. In the main, people wereadjusting very quickly and eagerly. Perhaps too quickly.

That was where Nelsen always got scared, as if he had becomea nervous old man. The Big Vacuum had a grandeur.It could seem gentle. Could children, women and men—everybodysometimes forgot—learn to live with it withoutlosing their respect for it, until suddenly it killed them?

That was the worst point, if he let himself think. And howcould he always avoid that? From there his thoughts wouldbranch out into his multiple uncertainties, confusions andpuzzlements. Then those strangling hiccups would come. Andp.152who could be taking devil-killers all the time?

He hadn't avoided Nance Codiss. He talked with her everyday, lunched with her, even held her hand. Otherwise, a restrainthad come over him. Because something was all wrongwith him, and was getting worse. Just one urge was clear,now, inside him. She knew, of course, that he was loused up;but she didn't say anything. Finally he told her.

"You were right, Nance. I was fumbling my way, too. Spacefatigue, the medic told me just a little while ago. He agreeswith me that I should go back to Earth. I've got to go—totake a look at everything from the small end, again. Of courseI've always had the longing. And now I can go. It has beena year since the worst of the Syrtis Fever."

"I've had the fever. And sometimes the longing, Frank," shesaid after she had studied him for a moment. "I think I'd liketo go."

"Only if you want to, Nance. It's me that's flunking out,pal." He chuckled apologetically, almost lightly. "My part hasto be a one-person deal. I don't know whether I'll ever comeback. And you seem to fit, out here."

She looked at him coolly for almost a minute. "All right,Frank," she said quietly. "Follow your nose. It's just liable tobe right on the beam—for you. I might follow mine. I don'tknow."

"Joe and Two-and-Two are around—if you need anything,Nance," he said. "I'll tell them. Gimp, I hear, is on the way.Not much point in my waiting for him, though..."

Somehow he loved Nance Codiss as much or more thanever. But how could he tell her that and make sense? Notmuch made sense to him anymore. It seemed that he had toget away from everybody that he had ever seen in space.

Fifty hours before his departure with a returning bubbcaravan that had brought more Earth-emigrants, Nelsenacquired a travelling companion who had arrived from Pallastownwith a small caravan bringing machinery. The passenger-hostessbrought him to Nelsen's prefab. He was a grave littleguy, five years old. He was solemn, polite, frightened, tall forhis age—funny how corn and kids grew at almost zero-gravity.

The boy handed Nelsen a letter. "From my father andmother, sir," he said.

Nelsen read the typed missive.

"Dear Frank: The rumor has come that you are goinghome. You have our very best wishes, as always. Our son,Davy, is being sent to his paternal grandmother, now living inMinneapolis. He will go to school there. He is capable of makingthe trip without any special attention. But—a small imposition.If you can manage it, please look in on him once in ap.153while, on the way. We would appreciate this favor. Thankyou, take care of yourself, and we shall hope to see you somewherewithin the next few months. Your sincere friends, Davidand Helen Lester."

A lot of nerve, Nelsen thought first. But he tried to grinengagingly at the kid and almost succeeded.

"We're in luck, Dave," he said. "I'm going to Minneapolis,too. I'm afraid of a lot of things. What are you afraid of?"

The small fry's jutting lip trembled. "Earth," he said. "Agreat big planet. Hoppers tell me I won't even be able tostand up or breathe."

Nelsen very nearly laughed and went into hiccups, again.Fantastic. Another viewpoint. Seeing through the other endof the telescope. But how else would it be for a youngsterborn in the Belt, while being sent—in the old colonial pattern—tothe place that his parents regarded as home?

"Those jokers," Nelsen scoffed. "They're pulling your leg!It just isn't so, Davy. Anyhow, during the trip, the big bubbwill be spun fast enough, so that we will get used to thegreater Earth-gravity. Let me tell you something. I guess it'sspace and the Belt that I'm afraid of. I never quite got over it.Silly, huh?"

But as Nelsen watched the kid brighten, he remembered thathe, himself, had been scared of Earth, too. Scared to return, toshow weakness, to lack pride... Well, to hell with that. Hehad accomplished enough, now, maybe, to cancel such objections.Now it seemed that he had to get to Earth before itvanished because of something he had helped start. Silly, ofcourse...

He and Davy travelled fast and almost in luxury. Withintwo weeks they were in orbit around the bulk of the OldWorld. Then, in the powerful tender with its nuclear retardrockets, there was the Blast In—the reverse of that costlyagony that had once meant hard won and enormous freedom,when he was poor in money and rich in mighty yearning. Butnow Nelsen yielded in all to the mother clutch of the gravity.The whole process had been gentled and improved. Therewere special anti-knock seats. There was sound- and vibration-insulation.Even Davy's slight fear was more than halfthrill.

At the new Minneapolis port, Nelsen delivered David Lester,Junior into the care of his grandmother, who seemedmuch more human than Nelsen once had thought long ago.Then he excused himself quickly.

