The Philip K. Dick MEGAPACK® E-Book

Philip K. Dick

• Herausgeber: Wildside Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 581

Beschreibung

The Philip K. Dick Megapack assembles no less than 15 classic science fiction stories by Philip K. Dick. Included are:

INTRODUCTION: Philip K. Dick
EXHIBIT PIECE
BEYOND LIES THE WUB
THE DEFENDERS
THE CRYSTAL CRYPT
BEYOND THE DOOR
SECOND VARIETY
THE EYES HAVE IT
THE GUN
THE VARIABLE MAN
TONY AND THE BEETLES
THE HANGING STRANGER
THE SKULL
PIPER IN THE WOODS
MR. SPACESHIP
STRANGE EDEN

And don't forget to search your favorite ebook store for "Wildside Megapack" to see all the entries in the MEGAPACK® series—including volumes of science fiction, fantasy, horror, mystery, westerns, and much, much more!

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER

EXHIBIT PIECE

BEYOND LIES THE WUB

THE DEFENDERS

THE CRYSTAL CRYPT

BEYOND THE DOOR

SECOND VARIETY

THE EYES HAVE IT

THE GUN

THE VARIABLE MAN

TONY AND THE BEETLES

THE HANGING STRANGER

THE SKULL

PIPER IN THE WOODS

MR. SPACESHIP

STRANGE EDEN

Wildside Press’s MEGAPACK® Ebook Series

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

The Philip K. Dick MEGAPACK® is copyright © 2013 by Wildside Press LLC. All rights reserved.

This is version 1.6 (correcting minor typos). Thanks to Michael Willis, Phil Smythe, and Eleanor Elizabeth Forman for typo reports!

* * * *

“Exhibit Piece” originally appeared in If Worlds of Science Fiction, August 1954.

“The Crystal Crypt” originally appeared in Planet Stories, January 1954.

“Beyond the Door” originally appeared in Fantastic Universe, January 1954.

“The Defenders” originally appeared in Galaxy Science Fiction, January 1953.

“Beyond Lies the Wub” originally appeared in Planet Stories, July 1952.

“Second Variety” originally appeared in Space Science Fiction, May 1953.

“The Eyes Have It” originally appeared in Science Fiction Stories, 1953.

“The Gun” originally appeared in Planet Stories, September 1952.

“The Variable Man” originally appeared in Space Science Fiction, September 1953.

“Tony and the Beetles” originally appeared in Orbit, vol. 1 no. 2, 1953.

“The Hanging Stranger” originally appeared in Science Fiction Adventures Magazine, December 1953.

“The Skull” originally appeared in If Worlds of Science Fiction, September 1952.

“Piper in the Woods” originally appeared in Imagination: Stories of Science and Fantasy, February 1953.

“Mr. Spaceship” originally appeared in Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy, January 1953.

“Strange Eden” originally appeared in Imagination, December 1954.

A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER

Philip Kindred Dick (1928–1982) was an American novelist, short story writer, and essayist whose published work is almost entirely in the science fiction genre. Dick explored sociological, political and metaphysical themes in novels dominated by monopolistic corporations, authoritarian governments, and altered states. In his later works Dick’s thematic focus strongly reflected his personal interest in metaphysics and theology. He often drew upon his own life experiences in addressing the nature of drug abuse, paranoia, schizophrenia, and transcendental experiences in novels such as A Scanner Darkly and VALIS.

The novel The Man in the High Castle bridged the genres of alternate history and science fiction, earning Dick a Hugo Award for Best Novel in 1963. Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said, a novel about a celebrity who awakens in a parallel universe where he is unknown, won the John W. Campbell Memorial Award for best novel in 1975. “I want to write about people I love, and put them into a fictional world spun out of my own mind, not the world we actually have, because the world we actually have does not meet my standards,” Dick wrote of these stories. “In my writing I even question the universe; I wonder out loud if it is real, and I wonder out loud if all of us are real.”

In addition to 44 published novels, Dick wrote approximately 121 short stories, most of which appeared in science fiction magazines during his lifetime. Although Dick spent most of his career as a writer in near-poverty, ten popular films based on his works have been produced, including Blade Runner, Total Recall, A Scanner Darkly, Minority Report, Paycheck, Next, Screamers, and The Adjustment Bureau. In 2005, Time magazine named Ubik one of the one hundred greatest English-language novels published since 1923. In 2007, Dick became the first science fiction writer to be included in The Library of America series.

Wildside Press has published two volumes of Philip K. Dick’s short stories, The Philip K. Dick MEGAPACK® and The Second Philip K. Dick MEGAPACK®.

Enjoy!

—John Betancourt

Publisher, Wildside Press LLC

wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

ABOUT THE SERIES

Over the last few years, our MEGAPACK® ebook series has grown to be our most popular endeavor. (Maybe it helps that we sometimes offer them as premiums to our mailing list!) One question we keep getting asked is, “Who’s the editor?”

The MEGAPACK® ebook series (except where specifically credited) are a group effort. Everyone at Wildside works on them. This includes John Betancourt (me), Carla Coupe, Steve Coupe, Shawn Garrett, Helen McGee, Bonner Menking, Colin Azariah-Kribbs, A.E. Warren, and many of Wildside’s authors…who often suggest stories to include (and not just their own!)

RECOMMEND A FAVORITE STORY?

Do you know a great classic science fiction story, or have a favorite author whom you believe is perfect for the MEGAPACK® ebook series? We’d love your suggestions! You can email the publisher at [email protected] or use the message boards above.

Note: we only consider stories that have already been professionally published. This is not a market for new works.

TYPOS

Unfortunately, as hard as we try, a few typos do slip through. We update our ebooks periodically, so make sure you have the current version (or download a fresh copy if it’s been sitting in your ebook reader for months.) It may have already been updated.

If you spot a new typo, please let us know. We’ll fix it for everyone. You can email the publisher at [email protected].

EXHIBIT PIECE

“That’s a strange suit you have on,” the robot pubtrans driver observed. It slid back its door and came to rest at the curb. “What are the little round things?”

“Those are buttons,” George Miller explained. “They are partly functional, partly ornamental. This is an archaic suit of the twentieth century. I wear it because of the nature of my employment.”

He paid the robot, grabbed up his briefcase, and hurried along the ramp to the History Agency. The main building was already open for the day; robed men and women wandered everywhere. Miller entered a PRIVATE lift, squeezed between two immense controllers from the pre-Christian division, and in a moment was on his way to his own level, the Middle Twentieth Century.

“Gorning,” he murmured, as Controller Fleming met him at the atomic engine exhibit.

