Amazing_Science_Fiction_Stories_Volume_33_Number_11_

Book-Length Novel by Robert Bloch
Sneak Preview

AMA7IN

November SCIENCE FICTION STC

35?

HENCE AND SUPERMAN:
in Inquiry by
1 1 Anderson

In November FANTASTIC:

TIMES

WERE

LEAN

IN

LANKHMAR . . .

te»

... in fact, the only pleasure the Lankhmarites had in life was
religion— and of that, they had plenty! You'll enjoy eavesdropping
on the lives of a mysterious deity — a hapless priest — and an ex-
tremely versatile acolyte when they collide in this zany, exciting
science-fiction novella. Read "Lean Times in Lankhmar" in the
November FANTASTIC.

PLUS: more exciting fare by the same author, Fritz Leiber— an-
other novelet and three short stories. Here's an issue that's
jammed with s-f and fantasy entertainment.

Buy November FANTASTIC, on sale October 20 at your news-
stand ! Only 35*

AMAZING SCIENCE FICTION STORIES, Vol. 33, No. 11. November 1959, is published monthly
by Ziff-Davis Publishing Company, William B. Ziff, Chairman of the Board (1946-1953) at
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NOVEMBER 1959

Volume 33 Number 11

COMPLETE NOVEL

SNEAK PREVIEW

By Robert Bloch..

50

SHORT STORIES

MINOR DETAIL

By Jack Sharkey 7

THE OBSERVERS

By G. L Vandenburg ■*

SHEPHERD OF THE PLANETS

By Alan Mattox ** *

THE FLESH-MAN FROM FAR WIDE

By David R. Bunch 134

FEATURES

SCIENCE AND SUPERMAN:
AN INQUIRY

By Pool Anderson 42

EDITORIAL 5

THE SPECTROSCOPE 139

... OR SO YOU SAY 141

COMING NEXT MONTH . 133
*
Cover: LEO SUMMERS

Ziff-Davis Publishing Company, One Park
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T DON'T know how many of you read amazing from front to back,
-*- but for our purposes this month I'd like to request that you read
Bob Bloch's hard-hitting novel, "Sneak Preview," which starts on
P. 50, before you go any further with this editorial.

OK . . . You back again? Great story, wasn't it? Did you think
it was pretty fanciful, a little too imaginative? Well, now hear this:
Not too many weeks ago a Hollywood psychoanalyst reported tests
that prove the time needed for psychoanalysis can be halved by
showing patients powerful movies that depict graphically their
inner conflicts!

At the halfway mark of a four-year study on the effects of movies
on adults, Dr. Arthur J. Brodbeck said, the tests reveal that if a
patient can identify with the film character who is in the middle
of a tense conflict situation, the patient's own conflicts can quickly
be lifted from the subconscious to the conscious level, and be
"crossed out."

But there can be bad effects if the viewer is not in analysis —
stress, imaginary illness, depression, even juvenile delinquency.
Perhaps you'd better take to the couch before you go to your next
movie.

But at any rate, that boy Bloch is a pretty good seer, eh ? Down,
Nostradamus! Down, boy! — NL

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General Webb had a simply magnificent
idea for getting ground forces into the
enemy's territory despite rockets and
missiles and things like that. It was a
grand scheme, except tor one

MINOR DETAIL

By JACK SHARKEY

THE Secretary of Defense,
flown in by special plane
from the new Capitol Building
in Denver, trotted down the
ramp with his right hand out-
stretched before him.

At the base of the ramp his
hand was touched, clutched and
hidden by the right hand of Gen-
eral "Smiley" Webb in a hearty
parody of a casual handshake.
General Webb did everything in
a big way, and that included
even little things like hand-
shakes.

Retrieving his hand once
more, James Whitlow, the Sec-
retary of Defense, smiled ner-
vously with his tiny mouth, and
said,

"Well, here I am."

This statement was taken
down by a hovering circle of
newsreporters, dispatched by
wireless and telephone to every

town in the forty-nine states, ex-
panded, contracted, quoted and
misquoted, ignored and miscon-
strued, and then forgotten; all
this in a matter of hours.

The nation, hearing it, put
aside its wonted trepidations,
took an extra tranquilizer or
two, and felt secure once more.
The government was in good
hands.

Leaving the reporters in a dis-
gruntled group beyond the cy-
clone - fence - and - barbed -
wire barriers surrounding Proj-
ect W, General Webb, seated
beside Whitlow in the back of
his private car, sighed and fold-
ed his arms.

"You'll be amazed!" he chor-
tled, nudging his companion
with a bony elbow.

"I — I expect so," said Whit-
low, clinging to his brief c

with both hands. It contained,
among other things, a volume of
mystery stories and a ham sand-
wich, neatly packaged in alumi-
num foil. Whitlow didn't want
to chance losing it. Not, at least,
until he'd eaten the sandwich.

"Of course, you're wondering
where I got the idea for my
project," said "Smiley" Webb,
adding, for the benefit of his
driver, "Keep your eyes on the
road, Sergeant! The WAC bar-
racks will still be there when you
get off duty!"

"Yes, sir," came a hollow
grunt from the front seat.

"Weren't you?" asked General
Webb, gleaming a toothy smile
in Whitlow's direction.

"Weren't I what?" Whitlow
asked miserably, having lost the
thread of their conversation due
to a surreptitious glance back-
ward at the WAC barracks in
their wake.

"Wondering about the proj-
ect!" snapped the general.

"Yes. We all were," said the
Secretary of Defense, appending
somewhat tartly, "That's why
they sent me here."

"To be sure. To be sure." Gen-
eral Webb muttered. He didn't
much like tartness in responses,
but the Secretary of Defense,
unfortunately, was hardly a
subordinate, and therefore not
subject to the general's choler.
Silly little ass! he said to him-
self. Rather liking the sound of
the words — albeit in his mind —
he repeated them over again,
adding embellishments like
"pompous" and "mousy" and

8

"squirrel-eyed. " After three or
four such thoughts, the general
felt much better.

"I thought the whole thing up,
myself," he said, proudly.

"I wish you'd stop being so
ambiguous," W T hitlow protested
in a small voice. "Just what is
this project? How does it work?
Will it help us win the war?"

"Sssh!" said the general, jerk-
ing a quivering forefinger per-
pendicular before pursed lips.
"Security!"

He closed one eye in a broad
wink and wriggled a thumb in
the direction of the driver. "He's
only cleared for Confidential
material," said the general, his
tone casting aspersions on the
sergeant's patriotism, a
and personal hygiene. "This
project is, of course, Top
cret!" He said the words rev-
erently, his face going ail noble
and brave. Whitlow half-exp
ed him to remove his hat, but he
did not.

They drove onward, then, in
silence, until they pi
large field, in the
which Whitlow could discern the
outlines of an immense buliV
in front of a tall, somewhat
rickety khaki-colored reviewing
stand, draped in tired buntin

"What's that?" asked
low, relinquishing his grip on
his brief case long enough to
point toward the field.

"Ssssh!" said "Smiley" Webb.
"You'll find out in a matter of
hours."

"Many hours?" Whitlow ask-

AMAZING STORIES

ed, thinking of the ham sand-
wich.

General Webb consulted a
magnificent platinum timepiece
anchored to his thick hairy
wrist by a stout leather strap.

"In exactly one hour, thirty-
seven minutes, and forty - three-
point - oh - oh - nine seconds!"
he said, proudly.

"Thank you," Whitlow sighed.
"You're certainly running this
thing — whatever it is — in an
efficient manner."

"Thank you!" General Webb
glowed. "We like to think so,"
he added modestly.

Passwords, signs, counter-
signs, combination-locks and
electronic recognition signals
were negotiated one by one, un-
til Whitlow was despairing of
ever getting into the heart of
Project W. He said as much to
General Webb, who merely flash-
ed the grin which gave him his
nickname, and opened a final
door.

For a moment, Whitlow
thought he was going deaf. The
shrill roar of screeching metal
and throbbing dynamos that
pounded at his eardrums began
to fuddle his mind, until Gen-
eral Webb handed him a small
cardboard box — also stamped,
like every door and wall in the
place, "Top Secret" — in which
his trembling fingers located
two ordinary rubber earplugs,
which he instantly put to good
use.

"There she is!" said General
Webb, proudly, gesturing over

the railing of the small balcony
upon which they stood. "The
Whirligig!"

"What?" called Secretary of
Defense Whitlow, shaking his
head to indicate he hadn't heard
a word.

Somewhat piqued, but resign-
ed, General Webb leaned his
wide mouth nearly up against
Whitlow's small pink plugged
ear, and roared the same infor-
mation at the top of his lungs.

Whitlow, a little stunned by
the volume despite the plugs,
nodded wearily, to indicate that
he'd heard, then asked, in a high,
piping voice, "What's it for?"

Webb's eyes bulged in their
sockets. "Great heavens, man,
can't you see?" He gestured
down at his creation, his baby,
his project, as though it were
self-evident what its function
was.

Whitlow strained his eyes to
divine anything that might give
a clue as to just what the gov-
ernment had been pouring money
into for the past eight months.
All he saw was what appeared
to be a sort of ferris-wheel, ex-
cept that it was revolving in a
horizontal plane. The structure
was completely enclosed in metal,
and was whirling too fast for
even the central shaft to be any-
thing but a hazy, silver-blue
blur.

"I see it," he shouted, squeak-
ily. "But I don't understand it!"

"Come with me," said General
Webb, re-opening the door at
their backs. He was just about
to step through when, with a

MINOR DETAIL

quick blush of mortification, he
remembered the "Top Secret"
earplugs. Hastily, averting his
face lest the other man see his
embarrassment, he returned his
plugs to their box, and did the
same with Whitlow's.

Whitlow was glad when the
door closed behind them.

"My office is this way," said
Webb, striding off in a stiff mili-
tary manner.

Whitlow, with a forlorn shrug,
could do nothing but clutch his
brief case and follow.

"It's this way," General Webb
began, once they were seated
uncomfortably in his office.
From a pocket in his khaki
jacket, Webb had produced a
big-bowled calabash pipe, and
was puffing its noxious gray
fumes in all directions while he
spoke. "Up until the late fifties,
war was a simple thing ..."

Oh, not the March of Science
Speech! said Whitlow to him-
self. He knew it by heart. It was
the talk of the Capital, and the
nightmare of military strate-
gists. As the general's voice
droned on and on, Whitlow bare-
ly listened. The general, Top Se-
cret or no Top Secret, was
divulging nothing that wasn't
common knowledge from the
ruins of Philadelphia to the
great Hollywood crater . . .

All at once, weapons had got-
ten too good. That was the whole
problem. Wars, no matter what
the abilities of the death-dealing
guns, cannon, rifles, rockets or
whatever, needed one thing on

the battlefield that could not be
turned out in a factory: Men.

In order to win a war, a coun-
try must be vanquished. In order
to vanquish a country, soldiers
must be landed. And that was
precisely wherein the difficulty
lay: landing the soldiers.

Ships were nearly obsolete in
this respect. Landing barges
could be blown out of the water
as fast as they were let down
into it.

Paratroops were likewise
hopeless. The slow-moving troop-
carrying planes daren't even
peek above the enemy's horizon
without chancing an onslaught
of "thinking" rockets that
would stay on their trail until
they were molten cinders falling
into the sea.

So someone invented the su-
personic carrier. This was
pretty good, allowing the planes
to come in high and fast over
the enemy's territory, as fast as
the land-to-air missiles them-
selves. The only drawback was
that the first men to try para-
chuting at that speed were bat-
tered to confetti by the slip-
stream of their own carriers.
That would not do.

Next, someone thought of the
capsules. Each man was packed
into a break-proof, shock-proof,
water-proof, wind-proof plastic
capsule, and ejected safely be-
yond the slipstream area of the
carriers, at which point, each
capsule sprouted a silken chute
that lowered the enclosed men
gently down into range of the
enemy's rocket-fire . . .

10

AMAZING STORIES

This plan was scrapped like
the others.

And so, things were at a
stalemate. There hadn't been a
really good skirmish for nearly
five years. War was hardly any-
thing but a memory, what with
both sides practically omnipo-
tent. Unless troops could be
landed, war was downright im-
possible. And, no one could land
troops, so there was no war.

As a matter of fact, Whitlow
liked the state of affairs. To be
Secretary of Defense during a
years-long peace was a soft job
to top all soft jobs. And Whit-
low didn't much like war. He'd
rather live peacefully with his
mystery stories and ham sand-
wiches.

But the Capitol, under the re-
lentless lobbying of the muni-
tions interests, was trying to
find a way to get a war started.

They had tried simply bomb-
ing the other countries, but it
hadn't worked out too well : the
other countries had bombed
back.

This plan had been scrapped
as too dangerous.

And then, just when all seem-
ed lost, when it looked as though
mankind was doomed to eternal
peace . . .

Along came General "Smiley"
Webb.

"Land troops?" he'd said, con-
fidently, "nothing easier. With
the government's cooperation, I
can have our troops in any coun-
try in the world, safely landed,
within the space of one year!"

Congress had voted him the

MINOR DETAIL

money unanimously, and off he'd
gone to work at Project W. No
one knew quite what it was
about, but the general had
seemed so self-assured that —
Well, they'd almost forgotten
about him until some ambitious
clerk, trying to balance at least
part of the budget, had discov-
ered a monthly expenditure to an
obscure base in the southwest
totalling some millions of dol-
lars. Perfunctory checking had
brought out the fact that
"Smiley" Webb had been draw-
ing this money every month, and
hadn't as much as mailed in a
single progress report.

There'd been swift phone-calls
from Denver to Project W, and,
General Webb informed them,
not only was all the money to be
accounted for, but so was all the
time and effort: the project was
completed, and about to be test-
ed. Would someone like to come
down and watch ?

Someone would.

