50 in 50

The Greening of the Green

"Be careful with that dinghy, you idiots.” the admiral bellowed in a whisper. "It's the last one we have."

He looked on anxiously while the sweating sailors lowered the dinghy from the deck of the submarine into the water. There was no moon, but the crowded stars in the clear Mediterranean sky glowed like tiny light bulbs.

"Is that the shore, Admiral?" the passenger asked. His teeth chattered as he spoke, probably from fear since the night was warm.

"Captain," the admiral said. "Fm captain of this sub so you call me captain. And, no, that is a fog bank. The shore is over there. Are you ready?"

Giulio started to speak, then, sensing the trembling of his jaw, nodded instead. He felt as scruffy as he looked with his ancient beret, decaying corduroy trousers and decayed jacket. Felt even scruffier next to the crisply uniformed figure of the admiral: in the dark the patches and darns of his uniform did not show. Giulio nodded again when he realized the admiral had not seen his nod the first time.

"Good. Then you know your instructions?"

"Of course I don't know my instructions," Giulio said with petulant irritation, trying not to stammer the words. "I only know that there is a piece of paper in my pocket with a word on it and I'm to read that word then eat the paper. At dawn."

"Those are the instructions I'm talking about, you idiot." The admiral grumbled like a volcano, his authority insulted.

"You can't talk to me like that," Giulio squeaked, realized he squeaked and lowered his voice. "Do you know who I am. .?"

He choked himself into silence. No, the admiral did not know who he was, and if he told him then the CIA would kill them both; they had promised him that. No one was to know.

"I know you are a goddamned passenger and a goddamned nuisance and the sooner you are off this vessel the better. I have far more important things to do."

"What?" Giulio tried and succeeded in getting a sneer into his voice. "Sail A.desk? What's an admiral doing in charge of a crummy sub? Too many brass hats, that's what!"

"No, not enough ships. This is the last pig boat." A little tear of self-pity formed in the admiral's eye, for he had been hitting the vodka bottle hard. "My last command. After this the beach. I should consider myself lucky even for this…" He swallowed and gulped and shuddered away from this topic, which obsessed him night and day. "Here is your bag. I wish you good luck on your mission, whatever it is. Here is a receipt form — sign here."

Giulio scratched his name as well as he could in the darkness, clutched the battered but exceedingly large and heavy suitcase to him, then was half-carried into the bobbing dinghy. As soon as he was aboard the line was cast off and the four sailors began rowing furiously. An officer crouched in the bow with a compass and muttered instructions in arcane nautical terms. The beans and salt fish that Giulio had wolfed so hungrily an hour earlier now fought each other for a return journey up his throat. The dinghy bobbed and splashed through the waves. Giulio groaned aloud, then almost fell overboard as they grated to a stop. Horny hands seized him in silence, slid him over the side into a foot of cold water, then grabbed up paddles again and pulled hastily away.

"Good luck, buddy," the officer whispered as he vanished back into the darkness. A wave slapped cold water over Giulio's crotch. He gasped and turned and staggered up on to a sandy beach, holding the massive suitcase to him like an old friend. Once above the water he dropped the bag and sat upon it and tried not to groan aloud. He had never felt as alone and helpless before. He didn't even know where he was. Well that could be changed quickly enough. Dragging the suitcase after him he stumbled through the sand towards a looming dark structure.

There was no sound, other than the susurration of the waves on the shore behind him. The dark structure proved to be a row of bathing shacks, unlocked, as he discovered when he rattled the door of the nearest one. Perfect for his purposes. He dropped the bag inside and pulled the door shut behind him, grinning wickedly into the darkness. Screw the instructions. Right now was when he wanted to know where he was and what happened next. A feeble flap towards personal freedom. This was why he had stolen the book of matches in defiance of all instructions and logic. He dug them out now, and the piece of paper, and fumbled to strike one in the darkness. It flared up suddenly, he squinted at the paper, at the word. It was upside down. He turned it over and read "shamrock" — then jerked his hand, burning his fingers, as memory rushed in. The match went out, he sucked his hand and almost spoke aloud the words that were dredged from his memory, hidden there by hypnotic suggestion until he read the word that had triggered their release.

YOU ARE ON THE BEACH OF MARINA PICCOLA ON THE ISLAND OF CAPRI. IT IS NOW LIGHT AND YOU WILL WALK UP THE ROAD TO THE TOWN OF CAPRI. IN THE PIAZZETTA YOU WILL GO TO THE PHARMACY ON THE RIGHT. A MAN WITH A GRAY BEARD THERE WILL ANSWER BOCCA WHEN YOU GIVE THE PASSWORD STUZZICADENTI. EAT THIS PAPER.

He ruminated on the paper and the words. Capri, isle of joy in the Bay of Naples, or that is what they said. He had never seen it before, or Italy itself for that matter. Land of his fathers. He wondered what it was like and, for the first time, forgot to be afraid. He would find out soon enough. And the message was wrong about it being light; he felt a small triumph over this. A tiny blow struck against the system. Nor was he going to wait here until dawn. The further inland he was before he was seen, the less chance of his being suspected of landing on the beach. The logic of this was suspect but he still felt that way.

After a good deal of stumbling against invisible objects, he found stone steps that led up through a wall. The road was on the other side, with houses flanking it. All the windows were tightly shuttered against the poisonous dangers of the balmy night air and he tiptoed past them silently. The suitcase was heavy as lead and he had to keep changing hands. Only when he was around the second bend of the steep road, with no houses in sight, did he drop the thing and sit on it. He was panting and dripping with sweat and wondered how far away the town was.

Giulio was still struggling up the road when it began to get light in the east. The sky burned red as fire behind the mountains across the bay, and it was suddenly dawn. He felt vulnerable under the open sky and he hurried on. But it was a brief spurt and he had to stop, panting, and set the bag down again. Just as he did so a man came around a bend in the road carrying a great bundle of grass on his head. He looked up at Giulio with a very suspicious eye, made even more suspicious by the fact he was cross-eyed, as he passed.

"Buon giorno," Giulio said, forcing a smile.

The man grunted, a deep porcine sound, and Giulio's stomach churned. Was he really in Italy, on Capri? Then, when he was well past, the man released a reluctant "Buon gio'."

The first encounter was the worst. A few other peasants passed, some in silence, others with a good morning, and he began to feel a certain security. He himself looked like a peasant, Christ, his parents had been peasants, and he could talk Italian. This thing might work yet.

Staggering with fatigue he made the last climb up the narrow road to the opening of the piazzetta. Early as it was most of the shops were open. On the far side was a bold sign over a shop front that read FARMACIA. Below the sign were only heavy steel shutters. The pharmacy was closed.

A cold chill swept through Giulio as he realized, a little too late, why he should have waited until dawn to read the note. He was too early and, he felt, obvious and suspicious. Wasn't that policeman looking at him, chewing the toothpick and wondering who he was? Fear rattled the teeth in his head and sent him stumbling into the mouth of the nearest street. It was narrow and dark and there were steps down which he half fell. Around the first corner and into a narrower alleyway. Were there footsteps behind him? A dark storefront opened before him and he stumbled through it, blinking in the darkness.

"Si!" a voice rumbled, almost in his ear. A dark man with a two-day growth of beard stood there looking at him quizzically.

"Aspirin," Giulio said. "I need some aspirin."

"Pazzo," the man growled, the sour odor of rough wine washing out on his breath. "Get out of here."

Giulio peered into the cavernous gloom and saw the box with a few old potatoes, the crate of tomatoes next to it. "I thought this was the pharmacy," he said. So unconvincingly that he didn't even fool himself. "What time does the pharmacy open?"

"Out!" the proprietor said loudly, and made a dismissing and insulting gesture with the fingers of his right hand. Giulio went out and retraced his steps towards the piazzetta. There was no sign of the policeman, — that did not lessen his fear.

When he came back into the sunlight he saw a man with a long pole rolling up the steel shutter of the pharmacy. Giulio's heart beat rapidly as he dragged the heavy bag with him across the cobbles and towards the safety of the entrance. "Stuzzicadenti," he said as the man turned towards him.

He was young and clean-shaven and had the same suspicious eye as the greengrocer. An answer was beneath him and he just jerked his thumb towards the grocery store behind him.

"Aspirin?" Giulio asked hopefully, trying to smile and not succeeding. The young man looked him up and down slowly in economic appraisal. Apparently Giulio looked as though he could at least afford an aspirin or two. The young man shouldered the pole and silently led the way into the shop.

A fat man with a gray beard was behind the marble counter opening a package. He glanced up when Giulio entered, then turned his attention back to untangling the thick string. Fear was replaced by joy in Giulio's heart. He hurried to the man, leaned close, and whispered "Stuzzicadenti" in his ear.

"Marco, did anyone see him come in?" the man asked, talking over the top of Giulio's head.

"Only half the town," the young man answered.

"Stuzzicadentit" Giulio asked, hopefully.

"It's always that way, they send people who know nothing."

"Stuzzicadenti. .," in an unhappy moan.

"Toothpicks?" Graybeard asked, looking at Giulio for the first time. "Oh, yes, the stupid password thing. Wood? Nose? Tooth? No. Yes! Mouth. Bocca!"

"You took your time about it," Giulio muttered, put out by the reception.

"Shut up and follow me. Stay well back and look as though you are not following me. When they come looking for you I want everyone to know you left my shop."

He pulled on a natty pinstripe jacket, seized up a malacca cane from the corner, then strode out of the door and across the piazzetta. Giulio started to follow and was restrained by the strong arm of the youth. "Not so close. Watch where he goes."

Only after Graybeard had disappeared in a narrow alley did he release Giulio who hurried after. Rushing while trying not to rush, panting with the weight of the suitcase. He followed at a distance and, after a number of turns, was rewarded with the sight of his quarry entering a building. He strolled slower now, stopped and looked back. No one in sight. He pushed into a dark hallway and heard the door thud shut behind him. Another door opened and he followed the man into a cheerful room where wide-open double windows displayed a breathtaking view of the Bay of Naples. Graybeard waved him to a chair near the window, flashed a sudden gold-filled smile through the jungle of his beard, then seized up a bottle of wine from the sideboard.

"Welcome to Italy, Giulio. You may call me Pepino. How was the trip? You will have some of this wine, the native wine of this island, you will love it."

"How did you know my name?"

The smile vanished for a second, then aurously reappeared. "Please. I arranged all of this. I have your passport and papers here, with your picture on them. Tickets as well. I did all this and I tell you, it was not cheap." He glanced at the suitcase and his smile broadened. "So I am happy to see that you brought payment. May I have the case^"

Giulio held it tighter to him. "I was told to hand it over only when told a certain word."

"Your CIA has seen too many old spy films! Who else but me…" With mercurial ease Pepino's temper changed and he was smiling again. "But of course that's not your fault. The word is… merda. . there are so many of the stupid words to remember. This one is… shamarocka! There, got it right the first time."

With no more ceremony he pulled the suitcase to him, dropped it flat on the floor and flipped the catches. It was locked. He muttered something nasty under his breath and produced — rather quickly Giu-lio thought for such a fat man — a large black knife that flicked open with a very nasty sound. A few twists with this and the locks flew open, the knife vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. He threw the lid back and Giulio leaned forward to look, for he had no idea what he had been burdened with.

The suitcase was tightly packed with bundles of pantyhose. Chuckling with pleasure, Pepino broke a bundle open and waved the diaphanous limbs in the air. "I'm rich, I'm rich.” he whispered to himself. "More precious than gold."

Giulio nodded an amen to that. There was a fortune in the suitcase. Years earlier when petroleum had started to run out it had not only spelled the death of the auto and allied industries, but put paid to the petrochemical factories as well. What little supplies remained were reserved for essential pharmaceutical and industrial chemicals, and little or none for the manufacture of plastics. From being the most common material, plastic had become the rarest, and nonindustrial nylon the rarest of all. Of course a black market did exist, which only helped push up the price of such nonessentials as pantyhose.

"This is for you," Pepino said, passing over a battered wallet that had been tucked between the bundles. Giulio opened it and looked at the tightly wadded banknotes. He took one out and stared at it. A squat man, robed to the ears, stared back. The printing was in a strange language, and alphabet, and read something like NOTA AUTHAIRGTHE AUIG PHUNT.

"Put them away," Pepino ordered. "For expenses and bribes when you get there." He dumped the contents of the suitcase into a high wardrobe, then locked it. From a drawer, at the bottom of that same wardrobe, he took underclothes, socks, shirts, all of them ancient, faded and patched, and stowed them in the suitcase. In place of the broken clasps he sealed it with a length of rope tied round, then handed it over to Giulio.

"Time to go," he announced. "On the north side of the piazzetta are steps leading down to Marina Grande. Descend, neither too slowly nor too quickly, and in the harbor there you will find the ferry to Naples waiting. Here is a ticket, put it in an outside pocket if you please. This envelope contains your passport and all the other papers you will need. The ship will be easy enough to find. You may board any time today and I suggest you proceed there as soon as you land.

You will only get in trouble if you stay in the city. Good luck, that's it, finish your wine, and good luck with your mission whatever it is. If you get back alive tell your CIA what a fine job I have done. They are one of my best customers."

Moved on by these encouraging words, and a firm hand in the small of his back, Giulio carried the now lightened suitcase down the seemingly endless steps to the harbor. He had a clear view of the ferry tied up at the mole and saw that they were shaking out the sails. He could not miss it! Hurrying, as fast as he could, he reached the harbor in a rush, then staggered to a walk, streaming with sweat, when he saw that people were still boarding. But he was none too early, for soon after he had dropped wearily to the deck they cast off the lines, with a good deal of shouting, and the ferry moved out into the bay. There was a brisk following wind, thankfully since his stomach did not enjoy the voyage at all, and they were soon gliding by the docks of Naples.

Empty of course, except for some fishing boats and coastal traders. The world could not convert quickly from power to sail. The ferry moved past the rusting hulk of Ark Royal, flight deck canted at a sharp angle where she sat on the bottom. Sunk by sabotage the rumor had it, though holed through by rust was probably more likely. In the midst of these tiny sailboats and rusting despair, the great bulk of the St. Columba loomed large and impressive.

She stretched on and on, sleek metal and smooth paint, like something out of a history book. At her stern flapped an orange, white and green flag, while from her funnel trickled a thin streamer of pungent brown smoke. In a crumbling world she was a monument to the might of man and, suddenly, Giulio felt very happy. He was going to board her, travel on her, see this powerful machine in action. Since he was a child of the world's declining years he had known only grounded planes, skeletal cars, silent machines. Despite the danger of his mission he could not help but look forward with anticipation.

It was all he had ever dreamed of and more. The only formality was the actual boarding of the vessel. Sharp-eyed soldiers, weapons ready, guarded the dock against unwelcome visitors, and a uniformed officer examined his papers, stamped them, removed some, and waved him on. A cursory glance through his suitcase followed, then he was aboard. It was like entering the gates of paradise.

A ruddy, smiling purser checked his name on a list and assigned him to a b^rik. The man had a few words of basic Italian and a large vocabulary of gestures. Giulio made an effort not to understand the English.

"There you are, my lad, cabin number 144. Uno, quatro, quatro, do you have that? No kabeesh, ey? Sleep my old son, kip, dormir

there down below, bloody sotto, you know. Catch on? That's grand. Nod away, that's it, cools the brain. And here's a few quid against your month's wages. Soldi, got that? Can't have a man going thirsty. Fine now, move off, bugger avanti. Just follow the sounds of revel-ment and you can have a few jars with your mates to celebrate your voyage to the chosen land. Next."

The roar of masculine voices and laughter grew louder and louder as Giulio progressed down the corridor, until he pushed open the swinging doors of the saloon where the noise burst over him in a cloud of tobacco smoke and shouted Italian. Red-faced men, in shirts and neckties, were serving up great tankards of some dark, foaming beverage to dark-skinned, black-haired men who drank it at a ferocious rate. There were also smaller glasses of an amber fluid that was mixed with water from a jug. As Giulio pushed through to the bar he heard appreciative comments that while it was not good wine and heady grappa, it certainly was worth drinking in its own right. Roll on the ship. Giulio passed over one of the bank notes he had been given, the same, though of a smaller denomination, as those packed into his inner pocket. The Italians were right, the drinks were different but very palatable.

So were the meals. He went through the first one in a bit of a haze, but had joyous memories of a piece of meat big enough to feed a family of ten back home in Hoboken, floury potatoes, golden plates of butter, dark bread. All a dream — that was not a dream. But all too quickly the journey passed. He gained a few pounds on the voyage, enjoyed some massive hangovers and undoubtedly did immense damage to his liver.

The Italian passengers had very little contact with the crew of the ship. This did not appear to be a matter of policy, just that this was a working ship, a freighter for the most part, and the sailors were quite busy. This and the linguistic barrier kept them apart. Though Giulio did volunteer for a working party when one was requested; who knew what technical secrets lay in the bowels of the ship! He discovered little other than that the St. Columba was steam-powered, peat-fired, and built in Cork. All of which he was sure the CIA already knew. In exchange for this fragment of information he spent an exhausting afternoon shoveling peat past a broken conveyor belt from the bin. It was little solace that all of the others suffered as well, and returned to their quarters complaining bitterly and comparing the blisters on their hands.

Then the voyage was over. Gentle hills and an undulating coastline appeared ahead. The St. Columba moved slowly between the outstretched granite arms of the two great breakwaters and into the harbor. DUN LAOGHAIRE, a large sign said on the dockside building, but there was no clue as to how it was pronounced. With little ceremony the men, carrying their few belongings, were moved off the ship and boarded the waiting double-decker buses. AN LAR_; read the destination on the display boards, and all of the men chattered excitedly at the thrill of riding in a power-operated vehicle. The buses were silent too, obviously electrically powered, and moved out in a lumbering convoy for a short ride through narrow streets. There were green trees and small houses, gardens with flowers and parks with smooth, rich grass. The journey ended before a high wall and a tall, impressive-looking gate that opened to admit the fleet. The men unloaded in a large courtyard surrounded by interesting-looking buildings. Giulio tried to remember all of the details as he had been trained to do. As soon as the buses had left, with a cheery wave from the last driver, the gates swung shut again and a man mounted a platform and blew into the microphone there. His magnified breath echoed like a wind from the walls and the Italians grew silent and turned to look at him. He wore a dark suit with matching waistcoat, a gold chain draped across the full front of this, and smoked a large-bowled pipe which he pointed at them to emphasize a point. It was pointing now.

"My name is Mr. O'Leary," he said, "and I am in charge of this establishment. Some of you may speak English now and all of you will learn it if you intend to stay here. Gino here is the translator and he is going to translate now. But there are English classes every evening and you will be expected to attend. Tell them that, Gino."

O'Leary produced a lighter and proceeded to fire up his pipe while the translation was in progress. Then he nodded, whether at the translation or the tobacco was not made clear, and went on.

"You gentlemen are guest workers of Ireland. There are valuable jobs to be done here and I know you will enjoy doing them. The work is not hard, you will be fed well, will have a good deal of leisure time, will be permitted to send your salary home if you wish. Which will go to the church of your choice, which of course will be the Roman Catholic church. As we discover your qualifications and abilities you will find the best work suited to you. Some will become street sweepers, for we pride ourselves on the cleanliness of our cities, and others will have the pleasure of being dustmen and riding the great and powerful vehicles that perform this vital function of the community. There are opportunities galore for you." He tamped down the smoldering jobacco with his thumb and appeared not to hear the mutter that muttered, across his audience.

"Yes, I know that you applied for skilled jobs, masons and carpenters and the like, but if my experience of past drafts is correct there isn't an honest workingman here." There was steel in his voice now and a new hardness in his eyes. "Nor a single callus on the soft hands of the lot of you. But that's all right. We know that you all are rich or know someone rich enough to enable you to afford the bribes and forgeries of papers that got you here. It'll not be held against you. You will be expected to work hard and measure up. And if you do not you will be shipped home forthwith. But live up to the terms of your contract and we will live up to ours. You will enjoy your stay on our shores. Remember, you will be permitted to send food parcels and manufactured articles to your families at home. You will prosper on the healthy diet of the land. You will drink Guinness and grow strong. You will assemble here at half-seven tomorrow morning to begin carrying bricks for the construction of the new power plant."