“Gorning,” Fleming responded brusquely. “Look here, Miller. Let’s have this out once and for all. What if everybody dressed like you? The Government sets up strict rules for dress. Can’t you forget your damn anachronisms once in awhile? What in God’s name is that thing in your hand? It looks like a squashed Jurassic lizard.”

“This is an alligator-hide briefcase,” Miller explained. “I carry my study spools in it. The briefcase was an authority symbol of the managerial class of the latter twentieth century.” He unzipped the briefcase. “Try to understand, Fleming. By accustoming myself to everyday objects of my research period, I transform my relation from mere intellectual curiosity to genuine empathy. You have frequently noticed I pronounce certain words oddly. The accent is that of an American business man of the Eisenhower administration. Dig me?”

“Eh?” Fleming muttered.

“Dig me was a twentieth century expression.” Miller laid out his study spools on his desk. “Was there anything you wanted? If not I’ll begin today’s work. I’ve uncovered fascinating evidence to indicate that although twentieth century Americans laid their own floor tiles, they did not weave their own clothing. I wish to alter my exhibits on this matter.”

“There’s no fanatic like an academician,” Fleming grated. “You’re two hundred years behind times. Immersed in your relics and artifacts. Your damn authentic replicas of discarded trivia.”

“I love my work,” Miller answered mildly.

“Nobody complains about your work. But there are other things than work. You’re a political-social unit here in this society. Take warning, Miller! The Board has reports on your eccentricities. They approve devotion to work…” His eyes narrowed significantly. “But you go too far.”

“My first loyalty is to my art,” Miller said.

“Your what? What does that mean?”

“A twentieth century term.” There was undisguised superiority on Miller’s face. “You’re nothing but a minor bureaucrat in a vast machine. You’re a function of an impersonal cultural totality. You have no standards of your own. In the twentieth century men had personal standards of workmanship. Artistic craft. Pride of accomplishment. These words mean nothing to you. You have no soul—another concept from the golden days of the twentieth century, when men were free and could speak their minds.”

“Beware, Miller!” Fleming blanched nervously and lowered his voice. “You damn scholars. Come up out of your tapes and face reality. You’ll get us all in trouble, talking this way. Idolize the past, if you want. But remember—it’s gone and buried. Times change. Society progresses.” He gestured impatiently at the exhibits that occupied the level. “That’s only an imperfect replica.”

“You impugn my research?” Miller was seething. “This exhibit is absolutely accurate! I correct it to all new data. There isn’t anything I don’t know about the twentieth century.”

Fleming shook his head. “It’s no use.” He turned and stalked wearily off the level, onto the descent ramp.

Miller straightened his collar and bright hand-painted necktie. He smoothed down his blue pinstripe coat, expertly lit a pipeful of two-century-old tobacco, and returned to his spools.

Why didn’t Fleming leave him alone? Fleming, the officious representative of the great hierarchy that spread like a sticky gray web over the whole planet. Into each industrial, professional, and residential unit. Ah, the freedom of the twentieth century! He slowed his tape scanner a moment, and a dreamy look slid over his features. The exciting age of virility and individuality, when men were men…

It was just about then, just as he was settling deep in the beauty of his research, that he heard the inexplicable sounds. They came from the center of his exhibit, from within the intricate, carefully-regulated interior.

Somebody was in his exhibit.

He could hear them back there, back in the depths. Somebody or something had got past the safety barrier set up to keep the public out. Miller snapped off his tape scanner and got slowly to his feet. He was shaking all over as he moved cautiously toward the exhibit. He killed the barrier and climbed the railing onto a concrete sidewalk. A few curious visitors blinked, as the small, oddly-dressed man crept among the authentic replicas of the twentieth century that made up the exhibit and disappeared within.

Breathing hard, Miller advanced up the sidewalk and onto a carefully-tended gravel path. Maybe it was one of the other theorists, a minion of the Board, snooping around looking for something with which to discredit him. An inaccuracy here—a trifling error of no consequence there. Sweat came out on his forehead; anger became terror. To his right was a flower bed. Paul Scarlet roses and low-growing pansies. Then the moist green lawn. The gleaming white garage, with its door half up. The sleek rear of a 1954 Buick—and then the house itself.

He’d have to be careful. If it was somebody from the Board, he’d be up against the official hierarchy. Maybe it was somebody big. Maybe even Edwin Carnap, President of the Board, the highest ranking official in the N’York branch of the World Directorate. Shakily, Miller, climbed the three cement steps. Now he was on the porch of the twentieth century house that made up the center of the exhibit.

It was a nice little house; if he had lived back in those days, he would have wanted one of his own. Three bedrooms, a ranch-style California bungalow. He pushed open the front door and entered the livingroom. Fireplace at one end. Dark wine-colored carpets. Modern couch and easy chair. Low hardwood glass-topped coffee table. Copper ashtrays. A cigarette lighter and a stack of magazines. Sleek plastic and steel floor lamps. A bookcase. Television set. Picture window overlooking the front garden. He crossed the room to the hall.

The house was amazingly complete. Below his feet the floor furnace radiated a faint aura of warmth. He peered into the first bedroom. A woman’s boudoir. Silk bed cover. White starched sheets. Heavy drapes. A vanity table. Bottles and jars. Huge round mirror. Clothes visible within the closet. A dressing gown thrown over the back of a chair. Slippers. Nylon hose carefully placed at the foot of the bed.

Miller moved down the hall and peered into the next room. Brightly painted wallpaper: clowns and elephants and tight-rope walkers. The children’s room. Two little beds for the two boys. Model airplanes. A dresser with a radio on it, pair of combs, school books, pennants, a NO PARKING sign, snapshots stuck in the mirror. A postage stamp album.

Nobody there, either.

Miller peered in the modern bathroom, even into the yellow-tiled shower. He passed through the dining room, glanced down the basement stairs where the washing machine and dryer were. Then he opened the back door and examined the back yard. A lawn, and the incinerator. A couple of small trees and then the three-dimensional projected backdrop of other houses receding off into incredibly convincing blue hills. And still no one. The yard was empty—deserted. He closed the door and started back…

From the kitchen came laughter.

A woman’s laugh. The clink of spoons and dishes. And smells. It took him a moment to identify them, scholar that he was. Bacon and coffee. And hot cakes. Somebody was eating breakfast. A twentieth century breakfast.

He made his way down the hall, past a man’s bedroom, shoes and clothing strewn about, to the entrance of the kitchen.