And thus it was that James
Whitlow, with mystery stories
and ham sandwich, had taken
the first plane from the Capi-
tal .. .

"... when all at once, I
thought: Speed! Endurance!
That is the problem!"
Webb, breaking in on Whitlow's
reverie.

"I beg your pardon?" said the
Secretary of Defense.

Webb whacked the dottle out
of his pipe into a meaty palm,
tossed the smoking cinders
rather carelessly into a waste-

11

basket, and leaned forward to
confront the other man face to
face, their noses almost nudg-
ing.

"Why are parachutes out?" he
snapped.

"They go too slow," said Whit-
low.

"Why do we use parachutes at
all?"

"To keep the men from get-
ting killed by the fall."

"Why does a fall kill the
men?"

"It — It breaks their bones
and stuff."

"M/" Webb scoffed.

"Bah?" reiterated Whitlow.
"Bah?"

"Certainly bah!" said the gen-
eral. "All it takes is a little
training."

"All what takes?" said Whit-
low, helplessly.

"Falling, man, falling!" the
general boomed. "If a man can
fall safely from ten feet — Why
not from ten times ten feet!?"

"Because," said Whitlow, "in-
creasing height accelerates the
rate of falling, and — "

"Poppycock!" the general
roared.

"Yes, sir," said Whitlow,
somewhat cowed.

"Muscle-building. That's the
secret. Endurance. Stress.
Strain. Tension."

"If — If you say so . . ." said
Whitlow, slumping lower and
lower in his chair as the gen-
eral's massive form leaned pre-
cariously over him. "But — "

"Of course you are puzzled,"

12

said the general, suddenly chum-
my. "Anyone would be. Until
they realized the use to which
I've put the Whirligig!"

"Yes. Yes, I suppose so . . ."
said Whitlow, thinking longing-
ly of his ham sandwich, and its
crunchy, moist green smear of
pickle relish.

"The first day — " said Gen-
eral Webb, "it revolved at one
gravity! They withstood it!"

"What did? Who withstood?
When?" asked Whitlow, with
much confusion.

"The men!" said the general,
irritably. "The men in the
Whirligig!"

Whitlow jerked bolt upright.
"There are men in that thing?"
It's not possible, he thought.

"Of course," said Webb, sooth-
ingly. "But they're all right.
They've been in there for thirty
days, whirling around at one
gravity more each day. We have
constant telephone communica-
tion with them. They're all feel-
ing fine, just fine."

"But — " Whitlow said, weak-
ly.

General Webb had him firmly
by the arm, and was leading him
out of the office. "We must get
to the stands, man. Operation
Human Bomb in ten minutes."

"Bomb?" Whitlow squeaked,
scurrying alongside Webb as the
larger man strode down the
echoing corridor.

"A euphemism, of course,"
said Webb. "Because they will
fall much like a bomb does. But
they will not explode! No, they
will land, rifles in hand, ready

AMAZING STORIES

to take over the enemy terri-
tory."

"Without parachutes?" Whit-
low marveled.

"Exactly," said the general,
leading the way out into the
blinding desert sunlight. "You
see," he remarked, as they
strolled toward the heat-shim-
mering outlines of the reviewing
stand, its bunting hanging limp
and faded in the dry, breezeless
air, "it's really so simple I'm as-
tonished the enemy didn't think
of it first. Though, of course,
I'm glad they didn't— Ha! ha!"
He oozed self-appreciation.

"Ha ha," repeated Whitlow,
with little enthusiasm.

"When one is whirled at one
gravity, you see, the wall — the
outside rim — of the Whirligig,
becomes the floor for the men
inside. Each day, they have
spent up to ten hours doing
nothing but deep knee-bends,
and eating high protein foods.
Their legs will be able to with-
stand any force of landing. If
they can do deep knee-bends at
thirty gravities — during which,
of course, each of them weighed
nearly three tons — they can
jump from any height and sur-
vive. Good, huh?"

Whitlow was worried as they
clambered up into the stands.
There seemed to be no one about
but the two of them.

"Who else is coming?" he
asked.

"Just us," said Webb. "I'm the
only one with a clearance high
enough to watch this. You're

only here because you're my
guest."

"But — " said Whitlow, observ-
ing the heat-baked wide-open
spaces extending on all sides of
the reviewing stand and bull's-
eye, "the men on this base can
surely watch from almost any-
where not beyond the horizon."

"They'd better not!" was the
general's only comment.

"Well," said Whitlow, "what
happens now?"

"The men that were in that
Whirligig have — since you and
I went to my office to chat — b<
transported to the airfield, from
which point they were taken
aloft — " he consulted his watch,
"five minutes, and fifty-five-
point-six seconds ago."

"And?" asked Whitlow, cas-
ually unbuckling the straps of
his brief case and slipping out
his sandwich.

"The plane will be within
bomb vector of this tai
just ten seconds!" said
confidently.

Whitlow listened, for the next
nine seconds, then, right on
schedule, he heard the mi:
droning of a plane, high up.
Webb joggled him with a;,
"They'll fall faster th.
known enemy weapon can t<
them," he said, smugly.

"That's fortunate," said Whit-
low, munching desultorily at his
sandwich. "Bud dere's wud I
budduhs bee."

"Hmmf?" asked the general.

Whitlow swallowed hastily. t4 I
say, there's one thing boil;
me."

MINOR DETAIL

13

"What's that?" asked the gen-
eral.

"Well, it's just that gravity is
centripetal, you know, and the
Whirligig is centrifugal. I won-
dered if it might not make some
sort of difference?"

"Bah!" said General Webb.
"Just a minor detail."

"If you say so," Whitlow
shrugged.

"There they come!" shouted
the general, jumping to his feet.

Whitlow, despite his misgiv-
ings, found that he, too, was on
his feet, staring skyward at the
tiny dots that were detaching
themselves from the shining
bulk of the carrier plane. As he
watched, his heart beating mad-
ly, the dots grew bigger, and
soon, awfully soon, they could be
distinguished as man-shaped,
too.

"There's — There's something

wrong!" said the general.
"What's that they're all shout-
ing? It should be 'Geroni-
mo' . . ."

Whitlow listened. "It sounds
more like 'Eeeeeyaaaaa'," he
said.

And it was.

The sound grew from a dis-
tant mumble to a shrieking roar,
and the next thing, each man
had landed upon the concrete-
and-paint bullseye before the
reviewing stand.

Whitlow sighed and re-buck-
led his brief case.

The general moaned and faint-
ed.

And the men of the Whirligig,
all of whom had landed on the
target head-first, did nothing,
their magnificently-muscled legs
waving idly in a sudden gentle
gust of desert breeze.

THE END

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14

THE OBSERVERS

By G. L VANDENBURG

You can't be too suspicious when
security is at stake. When every-
body who is after a key military
job wears a toupee, it is obviously
a bald case of espionage.

A JOB as laboratory techni-
cian with the Army Weap-
ons Development Center carried
about as much prestige as a bat
boy in a World Series.

George Fisher was a labora-
tory technician.

He was a shy but likeable fel-
low, a diligent worker and
trustworthy. He didn't talk. He
was rarely talked to. He had no
burning ambition to push him-
self ahead in the world. Being
an assistant to the brains was
good enough for him. He had a
commendable talent for minding
his own business.

In a security job these quali-
ties counted ahead of scientific
knowledge.

One day George Fisher turned
up dead. The initial shock and
concern experienced by his su-
periors was soon overcome by
the coroner's finding. Suicide.

Harry Payne was the Civilian
Personnel Director of Fort
Dickson. It was his job to find
a replacement for George Fisher.

"Miss Conway!" Harry's voice
lashed into the intercom.

There was an interminable
pause. He cursed under his
breath.

Then, "Yes, Mr. Payne?"

"Where the hell were you?
Never mind. Bring me the file
on George Fisher."

"George Fisher?" Miss Con-
way was in her favorite state of
mind . . . confusion. "But he's
dead, isn't he?"

Harry let out a deep anguish-
ed groan. "Yes, Miss Conway,
he's dead. That's why I want his
file. That answer your ques-
tion?"

"Yes, sir. Be there in a jiffy!"

Harry could tell she was bub-
bling over with smiles as she

15

spoke. A few more centuries
would pass, he thought, before
they manufactured another
broad as dumb as Miss Conway.

He stuffed his hands in his
pockets and looked out the win-
dow. Across the parade ground
he could see the Army Weapons
Development Center. He had no
idea what new bomb they might
be working on behind those
heavily guarded fences. He
didn't care.

He was only concerned with
the people who worked there.
The rest of Fort Dickson used
mostly Civil Service Personnel.
But the barricaded security
jungle across the parade grounds
was more particular about *ts
hired help. A person's record had
to be spotless almost from the
day of his conception ... or a
person could not even gain en-
trance.

Harry had never been inside
Weapons Development. He had
once been to traffic court as a
roaring juvenile eighteen years
before. That was enough to bar
him from even visiting. He real-
ized, though, that the army
couldn't afford to take chances.

Hiring new technicians re-
quired an arduous screening
process. Harry loathed it. He was
thankful that the personnel at
Weapons Development were
highly paid and usually perma-
nent. He never had to hire more
than one person a year.

Miss Conway swept into the
office and handed Harry the
folder.

"Thanks," he muttered.

"Don't mention it, boss."

Harry called after her as she
went back toward the reception
room.

"Stay by your desk, will you?
The government may need you."

A muffled giggle was her only
response.

Miss Conway was a civil ser-
vice employee. She had been
Harry's secretary for six
months. Like most other civil
service personnel, according to
Harry's way of thinking she was
a tower of inefficiency. His chief
annoyance stemmed from the
fact that the army had arbitrar-
ily placed her in his office. He
had been given no choice in the
matter. It was one hell of a way
to treat a personnel director, he
thought.

He sat at his desk gloomily
aware of the headaches he'd have
to face in his quest for George
Fisher's replacement. He opened
the folder and glanced at the vi-
tal statistics.

Fisher, George — Age : 40 —
weight: 160— Height: 5'9'—
Eyes : Green — Hair : None
— Complexion: Light — Date of
Employment: 10/7/58— Date of
Departure : 4/12/59 — Reason :
Suicide — etc., etc. Harry yawned.
Statistics bored him.

He turned to a page marked
"Qualifications" and started
reading. The phrase "Education
and experience in nuclear phys-
ics required," caught his eye.
The requirement was no surprise
to him. But whenever he saw it
he took a few minutes off to in-

16

AMAZING STORIES

dulge his curiosity. What was
the big- project at Weapons De-
velopment? He'd love to know.
He wouldn't find out, of course.
And the inability to find out nat-
urally gave his imagination the
widest latitude. His most per-
sistent theory involved an atomic
powered rocket capable of knock-
ing the Russians' manned satel-
lites out of space. The Russians
were still ahead of everyone and
their latest satellites were
heavily armed. As usual they
were lording it over the rest of
the world. And the rest of the
world had not come up with an
effective answer to this chal-
lenge.

Harry closed the folder. He
glanced at a list of technical
schools. He would call each of
them and ask them to submit a
list of lab technicians. He- would
also look over the field of tech-
nicians still left in private en-
terprise.

The intercom buzzed.

"What is it, Miss Conway?"

"Miss Ralston is here."

"Who is Miss Ralston?"

"She has an appointment with
you."

"An appointment!" Harry was
baffled. "Who made it?"

"I did. I guess I forgot to tell
you."

Harry closed his eyes and
counted to ten. "Thank you,
Miss Conway. Will you step into
my office for a moment?" He
tried to control his mounting an-
ger.

She breezed into the office.

"Now, Miss Conway, will you

please tell me who is this Miss
Ralston?"

"She operates 'Ralston Person-
nel Consultants'. I think she
wants to talk to you about the
replacement for George Fisher.
You know, the one who died."

"Yes, yes, I know. And you
know, Miss Conway, we don't do
business through agencies."

"Oh, Miss Ralston doesn't run
an agency. She told me. Her busi-
ness is much more exclusive than
that. She handles very highly
specialized people. That's the
reason why ..."

"I know. That's why you gave
her an appointment with me,"
said the exasperated personnel
director. "Well, you can go right
back out and tell her I've can-
celled the appointment. This
is a security job we're filling
and . . ."

Before Harry could utter an-
other syllable his attention was
drawn to the doorway. The view
to the outer office was blocked
by a bundle of curves. The most
alluring female bombshell his
eyes had ever beheld put every-
thing important out of his mind.

"I didn't realize you were be-
ing so inconvenienced, Mr.
Payne. I'm terribly sorry." Her
eyes drooped. "I can take my
business elsewhere." Miss Ral-
ston's voice was just above a half
whisper. The words came out
warm and intoxicating.

"No, wait! Wait a minute,
Miss Ralston." Harry was out
of his «hair and at the door. He
took her arm. "Who said any-

THE OBSERVERS

17

thing about inconvenience? Come
in. Come in. That'll be all Miss
Conway. Thanks."

The secretary giggled and
left. Miss Ralston sat down and
lit a cigarette. Harry noticed she
was wearing a beige knit suit
with a neckline that spoke vol-
umes. Every curve was in the
right place. Every movement had
another movement all its own.

H-arry knew she was bound to
talk business and he knew there
wasn't much he could do for her
in that direction. But at thirty-
five, and eligible, he just could-
n't let this woman leave his of-
fice. Harry Payne was a sucker
for a gorgeous face. He knew it
and he knew the gorgeous face
knew it.

"Tell me, Miss Ralston, when
did my secretary arrange this
appointment for you?"

"I called yesterday."

Harry arched his eyebrows
and smiled. "Yesterday? What
prompted you to call me?"

"You're looking for a labora-
tory technician, aren't you?"

"What gave you that idea?"
he asked, not caring in the
slightest what gave it to her.