At this O'Leary turned away — was there a twinkle in his eye? — and left before the translation was finished so that the groan that greeted his final words followed him through a small door. His audience went, somewhat crestfallen, to their quarters.

But not Giulio. Depressed? Never! Power plant! This was the best luck ever.

It was drizzling next morning and in groups of ten, damp and cold, they stood in the courtyard. Each group next to a large pile of singularly massive-looking bricks. A squat and solid man with large red hands talked to Giulio and his companions and held out an object towards them. It had a long wooden handle that supported two boards, set edge to edge to make a V.

"This," he said, "this, my good lads, is a hod. Got that? Hod, hod. Let me hear you say it. Hod?"

"Hod," one man said, then others, "hod, hod."

"Very good. You're a bright lot and you'll learn fast. Now this is a wee bit of a hod, as anyone who knows about such things will tell you, but that is because the bricks are not the normal, weak, crumbling things that you are used to in your foreign lands."

The men listened, puzzled, and Giulio tried to appear as unknowing as the others. The mere fact that no one understood their instructor did not seem to bother him nor halt the flow of his words.

"Time was when you had to carry a great hod just heaped with bricks, but now there are but three in a load. Why, you might ask, only three? Well I'll be happy to tell you. There are but three because they're bloody heavy, that's why, seeing as how they are now the Irish Standard Brick and made of solid granite and good for the centuries. Just pick one up — if you can that is, you there, Tony my lad, smile away, but this is no bag of pasta, that's it. Touch of the old hernia there if you don't learn to lift better…"

"Paddy," a voice called out. "I need a pair of brawny lads to unload a lorry. Got any to spare?"

"They're a puny lot and you can have them all. Take what you will for I despair of ever making good union hod carriers out of any of them."

The newcomer stood behind them and pointed to the nearest man. "You then, Tony, come-o with me-o. Got that? And you too, Tony." He jabbed a finger at Giulio and waved him over. Giulio went through a pantomime with him, of pointing to his chest and nodding and so forth, then followed meekly. Excited.

Through a small gate and then another. Towards a great, window-less building that dominated all the others around it. From high on the wall, standing forth on hulking white insulators, great electric cables reached out to a tall pylon and beyond. This was it!

"Grand sight, isn't it, Tony? Nothing like that back in the land of pasta, is there? But work first then. Boxes off lorry-o, on to handcart. And bloody smart if you don't mind. Like this. Got it?"

It did not take long. The lorry pulled away and two men pushed off the handcart. "More lorry, got that?" their guide shouted, waving and pointing at the ground at the same time. "Take a kip and we'll be back."

The drizzle had stopped and the sun was out. Giulio's companion curled against the wall and was instantly asleep. Giulio pulled a blade of grass that was growing from a crack in the paving, chewed on it, and looked around. No one in sight, very lax, but the Irish were always this way. Their weakness, and he had been instructed how to take advantage of it. Look around. He strolled towards the high wall nearby and to the small door bearing the legend KEEP OUT — POWER PLANT PERSONNEL ONLY.

Did he dare? Why not, that was what he was here for, sooner or later he would have to make the attempt. The door was locked but he recognized the brand of lock; he had been well instructed on it. The lockpick was concealed behind his belt buckle and dropped into his fingers at a touch. Still no one in sight. Insert, lift, press. . turn.

The door swung open. He was through in a second and it closed behind. A brightly lit passage stretched away before him, — his heart beat like a hammer in his chest. Carry on, he could do nothing else. Down the corridor. Doors. All closed. Numbered. They could be anything. Then, another one. He stopped still, quavering at the sign on it.

TECHNICAL MANUALS STORE.

He Jiad done it! The same kind of lock, twist and open, darkness beyond, a glimpse of shelves before he closed the door behind him. Grope for a light switch, there, flick it on…

"Do come in, Giulio," the man said. "Sit down, here across the desk from me. Cigarette? No, I forgot, you don't smoke, do you."

Numb, unbelieving, Giulio slid into the chair and tried not to gape at the smiling man on the other side of the desk. He wore a uniform of some kind, three pips on his shoulder straps, and nodded in a most friendly manner across his tented fingers. "There, that's better," he said. "I suppose you're CIA, but not career I hope. Could I have your correct name?"

Giulio finally found his voice. "Scusi, signore, no cap—"

"Please, Giulio, don't waste our time. You see we found this in your pocket. We do make searches, you know." He held up a blue matchbook with white lettering that read UNITED STATES NAVY.

Giulio gasped and his spine softened and he slumped even more.

"No cooperation? Oh dear, oh dear, but you are being difficult. My name is Power, Captain Power. And yours? Oh well, if I must."

The captain came around the desk and in a sudden lightning motion secured Giulio in an unbreakable grip. He even managed to have a hand free with which he pressed Giulio's fingers onto a white card on the desk; fingerprints appeared on it an instant later. Power released Giulio, took the card by the edge and looked at the prints critically, nodded, then dropped it through a slot in the desk's top.

"That should do. While we're waiting for results we'll go look at the power plant. Well don't gape like that — that's why you're here, isn't it? Ireland's pride and joy, and the envy of the world at large." He opened the door for Giulio and showed him out, and continued to talk as they strolled down the corridor. "In a world of declining resources and failed power supplies we here find ourselves quite happy on this fruitful island of ours. The crops and the herds are the best, sure we've always grown more than enough for our own needs, and a bit over. And peat, all we could ever need, we've been generating electricity with it for years, now we use it in our ships. But power, that's our secret, isn't it? The reason why you're here. And steel too, for we've enough of that. We prosper in an unhappy world and help others where we can, but we are a small nation after all. In here if you please." He eased open a massive door. "Now, I ask you— isn't that a glorious sight?"

It was indeed something. They stood on a balcony high up on the wall of an immense chamber. The sound and heat and motion at first made it hard to understand what was happening. Steam hissed and curled up from the floor where great turbines spun. A conveyor belt carried an endless stream of stone bricks from an opening in one wall, to vanish through an opening in the other. Giulio blinked, trying to make sense of it all. Captain Power explained.

"When the granite bricks drop into the steam chamber they are practically still molten, temperature in the thousands of degrees, I understand. We had lots of trouble in the beginning with them fracturing, blowing up like bombs and that sort of thing. All licked now of course. After they leave the steam, and are a bit cooler, they fall into the water and generate more steam and on and on. And the steam drives the generators and that's really about all there is to it."

"But. . no, that cannot be." Giulio was stammering, confused. "Where do the bricks come from?"

"I thought you would never ask. If you will walk this way you will meet one of the men responsible."

The walk was shorter, and the room they entered larger than the first, and filled with odd equipment. A tall man with a shining bald head, fringed with remnants of red hair, sat on a couch reading a computer printout.

"Giulio," Power said. "I want you to meet Sean Raftery."

"A pleasure.” Sean said, standing and taking Giulio's hand and giving it a hearty shake. "You're a brave man to come this far, and with a good education too, as I have been reading. Giulio," he glanced at the printout, "Giulio Balietti. Born in Hoboken, New Jersey — what an unusual name for a city — college. . university. . ahh, a doctorate in physics, atomic physics. And quite young too."

"Atomics," Captain Power said. "They're still looking in that direction. Well, more strength to them."

"Then. . you know…" Giulio said.

"Of course. We pride ourselves on our records. You're not the first, you know. We used to try to keep them out, then we discovered it was much easier to let them in and take care of them then."

"You're going to kill me!"

"Nonsense — we're not the CIA, after all. This is a civilized country. We are going to show you Ireland's great secret, then remove— with no pain — your memory of today. You have worked so hard to get this far we thought it only fair to let you find what you are seeking after. Also, we have discovered that after the memory-removal process the agent is much more relaxed having once actually known what he wanted to know. Somewhere in the subconscious there is a feeling of success and this is most important. Sean, if you please."

"Of course. Our secret, Giulio, is the tapping of an immense strength in the Irish personality and character that has always existed, has always been seen, but never channeled in the right direction. The poets and the authors have taken from this mighty stream and profited thereby. Someone once said about an Irish author, with cruel intent.but nevertheless it holds a germ of truth, that anyone could write that way if they abandoned their mind to it. Perhaps. But only the Irish can do it without scarcely trying."

Giulio watched, eyes widening, as Captain Power wheeled a black suit, like a parody of a medieval suit of armor, before Sean Raftery. It was ugly as an Iron Maiden but seemed to raise no fears in Sean who voluntarily pushed his arms into the extensions of the thing. He even smiled as it was locked around his body.

"The flow of wit and Irish humor is famous, our actors known worldwide, their abilities to express themselves famous." But his powers of expression seemed to be lagging. He stumbled over words and began to repeat himself. "Please excuse. . excuse if you will. You see this is a sensory deprivation suit. I cannot feel anything with my body or hands, I cannot use them. . But, praise be to God, I can still talk.."

Sean's eyes widened and his words were muffled into silence as Captain Power slipped a soft but strong gag over his mouth. The captain continued.

"And there you have it. Complete sensory deprivation so the subject cannot gesticulate or point his fingers or walk about. Communication is damaged by that. Communication and the flow of language damned up completely by the gag. So what do we have, you ask? We have, I answer, a mighty torrent of expression seeking a way out. We have a genius for communication without an outlet. But— wait, an outlet is still left. The brain! With no other way of expressing the pressure of thoughts churning in the mighty Irish brain, the mighty Irish brain expresses itself by direct contact with the outside world. That glass on the table — would you please, Sean?"

The glass lifted suddenly into the air, swooped about like a bird and landed again on the table with ease.

"Direct manipulation of matter by the mind. But much graver than conjurer's tricks like this one. Sean, and the others on his team, reach deep into the molten heart of the earth with their minds, miles deep, and open a hole to the surface. The magma, liquid rock, is forced through this hole, a solid rod of lava being ejected into the tank out there. Or rather it would be a solid rod if the opening was not opened and closed regularly to cut the rod into the bricks you have already seen. At other times, delving deeper, they tap the molten iron core of our planet and bring the purest iron into our rolling mills. It is a wonder indeed."

He smiled at Giulio and signaled to Sean. "Now, lightly, touch his memories and excise this day."

Giulio jumped to his feet, tried to run, to flee, but blackness fell.

"Chi e lei!" Giulio said to the officer behind the desk, who was industriously studying a computer printout.

"No games, please, this is a busy office," Captain Power told him. "We have your complete record here. You are Dr. Giulio Balietti, an atomic physicist. You were sent here by the CIA to unearth our technical secrets. This is espionage and you could be shot for it… Here, sit down, you're so pale. A glass of water? No? That's better. But we are a kindly people and we are giving you a choice. You may return home now and tell the CIA to leave us alone. Or you may remain here as long as you refrain from further espionage. There is an opening for a lecturer in atomic physics at Trinity College. Just part-time I'm afraid, a few hours a week. Until there is a better position you will have to do other work as well. We have found that academics enjoy peat cutting. Healthy, outdoor occupation, very relaxing when you are used to it. A lot of our older people like to have peat fires of handcut turf and it is not too much of an effort to indulge them. So what do you say?"

What did he say? A memory of Hoboken, the endless gray poverty, the plankton and soy food, the drab existence. Stay, why not, he wasn't being asked to give his word. He could still keep his eyes open, look for the Irish secret, bring it back to the U.S. if he could. His duty was to stay.

"Trinity and the peat bog," he said, firmly.

"Good man. Here, this way, I want you to meet Herr Professor Doktor Schmidt. A physicist also…"

"Nein, you forget, my captain. It is Ivan who is the Physikei. I am simple chemist. Come — Giulio is your name? — we have a good chat and I show you how to use the peat shovel. A most satisfactory tool."

They left, arm in arm, out into the falling rain.

The Day After the End of the World

It wasn't a very big piece of the world, but it was all that was left. Around it in space floated other fragments of the destroyed planet, just chunks of rock and dirt and bits of debris. But the large piece had the best part of a farmhouse on it, with a tree in front, and a patch of grass with a frozen sheep standing on it. The sheep was staring in a very fixed manner. That was all there was. The sheer edge dropped away on all sides, just bare dirt with bits of roots sticking out of it. The man sat on the edge of the world, his legs dangling, and dropped a twig over. It fell swiftly from sight. His name was Frank and the girl, in the swing hanging from the branch of the tree, was named Gwenn.

"It's not like I tried to force you or anything," Frank said, looking very glum. "You know, or be beastly. I was just upset, you should understand that, what with the end of the world and everything. Feeling very lonely. I thought maybe, you know, a little kiss would help me forget. Help us both forget."

"Yes, Frank," Gwenn said and pushed with her foot so she swung a bit.

"So you really had no cause to slap me. We are shipmates after all."

"I said that I was sorry I hit you, Frank. I'm a little upset too, you should understand that. It's not every day that this sort of thing happens."

"No, not every day."

"You shouldn't be angry at me. Can you give me a push?"

"It's not that I'm angry," he said, standing and brushing the bits of frozen grass from the leg of his uniform. "Hurt maybe, depressed really. Struck by the woman I love." He gave the swing an indifferent shove.

"Please don't start that talk again, Frank. It's all over. You just say that because you want to do you-know-what with me. And you know I love someone else."

"Gwenn darling, face facts. You're not going to see Robert again, ever…"

"You can't be sure."

"Believe me, I'm sure. The whole world's blown up, bang, just like that, without warning, and everyone with it. We were in the spaceship on the other side of the moon or we would have blown up too. But Robert's gone with it. He was in Minneapolis and Minneapolis is gone."

"We don't know."

"We know. I don't think Minneapolis had any special dispensation. All we found with the search radar is this chunk of the world. This is the biggest piece that there is."

Gwenn frowned at the thought and put out her leg so the swing topped. "There might be a piece of Minneapolis too…"

"And if Robert is on it he is frozen just like that sheep."

"You're so cruel — you just want to hurt me!"

"No, please." He took her by the shoulders carefully, standing behind her. "I want anything but that. It's just that you must face up to the truth. There's just you and me now. And I love you. I mean that, sincerely."

While he spoke his hands gently caressed her shoulders and moved down her arms, out onto the sweet swell of her breasts. But Gwenn shrugged out of his embrace and jumped to her feet, walking quickly away from him. She looked down at the immobile sheep.

"I wonder if he felt anything?" she asked.

"Who — Robert or the sheep?"

"Oh, you are cruel!"

She stamped her foot in anger — then raised her hand as he moved towards her. Frank growled something indecipherable under his breath and dropped into the swing.

"Let's be realistic," he said. "Let's forget everything that happened on the ship. Forget I made a pass at you, forget that I tried to get you into the sack. Forget it. Let's start fresh. Face the situation that we're in. The two of us alone. I'm Adam and you're Eve…"

"Gwenn."

"I know your name is Gwenn. I mean we're like Adam and Eve and it is up to us to keep the human race going. Do you understand?"

"Yes. You're still trying to seduce me."

"God damn it, it doesn't matter what you think! It's our duty. We may have been spared by divine providence…"

"You told me that you were an atheist."

"Well you said that you go to church. I'm looking at it from your point of view."

"And I'm looking at it from yours. You're oversexed."

"Be happy that I am. We must be fruitful. We owe it to the human race.'"

Gwenn patted the sheep's head, deep in thought. "I don't know," she finally said. "It might be best to end it all right here. We blew up the world, didn't we? That's what you might call pollution on a really impressive scale."

"You can't mean that. We don't know what happened. It could have been an accident…"

"Some accident."

"Well, you know…" Frank jumped from the swing and came towards her. "Forget the human race then.” he pleaded. "Think of you and me. The two of us. The warmth of contact, the end of loneliness, the thrill of the kiss, touch of flesh…"

"If you come any closer I'll scream!"

"Scream away!" Frank shouted, angry and bitter, grabbing her, pulling her to him. "Who's going to hear? I love you. . want you. . need you…"

She pushed at him desperately, turning her face back and forth away from his but he was far stronger. He kissed her neck, her cheek — and she stopped struggling.

"Are you some kind of rapist?" she asked in a very low voice, looking him straight in the eyes. For a moment longer he held her. Then dropped his hands and stepped away.

"No. I'm not a rapist. Just a nice middle-class boy with a strong sex drive and plenty of guilt."

"That's better."

"It is not better — it's a lot worse! I mean what am I doing, the last man alive on Earth, feeling guilt? My bourgeois world is gone but I still carry it around with me. What do you think would happen to you if I were a real male chauvinist pig and just grabbed you and worked my will upon you?"

"Don't talk dirty."

"I'm not talking dirty — I'm just trying to knock some sense through your dumb blond head. It's you and I, get it? Just the two of us. We've got this chunk of the world and I've anchored our spaceship under it to give us gravity and air and the atomic pile will keep it this way for a thousand years. The food synthesizer will make all the food we need so we are all set, in a manner of speaking."

"All set for what?"

"That's what I'm asking you. Are we going to grow old gracefully, and separately, just good chums, you knitting and me watching old TV tapes? Do you want that?"

"I didn't think much of that dumb-blond remark."

"Don't change the subject. Is that the way you want it?"

"I haven't thought about…"

"Well think. We're here. Alone. For the rest of our lives."

"It does bear thinking about." She cocked her head to the side and looked at him, as though for the first time. "You can kiss me if you like," she said.

"That's more like it!"

"But no funny business. Just that. In the nature of an experiment you might say."

Now invited, Frank approached almost shyly. Gwenn had her eyes closed and she shivered when he put his arms around her. He drew her close, held her to him, lowered his lips and kissed her closed eyes. She trembled again but did not move away. Nor did she protest when his lips found her mouth, kissing long and lovingly. When he dropped his arms and stepped back she slowly opened her eyes; he smiled at her tenderly.

"Robert kissed better," she said.

In sudden rage Frank kicked the sheep — then hopped around holding his foot and moaning in pain for the solidly frozen sheep was hard as rock.

"And I suppose he was good in bed too," he said bitterly.

"He was marvelous," Gwenn admitted. "Just wonderful. That's why I find it so hard to even look at another man. And I'm carrying his baby and that makes it even more difficult."

"You are what. .?"

"Pregnant. These things happen, you know. Robert doesn't know yet. ."

"Nor will he ever."

"Don't be horrid."

"Sorry. This is wonderful, greatest news ever. We've just increased the gene pool of the human race by fifty percent. Robert's son can marry our daughter, or vice versa."

"That's incest!"

"It wasn't incest in the Bible, was it? Not when you are starting the world, that's the rule. It's only incest much later on."

Gwenn walked over and sat in the swing again, thinking deeply. Then she sighed.

"It just won't work," she said. "It goes against everything. First you want us to make love without being married, and that's a sin…"

"You did it with Robert!"

"Yes, but we planned to get married someday. But now we can't. Nor can you and I be married because there is no one to marry us. And you want to have children and have them commit incest — it's just too horrible. That's no way to start a world."

"Do you have any better ideas?"

"No, not really. But I don't like yours."

Frank dropped heavily to the ground and shook his head with astonishment.

"I just can't believe this is happening," he said, mostly to himself. "The last man alive and the last woman alive and we're arguing theology." He sprang to his feet in sudden anger.

"No! I'm not going to argue anymore, not discuss it." He tore at his shirt, struggling to take it off. "It all begins again, right here, now. The world starts afresh. I will not be lumbered by a moral code that is just as disintegrated as the planet that bore it. I am all. The language I speak will be the language of all the generations to come. If I say 'ugggh' for 'water/ everyone, forever, will say 'ugggh' and never question it. My power is godlike!"

"You're crazy!" She drew away as he advanced.

"I am if I want to be. I am all. I shall ravish you and beat you and you will love me for it. If you don't I'll beat you some more. Now why don't you scream?" He threw his shirt to the ground and advanced on her. "I'm the only one who will hear the scream and I don't care about it."

He undid his fly and she uttered a muffled scream. He only laughed.