A handsome late-thirtyish woman and two teen-age boys were sitting around the little chrome-and-plastic breakfast table. They had finished eating; the two boys were fidgeting impatiently. Sunlight filtered through the window over the sink. The electric clock read half past eight. The radio was chirping merrily in the corner. A big pot of black coffee rested in the center of the table, surrounded by empty plates and milk glasses and silverware.

The woman had on a white blouse and checkered tweed skirt. Both boys wore faded blue jeans, sweatshirts, and tennis shoes. As yet they hadn’t noticed him. Miller stood frozen at the doorway, while laughter and small talk bubbled around him.

“You’ll have to ask your father,” the woman was saying, with mock sternness. “Wait until he comes back.”

“He already said we could,” one of the boys protested.

“Well, ask him again.”

“He’s always grouchy in the morning.”

“Not today. He had a good night’s sleep. His hay fever didn’t bother him. The new anti-hist the doctor gave him.” She glanced up at the clock. “Go see what’s keeping him, Don. He’ll be late to work.”

“He was looking for the newspaper.” One of the boys pushed back his chair and got up. “It missed the porch again and fell in the flowers.” He turned toward the door, and Miller found himself confronting him face to face. Briefly, the observation flashed through his mind that the boy looked familiar. Damn familiar—like somebody he knew, only younger. He tensed himself for the impact, as the boy abruptly halted.

“Gee,” the boy said. “You scared me.”

The woman glanced quickly up at Miller. “What are you doing out there, George?” she demanded. “Come on back in here and finish your coffee.”

Miller came slowly into the kitchen. The woman was finishing her coffee; both boys were on their feet and beginning to press around him.

“Didn’t you tell me I could go camping over the weekend up at Russian River with the group from school?” Don demanded. “You said I could borrow a sleeping bag from the gym because the one I had you gave to the Salvation Army because you were allergic to the kapok in it.”

“Yeah,” Miller muttered uncertainly. Don. That was the boy’s name. And his brother, Ted. But how did he know that? At the table the woman had got up and was collecting the dirty dishes to carry over to the sink. “They said you already promised them,” she said over her shoulder. The dishes clattered into the sink and she began sprinkling soap flakes over them. “But you remember that time they wanted to drive the car and the way they said it, you’d think they had got your okay. And they hadn’t, of course.”

Miller sank weakly down at the table. Aimlessly, he fooled with his pipe. He set it down in the copper ashtray and examined the cuff of his coat. What was happening? His head spun. He got up abruptly and hurried to the window, over the sink.

Houses. Streets. The distant hills beyond the town. The sights and sounds of people. The three-dimensional projected backdrop was utterly convincing; or was it the projected backdrop? How could he be sure? What was happening?

“George, what’s the matter?” Marjorie asked, as she tied a pink plastic apron around her waist and began running hot water in the sink. “You better get the car out and get started to work. Weren’t you saying last night old man Davidson was shouting about employees being late for work and standing around the water cooler talking and having a good time on company time?”

Davidson. The word stuck in Miller’s mind. He knew it, of course. A clear picture leaped up: a tall, white-haired old man, thin and stern. Vest and pocket watch. And the whole office, United Electronic Supply. The twelve story building in downtown San Francisco. The newspaper and cigar stand in the lobby. The honking cars. Jammed parking lots. The elevator, packed with bright-eyed secretaries, tight sweaters and perfume.

He wandered out of the kitchen, through the hall, past his own bedroom, his wife’s, and into the living-room. The front door was open and he stepped out onto the porch.

The air was cool and sweet. It was a bright April morning. The lawns were still wet. Cars moved down Virginia Street, toward Shattuck Avenue. Early morning commuting traffic, businessmen on their way to work. Across the street Earl Kelly cheerfully waved his Oakland Tribune as he hurried down the sidewalk toward the bus stop.

A long way off, Miller could see the Bay Bridge, Yerba Buena Island, and Treasure Island. Beyond that was San Francisco itself. In a few minutes, he’d be shooting across the bridge in his Buick, on his way to the office. Along with thousands of other businessmen in blue pinstripe suits.

Ted pushed past him and out on the porch. “Then it’s okay? You don’t care if we go camping?”

Miller licked his dry lips. “Ted, listen to me. There’s something strange.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.” Miller wandered nervously around on the porch. “This is Friday, isn’t it?”

“Sure.”

“I thought it was.” But how did he know it was Friday? How did he know anything? But of course it was Friday. A long hard week—old man Davidson breathing down his neck. Wednesday, especially, when the General Electric order was slowed down because of a strike.

“Let me ask you something,” Miller said to his son. “This morning—I left the kitchen to get the newspaper.”

Ted nodded. “Yeah. So?”

“I got up and went out of the room. How long was I gone? Not long, was I?” He searched for words, but his mind was a maze of disjointed thoughts. “I was sitting at the breakfast table with you all, and then I got up and went to look for the paper. Right? And then I came back in. Right?” His voice rose desperately. “I got up and shaved and dressed this morning. I ate breakfast. Hot cakes and coffee. Bacon. Right?”

“Right,” Ted agreed. “So?”

“Like I always do.”

“We only have hot cakes on Friday.”

Miller nodded slowly. “That’s right. Hot cakes on Friday. Because your uncle Frank eats with us Saturday and Sunday, and he can’t stand hot cakes, so we stopped having them on weekends. Frank is Marjorie’s brother. He was in the Marines in the First World War. He was a corporal.”

“Goodbye,” Ted said, as Don came out to join him. “We’ll see you this evening.”

School books clutched, the boys sauntered off toward the big modern high school in the center of Berkeley.

Miller re-entered the house and automatically began searching the closet for his briefcase. Where was it? Damn it, he needed it. The whole Throckmorton account was in it; Davidson would be yelling his head off if he left it anywhere, like in the True Blue Cafeteria that time they were all celebrating the Yankees’ winning the series. Where the hell was it—

He straightened up slowly, as memory came. Of course. He had left it by his work desk, where he had tossed it after taking out the research tapes. While Fleming was talking to him. Back at the History Agency.

He joined his wife in the kitchen. “Look,” he said huskily. “Marjorie, I think maybe I won’t go down to the office this morning.”

Marjorie spun in alarm. “George, is anything wrong?”

“I’m—completely confused.”

“Your hay fever again?”

“No. My mind. What’s the name of that psychiatrist the PTA recommended when Mrs. Bentley’s kid had that fit?” He searched his disorganized brain. “Grunberg, I think. In the Medical-Dental building.” He moved toward the door. “I’ll drop by and see him. Something’s wrong—really wrong. And I don’t know what it is.”