"I make it my business to
comb the papers every day, Mr.
Payne. I came across the news
of George Fisher's suicide and
called you. Simple as that."

"You don't waste any time."

She smiled and pursed her
lips. "Do you?"

"I try not to."

"I have seven clients who
would qualify for the job. I'd
appreciate it if you'd see them."

18

"Well, as a matter of fact,
Miss Ralston . . ."

She leaned forward with an
inquisitive "Yes?"

Harry cleared his throat. "As
a matter of fact I'm not suppos-
ed to do business with civilian
agencies.'

"Mr. Payne," she smiled de-
murely, "do I look like an
agency ? Or do I look like a Per-
sonnel Consultant?"

Now there was an opening,
Harry thought, but it might be
best to avoid it. "You're work-
ing to get someone a job. It
amounts to the same thing."

"I see. Then how do you go
about hiring your new person-
nel?"

"I do the soliciting myself.
Sorry, Miss Ralston, but I don't
make the rules and regulations."

But the lady was undeterred.
She crossed her legs and sank
further into the easy chair. Her
eyes sparkled at Harry.

"These clients of mine are all
top men, Mr. Payne. Why could-
n't I just leave you their
names? You can still do the so-
liciting. I'd be happy to forego
my regular commission on this
job. Call it the value of pn
tige."

Harry recognized another
opening and this time plunged
in. "Suppose we talk it o
later. There's a place at Fourth
Avenue and Woodward called
'Maria's.' Best Italian food i;;
captivity. I'm through at five.
What about you?"

She didn't have to say any-

AMAZING STORIES

thing. Her eyes told him he
would be having an Italian din-
ner that night. And not alone.
She rose and walked in front of
his desk.

"I'm so glad we have some-
thing in common, Mr. Payne. I
can't think well on an empty
stomach either."

After walking her to the out-
er office he came back to his
desk. He took a deep breath and
loosened his tie. Dreams like
Miss Ralston didn't materialize
every day. For a first meeting
he figured he hadn't fared too
badly at all. And if this first
date went well he was sure he'd
be seeing a lot of this girl.

It did not escape Harry's
mind that here was a girl who
was in the habit of getting what
she wanted. But why not? Her
powers of persuasion were
Grade- A. They were so good
they presented him with one big
problem. He had regulations.
Army regulations. He couldn't
violate them. Miss Ralston, it
was obvious, was going to meet
him solely for the purpose of
getting a client a job. Would
he be able to see her again after
she knew he had no intention of
hiring that client?

The following morning Harry
entered the office to find his sec-
retary unusually busy. She was
pecking away furiously at the
typewriter.

He handed her a sheet of
paper and said, "Miss Conway,
copy these names and addresses
and when they ..."

THE OBSERVERS

"When they come in you'll see
them at half-hour intervals." She
smiled benignly. "Miss Ralston
just called and told me. Pretty
smart chick, huh, boss?"

Harry did a slow burn and
ambled into his office. Miss Con-
way was right, of course, and
that's what annoyed him. It had
been quite a night. He wined
and dined her. They did all the
bright spots. And, wonder of
wonders, on the first date they
wound up at Paula Ralston's
apartment. She was a captivating
hostess, an exquisite dancer and
something of a sorceress. After
one kiss, an unforgettable one,
Harry had agreed to interview
her seven clients.

But all this was last night,
Harry reminded himself. Today
was a different matter. He was
in the sanctity of his office now
and capable of clearer thinking.
Paula Ralston had accomplished
the first phase of her mission.
The next move was his. Seeing
the clients, he rationalized, was
not violating the regulations.
And for the moment it satisfied
her.

She certainly was a deter-
mined girl. Anyone would think,
watching her operate, that a lab
technician was a job of world
shaking importance. What the
hell, he shrugged, if the girl
didn't look out for her own in-
terests she wouldn't have a suc-
cessful business. There's only
one way to keep clients happy
and that's to keep them busy.

Besides, her maneuvering
wasn't going to work anyway. He

19

just couldn't hire any of them.
His problem now was to stall her
for a couple of days so he could
keep seeing her. In the end he
might possibly tell her the army
had refused to accept any of
them.

He glanced out the window
and saw the Weapons Develop-
ment Center across the parade
ground. Business appeared to be
going on as usual. Routine.
Quiet. Cautious. High time I
start thinking seriously about
that replacement, he thought.

There was a knock at the
door.

"Come in."

Miss Conway bounced in.
"They've started to arrive. The
first one is a mister Thompson."

"Okay, let's get started. Send
him in."

Thompson was a small, round-
ish man in his mid-forties. He
remained quite at ease during
the interview. Harry began the
session in the usual dull manner,
formulating his questions from
the several sheets of informa-
tion Mr. Thompson had brought
with him.

It wasn't long before Harry
detected something unusual
about the man. But he couldn't
determine what it was. He be-
came more alert, more interested
as the interview progressed.

"Where are you from orig-
inally, Mr. Thompson?"

"Chicago."

"Oh, yes," he glanced at the
written information, "I see you
went to the University."

20

"Yes, sir. My practical expe-
rience is documented on the sec-
ond sheet."

What was it about this guy?
He was overly polite but that
could hardly be considered
strange. His answers were brief,
to the point, even curt. That was
just a personality trait, Harry
supposed. Couldn't condemn a
man for that.

"How long did you live in
Chicago?"

"Twenty-one years, sir."

"Are you married?"

"No, sir."

He had noted before that Mr.
Thompson had a distracting hab-
it of patting his hair. Now he
knew why. He was wearing a
toupee. Harry wondered if the
poor guy was sensitive about it.
If he was that conscious of it, it
might account for his strange
attitude.

"Thank you for coming in,
Mr. Thompson. I'll submit your
papers to Colonel Waters. If he
has any further interest in you
don't be surprised if you receive
a visit from a couple of Intelli-
gence agents. That's routine for
this job. I just tell you in ad-
vance so you won't worry."

"I understand," he said, rising
and checking his toupee once
more. "Many thanks to you, sir."
He shook Harry's hand and left
the room.

Harry glanced at the papers
again. Mr. Thompson's back-
ground was impressive indeed.
There didn't seem to be much
question as to his ability. But
what a queer duck he was!

AMAZING STORIES

The second applicant was a
short, wiry man named Chase.
Like his predecessor, he was
brief and to the point with his
answers. He let his qualification
papers speak for themselves. He
was formal and polite.

Midway through the interview
Harry noticed that he too was
wearing a toupee. If that wasn't
the damnedest coincidence ! For-
tunately Mr. Chase didn't have
the annoying habit of patting
his head every thirty seconds.
Harry guessed he either had a
more expensive one or was just
endowed with more confidence
that it would not slip off.

The interview over, Mr. Chase
offered his thanks and strolled
out.

Harry had a few moments to
himself before Paula's third
client arrived. He thought
about the first two men. Funny
thing about toupees . . . even the
most expensive ones could always
be detected. He couldn't quite
understand why the two men
wore them. They were often used
by playboys, actors, self-styled
over age Romeos, people whose
niche in society depends upon
their looks. But not scientists or
technicians. In fact Harry could-
n't remember ever having known
one such person who shunned his
baldness in this manner. That
didn't mean they had no right.
But it did seem peculiar as hell.

By the time the third inter-
view was over Harry Payne's
curiosity was ablaze. Applicant
number three, Mr. Boles, was

not only wearing a toupee but
had gone one step further. Just
north of his mouth there was a
mustache! A good looking mus-
tache, well groomed and shaped,
but phoney as a wax banana.

For a moment he thought
Paula Ralston might be perpe-
trating a joke of elaborate
proportions. He rejected the
idea as fast as it came to him.
He didn't know the girl very well
yet, but he knew her well
enough to know she was strictly
business. She wanted one of
these men to get that job.

He flipped the intercom but-
ton for Miss Conway. She might
be able to tell him . . . indirectly.

"You wanted me, Mr. Payne?"

"Yes, Miss Conway. The three
men who've already been in
here . . . have you noticed any-
thing strange about them?"

Her eyebrows merged and
spelled perplexity. She pursed
her lips and gave the matter the
gravest consideration. Then she
concluded, "Yes, something very
strange."

Harry was hopeful. "What was
it?"

"None of them did very much
talking. Strictly anti-social
types."

Harry groaned, realizing he
should have known better.
"Thank you, Miss Conway.
That's all."

"The fourth guy is waiting
outside."

"Let him sit for a couple of
minutes, then send him in."

He decided to put the whole
matter out of his mind and get

THE OBSERVERS

21

the interviews over as fast as
possible. There were other, more
serious duties to attend to. The
toupee episode was probably
nothing more than a crazy coin-
cidence anyway. Strictly an item
for Believe-It-Or-Not.

By two o'clock that afternoon
the four remaining candidates
had come and gone. And Harry
Payne sat at his desk in the im-
mediate aftermath questioning
his sanity. All seven men wore
toupees! It was incredible but
true. And now the matter was
one of deep and abiding concern
to him. There was nothing
funny about it. There was a
touch of the macabre in it that
rendered his flesh cold and
weak

He lit a cigarette and tried to
pull his thoughts together. Seven
men applying for the same job;
seven men with one thing in
common; seven men as bald as
Doctor Cyclops. Harry had to
abandon the notion that sheer
coincidence brought these men
together. That was too fantastic.
They were brought together by
design.

Their backgrounds varied in
that they had all worked and
come from different parts of the
country. But those facts were
only on paper. It was an odds-on
bet they all knew each other.
There was even something about
the order in which they arrived
at the office that indicated a pat-
tern or an over-all plan. Numbers
three, five and six had worn
false mustaches.

If it was true the seven men
were well acquainted then Paula
Ralston could undoubtedly give
him some answers. Harry had
another dinner engagement with
her at five o'clock. But this date,
he told himself, would be differ-
ent. He was going to be all busi-
ness until he learned exactly
what she was involved in.

He picked up the phone, got
an outside line and dialed. Frank
Barnes was a private detective.
A good one. Harry was sure he
could rely on him for a small
favor.

A subdued, resonant voice an-
swered on the other end.

"Frank, Harry Payne here."

"Harry! Where you been hid-
ing?"

"I need a favor."

"Only time you ever call me,
you ingrate."

"There's a dame called Paula
Ralston. Runs a business called
Ralston Personnel Consultants.
How soon can you get anything
on her?"

"How soon do you need it?"

"Today, if possible. You can
call me at home. Any hour."

After promising Frank to meet
him for lunch one day Harry
sank into an easy chair and tried
to shake the unnerving effect the
seven men had had on him.

Maybe he shouldn't have called
Frank. This might be something
he should have informed the
army about. No. They'd want to
know what business he had see-
ing the seven men in the first
place. He didn't have much of an
answer for that one.

22

AMAZING STORIES

Driving along Woodward
Street toward Fourth Avenue
Harry was beset with one nag-
ging question. Why had Paula
Ralston never brought any of
her clients to see him before? He
was the dispenser of over a hun-
dred good jobs that offered high
salaries. The answer was just as
i stent as the question. Lab
Technician was the only security
job he handled. She was deter-
mined that one of her men get
that job at any cost.

It wasn't a very pleasant
thought. Harry didn't want to
believe it. He didn't want to be-
lieve that Paula Ralston was go-
ing to mean trouble for him. And
yet he knew that's exactly what
she meant.

She was waiting for him at
Maria's. She kissed him as he
slipped into the booth beside her.
Through four drinks and a six-
course dinner he watched her
smile. That smile could melt
down the door on a bank vault.
He noticed how she laughed at
all of his wisecracks. When it
was her turn to talk she talked
about him. She offered a toast to
their closer friendship, with spe-
cial emphasis on the word
"closer."

But she did not mention the
seven men. That was the smart
approach, Harry ventured. She'd
save that until she got home and
slipped into something more com-
fortable.

He stood alone in Paula's liv-
ing room nursing a scotch on the

THE OBSERVERS

rocks. The night before he had
been too concerned about his
progress with this latter-day
Aphrodite to give a damn about
the place she lived in. He glanced
around the room. Every inch
reeked of success. The furniture
was sleek, modern, exquisitely
contoured . . . like its owner.
There wasn't much question
about it, Paula Ralston made a
lot more dough than he did. But
how? That was the question.

She came out of the bedroom
and mixed herself a drink. She
was a living dream in a black
lace negligee. Transparent. It fig-
ured. A lot of things were begin-
ning to figure.

"Shall I tell you a secret?" she
asked.

"I didn't think you had any
left." He couldn't take his eyes
from the negligee.

"I think Mr. Chase and Mr.
Boles are the best of the seven.
I think they come closest to what
you're looking for." She lifted
her glass and clinked it against
his.

Harry smiled. He wasn't look-
ing at her anymore. It was more
of an education to look through
her. She was good. Damn good.
She could lull you into believing
the Grand Canyon was brimming
over with silver dollars, all yours
for the taking. It was next to
impossible to doubt the sincerity
in her face.

"I liked all seven of them," he
said. "But since you know them
better than I do I'll take your
recommendation that Chase and
Boles are the best."

23

She moved closer to him. He
could feel the warmth of her
body.

"We're making some progress,
Harry. We've narrowed the field
down to two candidates."

Harry kept her maneuvering.
"Paula, I'm still faced with the
problem of finding a way around
the regulations. I can't hire
either one of them until I solve
that."

Nothing stopped this girl.
Nothing even slowed her down.
She moved still closer to him.
"There's a way around anything
if a man has the right incentive
to look for it."

He knew what the right in-
centive was. He didn't have to go
looking for that. He laid his
drink down, put his arms around
her and kissed her. They walked
to the sofa. Paula stayed close to
him, the ever thoughtful, loving
female companion. She rubbed
his back and neck and sprinkled
him with soft moist kisses. She
never mentioned her clients
again. And Harry promised to
hire one of them the following
day.

