It didn't matter that he had quit. He was still one of the guilty. He had seen it in her eyes and in the eyes of others. John Rush smoothed the covers over his wife, tucking them in where her restless moving had pulled them away from the mattress. The twins moved beside him, their smooth hands following his in the task, their blind eyes intent on nothingness. "Thank you," he said softly to them, knowing they could not hear him. But it made him feel better to talk. His wife, Mary, was quiet. Her breathing was smooth, easy—almost as if she were sleeping. The long sleep. He touched her forehead, but it was cool. The doctor had said it was a miracle she had lived this long. He stood away from the bed for a moment watching before he went on out to the porch. The twins moved back...
Hale cut the motor as he swerved off the ancient plastic roadway. His one-man beetle thumped over the shoulder and, wheels whispering, coasted down the sandy, moonlit slope. It threaded between mighty linla cacti that had the size and shape of spaceships towering grey in the night. He braked it to a slanting stop and got out, a big, long-legged man who carefully kept the little car between himself and the Martian water temple that sat a short distance away where the dunes of the desert began. He thought, Strange to be afraid of getting shot by Randy. Weiss said, from the shadows, "Better get out of the moonlight, Hale. That beetle won't stop a blaster bolt." Hale crossed to the clot of men that made dark blurs under the linla . Weiss said, "What took you so long?" Hale said, "I had to get my gun recharged. Sturm was...
"I'm washed up," Preston growled bitterly. "They made a postman out of me. Me—a postman!" He crumpled the assignment memo into a small, hard ball and hurled it at the bristly image of himself in the bar mirror. He hadn't shaved in three days—which was how long it had been since he had been notified of his removal from Space Patrol Service and his transfer to Postal Delivery. Suddenly, Preston felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up and saw a man in the trim gray of a Patrolman's uniform. "What do you want, Dawes?" "Chief's been looking for you, Preston. It's time for you to get going on your run." Preston scowled. "Time to go deliver the mail, eh?" He spat. "Don't they have anything better to do with good spacemen than make letter carriers out of them?" The other man shook his head. "You won't get anywhere...
family "We won the Patagonian trust case," Greg Marson's jubilant tones filled the apartment—the hall in which he stood, the automatic kitchen in the rear, the living quarters, bedroom and nursery in between. But no one replied. Greg let his bulging, expensive briefcase slip to the floor, strode through the empty hall, poked his head into the kitchen, then entered the nursery. Dennis dashed to his father on two-year-old legs, and baby Phyllis gurgled twice in her pen. Greg wrinkled his nose in puzzlement, then punched the babyviewer. "You can cut service," he told the girl whose blonde head appeared on the screen. She nodded, counted on her fingers, and said: "That will be seven hours of viewing. No extras. The children behaved beautifully." The screen darkened. Greg stared foolishly at it, then turned to Dennis. "Where'd your mother go?" Dennis smiled vaguely, and began to tinker with his molecule...
It's not so much the decisions a man does make that mark him as a Man—but the ones he refrains from making. Like the decision "I've had enough!" ead locked the door and drew his pistol. Sergeant Rashid handed Premier Umluana the warrant. "We're from the UN Inspector Corps," Sergeant Rashid said. "I'm very sorry, but we have to arrest you and bring you in for trial by the World Court." If Umluana noticed Read's gun, he didn't show it. He read the warrant carefully. When he finished, he said something in Dutch. "I don't know your language," Rashid said. "Then I'll speak English." Umluana was a small man with wrinkled brow, glasses and a mustache. His skin was a shade lighter than Read's. "The Inspector General doesn't have the power to arrest a head of state—especially the Premier of Belderkan. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must return...
"Is there anything you want to make disappear?" Clarence Willoughby asked his mother. "A sink full of dishes is all I can think of. How will you do it?" "I just built a disappearer. All you do is cut the other end out of a beer can. Then you take two pieces of red cardboard with peepholes in the middle and fit them in the ends. You look through the peepholes and blink. Whatever you look at will disappear." "Oh." "But I don't know if I can make them come back. We'd better try it on something else. Dishes cost money." As always, Myra Willoughby had to admire the wisdom of her nine-year-old son. She would not have had such foresight herself. He always did. "You can try it on Blanche Manners' cat outside there. Nobody will care if it disappears except Blanche Manners." "All right." He put the disappearer...
