Chapter 2

UNITED STATES COAST GUARD RADIO TODAY REPORTED A DISTRESS SIGNAL FROM SCHOONER BUCCANEER OFF COAST OF BAJA CALIFORNIA STOP BUCCANEER ATTACKED BY QUOTE ALIEN SPACECRAFT ENDQUOTE STOP USE WITH DISCRETION COMMA BUCCANEER OWNED BY DUSTY BRITTON OF MARTIN GRAMER STUDIOS STOP

An excerpt from the daily column of Garry Granger:

"There is something in the wind that smells like a publicity stunt. Dusty Britton, our Space Patrol type Sir Galahad supposedly took off for the Venus jaunt some three weeks ago, but has succeeded in sending a distress signal from somewhere off the coast of Southern California. Apparently The Space Patrol is about to meet up with Moby Dick, or possibly it will be "Ten Thousand Leagues Under The Sea" starring Dusty Britton. We would like to know two things: one is whether our intrepid hero actually risked his million dollar neck in a rocket or not, and the second thing is how much hanky-panky the Coast Guard is going to stand for. Some things should be kept sacred. We are not very religious here at the office; but we do believe in the Brotherhood of Man, and somehow we resent bitterly the use of distress signals as a means of getting publicity."

Excerpt from a press release from Martin Gramer Productions, Inc.:

"Now it can be admitted! Dusty Britton has combined fact with fantasy! No longer a mere actor, Dusty Britton was called from the space rocket just a few minutes before take-off time to investigate a secret report of space operations off the coast of Baja California. If Dusty Britton reported an attack, it stands to reason that the secrecy that surrounded the original report is no longer necessary and Dusty Britton's presence on earth instead of in the space rocket can be disclosed. We await more detailed information as to the real nature of—"

From a press-conference held at Arlington, Virginia:

SIGNAL FALSE! SAYS F.C.C.!"Radar Stations report that no sign of space operations by any agency other than the Venus Rocket have been observed. Even the early warning screen operating along the coast of California and Lower California has nothing to report. The signal of distress is obviously false, and Dusty Britton will be asked to show just cause for emitting such a report."

SIGNAL FALSE! SAYS F.C.C.!

"Radar Stations report that no sign of space operations by any agency other than the Venus Rocket have been observed. Even the early warning screen operating along the coast of California and Lower California has nothing to report. The signal of distress is obviously false, and Dusty Britton will be asked to show just cause for emitting such a report."

A statement from the United States Coast Guard:

"Search and rescue squadrons of the Coast Guard were in flight above the schooner Buccaneer within an hour after the interrupted distress signal from Dusty Britton. The schooner appeared to be in excellent condition and was making its way back towards land when sighted. Radio challenges were ignored but upon flying low, Dusty Britton and an unknown woman were seen waving from the deck. There seemed to be no signs of distress, but a Coast Guard cutter is speeding to the ship and is expected to make contact in the next few hours."

Excerpt from the column of Garry Granger:

"What actor, long noted for his derring-do and his exemplary behaviour has been in unchaperoned company with a nubile young female in romantic surroundings? In our youth, heroes were only permitted to kiss their horses. We applaud the approach to reality, but then we are no longer a youth."

From the teletypes ofThe Worldwide Press:

"Dusty Britton today arrived in port, bearing a tale of a Galactic Civilization called Marandis. This Galactic Government it seems, intends to move the Earth to another sun because our position interferes with their program of running Galactic Highways back and forth across the trackless wastes of space. Moving Earth is a simple process, according to Dusty Britton. A mere matter of barytrine fields, machinus forces, phanoband carriers, and a general abandonment of the theory of general relativity."From the viewpoint of the scientists interviewed following this claim, Dusty Britton may or may not have been reading one of his own scripts. Knowing Dusty Britton of old, we are inclined to call this one:Manuscript Found In A Bottlewith a deep nod at Edgar Allen Poe for the use of his title."Dr. Foster of the Wellmann Observatory suggested that enough of Dusty Britton's story was logical to make it sound good. A race traversing the galaxy at hundreds of light-years per hour would find variable stars helpful if used as beacons. But Dr. Foster said that Britton's story was illogically incomplete. If this outfit has the machinery necessary to move a planet, why not move the stars themselves and create a straightaway passage from one end to the other without curves in the course?"

"From the viewpoint of the scientists interviewed following this claim, Dusty Britton may or may not have been reading one of his own scripts. Knowing Dusty Britton of old, we are inclined to call this one:Manuscript Found In A Bottlewith a deep nod at Edgar Allen Poe for the use of his title.

"Dr. Foster of the Wellmann Observatory suggested that enough of Dusty Britton's story was logical to make it sound good. A race traversing the galaxy at hundreds of light-years per hour would find variable stars helpful if used as beacons. But Dr. Foster said that Britton's story was illogically incomplete. If this outfit has the machinery necessary to move a planet, why not move the stars themselves and create a straightaway passage from one end to the other without curves in the course?"

From The Wall Street Journal:

D' B' ttn Ent' pses-Open 68 Close 43 off 25

Editorial FromThe Journal of Temperance:

"Elsewhere on these pages is an apology for not printing the interview between our science reporter, Miss Agatha Westlake, and Mr. Dusty Britton. The interview was not concluded because Miss Westlake believed that she could detect the fumes of alcohol on Mr. Britton. It is deplorable that the youth of this fair land have put their faith and their future ideals into the character of a man of such despicable hidden leanings. A package of cigarettes was visible on the deck of Mr. Britton's boat and nearby was a small glass of the kind only found in those dens of iniquity, the formal name of which is forbidden to these pages."Let us therefore seek a new champion, who will eschew these vices; who will find it more godlike to extend his gracious invitation of vacation time to his youthful admirers instead of a woman of low moral fiber. We feel—"

"Let us therefore seek a new champion, who will eschew these vices; who will find it more godlike to extend his gracious invitation of vacation time to his youthful admirers instead of a woman of low moral fiber. We feel—"

TIMEMagazine, Science Section:

"Dr. Willy Ley, in an interview today in his retirement home in Jackson Heights pointed out that he had always been convinced that the limiting value of the speed of light was a false theory. Therefore Dr. Ley concluded that it was entirely possible that an extra-solar race could have developed interstellar travel."My grandson, Gregory, is aboard the Venus Rocket," said Dr. Ley in the rich German accent that seventy five years in New York have not diluted. "I hope to see the day he takes off for Alpha Centauri."But I do feel that there is reason to doubt the story offered by Mr. Dusty Britton. Certainly the more intelligent persons of any galactic civilization would be less likely to contact an actor than scientists or government officials? This story of phanobands, barytrine fields and menslators sounds too much like the fancies of science fiction to me."

"My grandson, Gregory, is aboard the Venus Rocket," said Dr. Ley in the rich German accent that seventy five years in New York have not diluted. "I hope to see the day he takes off for Alpha Centauri.

"But I do feel that there is reason to doubt the story offered by Mr. Dusty Britton. Certainly the more intelligent persons of any galactic civilization would be less likely to contact an actor than scientists or government officials? This story of phanobands, barytrine fields and menslators sounds too much like the fancies of science fiction to me."

