Heredity

      Dr. Stefansson fondled the thick sheaf of typewritten papers that lay before him, “It’s all here, Harvey-twenty-five years of work.”

            Mild-mannered Professor Harvey puffed idly at his pipe, “Well, your part is over-and Markey’s, too, on Ganymede. It’s up to the twins, themselves, now.”

            A short ruminative silence, and then Dr. Stefansson stirred uneasily, “Are you going to break the news to Allen soon?”

            The other nodded quietly, “It will have to be done before we get to Mars, and the sooner the better.” He paused, then added in a tightened voice, “I wonder how it feels to find out after twenty-five years that one has a twin brother whom one has never seen. It must be a damned shock.”

            “How did George take it?”

            “Didn’t believe it at first, and I don’t blame him. Markey had to work like a horse to convince him it wasn’t a hoax. I suppose I’ll have as hard a job with Allen.” He knocked the dottle from his pipe and shook his head.

            “I have half a mind to go to Mars just to see those two get together,” remarked Dr. Stefansson wistfully. “You’ll do no such thing, Stef. This experiment’s taken too long and means too much to have you rum it by any such fool move.”

            “I know, I know! Heredity versus environment! Perhaps at last the definite answer.” He spoke half to himself, as if repeating an old, familiar formula, “Two identical twins, separated at birth; one brought up on old, civilized Earth, the other on pioneer Ganymede. Then, on their twenty-fifth birthday brought together for the first time on Mars-God! I wish Carter had lived to see the end of it They’re his children.”

            “Too bad!-But we’re alive, and the twins. To carry the experiment to its end will be our tribute to him.”

            There is no way of telling, at first seeing the Martian branch of Medicinal Products, Inc., that it is surrounded by anything but desert. You can’t see the vast underground caverns where the native fungi of Mars are artificially nurtured into huge blooming fields. The intricate transportation system that connects all parts of the square miles of fields to the central building is invisible. The irrigation system; the air-purifiers; the drainage pipes, are all hidden.

            And what one sees is the broad squat red-brick building and Martian desert, rusty and dry, all about

            That had been all George Carter had seen upon arriving via rocket-taxi, but him, at least, appearances had not deceived. It would have been strange had it done so, for his life on Ganymede had been oriented in its every phase towards eventual general managership of that very concern. He knew every square inch of the caverns below as well as if he had been born and raised in them himself.

            And now he sat in Professor Lemuel Harvey’s small office and allowed just the slightest trace of uneasiness to cross his impassive countenance. His ice-blue eyes sought those of Professor Harvey.

            “This-this twin brother o’ mine. He’ll be here soon?”

            Professor Harvey nodded, “He’s on his way over right now.”

            George Carter uncrossed his knees. His expression was almost wistful, “He looks a lot like me, d’ya rackon?”

            “Quite a lot. You’re identical twins, you know.”

            “Hmm! Rackon so! Wish I’d known him all the time-on Ganny!” He frowned. “He’s lived on Airth all’s life, huh?”

            An expression of interest crossed Professor Harvey’s face. He said briskly, “You dislike Earthmen?”

            “No, not exactly,” came the immediate answer. “It’s just the Airthmen are tanderfeet All of ‘m I know are.”

            Harvey stifled a grin, and conversation languished.

            The door-signal snapped Harvey out of his reverie and George Carter out of his chair at the same instant. The professor pressed the desk-button and the door opened.

            The figure on the threshold crossed into the room and then stopped. The twin brothers faced each other.

            It was a tense, breathless moment, and Professor Harvey sank into his soft chair, put his finger-tips together and watched keenly.

            The two stood stiffly erect, ten feet apart, neither making a move to lessen the distance. They made a curious contrast-a contrast all the more marked because of the vast similarity between the two.

            Eyes of frozen blue gazed deep into eyes of frozen blue. Each saw a long, straight nose over full, red lips pressed firmly together. The high cheekbones were as prominent in one as in the other, the jutting, angular chin as square. There was even the same, odd half-cock of one eyebrow in twin expressions of absorbed, part-quizzical interest.

            But with the face, all resemblance ended. Allen Carter’s clothes bore the New York stamp on every square inch. From his loose blouse, past his dark purple knee breeches, salmon-colored cellulite stockings, down to the glistening sandals on his feet, he stood a living embodiment of latest Terrestrial fashion.

            For a fleeting moment, George Carter was conscious of a feeling of ungainliness as he stood there in his tight-sleeved, close-necked shirt of Ganymedan linen. His unbuttoned vest and his voluminous trousers with their ends tucked into high-laced, heavy-soled boots were clumsy and provincial. Even he felt it-for just a moment

            From his sleeve-pocket Allen removed a cigarette case-it was the first move either of the brothers had made-opened it, withdrew a slender cylinder of paper-covered tobacco that spontaneously glowed into life at the first puff.

            George hesitated a fraction of a second and his subsequent action was almost one of defiance. His hand plunged into his inner vest pocket and drew therefrom the green, shriveled form of a cigar made of Ganymedan greenleaf. A match flared into .flame upon his thumbnail and for a long moment, he matched, puff for puff, the cigarette of his brother.

            And then Allen laughed-a queer, high-pitched laugh, “Your eyes are a little closer together, I think.”

            “Rackon ‘tis, maybe. Y’r hair’s fixed sort o’ different.” There was faint disapproval in his voice. Allen’s hand went self-consciously to his long, light-brown hair, carefully curled at the ends, while his eyes flickered over the carelessly-bound queue into which the other’s equally long hair was drawn.

            “I suppose we’ll have to get used to each other. -I’m willing to try.” The Earth twin was advancing now, hand outstretched.

            George smiled, “Y’ bet. ‘At goes here, too.”

            The hands met and gripped.

            “Y’r name’s All’n, huh?” said George.

            “And yours is George, isn’t it?” answered Allen.

            And then for a long while they said nothing more. They just looked-and smiled as they strove to bridge the twenty-five year gap that separated them.

            George Carter’s impersonal gaze swept over the carpet of low-growing purple blooms that stretched in plot-path bordered squares into the misty distance of the caverns. The newspapers and feature writers might rhapsodize over the “Fungus Gold” of Mars-about the purified extracts, in yields of ounces to acres of blooms, that had become indispensable to the medical profession of the System. Opiates, purified vitamins, a new vegetable specific against pneumonia-the blooms were worth their weight in gold, almost.

            But they were merely blooms to George Carter-blooms to be forced to full growth, harvested, baled, and shipped to the Aresopolis labs hundreds of miles away.

            He cut his little ground car to half-speed and leant furiously out the window, “Hi y’ mudcat there. Y’ with the dairty face. Watch what y’r doing-keep the domned water in the channel.”

            He drew back and the ground car leapt ahead once more. The Ganymedan muttered viciously to himself, “These domned men about here are wairse than useless. So many machines t’ do their wairk for ‘m they give their brains a pairmenent vacation, I rackon.”

            The ground car came to a halt and he clambered out. Picking his way between the fungus plots, he approached the clustered group of men about the spider-armed machine in the plotway ahead.

            “Well, here I am. What is ‘t, All’n?”

            Allen’s head bobbed up from behind the other side of the machine. He waved at the men about him, “Stop it for a second!” and leaped toward his twin.

            “George, it works. It’s slow and clumsy, but it works. We can improve it now that we’ve got the fundamentals down. And in no time at all, we’ll be able to-”

            “Now wait a while, All’n. On Ganny, we go slow. Y’ live long, that way. What y’ got there?”

            Allen paused and swabbed at his forehead. His face shone with grease, sweat, and excitement. “I’ve been working on this thing ever since I finished college. It’s a modification of something we have on Earth-but it’s no end improved. It’s a mechanical bloom picker.”

            He had fished a much-folded square of heavy paper from his pocket and talked steadily as he spread it on the plotway before them, “Up to now, bloom-picking has been the bottleneck of production, to say nothing of the 15 to 20% loss due to picking under- and over-ripe blooms. After all, human eyes are only human eyes, and the blooms-Here, look!”

            The paper was spread flat and Allen squatted before it George leaned over his shoulder, with frowning watchfulness.

            “You see. It’s a combination of fluoroscope and photoelectric cell. The ripeness of the bloom can be told by the state of the spores within. This machine is adjusted so that the proper circuit is tripped upon the impingement of just that combination of light and dark formed by ripe spores within the bloom. On the other hand, this second circuit-but look, it’s easier to show you.”

            He was up again, brimming with enthusiasm. With a jump, he was in the low seat behind the picker and had pulled the lever.

            Ponderously, the picker turned towards the blooms and its “eye” travelled sideways six inches above the ground. As it passed each fungus bloom, a long spidery arm shot out, lopping it cleanly half an inch from the ground and depositing it neatly in the downward sloping slide beneath. A pile of blooms formed behind the machine.

            “We can hook on a binder, too, later on. Do you notice those blooms it doesn’t touch? Those are unripe. Just wait till it comes to an over-ripe one and see what it does.”

            He yelled in triumph a moment later when a bloom was torn out and dropped on the spot.

            He stopped the machine, “You see? In a month, perhaps, we can actually start putting it to work in the fields.”

            George Carter gazed sourly upon his twin, “Take more ‘n a month, I rackon. It’ll take foraver, more likely.”

            “What do you mean, forever. It just has to be sped up-”

            “I don’t care if ‘t just has t’ be painted pairple. ‘Tisn’t going t’ appear on my fields.”

            “Your fields?”

            “Yup, mine,” was the cool response. “I’ve got veto pow’r here same as you have. Y’ can’t do anything ‘thout my say-so-and y’ won’t get it f’r this. In fact, I want y’ t’ clear that thing out o’ here, altogether. Got no use f’r ‘t.”

            Allen dismounted and faced his brother, “You agreed to let me have this plot to experiment on, veto-free, and I’m holding you to that agreement.”

            “All right, then. But keep y’r domned machine out o’ the rest o’ the fields.”

            The Earthman approached the other slowly. There was a dangerous look in his eyes. “Look, George, I don’t like your attitude-and I don’t like the way you’re using your veto power. I don’t know what you’re used to running on Ganymede, but you’re in the big time now, and there are a lot of provincial notions you’ll have to get out of your head.”

            “Not unless I want to. And if y’ want t’ have ‘t out with me, we’d better go t’ y’r office. Spatting before the men ‘d be bad for discipline.”

            The trip back to Central was made in ominous silence. George whistled softly to himself while Allen folded his arms and stared with ostentatious indifference at the narrow, twisting plotway ahead. The silence persisted as they entered the Earthman’s office. Allen gestured shortly towards a chair and the Ganymedan took it without a word. He brought out his ever-present green-leaf cigar and waited for the other to speak.

            Allen hunched forward upon the edge of his seat and leaned both elbows on his desk. He began with a rush.

            “There’s lots to this situation, George, that’s a mystery to me. I don’t know why they brought up you on Ganymede and me on Earth, and I don’t know why they never let us know of each other, or made us co-managers now with veto-power over one another-but I do know that the situation is rapidly growing intolerable.

            “This corporation needs modernization, and you know that. Yet you’ve been wielding that veto-power over every trifling advance I’ve tried to initiate. I don’t know just what your viewpoint is, but I’ve a suspicion that you think you’re still living on Ganymede. If you’re still in the sticks,-I’m warning you-get out of them fast. I’m from Earth, and this corporation is going to be run with Earth efficiency and Earth organization. Do you understand?”

            George puffed odorous tobacco at the ceiling before answering, but when he did, his eyes came down sharply, and there was a cutting edge to his voice.

            “Airth, is it? Airth efficiency, no less? Well, All’n, I like ye. I can’t help it Y’r so much like me, that disliking y’ would be like disliking myself, I rackon. I hate t’ say this, but y’r upbringing’s all wrong.”

            His voice became sternly accusatory, “Y’r an Airthman. Well, look at y’. Airthman’s but half a man at best, and naturally y’ lean on machines. But d’ y’ suppose I want the corporation to be run by machines-just machines? What’re the men t’ do?”

            “The men run the machines,” came the clipped, angry response.

            The Ganymedan rose, and a fist slammed down on the desk, “The machines run the men, and y” know it. Fairst, y’ use them; then y’ depend on them; and finally y’r slaves t’ them. Over on y’r pracious Airth, it was machines, machines, machines-and as a result, what are y’? I’ll tell y’. Half a man!”

            He drew himself up, “I still like y’. I like y’ weU enough f wish y”d lived on Gannie with me. By Jupe ‘n’ domn, ‘twould have made a man o’ y’.”

            “Finished?” said Allen.

            “Rackon so!”

            “Then I’ll tell you something. There’s nothing wrong with you that a life time on a decent planet wouldn’t have fixed. As it is, however, you belong on Ganymede. I’d advise you to go back there.”

