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锘縏he Project Gutenberg eBook, A Apple Pie, by Kate Greenaway, Illustrated by Kate Greenaway This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: A Apple Pie Author: Kate Greenaway Release Date: May 10, 2005 [eBook #15809] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) *START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A APPLE PIE* E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell, Erika Q. Stokes, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (https://www.pgdp.net) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original remarkable illustrations. See 15809-h.htm or 15809-h.zip: (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/5/8/0/15809/15809-h/15809-h.htm) or (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/5/8/0/15809/15809-h.zip) A APPLE PIE by KATE GREENAWAY London. Frederick Warne & Co. Ltd. & New York Printed in Great Britain by W & J Mackay Limited, Chatham from original woodblock designs engraved in 1886 1886 PUBLISHER'S NOTE Kate Greenaway used an early version of the rhyme to illustrate A APPLE PIE which was first published in 1886 and it will be noticed that there is no rhyme for the letter I. The rhyme of A APPLE PIE is very ancient and reference is made to it as early as 1671 in one of the writings of John Eachard. In these early versions the letters I and J were not differentiated. The letter J as we know it to-day was the curved initial form of the letter I and was always used before a vowel. [Illustration] A APPLE PIE [Illustration] B BIT IT [Illustration] C CUT IT [Illustration] D DEALT IT [Illustration] E EAT IT [Illustration] F FOUGHT FOR IT [Illustration] G GOT IT [Illustration] H HAD IT [Illustration] J JUMPED FOR IT [Illustration] K KNELT FOR IT [Illustration] L LONGED FOR IT [Illustration] M MOURNED FOR IT [Illustration] N NODDED FOR IT [Illustration] O OPENED IT [Illustration] P PEEPED IN IT [Illustration] Q QUARTERED IT [Illustration] R RAN FOR IT [Illustration] S SANG FOR IT [Illustration] T TOOK IT [Illustration] U V W X Y Z ALL HAD A LARGE SLICE AND WENT OFF TO BED [Illustration] *END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A APPLE PIE* ***** This file should be named 15809.txt or 15809.zip *** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/5/8/0/15809 Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. 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Stokes, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (https://www.pgdp.net) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original remarkable illustrations. See 15809-h.htm or 15809-h.zip: (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/5/8/0/15809/15809-h/15809-h.htm) or (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/5/8/0/15809/15809-h.zip) A APPLE PIE by KATE GREENAWAY London. Frederick Warne & Co. Ltd. & New York Printed in Great Britain by W & J Mackay Limited, Chatham from original woodblock designs engraved in 1886 1886 PUBLISHER'S NOTE Kate Greenaway used an early version of the rhyme to illustrate A APPLE PIE which was first published in 1886 and it will be noticed that there is no rhyme for the letter I. The rhyme of A APPLE PIE is very ancient and reference is made to it as early as 1671 in one of the writings of John Eachard. In these early versions the letters I and J were not differentiated. The letter J as we know it to-day was the curved initial form of the letter I and was always used before a vowel. [Illustration] A APPLE PIE [Illustration] B BIT IT [Illustration] C CUT IT [Illustration] D DEALT IT [Illustration] E EAT IT [Illustration] F FOUGHT FOR IT [Illustration] G GOT IT [Illustration] H HAD IT [Illustration] J JUMPED FOR IT [Illustration] K KNELT FOR IT [Illustration] L LONGED FOR IT [Illustration] M MOURNED FOR IT [Illustration] N NODDED FOR IT [Illustration] O OPENED IT [Illustration] P PEEPED IN IT [Illustration] Q QUARTERED IT [Illustration] R RAN FOR IT [Illustration] S SANG FOR IT [Illustration] T TOOK IT [Illustration] U V W X Y Z ALL HAD A LARGE SLICE AND WENT OFF TO BED [Illustration] *END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A APPLE PIE* ***** This file should be named 15809.txt or 15809.zip *** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/5/8/0/15809 Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. 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锘縏he Project Gutenberg EBook of A Happy Boy, by Bjornstjerne Bjornson This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: A Happy Boy Author: Bjornstjerne Bjornson Release Date: June 16, 2004 [EBook #12633] Language: English * START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A HAPPY BOY * Produced by David S. Miller A HAPPY BOY BY BJORNSTJERNE BJORNSON TRANSLATED FROM THE NORSE BY RASMUS B. ANDERSON AUTHOR'S EDITION PUBLISHER'S NOTE. The present edition of Bjornstjerne Bjornson's works is published by special arrangement with the author. Mr. Bjornson has designated Prof. Rasmus B. Anderson as his American translator, cooperates with him, and revises each work before it is translated, thus giving his personal attention to this edition. PREFACE. "A Happy Boy" was written in 1859 and 1860. It is, in my estimation, Bjornson's best story of peasant life. In it the author has succeeded in drawing the characters with _remarkable distinctness_, while his profound psychological insight, his perfectly artless simplicity of style, and his thorough sympathy with the hero and his surroundings are nowhere more apparent. This view is sustained by the great popularity of "A Happy Boy" throughout Scandinavia. It is proper to add, that in the present edition of Bjornson's stories, previous translations have been consulted, and that in this manner a few happy words and phrases have been found and adopted. This volume will be followed by "The Fisher Maiden," in which Bjornson makes a new departure, and exhibits his powers in a somewhat different vein of story-telling. RASMUS B. ANDERSON. ASGARD, MADISON, WISCONSIN, November, 1881. A HAPPY BOY. CHAPTER I. His name was Oyvind, and he cried when he was born. But no sooner did he sit up on his mother's lap than he laughed, and when the candle was lit in the evening the room rang with his laughter, but he cried when he was not allowed to reach it. "Something remarkable will come of that boy!" said the mother. A barren cliff, not a very high one, though, overhung the house where he was born; fir and birch looked down upon the roof, the bird-cherry strewed flowers over it. And on the roof was a little goat belonging to Oyvind; it was kept there that it might not wander away, and Oyvind bore leaves and grass up to it. One fine day the goat leaped down and was off to the cliff; it went straight up and soon stood where it had never been before. Oyvind did not see the goat when he came out in the afternoon, and thought at once of the fox. He grew hot all over, and gazing about him, cried,-- "Killy-killy-killy-killy-goat!" "Ba-a-a-a!" answered the goat, from the brow of the hill, putting its head on one side and peering down. At the side of the goat there was kneeling a little girl. "Is this goat yours?" asked she. Oyvind opened wide his mouth and eyes, thrust both hands into his pants and said,-- "Who are you?" "I am Marit, mother's young one, father's fiddle, the hulder of the house, granddaughter to Ola Nordistuen of the Heidegards, four years old in the autumn, two days after the frost nights--I am!" "Is that who you are?" cried he, drawing a long breath, for he had not ventured to take one while she was speaking. "Is this goat yours?" she again inquired. "Ye-es!" replied he, raising his eyes. "I have taken such a liking to the goat;--you will not give it to me?" "No, indeed I will not." She lay kicking up her heels and staring down at him, and presently she said: "But if I give you a twisted bun for the goat, can I have it then?" Oyvind was the son of poor people; he had tasted twisted bun only once in his life, that was when grandfather came to his house, and he had never eaten anything equal to it before or since. He fixed his eyes on the girl. "Let me see the bun first?" said he. She was not slow in producing a large twisted bun that she held in her hand. "Here it is!" cried she, and tossed it down to him. "Oh! it broke in pieces!" exclaimed the boy, picking up every fragment with the utmost care. He could not help tasting of the very smallest morsel, and it was so good that he had to try another piece, and before he knew it himself he had devoured the whole bun. "Now the goat belongs to me," said the girl. The boy paused with the last morsel in his mouth; the girl lay there laughing, and the goat stood by her side, with its white breast and shining brown hair, giving sidelong glances down. "Could you not wait a while," begged the boy,--his heart beginning to throb. Then the girl laughed more than ever, and hurriedly got up on her knees. "No, the goat is mine," said she, and threw her arms about it, then loosening one of her garters she fastened it around its neck. Oyvind watched her. She rose to her feet and began to tug at the goat; it would not go along with her, and stretched its neck over the edge of the cliff toward Oyvind. "Ba-a-a-a!" said the goat. Then the little girl took hold of its hair with one hand, pulled at the garter with the other, and said prettily: "Come, now, goat, you shall go into the sitting-room and eat from mother's dish and my apron." And then she sang,-- "Come, boy's pretty goatie, Come, calf, my delight, Come here, mewing pussie, In shoes snowy white, Yellow ducks, from your shelter, Come forth, helter-skelter. Come, doves, ever beaming, With soft feathers gleaming! The grass is still wet, But sun 't will soon get; Now call, though early 't is in the summer, And autumn will be the new-comer."[1] [Footnote 1: Auber Forestier's translation.] There the boy stood. He had taken care of the goat ever since winter, when it was born, and it had never occurred to him that he could lose it; but now it was gone in an instant, and he would never see it again. The mother came trolling up from the beach, with some wooden pails she had been scouring; she saw the boy sitting on the grass, with his legs crossed under him, crying, and went to him. "What makes you cry?" "Oh, my goat--my goat!" "Why, where is the goat?" asked the mother, glancing up at the roof. "It will never come back any more," said the boy. "Dear me! how can _that_ be?" Oyvind would not confess at once. "Has the fox carried it off?" "Oh, I wish it were the fox!" "You must have lost your senses!" cried the mother. "What has become of the goat?" "Oh--oh--oh! I was so unlucky. I sold it for a twisted bun!" The moment he uttered the words he realized what it was to sell the goat for a bun; he had not thought about it before. The mother said,-- "What do you imagine the little goat thinks of you now, since you were willing to sell it for a twisted bun?" The boy reflected upon this himself, and felt perfectly sure that he never could know happiness more in _this_ world--nor in heaven either, he thought, afterwards. He was so overwhelmed with sorrow that he promised himself that he would never do anything wrong again,--neither cut the cord of the spinning-wheel, nor let the sheep loose, nor go down to the sea alone. He fell asleep lying there, and he dreamed that the goat had reached heaven. There the Lord was sitting, with a long beard, as in the Catechism, and the goat stood munching at the leaves of a shining tree; but Oyvind sat alone on the roof, and, could get no higher. Then something wet was thrust right against his ear, and he started up. "Ba-a-a-a!" he heard, and it was the goat that had returned to him. "What! have you come back again?" With these words he sprang up, seized it by the two fore-legs, and danced about with it as if it were a brother. He pulled it by the beard, and was on the point of going in to his mother with it, when he heard some one behind him, and saw the little girl sitting on the greensward beside him. Now he understood the whole thing, and he let go of the goat. "Is it you who have brought the goat?" She sat tearing up the grass with her hands, and said, "I was not allowed to keep it; grandfather is up there waiting." While the boy stood staring at her, a sharp voice from the road above called, "Well!" Then she remembered what she had to do: she rose, walked up to Oyvind, thrust one of her dirt-covered hands into his, and, turning her face away, said, "I beg your pardon." But then her courage forsook her, and, flinging herself on the goat, she burst into tears. "I believe you had better keep the goat," faltered Oyvind, looking away. "Make haste, now!" said her grandfather, from the hill; and Marit got up and walked, with hesitating feet, upward. "You have forgotten your garter," Oyvind shouted after her. She turned and bestowed a glance, first on the garter, then on him. Finally she formed a great resolve, and replied, in a choked voice, "You may keep it." He walked up to her, took her by the hand, and said, "I thank you!" "Oh, there is nothing to thank me for," she answered, and, drawing a piteous sigh, went on. Oyvind sat down on the grass again, the goat roaming about near him; but he was no longer as happy with it as before. CHAPTER II. The goat was tethered near the house, but Oyvind wandered off, with his eyes fixed on the cliff. The mother came and sat down beside him; he asked her to tell him stories about things that were far away, for now the goat was no longer enough to content him. So his mother told him how once everything could talk: the mountain talked to the brook, and the brook to the river, and the river to the sea, and the sea to the sky; he asked if the sky did not talk to any one, and was told that it talked to the clouds, and the clouds to the trees, the trees to the grass, the grass to the flies, the flies to the beasts, and the beasts to the children, but the children to grown people; and thus it continued until it had gone round in a circle, and neither knew where it had begun. Oyvind gazed at the cliff, the trees, the sea, and the sky, and he had never truly seen them before. The cat came out just then, and stretched itself out on the door-step, in the sunshine. "What does the cat say?" asked Oyvind, and pointed. The mother sang,-- "Evening sunshine softly is dying, On the door-step lazy puss is lying. 'Two small mice, Cream so thick and nice; Four small bits of fish Stole I from a dish; Well-filled am I and sleek, Am very languid and meek,' Says the pussie."[1] [Footnote 1: Auber Forestier's translation.] Then the cock came strutting up with all the hens. "What does the cock say?" asked Oyvind, clapping his hands. The mother sang,-- "Mother-hen her wings now are sinking, Chanticleer on one leg stands thinking: 'High, indeed, You gray goose can speed; Never, surely though, she Clever as a cock can be. Seek your shelter, hens, I pray, Gone is the sun to his rest for to-day,'-- Says the rooster."[1] [Footnote 1: Auber Forestier's translation.] Two small birds sat singing on the gable. "What are the birds saying?" asked Oyvind, and laughed. "'Dear Lord, how pleasant is life, For those who have neither toil nor strife,'-- Say the birds."[2] --was the answer. [Footnote 2: Translated by H.R.G.] Thus he learned what all were saying, even to the ant crawling in the moss and the worm working in the bark. The same summer his mother undertook to teach him to read. He had had books for a long time, and wondered how it would be when they, too, should begin to talk. Now the letters were transformed into beasts and birds and all living creatures; and soon they began to move about together, two and two; _a_ stood resting beneath a tree called _b_, _c_ came and joined it; but when three or four were grouped together they seemed to get angry with one another, and nothing would then go right. The farther he advanced the more completely he found himself forgetting what the letters were; he longest remembered _a_, which he liked best; it was a little black lamb and was on friendly terms with all the rest; but soon _a_, too, was forgotten, the books no longer contained stories, only lessons. Then one day his mother came in and said to him,-- "To-morrow school begins again, and you are going with me up to the gard." Oyvind had heard that school was a place where many boys played together, and he had nothing against that. He was greatly pleased; he had often been to the gard, but not when there was school there, and he walked faster than his mother up the hill-side, so eager was he. When they came to the house of the old people, who lived on their annuity, a loud buzzing, like that from the mill at home, met them, and he asked his mother what it was. "It is the children reading," answered she, and he was delighted, for thus it was that he had read before he learned the letters. On entering he saw so many children round a table that there could not be more at church; others sat on their dinner-pails along the wall, some stood in little knots about an arithmetic table; the school-master, an old, gray-haired man, sat on a stool by the hearth, filling his pipe. They all looked up when Oyvind and his mother came in, and the clatter ceased as if the mill-stream had been turned off. Every eye was fixed on the new-comers; the mother saluted the school-master, who returned her greeting. "I have come here to bring a little boy who wants to learn to read," said the mother. "What is the fellow's name?" inquired the school-master, fumbling down in his leathern pouch after tobacco. "Oyvind," replied the mother, "he knows his letters and he can spell." "You do not say so!" exclaimed the school-master. "Come here, you white-head!" "Oyvind walked up to him, the school-master took him up on his knee and removed his cap. "What a nice little boy!" said he, stroking the child's hair. Oyvind looked up into his eyes and laughed. "Are you laughing at me!" The old man knit his brow, as he spoke. "Yes, I am," replied Oyvind, with a merry peal of laughter. Then the school-master laughed, too; the mother laughed; the children knew now that they had permission to laugh, and so they all laughed together. With this Oyvind was initiated into school. When he was to take his seat, all the scholars wished to make room for him; he on his part looked about for a long time; while the other children whispered and pointed, he turned in every direction, his cap in his hand, his book under his arm. "Well, what now?" asked the school-master, who was again busied with his pipe. Just as the boy was about turning toward the school-master, he espied, near the hearthstone close beside him, sitting on a little red-painted box, Marit with the many names; she had hidden her face behind both hands and sat peeping out at him. "I will sit here!" cried Oyvind, promptly, and seizing a lunch-box he seated himself at her side. Now she raised the arm nearest him a little and peered at him from under her elbow; forthwith he, too, covered his face with both hands and looked at her from under his elbow. Thus they sat cutting up capers until she laughed, and then he laughed also; the other little folks noticed this, and they joined in the laughter; suddenly a voice which was frightfully strong, but which grew milder as it spoke, interposed with,-- "Silence, troll-children, wretches, chatter-boxes!