* * * *

Adam Grunberg was a large heavy-set man in his late forties, with curly brown hair and hornrimmed glasses. After Miller had finished, Grunberg cleared his throat, brushed at the sleeve of his Brooks Bros. suit, and asked thoughtfully,

“Did anything happen while you were out looking for the newspaper? Any sort of accident? You might try going over that part in detail. You got up from the breakfast table, went out on the porch, and started looking around in the bushes. And then what?”

Miller rubbed his forehead vaguely. “I don’t know. It’s all confused. I don’t remember looking for any newspaper. I remember coming back in the house. Then it gets clear. But before that it’s all tied up with the History Agency and my quarrel with Fleming.”

“What was that again about your briefcase? Go over that.”

“Fleming said it looked like a squashed Jurassic lizard. And I said—”

“No. I mean, about looking for it in the closet and not finding it.”

“I looked in the closet and it wasn’t there, of course. It’s sitting beside my desk at the History Agency. On the Twentieth Century level. By my exhibits.” A strange expression crossed Miller’s face. “Good God, Grunberg. You realize this may be nothing but an exhibit? You and everybody else—maybe you’re not real. Just pieces of this exhibit.”

“That wouldn’t be very pleasant for us, would it?” Grunberg said, with a faint smile.

“People in dreams are always secure until the dreamer wakes up,” Miller retorted.

“So you’re dreaming me.” Grunberg laughed tolerantly. “I suppose I should thank you.”

“I’m not here because I especially like you. I’m here because I can’t stand Fleming and the whole History Agency.”

Grunberg pondered. “This Fleming. Are you aware of thinking about him before you went out looking for the newspaper?”

Miller got to his feet and paced around the luxurious office, between the leather-covered chairs and the huge mahogany desk. “I want to face this thing. I’m in an exhibit. An artificial replica of the past. Fleming said something like this would happen to me.”

“Sit down, Mr. Miller,” Grunberg said, in a gentle but commanding voice. When Miller had taken his chair again, Grunberg continued. “I understand what you say. You have a general feeling that everything around you is unreal. A sort of stage.”

“An exhibit.”

“Yes, an exhibit in a museum.”

“In the N’York History Agency. Level R, the Twentieth Century level.”

“And in addition to this general feeling of—insubstantiality, there are specific projected memories of persons and places beyond this world. Another realm in which this one is contained. Perhaps I should say, the reality within which this is only a sort of shadow world.”

“This world doesn’t look shadowy to me.” Miller struck the leather arm of the chair savagely. “This world is completely real. That’s what’s wrong. I came in to investigate the noises, and now I can’t get back out. Good God, do I have to wander around this replica the rest of my life?”

“You know, of course, that your feeling is common to most of mankind. Especially during periods of great tension. Where—by the way—was the newspaper? Did you find it?”

“As far as I’m concerned—”

“Is that a source of irritation with you? I see you react strongly to a mention of the newspaper.”

Miller shook his head wearily. “Forget it.”

“Yes, a trifle. The paperboy carelessly throws the newspaper in the bushes, not on the porch. It makes you angry. It happens again and again. Early in the day, just as you’re starting to work. It seems to symbolize in a small way the whole petty frustrations and defeats of your job. Your whole life.”

“Personally, I don’t give a damn about the newspaper.” Miller examined his wristwatch. “I’m going—it’s almost noon. Old man Davidson will be yelling his head off if I’m not at the office by—” He broke off. “There it is again.”

“There what is?”

“All this!” Miller gestured impatiently out the window. “This whole place. This damn world. This exhibition.”

“I have a thought,” Doctor Grunberg said slowly. “I’ll put it to you for what it’s worth. Feel free to reject it if it doesn’t fit.” He raised his shrewd, professional eyes. “Ever see kids playing with rocketships?”

“Lord,” Miller said wretchedly. “I’ve seen commercial rocket freighters hauling cargo between Earth and Jupiter, landing at La Guardia Spaceport.”

Grunberg smiled slightly. “Follow me through on this. A question. Is it job tension?”

“What do you mean?”

“It would be nice,” Grunberg said blandly, “to live in the world of tomorrow. With robots and rocketships to do all the work. You could just sit back and take it easy. No worries, no cares. No frustrations.”

“My position in the History Agency has plenty of cares and frustrations.” Miller rose abruptly. “Look, Grunberg. Either this is an exhibit on R level of the History Agency, or I’m a middle-class businessman with an escape fantasy. Right now I can’t decide which. One minute I think this is real, and the next minute—”

“We can decide easily,” Grunberg said.

“How?”

“You were looking for the newspaper. Down the path, onto the lawn. Where did it happen? Was it on the path? On the porch? Try to remember.”

“I don’t have to try. I was still on the sidewalk. I had just jumped over the rail past the safety screens.”

“On the sidewalk. Then go back there. Find the exact place.”

“Why?”

“So you can prove to yourself there’s nothing on the other side.”

Miller took a deep, slow breath. “Suppose there is?”

“There can’t be. You said yourself: only one of the worlds can be real. This world is real—” Grunberg thumped his massive mahogany desk. “Ergo, you won’t find anything on the other side.”

“Yes,” Miller said, after a moment’s silence. A peculiar expression cut across his face and stayed there. “You’ve found the mistake.”

“What mistake?” Grunberg was puzzled. “What—”

Miller moved toward the door of the office. “I’m beginning to get it. I’ve been putting up a false question. Trying to decide which world is real.” He grinned humorlessly back at Doctor Grunberg. “They’re both real, of course.”

* * * *

He grabbed a taxi and headed back to the house. No one was home. The boys were in school, and Marjorie had gone downtown to shop. He waited indoors until he was sure nobody was watching along the street, and then started down the path to the sidewalk.

He found the spot without any trouble. There was a faint shimmer in the air, a weak place just at the edge of the parking strip. Through it he could see faint shapes.

He was right. There it was—complete and real. As real as the sidewalk under him.

A long metallic bar was cut off by the edges of the circle. He recognized it: the safety railing he had leaped over to enter the exhibit. Beyond it was the safety screen system. Turned off, of course. And beyond that, the rest of the level and the far walls of the History building.

He took a cautious step into the weak haze. It shimmered around him, misty and oblique. The shapes beyond became clearer. A moving figure in a dark blue robe. Some curious person examining the exhibits. The figure moved on and was lost. He could see his own work desk, now. His tape scanner and heaps of study spools. Beside the desk was his briefcase, exactly where he had expected it.

While he was considering stepping over the railing to get the briefcase, Fleming appeared.