            George spoke very softly, “Y’r not thinking o’ taking a punch at me, are y’?”

            “No. I couldn’t fight a mirror image of myself, but if your face were only a little different, I would enjoy splashing it about the premises a bit.”

            “Think y’ could do it-an Airthman like you? Here, sit down. We’re both getting a bit too excited, I rackon. Nothing’!! be settled this way.”

            He sat down once more, puffed vainly at his dead cigar, and tossed it into the incinerator chute in disgust.

            “Where’s y’r water?” he grunted.

            Allen grinned with sudden delight, “Would you object to having a machine supply it?”

            “Machine? What d’ y’ mean?” The Ganymedan gazed about him suspiciously.

            “Watch! I had this installed a week ago.” He touched a button on his desk and a low click sounded below. There was the sound of pouring water for a second or so and then a circular metal disk beside the Earthman’s right hand slid aside and a cup of water lifted up from below.

            “Take it,” said Allen.

            George lifted it gingerly and drank it down. He tossed the empty cup down the incinerator shaft, then stared long and thoughtfully at his brother, “May I see this water feeder o* y’rs?”

            “Surely. It’s just under the desk. Here, I’ll make room for you.”

            The Ganymedan crawled underneath while Allen watched uncertainly. A brawny hand was thrust out suddenly and a muffled voice said, “Hand me a screwdriver.”

            “Here! What are you going to do?”

            “Nothing. Nothing ‘t all. Just want t’ investigate this contraption.”

            The screw-driver was handed down and for a few minutes there was no other sound than an occasional soft scraping of metal on metal. Finally, George withdrew a flushed face and adjusted his wrinkled collar with satisfaction.

            “Which button do I press for the water?”

            Allen gestured and the button was pressed. The gurgling of water sounded. The Earthman stared in mystification from his desk to his brother and back again. And then he became aware of a moistness about his feet.

            He jumped, looked downwards, and squawked in dismay, “Why, damn you, what have you done?” A snaky stream of water wriggled blindly out from under the desk and the pouring sound of water still continued.

            George made leisurely for the door, “Just short-caircuited it. Here’s y’r screw-driver; fix ‘t up again.” And just before he slammed the door, “So much f’r y’r pracious machines. They go wrong at the wrong times.”

            The sounder was buzzily insistent and Allen Carter opened one eye peevishly. It was still dark.

            With a sigh, he lifted one arm to the head of his bed and put the Audiomitter into commission.

            The treble voice of Amos Wells of the night shift squawked excitedly at him. Allen’s eyes snapped open and he sat up.

            “You’re crazy!” But he was plunging into his breeches even as he spoke. In ten seconds, he was careening up the steps three at a time. He shot into the main office just behind the charging figure of his twin brother.

            The place was crowded;-its occupants in a jitter.

            Allen brushed his long hair out of his eyes, “Turn on the turret searchlight!”

            “It’s on,” said someone helplessly.

            The Earthman rushed to the window and looked out. The yellow beam reached dimly out a few feet and ended in a muddy murkiness. He pulled at the window and it lifted upwards grittily a few inches. There was a whistle of wind and a tornado of coughing from within the room. Allen slammed it down again and his hands went at once to his tear-filled eyes.

            George spoke between sneezes, “We’re not located in the sandstorm zone. This can’t be one.”

            “It is,” asserted Wells in a squeak. “It’s the worst I’ve ever seen. Started full blast from scratch just like that. It caught me flat-footed. By the time I closed off all exits to above, it was too late.”

            “Too late!” Allen withdrew his attention from his sand-filled eyes and snapped out the words, “Too late for what?”

            “Too late for our rolling stock. Our rockets got it worst of all. There isn’t one that hasn’t its propulsives clogged with sand. And that goes for our irrigation pumps and the ventilating system. The generators below are safe but everything else will have to be taken apart and put together again. We’re stalled for a week at least. Maybe more.”

            There was a short, pregnant silence, and then Allen said, “Take charge. Wells. Put the men on double shift and tackle the irrigation pumps first. They’ve got to be in working order inside of twenty-four hours, or half the crop will dry up and die on us. Here-wait, I’ll go with you.”

            He turned to leave, but his first footstep froze in midair at the sight of Michael Anders, communications officer, rushing up the stairs.

            “What’s the matter?”

            Anders spoke between gasps, “The damned planet’s gone crazy. There’s been the biggest quake in history with its center not ten miles from Aresopolis.”

            There was a chorus of “What?” and a ragged follow-up of blistering imprecations. Men crowded in anxiously;-many had relatives and wives in the Martian metropolis.

            Anders went on breathlessly, “It came all of a sudden. Aresopolis is in ruins and fires have started. There aren’t any details but the transmitter at our Aresopolis labs went dead five minutes ago.”

            There was a babel of comment The news spread out into the furthest recesses of Central, and excitement waxed to dangerously panicky proportions. Allen raised his voice to a shout.

            “Quiet, everyone. There’s nothing we can do about Aresopolis. We’ve got our own troubles. This freak storm is connected with the quake some way-and that’s what we have to take care of. Everyone back to his work now-and work fast. They’ll be needing us at Aresopolis damned soon.” He turned to Anders, “You! Get back to that receiver and don’t knock off until you’ve gotten in touch with Aresopolis again. Coming with me, George?”

            “No, rackon not,” was the response. “Y’ tend t’ y’r machines. I’ll go down with Anders.”

            Dawn was breaking, a dusky, lightless dawn, when Allen Carter returned to Central. He was weary-weary in mind and body-and looked it. He entered the radio room.

            “Things are a mess. If-”

            There was a “Shhh” and George waved frantically. Allen fell silent. Anders bent over the receiver, turning tiny dials with nervous fingers.

            Anders looked up, “It’s no use, Mr. Carter. Can’t get them.”

            “All right. Stay here and keep y’r ears open. Let me know if anything turns up.”

            He walked out, hooking an arm underneath his brother’s and dragging the latter out.

            “When c’n we get out the next shipment, All’n?”

            “Not for at least a week. We haven’t a thing that’ll either roll or fly for days, and it will be even longer before we can start harvesting again.”

            “Have we any supplies on hand now?”

            “A few tons of assorted blooms-mainly the red-purples. The Earth shipment last Tuesday took off almost everything.”

            George fell into a reverie.

            His brother waited a moment and said sharply, “Well, what’s on your’ mind? What’s the news from Aresopolis?”

            “Domned bad! The quake’s leveled three-fourths o’ Aresopolis and the rest’s pretty much gutted with fire, I rackon. There ‘re fifty thousand that’ll have t’ camp out nights.-That’s no fun in Martian autumn weather with the Airth gravity system broken down.”

            Allen whistled, “Pneumonia!”

            “And common colds and influenza and any o’ half doz’n diseases t’ say nothing o’ people bairnt. -Old Vincent is raising cain.”

            “Wants blooms?”

            “He’s only got a two-day supply on hand. He’s got t’ have more.”

            Both, were speaking quietly, almost with indifference, with the vast understatement that is all that makes great crises bearable.

            There was a pause and then George spoke again, “What’s the best we c’n do?”

            “Not under a week-not if we kill ourselves to do it. If they could send over a ship as soon as the storm dies down, we might be able to send what we have as a temporary supply until we can get over with the rest.”

            “Silly even t’ think o’ that. The Aresopolis port is just ruins. They haven’t a ship t’ their names.”

            Again silence. Then Allen spoke in a low, tense voice. “What are you waiting for? What’s that look on your face for?”

            “I’m waiting fr y’ t’ admit y’r domned machines have failed y’ in the fairest emairgency we’ve had t’ meet.”

            “Admitted,” snarled the Earthman.

            “Good! And now its up t’ me t’ show y’ what human ingenuity can do.” He handed a sheet of paper to his brother, “There’s a copy of the message I sent Vincent.”

            Allen looked long at his brother and slowly read the pencilled scribbling.

            “Will deliver all we have on hand in thirty-six hours. Hope it will keep you going the few days until we can get a real shipment out. Things are a little rough out here.”

            “How are you going to do it?” demanded Allen, upon finishing.

            “I’m trying to show y’,” answered George, and Allen realized for the first time that they had left Central and were out in the caverns.

            George led the way for five minutes and stopped before an object bulking blackly in the dimness. He turned on the section lights and said, “Sand truck!”

            The sand truck was not an imposing object. With the low driving car in front and the three squat, open-topped freightcars behind, it presented a picture of obsolete decrepitude. Fifteen years ago, it had been relegated to the dust-heap by the sand-sleds and rocket-freights.

            The Ganymedan was speaking, “Checked it an hour ago, m’self, and ‘tis still in wairking order. It has shielded bearings, air conditioning unit f’r the driving car, and an intairnal combustion engine.”

            The other looked up sharply. There was an expression of distaste on his face. “You mean it burns chemical fuel.”

            “Yup! Gas’line. That’s why I like it. Reminds me o’ Ganymede. On Gannie, I had a gas engine that-”

            “But wait a while. We haven’t any of that gasoline.”

            “No, rackon not. But we got lots o’ liquid hydrocarbons round the place. How about Solvent D? That’s mostly octane. We’ve got tanks o’ it.”

            Allen said, “That’s so;-but the truck holds only two.”

            “I know it. I’m one.”

            “And I’m the other.”

            George grunted, “I rackond y’d say that-but this isn’t going t’ be a push-button machine job. Rackon y’r up t’ it,- Airthman?”

            “I reckon I am-Gannie.”

            The sun had been up some two hours before the sandtruck’s engine whirred into life, but outside, the murk had become, if anything, thicker.

            The main driveway within the caverns was ahum with activity. Grotesque figures with eyes peering through the thick glass of improvised air-helmets stepped back as the truck’s broad, sand-adapted wheels began their slow turn. The three cars behind had been piled high with purple blooms, canvas covers had been thrown over them and bound down tightly,- and now the signal was given to open the doors.

            The lever was jerked downwards and the double doors separated with sand-clogged protests. Through a gray whirl of inblown sand, the truck made its way outwards, and behind it sand-coated figures brushed at their air-helmets and closed the doors again.

            George Carter, inured by long Ganymedan custom, met the sudden gravity change as they left the protective Gravitor fields of the caverns, with a single long-drawn breath. His hands held steady upon the wheels. His Terrestrial brother, however, was in far different condition. The hard nauseating knot into which his stomach tied itself loosened only very gradually, and it was a long time before his irregular stertorous breathing approached anything like normality again.

            And throughout, the Earthman was conscious of the other’s side-long glance and of just a trace of a smile about the other’s lips.

            It was enough to keep the slightest moan from issuing forth, though his abdominal muscles cramped and icy perspiration bathed his face.

            The miles clicked off slowly, but the illusion of motionlessness was almost as complete as that in space. The surroundings were gray-uniform, monotonous and unvarying. The noise of the engine was a harsh purr and the clicking of the air-purifier behind like a drowsy tick. Occasionally, there was an especially strong gust of wind, and a patter of sand dashed against the window with a million tiny, separate pings.

            George kept his eye strictly upon the compass before him. The silence was almost oppressive.

            And then the Ganymedan swivelled his head, and growled, “What’s wrong with the domned vent’lator?”

            Allen squeezed upward, head against the low top, and then turned back, pale-faced, “It’s stopped.”

            “It’ll be hours ‘fore the storm’s over. Ye’ve got t’ have air till then. Craw] in back there and start it again.” His voice was flat and final.

            “Here,” he said, as the other crawled over his shoulder into the back of the car. “Here’s the tool-kit. Y’v got ‘bout twenty minutes ‘fore the air gets too foul t’ breathe. ‘Tis pretty bad now.”

            The clouds of sand hemmed in closer and the dim yellow light above George’s head dispelled only partially the darkness within.

            There was the sound of scrambling from behind him and then Allen’s voice, “Damn this rope. What’s it doing here?” There was a hammering and then a disgusted curse.

            “This thing is choked with rust.”

            “Anything else wrong?” called out the Ganymedan.

            “Don’t know. Wait till I clear it out.” More hammering and an almost continuous harsh, scraping sound followed.

            Allen backed into his seat once more. His face dripped rusty perspiration and a swab with the back of an equally damp, rust-covered hand did it no good.

            “The pump is leaking like a punctured kettle, now that the rust’s been knocked loose. I’ve got it going at top speed, but the only thing between it and a total breakdown is a prayer.”

            “Start praying,” said George, bruskly. “Pray for a button to push.”

            The Earthman frowned, and stared ahead in sullen silence.

            At four in the afternoon, the Ganymedan drawled, “Air’s beginning t’ thin out, looks like.”