--hush, and be good to me, sugar-pigs!" It was the school-master, who had a habit of flaring up, but becoming good-natured again before he was through. Immediately there was quiet in the school, until the pepper grinders again began to go; they read aloud, each from his book; the most delicate trebles piped up, the rougher voices drumming louder and louder in order to gain the ascendency, and here and there one chimed in, louder than the others. In all his life Oyvind had never had such fun. "Is it always so here?" he whispered to Marit. "Yes, always," said she. Later they had to go forward to the school-master and read; a little boy was afterwards appointed to teach them to read, and then they were allowed to go and sit quietly down again. "I have a goat now myself," said Marit. "Have you?" "Yes, but it is not as pretty as yours." "Why do you never come up to the cliff again?" "Grandfather is afraid I might fall over." "Why, it is not so very high." "Grandfather will not let me, nevertheless." "Mother knows a great many songs," said Oyvind. "Grandfather does, too, I can tell you." "Yes, but he does not know mother's songs." "Grandfather knows one about a dance. Do you want to hear it?" "Yes, very much." "Well, then, come nearer this way, that the school-master may not see us." He moved close to her, and then she recited a little snatch of a song, four or five times, until the boy learned it, and it was the first thing he learned at school. "Dance!" cried the fiddle; Its strings all were quaking, The lensmand's son making Spring up and say "Ho!" "Stay!" called out Ola, And tripped him up lightly; The girls laughed out brightly, The lensmand lay low. "Hop!" said then Erik, His heel upward flinging; The beams fell to ringing, The walls gave a shriek. "Stop!" shouted Elling, His collar then grasping, And held him up, gasping: "Why, you're far too weak!" "Hey!" spoke up Rasmus, Fair Randi then seizing; "Come, give without teasing That kiss. Oh! you know!" "Nay!" answered Randi, And boxing him smartly, Dashed off, crying tartly: "Take that now and go!"[1] [Footnote 1: Auber Forestier's translation.] "Up, youngsters!" cried the school-master; "this is the first day, so you shall be let off early; but first we must say a prayer and sing." The whole school was now alive; the little folks jumped down from the benches, ran across the floor and all spoke at once. "Silence, little gypsies, young rascals, yearlings!--be still and walk nicely across the floor, little children!" said the school-master, and they quietly took their places, after which the school-master stood in front of them and made a short prayer. Then they sang; the school-master started the tune, in a deep bass; all the children, folding their hands, joined in. Oyvind stood at the foot, near the door, with Marit, looking on; they also clasped their hands, but they could not sing. This was the first day at school. CHAPTER III. Oyvind grew and became a clever boy; he was among the first scholars at school, and at home he was faithful in all his tasks. This was because at home he loved his mother and at school the school-master; he saw but little of his father, who was always either off fishing or was attending to the mill, where half the parish had their grinding done. What had the most influence on his mind in these days was the school-master's history, which his mother related to him one evening as they sat by the hearth. It sank into his books, it thrust itself beneath every word the school-master spoke, it lurked in the school-room when all was still. It caused him to be obedient and reverent, and to have an easier apprehension as it were of everything that was taught him. The history ran thus:-- The school-master's name was Baard, and he once had a brother whose name was Anders. They thought a great deal of each other; they both enlisted; they lived together in the town, and took part in the war, both being made corporals, and serving in the same company. On their return home after the war, every one thought they were two splendid fellows. Now their father died; he had a good deal of personal property, which was not easy to divide, but the brothers decided, in order that this should be no cause of disagreement between them, to put the things up at auction, so that each might buy what he wanted, and the proceeds could be divided between them. No sooner said than done. Their father had owned a large gold watch, which had a wide-spread fame, because it was the only gold watch people in that part of the country had seen, and when it was put up many a rich man tried to get it until the two brothers began to take part in the bidding; then the rest ceased. Now, Baard expected Anders to let him have the watch, and Anders expected the same of Baard; each bid in his turn to put the other to the test, and they looked hard at each other while bidding. When the watch had been run up to twenty dollars, it seemed to Baard that his brother was not acting rightly, and he continued to bid until he got it almost up to thirty; as Anders kept on, it struck Baard that his brother could not remember how kind he had always been to him, nor that he was the elder of the two, and the watch went up to over thirty dollars. Anders still kept on. Then Baard suddenly bid forty dollars, and ceased to look at his brother. It grew very still in the auction-room, the voice of the lensmand one was heard calmly naming the price. Anders, standing there, thought if Baard could afford to give forty dollars he could also, and if Baard grudged him the watch, he might as well take it. He bid higher. This Baard felt to be the greatest disgrace that had ever befallen him; he bid fifty dollars, in a very low tone. Many people stood around, and Anders did not see how his brother could so mock at him in the hearing of all; he bid higher. At length Baard laughed. "A hundred dollars and my brotherly affection in the bargain," said he, and turning left the room. A little later, some one came out to him, just as he was engaged in saddling the horse he had bought a short time before. "The watch is yours," said the man; "Anders has withdrawn." The moment Baard heard this there passed through him a feeling of compunction; he thought of his brother, and not of the watch. The horse was saddled, but Baard paused with his hand on its back, uncertain whether to ride away or no. Now many people came out, among them Anders, who when he saw his brother standing beside the saddled horse, not knowing what Baard was reflecting on, shouted out to him:-- "Thank you for the watch, Baard! You will not see it run the day your brother treads on your heels." "Nor the day I ride to the gard again," replied Baard, his face very white, swinging himself into the saddle. Neither of them ever again set foot in the house where they had lived with their father. A short time after, Anders married into a houseman's family; but Baard was not invited to the wedding, nor was he even at church. The first year of Anders' marriage the only cow he owned was found dead beyond the north side of the house, where it was tethered, and no one could find out what had killed it. Several misfortunes followed, and he kept going downhill; but the worst of all was when his barn, with all that it contained, burned down in the middle of the winter; no one knew how the fire had originated. "This has been done by some one who wishes me ill," said Anders,--and he wept that night. He was now a poor man and had lost all ambition for work. The next evening Baard appeared in his room. Anders was in bed when he entered, but sprang directly up. "What do you want here?" he cried, then stood silent, staring fixedly at his brother. Baard waited a little before he answered,-- "I wish to offer you help, Anders; things are going badly for you." "I am faring as you meant I should, Baard! Go, I am not sure that I can control myself." "You mistake, Anders; I repent"-- "Go, Baard, or God be merciful to us both!" Baard fell back a few steps, and with quivering voice he murmured,-- "If you want the watch you shall have it." "Go, Baard!" shrieked the other, and Baard left, not daring to linger longer. Now with Baard it had been as follows: As soon as he had heard of his brother's misfortunes, his heart melted; but pride held him back. He felt impelled to go to church, and there he made good resolves, but he was not able to carry them out. Often he got far enough to see Anders' house; but now some one came out of the door; now there was a stranger there; again Anders was outside chopping wood, so there was always something in the way. But one Sunday, late in the winter, he went to church again, and Anders was there too. Baard saw him; he had grown pale and thin; he wore the same clothes as in former days when the brothers were constant companions, but now they were old and patched. During the sermon Anders kept his eyes fixed on the priest, and Baard thought he looked good and kind; he remembered their childhood and what a good boy Anders had been. Baard went to communion that day, and he made a solemn vow to his God that he would be reconciled with his brother whatever might happen. This determination passed through his soul while he was drinking the wine, and when he rose he wanted to go right to him and sit down beside him; but some one was in the way and Anders did not look up. After service, too, there was something in the way; there were too many people; Anders' wife was walking at his side, and Baard was not acquainted with her; he concluded that it would be best to go to his brother's house and have a serious talk with him. When evening came he set forth. He went straight to the sitting-room door and listened, then he heard his name spoken; it was by the wife. "He took the sacrament to-day," said she; "he surely thought of you." "No; he did not think of me," said Anders. "I know him; he thinks only of himself." For a long time there was silence; the sweat poured from Baard as he stood there, although it was a cold evening. The wife inside was busied with a kettle that crackled and hissed on the hearth; a little infant cried now and then, and Anders rocked it. At last the wife spoke these few words:-- "I believe you both think of each other without being willing to admit it." "Let us talk of something else," replied Anders. After a while he got up and moved towards the door. Baard was forced to hide in the wood-shed; but to that very place Anders came to get an armful of wood. Baard stood in the corner and saw him distinctly; he had put off his threadbare Sunday clothes and wore the uniform he had brought home with him from the war, the match to Baard's, and which he had promised his brother never to touch but to leave for an heirloom, Baard having given him a similar promise. Anders' uniform was now patched and worn; his strong, well-built frame was encased, as it were, in a bundle of rags; and, at the same time, Baard heard the gold watch ticking in his own pocket. Anders walked to where the fagots lay; instead of stooping at once to pick them up, he paused, leaned back against the wood-pile and gazed up at the sky, which glittered brightly with stars. Then he drew a sigh and muttered,-- "Yes--yes--yes;--O Lord! O Lord!" As long as Baard lived he heard these words. He wanted to step forward, but just then his brother coughed, and it seemed so difficult, more was not required to hold him back. Anders took up his armful of wood, and brushed past Baard, coming so close to him that the twigs struck his face, making it smart. For fully ten minutes he stood as if riveted to the spot, and it is doubtful when he would have left, had he not, after his great emotion, been seized with a shivering fit that shook him through and through. Then he moved away; he frankly confessed to himself that he was too cowardly to go in, and so he now formed a new plan. From an ash-box which stood in the corner he had just left, he took some bits of charcoal, found a resinous pine-splint, went up to the barn, closed the door and struck a light. When he had lit the pine-splint, he held it up to find the wooden peg where Anders hung his lantern when he came early in the morning to thresh. Baard took his gold watch and hung it on the peg, blew out his light and left; and then he felt so relieved that he bounded over the snow like a young boy. The next day he heard that the barn had burned to the ground during the night. No doubt sparks had fallen from the torch that had lit him while he was hanging up his watch. This so overwhelmed him that he kept his room all day like a sick man, brought out his hymn-book, and sang until the people in the house thought he had gone mad. But in the evening he went out; it was bright moonlight. He walked to his brother's place, dug in the ground where the fire had been, and found, as he had expected, a little melted lump of gold. It was the watch. It was with this in his tightly closed hand that he went in to his brother, imploring peace, and was about to explain everything. A little girl had seen him digging in the ashes, some boys on their way to a dance had noticed him going down toward the place the preceding Sunday evening; the people in the house where he lived testified how curiously he had acted on Monday, and as every one knew that he and his brother were bitter enemies, information was given and a suit instituted. No one could prove anything against Baard, but suspicion rested on him. Less than ever, now, did he feel able to approach his brother. Anders had thought of Baard when the barn was burned, but had spoken of it to no one. When he saw him enter his room, the following evening, pale and excited, he immediately thought: "Now he is smitten with remorse, but for such a terrible crime against his brother he shall have no forgiveness." Afterwards he heard how people had seen Baard go down to the barn the evening of the fire, and, although nothing was brought to light at the trial, Anders firmly believed his brother to be guilty. They met at the trial; Baard in his good clothes, Anders in his patched ones. Baard looked at his brother as he entered, and his eyes wore so piteous an expression of entreaty that Anders felt it in the inmost depths of his heart. "He does not want me to say anything," thought Anders, and when he was asked if he suspected his brother of the deed, he said loudly and decidedly, "No!" Anders took to hard drinking from that day, and was soon far on the road to ruin. Still worse was it with Baard; although he did not drink, he was scarcely to be recognized by those who had known him before. Late one evening a poor woman entered the little room Baard rented, and begged him to accompany her a short distance. He knew her: it was his brother's wife. Baard understood forthwith what her errand was; he grew deathly pale, dressed himself, and went with her without a word. There was a glimmer of light from Anders' window, it twinkled and disappeared, and they were guided by this light, for there was no path across the snow. When Baard stood once more in the passage, a strange odor met him which made him feel ill. They entered. A little child stood by the fireplace eating charcoal; its whole face was black, but as it looked up and laughed it displayed white teeth,--it was the brother's child. There on the bed, with a heap of clothes thrown over him, lay Anders, emaciated, with smooth, high forehead, and with his hollow eyes fixed on his brother. Baard's knees trembled; he sat down at the foot of the bed and burst into a violent fit of weeping. The sick man looked at him intently and said nothing. At length he asked his wife to go out, but Baard made a sign to her to remain; and now these two brothers began to talk together. They accounted for everything from the day they had bid for the watch up to the present moment. Baard concluded by producing the lump of gold he always carried about him, and it now became manifest to the brothers that in all these years neither had known a happy day. Anders did not say much, for he was not able to do so, but Baard watched by his bed as long as he was ill. "Now I am perfectly well," said Anders one morning on waking. "Now, my brother, we will live long together, and never leave each other, just as in the old days." But that day he died. Baard took charge of the wife and the child, and they fared well from that time. What the brothers had talked of together by the bed, burst through the walls and the night, and was soon known to all the people in the parish, and Baard became the most respected man among them. He was honored as one who had known great sorrow and found happiness again, or as one who had been absent for a very long time. Baard grew inwardly strong through all this friendliness about him; he became a truly pious man, and wanted to be useful, he said, and so the old corporal took to teaching school. What he impressed upon the children, first and last, was love, and he practiced it himself, so that the children clung to him as to a playmate and father in one. Such was the history of the school-master, and so deeply did it root itself in Oyvind's mind that it became both religion and education for him. The school-master grew to be almost a supernatural being in his eyes, although he sat there so sociably, grumbling at the scholars. Not to know every lesson for him was impossible, and if Oyvind got a smile or a pat on his head after he had recited, he felt warm and happy for a whole day. It always made the deepest impression on the children when the old school-master sometimes before singing made a little speech to them, and at least once a week read aloud some verses about loving one's neighbor. When he read the first of those verses, his voice always trembled, although he had been reading it now some twenty or thirty years. It ran thus:-- "Love thy neighbor with Christian zeal! Crush him not with an iron heel, Though he in dust be prostrated! Love's all powerful, quickening hand Guides, forever, with magic wand All that it has created." But when he had recited the whole poem and had paused a little, he would cry, and his eyes would twinkle,-- "Up, small trolls! and go nicely home without any noise,--go quietly, that I may only hear good of you, little toddlers!" But when they were making the most noise in hunting up their books and dinner-pails, he shouted above it all,-- "Come again to-morrow, as soon as it is light, or I will give you a thrashing. Come again in good season, little girls and boys, and then we will be industrious." CHAPTER IV. Of Oyvind's further progress until a year before confirmation there is not much to report. He studied in the morning, worked through the day, and played in the evening. As he had an unusually sprightly disposition, it was not long before the neighboring children fell into the habit of resorting in their playtime to where he was to be found. A large hill sloped down to the bay in front of the place, bordered by the cliff on one side and the wood on the other, as before described; and all winter long, on pleasant evenings and on Sundays, this served as coasting-ground for the parish young folks. Oyvind was master of the hill, and he owned two sleds, "Fleet-foot" and "Idler;" the latter he loaned out to larger parties, the former he managed himself, holding Marit on his lap. The first thing Oyvind did in those days on awaking, was to look out and see whether it was thawing, and if it was gray and lowering over the bushes beyond the bay, or if he heard a dripping from the roof, he was long about dressing, as though there were nothing to be accomplished that day. But if he awoke, especially on a Sunday, to crisp, frosty, clear weather, to