"Make the choice!" he shouted. "Enjoy it or hate it for it makes no difference to me. I am godhead, sperm-bearer, almighty. From my loins a new race will spring…"

He stopped suddenly as they both swayed.

"Did you feel that?" Frank asked. Gwenn nodded. "The ground, it moved as though something bumped into us."

"Another ship!" he said quickly closing his fly. He grabbed up his shirt and hurried to put it on. Gwenn pushed her hair with her hand and wished that she had a mirror with her.

"There's someone coming," Frank said, pointing. "There." They drew together unconsciously at the scratching from below their world. There was the sound of panting breath and a man climbed painfully up over the edge. He wore a one-piece boiler suit with only his head and hands exposed.

They were green.

"He's. . green," Gwenn said. Frank did not have a ready answer. The man climbed to his feet and brushed dirt from his hands and bowed slightly in their direction.

"I hope I'm not intruding," he said.

"No, that's fine," Gwenn said. "Do come in."

"Why are you green?" Frank asked.

"I might very well ask why you are pink."

"No jokes," Frank shouted, making a fist. "Or else."

"I'm very sorry," the man said, raising his green hands and taking a step backwards. "I do beg your pardon. All of this is very upsetting, as it must be to you. I am green because I am not human. I am from another world."

"A little green man!" Gwenn gasped.

"I'm not that little," the man pouted.

"I'm Frank and this is Gwenn."

"Pleased to meet you, I'm sure. You would find my name hard to pronounce so I suggest that you call me Robert."

"Not Robert!" Gwenn wailed. "He's dead."

"I do beg your pardon. Anything then. Would 'Horace' suit?"

"Horace, just what are you doing here?" Frank asked.

"Well, now that's a little complicated. If I might begin at the beginning…"

"How is it you speak English so well?" Gwenn said.

"That comes later too, if you will bear with me." He strolled back and forth, marking his points on his fingers. "Firstly, I come from a distant planet around a sun a good number of parsecs from here. We're doing a survey and I was assigned this section of the galaxy. When I first saw your world I was most impressed. Green, as you can well imagine, is a favorite color of ours. I set the recorders rolling and made as complete a record as I could in a limited time. That would be a bit over two hundred of your years."

"You don't look that old," Gwenn said.

"Different life spans, you know. I won't tempt your credibility by giving my real age."

"I'm twenty-two," she said.

"How very nice. Now, if I might continue. I recorded everything as I have been trained to do, learned a few of your languages — I do pride myself on a certain linguistic ability — and bit by bit I came to a singularly horrifying realization. The human race is — was I should say a rather nasty piece of work."

"You're not much of a charmer yourself either, Greeny," Frank called out. Horace chose to ignore the outburst.

"By that I mean to say yours is a most successful race, strong, intelligent, fertile, most successful indeed. It was the way that you obtained that success that was so frightening. You are killers."

"Survival," Frank said firmly. "We had no other choice. Eat or be eaten, kill or be killed. Survival of the fittest."

"I'll not argue with that. There is of course only one way for any race to survive and I appreciate the point. It's what a race does after it has taken over a world that interests me. Ours became the dominant race on our planet many aeons ago. Since then we have preserved the other species, the rule of peace and law has prevailed. Whilst your people, while wiping out the other species, were still not satisfied and continued to kill one another as well. I found it most depressing?"

"No one asked your opinion," Frank said.

"Of course. But I still know what I observed and it not only depressed me, but made me worried as well. My planet is not that distant; astronomically speaking; and it was within reason that you might find us one day. And if you did you would probably try to kill us as well."

"I don't think there is much chance of that now.” Gwenn said, dropping into the swing and looking unhappy once again.

"Yes, it may be a theoretical point now, but it must be considered nevertheless. So there was I, an intelligent and peaceful individual, a vegetarian who would never consider harming as much as a fly, there was I worrying about the possible destruction of my world. It was a moral dilemma as you can see.”

"No I can't," Frank said, shaking his head. Then he snapped his head up. "Say — did you have anything to do with what happened to the world?"

"I'll get to that in a moment."

"A simple yes or no now will do."

"Nothing is ever that simple. Please hear me out. It was most dramatic you see, for there I was firmly mounted on the horns of this dilemma. And no one to help me decide. The voyage home is quite a long one and by the time I would have made it and consulted with my superiors and they had made their minds up, well you people might very well have made your own starships and have been on the way to visit us. No, I had to make my mind up right there and then. If I did nothing you would build your ships and come and destroy us. There I was, a creature of peace, thinking the unthinkable."

"You did blow up the world!" Frank said, striding forward.

"Please! No violence!" Horace said, raising his hands and shying away. "I can't stand violence.” Frank stopped, wanting to hear the rest, yet his fists were still clenched. "Thank you, Frank. As I was saying I was thinking the unthinkable. I could not resort to violence to make peace — or could I? If I did nothing my people would be destroyed. So it came down to a choice between which race was to survive. Yours or mine. So of course when it was phrased that way the answer was clear. Mine. Since we are far older and more intelligent, generally more interesting and attractive than you are. And peaceful."

"So you blew up our world," Frank said in a low voice.

"That wasn't very peaceful," Gwenn said.

"No I suppose that it wasn't. But it was just an isolated case, really. After a great many centuries of peace in the past, and of course many more to come in the future."

"Why are you here?" Frank asked. "Why are you telling us this?"

"Why — to apologize of course. I'm very sorry it had to work out like this."

"Not half as sorry as we are, you bright green son of a bitch."

"Well if I thought you weren't going to be gentlemanly about it I wouldn't have come."

Frank lunged forward, but Gwenn came between them stopping him.

"Frank, please," she begged. "I can't bear the thought of any more violence. I shall scream. And you did this all by yourself, Mr. Horace?"

"Horace, a forename, if you please. Yes I did. I take all of the responsibility."

"What about the others aboard your ship?" she asked.

"I am alone. Very automated you know. It took me a while to work out the formula, I don't think there has ever been a planet-buster bomb before, but I did it in the end. It wasn't easy, but I did it. For the sake of peace."

"That has a familiar ring to it," Frank said.

"I am quoting one of your generals in a war a few years ago. 'I killed them in order to save them.' But I'm not that hypocritical. I killed your planet in order to save mine. Just playing by your rules, you see."

"I see," Frank said, very calmly. "But you said you were alone. How about the other green man climbing over the ledge, there behind you?"

"Impossible, I assure you."

When he turned to look, Frank stepped forward and struck him a mighty blow on the jaw. The alien folded nicely and Frank sat on him and choked him until the body was still. Gwenn looked on and nodded approvingly.

"I'll take the feet," Frank said.

Without another word they carried the body to the edge of the cliff and slung it over, watching as it spiraled out among the rest of the space debris.

"We have to find his ship," Frank said.

"No, kiss me first. Hard."

"Yum," Frank said long moments later when he emerged from the embrace breathless and happy. "That was pretty good. Might I ask what brought it on?"

"I want to get used to your kisses, your embraces. We will have to raise a large family if we intend to repopulate the entire world."

"I couldn't agree more. Could I also ask you what made you change your mind?"

"Him, that creature. He can't get away with it."

"You'retlamn right! Revenge! Raise the family, teach them to fly, build bombs, go out and find those alien bastards and blow them out of space. Prove that he was right after all. We'll get our revenge."

"I certainly hope so. He can't kill my Robert and get away with it."

"Robert! Is that why you're doing this? What about everyone else? The billions, the rest of the world?"

"I didn't know anyone else in Minneapolis."

"If Horace had known about Robert I'll bet you he would have thought twice about blowing up the world."

"Well, he didn't and that was his mistake. Shall we go now?"

"Do you want to bring the sheep?"

Gwenn looked at it and frowned in thought. "No," she finally said. "It looks so nice there. And it will give us something to come home to."

"Right. Out for revenge. Make plans. Build bombs, raise children for revenge. Destroy."

"It doesn't sound so nice when you say it that way."

Frank rubbed his jaw. "Now that you mention it, it doesn't. But we really have no choice."

"Don't we? Just because that horrible little green man blew up a whole world, it doesn't mean that we have to act the same way."

"Of course it doesn't. But there is justice! An eye for an eye, you know the sort of thing."

"I do. I am well read in the Old Testament. But just because this was done and we learned to do it, that doesn't mean that it's right, does it?"

"I find your syntax difficult but your thought simple. What are you trying to say is that our world is gone. We can't restore it by blowing up another world. If the aliens are as peaceful as Horace said, then it would be a crime to destroy them as well. After all — they didn't blow up the world."

"It makes you pause to think."

"It sure does — and I'm sorry that I did. There was something nice and clear-cut about blowing up their planet because they blew up ours."

"I know. But still, it's a bad habit to get into."

"You're right. Start blowing up planets and you never know where it will end. So we have a chance not to go on with the old eye-for-eye tooth-for-tooth business. If we build our own world, just you and I and our kids, we'll be building on something other than vengeance for a change. That's a big challenge."

Gwenn dropped heavily into the swing. "I get a little frightened when you talk like that," she said. "It's a big enough responsibility starting a whole world, but starting a whole moral system is even more important. No killing, no violence…"

"Peace and love on Earth to all men. The sort of thing the Church was saying while they were blessing the troops. Only this time we would mean it. Turn the other cheek in a really big way. Forget the fact that they blew up our world. Prove that Horace was wrong. Then, when we meet them someday, they would have to apologize for him."

"We apologize for him right now.” the green man said, climbing up over the edge of the world.

Gwenn screamed and fell back. "Horace — you're not dead!" she gasped.

The green man shook his head. "Sorry," he said, "but the individual you knew as Horace is dead. And after what I have heard just now I tend to agree that his death was richly deserved. He destroyed a world and was punished for it."

"Horace said that he was alone," Frank said; his fists were clenched again.

"He lied. There were two of us and he volunteered to meet with you two, the only survivors and explain what had happened. I will bring the recording back to our planet. There will be great mourning at the destruction of your world."

"Thanks," Frank said, in a very unthankful voice. "It really makes me feel better. And you helped him blow up the world?"

The green man thought for a moment, then nodded reluctantly.

" 'Help' is too strong a word. In the beginning I disagreed with his analysis of the situation. In the end I reluctantly agreed…"

"You helped. So now you go home and tell everyone what happened, and tell them that the survivors are building a new world and maybe you had better think of blowing us up too in case our descendants aren't as generous and understanding as we are. They might want to come and blow you up as a precautionary measure."

"No, really, I wouldn't advise a course of action like that…"

"But there is a possibility that it might be done in any case, despite your advice?"

"I hope not. But there is of course always the possibility…"

"Another green son of a bitch," Gwenn said, drawing a small pistol from her pocket and shooting the alien.

"That about sums it up," Frank said, sighing, looking at the crumpled body. "I suppose now we'll have to find their ship and kill any more of them that might be there."

"And then take the ship and go blow their planet up," Gwenn added.

"No other choice. As Horace said, we have a reputation for this sort of thing. Best to live up to it."

"I wouldn't be comfortable if we didn't," Gwenn said. "I would worry about our children and their children, you know. Best to get it over with."

"You're right of course. And after we blow them up then we'll teach the kids about turning the other cheek and that kind of thing. It will be all right then."

"Shall we go now?"

"I guess we had better," Gwenn said, looking around at the last little bit of the world. "It may be a long trip so the earlier we start the better. Do we want to bring the sheep?"

"No. I'll turn the air off. It will keep nicely. It looks so peaceful here. And it will give us something to come home to."

The Man From P.I.G

"This is the end of our troubles, Governor, it sure is!" the farmer said. The rustic next to him nodded agreement and was moved enough by the thought to lift the hat from his head, shout "Yipppee" once, then clamp it back on.

"Now, I can't positively promise anything," Governor Haydin said; but there was more than a hint of eagerness in his words, and he twirled his moustache with extraordinary exuberance. "Don't know any more about this than you do. We radioed for help, and the Patrol said they'd do something…"

"And now a starcruiser is in orbit up there and her tender is on the way down," the farmer broke in, finishing the Governor's sentence. "Sounds good enough for me. Help is on the way!"

The heavens boomed an answer to his words, and a spike of brilliant flame burned through the low-lying clouds above the field as the stubby form of the tender came into view. The crowd along the edge — almost the entire population of Trowbri City — burst into a ragged cheer. They restrained themselves as the ship rode its fiery exhaust down to the muddy field, settling in a cloud of stream, — but as soon as the jets flicked off, they surged forward to surround it.

"What's in there, Governor," someone asked, "a company of space commandos or suchlike?"

"The message didn't say — just asked for a landing clearance."

There was a hushed silence as the gangway ground out of its slot below the port and the end clattered down into the mud. The outer hatch swung open with the shrill whine of an electric motor, and a man stepped into the opening and looked down at the crowd.

"Hi," he said. Then he turned and waved inside. "C'mon out, you-all," he shouted, and he put his fingers to his lips and whistled shrilly.

His words evoked a chorus of high-pitched cries and squeals from inside the tender. Then out of the port and down the gangway swept a thundering wave of animals. Their backs — pink, black-and-white, and gray — bobbed up and down, and their hooves beat out a rumble of sound on the perforated metal.

"Pigs!" the Governor shouted, his angry voice rising over the chorus of porcine squeals. "Is there nothing but pigs aboard this ship?"

"There's me, sir," the man said, stopping in front of the Governor. "Wurber's my name, Bron Wurber, and these here are my animals. I'm mighty glad to meet you."

Governor Haydin's eyes burned a track up from the ground, slowly consuming every inch of the tall man who stood before him — taking in the high rubber boots; the coarse material of the crumpled trousers, — the heavy, stained folds of the once-red jacket; the wide, smiling face and clear blue eyes of the pig farmer. The Governor winced when he saw the bits of straw in the man's hair. He completely ignored Wurber's outstretched hand.

"What are you doing here?" Haydin demanded.

"Come to homestead. Figure to open me a pig ranch. It'll be the only pig ranch for more'n fifty light-years in any direction — and not meanin' to boast, that's savin' a lot." He wiped his right hand on his jacket, then slowly extended it again. "Name's Wurber, — most folk call me Bron because that's my first name. I'm afraid I didn't catch yours?"

"Haydin.” the Governor said, reluctantly extending his hand. "I'm the Governor here." He looked down abstractedly at the rounded, squealing forms that milled about them in a churning circle.

"Why, I'm that pleased to meet you, Governor. It's sure a big job you got here," Bron said, happily pumping the other's hand up and down.

The rest of the spectators were already leaving; and when one of the pigs — a great, rounded sow — came too close to them, a man turned and lashed out an ironshod boot. Her shrill screams sliced the air like a buzzsaw run wild as she fled.

"Here, none of that," Bron shouted over the backs of his charges. The angry man just shook his fist backward and went away with the rest of the crowd.

"Clear the area," an amplified voice bellowed from the tender. "Blastoff in one minute. Repeat, sixty seconds to blastoff."

Bron whistled again and pointed to a grove of trees at the edge of the field. The pigs squealed in answer and began moving in that direction. The trucks and cars were pulling out, and when the churning herd — with Bron and the Governor at its center — reached the edge of the field, only the Governor's car was left. Bron started to say something, but his words were drowned out by the tender's rockets and the deafening squealing and grunting of fright that followed it. When it died away, he spoke again.

"If you're drivin' into the city, sir, I wonder if you'd let me drive along with you. I have to file my land claims and all that kind of paperwork."

"You wouldn't want to do that," the Governor said, groping around for an excuse to get rid of the rustic clod. "This herd is valuable property; you wouldn't want to leave all these pigs here alone."

"Do you mean there're criminals and thieves in your town?"

"I didn't say that," Haydin snapped. "The people here are as decent and law-abiding as any you can find. It's just that, well, we're a little short of meat animals and the sight of all that fresh pork on the hoof…"

"Why, that notion is plumb criminal, Governor. This is the finest breedin' stock that money can buy, and none of them are for slaughterin'. Do you realize that every critter here will eventually be the ancestor of entire herds of—"

"Just spare me the lecture on animal husbandry. I'm needed in the city."

"Can't keep the good folks waitin'," Bron said with a wide and simple smile. "I'll drive in with you and make my own way back. I'm sure these swine will be safe enough here. They can root around in this patch of woods and take care of themselves for a bit."

"Well it's your funeral — or maybe theirs," Haydin mumbled, getting into the electric car and slamming the door behind him. He looked up with a sudden thought as Bron climbed in the other side. "Say — where's your luggage? Did you forget it in the tender?"

"Now, that's shore nice of you to worry about me like that." Bron pointed out at the herd, which had separated a bit now that the swine were rooting happily in the forest humus. A large boar had two long cases strapped to his back, and a smaller pig nearby had a battered suitcase tied on at a precarious angle.

"People don't appreciate how all-around valuable pigs are. On Earth they been beasts of burden for umpteen thousands of years, yessir. Why there's nothing as all-around as a pig. The old Egyptians used them for plantin' seeds. You know, their bitty little sharp hooves just trod those seeds down to the right depth in the soft soil."

Governor Haydin jammed the rheostat full on and drove numbly into town with a bucolic discourse on swinology echoing about his head.

"Is that your municipal buildin'?" Bron asked. "It shore is pretty."

The Governor braked the electric car to a sliding stop in front of the structure, and the dust from the unpaved street rose in a swirling cloud around them. He frowned suspiciously at Bron.

"You're in no position to make fun," he snapped. "It so happens that this was one of the first buildings we put up, and it serves its function^yen if it is… well. . getting old."

It was more than just old, he realized, really looking at it for the first time in years. It was absolutely hairy. The outer walls were made of panels of compressed, shredded wood. These had been plastic-dipped for strength, then cured. But'the curing hadn't always taken in the old days. The surface plastic had peeled away, and brown wood shavings were curling out from the surface.

"I ain't making fun of yore buildin'," Bron said, climbing out of the car. "I seen a lot worse on other frontier planets — fallin' down and leaning that kind of thing. You folks put up a good strong buildin' here. Lasted a lot of years and it's gonna last a lot more." He patted the wall, in a friendly manner, then looked at the palm of his hand. "Though it could sure do with a bit of a shave or a haircut."

Governor Haydin stamped into the entrance, growling to himself, and Bron followed, smiling with simple contentment. The hallway cut through the entire building — he could see the rear entrance at the far end — and doors opened off it on both sides. The Governor pushed through a door marked NO ENTRANCE, and Bron followed close behind him.

"Not in here, you fool," Governor Haydin complained loudly. "This is my private office. The next door, that's the one you want."

"Now, I'm right sorry about that," Bron said, backing out under the firm pressure of the hand on his chest. The room was a sparsely furnished office with living quarters visible through the open door on the far wall. The only thing of real interest was the girl who was slumped in the armchair. She had coppery red hair, was slim, and appeared to be young. He could tell nothing more about her because she had her face buried in a handkerchief and seemed to be crying. The door closed in his face.

The next entrance led him into a larger office divided across the middle by a waist-high counter. He rested his weight on the un-painted wood and read the doodled inscriptions with some interest until a door opened on the other side and a girl entered. She was young and slim and had coppery red hair and even redder eyes. She was undoubtedly the girl he had seen in the Governor's office.

"I'm real sorry to see you cryin', Miss," he said. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"I am not crying," she said firmly, then sniffed. "It's just… an allergy, that's all it is."

"You should have a doc give you some shots…"

"If you will kindly state your business, I'm rather busy today."

"Now, I don't want to bother you none, what with the allergy and being busy. If there is anyone else I can see?"

"No one. I — and those banks of computers — are the entire governmental staff. What is it you want?"

"I want to file a homestead claim, and my name is Bron Wurber."

She took his extended hand briefly, then dropped it as though it were red hot and grabbed up a stack of papers.

"I'm Lea Davies. Fill out all these forms and do not leave any blanks. If you have any questions, ask me before you proceed. You can write, can't you?" she asked, noting his grim frown of concentration as he examined the papers.

"I write a very fair hand, ma'am, so don't you worry none." He took a well-chewed pencil stump from his shirt pocket, added a few more indentations, then went to work.

When he had finished she checked the papers, made some corrections, then handed him a sheaf of maps. "These show all the nearer sites that are open for homesteading; they're marked in red. The land that will suit you best depends, of course, on the kind of crops you intend to raise."