            Allen snapped to alertness. The air was foul and humid within. The ventilator behind swished sibilantly between each click and the clicks were spacing themselves further apart. It wouldn’t hold out much longer now.

            “How much ground have we covered?”

            “‘Bout a thaird o’ the distance,” was the reply. “How ‘r y* holding out?”

            “Well enough,” Allen snapped back. He retired once more into his shelL

            Night came and the first brilliant stars of a Martian night peeped out when with a last futile and long-sustained swi-i-i-s-s-sh, the ventilator died.

            “Domn!” said George. “I can’t breathe this soup any longer, anyway. Open the windows.”

            The keenly cold Martian wind swept in and with it the last traces of sand. George coughed as he pulled his woolen cap over his ears and turned on the heaters.

            “Y’ can still taste the grit.”

            Allen looked wistfully up into the skies, “There’s Earth- with the moon hanging right onto her tail.”

            “Airth?” repeated George with fine contempt. His finger pointed horizonwards, “There’s good old Jupe for y’.”

            And throwing back his head, he sang in a full throated baritone:

            “When the golden orb o’ Jove

            Shines down from the skies above,

            Then my spirit longs to go

            To that happy land I know, Back t’ good, old Ganyme-e-e-e-ede.”

            The last note quavered and broke, and quavered and broke again and still again in an ever increasing rapidity of tempo until its vibrating ululation pierced the air about ear-shatteringly.

            Allen stared at his brother wide-eyed, “How did you do that?”

            George grinned, “That’s the Gannie quaver. Didn’t y’ ever hear it before?”

            The Earthman shook his head, “I’ve head of it, but that’s all.”

            The other became a bit more cordial, “Well, o’ course y’ can only do it in a thin atmosphere. Y’ should hear me on Gannie. I c’d shake y’ right off y’r chair when I’m going good. Here! Wait till I gulp down some coffee, and then I’ll sing y’ vairse twenty-four o’ the ‘Ballad o’ Ganymede.’ “

            He took a deep breath:

            “There’s a fair-haired maid I love

            Standing in the light o’ Jove

            And she’s waiting there for me-e-e-e-e.

            Then-”

            Allen grasped him by the arm and shook him. The Ganymedan choked into silence.

            “What’s the matter?” he asked sharply.

            “There was a thumping sound on the roof just a second ago. There’s something up there.”

            George stared upwards, “Grab the wheel. I’ll go up.”

            Allen shook his head, “I’m going myself. I wouldn’t trust myself running this primitive contraption.”

            He was out on the running board the next instant.

            “Keep her going,” he shouted, and threw one foot up onto the roof.

            He froze in that position when he became aware of two yellow slits of eyes staring hard into his. It took not more than a second for him to realize that he was face to face with a keazel, a situation which for discomfort is about on a par with the discovery of a rattlesnake in one’s bed back on Earth.

            There was little time for mental comparisons of his position with Earth predicaments, however, for the keazel lunged forward, its poisonous fangs agleam in the starlight.

            Allen ducked desperately and lost his grip. He hit the sand with a slow-motion thud and the cold, scaly body of the Martian reptile was upon him.

            The Earthman’s reaction was almost instinctive. His hand shot out and clamped down hard upon the creature’s narrow muzzle.

            In that position, beast and man stiffened into breathless statuary. The man was trembling and within him his heart pounded away with hard rapidity. He scarcely dared move. In the unaccustomed Martian gravity, he found he could not judge movements of his limbs. Muscles knotted almost of their own accord and legs swung when they ought not to.

            He tried to lie still-and think.

            The keazel squirmed, and from its lips, clamped shut by Earth muscles, issued a tremulous whine. Allen’s hand grew slick with perspiration and he could feel the beast’s muzzle turn a bit within his palm. He clamped harder, panic-stricken. Physically, the keazel was no match for an Earthman, even a tired, frightened, gravity-unaccustomed Earthman-but one bite, anywhere, was all that was needed.

            The keazel jerked suddenly; its back humped and its legs threshed. Allen held on with both hands and could not let go. He had neither gun nor knife. There was no rock on the level desert sands to crack its skull against. The sand-truck had long since disappeared into the Martian night, and he was alone-alone with a keazel.

            In desperation, he twisted. The keazel’s head bent. He could hear its breath whistling forth harshly-and again there was that low whine.

            Allen writhed above it and clamped knees down upon its cold, scaly abdomen. He twisted the head, further and further. The keazel fought desperately, but Allen’s Earthly biceps maintained their hold. He could almost sense the beast’s agony in the last stages, when he called up all his strength,-something snapped.

            And the beast lay still.

            He rose to his feet, half-sobbing. The Martian night wind knifed into him and the perspiration froze on his body. He was alone in the desert.

            Reaction set in. There was an intense buzzing in his ears. He found it difficult to stand. The wind was biting-but somehow he didn’t feel it any more.

            The buzzing in his ears resolved itself into a voice-a voice calling weirdly through the Martian wind.

            “All’n, where are y’? Domn y’, y’ tanderfoot, where are y’? All’n! A ll’n!”

            New life swept into the Earthman. He tossed the keazel’s carcass onto his shoulders and staggered on towards the voice.

            “Here I am, G-Gannie. Right here.”

            He stumbled blindly into his brother’s arms.

            George began harshly, “Y’ blasted Airthman, can’t y’ even keep y’r footing on a sandtruck moving at ten miles per? Y’ might’ve-”

            His voice died away in a semi-gurgle.

            Allen said tiredly, “There was a keazel on the roof. He knocked me off. Here, put it somewhere. There’s a hundred dollar bonus for every keazel skin brought in to Aresopolis.”

            He had no clear recollection of anything for the next half hour. When things straightened out, he was in the truck again with the taste of warm coffee in his mouth. The engine was rumbling once more and the pleasant warmth of the heaters surrounded him.

            George sat next to him silently, eyes fixed on the desert ahead. But once in a while, he cleared his throat and shot a lightning glance at his brother. There was a queer look in his eyes.

            Allen said, “Listen, I’ve got to keep awake,-and you look half dead yourself-so how about teaching me that ‘Gannie quaver’ of yours. That’s bound to wake the dead.”

            The Ganymedan stared even harder and then said gruffly, “Sure, watch m’ Adam’s apple while I do ‘t again.”

            The sun was half-way to zenith when they reached the canal.

            An hour before dawn there had come the crackling sound of hoarfrost beneath the heavy wheels and that signified the end of the desert area and the approach of the canal oasis. With the rising of the sun, the crackling disappeared and the softening mud underneath slowed the sand-adapted truck. The pathetic clumps of gray-green scrub that dotted the flat landscape were the first variant to eternal red sand since the two had started on their journey.

            And then Allen had leaned forward and grasped his brother by the arm, “Look, there’s the canal itself right ahead.”

            The “canal”-a small tributary of the mighty Jefferson Canal-contained a mere trickle of water at this season of the year. A dirty winding line of dampness, it was, and little more. Surrounding it on both sides were the boggy areas of black mud that were to fill up into a rushing ice-cold current an Earth-year hence.

            The sand-truck nosed gingerly down the gentle slope, weaving a tortuous path among the sparsely-strewn boulders brought down by the spring’s torrents and left there as the sinking waters receded.

            It slopped through the mud and splashed clumsily through the puddles. It jounced noisily over rocks, muddied itself past the hubs as it made its way through the murky mid-stream channel and then settled itself for the upward pull out.

            And then, with a suddenness that tossed the two drivers out of their seats, it side-slipped, made one futile effort to proceed onwards, and thereafter refused to budge.

            The brothers scrambled out and surveyed the situation. George swore lustily, voice more thickly accented than ever.

            “B’ Jupe ‘n’ domn, we’re in a pickled situation f’r fair. Tis wallowing in the mud there like a blasted pig.”

            Allen shoved his hair back wearily, “Well, don’t stand there looking at it. We’re still a hundred miles or better from Aresopolis. We’ve got to get it out of there.”

            “Sure, but how?” His imprecations dropped to sibilant breathings as he reached into the truck for the coil of rope in the back. He looked at it doubtfully.

            “Y’ get in here, All’n, and when I pull, press down with y’r foot on that pedal.”

            He was tying the rope to the front axle even as he spoke. He played it out behind him as he slogged out through ankle-deep mud, and stretched it taut.

            “All right, now, give!” he yelled. His face turned purple with effort as his back muscles ridged. Allen, within the car, pressed the indicated pedal to the floor, heard a loud roar from the engine and a spinning whir from the back wheels. The truck heaved once, and then sank back.

            “‘Tis no use,” George called. “I can’t get a footing. If the ground were dry, I c’d do it.”

            “If the ground were dry, we wouldn’t be stuck,” retorted Allen. “Here, give me that rope.’

            “D’ y’ think y’ can do it, if I can’t?” came the enraged cry, but the other had already left the car.

            Allen had spied the large, deep-bedded boulder from the truck, and it was with relief that he found it to be within reaching distance of the rope. He pulled it taut and tossed its free end about the boulder. Knotting it clumsily, he pulled, and it held.

            His brother leaned out of the car window, as he made his way, back, with one lumped Ganymedan fist agitating the air.

            “Hi, y’ nitwit. What’re y’ doing? D’ y’ expect that overgrown rock t’ pull us out?”

            “Shut up,” yelled back Allen, “and feed her the gas when I pull.”

            He paused midway between boulder and truck and seized the rope.

            “Give!” he shouted in his turn, and with a sudden jerk pulled the rope towards him with both hands.

            The truck moved; its wheels caught hold. For a moment it hesitated with the engine blasting ahead full speed, and George’s hands trembling upon the wheel. And then it went over. And almost simultaneously, the boulder at the other end of the taut rope lifted out of the mud with a liquid smacking sound and went over on its side.

            Allen slipped the noose off it and ran for the truck.

            “Keep her going,” he shouted, and hopped onto the running board, rope trailing.

            “How did y’ do that?” asked George, eyes round with awe.

            “I haven’t got the energy to explain it now. When we get to Aresopolis and after we’ve had a good sleep, I’ll draw the triangle of forces for you, and show you what happened. No muscles were involved. Don’t look at me as if I were Hercules.”

            George withdrew his gaze with an effort, “Triangle o’ forces, is it? I never heard o’ it, but if that’s what it c’n do, education’s a great thing.”

            “Comet-gas! Is any coffee left?” He stared at the last thermos-bottle, shook it near his ear dolefully, and said, “Oh, well, let’s practice the quaver. It’s almost as good and I’ve practically got it perfected.”

            He yawned prodigiously, “Will we make it by nightfall?”

            “Maybe!”

            The canal was behind them now.

            The reddening sun was lowering itself slowly behind the Southern Range. The Southern Range is one of the two “mountain chains” left on Mars. It is a region of hills; ancient, time-worn, eroded hills behind which lies Aresopolis.

            It possesses the only scenery worth mentioning on all Mars and also the golden attribute of being able, through the updrafts along its sides, to suck an occasional ram out of the desiccated Martian atmosphere.

            Ordinarily, perhaps, a pair from Earth and Ganymede might have idled through this picturesque area, but this was definitely not the case with the Carter twins.

            Eyes, puffed for lack of sleep, glistened once more at the sight of hills on the horizons. Bodies, almost broken for sheer weariness, tensed once more when they rose against the sky.

            And the truck leaped ahead,-for just behind the hills lay Aresopolis. The road they travelled was no longer a rule-edge straight one, guided by the compass, over table-top-flat land. It followed narrow, twisting trails over rocky ground.

            They had reached Twin Peaks, then, when there was a sudden sputter from the motor, a few halting coughs and then silence.

            Allen sat up and there was weariness and utter disgust in his voice, “What’s wrong with this everlastingly-to-be-damned machine now?”

            His brother shrugged, “Nothing that I haven’t been expecting for the last hour. We’re out o’ gas. Doesn’t matter at all. We’re at Twin Peaks-only ten miles fr’m the city. We c’n get there in an hour, and then they c’n send men out here for the blooms.”

            “Ten miles in an hour!” protested Allen. “You’re crazy.” His face suddenly twisted at an agonizing thought, “My God! We can’t do it under three hours and it’s almost night. No one can last that long in a Martian night. George, we’re-”

            George was pulling him out of the car by main force, “By Jupe ‘n’ domn, All’n, don’t let the tenderfoot show through now. We c’n do it in an hour, I tell y’. Didn’t y’ ever try running under sub-normal gravity? It’s like flying. Look at me.”

            He was off, skimming the ground closely, and proceeding in ground-covering leaps that shrank him to a speck up the mountain side in a moment.

            He waved, and his voice came thinly, “Come on!”

            Allen started,-and sprawled at the third wide stride, arms nailing and legs straddled wide. The Ganymedan’s laughter drifted down in heartless gusts.