his best clothes and no work, only catechism or church in the morning, with the whole afternoon and evening free--heigh! then the boy made one spring out of bed, donned his clothes in a hurry as if for a fire, and could scarcely eat a mouthful. As soon as afternoon had come, and the first boy on skees drew in sight along the road-side, swinging his guide-pole above his head and shouting so that echoes resounded through the mountain-ridges about the lake; and then another on the road on a sled, and still another and another,--off started Oyvind with "Fleet-foot," bounded down the hill, and stopped among the last-comers, with a long, ringing shout that pealed from ridge to ridge all along the bay, and died away in the far distance. Then he would look round for Marit, but when she had come he payed no further attention to her. At last there came a Christmas, when Oyvind and Marit might be about sixteen or seventeen, and were both to be confirmed in the spring. The fourth day after Christmas there was a party at the upper Heidegards, at Marit's grandparents', by whom she had been brought up, and who had been promising her this party for three years, and now at last had to give it during the holidays. Oyvind was invited to it. It was a somewhat cloudy evening but not cold; no stars could be seen; the next day must surely bring rain. There blew a sleepy wind over the snow, which was swept away here and there on the white Heidefields; elsewhere it had drifted. Along the part of the road where there was but little snow, were smooth sheets of ice of a blue-black hue, lying between the snow and the bare field, and glittering in patches as far as the eye could reach. Along the mountain-sides there had been avalanches; it was dark and bare in their track, but on either side light and snow-clad, except where the forest birch-trees put their heads together and made dark shadows. No water was visible, but half-naked heaths and bogs lay under the deeply-fissured, melancholy mountains. Gards were spread in thick clusters in the centre of the plain; in the gloom of the winter evening they resembled black clumps, from which light shot out over the fields, now from one window, now from another; from these lights it might be judged that those within were busy. Young people, grown-up and half-grown-up, were flocking together from diverse directions; only a few of them came by the road, the others had left it at least when they approached the gards, and stole onward, one behind the stable, a couple near the store-house, some stayed for a long time behind the barn, screaming like foxes, others answered from afar like cats; one stood behind the smoke-house, barking like a cross old dog whose upper notes were cracked; and at last all joined in a general chase. The girls came sauntering along in large groups, having a few boys, mostly small ones, with them, who had gathered about them on the road in order to appear like young men. When such a bevy of girls arrived at the gard and one or two of the grown youths saw them, the girls parted, flew into the passages or down in the garden, and had to be dragged thence into the house, one by one. Some were so excessively bashful that Marit had to be sent for, and then she came out and insisted upon their entering. Sometimes, too, there appeared one who had had no invitation and who had by no means intended to go in, coming only to look on, until perhaps she might have a chance just to take one single dance. Those whom Marit liked well she invited into a small chamber, where her grandfather sat smoking his pipe, and her grandmother was walking about. The old people offered them something to drink and spoke kindly to them. Oyvind was not among those invited in, and this seemed to him rather strange. The best fiddler of the parish could not come until later, so meanwhile they had to content themselves with the old one, a houseman, who went by the name of Gray-Knut. He knew four dances; as follows: two spring dances, a halling, and an old dance, called the Napoleon waltz; but gradually he had been compelled to transform the halling into a schottishe by altering the accent, and in the same manner a spring dance had to become a polka-mazurka. He now struck up and the dancing began. Oyvind did not dare join in at once, for there were too many grown folks here; but the half-grown-up ones soon united, thrust one another forward, drank a little strong ale to strengthen their courage, and then Oyvind came forward with them. The room grew warm to them; merriment and ale mounted to their heads. Marit was on the floor most of the time that evening, no doubt because the party was at her grandparents'; and this led Oyvind to look frequently at her; but she was always dancing with others. He longed to dance with her himself, and so he sat through one dance, in order to be able to hasten to her side the moment it was ended; and he did so, but a tall, swarthy fellow, with thick hair, threw himself in his way. "Back, youngster!" he shouted, and gave Oyvind a push that nearly made him fall backwards over Marit. Never before had such a thing occurred to Oyvind; never had any one been otherwise than kind to him; never had he been called "youngster" when he wanted to take part; he blushed crimson, but said nothing, and drew back to the place where the new fiddler, who had just arrived, had taken his seat and was tuning his instrument. There was silence in the crowd, every one was waiting to hear the first vigorous tones from "the chief fiddler." He tried his instrument and kept on tuning; this lasted a long time; but finally he began with a spring dance, the boys shouted and leaped, couple after couple coming into the circle. Oyvind watched Marit dancing with the thick-haired man; she laughed over the man's shoulder and her white teeth glistened. Oyvind felt a strange, sharp pain in his heart for the first time in his life. He looked longer and longer at her, but however it might be, it seemed to him that Marit was now a young maiden. "It cannot be so, though," thought he, "for she still takes part with the rest of us in our coasting." But grown-up she was, nevertheless, and after the dance was ended, the dark-haired man pulled her down on his lap; she tore herself away, but still she sat down beside him. Oyvind's eyes turned to the man, who wore a fine blue broadcloth suit, blue checked shirt, and a soft silk neckerchief; he had a small face, vigorous blue eyes, a laughing, defiant mouth. He was handsome. Oyvind looked more and more intently, finally scanned himself also; he had had new trousers for Christmas, which he had taken much delight in, but now he saw that they were only gray wadmal; his jacket was of the same material, but old and dark; his vest, of checked homespun, was also old, and had two bright buttons and a black one. He glanced around him and it seemed to him that very few were so poorly clad as he. Marit wore a black, close-fitting dress of a fine material, a silver brooch in her neckerchief and had a folded silk handkerchief in her hand. On the back of her head was perched a little black silk cap, which was tied under the chin with a broad, striped silk ribbon. She was fair and had rosy cheeks, and she was laughing; the man was talking to her and was laughing too. The fiddler started another tune, and the dancing was about to begin again. A comrade came and sat down beside Oyvind. "Why are you not dancing, Oyvind? " he asked pleasantly. "Dear me!" said Oyvind, "I do not look fit." "Do not look fit?" cried his comrade; but before he could say more, Oyvind inquired,-- "Who is that in the blue broadcloth suit, dancing with Marit?" "That is Jon Hatlen, he who has been away so long at an agricultural school and is now to take the gard." At that moment Marit and Jon sat down. "Who is that boy with light hair sitting yonder by the fiddler, staring at me?" asked Jon. Then Marit laughed and said,-- "He is the son of the houseman at Pladsen." Oyvind had always known that he was a houseman's son; but until now he had never realized it. It made him feel so very little, smaller than all the rest; in order to keep up he had to try and think of all that hitherto had made him happy and proud, from the coasting hill to each kind word. He thought, too, of his mother and his father, who were now sitting at home and thinking that he was having a good time, and he could scarcely hold back his tears. Around him all were laughing and joking, the fiddle rang right into his ear, it was a moment in which something black seemed to rise up before him, but then he remembered the school with all his companions, and the school-master who patted him, and the priest who at the last examination had given him a book and told him he was a clever boy. His father himself had sat by listening and had smiled on him. "Be good now, dear Oyvind," he thought he heard the school-master say, taking him on his lap, as when he was a child. "Dear me! it all matters so little, and in fact all people are kind; it merely seems as if they were not. We two will be clever, Oyvind, just as clever as Jon Hatlen; we shall yet have good clothes, and dance with Marit in a light room, with a hundred people in it; we will smile and talk together; there will be a bride and bridegroom, a priest, and I will be in the choir smiling upon you, and mother will be at home, and there will be a large gard with twenty cows, three horses, and Marit as good and kind as at school." The dancing ceased. Oyvind saw Marit on the bench in front of him, and Jon by her side with his face close up to hers; again there came that great burning pain in his breast, and he seemed to be saying to himself: "It is true, I am suffering." Just then Marit rose, and she came straight to him. She stooped over him. "You must not sit there staring so fixedly at me," said she; "you might know that people are noticing it. Take some one now and join the dancers." He made no reply, but he could not keep back the tears that welled up to his eyes as he looked at her. Marit had already risen to go when she saw this, and paused; suddenly she grew as red as fire, turned and went back to her place, but having arrived there she turned again and took another seat. Jon followed her forthwith. Oyvind got up from the bench, passed through the crowd, out in the grounds, sat down on a porch, and then, not knowing what he wanted there rose, but sat down again, thinking he might just as well sit there as anywhere else. He did not care about going home, nor did he desire to go in again, it was all one to him. He was not capable of considering what had happened; he did not want to think of it; neither did he wish to think of the future, for there was nothing to which he looked forward. "But what, then, is it I am thinking of?" he queried, half aloud, and when he had heard his own voice, he thought: "You can still speak, can you laugh?" And then he tried it; yes, he could laugh, and so he laughed loud, still louder, and then it occurred to him that it was very amusing to be sitting laughing here all by himself, and he laughed again. But Hans, the comrade who had been sitting beside him, came out after him. "Good gracious, what are you laughing at?" he asked, pausing in front of the porch. At this Oyvind was silent. Hans remained standing, as if waiting to see what further might happen. Oyvind got up, looked cautiously about him and said in a low tone,-- "Now Hans, I will tell you why I have been so happy before: it was because I did not really love any one; from the day we love some one, we cease to be happy," and he burst into tears. "Oyvind!" a voice whispered out in the court; "Oyvind!" He paused and listened. "Oyvind," was repeated once more, a little louder. "It must be she," he thought. "Yes," he answered, also in a whisper; and hastily wiping his eyes he came forward. A woman stole softly across the gard. [Transcriber's Note: The above sentence should read, "A woman stole softly across the yard." In other early translations, the words "yard" and "court-yard" are used here. "Gard" in this case is apparently a typo. The use of the word, "gard" throughout the rest of this story refers to "farm."] "Are you there?" she asked. "Yes," he answered, standing still. "Who is with you?" "Hans." But Hans wanted to go. "No, no!" besought Oyvind. She slowly drew near them, and it was Marit. "You left so soon," said she to Oyvind. He knew not what to reply; thereupon Marit, too, became embarrassed, and all three were silent. But Hans gradually managed to steal away. The two remained behind, neither looking at each other, nor stirring. Finally Marit whispered:-- "I have been keeping some Christmas goodies in my pocket for you, Oyvind, the whole evening, but I have had no chance to give them to you before." She drew forth some apples, a slice of a cake from town, and a little half pint bottle, which she thrust into his hand, and said he might keep. Oyvind took them. "Thank you!" said he, holding out his hand; hers was warm, and he dropped it at once as if it had burned him. "You have danced a good deal this evening," he murmured. "Yes, I have," she replied, "but _you_ have not danced much," she added. "I have not," he rejoined. "Why did you not dance?" "Oh"-- "Oyvind!" "Yes." "Why did you sit looking at me so?" "Oh--Marit!" "What!" "Why did you dislike having me look at you?" "There were so many people." "You danced a great deal with Jon Hatlen this evening." "I did." "He dances well." "Do you think so?" "Oh, yes. I do not know how it is, but this evening I could not bear to have you dance with him, Marit." He turned away,--it had cost him something to say this. "I do not understand you, Oyvind." "Nor do I understand myself; it is very stupid of me. Good-by, Marit; I will go now." He made a step forward without looking round. Then she called after him. "You make a mistake about what you saw." He stopped. "That you have already become a maiden is no mistake." He did not say what she had expected, therefore she was silent; but at that moment she saw the light from a pipe right in front of her. It was her grandfather, who had just turned the corner and was coming that way. He stood still. "Is it here you are, Marit?" "Yes." "With whom are you talking?" "With Oyvind." "Whom did you say?" "Oyvind Pladsen." "Oh! the son of the houseman at Pladsen. Come at once and go in with me." CHAPTER V. The next morning, when Oyvind opened his eyes, it was from a long, refreshing sleep and happy dreams. Marit had been lying on the cliff, throwing leaves down on him; he had caught them and tossed them back again, so they had gone up and down in a thousand colors and forms; the sun was shining, and the whole cliff glittered beneath its rays. On awaking Oyvind looked around to find them all gone; then he remembered the day before, and the burning, cruel pain in his heart began at once. "This, I shall never be rid of again," thought he; and there came over him a feeling of indifference, as though his whole future had dropped away from him. "Why, you have slept a long time," said his mother, who sat beside him spinning. "Get up now and eat your breakfast; your father is already in the forest cutting wood." Her voice seemed to help him; he rose with a little more courage. His mother was no doubt thinking of her own dancing days, for she sat singing to the sound of the spinning-wheel, while he dressed himself and ate his breakfast. Her humming finally made him rise from the table and go to the window; the same dullness and depression he had felt before took possession of him now, and he was forced to rouse himself, and think of work. The weather had changed, there had come a little frost into the air, so that what yesterday had threatened to fall in rain, to-day came down as sleet. Oyvind put on his snow-socks, a fur cap, his sailor's jacket and mittens, said farewell, and started off, with his axe on his shoulder. Snow fell slowly, in great, wet flakes; he toiled up over the coasting hill, in order to turn into the forest on the left. Never before, winter or summer, had he climbed this hill without recalling something that made him happy, or to which he was looking forward. Now it was a dull, weary walk. He slipped in the damp snow, his knees were stiff, either from the party yesterday or from his low spirits; he felt that it was all over with the coasting-hill for that year, and with it, forever. He longed for something different as he threaded his way in among the tree-trunks, where the snow fell softly. A frightened ptarmigan screamed and fluttered a few yards away, but everything else stood as if awaiting a word which never was spoken. But what his aspirations were, he did not distinctly know, only they concerned nothing at home, nothing abroad, neither pleasure nor work; but rather something far above, soaring upward like a song. Soon all became concentrated in one defined desire, and this was to be confirmed in the spring, and on that occasion to be number one. His heart beat wildly as he thought of it, and before he could yet hear his father's axe in the quivering little trees, this wish throbbed within him with more intensity than anything he had known in all his life. His father, as usual, did not have much to say to him; they chopped away together and both dragged the wood into heaps. Now and then they chanced to meet, and on one such occasion Oyvind remarked, in a melancholy tone, "A houseman has to work very hard." "He as well as others," said the father, as he spit in the palm of his hand and took up the axe again. When the tree was felled and the father had drawn it up to the pile, Oyvind said,-- "If you were a gardman you would not have to work so hard." "Oh! then there would doubtless be other things to distress us," and he grasped his axe with both hands. The mother came up with dinner for them; they sat down. The mother was in high spirits, she sat humming and beating time with her feet. "What are you going to make of yourself when you are grown up, Oyvind?" said she, suddenly. "For a houseman's son, there are not many openings," he replied. "The school-master says you must go to the seminary," said she. "Can people go there free?" inquired Oyvind. "The school-fund pays," answered the father, who was eating. "Would you like to go?" asked the mother. "I should like to learn something, but not to become a school-master." They were all silent for a time. The mother hummed again and gazed before her; but Oyvind went off and sat down by himself. "We do not actually need to borrow of the school-fund," said the mother, when the boy was gone. Her husband looked at her. "Such poor folks as we?" "It does not please me, Thore, to have you always passing yourself off for poor when you are not so." They both stole glances down after the boy to find out if he could hear. The father looked sharply at his wife. "You talk as though you were very wise." She laughed. "It is just the same as not thanking God that things have prospered with us," said she, growing serious. "We can surely thank Him without wearing silver buttons," observed the father. "Yes, but to let Oyvind go to the dance, dressed as he was yesterday, is not thanking Him either." "Oyvind is a houseman's son." "That is no reason why he should not wear suitable clothes when we can afford it." "Talk about it so he can hear it himself!" "He does not hear it; but I should like to have him do so," said she, and looked bravely at her husband, who was gloomy, and laid down his spoon to take his pipe. "Such a poor houseman's place as