Article inThe American Weekly:

"With heat rays and weapons of unimaginable power the enemies of the Earth will swoop down to—"

FromThe Chicago Tribune:

"Not since the days of King George III has the threat of foreign entanglements been so great—"

FromThe Daily Worker:

"Without a doubt this advanced culture has developed a perfect galactic State, capable of serving all men according to their needs. We feel that a pardonable mistake has been made by their representatives in contacting a man of Dusty Britton's character, and we will wait with open arms the return of the galactic emissaries, who will bring with them the glories of—"

From Mount Palomar:

"Variable stars are of natural origin and can neither be started nor stopped. The theory that such stars are used by a galactic civilization as beacons and celestial stop-lights is utterly fantastic."

From the teletypes ofWorldwide Press:

"Dusty Britton was arraigned today in Federal Court for having violated the rulings of the Federal Communications Commission and the international rulings of the Havana Conference of 1972. An indictment is expected from the grand jury, still in conference."Dusty Britton is charged with having caused the transmission of a false distress signal. He pleaded not guilty at his arraignment and will probably plead not guilty if his case comes to trial. A fine of ten thousand dollars or three years in jail (or both) is the maximum penalty for a conviction. Public sentiment will probably make the maximum sentence mandatory; this is an election year and the Administration is interested in demonstrating that its foremost desire is to serve the public interest."

"Dusty Britton is charged with having caused the transmission of a false distress signal. He pleaded not guilty at his arraignment and will probably plead not guilty if his case comes to trial. A fine of ten thousand dollars or three years in jail (or both) is the maximum penalty for a conviction. Public sentiment will probably make the maximum sentence mandatory; this is an election year and the Administration is interested in demonstrating that its foremost desire is to serve the public interest."

Press Release from Cosmic Studios:

"The filming of first run of the new series,Jack Vandal, Space Roverwas completed here after an extensive eighteen day program. Jack Vandal is patterned after the characters of The Saint and The Lone Ranger. Unrestricted by the laws that prevent a policeman from performing his moral duty, hated by the underworld, Jack Vandal is to become a Robin Hood of Space. The world premiere will take place at The Palace Theatre, in Greater New York."

Statement from The Office of Scientific Research & Development:

"No evidence has ever been found to corroborate Dusty Britton's statements that radiation phenomena exist which cannot be explained by the application of Maxwell's Equations, and which are not subject to the limitations imposed by the theory of general relativity."

Ruling by the Bureau of Navigation, Marandanian Sector:

"It is hereby granted that a barytrine field be established about the Planet Three of Sol, and that Planet Three shall then be transported and placed in situ near a star of appropriate dimensions. This enactment is to take place at the convenience of the Transgalactic Company with the proviso that no inconvenience take place to the culture of Planet Three. It is ruled herewith that the change in stellar hemispheres and the revision in planetary pattern is of no prime importance to a primitive culture."It is further ruled that the loss of approximately one thousand years of direct time in the inhabitant's life is of no importance since contact with the external culture has not taken place, and therefore this loss has no bearing on the primitive culture. At the end of this period of transmittal, investigatory contact will be made to formulate a program of enlightenment which will result in the eventual assimilation of Sol Three into the Grand Galactic Government.Signed, Sealed, and DeliveredBuNav, by Direction."

"It is further ruled that the loss of approximately one thousand years of direct time in the inhabitant's life is of no importance since contact with the external culture has not taken place, and therefore this loss has no bearing on the primitive culture. At the end of this period of transmittal, investigatory contact will be made to formulate a program of enlightenment which will result in the eventual assimilation of Sol Three into the Grand Galactic Government.

Signed, Sealed, and DeliveredBuNav, by Direction."

Barbara Crandall opened the door for a quick glance, then opened it wide. "Oh. It's you!"

Dusty nodded glumly. "Yeah. Surprised?"

Barbara shrugged. "A bit. When did they let you out?"

"This morning."

"Rough?"

"You said it. Was it rough on you?"

"A little, but it's been made up for."

"How come?" asked Dusty looking up.

She smiled quietly. "I've got legs and a figure," she chuckled. "I've been cheesecaked all over town as theStar Girland there's talk of my getting a part in the Jack Vandal series over at Cosmic Studios."

"How so? Seems to me that we're both sort of washed up."

Barbara shook her head. "Jack Vandal is a sort of cheerful villain, you know. He takes delight in bumping off the well-protected crook who can't be touched by the law. He's hunted by the police and hated by the underworld—"

"Spare the gruesome details. They haven't changed in a couple of thousand years. How come you're not in the dog house?"

Barbara smiled. "Because the woman in that kind of opus is always a sort of shady lady herself. It wouldn't do to have an innocent virgin for the companion of a buccaneer. So with my slightly tarnished reputation I'm a natural. What happened to you?"

"The lie detector test."

Barbara blinked. "Then didn't that prove your point?"

"I thought it did. But I forgot one thing. Seems that the lie detector, no matter how good, is capable only of showing whether the character is telling a falsehood or not."

Barbara smiled confidently. "So you were telling the truth. Weren't you?"

"Sure," grunted Dusty. "Sure I was. But, quoting what's-his-name in the Bible: 'What is Truth?' One of the court psychologists pointed it out very clearly. If I firmly believe that the moon turned bright purple at ten o'clock last night, under a lie detector I'd be credited with a 'Truth' when I said so. In fact, the damned thing would say that I was telling a lie if I believed that the moon was purple and tried to cover up by saying that it hadn't changed. Follow?"

"So what was the verdict?"

"The verdict was to the effect that I was suffering under some hallucination—possibly induced by alcohol—which led me into this story. Therefore my lie-detector acquittal was valid only to prove that my call for help was, at the time, due to my personal conviction of danger. I was adjudged temporarily incompetent."

"What kind of sentence? They didn't just let you go."

"I've been two weeks in the observation ward of the federal looney locker. You see, to prove me guilty, they had to show that I had willfully and maliciously transmitted a false signal, with intent to deceive and/or for some personal reason. Willful tampering of this nature comes out as malicious mischief; malicious tampering becomes a federal offence. Maybe I've got my terms mixed up, but I think you get the idea, anyway. The end-up was this: Dusty Britton was convinced of his personal danger, his emission of a distress signal cannot be called malicious. I am no longer the top star I was once—in fact Gramer has cancelled my contract on the moral turpitude clause and the McDougall Office has black-balled me from all productions. So after a couple of weeks of observation at the spin-bin, they let me free with an admonition to leave the stuff alone. Barb, have you got a drink?"

"Sure thing. Look, Dusty, I know what you must think, but please don't ask me to corroborate your story. Not again."

Dusty nodded soberly. "I won't. The first time I thought we could convince 'em. But not any more, kid. One of us in the mud is enough. We've got to find a new attack."

Barbara handed Dusty a highball which he sipped before he said, "Barbara, we've got to do something."

"Why?"

He looked at her, stunned. "Why?" he cried.