            Allen rose angrily and dusted himself. At an ordinary walk, he made his way upwards.

            “Don’t get sore, All’n,” said George. “It’s just a knack, and I’ve had practice on Gannie. Just pretend y’r running along a feather bed. Run rhythmically-a sort o’ very slow rhythm- and run close t’ the ground; don’t leap high. Like this. Watch me!”

            The Earthman tried it, eyes on his brother. His first few uncertain strides became surer and longer. His legs stretched and his arms swung as he matched his brother, step for step.

            George shouted encouragement and speeded his pace, “Keep lower t’ the ground, All’n. Don’t leap ‘fore y’r toes hit the ground.”

            Allen’s eyes shone and, for the moment, weariness was forgotten, “This is great; It is like flying-or like springs on your shoes.”

            “Y’ ought t’ have lived on Gannie with me. We’ve got special fields f’r subgravity races. An expairt racer c’n do forty miles an hour at times-and I c’n do thirty-five myself. -0’ course, the gravity there’s a bit lower than here on Mars.”

            Long hair streamed backwards in the wind and skin reddened at the bitter-cold air that blew past. The ruddy patches of sunlight travelled higher and higher up the slopes, lingered briefly upon the very summits and went out altogether. The short Martian twilight started upon its rapidly darkening career. The Evening Star-Earth-was already glimmering brightly, its attendant moon somewhat closer than the night previous.

            The passing minutes went unheeded by Allen. He was too absorbed by the wonderful new sensation of sub-gravity running, to do anything more than follow his brother. Even the increasing chilliness scarcely registered upon his consciousness.

            It was George, then, upon whose countenance a tiny, puckered uneasiness grew into a vast, panicky frown.

            “Hi, All’n, hold up!” he called. Leaning backward, he brought himself to a short, hopping halt full of grace and ease. Allen tried to do likewise, broke his rhythm, and went forward upon his face. He rose with loud reproaches.

            The Ganymedan turned a deaf ear to them. His gaze was sombre in the dusk, “D’ y’ know where we are, All’n?”

            Allen felt a cold constriction about his windpipe as he stared about him quickly. Things looked different in semidarkness, but they looked more different than they ought. It was impossible for things to be so different.

            “We should’ve sighted Old Baldy by now, shouldn’t we have?” he quavered.

            “We sh’d’ve sighted him long ago,” came the hard answer. “‘Tis that domned quake. Landslides must’ve changed the trails. The peaks themselves must’ve been screwed up-” His voice was thin-edged, “Allen, ‘tisn’t any use making believe. We’re dead lost.”

            For a moment, they stood silently-uncertainly. The sky was purple and the hills retreated into the night. Allen licked bluechilled Ups with a dry tongue.

            “We can’t be but a few miles away. We’re bound to stumble on the city if we look.”

            “Consider the situation, Airthman,” came. the savage, shouted answer, “ ‘Tis night, Martian night. The temperature’s down past zero and plummeting every minute. We haven’t any time t’ look;-we’ve got t’ go straight there. If we’re not there in half an hour, we’re not going t’ get there at all.”

            Allen knew that well, and mention of the cold increased his consciousness of it. He spoke through chattering teeth as he drew his heavy, fur-lined coat closer about him.

            “We might build a fire!” The suggestion was a half-hearted one, muttered indistinctly, and fallen upon immediately by the other.

            “With what?” George was beside himself with sheer disappointment and frustration. “We’ve pulled through this far, and now we’ll prob’ly freeze t’ death within a mile o’ the city. C’mon keep running. It’s a hundred-t’-one chance.”

            But Allen pulled him back. There was a feverish glint in the Earthman’s eye, “Bonfires!” he said irrelevantly. “It’s a possibility. Want to take a chance that might do the trick?”

            “Nothin else t’ do,” growled the other. “But hurry. Every minute I-”

            “Then run with the wind-and keep going.”

            “Why?”

            “Never mind why. Do what I say-run with the wind!”

            There was no false optimism in Allen as he bounded through the dark, stumbling over loose stones, sliding down declivities,-always with the wind at his back. George ran at his side, a vague, formless blotch in the night.

            The cold was growing more bitter, but it was not quite as bitter as the freezing pang of apprehension gnawing at the Earthman’s vitals.

            Death is unpleasant!

            And then they topped the rise, and from George’s throat came a loud “B’ Jupe ‘n’ domn!” of triumph.

            The ground before them, as far as the eye could see, was dotted by bonfires. Shattered Aresopolis lay ahead, its homeless inhabitants making the night bearable by the simple agency of burning wood.

            And on the hilly slopes, two weary figures slapped each other on the backs, laughed wildly, and pressed half-frozen, stubbly cheeks together for sheer, unadulterated joy.

            They were there at last!

            The Aresopolis lab, on the very outskirts of the city, was one of the few structures still standing. Within, by makeshift light, haggard chemists were distilling the last drops of extract. Without, the city’s police-force remnants were clearing desperate way for the precious flasks and vials as they were distributed to the various emergency medical centers set up in various regions of the bonfire-pocked ruins that were once the Martian metropolis.

            Old Hal Vincent supervised the process and his faded eyes ever and again peered anxiously into the hills beyond, watching hopefully but doubtfully for the promised cargo of blooms.

            And then two figures reeled out of the darkness and collapsed to halt before him.

            Chill anxiety clamped down upon him, “The blooms! Where are they? Have you got them?”

            “At Twin Peaks,” gasped Allen. “A ton of them and better in a sand-truck. Send for them.”

            A group of police ground-cars set off before he had finished, and Vincent exclaimed bewilderedly, “A sand-truck? Why didn’t you send it in a ship? What’s wrong with you out there, anyway? Earthquake-”

            He received no direct answer. George had stumbled towards the nearest bonfire with a beatific expression on his worn face.

            “Ahhh, ‘tis warm!” Slowly, he folded and dropped, asleep before he hit the ground.

            Allen coughed gaspingly, “Huh! The Gannie tenderfoot! Couldn’t-ulp-take it!”

            And the ground came up and hit him in the face.

            Allen woke with the evening sun in his eyes and the odor of frying bacon in his nostrils. George shoved the frying pan towards him and said between gigantic, wolfing mouthfuls, “Help yourself.”

            He pointed to the empty sand-truck outside the labs, “They got the stuff all right.”

            Allen fell to, quietly. George wiped his lips with the back of his hand and said, “Say, All’n, how ‘d y’ find the city? I’ve been sitting here trying t’ figure it all out”

            “It was the bonfires,” came the muffled answer. “It was the only way they could get heat, and fires over square miles of land create a whole section of heated air, which rises, causing the cold surrounding air of the hills to sweep in.” He suited his words with appropriate gestures. “The wind in the hills was heading for the city to replace warm air and we followed the wind. -Sort of a natural compass, pointing to where we wanted to go.”

            George was silent, kicking with embarrassed vigor at the ashes of the bonfire of the night before.

            “Lis’n, All’n, I’ve had y’ a’wrong. Y’ were an Airthman tanderfoot t’ me till-’ He paused, drew a deep breath and exploded with, “Well, by Jupe n’ domn, y’r my twin brother and I’m proud o’ it All Airth c’dn’t drown out the Carter blood in y’.”

            The Earthman opened his mouth to reply but his brother clamped one palm over it, “Y’ keep quiet, till I’m finished. After we get back, y’ can fix up that mechanical picker or anything else y’ want. I drop my veto. If Airth and machines c’n tairn out y’r kind o’ man, they’re all right. But just the same,” there was a trace of wistfulness in his voice, “y’ got t” admit that everytime the machines broke down-from irrigation-trucks and rocket-ships to ventilators and sand-trucks- t’was men who had t’ pull through in spite o’ all that Mars could do.”

            Allen wrenched his face from out behind the restraining palm.

            “The machines do their best,” he said, but not too vehemently.

            “Sure, but that’s all they can do. When the emairgency comes, a man’s got t’ do a damn lot better than his .best or he’s a goner.”

            The other paused, nodded, and gripped the other’s hand with sudden fierceness, “Oh, we’re not so different. Earth and Ganymede are plastered thinly over the outside of us, but inside-”

            He caught himself.

            “Come on, let’s give out with that old Gannie quaver.”

            And from the two fraternal throats tore forth a shrieking eldritch yell such as the thin, cold Martian air had seldom before carried.

THE END

      In connection with that story, I remember best a comment I received from a young fellow named Scott Feldman (who was then still in his teens but who was later, as Scott Meredith, to become one of the most important literary agents in the business). He disapproved of the story because I introduced two characters at the start who disappeared from the story and were never heard of again.

            Once that was pointed out to me, it seemed to me that this was indeed a major flaw, and I wondered why neither Campbell nor Pohl had specifically pointed it out. I never quite had the courage to ask, however.

            But it did cause me to look at my stories more closely thereafter, and to realize again that writing isn’t all inspiration and free flow. You do have to ask yourself pretty mechanical questions, such as, “What do I do with this character now that I’ve taken the trouble to make use of him?”

            By the time Campbell was rejecting, and Pohl accepting “Heredity,” I was writing “History.” The same thing happened. I submitted it to Campbell on September 13. It was rejected, and, eventually, Pohl took it.

History

      Ullen’s lank arm pushed the stylus carefully and painstakingly across the paper; his near-sighted eyes blinked through thick lenses. The signal light flashed twice before he answered.

            He turned a page, and called out, “Is dat you, Johnnie? Come in, please.”

            He smiled gently, his thin, Martian face alight with pleasure.

            “Sit down, Johnnie-but first lower de window-shade. De glare of your great Eard sun is annoying. Ah, dat’s good, and sid down and be very, very quiet for just a little while, because I am busy.”

            John Brewster shifted a pile of ill-stacked papers and seated himself. He blew the dust from the edges of an open book in the next chair and looked reproachfully on the Martian historian.

            “Are you still poking around these musty old things? Don’t you get tired?”

            “Please, Johnnie,” Ullen did not look up, “you will lose de page. Dat book dere is William Stewart’s ‘Hitlerian Era’ and it is very hard to read. So many words he uses which he doesn’t explain.”

            His expression as it focussed upon Johnnie was one of frowning petulance, “Never do dey explain deir terms. It is so unscientific. On Mars, before we even start, we say, ‘Dis is a list of all definitions of terms to be used.’ How oderwise can people talk sensibly? Hmp! You crazy Eardmen.”

            “Oh, nuts, Ullen-forget it. Why don’t you look at me. Don’t you even notice anything?”

            The Martian sighed, removed his glasses, cleaned them thoughtfully, and carefully replaced them. He stared impersonally at Johnnie, “Well, I think it is new clothes you are wearing. Is it not so?”

            “New clothes! Is that all you can say, Ullen? This is a uniform. I’m a member of the Home Defense.” He rose to his feet, a picture of boyish exuberance.

            “What is dis ‘Home Defense’?” asked Ullen languidly.

            Johnnie gulped and sat down helplessly, “You know, I really think you haven’t heard that Earth and Venus have been at war for the last week. I’ll bet money you haven’t.”

            “I’ve been busy.” He frowned and pursed his thin, bloodless lips, “On Mars, dere is no war-at least, dere isn’t any more. Once, we used to fight, but dat was long ago. Once we were scientists, too, and dat was long ago. Now, dere are only a few of us-and we do not fight Dere is no happiness dat way.” He seemed to shake himself, and spoke more briskly, “Tell me, Johnnie, do you know where it is I can find what it means, dis ‘national honor?’ It holds me back. I can’t go furder unless I can understand it.”

            Johnnie rose to his full height and glittered in the spotless green of the Terrestrial Service. He laughed with fond indulgence, “You’re hopeless, Ullen,-you old coot. Aren’t you going to wish me luck? I’m hitting space tomorrow.”

            “Oh, is dere danger?”

            There was a squawk of laughter, “Danger? What do you think?”

            “Well, den, to seek danger-it is foolish. Why do you do it?”

            “You wouldn’t understand, Ullen. Just wish me luck and say you hope I come through whole.”

            “Cer-tain-ly! .1 don’t want anyone to die.” He slipped his hand into the strong fist held out to him. “Take care of yourself, Johnnie-and wait, before you go, bring me Stewart’s book. Everything is so heavy here on Eard. Heavy, heavy,- and de words have no definitions.”

            He sighed, and was back at his books as Johnnie slipped quietly out of the room.

            “Dese barbarous people,” he muttered sleepily to himself. “War! Dey dink dat by killing-” His voice died away and merged into a slurred mumble as his eyes followed creeping finger across the page.