we have!" said he. "I have to laugh at you, always talking about the place, as you are. Why do you never speak of the mills?" "Oh! you and the mills. I believe you cannot bear to hear them go." "Yes, I can, thank God! might they but go night and day!" "They have stood still now, since before Christmas." "Folks do not grind here about Christmas time." "They grind when there is water; but since there has been a mill at New Stream, we have fared badly here." "The school-master did not say so to-day." "I shall get a more discreet fellow than the school-master to manage our money." "Yes, he ought least of all to talk with your own wife." Thore made no reply to this; he had just lit his pipe, and now, leaning up against a bundle of fagots, he let his eyes wander, first from his wife, then from his son, and fixed them on an old crow's-nest which hung, half overturned, from a fir-branch above. Oyvind sat by himself with the future stretching before him like a long, smooth sheet of ice, across which for the first time he found himself sweeping onward from shore to shore. That poverty hemmed him in on every side, he felt, but for that reason his whole mind was bent on breaking through it. From Marit it had undoubtedly parted him forever; he regarded her as half engaged to Jon Hatlen; but he had determined to vie with him and her through the entire race of life. Never again to be rebuffed as he had been yesterday, and in view of this to keep out of the way until he made something of himself, and then, with the aid of Almighty God, to continue to be something, --occupied all his thoughts, and there arose within his soul not a single doubt of his success. He had a dim idea that through study he would get on best; to what goal it would lead he must consider later. There was coasting in the evening; the children came to the hill, but Oyvind was not with them. He sat reading by the fire-place, feeling that he had not a moment to lose. The children waited a long time; at length, one and another became impatient, approached the house, and laying their faces against the window-pane shouted in; but Oyvind pretended not to hear them. Others came, and evening after evening they lingered about outside, in great surprise; but Oyvind turned his back to them and went on reading, striving faithfully to gather the meaning of the words. Afterwards he heard that Marit was not there either. He read with a diligence which even his father was forced to say went too far. He became grave; his face, which had been so round and soft, grew thinner and sharper, his eye more stern; he rarely sang, and never played; the right time never seemed to come. When the temptation to do so beset him, he felt as if some one whispered, "later, later!" and always "later!" The children slid, shouted, and laughed a while as of old, but when they failed to entice him out either through his own love of coasting, or by shouting to him with their faces pressed against the window-pane, they gradually fell away, found other playgrounds, and soon the hill was deserted. But the school-master soon noticed that this was not the old Oyvind who read because it was his turn, and played because it was a necessity. He often talked with him, coaxed and admonished him; but he did not succeed in finding his way to the boy's heart so easily as in days of old. He spoke also with the parents, the result of the conference being that he came down one Sunday evening, late in the winter, and said, after he had sat a while,-- "Come now, Oyvind, let us go out; I want to have a talk with you." Oyvind put on his things and went with him. They wended their way up toward the Heidegards; a brisk conversation was kept up, but about nothing in particular; when they drew near the gards the school-master turned aside in the direction of one that lay in the centre, and when they had advanced a little farther, shouting and merriment met them. "What is going on here?" asked Oyvind. "There is a dance here," said the school-master; "shall we not go in?" "No." "Will you not take part in a dance, boy?" "No; not yet." "Not yet? When, then?" Oyvind did not answer. "What do you mean by _yet_?" As the youth did not answer, the school-master said,-- "Come, now, no such nonsense." "No, I will not go." He was very decided and at the same time agitated. "The idea of your own school-master standing here and begging you to go to a dance." There was a long pause. "Is there any one in there whom you are afraid to see?" "I am sure I cannot tell who may be in there." "But is there likely to be any one?" Oyvind was silent. Then the school-master walked straight up to him, and laying his hand on his shoulder, said,-- "Are you afraid to see Marit?" Oyvind looked down; his breathing became heavy and quick. "Tell me, Oyvind, my boy?" Oyvind made no reply. "You are perhaps ashamed to confess it since you are not yet confirmed; but tell me, nevertheless, my dear Oyvind, and you shall not regret it." Oyvind raised his eyes but could not speak the word, and let his gaze wander away. "You are not happy, either, of late. Does she care more for any one else than for you?" Oyvind was still silent, and the school-master, feeling slightly hurt, turned away from him. They retraced their steps. After they had walked a long distance, the school-master paused long enough for Oyvind to come up to his side. "I presume you are very anxious to be confirmed," said he. "Yes." "What do you think of doing afterwards?" "I should like to go to the seminary." "And then become a school-master?" "No." "You do not think that is great enough?" Oyvind made no reply. Again they walked on for some distance. "When you have been through the seminary, what will you do?" "I have not fairly considered that." "If you had money, I dare say you would like to buy yourself a gard?" "Yes, but keep the mills." "Then you had better enter the agricultural school." "Do pupils learn as much there as at the seminary?" "Oh, no! but they learn what they can make use of later." "Do they get numbers there too?" "Why do you ask?" "I should like to be a good scholar." "That you can surely be without a number." They walked on in silence again until they saw Pladsen; a light shone from the house, the cliff hanging over it was black now in the winter evening; the lake below was covered with smooth, glittering ice, but there was no snow on the forest skirting the silent bay; the moon sailed overhead, mirroring the forest trees in the ice. "It is beautiful here at Pladsen," said the school-master. There were times when Oyvind could see these things with the same eyes with which he looked when his mother told him nursery tales, or with the vision he had when he coasted on the hill-side, and this was one of those times,--all lay exalted and purified before him. "Yes, it is beautiful," said he, but he sighed. "Your father has found everything he wanted in this home; you, too, might be contented here." The joyous aspect of the spot suddenly disappeared. The school-master stood as if awaiting an answer; receiving none, he shook his head and entered the house with Oyvind. He sat a while with the family, but was rather silent than talkative, whereupon the others too became silent. When he took his leave, both husband and wife followed him outside of the door; it seemed as if both expected him to say something. Meanwhile, they stood gazing up into the night. "It has grown so unusually quiet here," finally said the mother, "since the children have gone away with their sports." "Nor have you a _child_ in the house any longer, either," said the school-master. The mother knew what he meant. "Oyvind has not been happy of late," said she. "Ah, no! he who is ambitious never is happy,"--and he gazed up with an old man's calmness into God's peaceful heavens above. CHAPTER VI. Half a year later--in the autumn it was (the confirmation had been postponed until then)--the candidates for confirmation of the main parish sat in the parsonage servant's hall, waiting examination, among them was Oyvind Pladsen and Marit Heidegards. Marit had just come down from the priest, from whom she had received a handsome book and much praise; she laughed and chatted with her girl friends on all sides and glanced around among the boys. Marit was a full-grown girl, easy and frank in her whole address, and the boys as well as the girls knew that Jon Hatlen, the best match in the parish, was courting her,--well might she be happy as she sat there. Down by the door stood some girls and boys who had not passed; they were crying, while Marit and her friends were laughing; among them was a little boy in his father's boots and his mother's Sunday kerchief. "Oh, dear! oh, dear!" sobbed he, "I dare not go home again." And this overcame those who had not yet been up with the power of sympathy; there was a universal silence. Anxiety filled their throats and eyes; they could not see distinctly, neither could they swallow; and this they felt a continual desire to do. One sat reckoning over how much he knew; and although but a few hours before he had discovered that he knew everything, now he found out just as confidently that he knew nothing, not even how to read in a book. Another summed up the list of his sins, from the time he was large enough to remember until now, and he decided that it would not be at all remarkable if the Lord decreed that he should be rejected. A third sat taking note of all things about him: if the clock which was about to strike did not make its first stroke before he could count twenty, he would pass; if the person he heard in the passage proved to be the gard-boy Lars, he would pass; if the great rain-drop, working its way down over the pane, came as far as the moulding of the window, he would pass. The final and decisive proof was to be if he succeeded in twisting his right foot about the left,--and this it was quite impossible for him to do. A fourth was convinced in his own mind that if he was only questioned about Joseph in Bible history and about baptism in the Catechism, or about Saul, or about domestic duties, or about Jesus, or about the Commandments, or--he still sat rehearsing when he was called. A fifth had taken a special fancy to the Sermon on the Mount; he had dreamed about the Sermon on the Mount; he was sure of being questioned on the Sermon on the Mount; he kept repeating the Sermon on the Mount to himself; he had to go out doors and read over the Sermon on the Mount--when he was called up to be examined on the great and the small prophets. A sixth thought of the priest who was an excellent man and knew his father so well; he thought, too, of the school-master, who had such a kindly face, and of God who was all goodness and mercy, and who had aided so many before both Jacob and Joseph; and then he remembered that his mother and brothers and sisters were at home praying for him, which surely must help. The seventh renounced all he had meant to become in this world. Once he had thought that he would like to push on as far as being a king, once as far as general or priest; now that time was over. But even to the moment of his coming here he had thought of going to sea and becoming a captain; perhaps a pirate, and acquiring enormous riches; now he gave up first the riches, then the pirate, then the captain, then the mate; he paused at sailor, at the utmost boatswain; indeed, it was possible that he would not go to sea at all, but would take a houseman's place on his father's gard. The eighth was more hopeful about his case but not certain, for even the aptest scholar was not certain. He thought of the clothes he was to be confirmed in, wondering what they would be used for if he did not pass. But if he passed he was going to town to get a broadcloth suit, and coming home again to dance at Christmas to the envy of all the boys and the astonishment of all the girls. The ninth reckoned otherwise: he prepared a little account book with the Lord, in which he set down on one side, as it were, "Debit:" he must let me pass, and on the other "Credit:" then I will never tell any more lies, never tittle-tattle any more, always go to church, let the girls alone, and break myself of swearing. The tenth, however, thought that if Ole Hansen had passed last year it would be more than unjust if he who had always done better at school, and, moreover, came of a better family, did not get through this year. By his side sat the eleventh, who was wrestling with the most alarming plans of revenge in the event of his not being passed: either to burn down the school-house, or to run away from the parish and come back again as the denouncing judge of the priest and the whole school commission, but magnanimously allow mercy to take the place of justice. To begin with, he would take service at the house of the priest of the neighboring parish, and there stand number one next year, and answer so that the whole church would marvel. But the twelfth sat alone under the clock, with both hands in his pockets, and looked mournfully out over the assemblage. No one here knew what a burden he bore, what a responsibility he had assumed. At home there was one who knew,--for he was betrothed. A large, long-legged spider was crawling over the floor and drew near his foot; he was in the habit of treading on this loathsome insect, but to-day he tenderly raised his foot that it might go in peace whither it would. His voice was as gentle as a collect, his eyes said incessantly that all men were good, his hands made a humble movement out of his pockets up to his hair to stroke it down more smoothly. If he could only glide gently through this dangerous needle's eye, he would doubtless grow out again on the other side, chew tobacco, and announce his engagement. And down on a low stool with his legs drawn up under him, sat the anxious thirteenth; his little flashing eyes sped round the room three times each second, and through the passionate, obstinate head stormed in motley confusion the combined thoughts of the other twelve: from the mightiest hope to the most crushing doubt, from the most humble resolves to the most devastating plans of revenge; and, meanwhile, he had eaten up all the loose flesh on his right thumb, and was busied now with his nails, sending large pieces across the floor. Oyvind sat by the window, he had been upstairs and had answered everything that had been asked him; but the priest had not said anything, neither had the school-master. For more than half a year he had been considering what they both would say when they came to know how hard he had toiled, and he felt now deeply disappointed as well as wounded. There sat Marit, who for far less exertion and knowledge had received both encouragement and reward; it was just in order to stand high in her eyes that he had striven, and now she smilingly won what he had labored with so much self-denial to attain. Her laughter and joking burned into his soul, the freedom with which she moved about pained him. He had carefully avoided speaking with her since that evening, it would take years, he thought; but the sight of her sitting there so happy and superior, weighed him to the ground, and all his proud determinations drooped like leaves after a rain. He strove gradually to shake off his depression. Everything depended on whether he became number one to-day, and for this he was waiting. It was the school-master's wont to linger a little after the rest with the priest to arrange about the order of the young people, and afterwards to go down and report the result; it was, to be sure, not the final decision, merely what the priest and he had for the present agreed upon. The conversation became livelier after a considerable number had been examined and passed; but now the ambitious ones plainly distinguished themselves from the happy ones; the latter left as soon as they found company, in order to announce their good fortune to their parents, or they waited for the sake of others who were not yet ready; the former, on the contrary, grew more and more silent and their eyes were fixed in suspense on the door. At length the children were all through, the last had come down, and so the school-master must now be talking with the priest. Oyvind glanced at Marit; she was just as happy as before, but she remained in her seat, whether waiting for her own pleasure or for some one else, he knew not. How pretty Marit had become! He had never seen so dazzlingly lovely a complexion; her nose was slightly turned up, and a dainty smile played about the mouth. She kept her eyes partially closed when not looking directly at any one, but for that reason her gaze always had unsuspected power when it did come; and, as though she wished herself to add that she meant nothing by this, she half smiled at the same moment. Her hair was rather dark than light, but it was wavy and crept far over the brow on either side, so that, together with the half closed eyes, it gave the face a hidden expression that one could never weary of studying. It never seemed quite sure whom it was she was looking for when she was sitting alone and among others, nor what she really had in mind when she turned to speak to any one, for she took back immediately, as it were, what she gave. "Under all this Jon Hatlen is hidden, I suppose," thought Oyvind, but still stared constantly at her. Now came the school-master. All left their places and stormed about him. "What number am I?"--"And I?"