Barbara took a sip of her own highball. "We won't lose a damned thing and you know it," she said quietly.

"A thousand years—"

"So what?" she asked simply. "Supposing that they were a bit more accurate than Scyth predicted. Suppose that they took this thousand years out of our life at a time when you weren't looking at the sun. Do you realize—" Barbara's voice lowered a bit dramatically, "—or have you been watching the night sky to see whether they have already?"

"I have," he admitted with rising excitement.

"All right," she replied complacently. "Then you surely must realize that this thousand years out of your life isn't going to change the stock market a point, or anything else."

Dusty nodded. "This I can realize. But do you think I like losing everything but my other shirt? Do you realize that as of this moment I've got only a couple of thousand bucks tucked away and about as much prospect of landing another job as a dead fly?"

"You're not really worried, are you, Dusty?"

"Why shouldn't I be?"

"Because as soon as this barytrine field goes on and off and we find ourselves around another sun, in another sky, you'll be corroborated."

He looked at her. "Of course—and I've kept my big trap shut, too."

"You've what?"

"You don't think I'd be nuts enough to go around telling people 'Well, if you don't believe me, just wait until next month!' do you?"

"Why not?"

"Because then they'd have carefully kept me on ice until after the big event."

"After which your story would be corroborated and you'd—"

"I'd have nothing," said Dusty sharply. "It's not good enough. Sure, I'd be corroborated, but then I'd be blamed for not being effectual enough to convince people in the first place. I'd be blamed for not being the guy I've been depicting on the stage. I've been Dusty Britton, The Great Hero. But when it comes down to really doing something, I'm Dusty Britton, Liar First Class. Next it is going to be Dusty Britton, Helpless Incompetent. I can't just fold my hands and tell 'em that they can wait and see, and then yelp 'I told you so!' because if there's anything that people hate it's 'I told you so!' characters."

Barbara Crandall looked at Dusty pityingly. "Dusty," she asked softly, "Just what do you hope to accomplish?"

"I hope I'll be able to—"

"No. I know what you want to do. But what I want to know is how."

"There must be some way—" his voice trailed off.

"I can't see it. Scyth has probably gone to Marandis to get his generator. Dusty, do you know where the hell is Marandis?"

"Somewhere towards the galactic center."

"I'm told that the galaxy is a hell of a big place. You've about as much chance of getting there as you have of swimming the Pacific Ocean with one arm tied behind you. Scyth is gone from here so far that it takes light thousands of years to get that far. Hell, Dusty, at this moment, the best resources of all the science of the Earth and the so-called planetary income couldn't move a housebrick from here to Venus in less than a matter of months. Alpha Centauri is actually no more than a dreamer's symbol so far as we're concerned. In fact, you and I know that Scyth's little friends are somewhere on the dark side of Mercury getting ready to make Sol a variable. We couldn't get there for months and months, and then we'd have a hell of a time locating them, even if we had whatever it might take to get there."

Barbara thought for a minute and then went on, "And if we could direct the entire Earth, and could call upon anything or anyone, we wouldn't know where to start. What is a phanoband? Why is a barytrine field? Even I know that there are a couple of dozen rather brilliant men who believe that the speed of light is not a limiting velocity, but this is only a conviction, not founded on any experimental evidence. So maybe you've got a firm inner drive to go out and prove yourself. But how in the hell are you going to make headway against a race that considers us primitive?"

"We've got to make contact."

"How? Shall we call Mercury on the phanoband communicators? And what was that intermediary step? The machinus fields? It sounds like double-talk to me."

"It was something about abandoning general relativity for the machinus theory of space-time," said Dusty, bringing into focus all the science fiction he had ever read.

"Got any theories?" asked Barbara pointedly. "Frankly, Dusty, I'd like to help, but I feel too much like a man trying to come all the way from the stone age to the atom bomb in ten days. In order to circumvent their foul plan we've got to abandon a very workable theory in favor of an unknown something called the machinus theory of space-time, and then from that we develop something called phanoband radiation, which produces factors enabling us to reduce the theory to practise and eventually we take to deep space, find Marandis, and put our case in front of some sort of bureaucratic something-or-other. Can't see it, Dusty."

"So what am I supposed to do?"

"Sit and take it. What else can you do? Darn it, Dusty, you can't fight them, and you aren't in any position to join them. We haven't got the initiation fee, we don't have the address, and we hardly talk the language."

Dusty looked at her sourly. "I'd hoped you'd help," he said unhappily. "You at least know what the score is."

"Dusty, I'd like to help. I do know what the score is. It's hopeless. You're trapped in an awkward position. And like a lot of other people, you are in a position where you can't do a damned thing about it. So you might as well save your high blood pressure and start looking around to see what you can make out of it."

Dusty finished his drink and left. In a trash-can by the alley was a Dusty Britton Blaster, complete with holster and a tin medal for sharpshooting. The school-store across the street was displaying a Jack Vandal mask and a small case containing ten candy cigarettes and a secret compartment suitable for concealing ten-thousand dollar bills lifted from lawless characters who might have used the dough to bribe juries or buy professional gunmen.

Dusty made his way along the street unrecognized.

The guard at the front gate looked at Dusty with suspicion. Dusty looked back defiantly; for a number of years the guard had practically bowed thrice as Dusty approached, Dusty hoped that the habit of deference was well established.

"Have you a pass, Mr. Britton?"

"Now see here, Sam, I don't need a pass and—"

"Mr. Britton, I've got orders to—"

"Look Sam. Let's not stall. I want in and I'm going to—"

"One minute, Mr. Britton. I'll have to call."

Dusty grunted. "I want to see Doctor Ross."

"Oh. Well, just a minute."

The guard called, and Dusty could hear the roar of Martin Gramer, "Throw the louse out!"

"Sorry, Mr. Britton. We can't let you in."

"Look, Sam, I've got trouble. You've got trouble. Do you remember your younger days, Sam? When you were the top boy at Graphic Arts?"

"Sure do. Great days, too."

"What happened, Sam?"

The smile faded from Sam's face. "I got too old."

"Sam, all I want is to gab with Dr. Ross for a minute or two. I've got a great idea. And I'll make you a promise, Sam."

"Promise?"

"Sure. I'll promise you that if you let me in right now, and this idea of mine goes through, that I'll see that you get a good bit in anything I'm in. We'll work it up from character actor until you're playing bigger and bigger bits. You can make a comeback, Sam, and I'll help you then if you help me now. How's about it?"

Sam looked through the studio gates for a moment, and the thinking could almost be seen in operation. He had darned little to lose; he could always blame Dusty's entrance on some dreamed-up excuse, and if Dusty's idea worked, he might even be able to take credit for having used some initiative.

"It's a deal, Mr. Britton. But don't forget me."

"I won't."

Dusty went inside, found the main idea-office, and talked himself into the office of Dr. Ross. These hurdles he found less difficult than the front gate; possibly due to the fact that once a man was inside the fence, everyone thought he belonged there.

Doctor Harold Ross greeted Dusty with surprise.

"Dusty! How goes it?"