He was anxious to get back to
his apartment to find out if
Frank Barnes had called. As he
drove back along Woodward
Street he couldn't put Paula out
of his mind. He already had her
character pegged. But what was
she up to? What was her goal?
She wasn't doing all this for a
lousy commission. The stakes
were bigger than that.

In a way it was too bad she

24

was going to have to settle for
less than she bargained for. If
her seven clients hadn't been so
phoney she might have gotten
away with it. But why was it
necessary for them to be phoney ?
Why should a girl as shrewd as
Paula send seven men in disguise
to see . . .

Disguise! Somehow that word
threw a different light on the
matter. The men had all been dis-
guised in places where hair
should grow. They were not bald.
There was something abnormal
about them. And Harry was
ninety percent certain what it
was. The answer was incredible.
There was still a ten percent
margin for error. For Miss Paula
Ralston's sake he hoped he was
wrong.

Frank Barnes' message was
waiting for him at the switch-
board in the lobby. The word
"urgent" was written on it.

He raced upstairs and picked
up the phone. Frank answered on
the first ring. He sounded like a
man with a gun at his back.

"Harry, what the hell kind of a
mess have you gotten yourself
into?"

"Why? Something go wrong?"

"You bet your sweet life. An
hour after you called me to check
on that Ralston dame a guy came
into the office and told me to lay s
off."

Harry was silent. And scared.
His answer looked better all the
time.

"What did the guy look like?"

"He looked important, Harry.

AMAZING STORIES

And he meant business. He had
a big bulge in his pocket and he
made it very clear I'd be up to
my funny bone in hot lead if I
relayed any information about
this girl to you."

"Frank, was the guy wearing
a toupee?"
"A what?"

"A toupee, a hair piece!"
"How the hell should I know.
I wasn't interested in his coif-
fure. He was wearing a black
overcoat, he kept his hand on
that bulge and he didn't care
much for smiling. Harry, you in
trouble with this dame?"

"What did you find out about
her, Frank?"

"Between the time you called
and the time the guy strolled in-
to the office I found out she's
only had this Personnel Con-
sultant racket for about three
months."

"You didn't learn anything
else?"

"After I got warned I decid-
ed to wait'll I talked with you."
Harry was silent again. His
mind was working.

"Frank, what causes bald-
ness?"

" Baldness ! Geez, Harry,
you're in a fat mess of trouble
and you're worrying about losing
your hair?"

"It's important, Frank. I
must find out what causes total
loss of all hair."

The detective grunted. "Well,
let's see, there are three or four
diseases I know of. Some people
claim it's hereditary. Sometimes
a deficiency in the genes . . ."

THE OBSERVERS

"Okay, Frank, that's enough."

"What do you want me to do
about the girl?"

"Just as the man told you. Lay
off. I'll call you tomorrow and
let you know what this thing is
all about."

He hung up the phone and
paced in front of his sofa for
several minutes. It was incon-
ceivable that the seven men all
had the same disease, the same
gene deficiency or the same
hereditary shortcomings. So his
own answer must be much closer
to the truth. He'd have to wait
until morning to put it to a test.
If he was right he would call
Colonel Waters and dump the
whole bizarre set-up right into
the army's lap where it be-
longed.

Again he found himself hop-
ing he was not right and more
important that Paula Ralston
wasn't what he was beginning
to think she was.

Miss Conway was already in
when Harry arrived at the office.
He managed a half smile for her.

"Miss Conway, two of the sev-
en men are coming back this
morning and . . ."

"And Mr. Boles is the one
who's getting the job."

"Who called you this time?"
he asked with exasperation.

"Colonel Waters."

Harry's stomach muscles con-
tracted. "Colonel Waters?"

"That's right. When you were
gone yesterday the colonel drop-
ped in to see you. He asked me
if you were working on the re-

25

placement for George Fisher . . .
I told him you were right on the
job. And I showed him the in-
formation sheets you had on all
seven men."

"You did what!!"

"And Colonel Waters liked the
man named Boles best of all. So
I guess when Mr. Boles comes
in you can tell him the job is
his."

"You nitwit!" he bellowed.
"You brainless, knucklehead-
ed . . ." He stomped into his of-
fice, and slammed the door.

It. was difficult for him to
think clearly. He knew he had
to make a move. And fast.

He stood by the window and
gazed at the Weapons Develop-
ment Center across the parade
ground. The low gray buildings
had a quiet peaceful aura about
them. If it weren't for the
guards marching in front of the
great wire fences anyone might
think the place was used for
manufacturing canopeners, au-
tomobile parts, any one of a
thousand harmless products.

But it wasn't. Weapons De-
velopment represented a vital
link in the country's defense pro-
gram. He no longer figured they
were developing a weapon to
counteract Soviet aggression.
They were working on something
far more important. He was just
ninety percent sure of that.

Mr. Boles was the first to ar-
rive. He sat in an easy chair
which Harry had moved close to
his desk in order to better ob-
serve the man.

26

"Mr. Boles, my secretary tells
me Colonel Waters was looking
at your qualifications yesterday
and was very impressed. I gath-
er from that that the job is
yours."

"Thank you, sir."
Harry shoved his chair closer
to him. The toupee was intact.
So was the mustache.

"Now it'll take the govern-
ment about two weeks to com-
plete a security check-up."

He could see plainly now that
the man was also wearing false
eyebrows and had no beard. That
did it.

"I understand, sir," Boles re-
plied.

"So all I can tell you at the
moment is that you'll be hearing
from us as soon as possible."
Harry got up thinking the inter-
view was over.

Mr. Boles remained seated.
"Miss Ralston would like to see
you, Mr. Payne."

"Oh, yes," Harry chuckled,
"I'm going to see her this eve-
ning."

"She wants to see you now."
"Afraid I can't make it right
now. I have a pile of work to do.
Besides I'm expecting another
client of hers. Have to let him
know he didn't get the job."

"Mr. Chase is waiting for us
downstairs in the car. You will
come with me, Mr. Payne." The
order was clear and firm.

Harry didn't like it. "I don't

get it. What's so important that

Miss Ralston has to see me . . ."

He stopped at the sight of the

gun leveled at his chest.

AMAZING STORIES

"When we pass your secre-
tary's desk, you will tell her you
are taking an early lunch. I will
return you in an hour if you co-
operate,"

Harry Payne knew better than
to argue.

Mr. Chase was seated behind
the wheel of a blue sedan. Boles
and Harry climbed into the back
seat. They drove away from Fort
Dickson toward the city.

The two men remained silent
during the trip. Harry had plen-
ty of time to think. Why this
sudden move of Paula's? He
must have done something to
motivate it. But what?

The only person he had talked
to was Frank Barnes and he
hadn't divulged anything to
him. She couldn't be sore be-
cause he had asked Frank to
check on her. Routine investiga-
tion was part of his job. She
knew that. He failed to come up
with an answer. He was wor-
ried. He knew who the seven
men were but he didn't know
where they came from. It could
have been any one of a million
different places. Heaven only
knew what kind of people they
were.

The shades w T ere drawn in
Paula's apartment. There was no
sign of her. But as soon as Harry
entered the room he forgot about
her anyway. His gaze rested up-
on the small, roundish man sit-
ting in the contour chair, the
bald man w r ith no eyebrows and
no beard.

"Please be seated, Mr. Payne."

The man's tone was soft and
courteous.

"Which one are you?" Harry
asked.

The man was amused. "I am
Mr. Thompson."

"Oh, yeah," said Harry,
"you're the one who kept pat-
ting your skull. Couldn't you
find one that fit you?"

Nobody was amused. Boles
and Chase took positions on
either side of Thompson. Their
faces were drawn and sober.
They resembled two bankrupt
morticians.

"Where is the body beauti-
ful?" Harry asked. "Or is she
no longer the body beautiful?"

"Take a look for yourself." It
was Paula's voice. The familiar
sultriness was missing.

Harry swung around to see her
emerge from the bedroom. "Well,
well, well! If it isn't me-

lyhearts. Mind if I ask why I'm
here? I mean the gun and all?"

He had to be flippant. I»
the only way he knew to conceal
the terror he felt in their pres-
ence.

She sat beside him on the sofa.
"Harry, you've disappointed me.
You haven't been playing the
game fair and square."

"If you're referring to the
private eye I put on you ..."

"I'm not, Harry. You put him
on, we took him off. Those
things even themsejves out."

Harry shrugged. "Okay, I give
up. What did I do wrong?"

"Show him, Mr. Thompson."
She lit a cigarette and folded her
legs under her.

THE OBSERVERS

27

Mr. Thompson reached into his
pocket and produced a small ob-
ject. He tossed it into Harry's
lap. Harry examined it.

"Do you recognize it?" Mr.
Thompson asked.

"It's a microphone," Harry re-
plied.

"That's just what it is." Paula
savagely flung her cigarette to
the floor. Her own disguise, the
one concealing her true, ruthless
self, was gone. Her voice was
cold and harsh. "How much do
you know, Harry? How much?"

Harry folded his hands, rested
his full weight on the arm of the
sofa and crossed his legs. "How
much is it worth to you?"

Paula's hand struck with fury
across his face. His cheek went
numb. Blood ran from an uneven
gash left by the diamond in her
ring. He took out his handker-
chief and dabbed at the wound.

"You're real high class, aren't
you, Paula? They don't make
traitors as high class as you any-
more."

She raised her hand and aim-
ed for the other cheek. Thomp-
son bolted out of his chair and
grabbed her.

"I suggest you have a drink,
Miss Ralston. Let us handle the
rest."

Paula was furious. "He's not
going to tell you anymore . . ."

"We'll handle the rest!!"

Thompson didn't raise his
voice. But there was a firmness,
a deadly conviction in his inflec-
tion. Paula went for a drink.

Harry didn't like that. Paula

had a temper. He could deal with
her. Butthe others . . . they dis-
played very little emotion. He
had no idea how to handle them.

Thompson sat down again
facing Harry.

"The fact is," he began grace-
fully, "we discovered this micro-
phone and four others like it here
in Miss Ralston's apartment. One
in each room. Now we are very
cautious people, Mr. Payne. We
are quite certain no one knows
our whereabouts. It is logical
then that the microphones have
not been here long. Miss Ral-
ston's only visitors are ourselves
and you. You have known her
two days. So you are the only
person who knows this apart-
ment well enough to have plant-
ed these tell-tale devices in a
hurry."

"Why should I want to plant
them?"

"You took the trouble to have
Miss Ralston investigated. But
more than one means of investi-
gation produces better results.
The microphones were wired to
a small radio which we located
in the basement of this building.
We have assumed that every-
thing spoken into them was
transmitted over the radio and
recorded at your end. That
makes sense, doesn't it?"

Harry was confused. "So far,
so good."

"We want those recordings,
Mr. Payne."

They seemed to be convinced
the microphones were his. Only
Harry knew it wasn't true. But
to admit it might mean he

28

AMAZING STORIES

wouldn't leave Paula's place
alive. He derived no comfort
from the knowledge that some-
one else was interested in
Paula's activities. That wasn't
helping him with his problem of
the moment. He could see no
clear way out. He had to keep
stalling. And as long as they
were so sure of themselves it
might even be to his advantage
to maintain a certain arrogance.

"I might as well tell you,
Thompson, I have no intention
of cooperating until I know a
few facts about you and your
friends. Like who you are,
where you're from, what you're
after ..."

"It is not necessary, in order

to tell us where the recordings

' smiled Mr. Thompson,

"that you know anything more

about us."

"It isn't necessary," said
Harry, "but I want to know."

Chase started to voice an ob-
jection but Harry broke in.

"And don't tell me you have
more persuasive ways of making
me talk. You can use force but
it'll take time. Your time is val-
uable or you wouldn't have
hustled me over here as fast as
you did. So let's not waste your
time. You tell me, then I'll tell
you."

Thompson glanced at his tw T o
compatriots. Their faces regis-
tered dissatisfaction. Their si-
lence said that Harry was right.
Time was valuable. They would
follow the path of least resist-
ance.

"Our point of origin," Mr.

Thompson began, "is Correylla,
roughly seven-eighths the size of
Earth, in the Syrybic Galaxy. It
is approximately ... in your fig-
ures . . . seventy-five trillion
miles distant."

"Must be quite a trip." Harry
tried to be placid.

Mr. Thompson was momentar-
ily amused. "Travel through
Time and Space is something we
take for granted. The farthest
corners of the Universe are ours
for the reaching. That is the
foremost reason for our visit to
your Earth. You might call us
Galactic Observers. You see, we
already control the twelve inhab-
ited planets in our own Galaxy.
And at this time we have no de-
sire to take on any more respon-
sibility than that. But neither
do we want interference from
another Galaxy . . . such as this
one!"

Harry was surprised. "You're
giving this world a lot of credit.
We've barely moved off the
Earth. What makes you think we
could cause your people any trou-
ble?"

"By merely projecting your-
selves into space you have elim-
inated the major obstacle to
space travel. Remember it took
thousands of years for someone
on your Earth to discover elec-
tricity. But observe the wonders
you have accomplished with it
in the relatively few years since
it was discovered. The same
principle applies to your con-
quest of space. We are not here
to do you harm, Mr. Payne. It

THE OBSERVERS

29

is merely our intention to warn
you, when the time comes, of the
dangers you face should you de-
cide to venture too far."

"For people who intend no
harm I'd say you and your
friends are putting on quite an
unconvincing show."

"I assure you, Mr. Payne, our
visit to Earth was intended pure-
ly for observational purposes!"

"What do you mean, was?"

Thompson's face was grim.
The easy chair that had accom-
modated his small roundish
frame so perfectly now appeared
to be uncomfortable for him. A
redness crept into his cheeks and
spread over his smooth tight
scalp.