            “‘From the very moment of the union of the Anglo-Saxon world into a single governmental entity and even as far back as the spring of 1941, it was evident that the doom of-’ “

            “Dese crazy Eardmeni”

            Ullen leaned heavily upon his crutches on the steps of the University library and one thin hand shielded his watering eyes from the terrible Earthly sun.

            The sky was blue, cloudless,-undisturbed. Yet somewhere up above, beyond the planet’s airy blanket, steel-sided ships were veering and sparkling in vicious combat. And down upon the city were falling the tiny “Drops of Death,” the highly radioactive bombs that noiselessly and inexorably ate out a fifteen foot crater wherever they fell.

            The city’s population was herding into the shelters and burying themselves inside the deep-set leaden cells. Upstaring, silent, anxious, they streamed past Ullen. Uniformed guards invested some sort of order into the gigantic flight, steering the stragglers and speeding the laggards.

            The air was filled with barked orders.

            “Hit the shelter, Pop, Better get going. You can’t stand there, you know.”

            Ullen turned to the guard who addressed him and slowly brought his wandering thoughts to bear upon the situation.

            “I am sorry, Eardman-but I cannot move very fast on your huge world.” He tapped one crutch upon the marble flags beneath. ”Dings are so heavy. If I were to crowd in wid de rest, I would be crushed.”

            He smiled gently down from his lank height, and the guard rubbed a stubbly chin, “All right, pop, I can fix that. It is tough on you Marsies at that-Here, hold those crutches up out of the way.”

            With a heave, he cradled the Martian, “Hold your legs” close to my body, because we’re going to travel fast.”

            His bulky figure pressed through the line of Earthmen. Ullen shut his eyes as the rapid motion under supernormal gravity stirred his stomach into rebellion. He opened them once again in the dim recesses of the low-ceilinged shelter.

            The guard set him down carefully and adjusted the crutches beneath Ullen’s armpits, “O.K. Pop. Take care of yourself.”

            Ullen took in his surroundings and hobbled to one of the low benches at the near end of the shelter. From behind him came the sombre clang of the thick, leaden door.

            The Martian historian fished a worn tablet from his pocket and scribbled slow notes. He disregarded the excited babble that arose about him and the scraps of heated talk that filled the air thickly.

            And then he scratched at his furrowed forehead with the stub end of his pencil, meeting the staring eyes of the man sitting next to him. He smiled abstractedly and returned to his notes.

            “You’re a Martian, aren’t you?” His neighbor spoke in quick, squeaky tones. “I don’t like foreigners much, but I’ve got nothing special against Marsies. These Veenies, now, they-”

            Ullen’s soft tones interrupted him. “Hate is all wrong, I dink. Dis war is a great annoyance-a great one. It interferes wid my work and you Eardmen ought to stop it. Is it not so?”

            “You can bet your hide we’re going to stop it,” came the emphatic reply. “We’re going to bash their planet inside out- and the dirty Veenies with it.”

            “You mean attack deir cities like dis?” The Martian blinked owlishly in thought, “You dink dat would be best?”

            “Damn it, yes. It-”

            “But look.” Ullen placed a skeleton finger in one palm and continued in gentle argument. “Would it not be easier to get de ships demselves by de fall-apart weapon?-Don’t you dink so? Or is it dat de Venus people, dey have de screens?”

            “What weapon, did you say?”

            Ullen ruminated carefully, “I suppose dat isn’t de name you call it by-but I don’t know about weapons, anyway. We call it on Mars de ‘skellingbeg’ and dat means in English ‘fallapart weapon.’ Now you know?”

            There was no direct answer unless a vague under-breath mutter could be called one. The Earthman pushed away from his companion and stared at the opposite wall in a fidget.

            Ullen sensed the rebuff and shrugged one shoulder wearily, “It is not dat I care much about de whole ding. It is only dat de war is a big bodder. It should be ended.” He sighed, “But I don’t care!”

            His fingers had just begun manipulating the pencil once more in its travels across the open tablet on his lap, when he looked up again.

            “Tell me, please, what is de name of dat country where Hitler died. Your Eard names, dey are so complicated sometimes. I dink it begins wid an M.”

            His neighbor ripped him open with a stare and walked away. Ullen’s eyes followed him with a puzzled frown.

            And then the all-clear signal sounded.

            “Oh, yes,” said Ullen. “Madagascar I Such a silly name!”

            Johnnie Brewster’s uniform was war-worn now; a bit more wrinkled about the neck and shoulders, a trace more worn at knees and elbows.

            Ullen ran his finger along the angry scar that ran the length of Johnnie’s right fore-arm, “It hurts no more, Johnnie?”

            “Nuts! A scratch! I got the Veenie that did that. He’s chasing dreams in the moon now.”

            “You were in de hospital long, Johnnie?”

            “A week!” He lit a cigarette, pushed some of the mess off the Martian’s desk and seated himself. “I’ve spent the rest of the time with my family, though I did get around to visiting you, you see.”

            He leaned over and poked an affectionate hand at the Martian’s leathery cheek, “Aren’t you going to say you’re glad to see me?”

            Ullen removed his glasses and peered at the Earthman, “Why, Johnnie, are you so uncertain dat I am glad to see you, dat you require I should say it in words?” He paused, “I’ll make a note of dat. You silly Eardmen must always be telling each oder dese simple dings-and den you don’t believe it anyway. On Mars-”

            He was rubbing his glasses methodically, as he spoke, and now he replaced them, “Johnnie, don’t you Eardmen have de ‘fall-apart’ weapon? I met a person once in de raid shelter and he didn’t know what I was talking about.”

            Johnnie frowned, “I don’t either, for that matter. Why do you ask?”

            “Because it seems strange dat you should have to fight so hard dese Venus men, when dey don’t seem to have de screens to stop it wid. Johnnie, I want de war should be over. It makes me all de time stop my work to go to a shelter.”

            “Hold on, now, Ullen. Don’t sputter. What is this ‘fall-apart’ weapon? A disintegrator? What do you know about it?”

            “I? I know nodding about it at all. I dought you knew- dat’s why I asked. Back on Mars, in our histories, dey talk about using dat kind of weapon in our old wars. But we don’t know nodding about weapons any more. Anyway, dey’re so silly, because de oder side always dinks of someding which protects against it, and den everyding is de same as always.- Johnnie, do you suppose you could go down to de desk and ask for a copy of Higginboddam’s ‘Beginnings of Space Travel?’“

            The Earthman clenched his fists and shook them impotently, “Ullen, you damned Martian pedant-don’t you understand that this is important? Earth is at war! War! War! War!”

            “Well, den, stop de war.” There was irritation in Ullen’s voice. “Dere is no peace and quiet anywheres on Eard. I wish I had dis library-Johnnie, be careful. Please, what are you doing? You’re hurting me.”

            “I’m sorry, Ullen, but you’ve got to come with me. We’re going to see about this.” Johnny had the feebly protesting Martian wedged into the wheel-chair and was off with a rush, before he had finished the sentence.

            A rocket-taxi was at the bottom of the Library steps, and together chauffeur and Spaceman lifted the chair inside. With a comet-tail of smoke, they were off.

            Ullen moaned softly at the acceleration, but Johnnie ignored him. “Washington in twenty minutes, fellow,” he said to the driver, “and ignore the signal beams.”

            The starched secretary spoke in a frozen monotone, “Admiral Korsakoff will see you now.”

            Johnnie wheeled and stamped out the last cigarette butt. He shot a hasty glance at his watch and grunted.

            At the motion of the wheel-chair, Ullen roused himself out of a troubled sleep. He adjusted his glasses, “Did dey let us in finally, Johnnie?”

            “Shhh!”

            Ullen’s impersonal stare swept over the rich furnishings of the room, the huge maps of Earth and Venus on the wall, the imposing desk in the center. It lingered upon the pudgy, bearded figure behind this desk and then came to rest upon the lanky, sandy-haired man at his side.

            The Martian attempted to rise from the chair in sudden eagerness, “Aren’t you Dr. Doming? I saw you last year at Princeton. You remember me, don’t you? Dey gave me at dat time, my honorary degree.”

            Dr. Thorning had advanced and shook hands vigorously, “Certainly. You spoke then on Martian historical methods, didn’t you?”

            “Oh, you remember. I’m glad! But dis is a great opportunity for me, meeting you. Tell me, as a scientist, what would be your opinion of my deory dat de social insecurity of de Hitlerian Era was de direct cause for de lag-”

            Dr. Thorning smiled, “I’ll discuss it with you later, Dr. Ullen. Right now, Admiral Korsakoff wants information from you, with which we hope to end the war.”

            “Exactly,” Korsakoff spoke in clipped tones as he met Ullen’s mild gaze. “Although a Martian, I presume you favor the victory of the principles of freedom and justice over the foul practices of Venusian tyranny.”

            Ullen stared uncertainly, “Dat sounds familiar-but I don’t dink about it much. You mean, maybe, de war should end?”

            “With victory, yes.”

            “Oh, ‘victory,’ dat is just a silly word. History proves dat a war decided on military superiority only lays de groundwork for future wars of retaliation and revenge. I refer you to a very good essay on de subject by a James Calkins. It was published all de way back in 2050.”

            “My dear sir!”

            Ullen raised his voice in bland indifference to Johnnie’s urgent whisperings. “Now to end de war-really end it-you should say to de plain people of Venus, ‘It is unnecessary to fight. Let us just talk’-”

            There was the slam of fist on desk and a muttered oath of frightful import. “For God’s sakes, Thorning, get what you want out of him. I give you five minutes.”

            Thorning stifled his chuckle, “Dr. Ullen, we want you to tell us what you know about the disintegrator.”

            “Disintegrator?” Ullen put a puzzled finger to his cheek.

            “The one you told Lieutenant Brewster of.”

            “Ummmm- Oh! You mean de ‘fall-apart’ weapon. I don’t know nodding about it De Martian historians mention it some times, but none of dem know about it-de technical side, dat is.”

            The sandy-haired physicist nodded patiently, “I know, I know. But what do they say? What kind of a weapon is it?”

            “Well, de way dey talk about it, it makes de metals to fall to pieces. What is it you call de ding dat holds metals togedder/now?”

            “Intra-molecular forces?”

            Ullen frowned and then spoke thoughtfully, “Maybe. I forgot what de Martian word is-except dat it’s long. Anyway, dis weapon, it makes dis force dat holds de metals to gedder not to exist anymore and it all falls apart in a powder. But it only works on de dree metals, Iron, cobalt, and-uh-de odder one!”

            “Nickel,” prompted Johnnie, softly.

            “Yes, yes, nickel!”

            Thorning’s eyes glittered, “Aha, the ferromagnetic elements. There’s an oscillating magnetic field mixed up in this, or I’m a Veenie. How about it, Ullen?”

            The Martian sighed, “Such crazy Eard words.-Let’s see now, most of what I know about de weapon is from de work of Hogel Beg. It was-I’m pretty sure-in his “Cultural and Social History of de Dird Empire.” It was a huge work in twenty-four volumes, but I always dought it was radder mediocre. His technique in de presentation of-”

            “Please,” said Thorning, “the weapon-”

            “Oh, yes, dat!” He hitched himself higher in his chair and grimaced with the effort. “He talks about electricity and it goes back and ford very fast-very fast, and its pressure-” He paused hopelessly, and regarded the scowling visage of the bearded Admiral naively, “I dink de word is pressure, but I don’t know, because it is hard to translate. De Martian word is ‘cranstard.’ Does dat help?”

            “I think you mean ‘potential,’ Dr. Ullen!” Thorning sighed audibly.

            “Well, if you say so. Anyway, dis ‘potential’ changes also very fast and de two changes are synchronized somehow along wid magnetism dat-uh-shifts and dat’s all I know about it.” He smiled uncertainly, “I would like to go back now. It would be all right now, wouldn’t it?”

            The Admiral vouchsafed no answer, “Do you make anything out of that mess. Doctor?”

            “Damned little,” admitted the physicist, “but it gives me a lead or two. We might try getting hold of this Beg’s book, but there’s not much hope. It will simply repeat what we’ve just heard. Dr. Ullen, are there any scientific works on your planet?”

            The Martian saddened, “No, Dr. Doming, dey were all destroyed during de Kalynian reaction. On Mars, we doroughly disbelieve in science. History has shown dat it comes from science no happiness.” He turned to the young Earthman at his side, “Johnnie, let us go now, please.”

            Korsakoff dismissed the two with a wave of the hand.

            Ullen bent carefully over the closely-typed manuscript and inserted a word. He glanced up brightly at Johnnie Brewster, who shook his head and placed a hand on the Martian’s arm. His brow furrowed more deeply.

            Ullen,” he said harshly, “you’re in trouble.”