"Not good. I'm a professional louse."

"How come?"

"Don't you read? Forget it. Look, Doc, you're actually the only scientist I know, so I want to ask a couple of questions."

"I'll try. But let's not lose sight of the fact that I'm not a credited scientist, as you put it. I'm a sort of cockeyed physicist whose job is to see that actors squinting through telescopes see Saturn at the right angle, and that birds looking through spectroscopes don't point at a blue triplet and call it the Sodium D Lines."

"You might be even better than a real physicist of the research kind," said Dusty.

"Thanks for them kind words, Dusty. Flattery will get you nowhere."

"I'm not trying flattery. You've been in this make-believe business for a long time. That's why you might be able to think it out."

"Go on, man. Spill your idea. What do you want me to do?"

"Let's assume that Dusty Britton's wild tale about a man named Scyth Radnor, from Marandis, is right. And that this guy came out of a spacecraft parked in the ocean, sitting on the sill of the spacelock waiting for me. He talked about the death of the general relativity theory in favor of something called the machinus theory of space-time, phanobands, menslators and all sorts of things."

"Yeah? We've been having space warps ever since the days of Jack Williamson."

Dusty grinned, perhaps for the first time in weeks. "Look," he said. "I know the patter well enough. Doc Smith invented the Bergenholm and Murray Leinster came along with the superdrive and George O. Smith developed the matter transmitter to a fare-thee-well, but all this guff is so much birdfood."

"What are you getting at, Dusty?"

"I wish I had studied a bit more science," said Dusty plaintively. "But dammit, I don't know a microfarad from a polysyllabic neutron. But I'm telling you that my so-called strange fancy is the God's Truth. Some time in the next couple of weeks the Earth is going to get itself transplanted. You can either help me now or you can come back later and tell me that you're damned sorry you tossed me out. Take it or leave it."

"All right. So maybe I'll take it. I've only a couple of weeks to lose. What do you want me to say?"

"Look, Doc, supposing that you were convinced that interstellar travel is possible; that these phanobands do exist. That this menslator is a commercial instrument. And so on. Take the first premise: faster-than-light travel is a commercial fact due to the development of a theory called the machinus theory of space-time. Can you do a bit of hypothetical theorization?"

"Sure thing. I don't mind. We'll take this on the basis of plenic syllogistics. Our first premise will be that this menslator works as your pal Scyth claims."

"It's Scyth. Not scythe."

"Then as I put it, the menslator produces the mental image that Scyth intends. He will say, for instance: 'A gostak distims the doshes,' and because he means that a professional preparer of comestibles has placed an unstated number of crustaceans under an open flame, you receive this statement of Scyth as: 'The cook broiled some lobsters.' Is that clear?"

"I can follow you," said Dusty. "This much Scyth explained."

"Good. Now let's look at our commonly accepted definition of 'Mechanus'. This means that it works. In other words we have him telling us that their culture has developed a 'workable theory of space-time' which has been taken up after the theory of general relativity displayed a number of gaping holes. So their 'mechanus theory of space-time' is a workable theory."

"And where does this lead us?" asked Dusty.

"Right back into a circle," said Dr. Ross thoughtfully. "Because if they've developed interstellar travel due to considerations brought about by the mechanus theory, that means that they have proved their theory by practise."

Dusty grunted half-humorously. "Isn't this like saying that mud is sticky because it's gooey? Or that winter is cold because of a lack of heat?"

Ross nodded. "Or that things fall because of the law of gravity."

"But aren't all these things a case of defining 'A' in terms of 'A'?"

"What isn't?" demanded Dr. Ross. "You're not looking for the Universal Truth, are you?"

"No, but—"

"Look, Dusty, the reason that we can afford to accept the fact that one and one adds up to two is simply due to the fact that one and one adds up to two in a great majority of cases."

"Wait a minute, Doc. One and one is always two."

"Not when you add a quart of alcohol to a quart of water. One and one here adds up to about one point eight."

Dusty waved a hand. "That's different."

"Not by a long shot, Dusty. There are extenuating circumstances. But this is just a proof of the fact that one and one is not always two."

"All right. But where does this leave us?"

"In the same damned circle. Granting that your observations are correct, proper, and unwarped by the addition of bourbon, Scyth and his galactic civilization have developed faster-than-light travel which has resulted in the establishment of a galactic government. But the explanation of how it is done cannot be derived from the nomenclature of the theory. Frankly, I have not the faintest idea of how to go about unravelling the word 'phanoband' unless we take it apart from its roots. Let's see, now."

Brows furrowed and lips pursed, the physicist thought for a long time and then looked apologetically at Dusty.

"I may be off the beam, Dusty, but I have a notion that your own mind put it together this way: Phan probably pertains to the roots of phantom, or unreal, or ghostly, or what is commonly referred to as the 'supernatural.' The so-called supernatural is invariably a phenomenon which cannot be explained by commonly accepted academic theory or empirical practise, mostly because the folks who work with it have neither academic nor empirical data. Incidentally, the 'o' part of this first phase is undoubtedly a conjunctive vowel stuffed into the word so that it can be uttered without losing a couple of front teeth or blowing a vocal fuse, or maybe spraying the listener like a professional German lecturer. So let's accept the concept of 'Phan' as something that you cannot explain in common terms."

"Go on, Doc. You're reducing my case to an absurdity, you know."

"I'm sorry, Dusty, but that's how I see it. Now, let's take the 'Band' part of the word. As a disciple of Maxwell, et al, I am hopelessly incapable of concocting a workable theory of radiation which has nothing to do with some basic concept of frequency. Frequency, when you sit down and start analyzing it, is a nice, stable idea that explains a hell of a lot, Dusty, and as you get into atomics you find that particle radiation can be mathematically reduced to terms of frequency. You can actually compute the equivalent frequency of a thrown baseball or a .22 rifle bullet, you know. Then we get to that high-flung miracle we call 'resonance' and God protect me from having to deliver a thirty-minute explanation of resonance."

"I won't ask you to, Doc. But aren't you getting involved in your own traps?"

"Yes, I am. And I'm sorry. But I can't help it. But you can follow my fumblings, Dusty. In the first place the radiation is not understood, which explains your accepting the mental concept as 'Phano' and because the physics of the radiation must be other than electromagnetic—which would call for the menslation into 'spectrum' the somewhat ambiguous term 'band' is assigned in your mental concept of the idea. So the literal menslation of the word is: 'Unknown mode of radiation' which—"

"But where are we getting, Doc?"

"That's what I was approaching, Dusty. This harangue boils down to the following: these people have a form or type of energy level which is completely inexplicable to terrestrial science at the present state of the art. Their terms, when menslated into our level of appreciation, come out as 'something that works' and 'something that cannot be defined' which, after all, is like trying to explain to a savage why a hunk of black rock always turns toward one direction."

"Hell!"

The doctor continued. "Sure. It's hell. Even your own term 'menslator' which I've picked up as a fine concept is only your own feeble transliteration of the definition. It does not carry any of the basic theory. So the fantastic gizmo merely aids in the conveying of an idea from one mind to another, despite the fact that the two minds place different values upon the definition of words."