--"And I--I?" "Hush! you overgrown young ones! No uproar here! Be quiet and you shall hear about it, children." He looked slowly around. "You are number two," said he to a boy with blue eyes, who was gazing up at him most beseechingly; and the boy danced out of the circle. "You are number three," he tapped a red-haired, active little fellow who stood tugging at his jacket. "You are number five; you number eight," and so on. Here he caught sight of Marit. "You are number one of the girls,"--she blushed crimson over face and neck, but tried to smile. "You are number twelve; you have been lazy, you rogue, and full of mischief; you number eleven, nothing better to be expected, my boy; you, number thirteen, must study hard and come to the next examination, or it will go badly with you!" Oyvind could bear it no longer; number one, to be sure, had not been mentioned, but he had been standing all the time so that the school-master could see him. "School-master!" He did not hear. "School-master!" Oyvind had to repeat this three times before it was heard. At last the school-master looked at him. "Number nine or ten, I do not remember which," said he, and turned to another. "Who is number one, then?" inquired Hans, who was Oyvind's best friend. "It is not you, curly-head!" said the school-master, rapping him over the hand with a roll of paper. "Who is it, then?" asked others. "Who is it? Yes; who is it?" "He will find that out who has the number," replied the school-master, sternly. He would have no more questions. "Now go home nicely, children. Give thanks to your God and gladden your parents. Thank your old school-master too; you would have been in a pretty fix if it had not been for him." They thanked him, laughed, and went their way jubilantly, for at this moment when they were about to go home to their parents they all felt happy. Only one remained behind, who could not at once find his books, and who when he had found them sat down as if he must read them over again. The school-master went up to him. "Well, Oyvind, are you not going with the rest?" There was no reply. "Why do you open your books?" "I want to find out what I answered wrong to-day." "You answered nothing wrong." Then Oyvind looked at him; tears filled his eyes, but he gazed intently at the school-master, while one by one trickled down his cheeks, and not a word did he say. The school-master sat down in front of him. "Are you not glad that you passed?" There was a quivering about the lips but no reply. "Your mother and father will be very glad," said the school-master, and looked at Oyvind. The boy struggled hard to gain power of utterance, finally he asked in low, broken tones,-- "Is it--because I--am a houseman's son that I only stand number nine or ten?" "No doubt that was it," replied the school-master. "Then it is of no use for me to work," said Oyvind, drearily, and all his bright dreams vanished. Suddenly he raised his head, lifted his right hand, and bringing it down on the table with all his might, flung himself forward on his face and burst into passionate tears. The school-master let him lie and weep,--weep as long as he would. It lasted a long time, but the school-master waited until the weeping grew more childlike. Then taking Oyvind's head in both hands, he raised it and gazed into the tear-stained face. "Do you believe that it is God who has been with you now," said he, drawing the boy affectionately toward him. Oyvind was still sobbing, but not so violently as before; his tears flowed more calmly, but he neither dared look at him who questioned nor answer. "This, Oyvind, has been a well-merited recompense. You have not studied from love of your religion, or of your parents; you have studied from vanity." There was silence in the room after every sentence the school-master uttered. Oyvind felt his gaze resting on him, and he melted and grew humble under it. "With such wrath in your heart, you could not have come forward to make a covenant with your God. Do you think you could, Oyvind?" "No," the boy stammered, as well as he was able. "And if you stood there with vain joy, over being number one, would you not be coming forward with a sin?" "Yes, I should," whispered Oyvind, and his lips quivered. "You still love me, Oyvind?" "Yes;" here he looked up for the first time. "Then I will tell you that it was I who had you put down; for I am very fond of you, Oyvind." The other looked at him, blinked several times, and the tears rolled down in rapid succession. "You are not displeased with me for that?" "No;" he looked up full in the school-master's face, although his voice was choked. "My dear child, I will stand by you as long as I live." The school-master waited for Oyvind until the latter had gathered together his books, then said that he would accompany him home. They walked slowly along. At first Oyvind was silent and his struggle went on, but gradually he gained his self-control. He was convinced that what had occurred was the best thing that in any way could have happened to him; and before he reached home, his belief in this had become so strong that he gave thanks to his God, and told the school-master so. "Yes, now we can think of accomplishing something in life," said the school-master, "instead of playing blind-man's buff, and chasing after numbers. What do you say to the seminary?" "Why, I should like very much to go there." "Are you thinking of the agricultural school?" "Yes." "That is, without doubt, the best; it provides other openings than a school-master's position." "But how can I go there? I earnestly desire it, but I have not the means." "Be industrious and good, and I dare say the means will be found." Oyvind felt completely overwhelmed with gratitude. His eyes sparkled, his breath came lightly, he glowed with that infinite love that bears us along when we experience some unexpected kindness from a fellow-creature. At such a moment, we fancy that our whole future will be like wandering in the fresh mountain air; we are wafted along more than we walk. When they reached home both parents were within, and had been sitting there in quiet expectation, although it was during working hours of a busy time. The school-master entered first, Oyvind followed; both were smiling. "Well?" said the father, laying aside a hymn-book, in which he had just been reading a "Prayer for a Confirmation Candidate." His mother stood by the hearth, not daring to say anything; she was smiling, but her hand was trembling. Evidently she was expecting good news, but did not wish to betray herself. "I merely had to come to gladden you with the news, that he answered every question put to him; and that the priest said, when Oyvind had left him, that he had never had a more apt scholar." "Is it possible!" said the mother, much affected. "Well, that is good," said his father, clearing his throat unsteadily. After it had been still for some time, the mother asked, softly,-- "What number will he have?" "Number nine or ten," said the school-master, calmly. The mother looked at the father; he first at her, then at Oyvind, and said,-- "A houseman's son can expect no more." Oyvind returned his gaze. Something rose up in his throat once more, but he hastily forced himself to think of things that he loved, one by one, until it was choked down again. "Now I had better go," said the school-master, and nodding, turned away. Both parents followed him as usual out on the door-step; here the school-master took a quid of tobacco, and smiling said,-- "He will be number one, after all; but it is not worth while that he should know anything about it until the day comes." "No, no," said the father, and nodded. "No, no," said the mother, and she nodded too; after which she grasped the school-master's hand and added: "We thank you for all you do for him." "Yes, you have our thanks," said the father, and the school-master moved away. They long stood there gazing after him. CHAPTER VII. The school-master had judged the boy correctly when he asked the priest to try whether Oyvind could bear to stand number one. During the three weeks which elapsed before the confirmation, he was with the boy every day. It is one thing for a young, tender soul to yield to an impression; what through faith it shall attain is another thing. Many dark hours fell upon Oyvind before he learned to choose the goal of his future from something better than ambition and defiance. Often in the midst of his work he lost his interest and stopped short: what was it all for, what would he gain by it?--and then presently he would remember the school-master, his words and his kindness; and this human medium forced him to rise up again every time he fell from a comprehension of his higher duty. In those days while they were preparing at Pladsen for the confirmation, they were also preparing for Oyvind's departure for the agricultural school, for this was to take place the following day. Tailor and shoemaker were sitting in the family-room; the mother was baking in the kitchen, the father working at a chest. There was a great deal said about what Oyvind would cost his parents in the next two years; about his not being able to come home the first Christmas, perhaps not the second either, and how hard it would be to be parted so long. They spoke also of the love Oyvind should bear his parents who were willing to sacrifice themselves for their child's sake. Oyvind sat like one who had tried sailing out into the world on his own responsibility, but had been wrecked and was now picked up by kind people. Such is the feeling that humility gives, and with it comes much more. As the great day drew near he dared call himself prepared, and also dared look forward with trustful resignation. Whenever Marit's image would present itself, he cautiously thrust it aside, although he felt a pang in so doing. He tried to gain practice in this, but never made any progress in strength; on the contrary, it was the pain that grew. Therefore he was weary the last evening, when, after a long self-examination, he prayed that the Lord would not put him to the test in this matter. The school-master came as the day was drawing to a close. They all sat down together in the family-room, after washing and dressing themselves neat and clean, as was customary the evening before going to communion, or morning service. The mother was agitated, the father silent; parting was to follow the morrow's ceremony, and it was uncertain when they could all sit down together again. The school-master brought out the hymn-books, read the service, sang with the family, and afterwards said a short prayer, just as the words came into his mind. These four people now sat together until late in the evening, the thoughts of each centering within; then they parted with the best wishes for the coming day and what it was to consecrate. Oyvind was obliged to admit, as he laid himself down, that he had never gone to bed so happy before; he gave this an interpretation of his own,--he understood it to mean: I have never before gone to bed feeling so resigned to God's will and so happy in it. Marit's face at once rose up before him again, and the last thing he was conscious of was that he lay and examined himself: not quite happy, not quite,--and that he answered: yes, quite; but again: not quite; yes, quite; no, not quite. When he awoke he at once remembered the day, prayed, and felt strong, as one does in the morning. Since the summer, he had slept alone in the attic; now he rose, and put on his handsome new clothes, very carefully, for he had never owned such before. There was especially a round broadcloth jacket, which he had to examine over and over again before he became accustomed to it. He hung up a little looking-glass when he had adjusted his collar, and for the fourth time drew on his jacket. At sight of his own contented face, with the unusually light hair surrounding it, reflected and smiling in the glass, it occurred to him that this must certainly be vanity again. "Yes, but people must be well-dressed and tidy," he reasoned, drawing his face away from the glass, as if it were a sin to look in it. "To be sure, but not quite so delighted with themselves, for the sake of the matter." "No, certainly not, but the Lord must also like to have one care to look well." "That may be; but He would surely like it better to have you do so without taking so much notice of it yourself." "That is true; but it happens now because everything is so new." "Yes, but you must gradually lay the habit aside."--He caught himself carrying on such a self-examining conversation, now upon one theme, now upon another, so that not a sin should fall on the day and stain it; but at the same time he knew that he had other struggles to meet. When he came down-stairs, his parents sat all dressed, waiting breakfast for him. He went up to them and taking their hands thanked them for the clothes, and received in return a "wear-them-out-with-good-health."[1] They sat down to table, prayed silently, and ate. The mother cleared the table, and carried in the lunch-box for the journey to church. The father put on his jacket, the mother fastened her kerchief; they took their hymn-books, locked up the house, and started. As soon as they had reached the upper road they met the church-faring people, driving and walking, the confirmation candidates scattered among them, and in one group and another white-haired grand-parents, who had felt moved to come out on this great occasion. [Footnote 1: A common expression among the peasantry of Norway, meaning: "You are welcome."] It was an autumn day without sunshine, as when the weather is about to change. Clouds gathered together and dispersed again; sometimes out of one great mass were formed twenty smaller ones, which sped across the sky with orders for a storm; but below, on the earth, it was still calm, the foliage hung lifeless, not a leaf stirring; the air was a trifle sultry; people carried their outer wraps with them but did not use them. An unusually large multitude had assembled round the church, which stood in an open space; but the confirmation children immediately went into the church in order to be arranged in their places before service began. Then it was that the school-master, in a blue broadcloth suit, frock coat, and knee-breeches, high shoes, stiff cravat, and a pipe protruding from his back coat pocket, came down towards them, nodded and smiled, tapped one on the shoulder, spoke a few words to another about answering loudly and distinctly, and meanwhile worked his way along to the poor-box, where Oyvind stood answering all the questions of his friend Hans in reference to his journey. "Good-day, Oyvind. How fine you look to-day!" He took him by the jacket collar as if he wished to speak to him. "Listen. I believe everything good of you. I have been talking with the priest; you will be allowed to keep your place; go up to number one and answer distinctly!" Oyvind looked up at him amazed; the school-master nodded; the boy took a few steps, stopped, a few steps more, stopped again: "Yes, it surely is so; he has spoken to the priest for me,"--and the boy walked swiftly up to his place. "You are to be number one, after all," some one whispered to him. "Yes," answered Oyvind, in a low voice, but did not feel quite sure yet whether he dared think so. The assignment of places was over, the priest had come, the bells were ringing, and the people pouring into church. Then Oyvind saw Marit Heidegards just in front of him; she saw him too; but they were both so awed by the sacredness of the place that they dared not greet each other. He only noticed that she was dazzlingly beautiful and that her hair was uncovered; more he did not see. Oyvind, who for more than half a year had been building such great plans about standing opposite her, forgot, now that it had come to the point, both the place and her, and that he had in any way thought of them. After all was ended the relatives and acquaintances came up to offer their congratulations; next came Oyvind's comrades to take leave of him, as they had heard that he was to depart the next day; then there came many little ones with whom he had coasted on the hill-sides and whom he had assisted at school, and who now could not help whimpering a little at parting. Last came the school-master, silently took Oyvind and his parents by the hands, and made a sign to start for home; he wanted to accompany them. The four were together once more, and this was to be the last evening. On the way home they met many others who took leave of Oyvind and wished him good luck; but they had no other conversation until they sat down together in the family-room. The school-master tried to keep them in good spirits; the fact was now that the time had come they all shrank from the two long years of separation, for up to this time they had never been parted a single day; but none of them would acknowledge it. The later it grew the more dejected Oyvind became; he was forced to go out to recover his composure a little. It was dusk now and there were strange sounds in the air. Oyvind remained standing on the door-step gazing upward. From the brow of the cliff he then heard his own name called, quite softly; it was no delusion, for it was repeated twice. He looked up and faintly distinguished a female form crouching between the trees and looking down. "Who is it?" asked he. "I hear you are going away," said a low voice, "so I had to come to you and say good-by, as you would not come to me." "Dear me! Is that you, Marit? I shall come up to you." "No, pray do not. I have waited so long, and if you come I should have to wait still longer; no one knows where I am and I must hurry home." "It was kind of you to come," said he. "I could not bear to have you leave so, Oyvind; we have known each other since we were children." "Yes; we have." "And now we have not spoken to each other for half a year." "No; we have not." "We parted so strangely, too, that time." "We did. I think I must come up to you!" "Oh, no! do not come! But tell me: you are not angry with me?" "Goodness! how could you think so?" "Good-by, then, Oyvind, and my thanks for all the happy times we have had together!" "Wait, Marit!" "Indeed I must go; they will miss me." "Marit! Marit!" "No, I dare not stay away any longer, Oyvind. Good-by." "Good-by!" Afterwards he moved about as in a dream, and answered very absently when he was addressed. This was ascribed to his journey, as was quite natural; and indeed it occupied his whole mind at the moment when the school-master took leave of him in the evening and put something into his hand, which he afterwards found to be a five-dollar bill. But later, when he went to bed, he thought not of the journey, but of the words which had come down from the brow of the cliff, and those that had been sent up again. As a child Marit was not allowed to come on the cliff, because her grandfather feared she might fall down. Perhaps she will come down some day, any way. CHAPTER VIII. DEAR PARENTS,--We have to study much more now than at first, but as I am less behind the others than I was, it is not so hard. I shall change many things in father's place when I come home; for there is much that is wrong there, and it is wonderful that it has prospered as well as it has. But I shall make everything right, for I have learned a great deal. I want to go to some place where I can put into practice all I now know, and so I must look for a high position when I get through here. No one here considers Jon Hatlen as clever as he is thought to be at home with us; but as he has a gard of his own, this does not concern any one but himself. Many who go from here get very high salaries, but they are paid so well because ours is the best agricultural school in the country. Some say the one in the next district is better, but this is by no means true. There are two words here: one is called Theory, the other Practice. It is well to have them both, for one is nothing without the other; but still the latter is the better. Now the former means, to understand the cause and principle of a work; the latter, to be able to perform it: as, for instance, in regard to a quagmire; for there are many who know what should be done with a quagmire and yet do it wrong, because they are not able to put their knowledge into practice. Many, on the other hand, are skillful in doing, but do not know what ought to be done; and thus they too may make bad work of it, for there are many kinds of quagmires. But we at the agricultural school learn both words. The superintendent is so skillful that he has no equal. At the last agricultural meeting for the whole country, he led in two discussions, and the other superintendents had only one each, and upon careful consideration his statements were always sustained. At the meeting before the last, where he was not present, there was nothing but idle talk. The lieutenant who teaches surveying was chosen by the superintendent only on account of his ability, for the other schools have no lieutenant. He is so clever that he was the best scholar at the military academy. The school-master asks if I go to church. Yes, of course I go to church, for now the priest has an assistant, and his sermons fill all the congregation with terror, and it is a pleasure to listen to him. He belongs to the new religion they have in Christiania, and people think him too strict, but it is good for them that he is so. Just now we are studying much history, which we have not done before, and it is curious to observe all that has happened in the world, but especially in our country, for we have always won, except when we