            “Eh? I? In trouble? Why, Johnnie, dat is not so. My book is coming along famously. De whole first volume, it is completed and, but for a bit of polishing, is ready for de printers.”

            “Ullen, if you can’t give the government definite information on the disintegrator, I won’t answer for the consequences.”

            “But I told all I knew-”

            “It won’t do. Ifs not enough. You’ve got to remember more, Ullen, you’ve got to.”

            “But knowledge where dere is none is impossible to have- dat is an axiom.” Ullen sat upright in his seat, propping himself on a crutch.

            “I know it,” Johnnie’s mouth twisted in misery, “but you’ve got to understand.

            “The Venusians have control of space; our Asteroid garrisons have been wiped out, and last week Phobos and Deimos fell. Communications between Earth and Luna are broken and God knows how long the Lunar squadron can hold out. Earth itself is scarcely secure and their bombings are becoming more serious-.Oh, Ullen, don’t you understand?”

            The Martian’s look of confusion deepened, “Eard is losing?”

            “God, yes!”

            “Den give up. Dat is de logical ding to do. Why did you start at all-you stupid Eardmen.”

            Johnnie ground his teeth, “But if we have the disintegrator, we won’t lose.”

            Ullen shrugged, “Oh, Johnnie, it gets wearisome to listen to de same old story. You Eardmen have one-track minds. Look, wouldn’t it make you feel better to have me read you some of my manuscript? It would do your intellect good.”

            “All right, Ullen, you’ve asked for it, and here’s everything right out If you don’t tell Thorning what he wants to know, you’re going to be arrested and tried for treason.”

            There was a short silence, and then a confused stutter, “T- treason. You mean dat I betray-” The historian removed his glasses and wiped them with shaking hand, “It’s not true. You’re trying to frighten me.”

            “Oh, no, I’m not Korsakoff thinks you know more than you’re telling. He’s sure that you’re either holding out for a price or, more likely, that you’ve sold out to the Veenies.”

            “But Doming-”

            “Thorning isn’t any too secure himself. He has his own skin to think of. Earth governments in moments of stress are not famous for being reasonable.” There were sudden tears in his -eyes, “Ullen, there must be something you can do. It’s not only you-it’s for Earth.”

            Ullen’s breathing whistled harshly, “Dey tink I would sell my scientific knowledge. Is dat de kind of insult dey pay my sense of eddies; my scientific integrity?” His voice was thick with fury and for the first time since Johnnie knew him, he lapsed into guttural Martian. “For dat, I say not a word,” he finished. “Let dem put me in prison or shoot me, but dis insult I cannot forget.”

            There was no mistaking the firmness in his eyes, and Johnnie’s shoulders sagged. The Earthman didn’t move at the glare of the signal light.

            “Answer de light, Johnnie,” said the Martian, softly. “Dey are coming for me.”

            In a moment, the room was crowded with green uniforms. Dr. Thorning and the two with him were the only ones present in civilian clothes.

            Ullen struggled to his feet, “Gentlemen, say nodding. I have heard dat it is dought dat I am selling what I know- selling for money.” He spat the words. “It is a ding never before said of me-a ding-F-bave not deserved. If you wish you can imprison me immediately, but I shall say nodding more- nor have anyding furder to do wid de Eard government.”

            A green-garbed official stepped forward immediately, but Dr. Thorning waved him back.

            “Whoa, there. Dr. Ullen,” he said jovially, “don’t jump too soon. I’ve just come to ask if there isn’t a single additional fact that you remember. Anything, no matter how insignificant-”

            There was stony silence. Ullen leant heavily on his crutches but remained stolidly erect.

            Dr. Thorning seated himself imperturably upon the historian’s desk, picked up the high stack of type-written pages, “Ah, is this the manuscript young Brewster was telling me about.” He gazed at it curiously, “Well, of course, you realize that your attitude will force the government to confiscate all this.”

            “Eh?” Ullen’s stern expression melted into dismay. His crutch slipped and he dropped heavily into his seat.

            The physicist warded off the other’s feeble clutch, “Keep your hands off. Dr. Ullen, I’m taking care of this.” He leafed through the pages with a rustling noise. “You see, if you are arrested for treason, your writings become subversive.”

            “Subversive!” Ullen’s voice was hoarse, “Dr. Doming, you don’t know what you are saying. It is my-my great labor.” His voice caught huskily, “Please, Dr. Doming, give me my manuscript.”

            The other held it just beyond the Martian’s shaking fingers.

            “If-” he said.

            “But I don’t know!”

            The sweat stood out on the historian’s pale face. His voice came thickly. “Time! Give me time! But let me dink-and don’t, please don’t harm dis manuscript”

            The other’s fingers sank painfully into Ullen’s shoulder, “So help me, I burn your manuscript in five minutes, if-”

            “Wait, I’ll tell you. Somewhere-I don’t know where-it was said dat in de weapon dey used a special metal for some of de wiring. I don’t know what metal, but water spoiled it and had to be kept away-also air. It-”

            “Holy jumping Jupiter,” came the sudden shout from one of Thorning’s companions. “Chief, don’t you remember Aspartier’s work on sodium wiring in argon atmosphere five years ago-”

            Dr. Thorning’s eyes were deep with thought, “Wait-wait- wait-Damn! It was staring us in the face-”

            “I know,” shrieked Ullen suddenly. “It was in Karlsto. He was discussing de fall of Gallonie and dat was one of de minor causes-de lack of dat metal-and den he mentioned-”

            He was talking to an empty room, and for a while he was silent in puzzled astonishment.

            And then, “My manuscript!” He salvaged it from where it lay scattered over the floor, hobbling painfully about, smoothing each wrinkled sheet with care.

            “De barbarians-to treat a great scientific work so!”

            Ullen opened still another drawer and scrabbled through its contents. He closed it and looked about peevishly, “Johnnie, where did I put dat bibliography? Did you see it?”

            He looked toward the window, “Johnniel”

            Johnnie Brewster said, “Wait a while, Ullen. Here they come now.”

            The streets below were a burst of color. In a long, stiffly-moving line the Green of the Navy paraded down the avenue, the air above them snow-thick with confetti, hail-thick with ticker-tape. The roar of the crowd was dull, muted.

            “Ah, de foolish people,” mused Ullen. “Dey were happy just like dis when de war started and dere was a parade just like dis-and now anodder one. Silly!” He stumped back to his chair.

            Johnnie followed, “The government is naming a new museum after you, isn’t it?”

            “Yes,” was the dry reply. He peered helplessly about under the desk, “De Ullen War Museum-and it will be filled wid ancient weapons, from stone knife to anti-aircraft gun. Dat is your queer Eard sense of de fitness of dings. Where in dunderation is dat bibliography?”

            “Here,” said Johnnie, withdrawing the document from Ullen’s vest pocket. “Our victory was due to your weapon, ancient to you, so it is fit in a way.”

            “Victory! Sure! Until Venus rearms and reprepares and refights for revenge. All history shows-but never mind. It is useless, dis talk.” He settled himself deeply in his chair, “Here, let me show you a real victory. Let me read you some of de first volume of my work. It’s already in print, you know.”

            Johnnie laughed, “Go ahead, Ullen. Right now I’m even willing to listen to you read your entire twelve volumes- word for word.”

            And Ullen smiled gently. “It would be good for your intellect,” he said.

THE END

      Also mentioned in the story are “the tiny ‘Drops of Death,’ the highly-publicized radioactive bombs that noiselessly and inexorably ate out a fifteen-foot crater wherever they fell.”

            By the time I wrote the story, uranium fission had been discovered and announced. I had not yet heard of it, however, and I was unaware that reality was about to outstrip my prized science fictional imagination.

      With “Reason,” the “positronic robot” series was fairly launched, and my two most successful characters yet, Gregory Powell and Mike Donovan (improvements on Turner and Snead of “Ring Around the Sun”) made their appearance. Eventually, “Reason” and others of the series that were to follow, together with “Robbie,” which Campbell had rejected, were to appear in I, Robot.

            The success of “Reason” didn’t mean that I was to have no further rejections from Campbell.

            On December 6, 1940, influenced by the season and never stopping to think that a Christmas story must sell no later than July in order to make the Christmas issue, I began “Christmas on Ganymede.” I submitted it to him on the twenty-third, but the holiday season did not affect his critical judgment. He rejected it.

            I tried Pohl next, and, as was happening so often that year, he took it. In this case, for reasons I will describe later, the acceptance fell through. I eventually sold it the next summer (June 27, 1941, the proper time of year) to Startling Stories, the younger, sister magazine of Thrilling Wonder Stories.

Christmas On Ganymede

            Olaf Johnson hummed nasally to himself and his china-blue eyes were dreamy as he surveyed the stately fir tree in the corner of the library. Though the library was the largest single room in the Dome, Olaf felt it none too spacious for the occasion. Enthusiastically he dipped into the huge crate at his side and took out the first roll of red-and-green crepe paper.

            What sudden burst of sentiment had inspired the Ganymedan Products Corporation, Inc. to ship a complete collection of Christmas decorations to the Dome, he did not pause to inquire. Olaf’s was a placid disposition, and in his self-imposed job as chief Christmas decorator, he was content with his lot.

            He frowned suddenly and muttered a curse. The General Assembly signal light was Hashing on and off hysterically. With a hurt air Olaf laid down the tack-hammer he had just lifted, then the roll of crêpe paper, picked some tinsel out of his hair and left for officers quarters.

            Commander Scott Pelham was in his deep armchair at the head of the table when Olaf entered. His stubby fingers were drumming unrhythmically upon the glass-topped table. Olaf met the commander’s hotly furious eyes without fear, for nothing had gone wrong in his department in twenty Ganymedan revolutions.

            The room filled rapidly with men, and Pelham’s eyes hardened as he counted noses in one sweeping glance.

            “We’re all here. Men, we face a crisis!”

            There was a vague stir. Olaf’s eyes sought the ceiling and he relaxed. Crises hit the Dome once a revolution, on the average. Usually they turned out to be a sudden rise in the quota of oxite to be gathered, or the inferior quality of the last batch of karen leaves. He stiffened, however, at the next words.

            “In connection with the crisis, I have one question to ask.” Pelham’s voice was a deep baritone, and it rasped unpleasantly when he was angry. “What dirty imbecilic troublemaker has been telling those blasted Ossies fairy tales?”

            Olaf cleared his throat nervously and thus immediately became the center of attention. His Adam’s apple wobbled in sudden alarm and his forehead wrinkled into a washboard. He shivered.

            “I-I-” he stuttered, quickly fell silent. His long fingers made a bewildered gesture of appeal. “I mean I was out there yesterday, after the last-uh-supplies of karen leaves, on account the Ossies were slow and-”

            A deceptive sweetness entered Pelham’s voice. He smiled.

            “Did you tell those natives about Santa Claus, Olaf?”

            The smile looked uncommonly like a wolfish leer and Olaf broke down. He nodded convulsively.

            “Oh, you did? Well, well, you told them about Santa Claus! He comes down in a sleigh that Hies through the air with eight reindeer pulling it, huh?”

            “Well-er-doesn’t he?” Olaf asked unhappily.

            “And you drew pictures of the reindeer, just to make sure there was no mistake. Also, he has a long white beard and red clothes with white trimmings.”

            “Yeah, that’s right,” said Olaf, his face puzzled

            “And he has a big bag, chock full of presents for good little boys and girls, and he brings it down the chimney and puts presents inside stockings.”

            “Sure.”

            “You also told them he’s about due, didn’t you? One more revolution and he’s going to visit us.”

            Olaf smiled weakly. “Yeah, Commander, I meant to ten you. I’m fixing up the tree and-”

            “Shut up!” The commander was breathing hard in a whistling sort of way. “Do you know what those Ossies have thought of?”

            “No, Commander.”

            Pelham leaned across the table toward Olaf and shouted:

            “They want Santa Claus to visit them!”

            Someone laughed and changed it quickly into a strangling cough at the commander’s raging stare.

            “And if Santa Claus doesn’t visit them, the Ossies are going to quit work!” He repeated, “Quit cold-strike!”

            There was no laughter, strangled or otherwise, after that. If there were more than one thought among the entire group, it didn’t show itself. Olaf expressed that thought:

            “But what about the quota?”

            “Well, what about it?” snarled Pelham. “Do I have to draw pictures for you? Ganymedan Products has to get one hundred tons of wolframite, eighty tons of karen leaves and fifty tons of oxite every year, or it loses its franchise. I suppose there isn’t anyone here who doesn’t know that. It so happens that the current year ends in two Ganymedan revolutions, and we’re five per cent behind schedule as it is.”

            There was pure, horrified silence.