“Pigs," he said, smiling enthusiastically, though there was no smile in return. "I'll just wander around and look at these parcels, then come back and tell you when I find the right one. My thanks, Miss Davies."

Bron folded the papers into a thick wad, which he stuffed into his hip pocket as he left. In order to reach his herd, waiting near the spaceport, he had to walk back through the center of Trowbri City, which was a city in name only. Clouds of dust spurted up as he stumped along its single street, clumsy in his heavy boots. All of the buildings had a temporary-permanent look. They had been built quickly but never replaced, since more new structures had been in constant demand for the growing town. Prefabricated buildings and pressurized fabric huts were interspersed with wood-frame structures and rammed-earth buildings. There were a lot of these — just clayey soil dumped between wooden forms and pounded down hard. When the forms were removed, the walls were painted with plastic so that they would not dissolve in the rain. In spite of this, many of them had a squat, rounded look as they sank slowly back into the ground from whence they had sprung. Bron passed small stores and a garage. The factories were on the outskirts of the town, and beyond them the farms. A barbershop, advertised by the universal symbol of a red-and-white-striped pole, was ahead, and a small group of men were leaning against its wall to hold it up.

"Hey, pig-boy," one of them said loudly as he passed, "I'll trade you a hot bath for a couple of pork chops." The rest of the loafers laughed loudly at what they apparently considered wit.

Bron stopped and turned. "My," he said, "this town must shore be boomin' if it can afford to support so many young fellers who don't have jobs.”

There were angry mumbles at this, and their self-appointed spokesman stepped forward and shouted, "You think you're smart or something?"

Bron didn't answer. He just smiled coldly and smacked his closed fist into the palm of his hand. It made a loud, splatting sound, and it was obviously a large and hard fist. The men leaned back against the wall and began to talk among themselves, ignoring him.

"He's a troublemaker, boys, and you ought to teach him a lesson," a voice called from inside the barbershop. Bron stepped up and looked through the open door. The man who had kicked one of his pigs at the spaceport was sitting in the chair with the robot barber buzzing happily behind him.

"Now, you shouldn't say that, friend, seein' as how you don't know anythin' really about me."

"No, and I don't intend to find out," the man said angrily. "You can just take your pigs and—"

Bron, still smiling, leaned over and pressed the HOT TOWEL button, and a steaming towel muffled the rest of the man's words. The robot snipped off a strip of toweling before its emergency light flashed on and it jerked to a stop, humming loudly. Bron left, and no one barred his way.

"Not a very friendly town," he said to himself. "But why shouldn't it be?" A sign said EAT, and he turned into a small cafe.

"All out of steak," the counterman said. "Coffee, just coffee is what I want," Bron told him, sitting down on one of the stools. "Nice town you got here," he said when the coffee arrived.

The man mumbled something inaudible and took Bron's money. Bron tried again.

"I mean you got real good farmin' land here, and plenty of minerals and mines. The Space Settlement Commission is staking me to my homestead. Must have staked everyone else here. It's a nice planet."

"Mister," the counterman said, "I don't talk to you, so you don't talk to me. Okay?" He turned away without waiting for an answer and began polishing the dials on the automatic chef.

"Friendly," Bron said as he walked back down the road. "They have everything here they could possibly need — yet no one seems very happy about it. And that girl was crying. What is wrong with this planet?" Hands in pockets, whistling lightly through his teeth, he strolled along, looking about him as he went. It was not too far to the spaceport, which was situated a little beyond the town — just a cleared area and a control tower.

As he came near the grove where he had left his animals, he heard a shrill, angry squealing. He quickened his pace, then broke into a ground-consuming run as other squeals joined the first. Some of the pigs were still rooting unconcernedly, but most of them were gathered about a tall tree that was entwined with creepers and studded with short branches. A boar reared his head out of the milling herd and slashed at the tree, peeling away a yard-long strip of bark. From high in the tree a hoarse voice called for help.

Bron whistled instructions, pulled on tails, and pushed on fat flanks and finally got the pigs moving about again. As soon as they began rooting and stripping the berries from the bushes, he called up into the tree.

"Whoever's there can come down now. It's safe." The tree shook and a patter of bits of bark fell, and a tall, skinny man climbed down slowly into view. He stopped above Bron's head, holding tightly to the trunk. His trousers were torn and the heel was gone from one boot.

"Who are you?" Bron asked.

"Are these your beasts?" the man said angrily. "They ought to all be shot. They attacked me, viciously; would have killed me if I hadn't got to this tree."

"Who are you?" Bron repeated.

"… Vicious and uncontrolled. If you don't take care of them, I will. We have laws here on Trowbri."

"If you don't shut up and tell me who you are, Mister, you can just stay in that tree until you rot," Bron said quietly. He pointed to the large boar, who was lying down about ten feet from the tree and glaring at it out of tiny red eyes. "I don't have to do anything and these pigs will take care of you all by themselves. It's in their blood. Peccaries in Mexico will tree a man and then take turns standing guard below until he dies or falls out. These animals here don't attack no one without reason. I say the reason is you came by and tried to grab up one of the sucklings because you had a sudden yearning for fresh pork. Who are you?"

"You calling me a liar?" the man shouted.

"Yes. Who are you?"

The boar came over and butted against the tree and made a deep grumbling noise. The man clutched the tree with both arms, and all the air went out of him.

"I'm Reymon, the radio operator here. I was in the tower landing the tender. When it left I grabbed my cycle and started back to town. I saw these pigs here and I stopped, just to have a look, and that's when I was attacked. Without reason…"

"Shore, shore," Bron said. He dug his toe into the boar's side and scraped it up and down on the heavy ribs. The boar flapped his ears atid rumbled a happy grunt. "You like it up in that tree, Mr. Reymon?"

"All right, then, I bent down to touch one of your filthy animals— don't ask me why. Then I was attacked."

"That sounds more like it, and I'm not gonna bother you with foolish questions as to why you had a sudden urge to pet a filthy pig. You can come down now and get on your red wagon and get moving."

The boar flicked his twist of a tail, then vanished into the undergrowth. Reymon shakily dropped to the ground and brushed off his clothes. He was a darkly handsome man whose features were spoiled by the angry tightness of his mouth.

"You'll hear more about this.” he said over his shoulder as he stumbled away.

"I doubt it.” Bron told him. He went to the road and waited until the electrobike whizzed by in the direction of the city. Only then did he go back and whistle his flock together.

A tiny metallic clanging sounded in Bron's ear, growing louder and louder when he ignored it. Yawning, he reached up and detached the earring alarm from the lobe of his ear, switched it off with his fingernail, and dropped it into his belt pouch. The night air was cool on his hand as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Above him the strange constellations of stars shone crisply in the clear air. Dawn was still some hours away and the forest was dark and silent, with only an occasional wheeze or a muffled grunt sounding from a sleeping pig.

Otherwise completely dressed, Bron unsealed the sleeping bag and pulled on his boots, which he had left carefully upended to keep them dry. He leaned against Queeny to do this. The eight-hundred-pound sow, a dim and mountainous shape in the darkness, lifted her head and grunted an interrogation. Bron bent over and lifted the flap of her ear so he could whisper into it.

"I'm going away, but I'll be back by dawn. I'm taking Jasmine with me. You look after things."

Queeny grunted a very human sound of agreement and lay back down. Bron whistled softly, and there was a rustle of sharp hooves as little Jasmine trotted up. "Follow me," he told her. She came to heel and walked behind him away from the camp, both of them now silent as shadows.

It was a moonless night, and Trowbri City was lightless and asleep. No one was aware of the shadows that moved through the town and slipped behind the municipal building. No one heard when a window slid soundlessly open and the shadows vanished from sight.

Governor Haydin sat up suddenly as the lights came on in his bedroom. The first thing he saw was a small pink pig sitting on the rug by his bed. It turned its head to look him directly in the eye — then winked. It had lovely, long white eyelashes.

"Sorry to disturb you at this hour.” Bron said from the window, as he made sure the curtains were completely drawn, "but I didn't want anyone to see us meeting."

"Get out of here, you insane swineherd, before I throw you out!" Haydin bellowed.

"Not so loud sir," Bron cautioned. "You may be overheard. Here is my identification." He held out a plastic rectangle.

"I know who you are, so what difference—"

"Not this identification. You did ask the Patrol for aid on this planet, didn't you?"

"What do you know about that?" The Governor's eyes widened at the thought. "You mean to say you have something to do with them?"

"My identification," Bron said, snapping to attention and handing over the card.

Governor Haydin grabbed it with both hands. " 'P.I.G.,' " he read. "What's that?" Then he answered his own question in a hoarse voice as he read the next line.

" 'Porcine Interstellar Guard'! Is this some kind of joke?"

"Not at all, Governor. The Guard has only been recently organized and activated. Knowledge of its activities has heretofore been confined to command levels, where its operational configurations are top secret."

"All of a sudden you don't sound like a pig farmer anymore."

"I am a pig farmer, Governor. But I have a degree in animal husbandry, a doctorate in galactic politics, and a black belt in judo. The pig farmer is used for field cover."

"Then you're the answer to my distress message to the Patrol?"

"That's correct. I can't give you any classified details, but you must surely know how thin the Patrol is spread these days — and will be for years to come. When a new planet is opened up it extends Earth's sphere of influence in a linear direction — but the volume of space that must be controlled is the cube of that distance."

"You wouldn't mind translating that into English, would you?"

"Happily." Bron looked around and spotted a bowl of fruit on the table. He took out two round red pieces and held them up. "This piece of fruit is a sphere of influence. If Earth is at the center of the fruit, spaceships can fly out in any direction to the skin of the fruit, and all of the fruit inside this sphere must be watched by Earth. All right, let's say that another planet is opened up. The spacer flies in a straight line away from Earth, this far." He held his fingers up to show a distance as long as the diameter of one of the pieces of fruit. "That is a linear distance, in a line; but the Patrol doesn't just patrol in straight lines." He put the second fruit next to the first so that they touched. "The Patrol now has to be responsible for the entire area inside this second fruit, a three-dimensional distance, because spacers do not always follow the same routes, and they go to different destinations. The job is a big one and getting bigger all the time."

"I see what you mean," the Governor said, studying the fruit for a moment, then putting it back into the bowl.

"That's the core of our problem. The Patrol must operate between all the planets, and the volume of space that this comprises is beyond imagining. Someday, it is hoped, there will be enough Patrol vessels to fill this volume so that a cruiser can answer any call for help. But as it stands now, other means of assistance must be found. A number of projects are being instigated, and P.I.G. is one of the first to go operational. You've seen my unit. We can travel by any form of commercial transportation, so we can operate without Patrol assistance. We carry rations, but if need be are self-supporting. We are equipped to handle almost any tactical situation."

Haydin was trying to understand, but it was still all too much for him. "I hear what you're saying. Still" — he faltered—"still, all you have is a herd of pigs."

Bron grabbed his temper hard, and his eyes narrowed to slits with the effort. "Would you have felt better if I had landed with a pack of wolves? Would that have given you some sense of security?"

"Well, I do admit that it would look a good deal different. I could see some sense in that."

"Can you? In spite of the fact that a wolf — or wolves — in their natural state will run from a full-grown wild boar without ever considering attacking him? And I have a mutated boar out there that will take on any six wolves and produce six torn wolfskins in about as many minutes. Do you doubt that?"

"It's not a matter of doubt. But you have to admit that there is something… I don't know. . ludicrous, maybe, about a herd of pigs."

"That observation is not exactly original," Bron said in a toneless, arctic voice. "In fact, that is the reason I take the whole herd rather than just boars, and why I do the dumb-farmer bit. People take no notice and it helps my investigation. Which is also why I am seeing you at night like this. I don't want to blow my cover until I have to."

"That's one thing you won't have to worry about. Our problem doesn't involve any of the settlers."

"What exactly is your problem? Your message wasn't exactly clear on that point."

Governor Haydin looked uncomfortable. He wriggled a bit, then examined Bron's identification again. "I'll have to check this before I can tell you anything."

"Please do."

There was a fluoroscope on the end table, and Haydin made a thorough job of comparing the normally invisible pattern with the code book he took from his safe. Finally, almost reluctantly, he handed back the card. "It's authentic," he said.

Bron slipped the card back into his pocket. "Now, what is the trouble?" he asked.

Haydin looked at the small pig that was curled up on the rug, snoring happily. "It's ghosts," he said in a barely audible voice.

"And you're the one who laughs at pigs?"

"There's no need to get offensive," the Governor answered hotly. "I know it sounds strange, but there it is. We call them — or the phenomenon—'ghosts' because we don't know anything about it. Whether it's supernatural or not is anyone's guess, but it's sure not physical." He turned to the map on the wall and tapped a yellowish-tan area that stood out from the surrounding green. "Right here, the Ghost Plateau — that's where the trouble is."

"What sort of trouble?"

"It's hard to say — just a feeling mostly. Ever since this planet was settled, going on fifteen years now, people haven't liked to go near the plateau, even though it lies almost directly outside the city. It doesn't feel right up there, somehow. Even the animals stay away. And people have disappeared there and no trace has ever been found of them."

Bron looked at the map, following the yellow gradient outline with his finger. "Hasn't it been explored?" he asked.

"Of course, in the first survey. And copters still fly over it, and nothing out of the way is ever seen. But only in daylight. No one has ever flown or driven or walked on the Ghost Plateau during the night and lived to tell about it. Nor has a single body ever been found."

The Governor's voice was heavy with grief; there was no doubt that he meant what he said.

"Has anything ever been done about this?" Bron asked.

"Yes. We've learned to stay away. This is not Earth, Mr. Wurber, no matter in how many ways it resembles it. It is an alien planet with alien life on it, and this human settlement is just a pinprick in the planet's hide. Who knows what. . creatures are out there in the night? We are settlers, not adventurers. We have learned to avoid the plateau, at least at night, and we have never had that kind of trouble anywhere else."

"Then why have you called on the Patrol?"

"Because we made a mistake. The old-timers don't talk much these days about the plateau, and a lot of the newcomers believe that the stories are just. . stories. Some of us had even begun to doubt our own memories. In any case, a prospecting team wanted to look for some new mine sites, and the only untouched area near the city is on the plateau. In spite of our misgivings the team went out, led by an engineer name of Huw Davies."

"Any relation to your assistant?"

"Her brother."

"That explains her agitation. What happened?"

Hay din's eyes were unfocused as he gazed at a fearful memory. "It was horrible," he said. "We took all precautions, of course — followed them by copter during the day and marked their camp. The copters were rigged with lights, and we stood by all night. They had three radios and all of them were in use, so there could be no communication breakdown. We waited all night and there was no trouble. Then, just before dawn — without any alarm or warning — the radios cut out. We got there within minutes, but it was too late.

"What we found is almost too awful to describe. Everything — their equipment, tents, supplies — was destroyed, crushed and destroyed. There was blood everywhere, spattering the broken trees and the ground — but the men were gone, vanished. There were no tracks of animals or men or machines in the area — nothing. The blood was tested; it was human blood. And the fragments of flesh were. . human flesh."

"There must have been something," Bron insisted. "Some identifying marks, some clues, perhaps the odor of explosives — or something on your radar, since this plateau is so close."

"We are not stupid men. We have technicians and scientists. There were no clues, no smells, nothing on radar. I repeat, nothing."

"And this is when you decided to call the Patrol."

"Yes. This thing is too big for us to handle."

"You were absolutely correct, Governor. I'll take it from here. In fact, I already have a very good idea what happened."

Haydin was jolted to his feet. "You can't! What is it?"

"I'm afraid it is a little too early to say. I'm going up to the plateau in the morning to look at this place where the massacre happened. Can you give me the map coordinates? And please don't mention my visit to anyone."

"Little chance of that," Haydin said, looking at the little pig. It stood and stretched, then sniffed loudly at the bowl of fruit on the table.

"Jasmine would like a piece," Bron said. "You don't mind, do you?"

"Go ahead, help yourself.” the Governor said resignedly, and loud chomping rilled the room as he wrote down the coordinates and directions.

They had to hurry to be clear of the town before dawn. By the time they reached their camp the sky was gray in the east and the animals were up and stirring.

"I think we'll stay here at least another day.” Bron said as he cracked open a case of vitamin rations. Queeny, the eight-hundred-pound Poland* China sow, grunted happily at this announcement and rooted up a wad of leaves and tossed them into the air.

"Good foraging, I don't doubt it, particularly after all that time in the ship. I'm going to take a little trip, Queeny, and I'll be back by dark. You keep an eye on things until then." He raised his voice. "Curly! Moe!"

A crashing in the forest echoed his words, and a moment later two long grayish-black forms tore out of the underbrush — a ton of bone and muscle on the hoof. A three-inch branch was in Curly's way, and he neither swerved nor slowed. There was a sharp crack and he skidded up to Bron with the broken branch draped across his back. Bron threw the branch aside and looked at his shock troops.

They were boars, twins from the same litter, and weighed over one thousand pounds apiece. An ordinary wild boar will weigh up to seven hundred and fifty pounds and is the fastest, most dangerous, and worst-tempered beast ever known. Curly and Moe were mutants, a third again heavier than their wild ancestors, and many times as intelligent. But nothing else had changed; they were still just as fast, dangerous, and bad-tempered. Their ten-inch tusks were capped with stainless steel to prevent them from splitting.

"I want you to stay here with Queeny, Moe, and she'll be in charge."

Moe squealed in anger and tossed his great head. Bron grabbed a handful of hide and thick bristles between Moe's shoulder blades, the boar's favorite itch spot, and twisted and pummeled it. Moe blurbled happily through his nose. Moe was a pig genius, which made him on the human level a sort of retarded moron — except that he wasn't human. Jle understood simple orders and would obey them within the limits of his capacity.

"Stay and guard, Moe, stay and guard. Watch Queeny; she knows what is best. Guard, don't kill. Plenty of good things to eat here — and candy when I get back. Curly goes with me, and everyone gets candy when we come back." There were happy grunts from all directions, and Queeny pressed her fat side against his leg.

"You're coming too, Jasmine," Bron said. "A good walk will keep you out of trouble. Go get Maisie Mule-Foot; the exercise will do her good too."

Jasmine was his problem child. Though she looked only like a half-grown shoat, she was a full-grown Pitman-Moore miniature — one of a strain of small pigs that had originally been developed for use in laboratories. They had been bred for intelligence, and Jasmine probably had the highest IQ ever to have come out of the lab. But there was a handicap: With the intelligence went an instability, an almost human hysteria, as though her mind were balanced on a sharp edge. If she were left with the other pigs she would tease and torture them and cause trouble, so Bron made sure that she was with him if he had to be away from the herd for any length of time.

Maisie was a totally different case: a typical, well-rounded sow— a Mule-Foot, a general-purpose breed. Her intelligence was low — or pig normal — and her fecundity high. Some cruel people might have said she was good only for bacon. But she had a pleasant personality and was a good mother; in fact she had just weaned her last litter. Bron took her along to give her some relief from her weanling progeny — and also to run some fat off her, since she had grown uncommonly plump during the confined space voyage.

Bron examined his maps and found what appeared to be an old logging road that ran in the direction in which he wanted to go, almost as far as the plateau. He and the pigs could go across country easily enough, but they might save some time by following the road. He set his pocket gyrocompass by lining it up with the arms of the control tower's weather vane, then worked out a heading that would reach the road that led to the Ghost Plateau. He pointed his arm in the correct direction, and Curly put his head down and catapulted into the undergrowth. There was a snapping and crackling as he tore his way through — the perfect pathfinder, who made his own openings where none were available.

It was an easy walk as the grass-covered road wound up through the hills. The logging camp must have been closed down for a long time, because the road was free of wheel ruts. The pigs snuffled in the rich grass, grabbing an occasional bite of something too tempting to resist, although Maisie wheezed complaints about the unaccustomed exertion. There were some trees along the road, but for the most part the land was cleared and planted with crops. Curly stopped, wheeled, and pointed into a thick growth of woods, rumbling a questioning grunt. Jasmine and Maisie stopped next to him, looking in the same direction, heads cocked and listening.