Jeanne turned off the radio and went downstairs slowly, watching how the gold-shot curtains on the landing window caught the sunlight in a multitude of brilliant flecks. She shuddered slightly. Up there , the sun would scorch and sear. When she entered the living room, Aunt Anna looked up from her magazine, and Pop puffed on his calabash pipe, occasionally grunting with satisfaction. Mom looked at Jeanne hopefully, but soon turned away in confusion. She could not tell whether Jeanne wanted her to laugh or cry. "Well," said Jeanne, instantly hating the flippant way she tried to speak, "he got there." She never quite knew why, but whenever emotions threatened to choke her up she would slip on the mask, the carefree attitude, the what-do-I-care voice she was using now. "All the way— there ?" Aunt Anna fluttered her eyebrows, allowing herself a rare display of emotion. Mom smiled, laughed...
The old robot was one of the few remaining hand-made productions of the Rotulian era—an era which had seen each individually constructed robot reach the zenith in the various professional fields. An era totally unlike present-day Cornusia and its slip-shod electro-assembly line robotic productions. And indeed slip-shod were these productions, many Cornusians agreed. Loudly and indignantly they howled that the stupid Cornusian robots, conspicuous by their dress (multicolored sport coats, striped trousers, curling shoes and brightly feathered hats) did nothing but prance around all day and engage in horseplay. Not so the old robot.... From that long-ago day when his final bolts had been lovingly tightened by grimy machinists and tabac-chewing electronicians, he had been fabulous. Even the Rotulian elders, accustomed as they were to robotic achievements, had been stunned by his rapid rise in the fields of finance and economics. And even the irascible bearded banker, Tesmit Lowndes, after...
Brevet Lieutenant Commander David Farragut Strykalski III of the Tellurian Wing, Combined Solarian Navies, stood ankle deep in the viscous mud of Venusport Base and surveyed his new command with a jaundiced eye. The hot, slimy, greenish rain that drenched Venusport for two-thirds of the 720-hour day had stopped at last, but now a miasmic fog was rising from the surrounding swampland, rolling across the mushy landing ramp toward the grounded spaceship. Visibility was dropping fast, and soon porto-sonar sets would have to be used to find the way about the surface Base. It was an ordinary day on Venus. Strike cursed Space Admiral Gorman and all his ancestors with a wealth of feeling. Then he motioned wearily to his companion, and together they sloshed through the mud toward the ancient monitor. The scaly bulk of the Tellurian Rocket Ship Aphrodite loomed unhappily into the thick air above the two...
They could eat a horse, only luckily there was none ... it might have eaten them first! ellman plucked the last radish out of the can with a pair of dividers. He held it up for Casker to admire, then laid it carefully on the workbench beside the razor. "Hell of a meal for two grown men," Casker said, flopping down in one of the ship's padded crash chairs. "If you'd like to give up your share—" Hellman started to suggest. Casker shook his head quickly. Hellman smiled, picked up the razor and examined its edge critically. "Don't make a production out of it," Casker said, glancing at the ship's instruments. They were approaching a red dwarf, the only planet-bearing sun in the vicinity. "We want to be through with supper before we get much closer." Hellman made a practice incision in the radish, squinting along the top of the...
They came down to Mars ahead of the rest because Larkin had bought an unfair advantage—a copy of the Primary Report. There were seven of them, all varying in appearance, but with one thing in common; in the eyes of each glowed the greed for Empire. They came down in a flash of orange tail-fire and they looked first at the Martians. "Green," marveled Evans. "What a queer shade of green!" "Not important," Cleve, the psychologist, replied. "Merely a matter of pigmentation. White, yellow, black, green. It proves only that God loves variety." "And lord how they grin!" Cleve peered learnedly. "Doesn't indicate a thing. They were born with those grins. They'll die with them." Of the seven strong men, Larkin exuded the most power. Thus, his role of leader was a natural one. No man would ever stand in front of Larkin. He said, "To hell with color or...
[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories December 1948. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It seemed to be the same tree that kept getting in my way. I tried to go around it but it moved with me and I ran right into it. I found myself sprawled on my back and my nose was bleeding where I had hit it against the tree. Then I got up and ran again. I had to keep running. I didn't know why; I just had to. There was a puddle of water and I splashed through it and then slipped and fell into a thorny bush. When I got up there were scratches on my hands and face and chest. As yet I felt no pain. That wouldn't come for a while, after I had done a lot more...