"The fact is that your govern-
ment has known about us for
six months. Our exact where-
abouts has been a well guarded
secret . . . but they were inform-
ed of our presence here on
Earth."

"Informed! But who could
tell them ..."

Chase broke in impatiently.
"We are wasting time ! We must
get those recordings!"

The interruption was dismiss-
ed with a wave of Thompson's
hand.

"Your government was in-
formed by George Fisher."

"George Fisher!" Harry gulp-
ed.

"You see, Mr. Fisher . . . that
wasn't really his name, you un-
derstand . . . was one of us ... a
member of our observation team.
After we arrived here . . . well,

you might say he defected, gave
your government the benefit of
his somewhat limited knowl-
edge."

Harry whistled. "And because
of him your mission is no long-
er observational."

"That remains to be seen."

Harry leaned forward on the
sofa. "You have any ideas, Mr.
Thompson, about why he defect-
ed? I'm curious to know why a
man is unhappy enough with his
own lot to run away and put
himself in the hands of a civiliza-
tion that is in every way alien
to him."

Thompson's answer was brief
and deliberately ambiguous.
"Mr. Fisher was a traitor. What
more can be said of him?"

"So he didn't commit sui-
cide," Harry muttered.

"That's right, Mr. Payne."

"I take it you're not sure of
how much Fisher told the gov-
ernment before you got to him."

"Mr. Fisher's limitations were
familiar to us. It is the potential
of your own scientists now that
they have his information that
we are most concerned with."

Keep stalling, Harry remind-
ed himself . . . keep speculating,
guessing, theorizing, anything
for time.

"So you know the project that
Weapons Development is work-
ing on but you don't know how
much progress has been made.
And you want to place one of
your own people in there to find
out."

"Thanks to you, we have suc-
ceeded in doing just that."

30

AMAZING STORIES

Thompson smiled with satisfac-
tion, having kept his part of a
bargain. "Now about those re-
cordings . . *

"I'm not through asking ques-
tions."

"But I'm through answering
them, Mr. Payne. Tell us where
the recordings are."

Harry studied the clean
smooth surface of Thompson's
face. There was a gentleness in
his large round eyes. There was
also an unfriendliness. Harry
had to keep stalling. He knew
any answer he gave them would
shorten his life expectancy by
about thirty-five years.

"You've gotten me into a mess
of trouble, Mr. Thompson. I
think you owe me a little more.
My memory might prove clearer
if I knew what was going on at
Weapons Development."

Thompson glanced at his two
companions. They showed no
sign of dissent.

"Very well, Mr. Payne. For
some years now our people have
been working on a method of
reversing the polarity of the
atom. We have tried to create an
electro-magnetic field which
would repel rather than attract.
Once we are able to accomplish
this we can develop an instru-
ment capable of disturbing the
molecular structure of any object
in the universe."

"In other words ..." Harry
frowned at him, "a weapon cap-
able of disintegration?"

"Precisely!"

Harry sat there, stunned. A

THE OBSERVERS

few moments seemed hardly
enough to digest the knowledge
that Weapons Development was
working on the most incredibly
advanced weapon of all time.
And Mr. Thompson and com-
pany were out to sabotage it.
Their people could not afford to
allow another world to beat
them to the punch. Who con-
trolled this weapon controlled the
universe. Stalling the aliens was
more important than ever now.
He couldn't heighten the danger
to his own life. It wasn't worth
a lead nickel anyway. If it had
been Thompson wouldn't have
consented to tell him this much.
Someone else had wired
Paula's apartment. It was reas-
onable to assume it was someone
on his side.

" The recordings, please ! ! "
Boles was becoming very impa-
tient.

Harry looked up and found a
gun at his head. "The recordings
are at my office," he lied.

Thompson walked to the tele-
phone table and brought the in-
strument to him. "You will call
your secretary," he said, "and
tell her you have been detained at
lunch. You are sending Mr.
Chase to pick up the record-
ings."

Harry glanced around the
room. Paula was sulking at the
bar near the door. Drowning
her conscience, he thought. They
must have paid her a fortune to
sell out her own people. Boles
and Chase both had their guns
poised. Thompson picked up the
receiver and extended it to him.

31

There was no way out, no stall-
ing them any longer. To make a
break for it would be suicidal. In
the state of confusion his mind
was in he could think of only one
thing to do. When he reached
Miss Conway, he would have to
warn her somehow — a few des-
perate words and pray that she
would be alert enough to realize
he was in trouble and get the in-
formation to the authorities.

He took the phone and dialed.
He gave the Fort Dickson opera-
tor his office extension. He wait-
ed. The phone rang. It rang
again. Then three more times.
Damn that girl! Her coffee
breaks were extended vacations !

Finally the phone was picked
up. But the voice that answered
was male.

"Who is this?" Harry de-
manded.

The voice replied, "Colonel
Waters."

"This is Harry. I'm at Paula
Ralston's apartment . . . emer-
gency . . .!"

The three men were on top of
him. Chase smashed the butt of
his gun across Harry's knuckles.
The receiver fell to the floor.
Harry let out a pained groan as
Boles' gun butt struck him on
the temple. Thompson replaced
the receiver. Harry was on the
floor. He put his hands to his
head for protection as Chase sav-
agely kicked at him. His vision
blurred but he managed to see
that Paula was still at the bar
sipping a drink, sadistically en-
joying the whole show.

32

"He's no longer any use to
us," Thompson declared. "You
may do your job!"

Harry shook his head, fighting
to stay conscious. His vision
cleared long enough to see Chase
and Boles standing over him,
their guns pointed at either side
of his head.

There was a volley of deafen-
ing shots. There was smoke,
voices, people running in every
direction. More gunfire. Glass
shattering. Furniture knocked
over.

But Harry felt no pain.

When he looked again Chase
and Boles were no longer to be
seen. He caught a glimpse of
Thompson running for another
position of cover. A final gun-
shot brought him to the floor.

Harry struggled to a sitting
position. Then he saw Chase and
Boles dead on the floor beyond
the sofa. Half a dozen soldiers
were in the process of subduing
a swearing, clawing Paula Ral-
ston.

And in the doorway he saw
Miss Conway.

She looked incongruou
hell with a smouldering revolver
in her hand. She crossed the
room and knelt beside him. She
pulled him around to let his head
rest on the sofa.

"Harry! Harry," she whisper-
ed, brushing his hair back,
you hurt badly? What did they
do to you?"

He tried to get up.
"You stay right where you are,
honey." Her voice was soothing
and gentle. There was a soft,

AMAZING STORIES

compassionate light in her eyes.
No longer that dumb stare. She
leaned over and kissed him.
"There. You're going to be all
right."

"What the hell are you doing
here?" Harry bellowed.

"Now you just sit back and
relax. I'm just doing my job."

"Your jo ..." A low steady
wail rolled off his lips. "Oh, no!
Say it isn't so. Tell me I'm real-
ly dead. I know I deserve to be."

"I may be the world's lousiest
secretary, but I'm considered not
bad in the counter-intelligence
department."

Harry repeated the wail.

"We were afraid from the
time George Fisher turned him-
self over to the government," she
continued, "that his days were
numbered. But the longer he re-
mained alive the more apprehen-
sive his people would become. We
figured one day they'd make a

wrong move. And that would be
their big mistake. Well, their
move was to kill George Fisher
and try to get one of their own
agents into Weapons Develop-
ment. That meant exposing
themselves. It also meant you
had to be watched . . . among
others. That's where I came in."

"And playing it about as
dumb as I've ever seen."

She laughed. "Sounds like I
played the part a little too con-
vincingly."

She stood up and helped him
to his feet. "You're coming with
me."

"Where to? Hey, what are you
doing?"

"There's something about this
place that I don't like. I'm no sul-
try brunette, but I'm not a dumb
blonde either." She kissed him,
then took a last look at Paula's
place and lejd him out the door.
THE END

THE OBSERVERS

33

SHEPHERD OF
THE PLANETS

By ALAN MATTOX

ILLUSTRATOR SUMMERS

Rentier had a purpose in life. And
the Purpose in Life had Rentier.

THE star ship came out of
space drive for the last time,
and made its final landing on a
scrubby little planet that circled
a small and lonely sun. It came to
ground gently, with the cushion
of a retarder field, on the side
of the world where it was night.
In the room that would have
been known as the bridge on
ships of other days, instrument
lights glowed softly on Captain
Renner's cropped white hair, and
upon the planes of his lean,

34

strong face. Competent fingers
touched controls here and there,
seeking a response that he knew
would not come. He had known
this for long enough so that there
was no longer any emotional
impact in it for him. He shut off
the control panel, and stood up.

"Well, gentlemen/' he said,
"that's it. The fuel pack's gone!"

Beeson, the botanist, a rotund
little man with a red, unsmiling
face, squirmed in his chair.

"The engineers on Earth told

as it would last a lifetime," he
pointed out.

"If we were just back on
Earth," Thorne, the ship's doc-
tor, said drily, "we could tell
them that it doesn't. They could
start calculating again."

"But what does it mean?"
David asked. He was the young-
est member of the crew, signed
on as linguist, and librarian to
the ship.

"Just that we're stuck here —
where ever that is — for good!"
Farrow said bitterly.

"You won't have to run en-
gines anymore," Dr. Thorne com-
mented, knowing that remark
would irritate Farrow.

Farow glared at him. His nar-
row cheekbones and shallow eyes
were shadowed by the control
room lights. He was good with
the engines which were his
special charge, but beyond that,
he was limited in both sympathy
and imagination.

Captain Renner looked from
face to face.

"We were lucky to set down
safely," he said to them all. "We
might have been caught too far
out for a landing. It is night
now, and I am going to get some
rest. Tomorrow we will see what
kind of a world this is."

He left the control room, and
went down the corridor toward
his quarters. The others watched
him go. None of them made a
move to leave their seats.

"What about the fuel pack?"
David asked.

"Just what he said," Farrow

SHEPHERD OF THE PLANETS

answered him. It's exhausted.
Done for! We can run auxiliary
equipment for a long time to
come, but no more star drive."

"So we just stay here until
we're rescued," David said.

"A fine chance for that!" Far-
row's voice grew bitter again.
"Our captain has landed us out
here on the rim of the galaxy
where there won't be another
ship for a hundred years!"

"I don't understand the man,"
Beeson said suddenly, looking
around him belligerently. "What
are we doing out here anyway?"

"Extended Exploration," said
Thorne. "It's a form of being
put out to pasture. Renner's too
old for the Service, but he's
still a strong and competent man.
So they give him a ship, and a
vague assignment, and let him
do just about what he wants.
There you have it."

He took a cigar from his pock-
et, and looked at it fondly.

"While they last, gentlemen,"
he said, holding it up. He snip-
ped the end, and lit it carefully.
His own hair had grown grey in
the Service, and, in a way, the
reason for his assignment to the
ship was the same as Renner's.

"I think," he said slowly, "that
Captain Renner is looking for
something."

"But for what?" Beeson de-
manded. "He has taken us to
every out-of-the-way, backward
planet on the rim. And what
happens? We land. We find the
natives. We are kind to them.
We teach them something, and
leave them a few supplies. And

35

then Renner loses interest, and
we go on!"

"Perhaps it is for something
in himself," David offered.

"Perhaps he will find it here,"
Thorne murmured. "I'm going to
bed."

He got up from his seat.

David stood up, and went over
to one of the observation ports.
He ran back the radiation screen.
The sky outside was very black,
and filled with alien stars. He
could see absolutely nothing of
the landscape about them be-
cause of the dark. It was a poor
little planet. It hadn't even a
moon.

In the morning they opened up
the ship, and let down the land-
ing ramps. It was a very old
world that they set foot upon.
Whatever mountains or hills it
had ever had, had long ago been
leveled by erosion, so that now
there was only a vaguely undu-
lating plain studded with smooth
and rounded boulders. The soil
underfoot was packed and barren,
and there was no vegetation for
as far as they could see.

But the climate seemed mild
and pleasant, the air warm and
dry, with a soft breeze blowing.
It was probable that the breeze
would be always with them.
There were no mountains to
interfere with its passage, or
alter its gentle play.

Off to one side, a little stream
ran crystal clear over rocks and
gravel. Dr. Thorne got a sample
bottle from the ship, and went
over to it. He touched his fingers
to the water, and then touched

them to his lips. Then he filled
the sample bottle from the
stream, and came back with it.

"It seems all right," he said.
"I'll run an analysis of it, and
let you know as soon as I can."

He took the bottle with him
into the ship.

Beeson stood kicking at the
ground with the toe of his boot.
His head was lowered.

"What do you think of it?"
Renner asked.

Beeson shrugged. He knelt
down and felt of the earth with
his hands. Then he got out a
heavy bladed knife and hacked
at it until he had pried out a
few hard pieces. He stood up
again with these in his hands.
He tried to crumble them, but
they would not crumble. They
would only break into bits like
sun dried brick.

"It's hard to tell," he said.
"There seems to be absolutely
no organic material here. I
would say that nothing has
grown here for a long, long time.
Why, I don't know. The lab will
tell us something."

Renner nodded.

For the rest of the day they
went their separate ways; Ren-
ner to his cabin to make the
entries that were needed when
a flight was ended, even though
that ending was not intentional ;
Beeson to prowling along the
edge of the stream and pecking
at the soil with a geologist's
pick; and Farrow to his narrow
little world of engines where he
worked at getting ready the

36

AMAZING STORIES

traction machines and other
equipment that would be needed.
David set out on a tour of ex-
ploration toward the furthermost
nests of boulders. It was there
that he found the first signs of
vegetation. In and around some
of the larger groups of rocks, he
found mosses and lichens grow-
ing. He collected specimens of
them to take back with him. It
was out there, far from the ship,
that he saw the first animate life.
When he returned, it was
growing toward evening. He
found that the others had
brought tables from the ship,
and sleeping equipment, and set
it up outside. Their own quar-
ters would have beeen more com-
fortable, but the ship was always
there for their protection, if
they needed it, and they were
tired of its confinement. It was
a luxury to sleep outdoors, even
under alien stars.