"What is it? What's in there?" Bron asked. It was nothing dangerous, that was clear, since if there had been a threat Curly would have gone charging to the attack. With their more acute hearing the pigs were listening to something he could not hear, something that interested but did not frighten them.

"Let's go," he said. "There's plenty of walking ahead." He pushed against Curly's side, — but he could have accomplished just as much as by shoving against a stone wall. Curly, unmoving, scratched with a forehoof and tossed his head in the direction of the trees.

"All right, if you insist. I never argue with boars who weigh over half a ton. Let's go see what's in there." He grabbed a handful of thick bristles and hide, and Curly started off among the trees.

Before they had gone fifty yards, Bron could hear the sound himself — a bird or a small animal of some kind, calling shrilly. But why should this bother the pigs? Then, suddenly, he realized what it was.

"That's a child — crying! Come on, Curly!"

With this encouragement Curly trotted forward, pushing his way through the underbrush so fast that Bron could hardly keep up. They came to a steep, muddy bank with a dark pond below, and the crying was now a loud, unhappy sobbing. A little girl, no more than two years old, was up to her waist in the water, wet and unhappy.

"Hold on_; I'll have you out in a second," Bron said, and the sobbing turned to a shrill wailing. Curly stood on the brink of the slippery mud slope, and Bron used his sturdy and immobile ankle to hold on to as he let himself down. The child struggled towards him, and he grabbed her with his free hand and pulled her to safety. She was wet and miserable, but she stopped crying as soon as he had her under his arm.

"Now what shall we do with you?" Bron asked when he was on top again, and this time he heard the answer at the same time as the pigs. The distant, continual ringing of a bell. He started them in the right direction, then walked behind in the path that Curly plowed through the underbrush.

The woods ended at an open meadow. A red farmhouse was on the hill above, where a woman stood waving a large hand bell. She saw Bron as soon as he had emerged from the trees and ran down to meet him.

"Amy," she cried, "you're all right!" She pulled the child to her, ignoring the mud stains on her white apron.

"Found her back there in the pond, ma'am. Got herself stuck in the mud and couldn't get out. More frightened than anything else, I'd say."

"I don't know how to thank you. I thought she was asleep when I went to milk the cows. She must have wandered out…"

''Don't thank me, ma'am, thank my pigs here. They heard her cryin', and I just followed them."

For the first time the woman was aware of the animals. "What a fine Mule-Foot.” she said, admiring Maisie's well-rounded lines. "We used to keep pigs at home, but when we emigrated we just bought the cows for a dairy farm. I'm sorry now. Let me give them some fresh milk — you too. It's the least I can do."

"Thank you kindly, but we have to push on. Lookin' for a homestead site, and I want to get up to the plateau and back before dark."

"Not there!" the woman gasped, clutching the little girl to her. "You can't go up there!"

"Any reason why I shouldn't? Looks like good land on the map."

"You can't that's all… there are things. We don't talk about them much. Things you can't see. I know they're there. We used to keep some cows in that uphill pasture, on the side towards the Ghost Plateau. You know why we stopped? Their milk was off — less than half of what the other cows were producing. There's something wrong up there, very wrong. Go look if you must, but you have to leave before dark. You'll find out what I mean quick enough."

"Thanks for tellin' me_; I do appreciate it. So seein' how the little girl is all right now, I'll just be movin' on."

Bron whistled the pigs to him, waved goodbye to the farm wife, and made his way back to the road. The plateau was getting more interesting all the time. He kept the pigs moving steadily after this, in spite of Maisie's heavy breathing and unhappy looks, and within an hour they had passed the deserted logging camp — abandoned because of the strange happenings on the plateau? — and started up among the trees. This was the edge of the plateau.

They crossed a stream, and Bron let the pigs drink their fill while he cut himself a stick for the climb. Maisie, overheated by her exertions, dropped full-length into the water with a tremendous splash and soaked herself. Jasmine, a fastidious animal, squealed with rage and rushed away to roll in the grass and dry herself off where she had been splashed. Curly, with much chuffing and grunting like a satisfied locomotive, got his nose under a rotting log that must have weighed nearly a ton and rolled it over and happily consumed the varied insect and animal life that he found beneath it. They moved on.

It was not a long climb to the plateau, and once they were over the edge the ground leveled out into a lightly forested plain. Bron took another compass reading and pointed Curly in the right direction. Curly snorted and raked a furrow in the ground with a forehoof before setting off. Jasmine pressed up against Bron's leg and squealed.

Bron could feel it too, and he had to suppress an involuntary shiver. There was something — how could it be described? — wrong about this place. He had no idea why he felt this way, but he did. And the pigs seemed to sense it too. There was something else wrong: there was not a bird in sight, although the hills below had been filled with them. And there did not seem to be any other animals about. The pigs would surely have called his attention to any he might have missed.

Bron fought down the strange sensation and followed Curly's retreating hindquarters, while the two other pigs, still protesting, trotted behind him, staying as close to his legs as possible. It was obvious that they all felt this presentiment of danger, and they were all bothered by it. All except Curly, that is, since any strange emotion or sensation just tripped his boarish temper, so that he plowed ahead filled with mumbling anger.

When they reached the clearing, there was no doubt that it was the correct one. Branches on all sides were bent and twisted, and small trees had been pulled down, while torn tents and crushed equipment littered the area. Bron picked up a transceiver and saw that the metal case had been pinched and twisted, as though squeezed by some giant hand.

And all the time, as he searched the area, he was aware of the tension and pressure.

"Here, Jasmine," he said, "take a smell of this. I know it's been out in the rain and sun for weeks now, but there may be a trace of something left. Give a sniff."

Jasmine shivered and shook her head no and pressed up against his legs; he could feel her body shiver. She was in one of her states and good for nothing until it passed. Bron didn't blame her — he felt a little that way himself. He gave Curly the case to smell, and the boar took an obliging sniff, but his attention wasn't really on it. His little eyes scanned in all directions while he smelled it, and then he sniffed around the clearing, snuffling and snorting to blow the dirt out of his nostrils. Bron thought he was on to something when he began to rip the ground with his tusks, but it was only a succulent root that he had smelled. He chomped at it — then suddenly raised his head and pointed his ears at the woods, the root dangling, forgotten, from his jaws.

"What is it?" Bron asked, because the other two animals were pointing in the same direction, listening intently. Their ears twitched, and there was the sudden sound of something large crashing through the bush.

The suddenness of the attack almost finished Bron. The crashing was still sounding some distance away when the bounder plunged out of the woods almost on top of him, foot-long yellow claws outstretched. Bron had seen pictures of this species of giant marsupial, native to the planet, but the reality was something else again. It stood on its hind legs, twelve feet high, and even the knowledge that it was not carnivorous and used the claws for digging in the marshes was not encouraging. It also used them against its enemies, and he seemed to be in that category at the moment. The creature sprang out, loomed over him, the claws swung down.

Curly, growling with rage, hit the beast from the side. Even twelve feet of brown-furred marsupial cannot stand up to a thousand pounds of angry boar, and the big beast went over and back. As he passed, Curly flicked his head with a wicked twist that hooked a tusk into the animal's leg and ripped. With a lightning spin the boar reversed direction and returned to the attack.

The Bounder was not having any more. Shrieking with pain and fear, it kept on going in the opposite direction just as its mate — the one that had been blundering through the woods — appeared in the clearing. Curly spun again, reversing within one body length, and charged. The Bounder — this one, because of its size, must have been the male — appraised the situation instantly and did not like it. Its mate was fleeing in pain — and telling everybody about it loudly — and without a doubt this underslung, hurtling mass of evil-looking creature must be to blame. Without slowing, the Bounder kept going and vanished among the trees on the opposite side.

Through the entire affair Jasmine had rushed about, accomplishing very little, but obviously on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Maisie, never one for quick reaction, just stood and flapped her ears and grunted in amazement.

As Bron reached into his pocket for a pill to quiet Jasmine down, a long, green snake slithered out of the woods almost at his feet.

He stopped, frozen, with his hand halfway to his pocket, because he knew he was looking at death. This was the Angelmaker, the most poisonous serpent on Trowbri, more deadly than anything Mother Earth had ever produced. It had the meat-hungry appetite of a constrictor — because it was a constrictor in its eating habits — but it also had fangs and well-filled venom sacs. And it was agitated, weaving back and forth and preparing to strike.

It was obvious that portly, pink Maisie, sow and mother, did not have the reflexes or the temperament to deal with attacking marsupials — but a snake was something else altogether. She squealed and jumped forward moving her weight with ponderous agility.

The Angelmaker saw the appealing mass of quivering flesh and struck, instantly darting its head back and striking again. Maisie, snorting with the effort to turn her head and look back over her shoulder, squealed again and backed towards the poised snake. It hissed loudly and struck another time, perhaps wondering in some dim corner of its vestigial brain why this appealing dinner did not drop down to be eaten. If the Angelmaker had known a bit more about pigs, it might have acted differently. Instead it struck again, and by now most of its venom was gone.

While the Mule-Foot is not a lardy type, it is a sturdy breed, and the females do run to fat. Maisie was plumper than most. Her hindquarters — what some crude carnivorous types might call her hams— were coated with heavy fat. And there is no blood circulation through fat. The venom had been deposited in the fat, where it could not reach the bloodstream and could do no injury. Eventually it would be neutralized by her body chemistry and disposed of. Right now Maisie was turning the tables. The Angelmaker struck again — listlessly, because its venom was gone. Maisie heaved her bulk about and chopped down with her hooves — strong, sharp-edged weapons. While snakes may like to kill pigs, pigs also greatly enjoy eating snakes. Squealing and bouncing heavily, Maisie landed on the snake's spine and neatly amputated its head. The body still writhed and she attacked again, chopping with her hooves until the snake had been cut into a number of now motionless segments. Only then did she stop attacking and begin to mumble happily to herself while she ate them. It was a big snake, and she allowed Curly and Jasmine to help her with it. Bron waited for them to finish before moving out, because the feast was calming them down. Only when the last chunk had vanished did he turn and start back for the camp. He kept looking back over his shoulder and found that it was a great relief — for all of them — to start down the slope away from the Ghost Plateau.

When they reached the rest of the herd, there were grunts of greeting. The most intelligent beasts remembered the promised candy and crowded around waiting for it.

Bron opened a case of the mineral and vitamin-reinforced delicacy. While distributing it, he heard the buzz of his phone — very dimly, because he had yet to unpack it from its carrying case.

When he had filled out all the homesteading forms he had of course put down his phone number, since this was as much a part of him as was his name. Everyone was given a phone number at birth, and it was his for life. With the computer-controlled circuits anyone, anywhere on a planet, could he reached by the dialing of a single number. But who could be calling him here? As far as he knew, only Lea Davies had his number. He pulled out the compact phone — no bigger than his hand, including its lifetime atomic battery — and flipped up the small screen. This activated the phone, and static rustled from the speaker while a colored image appeared on the screen.

"Now, I was just thinkin' 'bout you, Miss Davies," he said. "Ain't that a coincidence."

"Very.” she said, barely moving her lips when she spoke, as though groping for words. She was a pretty girl, but looking too haggard now. Her brother's death had hit her hard. "I must see you. . Mr. Wurber. As soon as possible."

"Now, that's right friendly, Miss Lea_; I'm lookin' forward to that."

"I need your help, but we mustn't be seen talking together. Can you come as soon as it's dark, alone, to the rear entrance of the municipal building? I'll meet you there."

"I'll be there — you can count on me," he said, and he rung off.

What was this about? Did the girl know something no one else knew? It was possible. But why him? Unless the Governor had told her about P.I.G. — which was very possible, since she was his only assistant. And on top of that she was very attractive, when she wasn't crying. As soon as he had fed the herd, he broke out some clean clothes and his razor.

Bron left at dusk, and Queeny lifted her head to watch him go. She would be in charge until he came back — the rest of the pigs knew and expected that — and she had Curly and Moe ready to take care of any trouble that might arise. Curly was sleeping off the day's exertions, whistling placidly through his nose, — and next to him little Jasmine was also asleep, even more tired and sedated by a large Miltown. The situation was well in hand.

Approaching the municipal building from its unlighted rear was no problem, since he had been over the same ground just the previous evening. All this running about and missing sleep was getting to him at last, and he choked off a yawn with his fist.

"Miss Lea, are you there?" he called softly, pushing open the unlocked door. The hall beyond was black, and he hesitated.

"Yes, I'm here," her voice called out. "Please come in." Bron pushed the door wide and stepped through, and a crashing pain struck him across the side of the head, the agony of it for an instant lighting the darkness of his nerves. He tried to say something, but could not speak, though he did manage to raise his arm. Another blow struck his forearm, numbing it so that it dropped away; and the third blow, across the back of his neck, sent him plunging down into a deeper darkness.

"What happened?" the wavering pink blob asked, and with much blinking Bron managed to focus on it and recognized Governor Hay-din's worried face.

"You tell me.” Bron said hoarsely. He became aware of the pain in his head, and he almost passed out again. Something damp and cool snuffled against his neck, and he worked his hand up to twist Jasmine's ear.

"I thought I told you to get that pig out of here," someone said.

"Leave her be," Bron managed to say, "and tell me what happened." He turned his head, with infinite caution, and saw that he was lying on the couch in the Governor's office. A medical-looking gentleman with a stern face and dangling stethoscope was standing by. There were a number of other people at the doorway.

"We just found you here," the Governor said. "That's all we know. I was working in my office when I heard this screaming, like a girl in terrible pain — something awful. Some of these other men heard it outside in the street, and we all came running. Found you lying in the rear hall — out cold with your head laid open, and this pig standing next to you doing all the screaming. I never knew an animal could sound like that. It wouldn't let anyone near you — kept charging and chomping its teeth in a very threatening manner. Quieted down a bit by the time the doctor came and finally let him get over to you."

Bron thought quickly — or at least as quickly as he could with a power saw trying to take off the back of his head.

"Then you know as much about it as I do," he said. "I came here to see about filing my homesteadin' papers. The front was locked, and I thought maybe I could get in by the back, if anyone was still here. I walked through the back door and somethin' hit me and the next thing I know I was waking up here. Guess I can thank Jasmine here for that. She must have followed me and seen me hit. Must have started squealing, like you heard, and probably chewing on the ankle of whoever hit me. Pigs have very good teeth. Must have frightened him off, whoever it was." He groaned; it was easy to do. "Can you give me something for my head, Doctor?" he asked.

"There is a possibility of concussion," the doctor said.

"I'll take my chances on that, Doc, — better a little concussion than my head splittin' into two halves this way."

By the time the doctor had finished and the crowd dispersed, the pain in his head had subsided to a throbbing ache, and Bron was fingering the bruise on his arm, which he had just become aware of. He waited until the Governor had closed and locked the door before he spoke.

"I didn't tell you the whole stoly," he said.

"I didn't think you had. Now what is this all about?"

"I was struck by a party or parties unknown — that much was all true. If Jasmine had not woken up and found me missing and gotten all neurotically insecure, I would probably be dead at this moment. It was a trap, neatly set up, and I walked right into it."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that Lea Davies is involved in this. She called me, arranged to meet me here, and was waiting here when I arrived."

"Are you trying to say. .?"

"I've said it. Now get the girl in here so we can hear her side of it."

When the Governor went to the phone, Bron swung his legs slowly to the floor and wondered what it would feel like to stand up. It was not nice. He held on to the back of the couch while the room spun in slow circles and the floor heaved like a ship at sea. Jasmine leaned against his leg and moaned in sympathy. After a while, when the moving furniture and rotating building had slowed to a stop, he tried walking and stumbled over to the kitchen.

"May I help you, sir?" the kitchen said when he entered. "Perhaps a little midnight snack is in order?"

"Coffee, just black coffee — lots of it."

"Coming at once, sir. But dieticians do say that coffee can be irritating to an empty stomach. Perhaps a lightly toasted sandwich, or a grilled cutlet—"

"Quiet!" His head was beginning to throb again. "I do not like ultramodern robot kitchens with a lot of smart backtalk. I like old-fashioned kitchens that flash a light that says ready — and that is all they can say."

"Your coffee, sir," the kitchen said, in what was surely a hurt tone. A door snapped open above the counter and a steaming jug emerged. Bron looked around. "And what about a cup — or should I drink it out of the palm of my hand?"

"A cup, of course, sir. You did not specify that you wanted a cup." There was a muffled clank inside the machine, and a chipped cup rattled down a chute and landed on its side on the table.

Just what I needed, Bron thought, a temperamental robot kitchen. Jasmine came in, her little hooves click-clacking on the tiled floor. I had better get on the right side of this kitchen or I'll be in trouble with the Governor when he finds out.

"Now that you mention it, kitchen," he said aloud in the sweetest tones he could summon, "I have heard a great deal about your wonderful cooking. I wonder if you could make me eggs Benedict. .?"

"The work of a second, sir," the kitchen said happily, and only moments later the steaming dish arrived, with folded napkin and knife and fork.

"Wonderful," Bron said, putting the dish down for Jasmine. "The best I ever tasted." Loud smacking and chomping filled the room.

"Indeed you are a fast eater, sir," the kitchen hummed. "Enjoy, enjoy."

Bron took the coffee back to the other room and carefully sat down again on the couch. The Governor looked up from the phone, frowning worriedly.

"She's not at home," he said, "or with friends or anywhere that I can determine. A patrol has searched the area, and I sent a net call to all the local phones. No one has seen her — and there is no trace of her anywhere. That can't be possible. I'll try the mine stations."

It took over an hour for Governor Haydin to prove to his own satisfaction that Lea had vanished. The settled portion of Trowbri covered a limited area, and everyone could be reached by phone. No one had seen her or knew where she was. She was gone. Bron had faced this fact long before the Governor would admit it — and he knew what had to be done. He slumped back on the couch, half-dozing, with his shoes off and his feet propped on Jasmine's warm flank. The little pig was out like a light, sleeping the sleep of the just.

"She's gone," Haydin said, switching off the last call. "How can it be? She couldn't have had anything to do with your being attacked."

"She could have — if she were forced into it."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm just guessing, but it makes sense. Suppose her brother were not dead…"

"What are you saying?"

"Let me finish. Suppose her brother were alive, but in deadly danger. And she had the chance to save him if she did as ordered — which was to get me here. Give the girl credit. I don't think she knew they meant to kill me. She must have put up a fight — that's why she was taken away too."

"What do you know, Wurber?" Haydin shouted. "Tell me everything. I'm Governor here and I have a right to know."

"And know you shall — when I have anything more than hunches and guesses to give you. This attack, and the kidnapping, means that someone is unhappy about my presence, which also means that I am getting close. I'm going to speed things up and see if I can catch these ghosts off guard."

"Do you think there is a connection between all this and the Ghost Plateau?"

"I know there is. That's why I want word circulated in the morning that I am moving into my homestead tomorrow. Make sure everyone knows where it is."

"Where?"

"On the Ghost Plateau — where else?"

"That's suicide!"

"Not really. I have some guesses as to what happened up there, and some defenses — I hope. I also have my team, and they've proved themselves twice today. It will be taking a chance, but I'm going to have to take a chance if we ever hope to see Lea alive again."

Haydin clenched his fists on the top of his desk and made up his mind. "I can stop this if I want to — but I won't if you do it my way. Full radio connection, armed guards, the copters standing by…"

"No, sir_; thank you very much, but I remember what happened to the last bunch that tried it that way."

"Then — I'll go with you myself. I'm responsible for Lea. You'll take me or you won't go."

Bron smiled. "Now, that's a deal, Guv. I could use a helping hand, and maybe a witness. Things are going to get pretty busy on the plateau tonight. But no guns."

"That's suicide."

"Just remember the first expedition, and do it my way. I'm leaving most of my equipment behind. I imagine you can arrange to have it trucked to a warehouse until we get back. I think you'll find I have a good reason for what I'm doing."