Natural laws are cliches—"what must be must be," for instance—and what must be in this case was, of all people, Dr. Talbot! The first thirty years of Henry Talbot's life were the most promising. He was a bright student through high school, and in college his fellow students often used the word "brilliant" in discussing his mentality; occasionally even his instructors echoed them. Upon receiving his bachelor's degree, he went to graduate school and eventually received his Ph.D. as an experimental nuclear physicist. He applied for and got a research position at Oak Ridge National Laboratory, in the Electronuclear Research Division. Dr. Henry Talbot, brilliant young scientist, began his career enthusiastically, and ran into a brick wall. Rather, he crawled up to and against it, for it took several years for him to discover that his life's route lay not on an unobstructed downhill slide. Those years slithered past before...
There were five aboard the orbiting wheel in the sky—an American, a Russian, a Frenchman, an Englishman, an Indian. Their job was to keep watch—over each other. The Wheel held enough fission-fusion bombs to blast all of Earth but the five watchdogs saw to it that those bombs remained stored, a potential threat and no more to aggressors below. And then Gregson and Lal discovered the alien spaceship moored outside Supplementary Airlock One. It looked like no spaceship they had ever set eyes on before. Gregson, the American, said, "You see that thing out there?" The Indian, Lal, nodded and rubbed his aquiline nose reflectively. "I see it—but what is it?" "Spaceship of some kind," said Gregson. "Damndest-looking spaceship I've ever seen, though. Looks like it's moored near the airlock. Wonder if we have visitors?" He peered at the ship. It had little in common with the unstreamlined dumbbells Earth...
The world would beat a path to Elmer's door—but he had to go carry the door along with him! It was the darnedest traffic jam I'd ever seen in White Plains. For two blocks ahead of me, Main Street was gutter to gutter with stalled cars, trucks and buses. If I hadn't been in such a hurry to get back to the shop, I might have paid more attention. I might have noticed nobody was leaning on his horn. Or that at least a quarter of the drivers were out peering under their hoods. But at the time it didn't register. I gave the tie-up a passing glance and was turning up the side street toward Biltom Electronics—Bill-Tom, get it?—when I saw Marge threading her way to the curb. She was leading a small blonde girl of about eight, who clutched a child-size hatbox in her hand. Marge was hot...
Being two men rolled out of one would solve my problems—but which one would I be? I suppose that every guy reaches a point once in his lifetime when he gets one hundred and forty per cent fed up with his wife. Understand now—I've got nothing against marriage or any thing like that. Marriage is great. It's a good old red-blooded American Institution. Except that it's got one defect in it big enough to throw a cat through, especially when you happen to be married to a woman like Marge— It's so permanent . Oh, I'd have divorced Marge in a minute if we'd been living in the Blissful 'Fifties—but with the Family Solidarity Amendment of 1968, and all the divorce taxes we have these days since the women got their teeth into politics, to say nothing of the Aggrieved Spouse Compensation Act, I'd have been a pauper for the...
A warped instant in Space—and two egos are separated from their bodies and lost in a lonely abyss. I think , therefore I am. That was the first thought I had. Of course not in the same symbols, but with the same meaning. I awakened, or came alive, or came into existence suddenly, at least my mental consciousness did. "Here am I," I thought, "but what am I, why am I, where am I?" I had nothing to work with except pure reason. I was there because I was not somewhere else. I was certain I was there and that was the extent of my knowledge at the moment. I looked about me—no, I reasoned about me. I was surrounded by nothingness, by black nothingness, a vacuum. Immense distances away I could detect light; or rather, I could perceive waves of force passing around me which originated at points vast distances...
"What color's the sky?" "Still black as the place the devils throw their old razor blades." "We'll hear it when we hit air." "Pretty soon now?" "A few minutes yet." "Man! My foot's working off at the knee." "John awake? Hey, John, you awake?" "How could I sleep through this? Whad'ya want?" "Nothing." "What's she look like?" "Earth?" "Of course." "A blue beach-ball with a white halo 'round it." "What's below us?" "Part of Asia, I think. Lots of clouds.... I see India." "Man, it's hot in here!" "Hell, wait'll we hit air!" "We all awake? Anyone asleep say 'aye.'" "Aye." "No one's asleep. I heard four voices." "If anyone can sleep through this they've got my blessings. Woof! My neck." "You think you've got it bad; they've got me squeezed in with the camera equipment; I'm bent at the knees and again at the waist." "Ah, but after we...