Some inner instinct made Miller step back through the weak spot, as Fleming approached. Maybe it was the expression on Fleming’s face. In any case, Miller was back and standing firmly on the concrete sidewalk, when Fleming halted just beyond the juncture, face red, lips twisting with indignation.

“Miller,” he said thickly. “Come out of there.”

Miller laughed. “Be a good fellow, Fleming. Toss me my briefcase. It’s that strange looking thing over by the desk. I showed it to you—remember?”

“Stop playing games and listen to me!” Fleming snapped. “This is serious. Carnap knows. I had to inform him.”

“Good for you. The loyal bureaucrat.”

Miller bent over to light his pipe. He inhaled and puffed a great cloud of gray tobacco smoke through the weak spot, out into the R level. Fleming coughed and retreated.

“What’s that stuff?” he demanded.

“Tobacco. One of the things they have around here. Very common substance in the twentieth century. You wouldn’t know about that—your period is the second century, B.C. The Hellenistic world. I don’t know how well you’d like that. They didn’t have very good plumbing back there. Life expectancy was damn short.”

“What are you talking about?”

“In comparison, the life expectancy of my research period is quite high. And you should see the bathroom I’ve got. Yellow tile. And a shower. We don’t have anything like that at the Agency leisure-quarters.”

Fleming grunted sourly. “In other words, you’re going to stay in there.”

“It’s a pleasant place,” Miller said easily. “Of course, my position is better than average. Let me describe it for you. I have an attractive wife: marriage is permitted, even sanctioned in this era. I have two fine kids—both boys—who are going up to Russian River this weekend. They live with me and my wife—we have complete custody of them. The State has no power of that yet. I have a brand new Buick—”

“Illusions,” Fleming spat. “Psychotic delusions.”

“Are you sure?”

“You damn fool! I always knew you were too ego-recessive to face reality. You and your anachronistic retreats. Sometimes I’m ashamed I’m a theoretician. I wish I had gone into engineering.” Fleming’s lip twitched. “You’re insane, you know. You’re standing in the middle of an artificial exhibit, which is owned by the History Agency, a bundle of plastic and wire and struts. A replica of a past age. An imitation. And you’d rather be there than in the real world.”

“Strange,” Miller said thoughtfully. “Seems to me I’ve heard the same thing very recently. You don’t know a Doctor Grunberg, do you? A psychiatrist.”

Without formality, Director Carnap arrived with his company of assistants and experts. Fleming quickly retreated. Miller found himself facing one of the most powerful figures of the twenty-second century. He grinned and held out his hand.

“You insane imbecile,” Carnap rumbled. “Get out of there before we drag you out. If we have to do that, you’re through. You know what they do with advanced psychotics. It’ll be euthanasia for you. I’ll give you one last chance to come out of that fake exhibit—”

“Sorry,” Miller said. “It’s not an exhibit.”

Carnap’s heavy face registered sudden surprise. For a brief instant his massive poise vanished. “You still try to maintain—”

“This is a time gate,” Miller said quietly. “You can’t get me out, Carnap. You can’t reach me. I’m in the past, two hundred years back. I’ve crossed back to a previous existence-coordinate. I found a bridge and escaped from your continuum to this. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Carnap and his experts huddled together in a quick technical conference. Miller waited patiently. He had plenty of time; he had decided not to show up at the office until Monday.

After awhile Carnap approached the juncture again, being careful not to step over the safety railing. “An interesting theory, Miller. That’s the strange part about psychotics. They rationalize their delusions into a logical system. A priori, your concept stands up well. It’s internally consistent. Only—”

“Only what?”

“Only it doesn’t happen to be true.” Carnap had regained his confidence; he seemed to be enjoying the interchange. “You think you’re really back in the past. Yes, this exhibit is extremely accurate. Your work has always been good. The authenticity of detail is unequalled by any of the other exhibits.”

“I tried to do my work well,” Miller murmured.

“You wore archaic clothing and affected archaic speech-mannerisms. You did everything possible to throw yourself back. You devoted yourself to your work.” Carnap tapped the safety railing with his fingernail. “It would be a shame, Miller. A terrible shame to demolish such an authentic replica.”

There was silence.

“I see your point,” Miller said, after a time. “I agree with you, certainly. I’ve been very proud of my work—I’d hate to see it all torn down. But that really won’t do you any good. All you’ll succeed in doing is closing the time gate.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course. The exhibit is only a bridge, a link with the past. I passed through the exhibit, but I’m not there now. I’m beyond the exhibit.” He grinned tightly. “Your demolition can’t reach me. But seal me off, if you want. I don’t think I’ll be wanting to come back. I wish you could see this side, Carnap. It’s a nice place here. Freedom, opportunity. Limited government, responsible to the people. If you don’t like your job, you can quit. There’s no euthanasia here. Come on over. I’ll introduce you to my wife.”

“We’ll get you,” Carnap said. “And all your psychotic figments along with you.”

“I doubt if any of my ‘psychotic figments’ are worried. Grunberg wasn’t. I don’t think Marjorie is—”

“We’ve already begun demolition preparations,” Carnap said calmly. “We’ll do it piece by piece, not all at once. So you may have the opportunity to appreciate the scientific and—artistic way we take your imaginary world and people apart.”

“You’re wasting your time,” Miller said. He turned and walked off, down the sidewalk, to the gravel path and up onto the front porch of his house.

In the living room, he threw himself down in the easy chair and snapped on the television set. Then he went to the kitchen and got a can of ice cold beer from the refrigerator. He carried it happily back into the safe, comfortable living room.

As he was seating himself in front of the television set he noticed something rolled up on the low coffee table.

He grinned wryly. It was the morning newspaper, which he had looked so hard for. Marjorie had brought it in with the milk, as usual. And of course forgotten to tell him. He yawned contentedly and reached over to pick it up. Languidly, confidently, he unfolded it—and read the big black headlines.

RUSSIA REVEALS COBALT BOMB

TOTAL WORLD DESTRUCTION AHEAD

BEYOND LIES THE WUB

They had almost finished with the loading. Outside stood the Optus, his arms folded, his face sunk in gloom. Captain Franco walked leisurely down the gangplank, grinning.

“What’s the matter?” he said. “You’re getting paid for all this.”

The Optus said nothing. He turned away, collecting his robes. The Captain put his boot on the hem of the robe.

“Just a minute. Don’t go off. I’m not finished.”

“Oh?” The Optus turned with dignity. “I am going back to the village.” He looked toward the animals and birds being driven up the gangplank into the spaceship. “I must organize new hunts.”