Bron managed to squeeze in over ten hours' sleep, because he felt he was going to need it. By noon the truck had come and gone and they were on the way. Governor Haydin was dressed for the occasion, in hunting boots and rough clothes, and he moved right out with them. Not that the pace was so fast; they went at the speed of the slowest piglet, and there was much noisy comment from all sides and grabbing of quick snacks from the roadside. They took the course this time that the original expedition had taken — a winding track that led up to the plateau in easy stages, for the most part running beside a fast river of muddy water. Bron pointed to it.

"Is this the river that runs through the plateau?" he asked.

Haydin nodded. "This is the one; it comes down from that range of mountains back there."

Bron nodded, then ran to rescue a squealing suckling from a crack in the rocks into which it had managed to wedge itself. They moved on.

By sunset they had set up camp — in the glade just next to the one where the previous expedition had met its end.

"Do you think this is a good idea?" Haydin asked.

"The best.” Bron told him. "It's the perfect spot for our needs." He eyed the sun, which was close to the horizon. "Let's eat now; I want everything cleared away by dark."

Bron had opened a tremendous tent, but it was sparsely furnished— containing, to be exact, only two folding chairs and a battery-powered light.

"Isn't this a little on the Spartan side?" Haydin asked.

"I see no reason to bring equipment forty-five light-years just to have it destroyed. We've obviously set up camp, — that's all that's important. The equipment I need is in here." He tapped a small plastic sack that hung from his shoulder. "Now — chow's up."

Their table was an empty ration box that had held the pigs' dinner. A good officer always sees to his troops first, so the animals had been fed. Bron put two self-heating dinners on the box, broke their seals, and handed Haydin a plastic fork. It was almost dark by the time they had finished and Bron leaned out through the open end of the tent and whistled for Curly and Moe. The two boars arrived at full charge and left grooves in the dirt as they skidded to a halt next to him.

"Good boys," he said, scratching their bristly skulls. They grunted happily and rolled their eyes up at him. "They think I'm their mother, you know." He waited placidly while Haydin fought with his expression, his face turning red in the process. "That may sound a little funny, but it's true. They were removed from their litter at birth and I raised them. So I'm 'imprinted' as their parent."

"Their parents were pigs. You don't look very much like a pig to me."

"You've never heard of imprinting. Everyone knows that if a kitten is raised With a litter of pups, the cat goes through life thinking she is another dog. This is more than just association from an early age. There exists a physical process known as imprinting. The way it works is that the first creature an animal is aware of, that it sees when its eyes first open, is recognized as a parent. This usually is a parent — but not always. The kitten thinks the dog is its mother. These two oversized boars think I am their parent, no matter how physically impossible that may appear to you. I made sure of that before I even considered training them. It is the only way I can be absolutely safe around them, since, intelligent as they are, they are still quick-tempered and deadly beasts. It also means that I'm safe as long as they are around. If anyone as much as threatened me he would be disemboweled within the second. I'm telling you this so that you won't try anything foolish. Now, would you kindly hand over that gun you promised not to bring?"

Haydin's hand jumped towards his hip pocket — and stopped just as suddenly as both boars turned towards the sudden movement. Moe was salivating with happiness at the head-scratching, and a drop of saliva collected and dropped from the tip of one ten-inch tusk.

"I need it for my own protection. ." Haydin protested.

"You're better protected without it. Take it out, slowly." Haydin reached back gingerly and took out a compact energy pistol, then tossed it over to Bron. Bron caught it and hung it on the hook next to the light. "Now empty your pockets," he said. "I want everything metallic dumped on to the box."

"What are you getting at?"

"We'll talk about it later, — we don't have time now. Dump."

Haydin looked at the boars and emptied out his pockets, while Bron did the same. They left a collection of coins, keys, knives, and small instruments on the box.

"We can't do anything now about the eyelets in your boots," Bron said, "but I don't think they'll cause much trouble. I took the precaution of wearing elastic-sided boots."

It was dark now, and Bron drove his charges into the woods nearby, spreading them out under the trees a good hundred yards from the clearing. Only Queeny, the intelligent sow, remained behind, dropping down heavily next to Bron's stool.

"I demand an explanation," said Governor Haydin.

"Don't embarrass me, Guv, I'm just working on guesses so far. If nothing has happened by morning, I'll give you an explanation — and my apology. Isn't she a beauty," he added, nodding towards the massive hog at his feet.

"I'm afraid I might use another adjective myself."

"Well, don't say it out loud. Queeny's English is pretty good, and I don't want her feelings hurt. Misunderstanding, that's all it is. People call pigs dirty, but that's only because they have been made to live in filth. They're naturally quite clean and fastidious animals. They can be fat. They have a tendency to be sedentary and obese— just like people — so they can put on weight if they have the diet for it. In fact, they are more like human beings than any other animal. They get ulcers like us, and heart trouble the same way we do. Like man, they have hardly any hair on their bodies, and even their teeth are similar to ours.

"Their temperaments, too. Centuries ago, an early physiologist by the name of Pavlov, who used to do scientific experiments with dogs, tried to do the same thing with pigs. But as soon as he placed them on the operating table, they would squeal at the top of their lungs and thrash about. He said that they were 'inherently hysterical' and went back to working with dogs. Which shows you, even the best men have a blind spot. The pigs weren't hysterical — they were plain sensible; it was the dogs who were being dim. The pigs reacted just the way a man might if they tried to tie him down for some quick vivisection. . What is it, Queeny?"

Bron added this last as Queeny suddenly raised her head, her ears lifted, and grunted.

"Do you hear something?" Bron asked. The pig grunted again, in a rising tone, and climbed to her feet. "Does it sound like engines coming this way?" Queeny nodded her ponderous head in a very human yes.

"Get into the woods — back under the trees!" Bron shouted, hauling Haydin to his feet. "Do it fast — or you're dead."

They ran, headlong, and were among the trees when a distant, rising whine could be heard. Haydin started to ask something but was pushed face-first into the leaves as a whining, roaring shape floated into the clearing, blackly occulting the stars. It was anything but ghostly — but what was it? A swirl of leaves and debris swept over them, and Haydin felt something pulling at his legs so that they jumped about of their own accord. He tried to ask a question, but his words were drowned out as Bron blew on a plastic whistle and shouted:

"Curly, Moe — attack!"

At the same moment, he pulled a sticklike object out of his pack and threw it out into the clearing. It hit, popped, and burst into eye-searing flame — a flare of some kind.

The dark shape was a machine — that was obvious enough: round, black, and noisy, at least ten feet across, floating a foot above the ground, with a number of discs mounted around its edge. One of them swung towards the tent, and there was a series of explosive, popping sounds as the tent exploded and fell to the ground.

There was only a moment to see this before the attacking forms of the boars appeared from the opposite side of the clearing. Their speed was incredible as, heads down and legs churning, they dived at the machine. One of them arrived a fraction of a second before the other and crashed into the machine's flank. There was a metallic clang and the shriek of tortured machinery as it was jarred back, bent, almost tipped over.

The boar on the far side took instant advantage of this, his intelligence as quick as his reflexes, and without slowing hurled himself into the air and over the side and into the open top of the machine. Haydin looked on appalled. The machine was almost on the ground now, as a result of either ruined machinery or the weight of the boar.

The angry first animal now climbed the side and also vanished into the interior. Above the roar of the engine could be heard loud crashes and metallic tearing — and high-pitched screaming. Something clattered and tore, and the sound of the engines died away with a descending moan. As the sound lessened, a second machine could be heard approaching.

"Another coming!" Bron shouted, blasting on his whistle as he jumped to his feet. One of the boars popped its head from the ruin of the machine, then leaped out. The other was still noisily at work. The first boar catapulted himself towards the approaching sound and was on the spot when the machine appeared at the edge of the clearing — leaping and attacking, twisting his tusks into the thing. Something tore, and a great black length of material hung down. The machine lurched, and its operator must have seen the ruin of the first one, because it skidded in a tight circle and vanished back in the direction from which it had come.

Bron lit a second flare and tossed it out as the first one flickered. They were two-minute flares, and the entire action — from beginning to end — had taken place in less than that time. He walked over to the ruined machine, and Haydin hurried after him. The boar leaped to the ground and stood there panting, then wiped its tusks on the ground.

"What is it?" Haydin asked.

"A hovercraft.” Bron said. "They aren't seen very much these days — but they do have their uses. They can move over any kind of open country or water, and they don't leave tracks. But they can't go over or through forest."

"I've never heard of anything like that."

"You wouldn't have. Since beamed power and energy cells came into general use, better means of transportation have been developed. But at one time they used to build hovercraft as large as houses. They are sort of a cross between ground and air transport. They float in the air, but depend upon the ground for support, since they float on a column of air being blown down out of the bottom."

"You knew this thing was coming — that's why you had us hide in the woods?"

"I suspected this. And for very good reasons, I suspected them." He pointed inside the wrecked hovercraft, and Haydin recoiled in shock.

"I tend to forget — I guess everyone does," the Governor said. "I've only seen pictures of aliens, so they are not very real to me. But these creatures. Blood, green blood. And it looks as if they're all dead. Gray skin, pipestem limbs, just from the pictures I've seen, is it possible that they could be…"

"Sulbani. You're right. One of the three intelligent races of aliens we've met in our expansion through the galaxy — and the only ones who possessed an interstellar drive before we appeared on the scene. They already had their own little corner of the galaxy staked out and did not at all appreciate our arrival. We have been staying away from them and trying to convince them that we have no territorial ambitions on their planets. But some people are hard to convince. Some aliens even more so. The Sulbani are the worst. Suspicion is in their blood.

"All of the evidence seemed to point to their presence here on Trowbri, but I couldn't be absolutely sure until I came face-to-face with them. The use of high-frequency weapons is typical of them. You know that if you raise the pitch of sound, higher and higher, it becomes inaudible to human ears — though animals can still hear it. Raise it higher still and the animals can't hear it — but they feel it just as well as we can. Ultrasonics can do some strange things."

He kicked at one of the bent discs, not unlike a microwave aerial. "That was the first clue. They have ultrasonic projectors in the forest, broadcasting on a wavelength that is inaudible, but causes a feeling of tension and uneasiness in most animals. That was the ghostly aura that kept people away from this plateau most of the time." He whistled a signal for the herd to assemble. "Animals, as well as men, will move away from the source, and they used it to chase some of the nastier wildlife towards us. When it didn't work and we came back, they sent in the more powerful stuff. Look at your shoes — and at this lantern."

Haydin gasped. The eyelets had vanished from his boots, and ragged pieces of lace hung from the torn openings. The lantern, like the metal equipment of the lost expedition, was squeezed and bent out of shape.

"Magnostriction," Bron said. "They were projecting a contracting and expanding magnetic field of an incredible number of gauss. The technique is used in factories for shaping metal, and it works just as well in the field. That, and these ultrasonic projectors to finish the job. Even a normal scan radar will give you a burn if you stand too close to it, and some ultrasonic wavelengths can turn water to vapor and explode organic material. That's what they did to your people who camped here. Swept in suddenly and caught them in the tents surrounded by their own equipment, which exploded and crunched and helped to wipe them out. Now let's get going."

"I don't understand what this means. I—"

"Later. We have to catch the one that got away."

On the side of the clearing where the machine had disappeared, they found a ragged length of black plastic. "Part of the skirt from the hovercraft.” Bron said. "Confines the air and gives more lift. We'll follow them with this." He held out the fabric to Queeny and Jasmine and the other pigs that pressed up. "As you know, dogs track by odor that hangs in the air, and pigs have just as good noses — or better. In fact, hunting pigs were used in England for years, and pigs are also trained to smell out truffles. There they go!"

Grunting and squealing, the leaders started away into the darkness. The two men stumbled after them, the rest of the pigs following. After a few yards, Haydin had to stop and bind his shoes together with strips from his handkerchief before he could go on. He held Bron's belt, and Bron had his fingers hooked into the thick bristles that formed a crest on Curly's spine, and in this way they pushed through the forest. The hovercraft had to go through open country, or their nightmare run would have been impossible.

When a darker mass of mountains loomed ahead, Bron whistled the herd to him. "Stay," he ordered. "Stay with Queeny. Curly, Moe, and Jasmine — with me."

They went more slowly now, until the grassland died away in a broken scree of rock at the foot of a nearly vertical cliff. To their left they could make out the black gorge of the river and hear it rushing by below.

"You told me those things can't fly," Haydin said.

"They can't. Jasmine, follow the trail."

The little pig, head up and sniffing, trotted steadily across the broken rock and pointed to the bare side of the cliff.

"Could there possibly be a concealed entrance here?" Haydin asked, feeling the rough texture of the rock.

"There certainly could be — and we have no time to go looking for the key. Get behind those rocks, way over there, while I open, this thing up."

He took blocks of a claylike substance from his pack — a plastic explosive — and placed them against the rock, where they remained, over the spot that Jasmine had indicated. Then he pushed a fuse into the explosive, pulled the igniter — and ran.

He had just thrown himself down with the others when flame ripped the sky and the ground heaved under them; a spatter of rocks fell on all sides. They ran forward through the dust and saw light spilling out through a tall crevice in the rock. The boars threw themselves against it and it widened. Once through, they saw that a metal door was fastened to a section of rock and could swing outward to give access to the large cavern they were standing in. Bron bit his lip and examined the tunnel that ran down into the heart of the mountain.

"What next?" Governor Haydin asked.

"That's what I'm concerned about. At night, and out in the open, I'll back my boars against the Sulbani — or against human beings, for that matter. But these tunnels are a death trap for them. Even their speed won't protect them against gunfire. So let's even the odds. Everyone — back flat against this wall."

The Governor obeyed quickly enough, but it took a bit of tail pulling and two well-placed kicks to get the excited boars to obey. Only after they were all in position did Bron throw the switch on the wall of the entrance chamber of the tunnel. A large, inset metal door moved slowly upward — and laser beams hissed through the expanded opening.

"The hovercraft hangar," Bron whispered. "Looks as if some of them are still in there."

The boars didn't need orders. They waited, trembling with repressed energy, until the gap had widened enough to admit them. Then they struck at once, twin furies.

"Don't damage the gun!" Bron shouted as the laser beam fired again, wildly, then vanished. There were loud crunching sounds from inside.

"We can go in now," Bron said.

Inside the tool-lined room they found the body of only a single Sulbani. He must have been a mechanic, since the torn skirt had been removed from the hovercraft and a new one was ready to be fitted into place. Bron stepped over the corpse and picked up the laser rifle.

"Have you ever shot one of these?" he asked.

"No, but I'm willing to learn."

"Some other time. I'm an expert marksman with this particular weapon and I will be happy to prove it. Stay here."

"No, I won't do that."

"That's your choice. Stay behind me, then, and maybe I can get you a weapon too. Let's move fast while we can still make some use of surprise."

Cautiously, flanked by the two boars, he moved down the well-lit cavern, and Haydin followed close behind. Trouble came at the first tunnel crossing. When they were about twenty yards from the other tunnel, a Sulbani leaped out suddenly, with his gun poised and ready to fire. Bron snapped a single shot from his waist, without appearing to aim, and the alien collapsed, motionless, on the tunnel floor.

"Go get them!" he shouted, and the boars plunged forward, one to each opening of the cross tunnel. Bron fired over them, into the tunnel mouths, until the air cracked and glowed with the discharge of the laser. The two men ran forward, but when they reached the cross tunnel the battle was over. Moe had a burn along one side— which did not slow him down, though it did make his temper worse. He rooted, snorting like a steam engine, in the temporary barricade, tossing boxes and furniture over his head.

"Here's your gun," Bron said, picking up an undamaged laser rifle. "HI set it on maximum discharge, single shot. Just aim it and pull the trigger. And let's go. They know we're in now, but luckily they were not prepared for a battle inside their own hideout."

They ran, counting on speed and shock to get them through, stopping only when they encountered resistance. As they passed one tunnel mouth they heard distant shouting, and Bron skidded to a stop and called to the others.

"Hold it. In here. Those sound like human voices." The metal door was set into solid rock. The laser beam turned the lock to a molten puddle, and Bron pulled the door open.

"I was so sure we would never be found — that we would die here," Lea Davies said. She came out of the cell, half supported by a tall man with the same coppery red hair.

"Huw Davies?" Bron asked.

"The same.” he said, "but let's keep the introductions until later. When they brought me in here I saw a good bit of the layout. The most important thing is a central control room. Everything operates from there — even their power plant is right next to it. And they have communication equipment."

"I'm with you," Bron said. "If we take that, we can cut out all the power and make them work in the dark. My boars will like that. They'll cruise around and keep things stirred up until the militia arrives. We'll call the town from there."

Huw Davies pointed at the laser rifle Haydin held. "I'd like to borrow that for a while, Governor, if you would let me. I have a few scores I want to settle."

"It's all yours. Now show us the way."

The battle for the control room was a brief one — the boars saw to that. Most of the furniture was smashed up, but the controls appeared still to be in working order.

"You stand guard at the entrance, Huw," Bron said, "since I read Sulbani script and you probably don't." He mumbled to himself over the phonetic symbols, then smiled with satisfaction. " 'Lighting circuit'—that's all that can mean."

He stabbed at a button, and all the lights went out.

"I hope that it's dark all over, not just here," Lea said weakly in the black depths of the room.

"Everywhere.” Bron told her. "Now, the emergency lighting circuit for this room should be here." Blue bulbs, scattered over the ceiling, flickered and came to life. Lea sighed audibly. "I've really had just about enough excitement.” she said.

The two boars were looking expectantly at Bron, a wicked red gleam in their eyes. "Go to it, boys," he said. "Just don't get hurt."

"Little chance of that," Huw said as the great beasts exploded out the doorway and vanished with a rapid thud of hooves. "I've seen how they operate, and I'm glad I'm not on the receiving end." A distant- crashing and thin screams echoed his sentiments.

Governor Haydin looked around at the banks of instruments and controls. "Now," he said, "that the excitement and immediate danger are over for the moment, will someone please tell me what is happening here and what all this is about?"

"A mine," Huw said, pointing towards a tunnel diagram on the far wall of the room. "A uranium mine — all in secret, and it has been running for years. I don't know how they're getting the metal out, but they mine and partially refine it here, all with automatic machinery. Then powder the slag and dump it into the river out there."

"I'll tell you what happens then," Bron said. "When they have a cargo, it's lifted off by spacer. The Sulbani have very big ideas about moving out of their area and controlling a bigger portion of space. But they are short of power metals, and Earth has been working hard to keep it that way. One of the reasons this planet was settled was that it is near the Sulbani sector and, while we didn't need the uranium, we didn't want it falling into the Sulbani's hands. The Patrol had no idea that they were getting their uranium from Trowbri — though they knew it was coming from somewhere — but it was a possibility. When the governor here sent in his request for aid, it became an even stronger possibility."

"I still don't understand it," Haydin said. "We would have detected any ships coming to the planet; our radar functions well."

"I'm sure it functions fine — but these creatures have at least one human accomplice who sees to it that the landings are concealed."

"Human. .!" Haydin gasped. Then he knotted his fists at the thought. "It's not possible. A traitor to the human race. Who could it be?"

"That's obvious," Bron said, "now that you have been eliminated as a possibility."

"Me!"

"You were a good suspect — in the perfect position to cover things up_; that's why I was less than frank with you. But you knew nothing about the hovercraft raid and would have been killed if I hadn't pulled you down, so that took you off the list of suspects. Leaving the obvious man: Reymon — the radio operator."

"That's right.” Lea said. "He let me talk to Huw on the phone— and then he made me call you or he said he would have Huw killed. He didn't say why he wanted to see you, I didn't know…"

"You couldn't have." Bron smiled at her. "He isn't much of a killer and must have been following Sulbani instructions to get rid of me. He really earned his money by not seeing their ships on radar. And by making sure that the radio communication with Huw's party was cut off when the Sulbani attacked. He probably recorded the signals and gave the murderers an hour or two to do their work before he broadcast the radio's cutting off. That would have helped the mystery. And now, Governor, I hope you'll give a favorable report about this P.I.G. operation."