have lost, and then we always had the smaller number. We now have liberty; and no other nation has so much of it as we, except America; but there they are not happy. Our freedom should be loved by us above everything. Now I will close for this time, for I have written a very long letter. The school-master will read it, I suppose, and when he answers for you, get him to tell me some news about one thing or another, for he never does so of himself. But now accept hearty greetings from your affectionate son, O. THORESEN. DEAR PARENTS,--Now I must tell you that we have had examinations, and that I stood 'excellent' in many things, and 'very good' in writing and surveying, but 'good' in Norwegian composition. This comes, the superintendent says, from my not having read enough, and he has made me a present of some of Ole Vig's books, which are matchless, for I understand everything in them. The superintendent is very kind to me, and he tells us many things. Everything here is very inferior compared with what they have abroad; we understand almost nothing, but learn everything from the Scotch and Swiss, although horticulture we learn from the Dutch. Many visit these countries. In Sweden, too, they are much more clever than we, and there the superintendent himself has been. I have been here now nearly a year, and I thought that I had learned a great deal; but when I heard what those who passed the examination knew, and considered that they would not amount to anything either when they came into contact with foreigners, I became very despondent. And then the soil here in Norway is so poor compared with what it is abroad; it does not at all repay us for what we do with it. Moreover, people will not learn from the experience of others; and even if they would, and if the soil was much better, they really have not the money to cultivate it. It is remarkable that things have prospered as well as they have. I am now in the highest class, and am to remain there a year before I get through. But most of my companions have left and I long for home. I feel alone, although I am not so by any means, but one has such a strange feeling when one has been long absent. I once thought I should become so much of a scholar here; but I am not making the progress I anticipated. What shall I do with myself when I leave here? First, of course, I will come home; afterwards, I suppose, I will have to seek something to do, but it must not be far away. Farewell, now, dear parents! Give greetings to all who inquire for me, and tell them that I have everything pleasant here but that now I long to be at home again. Your affectionate son, OYVIND THORESEN PLADSEN. DEAR SCHOOL-MASTER,--With this I ask if you will deliver the inclosed letter and not speak of it to any one. And if you will not, then you must burn it. OYVIND THORESEN PLADSEN. TO THE MOST HONORED MAIDEN, MARIT KNUDSDATTER NORDISTUEN AT THE UPPER HEIDEGARDS:-- You will no doubt be much surprised at receiving a letter from me; but you need not be for I only wish to ask how you are. You must send me a few words as soon as possible, giving me all particulars. Regarding myself, I have to say that I shall be through here in a year. Most respectfully, OYVIND PLADSEN. TO OYVIND PLADSEN, AT THE AGRICULTURAL SCHOOL:-- Your letter was duly received by me from the school-master, and I will answer since you request it. But I am afraid to do so, now that you are so learned; and I have a letter-writer, but it does not help me. So I will have to try what I can do, and you must take the will for the deed; but do not show this, for if you do you are not the one I think you are. Nor must you keep it, for then some one might see it, but you must burn it, and this you will have to promise me to do. There were so many things I wanted to write about, but I do not quite dare. We have had a good harvest; potatoes bring a high price, and here at the Heidegards we have plenty of them. But the bear has done much mischief among the cattle this summer: he killed two of Ole Nedregard's cattle and injured one belonging to our houseman so badly that it had to be killed for beef. I am weaving a large piece of cloth, something like a Scotch plaid, and it is difficult. And now I will tell you that I am still at home, and that there are those who would like to have it otherwise. Now I have no more to write about for this time, and so I must bid you farewell. MARIT KNUDSDATTER. P.S.--Be sure and burn this letter. TO THE AGRICULTURIST, OYVIND THORESEN PLADSEN:-- As I have told you before, Oyvind, he who walks with God has come into the good inheritance. But now you must listen to my advice, and that is not to take the world with yearning and tribulation, but to trust in God and not allow your heart to consume you, for if you do you will have another god besides Him. Next I must inform you that your father and your mother are well, but I am troubled with one of my hips; for now the war breaks out afresh with all that was suffered in it. What youth sows age must reap; and this is true both in regard to the mind and the body, which now throbs and pains, and tempts one to make any number of lamentations. But old age should not complain; for wisdom flows from wounds, and pain preaches patience, that man may grow strong enough for the last journey. To-day I have taken up my pen for many reasons, and first and above all for the sake of Marit, who has become a God-fearing maiden, but who is as light of foot as a reindeer, and of rather a fickle disposition. She would be glad to abide by one thing, but is prevented from so doing by her nature; but I have often before seen that with hearts of such weak stuff the Lord is indulgent and long-suffering, and does not allow them to be tempted beyond their strength, lest they break to pieces, for she is very fragile. I duly gave her your letter, and she hid it from all save her own heart. If God will lend His aid in this matter, I have nothing against it, for Marit is most charming to young men, as plainly can be seen, and she has abundance of earthly goods, and the heavenly ones she has too, with all her fickleness. For the fear of God in her mind is like water in a shallow pond: it is there when it rains, but it is gone when the sun shines. My eyes can endure no more at present, for they see well at a distance, but pain me and fill with tears when I look at small objects. In conclusion, I will advise you, Oyvind, to have your God with you in all your desires and undertakings, for it is written: "Better is an handful with quietness, than both the hands full with travail and vexation of spirit." Ecclesiastes, iv. 6. Your old school-master, BAARD ANDERSEN OPDAL. TO THE MOST HONORED MAIDEN, MARIT KNUDSDATTER HEIDEGARDS:-- You have my thanks for your letter, which I have read and burned, as you requested. You write of many things, but not at all concerning that of which I wanted you to write. Nor do I dare write anything definite before I know how you are in _every respect_. The school-master's letter says nothing that one can depend on, but he praises you and he says you are fickle. That, indeed, you were before. Now I do not know what to think, and so you must write, for it will not be well with me until you do. Just now I remember best about your coming to the cliff that last evening and what you said then. I will say no more this time, and so farewell. Most respectfully, OYVIND PLADSEN. TO OYVIND THORESEN PLADSEN:-- The school-master has given me another letter from you, and I have just read it, but I do not understand it in the least, and that, I dare say, is because I am not learned. You want to know how it is with me in every respect; and I am healthy and well, and there is nothing at all the matter with me. I eat heartily, especially when I get milk porridge. I sleep at night, and occasionally in the day-time too. I have danced a great deal this winter, for there have been many parties here, and that has been very pleasant. I go to church when the snow is not too deep; but we have had a great deal of snow this winter. Now, I presume, you know everything, and if you do not, I can think of nothing better than for you to write to me once more. MARIT KNUDSDATTER. TO THE MOST HONORED MAIDEN, MARIT KNUDSDATTER HEIDEGARDS:-- I have received your letter, but you seem inclined to leave me no wiser than I was before. Perhaps this may be meant for an answer. I do not know. I dare not write anything that I wish to write, for I do not know you. But possibly you do not know me either. You must not think that I am any longer the soft cheese you squeezed the water away from when I sat watching you dance. I have laid on many shelves to dry since that time. Neither am I like those long-haired dogs who drop their ears at the least provocation and take flight from people, as in former days. I can stand fire now. Your letter was very playful, but it jested where it should not have jested at all, for you understood me very well, and you could see that I did not ask in sport, but because of late I can think of nothing else than the subject I questioned you about. I was waiting in deep anxiety, and there came to me only foolery and laughter. Farewell, Marit Heidegards, I shall not look at you too much, as I did at that dance. May you both eat well, and sleep well, and get your new web finished, and above all, may you be able to shovel away the snow which lies in front of the church-door. Most respectfully, OYVIND THORESEN PLADSEN. TO THE AGRICULTURIST, OYVIND THORESEN, AT THE AGRICULTURAL SCHOOL:-- Notwithstanding my advanced years, and the weakness of my eyes, and the pain in my right hip, I must yield to the importunity of the young, for we old people are needed by them when they have caught themselves in some snare. They entice us and weep until they are set free, but then at once run away from us again, and will take no further advice. Now it is Marit; she coaxes me with many sweet words to write at the same time she does, for she takes comfort in not writing alone. I have read your letter; she thought that she had Jon Hatlen or some other fool to deal with, and not one whom school-master Baard had trained; but now she is in a dilemma. However, you have been too severe, for there are certain women who take to jesting in order to avoid weeping, and who make no difference between the two. But it pleases me to have you take serious things seriously, for otherwise you could not laugh at nonsense. Concerning the feelings of both, it is now apparent from many things that you are bent on having each other. About Marit I have often been in doubt, for she is like the wind's course; but I have now learned that notwithstanding this she has resisted Jon Hatlen's advances, at which her grandfather's wrath is sorely kindled. She was happy when your offer came, and if she jested it was from joy, not from any harm. She has endured much, and has done so in order to wait for him on whom her mind was fixed. And now you will not have her, but cast her away as you would a naughty child. This was what I wanted to tell you. And this counsel I must add, that you should come to an understanding with her, for you can find enough else to be at variance with. I am like the old man who has lived through three generations; I have seen folly and its course. Your mother and father send love by me. They are expecting you home; but I would not write of this before, lest you should become homesick. You do not know your father; he is like a tree which makes no moan until it is hewn down. But if ever any mischance should befall you, then you will learn to know him, and you will wonder at the richness of his nature. He has had heavy burdens to bear, and is silent in worldly matters; but your mother has relieved his mind from earthly anxiety, and now daylight is beginning to break through the gloom. Now my eyes grow dim, my hand refuses to do more. Therefore I commend you to Him whose eye ever watches, and whose hand is never weary. BAARD ANDERSEN OPDAL. TO OYVIND PLADSEN:-- You seem to be displeased with me, and this greatly grieves me. For I did not mean to make you angry. I meant well. I know I have often failed to do rightly by you, and that is why I write to you now; but you must not show the letter to any one. Once I had everything just as I desired, and then I was not kind; but now there is no one who cares for me, and I am very wretched. Jon Hatlen has made a lampoon about me, and all the boys sing it, and I no longer dare go to the dances. Both the old people know about it, and I have to listen to many harsh words. Now I am sitting alone writing, and you must not show my letter. You have learned much and are able to advise me, but you are now far away. I have often been down to see your parents, and have talked with your mother, and we have become good friends; but I did not like to say anything about it, for you wrote so strangely. The school-master only makes fun of me, and he knows nothing about the lampoon, for no one in the parish would presume to sing such a thing to him. I stand alone now, and have no one to speak with. I remember when we were children, and you were so kind to me; and I always sat on your sled, and I could wish that I were a child again. I cannot ask you to answer me, for I dare not do so. But if you will answer just once more I will never forget it in you, Oyvind. MARIT KNUDSDATTER. Please burn this letter; I scarcely know whether I dare send it. DEAR MARIT,--Thank you for your letter; you wrote it in a lucky hour. I will tell you now, Marit, that I love you so much that I can scarcely wait here any longer; and if you love me as truly in return all the lampoons of Jon and harsh words of others shall be like leaves which grow too plentifully on the tree. Since I received your letter I feel like a new being, for double my former strength has come to me, and I fear no one in the whole world. After I had sent my last letter I regretted it so that I almost became ill. And now you shall hear what the result of this was. The superintendent took me aside and asked what was the matter with me; he fancied I was studying too hard. Then he told me that when my year was out I might remain here one more, without expense. I could help him with sundry things, and he would teach me more. Then I thought that work was the only thing I had to rely on, and I thanked him very much; and I do not yet repent it, although now I long for you, for the longer I stay here the better right I shall have to ask for you one day. How happy I am now! I work like three people, and never will I be behind-hand in any work! But you must have a book that I am reading, for there is much in it about love. I read in it in the evening when the others are sleeping, and then I read your letter over again. Have you thought about our meeting? I think of it so often, and you, too, must try and find out how delightful it will be. I am truly happy that I have toiled and studied so much, although it was hard before; for now I can say what I please to you, and smile over it in my heart. I shall give you many books to read, that you may see how much tribulation they have borne who have truly loved each other, and that they would rather die of grief than forsake each other. And that is what we would do, and do it with the greatest joy. True, it will be nearly two years before we see each other, and still longer before we get each other; but with every day that passes there is one day less to wait; we must think of this while we are working. My next letter shall be about many things; but this evening I have no more paper, and the others are asleep. Now I will go to bed and think of you, and I will do so until I fall asleep. Your friend, OYVIND PLADSEN. CHAPTER IX. One Saturday, in midsummer, Thore Pladsen rowed across the lake to meet his son, who was expected to arrive that afternoon from the agricultural school, where he had finished his course. The mother had hired women several days beforehand, and everything was scoured and clean. The bedroom had been put in order some time before, a stove had been set up, and there Oyvind was to be. To-day the mother carried in fresh greens, laid out clean linen, made up the bed, and all the while kept looking out to see if, perchance, any boat were coming across the lake. A plentiful table was spread in the house, and there was always something wanting, or flies to chase away, and the bedroom was dusty,--continually dusty. Still no boat came. The mother leaned against the window and looked across the waters; then she heard a step near at hand on the road, and turned her head. It was the school- master, who was coming slowly down the hill, supporting himself on a staff, for his hip troubled him. His intelligent eyes looked calm. He paused to rest, and nodded to her:-- "Not come yet?" "No; I expect them every moment." "Fine weather for haymaking, to-day." "But warm for old folks to be walking." The school-master looked at her, smiling,-- "Have any young folks been out to-day?" "Yes; but are gone again." "Yes, yes, to be sure; there will most likely be a meeting somewhere this evening." "I presume there will be. Thore says they shall not meet in his house until they have the old man's consent." "Right, quite right." Presently the mother cried,-- "There! I think they are coming." The school-master looked long in the distance. "Yes, indeed! it is they." The mother left the window, and he went into the house. After he had rested a little and taken something to drink, they proceeded down to the shore, while the boat darted toward them, making rapid headway, for both father and son were rowing. The oarsmen had thrown off their jackets, the waters whitened beneath their strokes; and so the boat soon drew near those who were waiting. Oyvind turned his head and looked up; he saw the two at the landing-place, and resting his oars, he shouted,-- "Good-day, mother! Good-day, school-master!" "What a manly voice he has," said the mother, her face sparkling. "O dear, O dear! he is as fair as ever," she added. The school-master drew in the boat. The father laid down his oars, Oyvind sprang past him and out of the boat, shook hands first with his mother, then with the school-master. He laughed and laughed again; and, quite contrary to the custom of peasants, immediately began to pour out a flood of words about the examination, the journey, the superintendent's certificate, and good offers; he inquired about the crops and his acquaintances, all save one. The father had paused to carry things up from the boat, but, wanting to hear, too, thought they might remain there for the present, and joined the others. And so they walked up toward the house, Oyvind laughing and talking, the mother laughing, too, for she was utterly at a loss to know what to say. The school-master moved slowly along at Oyvind's side, watching his old pupil closely; the father walked at a respectful distance. And thus they reached home. Oyvind was delighted with everything he saw: first because the house was painted, then because the mill was enlarged, then because the leaden windows had been taken out in the family-room and in the bed-chamber, and white glass had taken the place of green, and the window frames had been made larger. When he entered everything seemed astonishingly small, and not at all as he remembered it, but very cheerful. The clock cackled like a fat hen, the carved chairs almost seemed as if they would speak; he knew every dish on the table spread before him, the freshly white-washed hearth smiled welcome; the