"But this isn't what I'm getting at, Doc. What I want to know is: granting the possibility of faster-than-light velocities, what have we got to explain it?"

"Nothing. Nothing but your own statements that you believe that this is possible and that someone has done it. None of us have any evidence that it is possible, except you. And I am afraid that I must question your training as a scientific observer."

"But, Doc, I—"

"Let's face it, Dusty. You swing about as much weight in scientific circles as Suzy Richtmeyer, voted last year as Miss Alphatron, parked on the Caltech boo-hucky showing about three yards of shapely nylon and thirty-two well-polished teeth. She was gorgeous but ill-educated, Dusty. She wasn't afraid of getting sterile in a radiation lab. She was afraid of getting pregnant. But if you sit there and ask me how anybody could possibly make any sound and workable theory out of what you describe, I can't see it."

"Look, Doc, maybe I can't deliver much. But they were there and that's what the guy told me."

"There's only one hope, Dusty."

Dusty Britton looked at Dr. Ross; with a voice of determination he said, "Doc, if there's any hope, let me know how?"

"You've claimed that this galactic gang have some humanitarian instincts. They aren't just going to set fire to good old Sol and let us alternately fry and freeze."

"Stop kidding me."

"Maybe I'm not kidding. I'm still promulgating on your own cockeyed plenum."

"You're not giving me much—"

Dr. Ross sat back confidently. "No, dammit, I can't say that I give much credit to your cockeyed story, Dusty."

"Now see here—"

"Nowyousee here," snapped the physicist sternly, "I won't deny that anything is possible. But I am a firm believer in the law of least reaction, and I think that this covers the case. If this character Scyth is at all concerned about our welfare—still granting that he does exist elsewhere but in your own mind—then get this, Dusty Britton: he will be back to see how you've made out in your program of preparing people for the big change before he turns on this barytrine generator."

Dusty eyed Dr. Ross sourly. "And what is your explanation of that word?"

"Easy, and it means no more than anything else when it is what you call menslated. 'Bary' stems from the root 'heavy' as in 'barytone' referring to something of heavy voice or highly accented. 'Trine' refers to something threefold in astronomical or—er—astrological (haruumpf) meaning. My God, Dusty, the word itself pertains to something as three-times-as-heavy. You don't expect me—or any other scientist—to come up with something sensible from a bunch of half-baked definitions, do you? All you've given me so far is a workable theory, an unknown medium of radiation, and something that is three-times-heavy. Tell you what, chum. Bring me your Scyth Radnor and introduce me. I know guys who would analyze MacBeth's three witches' brew if they could get a microgram sample. But not from that gobble-gabble about the 'fillet of a fenny snake, in the cauldron boil & bake!' line out of Shakespeare." The physicist went on in an undertone, "Eye of frog and tongue of newt," until Dusty stood up and prepared to leave.

Scyth Radnor was pleased with himself. The trip had gone well. He was back on Earth and the barytrine generator was running in the warm-up cycle, building its field to the magnitude necessary for synchronization to the fabric of space stress caused by the planet Earth. It had not been difficult to maneuver himself into this position of having to run the barytrine generator and in doing so turn up with a few days of vacation.

He surveyed himself in the mirror and nodded. Then he left the big spacecraft and embarked on an errand that looked very interesting indeed.

Eventually, with no adventure worth reporting, Scyth found himself standing before a door pressing on a button.

Barbara Crandall cracked the door an inch or so and peered out. "Yes?" she asked. Barbara was not expecting any visitors, and her natural reaction was to open the door only a few inches until she determined the person making the call. But the sight of this man in faultless whites caused her to open the door a full two feet.

"Miss Crandall, I—"

"I don't think I—"

Scyth chuckled again. "Barbara, may I call you Barbara?"

"Oh, now see here—"

"You don't know me?" demanded Scyth with a hurt expression.

"Should I?"

Barbara was beginning to doubt this parley as a program of good sense. As a stage personality, even though far from a universal popularity, she knew very well that a completely dull heart frequently beat lustily beneath an expensive exterior and that a clear, open, friendly face often went with a mind fit only for the company of scorpions.

He saw her doubt and decided that he had played this guessing game long enough. "Barbara Crandall, I know you don't recognize me in these clothes and in this surrounding. Our last meeting was under a rather strange circumstance. I am Scyth Radnor, the Marandanian."

"Scyth Radnor!" she exclaimed. "I—yes, it is. I'm sorry, Scyth. I did not recognize you in human clothing."

"Please," he parried, "Don't say it that way. I am as human as you are."

Barbara looked at him defensively. "And you're here to prove it?"

Scyth blinked. She was rather distractingly direct. "There is no suitable answer to that," he said. "Must I supply one?"

Barbara laughed. "Come in, Scyth. Let me offer you the hospitality of a drink."

"Pleased," he said, following her into the living room. She waved him into a chair and turned towards the kitchen.

When she came back with two highballs, Scyth was relaxed in the loveseat. Barbara noted it with inward amusement and handed him the drink without comment. Scyth sipped the drink first and then took a deep and appreciative drink.

"You do have something to offer," he said, not showing his disappointment that Barbara had seated herself in the chair instead of on the loveseat beside him.

"That," she said, "makes two items, doesn't it, Scyth?"

Scyth knew that he had lost the initiative; Barbara was way ahead of him. He tried another tack:

"I came to see how you are making out," he said.

"I'm not doing badly."

"Is the public aware of the impending event?"

"Aware, but not believing. Dusty Britton lost his shirt over this."

"He'll get it back," said Scyth. "I'm not concerned over the result. It's happened before and it will probably happen again."

"It's more than possible that Dusty will be vindicated but will then be blamed for not doing something about it," said Barbara.

"That cannot be helped. Dusty couldn't do anything about it, you know. And if Dusty loses out in the long run, we can't permit the well-being of one lonely man to stand in the way of galactic progress."

Barbara smiled confidently, but with a slightly sour twist to her pretty lips; it led Scyth to think that there was some derision in her mind. She confirmed it by saying, "Scyth, since you are going on with your program no matter what happens, and your concern about warning the people has worked no matter what happens to Dusty Britton, why do you bother coming back for a look-see?"

Scyth squirmed uncomfortably. Despite certain jokes to the contrary, it is not acceptable to confront a desirable young lady of barely speaking acquaintance and flatly state the delicate proposition. The difficulty here was that no matter how he tried, Barbara Crandall was turning the trend of conversation right back onto the old original trail.

"You're an actress," he said.

"So I'm told."

Scyth smiled. "You're popular? You are in demand here?"

"I am on my way up," she said.

"Barbara, you could be a popular actress, you know."

"Someday I shall be. But this does not come overnight, Scyth. It takes work, you know."

"I have an idea that the flavor of the foreign often helps."

"This is true."