Someone had brought food
from the synthetizer, and ar-
ranged it on a table. They were
eating when he arrived.

He handed the specimens of
moss and lichen to Captain Ren-
ner, who looked at them with
interest, and then passed them
on to Beeson for his study.
"Sir?" David said.
"What is it, David?" Captain
Renner asked.

"I think there are natives
here," David said. "I believe that
I saw one."

Renner's eyes lit up with in-
terest. He laid down his knife
and fork.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

SHEPHERD OF THE PLANETS

"It was just a glimpse," David
said, "of a hairy face peering
around a rock. It looked like one
of those pictures of a cave man
one used to see in the old texts."

Renner stood up. He moved a
little way away, and stood star-
ing out into the growing dark,
across the boulder studded plain.

'On a barren planet like this,"
he said, "they must lack so many
things!"

"I'd swear he almost looks
happy," Dr. Thorne whispered to
the man next to him. It hap-
pened to be Farrow.

"Why shouldn't he be?" Far-
row growled, his mouth full of
food. "He's got him a planet to
play with ! That's what he's been
aiming for — wait and see!"

The next few days passed
swiftly. Dr. Thorne found the
water from the little stream not
only to be potable, but extremely
pure.

Farow got his machinery un-
loaded and ready to run. Among
other things, there was a land
vehicle on light caterpillar treads
capable of running where there
were no roads and carrying a
load of several tons. And there
was an out and out tractor with
multiple attachments.

Beeson was busy in his labora-
tory working on samples from
the soil.

David brought in the one new
point that was of interest. He
had been out hunting among the
boulders again, and it was
almost dark when he returned.
He told Renner about it at the

37

supper table, with the others
listening in.

"I think the natives eat the
lichen," he said.

"I haven't seen much else they
could eat," Beeson muttered.

"There's more of the lichen
than you might think," David
said, "if you know where to look
for it. But, even at that, there
isn't very much. The thing is,
it looks like it's been cropped.
It's never touched if the plants
are small, or half grown, or
very nearly ready. But jus;
soon as a patch is fully mature,
it is stripped bare, and there
never seems to be any of it drop-
ped, or left behind, or wasted."
"If that's all they have to live
on," Thorne said, "they have it
pretty thin!"

The natives began to be seen
nearer to the camp. At first
there were just glimpses of them,
a hairy face or head seen at the
edge of a rock, or the sight of a
stocky figure dashing from boul-
der to boulder. As they grew
braver, they came out more into
the open. They kept their dis-
tance, and would disappear into
the rocks if anyone made a move
toward them, but, if no attention
was paid them, they moved about
freely.

In particular, they would
come, each evening, to stand in a
ragged line near one of the nests
of boulders. From there, they
would watch the crewmen eat.
There were never more than
twelve or fifteen of them, a
bandy legged lot, with thick,
heavy torsos, and hairy heads.

38

It was on one of these occa-
sions that Dr. Thorne happened
to look up.

"Oh, oh!" he said. "Here it
comes!"

Renner turned his head, and
rose to his feet. The other men
rose with him.

Three of the natives were
coming toward the camp. They
came along at a swinging trot,
a sense of desperation and ded-
icated purpose in their manner.
One ran slightly ahead. The
, other two followed behind him,
shoulder to shoulder.

Farrow reached for a ray gun
in a pile of equipment near him,
and raised it.

"No weapons!" Captain Ren-
ner ordered sharply.

Farrow lowered his arm, but
kept the gun in his hand.

The natives drew near enough
for their faces to be seen. The
leader was casting frightened
glances from side to side and
ahead of him as he came. The
other two stared straight ahead,
their faces rigid, their eyes
blank with fear.

They came straight to the
table. There they reached out
suddenly, and caught up all the
food that they could carry in
their hands, and turned and fled
with it in terror into the night.
Somebody sighed in relief.
"Poor devils!" Renner said.
"They're hungry!"

There was a conference the
following morning around one
of the tables.

"We've been here long enough

AMAZING STORIES

to settle in," Renner said. "It's
time we started in to do some-
thing for this planet." He looked
toward Beeson. "How far have
you gotten?" he asked.

Beeson was, as usual, brisk
and direct.

"I can give you the essentials,"
he said. "I can't tell you the
whole story. I don't know it. To
be brief, the soil is highly nitro-
gen deficient, and completely
lacking in humus. In a way, the
two points tie in together." He
looked about him sharply, and
then went on. "The nitrates are
easily leached from the soil.
Without the bacteria that grow
around certain roots to fix nitro-
gen and form new nitrates, the
soil was soon depleted.

"As to the complete lack of
organic material, I can hazard
only a guess. Time, oi course.
But, back of that, probably the
usual history of an overpopula-
tion, and a depleted soil. At the
end, perhaps they ate every-
thing, leaves, stems and roots,
and returned nothing to the
earth."

"The nitrates are replace-
able?" Renner asked.

Beeson nodded.

"The nitrates will have formed
deposits," he said, "probably
near ancient lakes or shallow
seas. It shouldn't be too hard to
find some."

Renner turned to Farrow.

"How about your depart-
ment?" he asked.

"I take it we're thinking of
farming," Farrow said. "I've got

equipment that will break up the
soil for you. And I can throw a
dam across the stream for
water."

"There are seeds in the ship,"
Renner said, his eyes lighting
with enthusiasm. "We'll start
this planet all over again!"

"There's still one thing,"
Beeson reminded him drily.
"Humus! Leaves, roots, organic
material! Something to loosen
up the soil, aerate it. Nothing
will grow in a brick."

Renner stood up. He took a
few slow paces, .and then stood
looking out at the groups of
boulders studding the ancient
plain.

"I see," he said. "And there's
only one place to get it. We'll
have to use the lichens and the
mosses."

"There'll be trouble with the
natives if you do," Thorne said.

Renner looked at him. He
frowned thoughtfully.

"You'll be taking their only
food," the doctor pointed out.

"We can feed them from the
synthetizer," Renner answered.
"We know that they will eat it."

"Why bother?" Farrow asked
sourly.

Renner turned on him.

"Will the synthetizer handle
it?" he asked.

"I guess so," Farrow grum-
bled. "For awhile, at least. But
I don't see what good the natives
are to us."

"If we take their food,"
Renner said, "we're going to
feed them. At least until such
time as the crops come in, and

SHEPHERD OF THE PLANETS

39

they are able to feed them-
selves !"

"Are you building this planet
for us, or for them?" Farrow
demanded.

Renner turned away.

They put out cannisters of
food for the natives that night.
In the morning it was gone.
Each evening, someone left food
for them near their favorite
nest of rocks. The natives took
it in the dark, unseen.

Gradually, Captain Renner
himself took over the feeding.
He seemed to derive a personal
satisfaction from it. Gradually,
too, the natives began coming
out into the open to receive it.
Before long, they were waiting
for him every evening as he
brought them food.

The gathering of the lichen
began. They picked it by hand,
working singly or in pairs,
searching out the rocks and hid-
den places where it grew. From
time to time they would catch
glimpses of the natives watch-
ing them from a distance. They
were careful not to get close.

On one of these occasions,
Captain Renner and David were
working together.

"Do they have a language?"
Captain Renner asked.

"Yes, sir," David answered.
"I have heard them talking
among themselves."

"Do you suppose you can
learn it?" Renner asked. "Do
you think you could get near
enough to them to listen in?"

"I could try," David offered.

40

"Then do so," Renner said.
"That's an assignment."

Thereafter David went out
alone. He found that getting
close to the natives was not too
difficult. He tried to keep out of
their sight, while still getting
near enough to them to hear
their voices. They were un-
doubtedly aware of his presence,
but, with the feeding, they had
lost their fear of the men, and
did not seem to care.

Bit by bit he learned their
language, starting from a few
key roots and sounds. It was a
job for which he had been
trained.

Time passed rapidly, and the
work went on. Captain Renner
let his beard grow. It came out
white and thick, and he did not
bother to trim it. The others,
too, became more careless in
their dress, each man following
his own particular whim. There
was no longer need for a taut
ship.

Farrow threw a dam across
the little stream, and, while the
water grew behind it, went on
to breaking up the soil with his
machines. Beeson searched for
nitrate, and found it. He
brought a load of it back, and
this, together with the moss and
lichen, was chopped into the soil.
In the end, it was the lichen
that was the limiting factor.
There was only so much of it,
so the size of the plot that they
could prepare was small.

"But it's a start," Renner said.
"That's all we can hope for this
first year. This crop will furnish

AMAZING STORIES

more material to be chopped
back into the soil. Year by year
it will grow until the inhabitants
here will have a new world to
live in!"

"What do you expect to get
out of it?" Farrow asked bit-
ingly.

Renner's eyes glowed with an
inner light.

Renner's beard grew with the
passing months until it became
a luxurient thing. He let his
hair go untrimmed too, so that,
with his tall, spare figure, he
took on a patriarchal look. And,
with the passing months, there
came that time which was to be
spring for this planet. The first
green blades of the new planting
showed above the ground.

The natives noticed it with
awe, and kept a respectful dis-
tance.

That evening, when it was
time for the native's feeding, the
men gathered about. Little by
little the feeding had become a
ritual, and they would often go
out to watch it. It was always
the same. Renner would step for-
ward away from the others a
little way, the load of food in his
hands The natives would come
to stand before him in their
ragged line, their leader a trifle
to the front. There they would
bow, and begin a chant that had
become a part of the ritual with
the passing time.

With the first green planting
showing, there was a look of
deep satisfaction in Renner's
eyes as he stepped forward this
night. His hair had grown quite
long by now, and his white beard
blew softly in the constant wind.
There was a simple dignity about
him as he stood there, his head
erect, and looked upon the na-
tives as his children.

The natives began their chant.
It became louder.

"Tolava — " they said, and
bowed.

As usual, Farrow was nettled.

"What does the man want any-
way?" he asked out loud. "To be
God?"

Renner could not help but hear
him. He did not turn his head.

"David!" he said.

"Sir?" David asked, stepping
forward.

"You understand their lan-
guage now, don't you?" Renner
asked.

"Yes, sir," David said.

"Then translate!" Renner
ordered. "Out loud, please, so that
that the others may hear!"

"Tolava — " the natives chant-
ed, bowing.

"Tolava — our father," David
said, following the chant. Sud-
denly he swallowed, and hesitat-
ed for a moment. Then he
straightened himself, and went
sturdily on. "Tolava — our father
— who art from the heavens —
give us — this day — our bread!"

THE END

SHEPHERD OF THE PLANETS

41

SCIENCE

AND

SUPERMAN

AN INQUIRY

By POUL ANDERSON

Every s-f fan knows and enjoys
Poul Anderson's stories. Now
the brilliant young writer pre-
sents a startling theory in an
essay on the development of
man . . . You may agree with
Anderson's ideas ... we don't
... but they are certainly
worth thinking about.

THERE is an old saying,
which I have used before
but cannot resist bringing forth
again, to the effect that: "The
optimist thinks this is the best
of all possible worlds; the pes-
simist is afraid he's right." It's
as applicable to the biological
future of the human race as it
is to politics and personal rela-
tionships.

Since our ancestors, a million
or so years ago, were presumably
rather apish creatures, it seems
natural to extrapolate the curve
of their development and predict
that our descendants will be very
near to gods. It's a fascinating
concept, which I've played with
myself. Olaf Stapledon, Stanley
Weinbaum, and A. E. van Vogt
produced science fiction classics
on this theme. But I think we're
also obliged to take a hard, crit-
ical look at the underlying as-

42

sumptions. If nothing else, such
a re-examination often suggests
new fictional treatments of an
apparently exhausted motif.

We can begin by dismissing
any Homo Superior born of nor-
mal human parents. The three
writers I mentioned made some
quasi-mystical postulates to
justify this in their stories:
unity of life and so on. That's
legitimate science fiction, of
course; it might even, conceiv-
ably, be true. But scientific spec-
ulation proper must ground it-
self firmly on what we know.
And all our present knowledge
denies the possibility of such a
birth.

True, there have been some
fairly spectacular hereditary ab-
normalities. One thinks of color-
blindness, hemophilia, or the
English "porcupine man." On
examination these cases turn out

to involve a very few genes,
usually a single one. Following
such a mutation, the whole genet-
ic complex then readusts itself
often requiring some gener-
ations to do so. For example,
when industrial melanism* was
first observed in the British
peppered moth, the dark new va-
riety still had some white spots ;
now it doesn't. In other words,
the mutated characteristic of
black coloration was at first only
relatively dominant, but has
since become almost absolutely
so. Incidentally, it's quite un-
usual for a mutation to be a dom-
inant in any degree.

Man's genetic structure is ex-
ceedingly complicated. Some-
thing like twenty separate genes
are involved in as simple a mat-
ter as hair color. (The same
genes also participate in other
combinations governing other
traits.) "Improbable" is hardly
the word for all the billions of
exactly correct simultaneous al-
terations which would have to
occur at the same instant, to
produce a zygote of a new
species without throwing the
genetic balance hopelessly out of
kilter. Water will freeze on a hot
stove long before any such thing
happens.

And even if a Homo Superior
embryo should somehow be
formed, I doubt very much if it
would survive. Its enzyme and
hormone systems would be too

**n areas where coal dust has blackened
the landscape, dark coloration has become
advantageous and has actually developed.

different from the mother's. It
would probably die and be re-
sorbed before it even got to the
fetus stage.

No, unless that "unity of life"
really exists — there's no evi-
dence for it, and plenty against
it — evolution will have to pro-
ceed in man as gradually as in
every other genus. The question
before the house is, Will it
actually do so?