            “And now the Ossies worit work unless they get Santa Claus. No work, no quota, no franchise-no jobs! Get that, you low-grade morons. When the company loses its franchise, we lose the best-paying jobs in the System. Kiss them good-by, men, unless-”

            He paused, glared steadily at Olaf, and added:

            “Unless, by next revolution, we have a flying sleigh, eight reindeer and a Santa Claus. And by every cosmic speck in the rings of Saturn, we’re going to have just that, especially a Santa!”

            Ten faces turned ghastly pale.

            “Got someone in mind, Commander?” asked someone in a voice that was three-quarters croak.

            “Yes, as a matter of fact, I have.”

            He sprawled back in his chair. Olaf Johnson broke into a sudden sweat as he found himself staring at the end of a pointing forefinger.

            “Aw, Commander!” he quavered.

            The pointing finger never moved.

            Pelham tramped into the foreroom, removed his oxygen nosepiece  and the cold cylinders attached to it One by one he cast off thick woolen outer garments and, with a final, weary sigh, jerked off a pair of heavy knee-high space boots.

            Sim Pierce paused in his careful inspection of the latest batch of karen leaves and cast a hopeful glance over his spectacles.

            “Well?” he asked.

            Pelham shrugged. “I promised them Santa. What else could I do? I also doubled sugar rations, so they’re back on the job-for the moment.”

            “You mean till the Santa we promised doesn’t show up.” Pierce straightened and waved a long karen leaf at the commander’s face for emphasis. “This is the silliest thing I ever heard of. It can’t be done. There ain’t no Santa Claus!”

            “Try telling that to the Ossies:’ Pelham slumped into a chair and his expression became stonily bleak. “What’s Benson doing?”

            “You mean that flying sleigh he says he can rig up?” Pierce held a leaf up to the light and peered at it critically. “He’s a crackpot, if you ask me. The old buzzard went down to the sub-level this morning and he’s been there ever since. All I know is that he’s taken the spare lectro-dissociator apart. If anything happens to the regular, it just means that we’re without oxygen.”

            “Well,” Pelham rose heavily, “for my part I hope we do choke. It would be an easy way out of this whole mess. I’m going down below.”

            He stumped out and slammed the door behind him.

            In the sub-level he gazed about in bewilderment, for the room was littered with gleaming chrome-steel machine parts. It took him some time to recognize the mess as the remains of what had been a compact, snugly built lectro-dissociator the day before. In the center, in anachronistic contrast, stood a dusty wooden sleigh atop rust-red runners. From beneath it came the sound of hammering.

            “Hey, Benson!” called Pelham.

            A grimy, sweat-streaked face pushed out from underneath the sleigh, and a stream of tobacco juice shot toward Benson’s ever-present cuspidor.

            “What are you shouting like that for?” he complained. “This is delicate work. “

            “What the devil is that weird contraption?” demanded Pelham.

            “Flying sleigh. My own idea, too.” The light of enthusiasm shone in Benson’s watery eyes, and the quid in his mouth shifted from cheek to cheek as he spoke. “The sleigh was brought here in the old days, when they thought Ganymede was covered with snow like the other Jovian moons. All I have to do is fix a few gravo-repulsors from the dissociator to the bottom and that’ll make it weightless when the current’s on. Compressed air-jets will do the rest. “

            The commander chewed his lower lip dubiously.

            “Will it work?”

            “Sure it will. Lots of people have thought of using repulsors in air travel, but they’re inefficient, especially in heavy gravity fields. Here on Ganymede, with a field of one-third gravity and a thin atmosphere, a child could run it. Even Johnson could run it, though I wouldn’t mourn if he fell off and broke his blasted neck.”

            “All right, then, look here. We’ve got lots of this native purplewood. Get Charlie Finn and tell him to put that sleigh on a platform of it. He’s to have it extend about twenty feet or more frontward, with a railing around the part that projects.”

            Benson spat and scowled through the stringy hair over his eyes.

            “What’s the idea, Commander?”

            Pelham’s laughter came in short, harsh barks.

            “Those Ossies are expecting reindeer, and reindeer they’re going to have. Those animals will have to stand on something, won’t they?”

            “Sure...But wait, hold on! There aren’t any reindeer on Ganymede.”

            Commander Pelham paused on his way out. His eyes narrowed unpleasantly as they always did when he thought of Olaf Johnson.

            “Olaf is out rounding up eight spinybacks for us. They’ve got four feet, a head on one end and a tail on the other. That’s close enough for the Ossies.”

            The old engineer chewed this information and chuckled nastily.

            “Good! I wish the fool joy of his job.”

            “So do I,” gritted Pelham.

            He stalked out as Benson, still leering, slid underneath the sleigh.

            The commander’s description of a spinyback was concise and accurate, but it left out several interesting details. For one thing, a spinyback has a long, mobile snout, two large ears that wave back and forth gently, and two emotional purple eyes. The males have pliable spines of a deep crimson color along the backbone that seem to delight the female of the species. Combine these with a scaly, muscular tail and a brain by no means mediocre, and you have a spinyback-or at least you have one if you can catch one.

            It was just such a thought that occurred to Olaf Johnson as he sneaked down from the rocky eminence toward the herd of twenty-five spinybacks grazing on the sparse, gritty undergrowth. The nearest spinies looked up as Olaf, bundled in fur and grotesque with attached oxygen nosepiece, approached. However, spinies have no natural enemies, so they merely gazed at the figure with lanquidly disapproving eyes and returned to their crunchy but nourishing fare.

            Olaf’s notions on bagging big game were sketchy. He fumbled in his pocket for a lump of sugar, held it out and said:

            “Here, pussy, pussy, pussy, pussy, pussy!”

            The ears of the nearest spinie twitched in annoyance. Olaf came closer and held out the sugar again.

            “Come, bossy! Come. Bossy!”

            The spinie caught sight of the sugar and rolled his eyes at it. His snout twitched as he spat out his last mouthful of vegetation and ambled over. With neck stretched out, he sniffed. Then, using a rapid, expert motion, he struck at the outheld palm and Hipped the lump into his mouth. Olaf’s other hand whistled down upon nothingness.

            With a hurt expression, Olaf held out another piece. “Here. Prince! Here, Fido!”

            The spinie made a low, tremulous sound deep in his throat. It was a sound of pleasure. Evidently this strange monstrosity before him. having gone insane, intended to feed him these bits of concentrated succulence forever. He snatched and was back as quickly as the first time. But. since Olaf had held on firmly this time, the spinie almost bagged half a finger as well.

            Olaf’s yell lacked a bit of the nonchalance necessary at such times. Nevertheless. a bite that can be felt through thick gloves is a bite!

            He advanced boldly upon the spinie. There are some things that stir the Johnson blood and bring up the ancient spirit of the Vikings. Having one’s finger bitten, especially by an unearthly animal, is one of these.

            There was an uncertain look in the spinie’s eyes as he backed slowly away. There weren’t any white cubes being offered any more and he wasn’t quite sure what was going to happen now. The uncertainty vanished with a suddenness he did not expect, when two glove-muffled hands came down upon his ears and jerked. He let out a high-pitched yelp and charged forward.

            A spinie has a certain sense of dignity. He doesn’t like to have his ears pulled. particularly when other spinies. including several unattached females, have formed a ring and are looking on.

            The Earthman went over backward and remained in that position for awhile. Meantime, the spinie backed away a few feet in a gentlemanly manner and allowed Johnson to get to his feet.

            The old Viking blood frothed still higher in Olaf. After rubbing the hurt spot where he had landed on his oxygen cylinder, he jumped, forgetting to allow for Ganymedean gravity. He sailed five feet over the spinie’s back.

            There was awe in the animal’s eye as he watched Olaf, for it was a stately jump. But there was a certain amount of bewilderment as well. There seemed to be no purpose to the maneuver.

            Olaf landed on his back again and got the cylinder in the same place. He was beginning to feel a little embarrassed. The sounds that came from the circle of onlookers were remarkably like snickers.

            “Laugh!” he muttered bitterly. “I haven’t even begun to fight yet.”

            He approached the spinie slowly, cautiously. He circled, watching for his opening. So did the spinie. Olaf feinted and the spinie ducked. Then the spinie reared and Olaf ducked.

            Olaf kept remembering new profanity all the time. The husky “Ur-r-r-r-r” that came out the spinie’s throat seemed to lack the brotherly spirit that is usually associated with Christmas.

            There was a sudden, swishing sound. Olaf felt something collide with his skull, just behind his left ear. This time he turned a back somersault and landed on the nape of his neck. There was a chorused whinny from the onlookers, and the spinie waved his tail triumphantly.

            Olaf got rid of the impression that he was floating through a star-studded unlimited space and wavered to his feet.

            “Listen,” he objected, “using your tail is a foul!”

            He leaped back as the tail shot forward again, then flung himself forward in a diving tackle. He grabbed at the spinie’s feet and felt the animal come down on his back with an indignant yelp.

            Now it was a case of Earth muscles against Ganymedan muscles, and Olaf became a man of brute strength. He struggled up, and the spinie found himself slung over the stranger’s shoulders.

            The spinie objected vociferously and tried to prove his objections by a judicious whip of the tail. But he was in an inconvenient position and the stroke whistled harmlessly over Olaf’s head.

            The other spinies made way for the Earthman with saddened expressions. Evidently they were all good friends of the captured animal and hated to see him lose a fight. They returned to their meal in philosophic resignation, plainly convinced that it was kismet.

            On the other side of the rocky ledge, Olaf reached his prepared cave. There was the briefest of scrambling sh’uggles before he managed to sit down hard on the spinie’s head and put enough knots into rope to hold him there.

            A few hours later, when he had corralled his eighth spinyback, he possessed the technique that comes of long practice. He could have given a Terrestrial cowboy valuable pointers on throwing a maverick. Also, he could have given a Terrestrial stevedore lessons in simple and compound swearing.

            “Twas the night before Christmas-and all through the Ganymedan Dome there was deafening noise and bewildering excitement, like an exploding nova equipped for sound. Around the rusty sleigh, mounted on its huge platform of purplewood, five Earthmen were staging a battle royal with a spinie.

            The spinie had definite views about most things, and one of his stubbornest and most definite views was that he would never go where he didn’t want to go. He made that clear by flailing one head, one tail, three spines and four legs in every possible direction, with all possible force.

            But the Earthmen insisted, and not gently. Despite loud, agonized squeaks, the spinie was lifted onto the platform, hauled into place and harnessed into hopeless helplessness.

            “Okay!” Peter Benson yelled. “Pass the bottle.”

            Holding the spinie’s snout with one hand, Benson waved the bottle under it with the other. The spinie quivered eagerly and whined tremulously. Benson poured some of the liquid down the animal’s throat. There was a gurgling swallow and an appreciative whinny. The spinie’s neck stretched out for more.

            Benson sighed. “Our best brandy, too.”

            He up-ended the bottle and withdrew it half empty. The spinie, eyes whirling in their sockets rapidly, did what seemed an attempt at a gay jig. It didn’t last long, however, for Ganymedan metabolism is almost immediately affected by alcohol. His muscles locked in a drunken rigor and, with a loud hiccup, he went out on his feet.

            “Drag out the next!” yelled Benson.

            In an hour the eight spinybacks were so many cataleptic statues. Forked sticks were tied around their heads as antlers. The effect was crude and sketchy, but it would do.

            As Benson opened his mouth to ask where Olaf Johnson was, that worthy showed up in the arms of three comrades, and he was putting up as stiff a fight as any spinie. His objections, however, were highly articulate.

            “I’m not going anywhere in this costume!” he roared, gouging at the nearest eye. “You hear me?”

            There certainly was cause for objection. Even at his best, Olaf had never been a heart-throb. But in his present condition, he resembled a hybrid between a spinie’s nightmare and a Picassian conception of a patriarch.

            He wore the conventional costume of Santa. His clothes were as red as red tissue paper sewed onto his space coat could make it. The “ermine” was as white as cotton wool, which it was. His beard, more cotton wool glued into a linen foundation, hung loosely from his ears. With that below and his oxygen nosepiece above, even the strongest were forced to avert their eyes.

            Olaf had not been shown a mirror. But, between what he could see of himself and what his instinct told him, he would have greeted a good, bright lightning bolt like a brother.

            By fits and starts, he was hauled to the sleigh. Others pitched in to help, until Olaf was nothing but a smothered squirm and muffled voice.

            “Leggo,” he mumbled. “Leggo and come at me one by one. Come on!”

            He tried to spar a bit, to point his dare. But the multiple grips upon him left him unable to wriggle a finger.

            “Get in!” ordered Benson.

            “You go to hell!” gasped Olaf. “I’m not getting into any patented short-cut to suicide, and you can take your bloody flying sleigh and-“

            “Listen,” interrupted Benson, “Commander Pelham is waiting for you at the other end. He’ll skin you alive if you don’t show up in half an hour.”