"Then I have a suggestion. Why not come along with us back to Marandis? You have youth and beauty and ability and also the exotic flavor. It—"

"What shall I be?" she returned quietly. "The ignorant but beautiful barbarian? A clothes horse slightly incapable of holding an intelligent conversation? This seldom works, Scyth. I've studied history a bit and I recall the case of a native girl called Pocahontas who was carried from her native surroundings into the height of the civilization for the time. She was no actress—she wasexhibitedlike a pet monkey or a rare zoölogical specimen. She died of what they called heartbreak. I think heartbreak in this case was a combination of loneliness, of facing the realization that she could never really belong to the culture, of the futility of asking to be returned to her people. In other words Pocahontas lost the will to live. So thank you, Scyth, but I have no desire to be a chattel, or a curiosity.... Or a museum-piece."

Scyth nodded seriously. "I see your point. But I don't agree with you. In the first place you are indulging in a conversation with me. In the second place, you—"

"In the first place," said Barbara pointedly, "this conversation is being carefully kept on my level, isn't it?"

"I wouldn't say that."

"Of course not. But look, Scyth, aren't you using that menslator of yours?"

"Of course."

"Then the menslator keeps the conversation down to my level because by its very nature it cannot convey an idea to me that is beyond my understanding. Am I correct?"

"In a sense, yes. But—"

"Scyth, can you menslate a dog, for instance?"

"A dog has so little mind that—"

Barbara interrupted this with a wave of her hand. "So how long would it be before you and your people became damned sick and tired of talking down? It would be like trying to conduct an adult discussion in baby talk, wouldn't it?"

Scyth shook his head. "Not entirely," he said. "It might be that way at first. But this would not last. I don't know of your history, but I assume that your Pocahontas was a true savage. You had nothing like the menslator. Doubtless she never learned any real language and so lacked the ability to use a language of any kind, let alone learn the ramifications of the culture behind it. You would be on an entirely different plane. You have a language and a culture and you are quick to grasp a new idea. With a menslator you would learn the language well enough in a short time and while the deeper factors of the culture would always escape you, the superficial parts would eventually come easy."

For an answer, Barbara pointed to the wall. "Scyth, on that wall is a painting given to me by a character who calls himself an artist. Take a gander."

Scyth looked. The painting was a mess of squiggles and blots of color. It was iridescent here and drab there, soft lines elsewhere and sharp contrasts somewhere else.

"Interesting," said Scyth. "What is it?"

"I'm not sure. I think that this is the painting; but all it needs is a hole in one corner and it could be the palette that the guy used to make the painting."

"This is apropos of what?"

"Frankly, I think it is a mess. It is something that could be accomplished by a monkey turned loose in a paint store. But the artist calls it 'modern' and defends his stand by stating that anybody who criticises it is wayward, ignorant and unappreciative of the finer moods and things of life. So put me in your culture and turn me loose. If I criticise it will be because I am too primitive to understand these higher bits of culture. If I enjoy something, I am looked down upon because I can't really feel the true depth of the thing. It—"

Scyth held up a hand and his empty glass at the same time. Barbara laughed and went to give him a refill. It also gave him time to think, and when she came back with his highball he had the answer.

"Barbara," he said sincerely, "a lot of what you say is true. But look at it this way. You will be a celebrity. You will, to all intents and purposes, be among your own kind. That helps. So you can't follow the deeper arguments nor appreciate the complexities of society as we know them. But think of what you can see and enjoy which will be forever denied you if you refuse my offer."

"For instance?"

"Imagine the beauty of a planet under a double sun. Imagine if you can the beauty of a night sky with a ringed moon glowing soft over the landscape. Coalestis is a planet where most of the minerals and rocks combine into black stuff. Imagine the beauty of a city of polished ebony. There are the twinworlds we call Venago One and Two. The Venagos are separated only by about a hundred thousand miles and in the night sky you can look up and see the other world glowing over a quarter of the heaven, and on the dark side are the winking beauties of the cities glowing like jewels. You will see worlds where the vegetation grows lush; riotous colors to hundreds of feet tall and there are cold planets where the ice and snow are always dazzling white. You will wear sheer shimmering cloth so soft that you have no word to describe it. You will wear jewels that glow with their own internal light. Money and luxury will be yours, to travel as you see fit; to spend the rest of your life flitting from star to star, seeing the varied wonders of the universe. That is the fate of an actress in our culture, Barbara, for Lord knows we have few enough of them."

Barbara looked at Scyth seriously. A number of things occurred to her, and one of them was simple. If Scyth had returned to earth to see her, it was obvious that she measured up well against the women of Marandis. Another factor was the yearning to travel. Barbara would not have recognized the train of thought if it had been labelled and explained, but it was there none the less. This was her one chance to see the greener grass on the other side of the galaxy, the chance to realize a human dream of countless centuries.

She smiled wanly.

"You see what I mean?" asked Scyth.

"I think I do."

"Doubts?"

"Yes. I feel as though I'll be abandoning my own kind."

Scyth had been leaning forward on the loveseat. Now he came forward to cross the room. He leaned down, took her hands, and lifted her out of her chair.

"You'll come?"

"You make it very attractive."

"You can do nothing by staying, Barbara."

"But—"

Scyth freed one hand and fished in his jacket pocket. He came up with a small box, deftly flipping the cover up with his thumbnail.

Coiled inside the box was a chain of tiny-linked metal that glowed gently with a pale green light. Against the dark cloth of the box lining was a scrollwork of dark metal, the setting for a stone about a half inch in diameter. The stone itself was cut in many facets each of which glowed in a dazzle of a different color. Scyth moved the box gently and the facets changed color and sent flecks of polychrome dancing against the ceiling, the walls, the floor. Flecks of light caressed his face and sparkled into her eyes.

Barbara took a deep breath, then held it, completely entranced by the bauble for which she had no words to describe. It was sheer beauty and she knew that anything that she said would be completely inadequate.

Scyth freed his other hand and took the pendant by the chain. Holding it by both ends, he held it up to her throat.

Barbara stood immobile as Scyth put his hands to the back of her neck and fastened the clasp. Deliberately he let the tiny links slide down across her shoulders, let the chill of the cold jewel-stone thrill her as it slipped down her chest towards the hollow between her breasts.

Then, gently, Scyth took her by the shoulders and turned her to face the mirror on the door. She turned under his hands as though she had no will of her own, to look into the mirror and gasp at the rich beauty of the gem.

Scyth drew her back against him and she leaned gently with her forehead against his chin. He put his hands on her waist and she covered them with hers, squeezing them as she drew his arms close around her. She tilted her head back and turned her face to offer her lips and he found them warm and soft. His hands caressed her. Barbara turned in his arms to face him and he held her close.

VII

The snick of a key in the lock did not break through their preoccupation with one another, but the cynical voice of Dusty Britton came as the shock of a bucket of cold water:

"Very pleasant scene," he drawled. "I hope I've interrupted something."

Scyth and Barbara parted in a whirl.

Scyth felt a sinking sensation in his middle as he realized that the facts were far too clear; that the sensible course was a hasty retreat, but the only path was barred by Dusty Britton.

Barbara took the woman's course. "Don't you ever use the doorbell?" she asked icily.