greens, decorating the walls, scattered about them their fragrance, the juniper, strewn over the floor, gave evidence of the festival. They all sat down to the meal; but there was not much eaten, for Oyvind rattled away without ceasing. The others viewed him now more composedly, and observed in what respect he had altered, in what he remained unchanged; looked at what was entirely new about him, even to the blue broadcloth suit he wore. Once when he had been telling a long story about one of his companions and finally concluded, as there was a little pause, the father said,-- "I scarcely understand a word that you say, boy; you talk so very fast." They all laughed heartily, and Oyvind not the least. He knew very well this was true, but it was not possible for him to speak more slowly. Everything new he had seen and learned, during his long absence from home, had so affected his imagination and understanding, and had so driven him out of his accustomed demeanor, that faculties which long had lain dormant were roused up, as it were, and his brain was in a state of constant activity. Moreover, they observed that he had a habit of arbitrarily taking up two or three words here and there, and repeating them again and again from sheer haste. He seemed to be stumbling over himself. Sometimes this appeared absurd, but then he laughed and it was forgotten. The school-master and the father sat watching to see if any of the old thoughtfulness was gone; but it did not seem so. Oyvind remembered everything, and was even the one to remind the others that the boat should be unloaded. He unpacked his clothes at once and hung them up, displayed his books, his watch, everything new, and all was well cared for, his mother said. He was exceedingly pleased with his little room. He would remain at home for the present, he said,--help with the hay-making, and study. Where he should go later he did not know; but it made not the least difference to him. He had acquired a briskness and vigor of thought which it did one good to see, and an animation in the expression of his feelings which is so refreshing to a person who the whole year through strives to repress his own. The school-master grew ten years younger. "Now we have come _so far_ with him," said he, beaming with satisfaction as he rose to go. When the mother returned from waiting on him, as usual, to the door-step, she called Oyvind into the bedroom. "Some one will be waiting for you at nine o'clock," whispered she. "Where?" "On the cliff." Oyvind glanced at the clock; it was nearly nine. He could not wait in the house, but went out, clambered up the side of the cliff, paused on the top, and looked around. The house lay directly below; the bushes on the roof had grown large, all the young trees round about him had also grown, and he recognized every one of them. His eyes wandered down the road, which ran along the cliff, and was bordered by the forest on the other side. The road lay there, gray and solemn, but the forest was enlivened with varied foliage; the trees were tall and well grown. In the little bay lay a boat with unfurled sail; it was laden with planks and awaiting a breeze. Oyvind gazed across the water which had borne him away and home again. There it stretched before him, calm and smooth; some sea-birds flew over it, but made no noise, for it was late. His father came walking up from the mill, paused on the door-step, took a survey of all about him, as his son had done, then went down to the water to take the boat in for the night. The mother appeared at the side of the house, for she had been in the kitchen. She raised her eyes toward the cliff as she crossed the farm-yard with something for the hens, looked up again and began to hum. Oyvind sat down to wait. The underbrush was so dense that he could not see very far into the forest, but he listened to the slightest sound. For a long time he heard nothing but the birds that flew up and cheated him,--after a while a squirrel that was leaping from tree to tree. But at length there was a rustling farther off; it ceased a moment, and then began again. He rises, his heart throbs, the blood rushes to his head; then something breaks through the brushes close by him; but it is a large, shaggy dog, which, on seeing him, pauses on three legs without stirring. It is the dog from the Upper Heidegards, and close behind him another rustling is heard. The dog turns his head and wags his tail; now Marit appears. A bush caught her dress; she turned to free it, and so she was standing when Oyvind saw her first. Her head was bare, her hair twisted up as girls usually wear it in every-day attire; she had on a thick plaid dress without sleeves, and nothing about the neck except a turned-down linen collar. She had just stolen away from work in the fields, and had not ventured on any change of dress. Now she looked up askance and smiled; her white teeth shone, her eyes sparkled beneath the half-closed lids. Thus she stood for a moment working with her fingers, and then she came forward, growing rosier and rosier with each step. He advanced to meet her, and took her hand between both of his. Her eyes were fixed on the ground, and so they stood. "Thank you for all your letters," was the first thing he said; and when she looked up a little and laughed, he felt that she was the most roguish troll he could meet in a wood; but he was captured, and she, too, was evidently caught. "How tall you have grown," said she, meaning something quite different. She looked at him more and more, laughed more and more, and he laughed, too; but they said nothing. The dog had seated himself on the slope, and was surveying the gard. Thore observed the dog's head from the water, but could not for his life understand what it could be that was showing itself on the cliff above. But the two had now let go of each other's hands and were beginning to talk a little. And when Oyvind was once under way he burst into such a rapid stream of words that Marit had to laugh at him. "Yes, you see, this is the way it is when I am happy--truly happy, you see; and as soon as it was settled between us two, it seemed as if there burst open a lock within me--wide open, you see." She laughed. Presently she said,-- "I know almost by heart all the letters you sent me." "And I yours! But you always wrote such short ones." "Because you always wanted them to be so long." "And when I desired that we should write more about something, then you changed the subject." "'I show to the best advantage when you see my tail,'[1] said the hulder." [Footnote 1: The hulder in the Norse folk-lore appears like a beautiful woman, and usually wears a blue petticoat and a white sword; but she unfortunately has a long tail, like a cow's, which she anxiously strives to conceal when she is among people. She is fond of cattle, particularly brindled, of which she possesses a beautiful and thriving stock. They are without horns. She was once at a merry-making, where every one was desirous of dancing with the handsome, strange damsel; but in the midst of the mirth a young man, who had just begun a dance with her, happened to cast his eye on her tail. Immediately guessing whom he had gotten for a partner, he was not a little terrified; but, collecting himself, and unwilling to betray her, he merely said to her when the dance was over: "Fair maid, you will lose your garter." She instantly vanished, but afterwards rewarded the silent and considerate youth with beautiful presents and a good breed of cattle. FAYE'S _Traditions_.--NOTE BY TRANSLATOR.] "Ah! that is so. You have never told me how you got rid of Jon Hatlen." "I laughed." "How?" "Laughed. Do not you know what it is to laugh?" "Yes; I can laugh." "Let me see!" "Whoever beard of such a thing! Surely, I must have something to laugh at." "I do not need that when I am happy." "Are you happy now, Marit?" "Pray, am I laughing now?" "Yes; you are, indeed." He took both her hands in his and clapped them together over and over again, gazing into her face. Here the dog began to growl, then his hair bristled and he fell to barking at something below, growing more and more savage, and finally quite furious. Marit sprang back in alarm; but Oyvind went forward and looked down. It was his father the dog was barking at. He was standing at the foot of the cliff with both hands in his pockets, gazing at the dog. "Are you there, you two? What mad dog is that you have up there?" "It is the dog from the Heidegards," answered Oyvind, somewhat embarrassed. "How the deuce did it get up there?" Now the mother had put her head out of the kitchen door, for she had heard the dreadful noise, and at once knew what it meant; and laughing, she said,-- "That dog is roaming about there every day, so there is nothing remarkable in it." "Well, I must say it is a fierce dog." "It will behave better if I stroke it," thought Oyvind, and he did so. The dog stopped barking, but growled. The father walked away as though he knew nothing, and the two on the cliff were saved from discovery. "It was all right this time," said Marit, as they drew near to each other again. "Do you expect it to be worse hereafter?" "I know one who will keep a close watch on us--that I do." "Your grandfather?" "Yes, indeed." "But he shall do us no harm." "Not the least." "And you promise that?" "Yes, I promise it, Oyvind." "How beautiful you are, Marit!" "So the fox said to the raven and got the cheese." "I mean to have the cheese, too, I can assure you." "You shall not have it." "But I will take it." She turned her head, but he did not take it. "I can tell you one thing, Oyvind, though." She looked up sideways as she spoke. "Well?" "How homely you have grown!" "Ah! you are going to give me the cheese, anyway; are you?" "No, I am not," and she turned away again. "Now I must go, Oyvind." "I will go with you." "But not beyond the woods; grandfather might see you." "No, not beyond the woods. Dear me! are you running?" "Why, we cannot walk side by side here." "But this is not going together?" "Catch me, then!" She ran; he after her; and soon she was fast in the bushes, so that he overtook her. "Have I caught you forever, Merit?" His hand was on her waist. "I think so," said she, and laughed; but she was both flushed and serious. "Well, now is the time," thought he, and he made a movement to kiss her; but she bent her head down under his arm, laughed, and ran away. She paused, though, by the last trees. "And when shall we meet again?" whispered she. "To-morrow, to-morrow!" he whispered in return. "Yes; to-morrow." "Good-by," and she ran on. "Marit!" She stopped. "Say, was it not strange that we met first on the cliff?" "Yes, it was." She ran on again. Oyvind gazed long after her. The dog ran on before her, barking; Marit followed, quieting him. Oyvind turned, took off his cap and tossed it into the air, caught it, and threw it up again. "Now I really think I am beginning to be happy," said the boy, and went singing homeward. CHAPTER X. One afternoon later in the summer, as his mother and a girl were raking hay, while Oyvind and his father were carrying it in, there came a little barefooted and bareheaded boy, skipping down the hill-side and across the meadows to Oyvind, and gave him a note. "You run well, my boy," said Oyvind. "I am paid for it," answered the boy. On being asked if he was to have an answer, the reply was No; and the boy took his way home over the cliff, for some one was coming after him up on the road, he said. Oyvind opened the note with some difficulty, for it was folded in a strip, then tied in a knot, then sealed and stamped; and the note ran thus:-- "He is now on the march; but he moves slowly. Run into the woods and hide yourself! THE ONE YOU KNOW." "I will do no such thing," thought Oyvind; and gazed defiantly up the hills. Nor did he wait long before an old man appeared on the hill-top, paused to rest, walked on a little, rested again. Both Thore and his wife stopped to look. Thore soon smiled, however; his wife, on the other hand, changed color. "Do you know him?" "Yes, it is not very easy to make a mistake here." Father and son again began to carry hay; but the latter took care that they were always together. The old man on the hill slowly drew near, like a heavy western storm. He was very tall and rather corpulent; he was lame and walked with a labored gait, leaning on a staff. Soon he came so near that they could see him distinctly; he paused, removed his cap and wiped away the perspiration with a handkerchief. He was quite bald far back on the head; he had a round, wrinkled face, small, glittering, blinking eyes, bushy eyebrows, and had lost none of his teeth. When he spoke it was in a sharp, shrill voice, that seemed to be hopping over gravel and stones; but it lingered on an "r" here and there with great satisfaction, rolling it over for several yards, and at the same time making a tremendous leap in pitch. He had been known in his younger days as a lively but quick-tempered man; in his old age, through much adversity, he had become irritable and suspicious. Thore and his son came and went many times before Ole could make his way to them; they both knew that he did not come for any good purpose, therefore it was all the more comical that he never got there. Both had to walk very serious, and talk in a whisper; but as this did not come to an end it became ludicrous. Only half a word that is to the point can kindle laughter under such circumstances, and especially when it is dangerous to laugh. When at last Ole was only a few rods distant, but which seemed never to grow less, Oyvind said, dryly, in a low tone,-- "He must carry a heavy load, that man,"--and more was not required. "I think you are not very wise," whispered the father, although he was laughing himself. "Hem, hem!" said Ole, coughing on the hill. "He is getting his throat ready," whispered Thore. Oyvind fell on his knees in front of the haycock, buried his head in the hay, and laughed. His father also bowed down. "Suppose we go into the barn," whispered he, and taking an armful of hay he trotted off. Oyvind picked up a little tuft, rushed after him, bent crooked with laughter, and dropped down as soon as he was inside the barn. His father was a grave man, but if he once got to laughing, there first began within him a low chuckling, with an occasional ha-ha-ha, gradually growing longer and longer, until all blended in a single loud peal, after which came wave after wave with a longer gasp between each. Now he was under way. The son lay on the floor, the father stood beside him, both laughing with all their might. Occasionally they had such fits of laughter. "But this is inconvenient," said the father. Finally they were at a loss to know how this would end, for the old man must surely have reached the gard. "I will not go out," said the father; "I have no business with him." "Well, then, I will not go out either," replied Oyvind. "Hem, hem!" was heard just outside of the barn wall. The father held up a threatening finger to his boy. "Come, out with you!" "Yes; you go first!" "No, you be off at once." "Well, go you first." And they brushed the dust off each other, and advanced very seriously. When they came below the barn-bridge they saw Ole standing with his face towards the kitchen door, as if he were reflecting. He held his cap in the same hand as his staff, and with his handkerchief was wiping the sweat from his bald head, at the same time pulling at the bushy tufts behind his ears and about his neck until they stuck out like spikes. Oyvind hung behind his father, so the latter was obliged to stand still, and in order to put an end to this he said with excessive gravity,-- "Is the old gentleman out for a walk?" Ole turned, looked sharply at him, and put on his cap before he replied,-- "Yes, so it seems." "Perhaps you are tired; will you not walk in?" "Oh! I can rest very well here; my errand will not take long." Some one set the kitchen door ajar and looked out; between it and Thore stood old Ole, with his cap-visor down over his eyes, for the cap was too large now that he had lost his hair. In order to be able to see he threw his head pretty far back; he held his staff in his right hand, while the left was firmly pressed against his side when he was not gesticulating; and this he never did more vigorously than by stretching the hand half way out and holding it passive a moment, as a guard for his dignity. "Is that your son who is standing behind you?" he began, abruptly. "So they say." "Oyvind is his name, is it not?" "Yes; they call him Oyvind." "He has been at one of those agricultural schools down south, I believe?" "There was something of the kind; yes." "Well, my girl--she--my granddaughter--Marit, you know--she has gone mad of late." "That is too bad." "She refuses to marry." "Well, really?" "She will not have any of the gard boys who offer themselves." "Ah, indeed." "But people say he is to blame; he who is standing there." "Is that so?" "He is said to have turned her head--yes; he there, your son Oyvind." "The deuce he has!" "See you, I do not like to have any one take my horses when I let them loose on the mountains, neither do I choose to have any one take my daughters when I allow them to go to a dance. I will not have it." "No, of course not." "I cannot go with them; I am old, I cannot be forever on the lookout." "No, no! no, no!" "Yes, you see, I will have order and propriety; there the block must stand, and there the axe must lie, and there the knife, and there they must sweep, and there throw rubbish out,--not outside the door, but yonder in the corner, just there--yes; and nowhere else. So, when I say to her: 'not this one but that one!' I expect it to be that one, and not this one!" "Certainly." "But it is not so. For three years she has persisted in thwarting me, and for three years we have not been happy together. This is bad; and if he is at the bottom of it, I will tell him so that you may hear it, you, his father, that it will not do him any good. He may as well give it up." "Yes, yes." Ole looked a moment at Thore, then he said,-- "Your answers are short." "A sausage is no longer." Here Oyvind had to laugh, although he was in no mood to do so. But with daring persons fear always borders on laughter, and now it inclined to the latter. "What are you laughing at?" asked Ole, shortly and sharply. "I?" "Are you laughing at me?" "The Lord forbid!" but his own answer increased his desire to laugh. Ole saw this, and grew absolutely furious. Both Thore and Oyvind tried to make amends with serious faces and entreaties to walk in; but it was the pent-up wrath of three years that was now seeking vent, and there was no checking it. "You need not think you can make a fool of me," he began; "I am on a lawful errand: I am protecting my grandchild's happiness, as I understand it, and puppy laughter shall not hinder me. One does not bring up girls to toss them down into the first houseman's place that opens its doors, and one does not manage an estate for forty years only to hand the whole over to the first one who makes a fool of the girl. My daughter made herself ridiculous until she was allowed to marry a vagabond. He drank them both into the grave, and I had to take the child and pay for the fun; but, by my troth! it shall not be the same with my granddaughter, and now you know _that_! I tell you, as sure as my name is Ole Nordistuen of the Heidegards, the priest shall sooner publish the bans of the hulder-folks up in the Nordal forest than give out such names