Getting there may be half the fun ... but it is also all of a society's chance of survival! "As one god to another—let's go home," Jack Bates said. Bill Farnum raised a space-gloved hand in negligent acknowledgment to a hastily kneeling native, and shook his head at Bates. "Let's try Deneb—it's almost in line on the way back—and then we can call it quits." "But I want to get back and start making some profit out of this. The Galaxy is full of Homo sapiens . We've hit the jackpot first trip out. Let's hurry on home and cash in." "We need more information. This is too much of a good thing—it doesn't make sense. I know there isn't much chance of finding anything out by stopping at one more solar system. But it won't delay us more than a few weeks, and it won't hurt to try." "Yeah,"...
[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories December 1948. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] "There you are!" Judson Taylor, the eccentric physics prof, pulled a metallic object out of his pocket and laid it on the table between us. The object was a solid chunk of some kind of metal, judging from its bright silver color, about the size and shape of a pocket knife. I looked at it stupidly and said, " Where are we?" I am Bill Halley. Some of the adolescent undergraduate brats at this one-horse college have nicknamed me "Comet" and it burns me up every time some pimply-faced baby waves his arm at me and says, "Hiya, Comet." But I smile and don't let them know I don't like it, because if they knew there would be no living with them. Jud...
Logan's way of laughing was bad. "There's a new body up in the air-lock, Brandon. Climb the rungs and have a look." Logan's eyes had a green shine to them, eager and intent. They were ugly, obscene. Brandon swore under his breath. This room of the Morgue Ship was crowded with their two personalities. Besides that, there were scores of cold shelves of bodies freezing quietly, and the insistent vibration of the coroner tables, machinery spinning under them. And Logan was like a little machine that never stopped talking. "Leave me alone." Brandon rose up, tall and thinned by the years, looking as old as a pocked meteor. "Just keep quiet." Logan sucked his cigarette. "Scared to go upstairs? Scared it might be your son we just picked up?" Brandon reached Logan in about one stride, and while the Morgue Ship slipped on through space, he clenched the coroner's blue...
"... The profound influence of civilian morale upon the course of modern war is nowhere more clearly shown than in the case of that monstrous war-engine popularly known as a 'Wabbly.' It landed in New Jersey Aug. 16, 1942, and threw the whole Eastern Coast into a frenzy. In six hours the population of three States was in a panic. Industry was paralyzed. The military effect was comparable only to a huge modern army landed in our rear...." ( Strategic Lessons of the War of 1941-43. —U. S. War College. Pp. 79-80.) Sergeant Walpole made his daily report at 2:15. He used a dinky telephone that should have been in a museum, and a rural Central put him on the Area Officer's tight beam. The Area Officer listened drearily as the Sergeant said in a military manner: It spouted a flash of bluish flame. "Sergeant Walpole, sir, Post Fourteen, reports...
The Albacore was eight hundred miles out of Suva, feeling her way through the Pacific toward a destination unmarked except on the charts. She was a Navy cruiser jury-rigged into a floating laboratory, Navy manned, but carrying a dozen specialized technicians as passengers. For days she had waited outside the danger area, till circling planes radioed word that the test atomic blast had apparently subsided. Then the Albacore went into a flurry of preparations. It was a miracle that the watch had sighted Gresham in his rubber boat, and a triple miracle that he was alive. His eyes bandaged, he sat out on deck, while Black, the neurologist, leaned on the rail beside him and stared aft. Presently Black took out a pack of cigarettes, automatically held it out to Gresham, and then remembered that the man was blind. “Cigarette?” he said. “Yes, thanks. Is that you, Dr. Black?” Gresham’s...
If he took the high road—and also the low road—he'd be in the same place afore himself! Charles Mead stood on top of Hobson's Hill and stared at the town below, as though trying to imprint a permanent impression of the view on his memory. He paid particular attention to a wood-and-corrugated-iron construction at the bottom of the hill by the railroad tracks, which bore the sign, FINLAY'S LUMBER CO. Well concealed in the bushes behind him and humming mutely were four black metal boxes forming a small square. Antennae sprouted from each box, curving inward to form an arch in which the light seemed to vibrate and shimmer. Charles Mead made an adjustment on one of the boxes and then stepped quickly into the shimmering arch. Darkness smothered him immediately. There was a sudden terrifying sensation of weightlessness, of falling. He kept pushing and pushing, although there seemed to...