Franco lit a cigarette. “Why not? You people can go out into the veldt and track it all down again. But when we run out halfway between Mars and Earth—”

The Optus went off, wordless. Franco joined the first mate at the bottom of the gangplank.

“How’s it coming?” he said. He looked at his watch. “We got a good bargain here.”

The mate glanced at him sourly. “How do you explain that?”

“What’s the matter with you? We need it more than they do.”

“I’ll see you later, Captain.” The mate threaded his way up the plank, between the long-legged Martian go-birds, into the ship. Franco watched him disappear. He was just starting up after him, up the plank toward the port, when he saw it.

“My God!” He stood staring, his hands on his hips. Peterson was walking along the path, his face red, leading it by a string.

“I’m sorry, Captain,” he said, tugging at the string. Franco walked toward him.

“What is it?”

The wub stood sagging, its great body settling slowly. It was sitting down, its eyes half shut. A few flies buzzed about its flank, and it switched its tail.

It sat. There was silence.

“It’s a wub,” Peterson said. “I got it from a native for fifty cents. He said it was a very unusual animal. Very respected.”

“This?” Franco poked the great sloping side of the wub. “It’s a pig! A huge dirty pig!”

“Yes sir, it’s a pig. The natives call it a wub.”

“A huge pig. It must weigh four hundred pounds.” Franco grabbed a tuft of the rough hair. The wub gasped. Its eyes opened, small and moist. Then its great mouth twitched.

A tear rolled down the wub’s cheek and splashed on the floor.

“Maybe it’s good to eat,” Peterson said nervously.

“We’ll soon find out,” Franco said.

* * * *

The wub survived the take-off, sound asleep in the hold of the ship. When they were out in space and everything was running smoothly, Captain Franco bade his men fetch the wub upstairs so that he might perceive what manner of beast it was.

The wub grunted and wheezed, squeezing up the passageway.

“Come on,” Jones grated, pulling at the rope. The wub twisted, rubbing its skin off on the smooth chrome walls. It burst into the ante-room, tumbling down in a heap. The men leaped up.

“Good Lord,” French said. “What is it?”

“Peterson says it’s a wub,” Jones said. “It belongs to him.” He kicked at the wub. The wub stood up unsteadily, panting.

“What’s the matter with it?” French came over. “Is it going to be sick?”

They watched. The wub rolled its eyes mournfully. It gazed around at the men.

“I think it’s thirsty,” Peterson said. He went to get some water. French shook his head.

“No wonder we had so much trouble taking off. I had to reset all my ballast calculations.”

Peterson came back with the water. The wub began to lap gratefully, splashing the men.

Captain Franco appeared at the door.

“Let’s have a look at it.” He advanced, squinting critically. “You got this for fifty cents?”

“Yes, sir,” Peterson said. “It eats almost anything. I fed it on grain and it liked that. And then potatoes, and mash, and scraps from the table, and milk. It seems to enjoy eating. After it eats it lies down and goes to sleep.”

“I see,” Captain Franco said. “Now, as to its taste. That’s the real question. I doubt if there’s much point in fattening it up any more. It seems fat enough to me already. Where’s the cook? I want him here. I want to find out—”

The wub stopped lapping and looked up at the Captain.

“Really, Captain,” the wub said. “I suggest we talk of other matters.”

The room was silent.

“What was that?” Franco said. “Just now.”

“The wub, sir,” Peterson said. “It spoke.”

They all looked at the wub.

“What did it say? What did it say?”

“It suggested we talk about other things.”

Franco walked toward the wub. He went all around it, examining it from every side. Then he came back over and stood with the men.

“I wonder if there’s a native inside it,” he said thoughtfully. “Maybe we should open it up and have a look.”

“Oh, goodness!” the wub cried. “Is that all you people can think of, killing and cutting?”

Franco clenched his fists. “Come out of there! Whoever you are, come out!”

Nothing stirred. The men stood together, their faces blank, staring at the wub. The wub swished its tail. It belched suddenly.

“I beg your pardon,” the wub said.

“I don’t think there’s anyone in there,” Jones said in a low voice. They all looked at each other.

The cook came in.

“You wanted me, Captain?” he said. “What’s this thing?”

“This is a wub,” Franco said. “It’s to be eaten. Will you measure it and figure out—”

“I think we should have a talk,” the wub said. “I’d like to discuss this with you, Captain, if I might. I can see that you and I do not agree on some basic issues.”

The Captain took a long time to answer. The wub waited good-naturedly, licking the water from its jowls.

“Come into my office,” the Captain said at last. He turned and walked out of the room. The wub rose and padded after him. The men watched it go out. They heard it climbing the stairs.

“I wonder what the outcome will be,” the cook said. “Well, I’ll be in the kitchen. Let me know as soon as you hear.”

“Sure,” Jones said. “Sure.”

* * * *

The wub eased itself down in the corner with a sigh. “You must forgive me,” it said. “I’m afraid I’m addicted to various forms of relaxation. When one is as large as I—”

The Captain nodded impatiently. He sat down at his desk and folded his hands.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s get started. You’re a wub? Is that correct?”

The wub shrugged. “I suppose so. That’s what they call us, the natives, I mean. We have our own term.”

“And you speak English? You’ve been in contact with Earthmen before?”

“No.”

“Then how do you do it?”

“Speak English? Am I speaking English? I’m not conscious of speaking anything in particular. I examined your mind—”

“My mind?”

“I studied the contents, especially the semantic warehouse, as I refer to it—”

“I see,” the Captain said. “Telepathy. Of course.”

“We are a very old race,” the wub said. “Very old and very ponderous. It is difficult for us to move around. You can appreciate that anything so slow and heavy would be at the mercy of more agile forms of life. There was no use in our relying on physical defenses. How could we win? Too heavy to run, too soft to fight, too good-natured to hunt for game—”

“How do you live?”

“Plants. Vegetables. We can eat almost anything. We’re very catholic. Tolerant, eclectic, catholic. We live and let live. That’s how we’ve gotten along.”

The wub eyed the Captain.

“And that’s why I so violently objected to this business about having me boiled. I could see the image in your mind—most of me in the frozen food locker, some of me in the kettle, a bit for your pet cat—”

“So you read minds?” the Captain said. “How interesting. Anything else? I mean, what else can you do along those lines?”