Seeking the shelter of anonymity, he bought a rucksack forhis few clothes, and boarded a bus which dropped him at Jarviston,Minnesota, at two a.m. He thrust his hands into hisp.154pockets, partly like a lonesome tramp, partly like some carefreeimmortal, and partly like a mixed-up wraith who didn'tquite know who or what he was, or where he belonged.

In his wallet he had about five hundred dollars. How muchmore he might have commanded, he couldn't even guess.Wups, fella, he told himself. That's too weird, too indigestible—don'tstart hiccuping again. How old are you—twenty-five,or twenty-five thousand years? Wups—careful...

The full Moon was past zenith, looking much as it alwayshad. The blue-tinted air domes of colossal industrial development,were mostly too small at this distance to be seen withouta glass. Good...

With wondering absorption he sniffed the mingling of ripefield and road smells, borne on the warm breeze of the late-Augustnight. Some few cars evidently still ran on gasoline.For a moment he watched neon signs blink. In the desertionhe walked past Lehman's Drug Store and Otto Kramer's bar,and crossed over to pause for a nameless moment in front ofPaul Hendricks' Hobby Center, which was all dark, andseemed little changed. He took to a side street, and won backthe rustle of trees and the click of his heels in the silence.

A few more buildings—that was about all that was visiblydifferent in Jarviston, Minnesota.

A young cop eyed him as he returned to the main drag andpaused near a street lamp. He had a flash of panic, thinkingthat the cop was somebody, grown up, now, who would recognizehim. But at least it was no one that he remembered.

The cop grinned. "Get settled in a hotel, buddy," he said."Or else move on, out of town."

Nelsen grinned back, and ambled out to the highway,where intermittent clumps of traffic whispered.

There he paused, and looked up at the sky, again. Theelectric beacon of a weather observation satellite blinked onand off, moving slowly. Venus had long since set, with hard-to-seeMercury preceding it. Jupiter glowed in the south. Marslooked as remote and changeless as it must have looked in theStone Age. The asteroids were never even visible here withouta telescope.

The people that he knew, and the events that he had experiencedOut There, were like myths, now. How could he everput Here and There together, and unite the mismatched halvesof himself and his experience? He had been born on Earth,the single home of his kind from the beginning. How couldhe ever even have been Out There?

He didn't try to hitch a ride. He walked fourteen miles tothe next town, bought a small tent, provisions and a special,p.155miniaturized radio. Then he slipped into the woods, alongHickman's Lake, where he used to go.

There he camped, through September, and deep into October.He fished, he swam again. He dropped stones into thewater, and watched the circles form, with a kind of puzzledgroping in his memory. He retreated from the staggeringmagnificence of his recent past and clutched at old simplicities.

On those rare occasions when he shaved, he saw the confusedsickness in his face, reflected by his mirror. Sometimes,for a moment, he felt hot, and then cold, as if his blood stillheld a tiny trace of Syrtis Fever. If there was such a thing?No—don't start to laugh, he warned himself. Relax. Let thephantoms fade away. Somewhere, that multiple bigness ofNothing, of life and death, of success and unfairness and surprise,must have reality—but not here...

Occasionally he listened to news on the radio. But mostlyhe shut it off—out. Until boredom at last began to overtakehim—because he had been used to so much more than whatwas here. Until—specifically—one morning, when the newscame too quickly, and with too much impact. It was a recording,scratchy, and full of unthinkable distance.

"... Frank, Gimp, Two-and-Two, Paul, Mr. Reynolds,Otto, Les, Joe, Art, everybody—especially you, Eileen—rememberwhat you promised, when I get back, Eileen...!Here I am, on Pluto—edge of the star desert! Clear sailing—allthe way. All I see, yet, is twilight, rocks, mountains, snowwhich must be frozen atmosphere—and one big star, Sol. ButI'll get the data, and be back..."

Nelsen listened to the end, with panic in his face—as ifsuch adventures and such living were too gigantic and toorich... He hiccuped once. Then he held himself very stilland concentrated. He had known that voice Out There andHere, too. Now, as he heard it again—Here, but from OutThere—it became like a joining force to bring them both togetherwithin himself. Though how could it be...?

"Ramos," he said aloud. "Made it... Another good guy,accomplishing what he wanted... Hey...! Hey, that'sswell... Like things should happen."

He didn't hiccup anymore, or laugh. By being very careful,he just grinned, instead. He arose to his feet, slowly.

"What am I doing here—wasting time?" he seemed to askthe woods.

Without picking up his camping gear at all, he headed forthe road, thumbed a ride to Jarviston, where he arrived beforeeight o'clock. Somebody had started ringing the city hall bell.Celebration?

Hendricks' was the most logical place for Nelsen to go, butp.156he passed it by, following a hunch to his old street. She hadalmost said that she might come home, too. He touched thebuzzer.

Not looking too completely dishevelled himself, he stoodthere, as a girl—briskly early in dress and impulse, so as notto waste the bright morning—opened the door.

"Yeah, Nance—me," he croaked apologetically. "Ramos hasreached Pluto!"