Dusty smiled sourly. "I always have," he said. "Up to now. But this time I want words with the gentleman in question instead of losing him out through the back door."

"I think I should explain," said Scyth uncertainly.

Dusty chuckled. "What sort of explanation do you think I'll accept?" he asked the Marandanian.

"But I—"

"Stow it, Scyth. You couldn't explain a thing and you know it."

Barbara snorted angrily. "See here, Dusty, you can't come in here and start—"

"I'm not starting anything. I'm just seeking a conference with Scyth."

"How did you know?" asked the Marandanian uncertainly.

"By being just smart enough to find a tomcat by knowing where the tomcat is likely to prowl."

"Meaning?" demanded Barbara icily.

Dusty ignored her. To Scyth he said, "I don't know beans about barytrine fields or generators, but I guessed that you'd set it up on earth somewhere, start it cooking, and wetnurse it until it came to a boil. That would leave you on Earth with time to kill. Since time hangs heavy, you'd probably look up one of the only two people you know. The more attractive one, Scyth. So I've been haunting the front door like a private eye."

Barbara coughed. "You took that right out of The Space Patrol Fights The Overlords of Delgon."

"So I've got good writers," grinned Dusty.

"What do you intend to do?" asked Scyth nervously.

Dusty faced Scyth. Dusty topped the Marandanian by perhaps an inch or two and covered him by a good twenty pounds. He guessed that if it came to roughhouse he would probably win. He poised himself on the balls of his feet, just in case. He had no way of guessing the speed or power of the wiry-looking Scyth Radnor and so he was taking no chances.

"I became a professional bum because of you and your phanobands and your menslators and your barytrine fields," he said bluntly. "I was laughed out of everything I had. So now you're going to go with me and tell 'em all that I was right. We'll have the big domes out to take a look at your spacecraft, have 'em inspect your barytrine doodad, take a gander at whatever it is you call phanobands, and so on."

Scyth understood all too well. He was trapped, faced by a man who could take him apart bit by bit without much trouble, and if he came out of it alive, he would end up by being a bigger bum than Dusty Britton had become. Scyth had fumbled badly by taking time off for fun and games with Barbara and he knew it. The only thing to do was to clear out of here no matter what happened afterwards. For once the barytrine field snapped on, any evidence of Scyth Radnor's attempt at dalliance could not come to light for a thousand years.

His hand lifted slowly to the inside pocket of his jacket as he said, "I'll be glad to help you, Dusty. Naturally, none of us have any notion of making things tough for anybody. So—"

Scyth went into whirlwind motion. His hand came out from inside the coat carrying a fluted-barrelled weapon. As the end of the thing cleared the lapel of Scyth's jacket he was fingering the trigger and a pale emanence seared out and cut down and over in a slashing arc.

But at the whirl of action, Dusty's hand arrowed into the space between the lower two buttons of his dress shirt and came out with a snub-nosed automatic.

The pale slash of Scyth's weapon was blotted out by the flash and racket of a shot.

Scyth whirled, flinging his weapon against the wall from an outstretched hand. The thing hit with a crunching sound and Scyth continued to turn on rubbery legs, sinking and sinking and turning until he sat heavily on the floor. He sat, stunned, just long enough to fold his hands over his belly. Then he folded forward over them and rolled around sidewise as if falling out of his own lap. He half-rolled and fell a-sprawl on his face. A spread of blood stained the white carpet.

Dusty looked down at Scyth. He looked from Scyth to the snub-nosed gun in his hand and swallowed heavily. The gun dropped to the floor with a muffled thud from nerveless fingers; Dusty looked at Barbara out of far-away eyes and said, "He—er—I—"

Then he slid to the floor in a dead faint.

Barbara stifled a scream. The whole thing had been lightning-fast, but she had caught most of it. Scyth had shot first but now he was bleeding on her carpet. Dusty had shot second and was lying in a dead faint. Hysteria choked up in her but she drove it back. She wanted to laugh hysterically. She wanted to let go and slide to the floor and go to sleep while someone else came in and cleaned up the mess.

Realizing that she could only hold off the rising hysteria until someone did make a rational move, Barbara reached for and drained the highball on the bar. She augmented this slug with a muscle-sized hooker from the bottle. The liquor burned down and helped to iron out her jittery nerves.

She grabbed the ice-pitcher which was filled now with melted cubes and a slosh of water. Unceremoniously she poured the cold mess over Dusty's white face.

Dusty's eyes fluttered and his voice made spluttering noises. "Wha—?" he fumbled.

"Come off it!" snapped Barbara.

Dusty sat up weakly. He looked around for a moment as if he weren't quite sure of where he was. Then he caught sight of Scyth and it all came back to him. He scrambled to his feet and took the bottle from Barbara's hand. He took a healthy slug himself and then said, "He tried to—tried to—"

Barbara laughed hysterically. Between gales of half-mad laughter, she said, "Tried to beat the fastest man—in The Space Patrol—to the draw!"

Dusty slapped her across the face with the flat of his hand. "Shut up!" he roared. "Shut up and make sense!"

She came out of the hysteria instantly, shrinking back from Dusty with a hand against the growing redness on her face. "Dusty—don't—"

He shook his head hard. "Sorry. You needed it."

"I know. But he—? Look, Dusty, what do we do now?"

Dusty looked down at the bleeding man. "Cops," he said thickly. "I've just shot a—" He could not finish; his face was turning green again.

"Cops nothing," snapped Barbara.

"But shooting—"

"Come off it, Dusty. The cops will only delay and investigate and generally botch things up until it will be two months and a thousand years from here."

"Cops aren't that stupid."

"Cops aren't stupid at all," she snapped. "They're just smart enough to insist on knowing all the answers. So tell you what. You go to the phone and call Lieutenant Yonkers and explain carefully that you've just shot a Marandanian Marauder in my living room. Tell him you've collected one of your Great Galactics, only he's defunct. See how far you'll get!"

Dusty looked at her blankly.

"The first stop will be the bull pen," she went on hotly. "The second stop is the nut-locker. And the third stop is some unknown star a thousand years from now while the F.B.I. try to match the guy's fingerprints. Then you call on me for a witness and that gets us the front page in big black letters saying: 'Former Hero Shoots Rival In Leading Lady's Boudoir!' Start thinking right, Dusty Britton. Or," she added scathingly, "call up one of your writers."

Dusty considered. "I could slope out of here and—"

"Like hell you will!" she screamed. "You're not leaving me here with a body to explain."

"But defending your—"

Barbara's scorn was high. "Look, Dusty, ever since we were sighted off-shore in the Buccaneer I haven't had a shred of virtue and everybody knows it."

"Trouble is that we can't even run," grumbled Dusty. "This is your apartment."

Barbara looked down at Scyth. "Damned nuisance," she said.

The damned nuisance groaned. The sound was hollow and weak but it seemed to ring through the room like the cry of a wailing ghost.

Barbara cried: "He's alive—"

"—not dead!" blurted Dusty. "Get water and stuff."