“A few odds and ends,” the wub said absently, staring around the room. “A nice apartment you have here, Captain. You keep it quite neat. I respect life-forms that are tidy. Some Martian birds are quite tidy. They throw things out of their nests and sweep them—”

“Indeed.” The Captain nodded. “But to get back to the problem—”

“Quite so. You spoke of dining on me. The taste, I am told, is good. A little fatty, but tender. But how can any lasting contact be established between your people and mine if you resort to such barbaric attitudes? Eat me? Rather you should discuss questions with me, philosophy, the arts—”

The Captain stood up. “Philosophy. It might interest you to know that we will be hard put to find something to eat for the next month. An unfortunate spoilage—”

“I know.” The wub nodded. “But wouldn’t it be more in accord with your principles of democracy if we all drew straws, or something along that line? After all, democracy is to protect the minority from just such infringements. Now, if each of us casts one vote—”

The Captain walked to the door.

“Nuts to you,” he said. He opened the door. He opened his mouth.

He stood frozen, his mouth wide, his eyes staring, his fingers still on the knob.

The wub watched him. Presently it padded out of the room, edging past the Captain. It went down the hall, deep in meditation.

* * * *

The room was quiet.

“So you see,” the wub said, “we have a common myth. Your mind contains many familiar myth symbols. Ishtar, Odysseus—”

Peterson sat silently, staring at the floor. He shifted in his chair.

“Go on,” he said. “Please go on.”

“I find in your Odysseus a figure common to the mythology of most self-conscious races. As I interpret it, Odysseus wanders as an individual, aware of himself as such. This is the idea of separation, of separation from family and country. The process of individuation.”

“But Odysseus returns to his home.” Peterson looked out the port window, at the stars, endless stars, burning intently in the empty universe. “Finally he goes home.”

“As must all creatures. The moment of separation is a temporary period, a brief journey of the soul. It begins, it ends. The wanderer returns to land and race.…”

The door opened. The wub stopped, turning its great head.

Captain Franco came into the room, the men behind him. They hesitated at the door.

“Are you all right?” French said.

“Do you mean me?” Peterson said, surprised. “Why me?”

Franco lowered his gun. “Come over here,” he said to Peterson. “Get up and come here.”

There was silence.

“Go ahead,” the wub said. “It doesn’t matter.”

Peterson stood up. “What for?”

“It’s an order.”

Peterson walked to the door. French caught his arm.

“What’s going on?” Peterson wrenched loose. “What’s the matter with you?”

Captain Franco moved toward the wub. The wub looked up from where it lay in the corner, pressed against the wall.

“It is interesting,” the wub said, “that you are obsessed with the idea of eating me. I wonder why.”

“Get up,” Franco said.

“If you wish.” The wub rose, grunting. “Be patient. It is difficult for me.” It stood, gasping, its tongue lolling foolishly.

“Shoot it now,” French said.

“For God’s sake!” Peterson exclaimed. Jones turned to him quickly, his eyes gray with fear.

“You didn’t see him—like a statue, standing there, his mouth open. If we hadn’t come down, he’d still be there.”

“Who? The Captain?” Peterson stared around. “But he’s all right now.”

They looked at the wub, standing in the middle of the room, its great chest rising and falling.

“Come on,” Franco said. “Out of the way.”

The men pulled aside toward the door.

“You are quite afraid, aren’t you?” the wub said. “Have I done anything to you? I am against the idea of hurting. All I have done is try to protect myself. Can you expect me to rush eagerly to my death? I am a sensible being like yourselves. I was curious to see your ship, learn about you. I suggested to the native—”

The gun jerked.

“See,” Franco said. “I thought so.”

The wub settled down, panting. It put its paw out, pulling its tail around it.

“It is very warm,” the wub said. “I understand that we are close to the jets. Atomic power. You have done many wonderful things with it—technically. Apparently, your scientific hierarchy is not equipped to solve moral, ethical—”

Franco turned to the men, crowding behind him, wide-eyed, silent.

“I’ll do it. You can watch.”

French nodded. “Try to hit the brain. It’s no good for eating. Don’t hit the chest. If the rib cage shatters, we’ll have to pick bones out.”

“Listen,” Peterson said, licking his lips. “Has it done anything? What harm has it done? I’m asking you. And anyhow, it’s still mine. You have no right to shoot it. It doesn’t belong to you.”

Franco raised his gun.

“I’m going out,” Jones said, his face white and sick. “I don’t want to see it.”

“Me, too,” French said. The men straggled out, murmuring. Peterson lingered at the door.

“It was talking to me about myths,” he said. “It wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

He went outside.

Franco walked toward the wub. The wub looked up slowly. It swallowed.

“A very foolish thing,” it said. “I am sorry that you want to do it. There was a parable that your Saviour related—”

It stopped, staring at the gun.

“Can you look me in the eye and do it?” the wub said. “Can you do that?”

The Captain gazed down. “I can look you in the eye,” he said. “Back on the farm we had hogs, dirty razor-back hogs. I can do it.”

Staring down at the wub, into the gleaming, moist eyes, he pressed the trigger.

* * * *

The taste was excellent.

They sat glumly around the table, some of them hardly eating at all. The only one who seemed to be enjoying himself was Captain Franco.

“More?” he said, looking around. “More? And some wine, perhaps.”

“Not me,” French said. “I think I’ll go back to the chart room.”

“Me, too.” Jones stood up, pushing his chair back. “I’ll see you later.”

The Captain watched them go. Some of the others excused themselves.

“What do you suppose the matter is?” the Captain said. He turned to Peterson. Peterson sat staring down at his plate, at the potatoes, the green peas, and at the thick slab of tender, warm meat.

He opened his mouth. No sound came.

The Captain put his hand on Peterson’s shoulder.

“It is only organic matter, now,” he said. “The life essence is gone.” He ate, spooning up the gravy with some bread. “I, myself, love to eat. It is one of the greatest things that a living creature can enjoy. Eating, resting, meditation, discussing things.”

Peterson nodded. Two more men got up and went out. The Captain drank some water and sighed.

“Well,” he said. “I must say that this was a very enjoyable meal. All the reports I had heard were quite true—the taste of wub. Very fine. But I was prevented from enjoying this pleasure in times past.”

He dabbed at his lips with his napkin and leaned back in his chair. Peterson stared dejectedly at the table.

The Captain watched him intently. He leaned over.

“Come, come,” he said. “Cheer up! Let’s discuss things.”

He smiled.

“As I was saying before I was interrupted, the role of Odysseus in the myths—”

Peterson jerked up, staring.

“To go on,” the Captain said. “Odysseus, as I understand him—”

THE DEFENDERS

Taylor sat back in his chair reading the morning newspaper. The warm kitchen and the smell of coffee blended with the comfort of not having to go to work. This was his Rest Period, the first for a long time, and he was glad of it. He folded the second section back, sighing with contentment.