"The absolute best," Hay din said. He looked down at Jasmine, who had tracked them down and now lay curled up at his feet, chewing on a bar of Sulbani rations. "In fact, I'm almost ready to swear off eating pork for the rest of my life."

Space Rats of the CCC

That's it matey, pull up a stool, sure use that one. Just dump old Phrnnx onto the floor to sleep it off. You know that Krddls can't stand to drink much less drink flnnx and that topped off with a smoke of the hellish krmml weed. Here, let me pour you a mug of flnnx, oops, sorry about your sleeve. When it dries you can scrape it off with a knife. Here's to your health and may your tubeliners never fail you when the kpnnz hordes are on your tail.

No, sorry, never heard your name before. Too many good men come and go, and the good ones die early aye! Me? You never heard of me. Just call me Old Sarge as good a name as any. Good men I say, and the best of them was — well, we'll call him Gentleman Jax. He had another name, but there's a little girl waiting on a planet I could name, a little girl that's waiting and watching the shimmering trails of the deep-spacers when they come, and waiting for a man. So for her sake we'll call him Gentleman Jax, he would have liked that, and she would like that if only she knew, although she must be getting kind of gray, or bald by now, and arthritic from all that sitting and waiting but, golly, that's another story and by Orion it's not for me to tell. That's it, help yourself, a large one. Sure the green fumes are normal for good flnnx, though you better close your eyes when you drink or you'll be blind in a week, ha-ha! by the sacred name of the Prophet Mrddl!

Yes, I can tell what you're thinking. What's an old space rat like me doing in a dive like this out here at galaxy's end where the rim stars flicker wanly and the tired photons go slow? I'll tell you what I'm doing, getting drunker than a Planizzian pfrdffl, that's what. They say that drink has the power to dim memories and by Cygnus I have some memories that need dimming. I see you looking at those scars on my hands. Each one is a story, matey, aye, and the scars on my back each a story and the scars on my. . well, that's a different story. Yes, I'll tell you a story, a true one by Mrddl's holy name, though I might change a name or two, that little girl waiting, you know.

You heard tell of the CCC? I can see by the sudden widening of your e^es and the blanching of your space-tanned skin that you have. Well, yours truly, Old Sarge here, was one of the first of the Space Rats of the CCC, and my buddy then was the man they know as Gentleman Jax. May Great Kramddl curse his name and blacken the memory of the first day when I first set eyes on him. .

"Graduating class. . ten-SHUN!"

The sergeant's stentorian voice bellowed forth, cracking like a whiplash across the expectant ears of the mathematically aligned rows of cadets. With the harsh snap of those fateful words a hundred and three incredibly polished bootheels crashed together with a single snap, and the eighty-seven cadets of the graduating class snapped to steel-rigid attention. (It should be explained that some of them were from alien worlds, different numbers of legs, and so on.) Not a breath was drawn, not an eyelid twitched a thousandth of a milliliter as Colonel von Thorax stepped forward, glaring down at them all through the glass monocle in front of his glass eye, close-cropped gray hair stiff as barbed wire, black uniform faultlessly cut and smooth, a krmml weed cigarette clutched in the steel fingers of his prosthetic left arm, black gloved fingers of his prosthetic right arm snapping to hat-brim's edge in a perfect salute, motors whining thinly in his prosthetic lungs to power the Brobdingnagian roar of his harshly bellowed command.

"At ease. And listen to me. You are the handpicked men — and handpicked things too, of course — from all the civilized worlds of the galaxy. Six million and forty-three cadets entered the first year of training, and most of them washed out in one way or another. Some could not toe the mark. Some were expelled and shot for buggery. Some believed the lying commie pinko crying liberal claims that continuous war and slaughter are not necessary, and they were expelled and shot as well. One by one the weaklings fell away through the years leaving the hard core of the Corps — you! The Corpsmen of the first graduating class of the CCC! Ready to spread the benefits of civilization to the stars. Ready at last to find out what the initials CCC stand for!"

A mighty roar went up from the massed throats, a cheer of hoarse masculine enthusiasm that echoed and boomed from the stadium walls. At a signal from von Thorax a switch was thrown, and a great shield of imperviomite slid into place above, sealing the stadium from prying eyes and ears and snooping spyish rays. The roaring voices roared on enthusiastically — and many an eardrum was burst that day! — yet were stilled in an instant when the Colonel raised his hand.

"You Corpsmen will not be alone when you push the frontiers of civilization out to the barbaric stars. Oh no! You will each have a faithful companion by your side. First man, first row, step forward and meet your faithful companion!"

The Corpsman called out stepped forward a smart pace and clicked his heels sharply, said click being echoed in the clack of a thrown-wide door and, without conscious intent, every eye in that stadium was drawn in the direction of the dark doorway from which emerged. .

How to describe it? How to describe the whirlwind that batters you, the storm that engulfs you_; the spacewarp that en-warps you? It was as indescribable as any natural force!

It was a creature three meters high at the shoulders, four meters high at the ugly, drooling, tooth-clashing head, a whirl-winded, spacewarped storm that rushed forward on four piston-like legs, great-clawed feet tearing grooves in the untearable surface of the impervitium flooring, a monster born of madness and nightmares that reared up before them and bellowed in a soul-destroying screech.

"There!" Colonel von Thorax bellowed in answer, blood-specked spittle mottling his lips. "There is your faithful companion, the mu-tacamel, mutation of the noble beast of Good Old Earth, symbol and pride of the CCC — the Combat Camel Corps! Corpsman meet your camel!"

The selected Corpsman stepped forward and raised his arm in greeting to this noble beast which promptly bit the arm off. His shrill screams mingled with the barely stifled gasps of his companions who watched, with more than casual interest, as camel trainers girt with brass-buckled leather harness rushed out and beat the protesting camel with clubs back from whence it had come, while a medic clamped a tourniquet on the wounded man's stump and dragged his limp body away.

"That is your first lesson on combat camels," the Colonel cried huskily. "Never raise your arms to them. Your companion, with a newly grafted arm will, I am certain, ha-ha! remember this little lesson. Next man, next companion!"

Again the thunder of rushing feet and the high-pitch gurgling, scream-like roar of the combat camel at full charge. This time the Corpsmafi kept his arm down, and the camel bit his head off.

"Can't graft on a head I am afraid," the Colonel leered maliciously at them. "A moment of silence for our departed companion who has gone to the big rocket pad in the sky. That's enough. Ten-SHUN! You will now proceed to the camel training area where you will learn to get along with your faithful companions. Never forgetting that each has a complete set of teeth made of imperviomite, as well as razor-sharp claw caps of this same substance. Dis-MISSED!"

The student barracks of the CCC was well known for its "no frills" or rather "no coddling" decor and comforts. The beds were impervitium slabs — no spine-sapping mattresses here! — and the sheets of thin burlap. No blankets of course, not with the air kept at a healthy four degrees centigrade. The rest of the comforts matched so that it was a great surprise to the graduates to find unaccustomed comforts awaiting them upon their return from the ceremonies and training. There was a shade on each bare-bulbed reading light and a nice soft two-centimeter-thick pillow on every bed. Already they were reaping the benefits of all the years of labor.

Now, among all the students, the top student by far was named M----. There are some secrets that must not be told, names that are important to loved ones and neighbors. Therefore I shall draw the cloak of anonymity over the true identity of the man known as M----. Suffice to call him "Steel," for that was the nickname of someone who knew him best "Steel," or Steel as we can call him, had at this time a roommate by the name of L----. Later, much later, he was to be called by certain people "Gentleman Jax," so for the purpose of this narrative we shall call him "Gentleman Jax" as well, or perhaps just plain "Jax." Jax was second only to Steel in scholastic and sporting attainments, and the two were the best of chums. They had been roommates for the past year and now they were back in their room with their feet up, basking in the unexpected luxury of the new furnishings, sipping decaffeinated coffee, called kof-fee, and smoking deeply of the school's own brand of demcotmized cigarettes, called Demkcig by the manufacturer but always referred to, humorously, by the CCC students as "gaspers" or "lungbusters "

"Throw me over a gasper, will you Jax," Steel said, from where he lolled on the bed, hands behind his head, dreaming of what was in store for him now that he would be having his own camel soon. "Ouch¹" he chuckled as the pack of gaspers caught him in the eye. He drew out one of the slim white forms and tapped it on the wall to ignite it then drew in a lungful of refreshing smoke. "I still can't believe it…" he smokermged.

"Well it's true enough, by Mrddl," Jax smiled. "We're graduates. Now throw back that pack of lungbusters so I can join you in a draw of two."

Steel complied, but did it so enthusiastically that the pack hit the wall and instantly all the cigarettes ignited and the whole thing burst into flame. A glass of water doused the conflagration but, while it was still fizzling fitfully, a light flashed redly on the comscreen.

"High-priority message," Steel bit out, slamming down the actuator button. Both youths snapped to rigid attention as the screen filled with the iron visage of Colonel von Thorax.

"M----, L----, to my office on the triple." The words fell like leaden weights from his lips. What could it mean?

"What can it mean?" Jax asked as they hurtled down a drop-chute at close to the speed of gravity.

"We'll find out quickly enough.” Steel snapped as they drew up at the "old man's" door and activated the announcer button.

Moved by some hidden mechanism the door swung wide and, not without a certain amount of trepidation, they entered. But what was this? This! The Colonel was looking at them and smiling, smiling, an expression never before known to cross his stern face at any time.

"Make yourselves comfortable, lads," he indicated, pointing at comfortable chairs that rose out of the floor at the touch of a button "You'll find gaspers in the arms of these servochairs, as well as Val-umian wine or Snaggian beer."

"No koffee?" Jax open-mouthedly expostulated, and they all laughed.

"I don't think you really want it.” the Colonel susurrated coyly through his artificial larynx. "Drink up lads, you're Space Rats of the CCC now, and your youth is behind you. Now look at that."

That was a three-dimensional image that sprang into being in the air before them at the touch of a button, an image of a spacer like none ever seen before. She was as slender as a swordfish, fine-winged as a bird, solid as a whale, and as armed to the teeth as an alligator.

"Holy Kolon," Steel sighed in open-mouthed awe. "Now that is what I call a hunk o' rocket!"

"Some of us prefer to call it the Indefectible," the Colonel said, not unhumorously.

"Is that her? We heard something…"

"You heard very little for we have had this baby under wraps ever since the earliest stage She has the largest engines ever built, new improved MacPhersons of the most advanced design, Kelly dnvet gear that has been improved to where you would not recognize it in a month of Thursdays — as well as double-strength Fitzroy projectors^ that make the old ones look like a kid's pop-gun. And I've saved the best for last—"

"Nothing can be better than what you have already told us," Steel broke in.

"That's what you think!" the Colonel laughed, not unkindly, with a sound like tearing steel. "The best news is that, M----, you are going to be Captain of this spacegoing super-dreadnought, while Lucky L----is Chief Engineer."

"Lucky L----would be a lot happier if he were Captain instead of king of the stokehold," he muttered, and the other two laughed at what they thought was a joke.

"Everything is completely automated," the Colonel continued, "so it can be flown by a crew of two. But I must warn you that it has experimental gear aboard so whoever flies her has to volunteer…"

"I volunteer!" Steel shouted.

"I have to go to the terlet," Jax said, rising, though he sat again instantly when the ugly blaster leaped from its holster to the Colonel's hand. "Ha-ha, just a joke. I volunteer, sure."

"I knew I could count on you lads. The CCC breeds men. Camels too, of course. So here is what you do. At 0304 hours tomorrow you two in the Indefectible will crack ether headed out Cygnus way. In the direction of a certain planet."

"Let me guess, if I can, that is," Steel said grimly through tight-clenched teeth. "You don't mean to give us a crack at the larshnik-loaded world of Biru-2, do you?"

"I do. This is the larshniks' prime base, the seat of operation of all their drug and gambling traffic, where the white-slavers offload, and the queer green is printed, site of the flnnx distilleries and lair of the pirate hordes."

"If you want action that sounds like it!" Steel grimaced.

"You are not just whistling through your back teeth," the Colonel agreed. "If I were younger and had a few less replaceable parts this is the kind of opportunity I would leap at. ."

"You can be Chief Engineer," Jax hinted.

"Shut up," the Colonel implied. "Good luck gentlemen for the honor of the CCC rides with you."

"But not the camels?" Steel asked.

"Maybe next time. There are, well, adjustment problems. We have lost four more graduates since we have been sitting here. Maybe we'll even change animals. Make it the CDC."

"With combat dogs?" Jax asked.

"Either that or donkeys. Or dugongs. But it is my worry, not yours. All you guys have to do is get out there and crack Biru-2 wide open. I know you can do it."

If the stern-faced Corpsmen had any doubts they kept them to themselves, for that is the way of the Corps. They did what had to be done and the next morning, at exactly 0304:00 hours, the mighty bulk of the Indefectible hurled itself into space. The roaring MacPherson engines poured quintillions of ergs of energy into the reactor drive until they were safely out of the gravity field of Mother Earth. Jax labored over his engines, shoveling the radioactive transvestite into the gaping maw of the hungry furnace, until Steel signaled from the bridge that it was "changeover" time. Then they changed over to the space-eating Kelly drive. Steel jammed home the button that activated the drive and the great ship leaped starward at seven times the speed of light.* Since the drive was fully automatic Jax freshened up in the fresher, while his clothes were automatically washed in the washer, then proceeded to the bridge.

"Really," Steel said, his eyebrows climbing up his forehead. "I didn't know you went in for polka-dot jockstraps."

"It was the only thing I had clean. The washer dissolved the rest of my clothes."

"Don't worry about it. It's the larshniks of Biru-2 who have to worry! We hit atmosphere in exactly seventeen minutes and I have been thinking about what to do when that happens."

"Well, I certainly hope someone has! I haven't had time to draw a deep breath, much less think."

"Don't worry, old pal, we are in this together. The way I figure it we have two choices. We can blast right in, guns roaring, or we can slip in by stealth."

"Oh, you really have been thinking, haven't you."

"I'll ignore that because you are tired. Strong as we are I think the land-based batteries are stronger. So I suggest we slip in without being noticed."

"Isn't that a little hard when you are flying in a thirty-ton spacer?"

"Normally, yes. But do you see this button here marked 'Invisibility'? While you were loading the fuel they explained this to me. It is a new invention, never used in action before, that will render us invisible and impervious to detection by any of their detection instruments."

"Now that's more like it. Fifteen minutes to go, we should be getting mighty close. Turn on the old invisibility ray…"

"Don't!"

"Done! Now what's your problem?"

"Nothing really. Except the experimental invisibility device is not expected to last more than thirteen minutes before it burns out."

Unhappily, this proved to be the case. One hundred miles above the barren, blasted surface of Biru-2 the good old Indefectible popped into existence.

In the minutest fraction of a millisecond the mighty spacesonar and superadar had locked grimly onto the invading ship while sub-lights flickered their secret signals, waiting for the correct response that would reveal the invader as one of theirs.

"I'll send a signal, stall them. These larshniks aren't too bright." Steel laughed. He thumbed on the microphone, switched to the interstellar emergency frequency, then bit out the rasping words in a sordid voice. "Agent X-9 to prime base. Had a firefight with the patrol, shot up my code books, but I got all the SOBs, ha-ha! Am coming home with a load of eight hundred thousand long tons of the hellish krmml weed."

The larshnik response was instantaneous. From the gaping, pitted orifices of thousands of giant blaster cannon there vomited forth ravening rays of energy that strained the very fabric of space itself. These coruscating forces blasted into the impregnable screens of the old Indefectible, which, sadly, was destined not to get much older, and instantly punched their way through and splashed coruscatingly from the very hull of the ship itself. Mere matter could not stand against such forces unlocked in the coruscating bowels of the planet itself so that the impregnable imperialite metal walls instantly vaporized into a thin gas which was, in turn, vaporized into the very electrons and protons (and neutrons too) of which it was made.

Mere flesh and blood could not stand against such forces. But in the few seconds it took the coruscating energies to eat through the force screens, hull, vaporized gas, and protons, the reckless pair of valiant Corpsmen had hurled themselves headlong into their space armor. And just in time! The ruin of the once great ship hit the atmosphere and seconds later slammed into the poison soil of Biru-2.

To the casual observer it looked like the end. The once mighty queen of the spaceways would fly no more for she now consisted of no more than two hundred pounds of smoking junk. Nor was there any sign of life from the tragic wreck to the surface crawlers who erupted from a nearby secret hatch concealed in the rock and crawled through the smoking remains with all their detectors detecting at maximum gain. "Report!" the radio signal wailed. "No sign of life to fifteen decimal places!" snapped back the cursing operator of the crawlers before he signaled them to return to base. Their metal cleats clanked viciously across the barren soil, and then they were gone. All that remained was the cooling metal wreck hissing with despair as the poison rain poured like tears upon it.

Were these two good friends dead? I thought you would never ask. Unbeknownst to the larshnik technicians, just one millisecond before the wreck struck down two massive and almost indestructible suits of space armor had been ejected by coiled steelite springs, sent flying to the very horizon where they landed behind a concealing spine of rock, which just by chance was the spine of rock into which the secret hatch had been built that concealed the crawlway from which the surface crawlers with their detectors emerged for their fruitless search, to which they returned under control of their cursing operator who, stoned-again with hellish krmml weed, never noticed the quick flick of the detector needles as the crawlers reentered the tunnel, this time bearing on their return journey a cargo they had not exited with as the great door slammed shut behind them.

"We've done it! We're inside their defenses," Steel rejoiced. "And no thanks to you, pushing that Mrddl-cursed invisibility button."

"Well, how was I to know?" Jax grated. "Anyways, we don't have a ship anymore but we do have the element of surprise. They don't know that we are here, but we know they are here!"

"Good thinking. . hssst!" he hissed. "Stay low, we're corning to something."

The clanking crawlers rattled into the immense chamber cut into the living stone and now filled with deadly war machines of all description. The only human there, if he could be called human, was the larshnik operator whose soiled fingertips sprang to the gun controls the instant he spotted the intruders but he never stood a chance. Precisely aimed rays from two blasters zeroed in on him and in a millisecond he was no more than a charred fragment of smoking flesh in the chair. Corps justice was striking at last to the larshnik lair.

Justice it was, impersonal and final, impartial and murderous, for there were no "innocents" in this lair of evil. Ravening forces of civilized vengeance struck down all that crossed their path as the two chums rode a death-dealing combat gun through the corridors of infamy.

"This is the big one," Steel grimaced as they came to an immense door of gold-plated impervialite before which a suicide squad committed suicide under the relentless scourge of fire. There was more feeble resistance, smokily, coruscatingly and noisily exterminated, before this last barrier went down and they rode in triumph into the central control now manned by a single figure at the main panel. Superlarsh himself, secret head of the empire of interstellar crime.

"You have met your destiny," Steel intoned grimly, his weapon fixed unmovingly upon the black-robed figure in the opaque space helmet. "Take off that helmet or you die upon the instant."

His only reply was a slobbered growl of inchoate rage, and for a long instant the black-gloved hands trembled over the gun controls. Then, ever so slowly, these same hands raised themselves to clutch at the helmet, to turn it, to lift it-slowly off…

“By the sacred name of the Prophet Mrddl!" the two Corpsmen gasped in unison, struck speechless by what they saw.

"Yes, so now you know.” grated Superlarsh through angry teeth. "But, ha-ha, I'll bet you never suspected."

"You!!" Steel insufflated, breaking the frozen silence. "You! You!! YOU!!!"

"Yes, me, I, Colonel von Thorax, Commandant of the CCC. You never suspected me and, ohh, how I laughed at you all of the time!"

"But…" Jax stammered. "Why?"

"Why? The answer is obvious to any but democratic interstellar swine like you. The only thing the larshniks of the galaxy had to fear was something like the CCC, a powerful force impervious to outside bribery or sedition, noble in the cause of righteousness. You could have caused us trouble. Therefore we founded the CCC, and I have long been head of both organizations. Our recruiters bring in the best that the civilized planets can offer, and I see to it that most of them are brutalized, morale destroyed, bodies wasted, and spirits crushed so they are no longer a danger. Of course, a few always make it through the course no matter how disgusting I make it — every generation has its share of supermasochists — but I see that these are taken care of pretty quickly."