Slowly they stretched Scyth out on his back, and Barbara went for her first aid kit while Dusty slid off Scyth's jacket and ripped the shirt free. The wound looked frightful, but some sponging with hot water and alcohol reduced the horror to a weeping hole that tried to breathe blood in and out. It was low on one side, somewhere near the floating ribs on the right.

"Flesh wound?" asked Dusty hopefully.

"I wouldn't know. Maybe." Barbara flipped the pages of a large book from her library, a book that had not been used much. "It says a compress."

Dusty made a pad of bandage and cotton and covered the hole. He taped it down. Scyth groaned again and Barbara cracked open an inhalant vial and put the stuff under Scyth's nose.

"Wh—wha—di' you hi' me wi'?"

Dusty never knew from where he found the moral strength to be hard-boiled. But all of a sudden the feeling that this was one hell of a mess left him; his next feeling was one of confidence and self-justification. "It's called a belly gun," he said. "But you'll be all right in a couple of months. Maybe three."

Scyth tried to struggle up but failed. He fell back and lay there glaring at them. He gasped, "Cou'le munce?"

"Sure. Stop crying. It's just a flesh wound."

"Bu' in cou'le munce—'ll be—bar'rine fiel'—gone—"

"Take it, Scyth. Sure. It's tough," said Dusty in a cold, matter-of-fact voice. "You've played and lost, but that's all right. Be a good loser. You've got a lot of company."

"Com'any?"

"Sure. There's millions of guys who've lost their future and their birthright over the flick of a hemline. We're a primitive sort of race, old man, but you'll find us both healthy and lusty. Forget Marandis and your ding-busted beacons. Maybe you can help us build a spacecraft—after we get through this barytrine business your friends cooked up for us."

"Bu' can—mus' not—Chat an' Bren—die—"

"Nonsense."

Barbara plucked at Dusty's sleeve. "He's talking about his friends. Chat and Bren. On Mercury, remember?"

"Oh, don't worry about them."

"But don't you see, Dusty? If we go into the barytrine field, and trap Scyth and his spacecraft with us, his friends will be marooned on Mercury."

Dusty nodded quickly. "Sure and that's what I'm counting on. They'll not start Sol into a variable until Scyth gets back. So—"

"Don't be blind. They won't start the variable star, but no one can stop the barytrine field. They'll still be marooned."

Dusty grinned. "You don't think a gang this advanced would be so dumb as to leave a couple of their kind marooned on a place like Mercury, do you? Well, I'll tell you how I've got it figured, Barb. Exactly eight seconds after Scyth does not land as per schedule, Chat and Bren will be calling for help on these phanoband things. That'll take care of them. But as for this guy, let's cheer up. We've got a sort of hostage. Scyth will be most happy to make a spacecraft for us as soon as he gets back on his feet. Chat and Bren will, of course, be taken care of some thousand years before we—"

Scyth groaned loudly.

"Huh?" demanded Dusty.

"S'no-so. Bren an' Chat—alone. No—no—famban—phan'ban'—phanoban' on Mer'cry. Die—"

Barbara started to say, "But your company—" but Dusty turned quickly and slapped a broad hand over her mouth.

"Shut up," he whispered in her ear swiftly. "He's got to think there is no help. He's forgotten that someone knows they're here. Play it by ear and follow my lead."

"What can you hope to do?"

"I don't know," said Dusty. "But I'm hoping that I find out." Loud enough for Scyth to hear, Dusty asked, helplessly, "But what can we do?"

"Car—ou'side. Spacer. Pocket—map."

Dusty made a dive for Scyth's jacket and found a folded road map in one of the pockets. Like any stranger in a strange land, Scyth had outlined the route in a heavy blue pencil. His travel was detailed, it took Dusty no more than a glance to place the location of Scyth's big spacecraft.

Scyth rested a moment and then went on: "Hurt—can be doc'or on Maran'is. Hurry—"

Dusty grunted. "And who's going to run this spacecraft of yours?"

"You—easy—"

Barbara looked at Dusty cynically. "It's your show, Spaceman Officer." She laughed hysterically again. "Dusty Britton Rides Again!"

Dusty slapped her across the face to shock her out of it. Then he bent down to look at Scyth. The compress was soaked with red blood, but it was not overflowing. Dusty touched it gently and looked up at Scyth's face. "Hurt?" he asked.

"Can' tell. Hur' all over."

"Gonna hurt more, Scyth. C'mon, make a break."

Dusty put his arm under the Marandanian's shoulder and slowly lifted him to a sitting position. The man groaned and the compress broke out in a new flood that ran wet for a moment and then subsided in the stickiness of clot.

Dusty lifted Scyth as gently as he could, and with Barbara opening doors, he carried Scyth to his big car.

"Why not take his?" she asked.

"Like mine better," he said with a shake of his head at the rental-agency model Scyth had come in.

Barbara found blankets from the trunk and made a soft cushion for Scyth.

"You take care of him and I'll drive," said Dusty.

Barbara shook her head. "I—you take care of him and I'll drive."

"But I know the route."

"I can read a map as well as you can."

Scyth opened his eyes wearily, but with a trace of bitter humor he managed to say, "You take care—of one another—and I'll drive!"

Then Scyth passed out cold.

Four hours' drive into the foothills, far from the lights of civilization, Dusty found the big spacecraft. It was parked in a small valley and it was colored so that only a man who knew what he was seeking and where it was would have found it.

On the way Scyth babbled about the drive and how to run the big ship. Happily, Scyth's periods of delirium were easy to separate from his periods of lucidity, for when Scyth began to babble he talked cynically about the stupidity of taking four hours to travel less than a couple of hundred miles when they could cover light-years in the matter of minutes. Then he would become quite rational and tell Dusty how to recognize the beacons as they came into sight, and where the charts were. He had to get back to Marandis, and he told Dusty the way.

Then his mind would wander a bit and Scyth would chuckle quietly over something entirely removed from spacemanship. Then would come a discussion of the levers that must be turned and the meters that must be watched; how to turn the correct knob or to push the proper pedal. He spoke of cautions, too. They must not turn on the space drive until the ship had warmed for a certain length of time (which the menslator interpreted to Dusty as a vague quantity of minutes. To be safe, Dusty would wait twice that long) and then Scyth would lapse again.

But as the drive went on, Scyth's periods of lucidity waned. His moments of babbling dropped too; and between them both came longer and longer periods of dead silence and heavy breathing.

Yet by the time Dusty drove his car underneath one tailfin, he had a fair idea of how to run the spacecraft.

VIII

Dusty carried Scyth to the salon and dropped him on a divan. He left Barbara to take care of the Marandanian while he went aloft into the control room to take over.

Once inside the room Dusty stopped short.

He was a Hottentot in a powerhouse, a savage in a Plutonium refining plant, a tone-deaf idiot standing before a four-console organ. There were meters and switches and levers and toggles, neatly mounted on gleaming black panels and clearly lettered in shining white. He stared at a pilot lamp labeled :æ:*œæ;œ*œ and wondered foolishly whether the gleam of red meant that the spaceport was still open or whether it signaled that smoking was forbidden for the time being.

Back to Index Next