            “Commander Pelham can take the sleigh sideways and-”

            “Then think of your job! Think of a hundred and fifty a week. Think of every other year off with pay. Think of Hilda, back on Earth, who isn’t going to marry you without a job. Think of all that!”

            Johnson thought, snarled. He thought some more, got into the sleigh, strapped down his bag and turned on the gravo-repulsors. With a horrible curse, he opened the rear jet.

            The sleigh dashed forward and he caught himself from going backward, over and out of the sleigh, by two-thirds of a whisker. He held onto the sides thereafter, watching the surrounding hills as they rose and fell with each lurch of the unsteady sleigh.

            As the wind rose, the undulations grew more marked. And when Jupiter came up, its yellow light brought out every jag and crag of the rocky ground, toward everyone of which, in turn, the sleigh seemed headed. And by the time the giant planet had shoved completely over the horizon, the curse of drink-which departs from the Ganymedan organism just as quickly as it descends-began removing itself from the spinies.

            The hindmost spinie came out of it first, tasted the inside of his mouth, winced and swore off drink. Having made that resolution, he took in his immediate surroundings languidly. They made no immediate impression on him. Only gradually was the fact forced upon him that his footing, whatever it was, was not the usual stable one of solid Ganymede. It swayed and shifted, which seemed very unusual.

            Yet he might have attributed this unsteadiness to his recent orgy, had he not been so careless as to drop his glance over the railing to which he was anchored. No spinie ever died of heart-failure, as far as is recorded, but, looking downward, this one almost did.

            His agonized screech of horror and despair brought the other spinies into full, if headachy, consciousness. For a while there was a confused blur of squawking conversation as the animals tried to get the pain out of their heads and the facts in. Both aims were achieved and a stampede was organized. It wasn’t much of a stampede, because the spinies were anchored tightly. But, except for the fact that they got nowhere, they went through all the motions of a full gallop. And the sleigh went crazy.

            Olaf grabbed his beard a second before it let go of his ears.

            “Hey!” he shouted.

            It was something like saying “Tut, tut” to a hurricane.

            The sleigh kicked, bucked and did a hysterical tango. It made sudden spurts, as if inspired to dash its wooden brains out against Ganymede’s crust. Meanwhile Olaf prayed, swore, wept and jiggled all the compressed air jets at once.

            Ganymede whirled and Jupiter was a wild blur. Perhaps it was the spectacle of Jupiter doing the shimmy that steadied the spinies. More likely it was the fact that they just didn’t give a hang any more. Whatever it was, they halted, made lofty farewell speeches to one another, confessed their sins and waited for death.

            The sleigh steadied and Olaf resumed his breathing once more. Only to stop again as he viewed the curious spectacle of hills and solid ground up above, and black sky and swollen Jupiter down below.

            It was at this point that he, too, made his peace with the eternal and awaited the end.

            “Ossie” is short for ostrich, and that’s what native Ganymedans look like, except that their necks are shorter, their heads are larger, and their feathers look as if they were about to fall out by the roots. To this, add a pair of scrawny, feathered arms with three stubby fingers apiece. They can speak English, but when you hear them, you wish they couldn’t

            There were fifty of them in the low purplewood structure that was their “meeting hall.” On the mound of raised dirt in the front of the room-dark with the smoky dimness of burning purplewood torches fetid to boot-sat Commander Scott Pelham and five of his men. Before them strutted the frowziest Ossie of them all, inflating his huge chest with rhythmic, booming sounds.

            He stopped for a moment and pointed to a ragged hole in the ceiling.

            “Look!” he squawked. “Chimney. We make. Sannycaws come in.”

            Pelham grunted approval. The Ossie clucked happily. He pointed to the little sacks of woven grass that hung from the walls.

            “Look! Stockies. Sannycaws put presets!”

            “Yeah,” said Pelham unenthusiastically. “Chimney and stockings. Very nice.” He spoke out of the corner of his mouth to Sim Pierce, who sat next to him: “Another half-hour in this dump will kill me. When is that fool coming?”

            Pierce stirred uneasily.

            “Listen,” he said, “I’ve been doing some figuring. We’re safe on everything but the karen leaves, and we’re still four tons short on that If we can get this fool business over with in the next hour, so we can start the next shift and work the Ossies at double, we can make it” He leaned back “Yes, I think we can make it”

            “Just about,” replied Pelham gloomily. “That’s if Johnson gets here without pulling another bloomer.”

            The Ossie was talking again, for Ossies like to talk He said:

            “Every year Kissmess comes. Kissmess nice, evvybody friendly. Ossie like Kissmess. You like Kissmess?”

            “Yeah, fine,” Pelham snarled politely. “Peace on Ganymede, good will toward men-especially Johnson. Where the devil is that idiot, anyhow?”

            He fell into an annoyed fidget, while the Ossie jumped up and down a few times in a thoughtful sort of manner, evidently for the exercise of it. He continued the jumping, varying it with little hopping dance steps, till Pelham’s fists began making strangling gestures. Only an excited squawk from the hole in the wall dignified by the term “window” kept Pelham from committing Ossie-slaughter.

            Ossies swarmed about and the Earthmen fought for a view.

            Against Jupiter’s great yellowness was outlined a flying sleigh, complete with reindeers. It was only a tiny thing, but there was no doubt about it. Santa Claus was coming.

            There was only one thing wrong with the picture. The sleigh, “reindeer” and all, while plunging ahead at a terrific speed, was flying upside down.

            The Ossies dissolved into squawking cacophony. “Sannycaws! Sannycaws! Sannycaws!”

            They scrambled out the window like so many animated dust-mops gone mad. Pelham and his men used the low door.

            The sleigh was approaching, growing larger, lurching from side to side and vibrating like an off-center flywheel. Olaf Johnson was a tiny figure holding on desperately to the side of the sleigh with both hands.

            Pelham was shouting wildly, incoherently, choking on the thin atmosphere every time he forgot to breathe through his nose. Then he stopped and stared in horror. The sleigh, almost life-size now, was dipping down. If it had been an arrow shot by William Tell, it could not have aimed between Pelham’s eyes more accurately.

            “Everybody down!” he shrieked, and dropped.

            The wind of the sleigh’s passage whistled keenly and brushed his face. Olaf’s voice could be heard for an instant, high-pitched and indistinct. Compressed air spurted, leaving tracks of condensing water vapor.

            Pelham lay quivering, hugging Ganymede’s frozen crust. Then, knees shaking like a Hawaiian hula-girl, he rose slowly. The Ossies who had scattered before the plunging vehicle had assembled again. Off in the distance, the sleigh was veering back.

            Pelham watched as it swayed and hovered, still rotating. It lurched toward the dome, curved off to one side, turned back, and gathered speed.

            Inside that sleigh, Olaf worked like a demon. Straddling his legs wide, he shifted his weight desperately. Sweating and cursing, trying hard not to look “downward” at Jupiter, he urged the sleigh into wilder and wilder swings. It was wobbling through an angle of 180 degrees now, and Olaf felt his stomach raise strenuous objections.

            Holding his breath, he leaned hard with his right foot and felt the sleigh swing far over. At the extremity of that swing, he released the gravo-repulsor and, in Ganymede’s weak gravity, the sleigh jerked downward. Naturally, since the vehicle was bottom-heavy due to the metal gravo-repulsor beneath, it righted itself as it fell.

            But this was little comfort to Commander Pelham, who found himself once more in the direct path of the sleigh.

            “Down!” he yelled, and dropped again.

            The sleigh whi-i-ished overhead, came up against a huge boulder with a crack, bounced twenty-five feet into the air, came down with a rush and a bang, and Olaf fell over the railing and out.

            Santa Claus had arrived.

            With a deep, shuddering breath, Olaf swung his bag over his shoulders, adjusted his beard and patted one of the silently suffering spinies on the head. Death might be coming-in fact, Olaf could hardly wait-but he was going to die on his feet nobly, like a Johnson.

            Inside the shack, into which the Ossies had once more swarmed, a thump announced the arrival of Santa’s bag on the roof, and a second thud the arrival of Santa himself. A ghastly face appeared through the makeshift hole in the ceiling.

            “Merry Christmas!” it croaked, and tumbled through. Olaf landed on his oxygen cylinders, as usual, and got them in the usual place.

            The Ossies jumped up and down like rubber balls with the itch.

            Olaf limped heavily toward the first stocking and deposited the garishly colored sphere he withdrew from his bag, one of the many that had originally been intended as a Christmas tree ornament One by one he deposited the rest in every available stocking.

            Having completed his job, he dropped into an exhausted squat, from which position he watched subsequent proceedings with a glazed and fishy eye. The jolliness and belly-shaking good humor, traditionally characteristic of Santa Claus, were absent from this one with remarkable thoroughness.

            The Ossies made up for it by their wild ecstasy. Until Olaf had deposited the last globe, they had kept their silence and their seats. But when he had finished, the air heaved and writhed under the stresses of the discordant screeches that arose. In half a second the hand of each Ossie contained a globe.

            They chattered among themselves furiously, handling the globes carefully and hugging them close to their chests. Then they compared one with another) flocking about to gaze at particularly good ones.

            The frowziest Ossie approached Pelham and plucked at the commander’s sleeve. “Sannycaws good)” he cackled. “Look, he leave eggs I” He stared reverently at his sphere and said: “Pittier’n Ossie eggs. Must be Sannycaws eggs, huh?”

            His skinny finger punched Pelham in the stomach.

            “No!” yowled Pelham vehemently. “Hell, no!”

            But the Ossie wasn’t listening. He plunged the globe deep into the warmth of his feathers and said:

            “Pitty colors. How long take for little Sannycaws come out? And what little Sannycaws eat?” He looked up. “We take good care. We teach little Sannycaws) make him smart and full of brain like Ossie.”

            Pierce grabbed Commander Pelham’s arm.

            “Don’t argue with them).. he whispered frantically. “What do you care if they think those are Santa Claus eggs? Come on! If we work like maniacs) we can still make the quota. Lets get started.”

            “That’s right,” Pelham admitted. He turned to the Ossie. “Tell everyone to get going.” He spoke clearly and loudly. “Work now. Do you understand? Hurry) hurry) hurry! Come on!”

            He motioned with his arms. But the frowzy Ossie had come to a sudden halt. He said slowly:

            “We work, but Johnson say Kissmess come evvy year...

            “Isn’t one Christmas enough for you?” Pelham rasped.

            “No!” squawked the Ossie. “We want Sannycaws next year. Get more eggs. And next year more eggs. And next year. And next year) And next year. More eggs. More little Sannycaws eggs. If Sannycaws not come) we not work.”

            “That’s a long time off,.. said Pelham. “We’ll talk about it then. By that time I’ll either have gone completely crazy) or you’ll have forgotten all about it...

            Pierce opened his mouth, closed it, opened his mouth, closed it, opened it, and finally managed to speak.

            “Commander, they want him to come every year...

            “I know. They won’t remember by next year, though...

            “But you don’t get it. A year to them is one Ganymedan revolution around Jupiter. In Earth time, that’s seven days and three hours. They want Santa Claus to come every week...

            “Every week!” Pelham gulped. “Johnson told them-”

            For a moment everything turned sparkling somersaults before his eyes. He choked, and automatically his eye sought Olaf.

            Olaf turned cold to the marrow of his bones and rose to his feet apprehensively, sidling toward the door. There he stopped as a sudden recollection of tradition hit him. Beard a-dangle, he croaked:

            “Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

            He made for the sleigh as if all the imps of Hades were after him. The imps weren’t, but Commander Scott Pelham was.

THE END

            Fred Pohl, after all, was not merely an editor. He was also a budding writer. He has since come to be a giant in the field, but in those early days he was struggling along with only the sort of meager success I was having. Alone, and in collaboration with other Futurians, he turned out stories under a variety of pseudonyms. The one he used most frequently was “James MacCreigh.”

            As it happened, he had written, under that pseudonym, a small fantasy called “The Little Man on the Subway,” which he apparently had hopes for but couldn’t get right. He asked me if I would rewrite it, and the request flattered me. Besides, I was still trying to get into Unknown, and if I couldn’t do it on my own, maybe I could do it by way of a collaboration. I wasn’t proud-at least as far as fantasy was concerned.

            I took on the task and did it virtually at a sitting. Doing it easily didn’t help, however. I submitted it to Campbell for Unknown on January 27, 1941, and he rejected it. I had to hand it back to Pohl.

            Pohl, however, with the true agent’s soul, never gave up, and in 1950, long after I had utterly forgotten it, he managed to place it with a small magazine called Fantasy Book.