“What is it?” Mary said, from the stove.

“They pasted Moscow again last night.” Taylor nodded his head in approval. “Gave it a real pounding. One of those R-H bombs. It’s about time.”

He nodded again, feeling the full comfort of the kitchen, the presence of his plump, attractive wife, the breakfast dishes and coffee. This was relaxation. And the war news was good, good and satisfying. He could feel a justifiable glow at the news, a sense of pride and personal accomplishment. After all, he was an integral part of the war program, not just another factory worker lugging a cart of scrap, but a technician, one of those who designed and planned the nerve-trunk of the war.

“It says they have the new subs almost perfected. Wait until they get those going.” He smacked his lips with anticipation. “When they start shelling from underwater, the Soviets are sure going to be surprised.”

“They’re doing a wonderful job,” Mary agreed vaguely. “Do you know what we saw today? Our team is getting a leady to show to the school children. I saw the leady, but only for a moment. It’s good for the children to see what their contributions are going for, don’t you think?”

She looked around at him.

“A leady,” Taylor murmured. He put the newspaper slowly down. “Well, make sure it’s decontaminated properly. We don’t want to take any chances.”

“Oh, they always bathe them when they’re brought down from the surface,” Mary said. “They wouldn’t think of letting them down without the bath. Would they?” She hesitated, thinking back. “Don, you know, it makes me remember—”

He nodded. “I know.”

He knew what she was thinking. Once in the very first weeks of the war, before everyone had been evacuated from the surface, they had seen a hospital train discharging the wounded, people who had been showered with sleet. He remembered the way they had looked, the expression on their faces, or as much of their faces as was left. It had not been a pleasant sight.

There had been a lot of that at first, in the early days before the transfer to undersurface was complete. There had been a lot, and it hadn’t been very difficult to come across it.

Taylor looked up at his wife. She was thinking too much about it, the last few months. They all were.

“Forget it,” he said. “It’s all in the past. There isn’t anybody up there now but the leadys, and they don’t mind.”

“But just the same, I hope they’re careful when they let one of them down here. If one were still hot—”

He laughed, pushing himself away from the table. “Forget it. This is a wonderful moment; I’ll be home for the next two shifts. Nothing to do but sit around and take things easy. Maybe we can take in a show. Okay?”

“A show? Do we have to? I don’t like to look at all the destruction, the ruins. Sometimes I see some place I remember, like San Francisco. They showed a shot of San Francisco, the bridge broken and fallen in the water, and I got upset. I don’t like to watch.”

“But don’t you want to know what’s going on? No human beings are getting hurt, you know.”

“But it’s so awful!” Her face was set and strained. “Please, no, Don.”

Don Taylor picked up his newspaper sullenly. “All right, but there isn’t a hell of a lot else to do. And don’t forget, their cities are getting it even worse.”

She nodded. Taylor turned the rough, thin sheets of newspaper. His good mood had soured on him. Why did she have to fret all the time? They were pretty well off, as things went. You couldn’t expect to have everything perfect, living undersurface, with an artificial sun and artificial food. Naturally it was a strain, not seeing the sky or being able to go any place or see anything other than metal walls, great roaring factories, the plant-yards, barracks. But it was better than being on surface. And some day it would end and they could return. Nobody wanted to live this way, but it was necessary.

He turned the page angrily and the poor paper ripped. Damn it, the paper was getting worse quality all the time, bad print, yellow tint—

Well, they needed everything for the war program. He ought to know that. Wasn’t he one of the planners?

He excused himself and went into the other room. The bed was still unmade. They had better get it in shape before the seventh hour inspection. There was a one unit fine—

The vidphone rang. He halted. Who would it be? He went over and clicked it on.

“Taylor?” the face said, forming into place. It was an old face, gray and grim. “This is Moss. I’m sorry to bother you during Rest Period, but this thing has come up.” He rattled papers. “I want you to hurry over here.”

Taylor stiffened. “What is it? There’s no chance it could wait?” The calm gray eyes were studying him, expressionless, unjudging. “If you want me to come down to the lab,” Taylor grumbled, “I suppose I can. I’ll get my uniform—”

“No. Come as you are. And not to the lab. Meet me at second stage as soon as possible. It’ll take you about a half hour, using the fast car up. I’ll see you there.”

The picture broke and Moss disappeared.

“What was it?” Mary said, at the door.

“Moss. He wants me for something.”

“I knew this would happen.”

“Well, you didn’t want to do anything, anyhow. What does it matter?” His voice was bitter. “It’s all the same, every day. I’ll bring you back something. I’m going up to second stage. Maybe I’ll be close enough to the surface to—”

“Don’t! Don’t bring me anything! Not from the surface!”

“All right, I won’t. But of all the irrational nonsense—”

She watched him put on his boots without answering.

* * * *

Moss nodded and Taylor fell in step with him, as the older man strode along. A series of loads were going up to the surface, blind cars clanking like ore-trucks up the ramp, disappearing through the stage trap above them. Taylor watched the cars, heavy with tubular machinery of some sort, weapons new to him. Workers were everywhere, in the dark gray uniforms of the labor corps, loading, lifting, shouting back and forth. The stage was deafening with noise.

“We’ll go up a way,” Moss said, “where we can talk. This is no place to give you details.”

They took an escalator up. The commercial lift fell behind them, and with it most of the crashing and booming. Soon they emerged on an observation platform, suspended on the side of the Tube, the vast tunnel leading to the surface, not more than half a mile above them now.

“My God!” Taylor said, looking down the Tube involuntarily. “It’s a long way down.”

Moss laughed. “Don’t look.”

They opened a door and entered an office. Behind the desk, an officer was sitting, an officer of Internal Security. He looked up.

“I’ll be right with you, Moss.” He gazed at Taylor studying him. “You’re a little ahead of time.”

“This is Commander Franks,” Moss said to Taylor. “He was the first to make the discovery. I was notified last night.” He tapped a parcel he carried. “I was let in because of this.”

Franks frowned at him and stood up. “We’re going up to first stage. We can discuss it there.”

“First stage?” Taylor repeated nervously. The three of them went down a side passage to a small lift. “I’ve never been up there. Is it all right? It’s not radioactive, is it?”

“You’re like everyone else,” Franks said. “Old women afraid of burglars. No radiation leaks down to first stage. There’s lead and rock, and what comes down the Tube is bathed.”

“What’s the nature of the problem?” Taylor asked. “I’d like to know something about it.”

“In a moment.”