If asked what improvements
could be made in our race, we
think at once of getting rid of
the vermiform appendix. Those
who have considered the subject
a bit more will advocate some
changes in the spine, such as
fusing the bottom few verte-
brae; and they will ask for a
rupture-proof abdomen and
properly draining sinuses. Any-
one with flat feet can wistfully
imagine a stronger arch. The
little toe, while harmless, has no
real function and would seem
fated to disappear ; likewise body
hair, except the pubic and axil-
lary — even this is sexual display
only and could be dispensed with
— and the male beard. Beyond
gross anatomy, we could use eyes
less subject to optical deforma-
tion, veins less likely to go var-
icose on us, arteries which don't
harden or blow out. We would
like immunity to all diseases, in-
cluding the mental ones. This
latter development presupposes
not only a well-adjusted bio-
chemistry, unable to develop
those imbalanced which ap-
parently cause schizophrenia,
but a nervous system too stable

SCIENCE AND SUPERMAN: AN INQUIRY

43

for neurosis. Enormous power of
intellect's almost a defining
quality of the traditional super-
man. Most people would in ad-
dition make him less selfish and
predatory than today's human-
kind.

These and similar traits are
straightforward developments
from man-as-we-know-him. We
can now walk around our Homo
Superior and hang totally new
powers such as telepathy and
conscious control of all body
functions on him, like ornaments
on a Christmas tree. But I do
not plan to discuss these. All the
arguments that followed will ap-
ply equally well to such specula-
tive characteristics.

One small but important ob-
jection can be raised at once to
our picture of superman. Quite
a few of his differences from us
are desirable only in the context
of our own social and technolog-
ical culture. The human foot, for
example, is perfectly well adap-
ted for walking on soft earth.
Hard pavements and badly de-
signed shoes bring on fallen
arches, not any inherent defi-
ciency. Arteriosclerosis, some
mental disease, and various
other forms of breakdown seem
to be closely connected with diet,
exercise, and/or nervous strain.
It would make far more sense to
adjust our mode of living than
to wait for evolution. And this
is doubtless what we will do,
albeit unconsciously: for who
believes that the present-day
form of civilization will last for-
ever ?

44

Certain other goals are just
plain impossible, e.g. permanent
natural immunity to all diseases.
Bacteria and viruses evolve too.
After a few years of wonder
drugs, we are beginning to see
wonder drug-proof germs. Im-
agine a strain of man suddenly
appearing, with metabolism so
alien that no existing micro-
organism could live in him. How
long would it take first one, then
two, then many germ species to
develop adaptations which would
enable them to use this free
lunch counter !

We do have many built-in
flaws, such as our sinuses, which
try to drain straight out of our
faces as if we were still quadru-
peds. But at this point our own
cleverness intervenes. Sanitation
makes unnecessary any degree
of natural immunity to a host
of diseases. Immunization rein-
forces our inborn defenses
against most others. Surgery re-
stores the slipped spinal disc,
drains the inflamed cavity,
patches up the hernia. And now
a chemotherapeutic arsenal is
being accumulated, which will
doubtless before long cure such
maladies as schizophrenia. We
shall have more to say later
about the role of the doctor ; for
the time being, the most unim
inative extrapolation of medical
progress will show us that there
is probably no biological prob-
lem which we must solve by ev-
olution. True, it would be con-
venient not to get appendicitis,
but it is no longer a question of

AMAZING STORIES

life and death. And natural se-
lection works through differen-
tial survival — the relative num-
ber of descendants which an
organism has — not through mi-
nor individual afflictions.

Mutatis mutandis, the same
argument applies to great mus-
cular strength, hawklike eyes,
super-fast reactions, and similar
Boy Scout ideals. We have ma-
chines (or will have them, in the
foreseeable future) which can
so far outdo us in all these re-
spects that there is no evolution-
ary point in our own improve-
ment.

If civilized man is under no
pressure to develop much further
physically, and therefore ap-
parently will not do so, what
about his mental capacity? What
use is his brain power to man?
It has enabled him to become the
supreme animal on Earth ... at
least, outside the microscopic
realm. But what competition is
left? Only the harshest struggle
between individuals, prolonged
for many generations, would now
give any noticeable advantage to
the genius over the average man.
(It would also put a premium on
innate ruthlessness. so that the
eventual superman would be an
even meaner cuss than his twen-
tieth century ancestor.) Such
highly personal struggles are
a rare and short-lived historical
phenomenon. It tends to be whole
organizations, whole countries,
empires, and societies, which
clash. Our much-touted Ameri-
can Free Enterprise, to the ex-
tent that it has ever existed at

all has involved companies far
more than single persons.

Even given a pure anarchy,
the strong, intelligent men will
quickly gather followers and
build up disciplined groups. The
superior clan or gang — superior
more by virtue of effective or-
ganization than gifted individ-
uals — wins out. Historical cases
in point include the medieval
Icelandic republic and our own
hillbillies. And after a relatively
short time, a still larger organi-
zation (the Norwegian crown,
the state government) stepped
in and knocked the feudists'
heads together.

But will not competition be-
tween groups put a premium on
brains, if only in the leading
classes? Not much of one, I'm
afraid. We are also developing
artificial supplements to our own
intelligence. The oldest of these
is probably writing; the abacus
and the slide rule are venerable
enough ; now we have electronic
computers, tomorrow we will
have Lord "knows what. Once
again, a battery of specialized
tools can do a job better and
quicker then slowly evolving
flesh. Victory will go to the side
with the best robots. Insofar as
human qualities are important,
in war or less violent conflict,
they tend to be courage and
steadiness of purpose rather
than intellectual complexity.

What about intrasocietal com-
petition? The qualities empha-
sized by it vary from culture to
culture, but in general — almost

SCIENCE AND SUPERMAN: AN INQUIRY

45

by definition — ability at politick-
ing and at sliding between cran-
nies in the rules makes you
richer and more powerful than
ability to think abstractly. Even
the classic Chinese civil service
system laid value on memoriza-
tion rather than originality.

In fact, throughout past his-
tory, any victorious organization
soon begins to discourage crea-
tivity. The people on top are
satisfied with the status quo and
do their best to freeze it; their
underlings slide meekly enough
into a groove which offers, at the
minium, status security. If the
organization happens to be an
empire, it takes outside invasion
to destroy the ultimate petrified
culture, which otherwise (as in
Egypt and China) persists vir-
tually changless for thousands of
years.

Seidenberg's Posthistoric Man
goes so far as to suggest that
the world society of the future
will, in the course of millennia,
destroy first individuality and
then consciousness itself. I my-
self doubt matters will ever get
that far. If nothing else, secular
changes in climate, soil, etc., will
at last force the culture to
change, or break it down and
thus make room for something
new. However, it cannot be de-
nied that there is a strong anti-
intellectual tendency in all civ-
ilization. There is some reason
to think that the average IQ may
already be dropping by an esti-
mated ten points per generation.
We must come back to this later,

under the general topic of dys-
genics.

Civilized man will not be quite
static biologically. Certain at-
rophies can be expected to con-
tinue, such as the dwindling of
the appendix and the little toe.
When an organ is no longer use-
ful, when there is no longer any
reason to have it in good shape,
then natural selection ceases to
operate on it, ceases to weed out
the occasional bad mutations.
The organ accumulates these,
gets progressively more degen-
erate, and finally vanishes. Med-
icine will hasten this day by
saving those people with really
bad appendices, who would other-
wise not have survived to repro-
duce. But apart from such minor
clearing up of unfinished busi-
ness, I don't see evolution doing
much to improve civilized hu-
manity.

To be sure, nowadays it may
seem a rather big assumption
that civilization will endure. If
it doesn't, if we all go back to the
primitive and stay there, then I
suppose we can look for radical,
if gradual, development of our
bodies, along the lines already
discussed. I doubt, though, if our
brains would evolve much fur-
ther: even the crudest savages
have enough intelligence to cope
with any forseeable wild beasts
or change of climate.

Thus we seem to have a choice
of retaining our scientific cul-
ture-basis, and — at best — im-
proving very little biologically;
or going back to the woods and
developing some truly fine bi-

46

AMAZING STORIES

pedal bodies, but no particularly
dazzling intellects.

Wait, objects a Shavian in the
audience. You haven't said a
thing about the third possibility.
Let's keep our machines, but
breed our own supermen.

The first retort to that pro-
posal is: Why? We have already
shown that scientific man does-
n't really need to evolve. A
glance at the current headlines
may provoke you into saying we
could use some brains. But it
isn't our intellects which have
failed us today; hydrogen war-
head missiles and strategic
analyses are tremendous intel-
lectual achievements. It's our at-
titudes, our culture if you like,
which are at fault, and this is
not in the province of biological
evolution.

Now it would certainly be nice
to have well-designed sinuses
and so on. (The reader will have
deduced that I live on a sea-
coast.) It might be even nicer to
have an IQ of 400, if such a
number means anything. ... Or
would it? The work of Renshaw
and others, not to mention tra-
ditional Christian, Hindu, and
Buddhist disciplines, have prov-
en we're nowhere near realiz-
ing our existing potentialities,
either physical or mental. It
makes no sense to tinker with
our structure until we know its
limitations — and these we have
not yet touched.

Futhermore, I would rather
have a few aches and scars, even
a shorter life, and my civil lib-
erties, than the essentially totali-

SCIENCE AND SUPERMAN: AN INQUIRY

tarian existence required by any
of these man-breeding schemes.
You need only sketch out a few
of the compulsions involved to
see what I mean.

Then there's the fact that we
don't have enough knowledge or
wisdom to undertake such a proj-
ect. We have bred plenty of
species for this or that set of
characteristics, often with great
exactitude. The typical result
has been a freak unable to sur-
vive except with elaborate hu-
man care: a cabbage, a pouter
pigeon, a Holstein cow. Some of
the less throughly bred animals
can go wild successfully, but
then they take only a few gener-
ations to shed their human-im-
posed traits and revert to the
efficient form of dingo, alley cat,
mustang, razorback. I doubt very
much if we'd have better luck
breeding for, say, high intellect.
We'd probably get an inferior
sort of computer, devoid of vigor
and emotional warmth. I have
already pointed out that genes
seem to operate in complexes,
rather than singly ; their delicate
balance is not lightly to be tam-
pered with.

Finally, even granting us a
perfect knowledge of genetics,
an ability to design any sort of
man we want and make him
viable, there's still the question
of what we do want. It seems all
too likely to me that the artifi-
cially created "superman" would
be a monster tailored to an ide-
ology. He might be too gentle to
fight — and therefore too effete to

47

explore, create, and reform. He
might represent the attainment
of the obscene Soviet goal, men
with an instinctive need to work
for society. Where I come from,
we call 'em ants.

It seems to me that true con-
servatism, as opposed to re-
action, consists in the belief that
one man, or one generation, can
at best make only a small con-
tribution to the accumulated
wisdom of the race. If we expand
this idea to mean the biological
experience of a billion years, we
will be cautious about all these
eugenic schemes. We will even
be cautious about plans at some
future date, to knock undesirable
genes right out of the germ
plasm. I suppose there is no ob-
jection to eliminating the ap-
pendix and similar minor im-
provements, intended merely to
strengthen the humanness we
already possess. Even this is
only worthwhile if it can be done
without regimenting individuals.
And beyond this, we can too
easily get oursleves in trouble.

The foregoing arguments re-
fer only to the positive side of
eugenics. There is a negative
aspect, far more serious and ur-
gent, which is already with us.
I refer to species degeneration.
Mutation (which will go on at
an increased rate in the future,
thanks to our recklessness with
radiations) is nearly always for
the worse rather than the better.
There are far more ways for
such a random process to do
things wrong than to do them
right. Until fairly recently, the

48

most disastrous results of this
were kept out of the race. The
victims died early, or they were
sterile, or if they reproduced it
was at a much lower rate than
the healthy norm. But nowdays
our civilization has to some ex-
tent eliminated natural selection.
I have said that men don't need
to become any faster or stronger
than they are ; but under modern
conditions, if these outlast the
Atomic Age, men don't even
need to be that good. A slow,
ill-coordinated, dim-witted oaf,
who wouldn't have lasted ten
years in a forest unless some
normal man took him on as a
slave, can now become a televis-
ion executive.

Still more insidious and im-
portant are the effects of med-
icine. The child who gets an old
man's illness like cancer can be
saved— to pass on his defect.
The sterile woman can undergo
operations to create fertility—
and how many of her descend-
ants will need the same opera-
tion? Soon the man who goes
insane under moderate pressure
will be returned to society, with
a bottle of pills to make him as
good as new. Eventually, no
doubt, even the congenital idiot
can be propped up with chemi-
cals ; this has already been done
in the case of cretinism.

I have sketched out the proc-
ess by which organs and func-
tions, no longer needed for
survival, will degenerate and
atrophy. It works just the same
for strength, resistance, and in-

AMAZING STORIES

telligence. Lately some children,
inoculated against diphtheria,
have been getting the disease
anyway: they come from an
extremely susceptible line, which
without vaccination would never
have lasted long enough to
develop its susceptibility to the
present degree.

I say nothing against the doc-
tor who repairs the damage of
accident and war. If anything,
this favors the race, since strong
and active people are probably
slightly more exposed to such in-
juries. Nor do I object to ordi-
nary sanitation, since this only
restores a sparseness of patho-
gens which has always marked
unruined nature. But if we keep
on supplying our hereditarily
unfit with artificial aids, and
then turning them loose to
breed, at last the entire species
will need such help . . . and be as
sickly, crippled, and defective as
ever in its past. If then that
elaborate, overwhelmingly ex-
pensive medical system breaks
down, humanity will be kaput.
This consequence of simple
genetic law is no more equivocal
than any engineering prediction.