"Like being sent on suicide missions?" Steel asked ironly.

"That's a good way."

"Like the one we were sent on — but it didn't work! Say your prayers, you filthy larshnik, for you are about to meet your maker!"

"Maker? Prayers? Are you out of your skull? All larshniks are atheists to the end…"

And then it was the end, in a coruscating puff of vapor, dead with those vile words upon his lips, no less than he deserved.

"Now what?" Steel asked.

"This," Jax responded, shooting the gun from his hand and imprisoning him instantly with an unbreakable paralysis ray. "No more second best for me — in the engine room with you on the bridge. This is my ball game from here on in."

"Are you mad!" Steel fluttered through paralyzed lips.

"Sane for the first time in my life. The Superlarsh is dead, long live the new Superlarsh. It's mine, the whole galaxy, mine."

"And what about me?"

"I should kill you, but that would be too easy. And you did share your chocolate bars with me. You will be blamed for this entire debacle — for the death of Colonel von Thorax and for the disaster here at larshnik prime base. Every man's hand will be against you, and you will be an outcast and will flee for your life to the farflung outposts of the galaxy where you will live in terror."

"Remember the chocolate bars!"

"I do. All I ever got were the stale ones. Now. . GO!"

You want to know my name? Old Sarge is good enough. My story? Too much for your tender ears, boyo. Just top up the glasses, that's the way, and join me in a toast. At least that much for a poor old man who has seen much in this long lifetime. A toast of bad luck, bad cess I say, may Great Kramddl curse forever the man some know as Gentleman Jax. What, hungry? Not me — no — NO! Not a chocolate bar!!'!!!

Captain Honario Harpplayer, R.N

Captain Honario Harpplayer was pacing the tiny quarterdeck of the HMS Redundant, hands clasped behind his back, teeth clamped in impotent fury. Ahead of him the battered French fleet limped towards port, torn sails flapping and spars trailing overside in the water, splintered hulls agape where his broadsides had gone thundering through their fragile wooden sides.

"Send two hands for'ard, if you please, Mr. Shrub," he said, "and have them throw water on the mainsail. Wet sails will add an eighth of a knot to our speed and we may overtake these cowardly frogs yet."

"B-but, sir," the stolid first mate Shrub stammered, quailing before the thought of disagreeing with his beloved captain. "If we take any more hands off the pumps we'll sink. We're holed in thirteen places below the waterline, and—"

"Damn your eyes, sir! I issued an order, not a request for a debate. Do as you were told."

"Aye, aye, sir," Shrub mumbled, humbled, knuckling a tear from one moist spaniel eye.

Water splashed onto the sails and the Redundant instantly sank lower in the water. Harpplayer clasped his hands behind his back and hated himself for this display of unwarranted temper towards the faithful Shrub. Yet he had to keep up this pose of strict disciplinarian before the crew, the sweepings and dregs of a thousand waterfronts, just as he had to wear a girdle to keep up his own front and a truss to keep up his hernia. He had to keep up a good front because he was the captain of this ship, the smallest ship in the blockading fleet that lay like a strangling noose around Europe, locking in the mad tyrant Napoleon, whose dreams of conquest could never extend to England whilst these tiny wooden ships stood in the way.

"Give us a prayer, Cap'n, to speed us on our way to 'eaven because we're sinkin'!" a voice called from the crowd of seamen at the pumps.

"I'll have that man's name, Mr. Dogleg," Harpplayer called to the midshipman, a mere child of seven or eight, who commanded the detail. "No rum for him for a week."

"Aye aye, sir," piped Mr. Dogleg, who was just learning to talk.

The ship was sinking, the fact was inescapable. Rats were running on deck, ignoring the cursing, stamping sailors, and hurling themselves into the sea. Ahead the French fleet had reached the safety of the shore batteries on Cape Pietfieux and the gaping mouths of these guns were turned towards the Redundant, ready to spout fire and death when the fragile ship came within range.

"Be ready to drop sail, Mr. Shrub," Harpplayer said, then raised his voice so all the crew could hear. "Those cowardly Frenchies have run away and cheated us of a million pounds in prize money."

A growl went up from the crew who, next to a love for rum, loved the pounds, shillings and pence with which they could buy the rum. The growl was suddenly cut off in muffled howls of pain as the mainmast, weakened by the badly aimed French cannon, fell onto the mass of laboring men.

"No need to drop sail, Mr. Shrub, the slaves of our friend Boney have done it for us," Harpplayer said, forcing himself to make one of his rare jests so loved by the crew. He hated himself for the falseness of his feelings, ingratiating himself into the sympathies of these illiterate men by such means, but it was his duty to keep a taut ship. Besides, if he didn't make any jokes the men would hate him for the slave-driving, cold-blooded, chance-taking master that he was. They still hated him, of course, but they laughed while they did it.

They were laughing now as they cut away the tangle of rigging and dragged out the bodies to lay them in neat rows upon the deck. The ship sank lower in the water.

"Avast that body dragging," he ordered, "and man the pumps, or we'll have our dinners on the bottom of the sea."

The men laughed a ragged laugh again and hurried to their tasks.

They were easy to please, and Harpplayer envied them their simple lives. Even with the heavy work, bad water and an occasional touch of the cat, their existence was better than his tortured life on the lonely pinnacle of command. The decisions were all his to make, and to a man_of his morbid and paranoiac nature this made life a living hell. His officers, who all hated him, were incompetents. Even Shrub, faithful, long-suffering Shrub, had his weakness: namely the fact that he had an IQ of about 60 which, combined with his low birth, meant he could never rise above the rank of a rear admiral.

While he considered the varied events of the day Harpplayer began his compulsive pacing on the tiny quarterdeck, and its other occupants huddled against the starboard side where they wouldn't be in his way. Four paces in one direction, then three-and-a-half paces back with his knee bringing up with a shuddering crack against the port carronade. Yet Harpplayer did not feel this, his cardplayer's brain was whirling with thoughts, evaluating and weighing plans, rejecting those that held a modicum of sanity and only considering those that sounded too insane to be practical. No wonder he was called "Sap-sucker Harpy" throughout the flett and held in awe as a man who could always pull victory from the jaws of defeat, and always at an immense cost in lives. But that was war. You gave your commands and good men died, and that was what the press gangs on shore were for. It had been a long and trying day, yet he still would not permit himself to relax. Tension and the agony of apprehension had seized him in the relentless grip of a Cerberus ever since soon after dawn that morning when the lookout had announced the discovery of sails on the horizon. There had been only ten of them, Frenchy ships of the line, and before the morning fog had cleared the vengeful form of the Redundant had been upon them, like a wolf among the sheep. Broadside after broadside had roared out from the precisely serviced English guns, ten balls for every one that popped out of the French cannon, manned by cowardly sweepings of the eighth and ninth classes of 1812, gray-bearded patriarchs and diapered infants who only wished they were back in the familial vineyards instead of here, fighting for the Tyrant, facing up to the wrath of the death-dealing cannon of their island enemy, the tiny country left to fight alone against the might of an entire continent. It had been a relentless stern chase, and only the succor of the French port had prevented the destruction of the entire squadron. As it was, four of them lay among the conger eels on the bottom of the ocean and the remaining six would need a complete refitting before they were fit to leave port and once more dare the retributive might of the ships that ringed their shores.

Harpplayer knew what he had to do.

"If you please, Mr. Shrub, have the hose rigged. I feel it is time for a bath."

A ragged cheer broke from the toiling sailors, since they knew what to expect. In the coldest northern waters or in the dead of winter Harpplayer insisted on this routine of the bath. The hoses were quickly attached to the laboring pumps and soon columns of icy water were jetting across the deck.

"In we go!" shouted Harpplayer, and stepped back well out of the way of any chance droplets, at the same time scratching with a long index finger at the skin of his side, unwashed since the previous summer. He smiled at the childish antics of Shrub and the other officers prancing nude in the water, and only signaled for the pumps to cease their work when all of the white skins had turned a nice cerulean.

There was a rumble, not unlike distant thunder yet sharper and louder, from the northern horizon. Harpplayer turned and for a long instant saw a streak of fire painted against the dark clouds, before it died from the sky, leaving only an afterimage in his eyes. He shook his head to clear it, and blinked rapidly a few times. For an instant there he could have sworn that the streak of light had come down, instead of going up, but that was manifestly impossible. Too many late nights playing Boston with his officers, no wonder his eyesight was going.

"What was that, Captain?" Lieutenant Shrub asked, his words scarcely audible through the chattering of his teeth.

"A signal rocket — or perhaps one of those newfangled Congreve war rockets. There's trouble over there and we're going to find out just what it is. Send the hands to the braces, if you please, fill the maintops'l and lay her on the starboard tack."

"Can I put my pants on first?"

"No impertinence, sir, or I'll have you in irons!"

Shrub bellowed the orders through the speaking trumpet and all the hands laughed at his shaking naked legs. Yet in a few seconds the well-trained crew, who not six days before had been wenching and drinking ashore on civvy street, never dreaming that the wide-sweeping press gangs would round them up and send them to sea, leapt to the braces, hurled the broken spars and cordage overside, sealed the shot holes, buried the dead, drank their grog and still had enough energy left over for a few of their number to do a gay hornpipe. The ship heeled as she turned, water creamed under her bows and then she was on the new tack, reaching out from the shore, investigating this new occurrence, making her presence felt as the representative of the mightiest blockading fleet the world, at that time, had ever known.

"A ship ahead, sir," the masthead lookout called. "Two points off the starboard bow."

"Beat to quarters," Harpplayer ordered.

Through the heavy roll of the drum and the slap of the sailors' bare horny feet on the deck, the voice of the lookout could be barely heard.

"No sails nor spars, sir. She's about the size of our longboat."

"Belay _that last order. And when that lookout comes off duty I want him to recite five hundred times, 'A boat is something that's picked up and put on a ship.' "

Pressed on by the freshening land breeze the Redundant closed rapidly on the boat until it could be made out clearly from the deck.

"No masts, no spars, no sails — what makes it move?" Lieutenant Shrub asked with gape-mouthed puzzlement.

"There is no point in speculation in advance, Mr. Shrub. This craft may be French or a neutral so I'll take no chances. Let us have the cannonades loaded and run out. And I want the Marines in the fut-tock stupuds, with their pieces on the half-cock, if you please. I want no one to fire until they receive my command, and I'll have anyone who does boiled in oil and served for breakfast."

"You are the card, sir!"

"Am I? Remember the cox'n wh'o got his orders mixed yesterday?"

"Very gamey, sir, if I say so.” Shrub said, picking a bit of gristle from between his teeth. "I'll issue the orders, sir."

The strange craft was like nothing Harpplayer had ever seen before. It advanced without visible motive power and he thought of hidden rowers with underwater oars, but they would have to be midgets to fit in the boat. It was decked all over and appeared to be covered with a glass hutment of some kind. All in all a strange device, and certainly not French. The unwilling slaves of the Octopus in Paris would never master the precise techniques to construct a diadem of the sea such as this. No, this was from some alien land, perhaps from beyond China or the mysterious islands of the East. There was a man seated in the craft and he touched a lever that rolled back the top window. He stood then and waved to them. A concerted gasp ran through the watchers, for every eye in the ship was fastened on this strange occurrence.

"What is this, Mr. Shrub?" Harpplayer shouted. "Are we at a fun fair or a Christmas pantomime? Discipline, sir!"

"B-but, sir," the faithful Shrub stammered, suddenly at a loss for words. "That man, sir — he's greenl"

"I want none of your damn nonsense, sir," Harpplayer snapped irritably, annoyed as he always was when people babbled about their imagined "colors." Paintings, and sunsets and such tripe. Nonsense. The world was made up of healthy shades of gray and that was that. Some fool of a Harley Street quack had once mentioned an imaginary malady which he termed "color blindness," but had desisted with his tomfoolery when Harpplayer had mentioned the choice of seconds.

"Green, pink or purple, I don't care what shade of gray the fellow is. Throw him a line and have him up here where we can hear his story."

The line was dropped and after securing it to a ring on his boat the stranger touched a lever that closed the glass cabin once more, then climbed easily to the deck above.

"Green fur…" Shrub said, then clamped his mouth shut under Harpplayer's fierce glare.

"Enough of that, Mr. Shrub. He's a foreigner and we will treat him with respect, at least until we find out what class he is from. He is a bit hairy, I admit, but certain races in the north of the Nipponese Isles are that way, perhaps he comes from there. I bid you welcome, sir," he said addressing the man. "I am Captain Honario Harpplayer, commander of His Majesty's ship Redundant."

" 'Kwl-kkle-wrrl-ki. .!"

"Not French," Harpplayer muttered, "nor Latin nor Greek I warrant. Perhaps one of those barbaric Baltic tongues. I'll try him on German. Ich rate Ihnen, Reiseschecks mitzunehmenl Or an Italian dialect? Vendono e proibito; pew qui si cartoline ricordo."

The stranger responded by springing up and down excitedly, then pointing to the sun, making circular motions around his head, pointing to the clouds, making falling motions with his hands, and shrilly shouting "M'ku, m'ku!"

"Feller's barmy," the Marine officer said, "and besides, he got too many fingers."

"I can count to seven without your help," Shrub told him angrily. "I think he's trying to tell us it's going to rain."

"He may be a meteorologist in his own land," Harpplayer said safely, "but here he is just another alien."

The officers nodded agreement, and this motion seemed to excite the stranger for he sprang forward shouting his unintelligible gibberish. The alert Marine guard caught him in the back of the head with the butt of his Tower musket and the hairy man fell to the deck.

"Tried to attack you, Captain," the Marine officer said. "Shall we keel-haul him, sir?"

"No, poor chap is a long way from home, may be worried. We must allow for the language barrier. Just read him the Articles of War and impress him into the service. We're short of hands after that last encounter."

"You are of a very forgiving nature, sir, and an example for us all. What shall we do with his ship?"

"I'll examine it. There may be some principle of operation here that would be of interest to Whitehall. Drop a ladder I'll have a look myself."

After some fumbling Harpplayer found the lever that moved the glass cabin, and when it slid aside he dropped into the cockpit that it covered. A comfortable divan faced a board covered with a strange collection" of handles, buttons and diverse machines concealed beneath crystal covers. It was a perfect example of the decadence of the East, excessive decoration and ornamentation where a panel of good English oak would have done as well, and a simple pivoted bar to carry the instructions to the slaves that rowed the boat. Or perhaps there was an animal concealed behind the panel, he heard a deep roar when he touched a certain lever. This evidently signaled the galley slave — or animal — to begin his labors, since the little craft was now rushing through the water at a good pace. Spray was slapping into the cockpit so Harpplayer closed the cover, which was a good thing. Another Button must have tilted a concealed rudder because the boat suddenly plunged its nose down and sank, the water rising up until it washed over the top of the glass. Luckily, the craft was stoutly made and did not leak, and another button caused the boat to surface again.

It was at that instant that Harpplayer had the idea. He sat as one paralyzed, while his rapid thoughts ran through the possibilities. Yes, it might work — it would work! He smacked his fist into his open palm and only then realized that the tiny craft had turned while he had been thinking and was about to ram into the Redundant, whose rail was lined with frighten-eyed faces. With a skillful touch he signaled the animal (or slave) to stop and there was only the slightest bump as the vessels touched.

"Mr. Shrub," he called.

"Sir?"

"I want a hammer, six nails, six kegs of gunpowder each with a two-minute fuse and a looped rope attached, and a dark lantern."

"But, sir — what for?" For once the startled Shrub forgot himself enough to question his captain.

The plan had so cheered Harpplayer that he took no umbrage at this sudden familiarity. In fact he even smiled into his cuff, the expression hidden by the failing light.

"Why — six barrels because there are six ships," he said with unaccustomed coyness. "Now, carry on."

The gunner and his mates quickly completed their task and the barrels were lowered in a sling. They completely filled the tiny cockpit, barely leaving room for Harpplayer to sit. In fact there was no room for the hammer and he had to hold it between his teeth.

"Mither Thrub," he said indistinctly around the hammer, suddenly depressed as he realized that in a few moments he would be pitting his own frail body against the hordes of the usurper who cracked the whip over a continent of oppressed slaves. He quailed at his temerity at thus facing the Tyrant of Europe, then quailed before his own disgust at his frailty. The men must never know that he had these thoughts, that he was the weakest of them. "Mr. Shrub," he called again, and there was no sound of his feelings in his voice. "If I do not return by dawn you are in command of this ship and will make a full report. Goodbye. In triplicate, mind."

"Oh, sir—" Shrub began, but his words were cut off as the glass cover sprang shut and the tiny craft hurled itself against all the power of a continent.

Afterwards Harpplayer was to laugh at his first weakness. Truly, the escapade was as simple as strolling down Fleet Street on a Sunday morning. The foreign ship sank beneath the surface and slipped past the batteries on Cape Pietfieux, that the English sailors called Cape Pitfix, and into the guarded waters of Cienfique. No guard noticed the slight roiling of the waters of the bay and no human eye saw the dim shape that surfaced next to the high wooden wall that was the hull of the French ship of the line. Two sharp blows of the hammer secured the first keg of gunpowder and a brief flash of light came from the dark lantern as the fuse was lit. Before the puzzled sentries on the deck above could reach the rail the mysterious visitor was gone and they could not see the telltale fuse sputtering away, concealed by the barrel of death that it crept slowly towards. Five times Harpplayer repeated this simple, yet deadly, activity, and as he was driving the last nail there was a muffled explosion from the first ship. Hutment closed, he made his way from the harbor, and behind him six ships, the pride of the Tyrant's navy, burnt in pillars of flame until all that was left was the charred hulls, settling to the ocean floor.

Captain Harpplayer opened the glass hutment when he was past the shore batteries, and looked back with satisfaction at the burning ships. He had done his duty and his small part towards ending this awful war that had devastated a continent and would, in the course of a few years, kill so many of the finest Frenchmen that the height of the entire French race would be reduced by an average of more than five inches. The last pyre died down and, feeling a twinge of regret, since they had been fine ships, though in fief to the Madman in Paris, he turned the bow of his craft towards the Redundant.

It was dawn when he reached the ship, and exhaustion tugged at him. He grabbed the ladder lowered for him and painfully climbed to the deck. The drums whirred and the sideboys saluted; the bos'uns' pipes toiled.

"Well done, sir, oh well done!" Shrub exclaimed, rushing forward to take his hand. "We could see them burning from here."

Behind them, in the water, there was a deep burbling, like the water running from the tub when the plug is pulled and Harpplayer turned just in time to see the strange craft sinking into the sea and vanishing from sight.

"Damn silly of me," he muttered. "Forgot to close the hatch. Running quite a sea, must have washed in."

His ruminations were sharply cut through by a sudden scream. He turned just in time to see the hairy stranger run to the rail and stare, horrified, at the vanishing craft. Then the man, obviously bereaved, screamed horribly and tore great handfuls of hair from his head, a relatively easy task since he had so much. Then, before anyone could think to stop him, he had mounted to the rail and plunged headfirst into the sea. He sank like a rock, and either could not swim, or did not want to_; he seemed strangely attached to his craft, since he did not return to the surface.

"Poor chap," Harpplayer said with the compassion of a sensitive man, "to be alone, and so far from home. Perhaps he is happier dead."

"Aye, perhaps," the stolid Shrub muttered, "but he had the makings of a good topman in him, sir. Could run right out on the spars he could, held on very well he did, what with those long toenails of his that bit right into the wood. Had another toe in his heel that helped him hold on."

"I'll ask you not to discuss the deformities of the dead. We'll list him in the report as Lost Overboard. What was his name?"

"Wouldn't tell us, sir, but we carry him in the books as Mr. Green."

"Fair enough. Though foreign-born, he would be proud to know that he died bearing a good English name." Then curtly dismissing the faithful and stupid Shrub, Harpplayer resumed walking the quarterdeck, filled with the silent agony which was his alone and would be until the guns of the Corsican Ogre were spiked forever.