"I know, Frankie!" she burst out.

But his words rushed on. "I've been goofing off—by Hickman'sLake. Over now. Emotional indigestion, I guess—fromliving too big, before I could take it. I figured you might behere. If you weren't, I'd come... Because I know where Ibelong. Nance—I hope you're not angry. Maybe we're pullingtogether, at last?"

"Angry—when I was the first fumbler? How could that be,Frank? Oh, I knew where you were—folks found out. I toldthem to leave you alone, because I understood some of whatyou were digging through. Because it was a little the same—forme... So, you see, I didn't just tag after you." Shelaughed a little. "That wouldn't be proud, would it? Eventhough Joe and Two-and-Two said I had to go bring youback..."

His arms went tight around her, right there on the oldporch. "Nance—love you," he whispered. "And we've got tobe tough. Everybody's got to be tough—to match what we'vecome to. Even little kids. But it was always like that—on anykind of frontier, wasn't it? A few will get killed, but more willlive—many more..."

Like that, Frank Nelsen shook the last of the cobwebs outof his brain—and got back to his greater destiny.

"I'll buy all of that philosophy," Nance chuckled gently."But you still look as though you needed some breakfast,Frank."

He grinned. "Later. Let's go to see Paul, first. A big dayfor him—because of Ramos. Paul is getting feeble, I suppose?"Nelsen's face had sobered.

"Not so you could notice it much, Frank," Nance answered."There's a new therapy—another side of What's Coming, Iguess..."

They walked the few blocks. The owner of the Hobby Centerwas now a long-time member of KRNH Enterprises. Hehad the means to expand and modernize the place beyondrecognition. But clearly he had realized that some thingsshould not change.

In the display window, however, there gleamed a brand-newArcher Nine, beautiful as a garden or a town floating, unsupported,p.157under the stars—beautiful as the Future, which wasborn of the Past.

A Bunch of fellas—the current crop of aficionados—wereinside the store, making lots of noise over the news. Was thatChip Potter, grown tall? Was that his same old dog, Blaster?Frank Nelsen could see Paul Hendricks' white-fringed bald-spot.

"Go ahead—open the door. Or are you still scared?" Nancechallenged lightly.

"No—just anticipating," Nelsen gruffed. "And seeing if Ican remember what's Out There ... Serene, bubb, Belt,Pallas..." He spoke the words like comic incantations, yetwith a dash of reverence.

"Superbia?" Nance teased.

"That is somebody's impertinent joke!" he growled infeigned solemnity. "Anyhow, it would be too bad if somethingthat important couldn't take a little ribbing. Shucks—we'vehardly started to work, yet!"

He drew Nance back a pace, out of sight of those in thestore, and kissed her long and rather savagely.

"With all its super-complications, life still seems pretty nice,"he commented.

The door squeaked, just as it used to, as Nelsen pushed itopen. The old overhead bell jangled.

Pale, watery eyes lifted and lighted with another fulfilment.

"Well, Frank! Long time no see...!"

p.158

p.159

FOR SCIENCE FICTION FANS—

A space-age collection of startling adventures

TOMORROW AND TOMORROW

Hunt Collins. Battle of strange cults for control of the world. (G654)

SIX x H

Robert Heinlein. Imaginative tales from sorcery to the fourth dimension.(G642)

THE SYNTHETIC MAN

Theodore Sturgeon. A startling science-fiction of a man whosuddenly discovers he is not human. (G636)

THE GREEN RAIN

Paul Tabori. A fantastic tale of a world gone mad. (G624)

ORBIT UNLIMITED

Poul Anderson. Earth had no room for them—their only escape was themost dangerous voyage of all time. (G615)

AGAINST THE FALL OF NIGHT

Arthur C. Clarke. A story of an unimaginable future one billion yearsfrom now. (G554)

VENUS PLUS X

Theodore Sturgeon. He was in a world of strange creatures, unheard-ofbuildings and an unfamiliar language. (G544)

THE INCOMPLETE ENCHANTER

L. Sprague de Camp & Fletcher Pratt. Two scientists explore a worldwhere magic works. (G530)

THE TOMORROW PEOPLE

Judith Merril. He came back from Mars with a secret too terrible toremember. (G502)

MAN OF MANY MINDS

E. Everett Evans. In his brain was the power to rule the world and theUniverse. (G458)

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back cover

THE PLANET
STRAPPERS

started out as The Bunch, a group ofstudent-astronauts in the back roomof a store in Jarviston, Minnesota.They wanted off Earth, and theybegged, borrowed and built what theyneeded to make it.

THE PLANET STRAPPERS got whatthey wanted—a start on the road tothe stars—but no one brought upon Earth could have imagined whatwas waiting for them Out There!

In THE PLANET STRAPPERS, Ray Gallunhas written a story of the DayAfter Tomorrow—a story of what itwill be like for the men who cross thespace frontier—a story that someof us will be living some day....

A PYRAMID BOOK

35c

COVER: JOHN SCHOENHERR

Printed in U.S.A.