The answer is not the murder
of the unfit, nor the denial of
care to them, but their sterili-
zation : a quick and painless
procedure which does no harm
to the sexual function. It may
seem an infringement of their
rights; but if we can put ty-
phoid carriers under certain
mild restrictions, why not the
carriers of childhood cancer?

Various compensations, such as
money, could be granted these
unfortunates. As a matter of
fact, some foreign countries and
American states do have laws
governing certain cases, chiefly
mental deficiency. We need only
expand the precedent.

It will, of course, be a knotty
problem to define "unfitness." I
would say that those are unfit
who develop certain diseases and
defects prior to the age of about
forty. (What happens afterward
makes no evolutionary differ-
ence, since nearly everyone has
finished reproducing by then.)
W T hat these troubles are, though,
is a somewhat open question.
Hemophilia, yes; but bad teeth?
And if so, how bad? I suggest
that the basic criterion be:
"Would this person have a rea-
sonable chance of surviving and
reproducing to the age of forty,
under more or less 'natural' con-
ditions?"

Inevitably, a degree of arbi-
trariness remains. "Art, like
morality," said G. K. Chesterton,
"consists in drawing the line
somewhere." The important
thing is that we do draw a
reasonable line. We needn't do it
at once ; but neither can we wait
many more centuries.

The evolutionary prospect for
man is, I think, one of rather
small change for the better, pro-
vided that he does not realize his
all too great chances for degen-
eration. What we do now to avert
the latter seems a good test of
our worthiness for the former, a
million years hence. THE END

SCIENCE AND SUPERMAN: AN INQUIRY

49

I am adequate. And when I want
a little more than quiet sat-
isfaction, I can probe out
and destroy one of my neigh-
bor's Walls perhaps, or a piece
of his warner. And then we
will fight lustily at each oth-
er for a little while from our
Strongholds, pushing the de-
struction buttons at each other

in a kind of high glee. Or I can
just keep home and work out
some little sadistic pleasure on
my own. And on the terms the
flesh-man wanted— truth, beauty,
love — I'm practically sure there
is no Happiness Machine out
there anywhere at all. I'm almost
sure there isn't.

THE END

COMING NEXT MONTH

Another action-packed complete novel by Alan Nourse will be
featured in the December issue of AMAZING.

- <u#*o*rra &**$mp*H

MAZING

Star Surgeon is the exciting
and deeply moving story of
a young alien from Garv II
whose sole purpose in life is
to wear the scarlet cape and
star of a surgeon in the ser-
vice of Hospital Earth, admin-
istering to the medical needs
throughout the Galaxy. His
very alienness, his sensitivity
and his complete dedication
make him the perfect target
for greedy and selfish Earth-
men who will stop at nothing
to prevent his dream from
becoming a reality.

IN ADDITION: An unusual
and compelling story, Knights
of the Dark Tower, by Wilson
Kane. One of your all-time
favorites, Paul Fairman, will
be back with a short-short, A Great Night in the Heavens. And you
can look forward to many more short stories plus all of our regular
features.

Remember the December AMAZING goes on sale at all newsstands

November 10th. Make sure you get a copy by reserving it with

your newsdealer today.

138

by S. E. COTTS

ONE AGAINST herculum. By Jerry Sohl. nu pp. Ace Books. Paper:
35*.

Jerry Sohl is another example of S-F fan turned writer. He has
been an avid reader since the early days of the Gernsback pulps. Now
the tangible results of this long exposure to the milieu of the future
can be seen in his latest novel, and quite an original one it is.

Overpopulation has become such a problem in the galaxy that
citizens must spend ten years on one of the domed outpost worlds to
gain the right to go back and live on their own planets. Advance-
ment on these worlds is based on the yearly tests given by machines
—a seemingly incorruptible system. Then one candidate, Alan
Demuth, finds out that graft and intrigue exist even there. Thwarted
in his rightful attempt to advance, he applies for a crime license.
Under this, he is given twenty-four hours to commit his crime, or
suffer the penalty himself.

Apart from some occasional stiffness in the dialogue, this is a com-
mendable book. Mr. Sohl has paced his action so skillfully that he
accomplishes all he set out to do, even though his novel is unusually
short.

tomorrow times seven. By Frederik Pohl. 160 pp. Ballantine Books.
Paper: 35$.

This is the latest collection of "Pohl-ianna" — seven stories that
have appeared in various magazines, brought together for the first
time between covers. The book is such a treasure house that it is hard
to know what to applaud first.

Perhaps the most outstanding feature is Pohl's own brand of
humor which provides the main tone of the volume. He does not
try to force it on the reader by blunt or obvious satire. It is humor

139

of a far more elusive kind. As nearly as it can be pinned down, it
seems to rely on taking some of Earth's seedier characters and put-
ting them in contact with some of the most original outworlders this
reviewer has ever seen. Thus, in "Survival Kit," we follow the for-
tunes of a petty crook as he tries to make a dishonest dollar out of a
time traveler. In "The Gentle Venusian," an alcoholic survey man
from Earth has a run-in with the law on Venus, where the creatures
spend their entire lives playing games. In "The Day of the Boomer
Dukes/' a New York gang collides with another time traveler.

The spice and originality of these ideas are further enhanced by
the author's invention of certain delicious words for names of men
and objects, and by the contrasting dialogue between the Earth peo-
ple and the Spacers. And if in the ends of most of the stories, the
aliens seem to get the best of us or have the last word, no one can
really object because it is all such good fun.

secret of the LOST RACE. By Andre Norton. 132 pp. Ace Books.
Paper: 35f.

In this novel, Miss Norton attempts a more complex subject than
is usual with her; unfortunately, she does not completely succeed.
She gives us her usual high standard as far as the adventure aspects
of the story go, but the reasons behind the adventure don't carry the
excitement and conviction that have become her hallmarks.

What we have is a chase to end all chases. The hero, a young man
named Joktar, seems to be the sole object of a search and attack by
all the forces of the galaxy. He runs and plans and tricks and fights
constantly, all without knowing why he seems to be the object of
everyone's hatred. As mentioned before, the author generates plenty
of suspense and puts her hero in some interesting locales. But when
we discover the reasons behind all this activity, they seem strangely
unexciting and anticlimactic. She hasn't left herself enough time or
space to make the reader really believe or care.

140

you say

Dear Editor:

May I add these footnotes to the excellent article by Isaac Asimov :
"The Unused Stars" (July Amazing.) First, Astor and Pollux were
in mythology the twin sons of Jupiter and Leda, and should not be
confused by readers with the Romulus and Remus of Roman proto-
history.

Second, as to Regulus in Leo (also called cor leonis, "heart of the
lion"). Since Regulus more nearly follows the course of the sun
through the zodiac than does any other prominent star, may not the
ancients have named this star "the little kind" as a sort of second-
lyre player to the great Apollo?

The last of these remarks within the realm of naked-eye astronomy
concerns the practice of outlining constellations and asterisms by
"drawing lines" from star to star. The age of star names must fre-
quently be measured in millennia — time enough for apparent shift
in position of some stars. Not enough time, perhaps, for significant
change in man's innate perceptivity ; but time enough, possibly, for
an increasing opacity in Earth's atmosphere to obscure those con-
figurations in depth and form among the star masses and dust clouds
of the night sky which were so full of portent to people of another
time. Occasionally on the clearest of nights one may sense a bison
shape in Taurus that is far different from the outline of that con-
stellation shown in any handbook for stargazers. Sometimes, in
season and with luck, the most sophisticated may see within and
around the northern cross some hint of that feathered beauty which
his ancestors may have seen more clearly as the south-seeking swan.

Claire Beck
1142 N. Oak St.
Ukia, California

• Thank you for some interesting (and nicely put!) speculations
on the constellations.

141

Dear Editor :

Being an artist, I can greatly appreciate the covers and interior
illustrations in Amazing. I've been reading s-f for eight years and
by now I'm pretty disgusted wtih the corny illustrations. However,
your magazine offers first-rate pictures with first-rate stories. Let's
have more of it.

I think you should have a few cartoons each month to add still
another department to your already great magazine. Something to
illustrate the problems encountered in future exploitations.

Chris Roe

710 Somerset Ave.

Taunton, Mass.

• Good— really good— s-f cartoons are hard to come by. When
and if we get 'em, we'll run 'em.

Dear Editor:

I was particularly interested in the article, "The Unused Stai
by Isaac Asimov which appeared in the July Amazing. I've been an
amateur astronomer of sorts for six or seven years.

I think Mr. Asimov has made a few errors in his description of
Mizar and Alcor. First, he says that Mizar m< W and Alcor

means "the weak one." I would like to know where he got that trans-
lation. I have before me a copy of Field Book of the Skies, by Olcott
& Mayall. On page 62 it says: "The Arabs called these stars the
'Horse and Rider/ " They are referring to Mizar and Alcor. I have
found this translation in several astronomy books, but I have never
heard them called "veil" and "the weak one."

I would also like to comment on the part about Mizar and Alcor
being a test for good eyesight. If the Arabs used these stars as an
eyesight test, they must have had poor eyes. I have normal vision and
I can see Alcor almost anytime I see Mizar. I think it's as much a
matter of knowing where to look as having good eyesight. '!
should have used Epsilon Lyrae. That's a lot harder than Mizar.

Craig Wisch
11490 Bradhurst
Whittier, Calif.

• How about it, Isaac? Been to the optician lately?

Dear Editor:

I have subscriptions to both Fantastic and Amazing, but have one
complaint : quit using amateur writers who you call "brilliant new

j 42 AMAZING STORIES

writers/' Use a story by Ed Hamilton even if it does cost you a little
more.

Kenneth E. Cooper
4641 Clintonville Rd.
Pontiac, Mich.

• Even Hamilton was an amateur when he started. So were all
the others. How are we going to uncover new s-f writers unless we
expose a few to the critical readers ?

Dear Editor:

Recent issues seem to prove what I had hoped for but didn't really
expect. That Amazing could really come back to the standards set in
"the good old days."

The March issue was pretty special. Any issue that starts off a
new Doc Smith story can't help being rather remarkable. But as you
said, This was no one shot issue, all the featured stories since then
have been very fine and the most recent, Lloyd Biggie's "A Taste of
Fire" is as line a case of good old space opera as it has been my
pleasure to read in many a year.

You really seem to have shot the works on the matter of short
stories, which is something that wasn't even done in the old days.
The names of the writers in recent months are practically a who's
who of s-f writers. But of them all I would like to single out one for
special praise; Les Collins. He shows signs of becoming one of the
very best of the newer writers in the field.

Reading some real s-f again after these many years is enough to
make an old-timer such as myself almost admit that the good new
days just might be even better. You have surely made a good start
at it.

Clayton Hamlin
28 Earle Ave.
Bangor, Me.

• We're glad you mentioned Les Collins, Mr. Hamlin. He's a
talented young writer who merits recognition.

Dear Editor:

Nuetzell's work is great. Don't lose him. Keep up your long novels.
I'm looking forward to the sequel to "Hunters Out of Time" that

...OR SO YOU SAY 143

you said might be obtained soon. Where are those Frosty cartoons?
Please illustrate your novels a little more like your old novels.

Michael Carroll

112 Tobar

El Paso, Texas

• We have a brand new Nuetzell cover on tap and the sequel to
"Hunters Out of Time" is really in the works.

Dear Editor:

I hadn't had much experience with Amazing before, because most
of the time I have my nose in a book of s-f . Then my family got me
a year's subscription to the magazine. I glanced through it, not
thinking I'd find much, after all. I got a pleasant surprise and so
am now planning to spend a lot of time with Amazing.

This magazine is unquestionably one of the finest I've known.
I acquired my disgust for these things because of some of the lower-
rate, uninteresting material in some of them. This one has raised
my hopes for daily material.

Jonathan Yoder

1105 Monroe St.

Evanston, 111.

• Readers take note: No more racking your brains to find the
ideal gift for friends and family. A year's subscription to Amazing
will put you in solid!

Dear Editor:

Have just finished reading your June issue from cover to cover.
"A Handful of Stars," by Poul Anderson is one of the finest novels
I've read in three years of reading science fiction magazines.

Richard C. Keyes
San Francisco, Calif.

• You and all other Poul Anderson fans have a treat coming your
way when the December issue of Fantastic f Amazing's sister mag)
goes on sale next month. It will feature another great novel with
Dominic Flandry headlining the action.

Dear Editor :

I have just finished Lloyd Biggie's novel "A Taste of Fire." It is
one of the best I have ever read in Amazing. An entirely different
twist to the psionic powers plots. Keep up the good work in this
part of your magazine.

(Continued on page 146)

144 AMAZING STORIES

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... OR SO YOU SAY

(Continued from page 144)

The cover was excellent. Summers is to be congratulated on a
beautiful piece of work. Just one suggestion though : why don't you
have your covers illustrating the novel or a short story appearing
in that issue. One good illo does wonders for a story.
The short stories were all good.

I'm glad to see that one of my favorite authors, Murray Leinster
is going to appear in the next issue with a full-length novel. It should
be great.

Billy Joe Plott
P.O. Box 654
Opelika, Alabama

• We agree with you about illos, Mr. Plott. So much so that we
feel it would be a shame to turn down a fine s-f cover just because
it doesn't explicitly describe a particular scene in a story. You'll
find that the cover usually bears some connection to a story in the
issue. At times the representation is exact, at other times it is
symbolic or abstract, but nevertheless it's there.

Dear Editor:

It's always one of the nicest things to me to see that a highly
advertised Amazing Novel lived up to all of former expectations. I
am speaking of "Long Ago, Far Away," by Murray Leinster. Con-
gratulations. All in all, a very fine issue. Beautiful big, orange cover
also.

James W. Ayers

609 First St.

Attalla, Alabama

• Thank you very much. And thank you, too, Mr. Leinster.

PRINTED IN THE U. 8. A.

146

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