from the pulpit as Marit's and yours, you Christmas clown! Do you think you are going to drive respectable suitors away from the gard, forsooth? Well; you just try to come there, and you shall have such a journey down the hills that your shoes will come after you like smoke. You snickering fox! I suppose you have a notion that I do not know what you are thinking of, both you and she. Yes, you think that old Ole Nordistuen will turn his nose to the skies yonder, in the churchyard, and then you will trip forward to the altar. No; I have lived now sixty-six years, and I will prove to you, boy, that I shall live until you waste away over it, both of you! I can tell you this, too, that you may cling to the house like new-fallen snow, yet not so much as see the soles of her feet; for I mean to send her from the parish. I am going to send her where she will be safe; so you may flutter about here like a chattering jay all you please, and marry the rain and the north wind. This is all I have to say to you; but now you, who are his father, know my sentiments, and if you desire the welfare of him whom this concerns, you had better advise him to lead the stream where it can find its course; across my possessions it is forbidden." He turned away with short, hasty steps, lifting his right foot rather higher than the left, and grumbling to himself. Those left behind were completely sobered; a foreboding of evil had become blended with their jesting and laughter, and the house seemed, for a while, as empty as after a great fright. The mother who, from the kitchen door had heard everything, anxiously sought Oyvind's eyes, scarcely able to keep back her tears, but she would not make it harder for him by saying a single word. After they had all silently entered the house, the father sat down by the window, and gazed out after Ole, with much earnestness in his face; Oyvind's eyes hung on the slightest change of countenance; for on his father's first words almost depended the future of the two young people. If Thore united his refusal with Ole's, it could scarcely be overcome. Oyvind's thoughts flew, terrified, from obstacle to obstacle; for a time he saw only poverty, opposition, misunderstanding, and a sense of wounded honor, and every prop he tried to grasp seemed to glide away from him. It increased his uneasiness that his mother was standing with her hand on the latch of the kitchen-door, uncertain whether she had the courage to remain inside and await the issue, and that she at last lost heart entirely and stole out. Oyvind gazed fixedly at his father, who never took his eyes from the window; the son did not dare speak, for the other must have time to think the matter over fully. But at the same moment his soul had fully run its course of anxiety, and regained its poise once more. "No one but God can part us in the end," he thought to himself, as he looked at his father's wrinkled brow. Soon after this something occurred. Thore drew a long sigh, rose, glanced round the room, and met his son's gaze. He paused, and looked long at him. "It was my will that you should give her up, for one should hesitate about succeeding through entreaties or threats. But if you are determined not to give her up, you may let me know when the opportunity comes, and perhaps I can help you." He started off to his work, and the son followed. But that evening Oyvind had his plan formed: he would endeavor to become agriculturist for the district, and ask the inspector and the school-master to aid him. "If she only remains firm, with God's help, I shall win her through my work." He waited in vain for Marit that evening, but as he walked about he sang his favorite song:-- "Hold thy head up, thou eager boy! Time a hope or two may destroy, Soon in thy eye though is beaming, Light that above thee is beaming! "Hold thy head up, and gaze about! Something thou'lt find that "Come!" does shout; Thousands of tongues it has bringing Tidings of peace with their singing. "Hold thy head up; within thee, too, Rises a mighty vault of blue, Wherein are harp tones sounding, Swinging, exulting, rebounding. "Hold thy head up, and loudly sing! Keep not back what would sprout in spring; Powers fermenting, glowing, Must find a time for growing. "Hold thy head up; baptism take, From the hope that on high does break, Arches of light o'er us throwing, And in each life-spark glowing."[1] [Footnote 1: Auber Forestier's translation.] CHAPTER XI. It was during the noonday rest; the people at the great Heidegards were sleeping, the hay was scattered over the meadows, the rakes were staked in the ground. Below the barn-bridge stood the hay sleds, the harness lay, taken off, beside them, and the horses were tethered at a little distance. With the exception of the latter and some hens that had strayed across the fields, not a living creature was visible on the whole plain. There was a notch in the mountains above the gards, and through it the road led to the Heidegard saeters,--large, fertile mountain plains. A man was standing in this notch, taking a survey of the plain below, just as if he were watching for some one. Behind him lay a little mountain lake, from which flowed the brook which made this mountain pass; on either side of this lake ran cattle-paths, leading to the saeters, which could be seen in the distance. There floated toward him a shouting and a barking, cattle-bells tinkled among the mountain ridges; for the cows had straggled apart in search of water, and the dogs and herd-boys were vainly striving to drive them together. The cows came galloping along with the most absurd antics and involuntary plunges, and with short, mad bellowing, their tails held aloft, they rushed down into the water, where they came to a stand; every time they moved their heads the tinkling of their bells was heard across the lake. The dogs drank a little, but stayed behind on firm land; the herd-boys followed, and seated themselves on the warm, smooth hill-side. Here they drew forth their lunch boxes, exchanged with one another, bragged about their dogs, oxen, and the family they lived with, then undressed, and sprang into the water with the cows. The dogs persisted in not going in; but loitered lazily around, their heads hanging, with hot eyes and lolling tongues. Round about on the slopes not a bird was to be seen, not a sound was heard, save the prattling of children and the tinkling of bells; the heather was parched and dry, the sun blazed on the hill-sides, so that everything was scorched by its heat. It was Oyvind who was sitting up there in the mid-day sun, waiting. He sat in his shirt-sleeves, close by the brook which flowed from the lake. No one yet appeared on the Heidegard plain, and he was gradually beginning to grow anxious when suddenly a large dog came walking with heavy steps out of a door in Nordistuen, followed by a girl in white sleeves. She tripped across the meadow toward the cliff; he felt a strong desire to shout down to her, but dared not. He took a careful survey of the gard to see if any one might come out and notice her, but there seemed to be no danger of detection, and several times he rose from impatience. She arrived at last, following a path by the side of the brook, the dog a little in advance of her, snuffing the air, she catching hold of the low shrubs, and walking with more and more weary gait. Oyvind sprang downward; the dog growled and was hushed; but as soon as Marit saw Oyvind coming she sat down on a large stone, as red as blood, tired and overcome by the heat. He flung himself down on the stone by her side. "Thank you for coming." "What heat and what a distance! Have you been here long?" "No. Since we are watched in the evening, we must make use of the noon. But after this I think we will not act so secretly, nor take so much trouble; it was just about this I wanted to speak to you." "Not so secretly?" "I know very well that all that is done secretly pleases you best; but to show courage pleases you also. To-day I have come to have a long talk with you, and now you must listen." "Is it true that you are trying to be agriculturist for the district?" "Yes, and I expect to succeed. In this I have a double purpose: first, to win a position for myself; but secondly, and chiefly, to accomplish something which your grandfather can see and understand. Luckily it chances that most of the Heidegard freeholders are young people who wish for improvements and desire help; they have money, too. So I shall begin among them. I shall regulate everything from their stables to their water-pipes; I shall give lectures and work; I shall fairly besiege the old man with good deeds." "Those are brave words. What more, Oyvind?" "Why, the rest simply concerns us two. You must not go away." "Not if he orders it?" "And keep nothing secret that concerns us two." "Even if he torments me?" "We gain more and defend ourselves better by allowing everything to be open. We must manage to be so constantly before the eyes of people, that they are constantly forced to talk about how fond we are of each other; so much the sooner will they wish that all may go well with us. You must not leave home. There is danger of gossip forcing its way between those who are parted. We pay no heed to any idle talk the first year, but we begin by degrees to believe in it the second. We two will meet once a week and laugh away the mischief people would like to make between us; we shall be able to meet occasionally at a dance, and keep step together until everything sings about us, while those who backbite us are sitting around. We shall meet at church and greet each other so that it may attract the attention of all those who wish us a hundred miles apart. If any one makes a song about us we will sit down together and try to get up one in answer to it; we must succeed if we assist each other. No one can harm us if we keep together, and thus _show_ people that we keep together. All unhappy love belongs either to timid people, or weak people, or sick people, or calculating people, who keep waiting for some special opportunity, or cunning people, who, in the end, smart for their own cunning; or to sensuous people that do not care enough for each other to forget rank and distinction; they go and hide from sight, they send letters, they tremble at a word, and finally they mistake fear, that constant uneasiness and irritation in the blood, for love, become wretched and dissolve like sugar. Oh pshaw! if they truly loved each other they would have no fear; they would laugh, and would openly march to the church door, in the face of every smile and every word. I have read about it in books, and I have seen it for myself. That is a pitiful love which chooses a secret course. Love naturally begins in secresy because it begins in shyness; but it must live openly because it lives in joy. It is as when the leaves are changing; that which is to grow cannot conceal itself, and in every instance you see that all which is dry falls from the tree the moment the new leaves begin to sprout. He who gains love casts off all the old, dead rubbish he formerly clung to, the sap wells up and rushes onward; and should no one notice it then? Hey, my girl! they shall become happy at seeing us happy; two who are betrothed and remain true to each other confer a benefit on people, for they give them a poem which their children learn by heart to the shame of their unbelieving parents. I have read of many such cases; and some still live in the memory of the people of this parish, and those who relate these stories, and are moved by them, are the children of the very persons who once caused all the mischief. Yes, Marit, now we two will join hands, so; yes, and we will promise each other to cling together, so; yes, and now it will all come right. Hurrah!" He was about to take hold of her head, but she turned it away and glided down off the stone. He kept his seat; she came back, and leaning her arms on his knee, stood talking with him, looking up into his face. "Listen, Oyvind; what if he is determined I shall leave home, how then?" "Then you must say No, right out." "Oh, dear! how would that be possible?" "He cannot carry you out to the carriage." "If he does not quite do that, he can force me in many other ways." "That I do not believe; you owe obedience, to be sure, as long as it is not a sin; but it is also your duty to let him fully understand how hard it is for you to be obedient this time. I am sure he will change his mind when he sees this; now he thinks, like most people, that it is only childish nonsense. Prove to him that it is something more." "He is not to be trifled with, I can assure you. He watches me like a tethered goat." "But you tug at the tether several times a day." "That is not true." "Yes, you do; every time you think of me in secret you tug at it." "Yes, in that way. But are you so very sure that I think often of you?" "You would not be sitting here if you did not." "Why, dear me! did you not send word for me to come?" "But you came because your thoughts drove you here." "Rather because the weather was so fine." "You said a while ago that it was too warm." "To go _up_ hill, yes; but _down_ again?" "Why did you come up, then?" "That I might run down again." "Why did you not run down before this?" "Because I had to rest." "And talk with me about love?" "It was an easy matter to give you the pleasure of listening." "While the birds sang." "And the others were sleeping." "And the bells rang." "In the shady grove." Here they both saw Marit's grandfather come sauntering out into the yard, and go to the bell-rope to ring the farm people up. The people came slowly forth from the barns, sheds, and houses, moved sleepily toward their horses and rakes, scattered themselves over the meadow, and presently all was life and work again. Only the grandfather went in and out of the houses, and finally up on the highest barn-bridge and looked out. There came running up to him a little boy, whom he must have called. The boy, sure enough, started off in the direction of Pladsen. The grandfather, meanwhile, moved about the gard, often looking upward and having a suspicion, at least, that the black spot on the "giant rock" was Marit and Oyvind. Now for the second time Marit's great dog was the cause of trouble. He saw a strange horse drive in to the Heidegards, and believing himself to be only doing his duty, began to bark with all his might. They hushed the dog, but he had grown angry and would not be quiet; the grandfather stood below staring up. But matters grew still worse, for all the herd-boys' dogs heard with surprise the strange voice and came running up. When they saw that it was a large, wolf-like giant, all the stiff-haired Lapp-dogs gathered about him. Marit became so terrified that she ran away without saying farewell. Oyvind rushed into the midst of the fray, kicked and fought; but the dogs merely changed the field of battle, and then flew at one another again, with hideous howls and kicks; Oyvind after them again, and so it kept on until they had rolled over to the edge of the brook, when he once more came running up. The result of this was that they all tumbled together into the water, just at a place where it was quite deep, and there they parted, shame-faced. Thus ended this forest battle. Oyvind walked through the forest until he reached the parish road; but Marit met her grandfather up by the fence. This was the dog's fault. "Where do you come from?" "From the wood." "What were you doing there?" "Plucking berries." "That is not true." "No; neither is it." "What were you doing, then?" "I was talking with some one." "Was it with the Pladsen boy?" "Yes." "Hear me now, Marit; to-morrow you leave home." "No." "Listen to me, Marit; I have but one single thing to say, only one: you _shall_ go." "You cannot lift me into the carriage." "Indeed? Can I not?" "No; because you will not." "Will I not? Listen now, Marit, just for sport, you see, just for sport. I am going to tell you that I will crush the backbone of that worthless fellow of yours." "No; you would not dare do so." "I would not dare? Do you say I would not dare? Who should interfere? Who?" "The school-master." "School--school--school-master. Does he trouble his head about that fellow, do you think?" "Yes; it is he who has kept him at the agricultural school." "The school-master?" "The school-master." "Hearken now, Marit; I will have no more of this nonsense; you shall leave the parish. You only cause me sorrow and trouble; that was the way with your mother, too, only sorrow and trouble. I am an old man. I want to see you well provided for. I will not live in people's talk as a fool just for this matter. I only wish your own good; you should understand this, Marit. Soon I will be gone, and then you will be left alone. What would have become of your mother if it had not been for me? Listen, Marit; be sensible, pay heed to what I have to say. I only desire your own good." "No, you do not." "Indeed? What do I want, then?" "To carry out your own will, that is what you want; but you do not ask about mine." "And have you a will, you young sea-gull, you? Do you suppose you know what is for your good, you fool? I will give you a taste of the rod, I will, for all you are so big and tall. Listen now, Marit; let me talk kindly with you. You are not so bad at heart, but you have lost your senses. You must listen to me. I am an old and sensible man. We will talk kindly together a little; I have not done so remarkably well in the world as folks think; a poor bird on the wing could easily fly away with the little I have; your father handled it roughly, indeed he did. Let us care for ourselves in this world, it is the best thing we can do. It is all very well for the school-master to talk, for he has money himself; so has the priest;--let them preach. But with us who must slave for our daily bread, it is quite different. I am old. I know much. I have seen many things; love, you see, may do very well to talk about; yes, but it is not worth much. It may answer for priests and such folks, peasants must look at it in a different light. First food, you see, then God's Word, and then a little writing and arithmetic, and then a little love, if it happens to come in the way; but, by the Eternals! there is no use in beginning with love and ending with food. What can you say, now, Marit?" "I do not know." "You do not know what you ought to answer?" "Yes, indeed, I know that." "Well, then?" "May I say it?" "Yes; of course you may say it." "I care a great deal for that love of mine." He stood aghast for a moment, recalling a hundred similar conversations with similar results, then he shook his head, turned his back, and walked away. He picked a quarrel with the housemen, abused the girls, beat the large dog, and almost frightened the life out of a little hen that had strayed into the field; but to Marit he said nothing. That evening Marit was so happy when she went up-stairs to bed, that she opened the window, lay in the window-frame, looked out and sang. She had found a pretty little love-song, and it was that she sang. "Lovest thou but me, I will e'er love thee, All my days on earth, so fondly; Short were summer's days, Now the flower decays,-- Comes again with spring, so kindly. "What you said last year Still rings in my ear, As I all alone am sitting, And your thoughts do try In my heart to fly,-- Picture life in sunshine flitting. "Litli--litli--loy, Well I hear the boy, Sighs behind the birches heaving. I am in dismay, Thou must show the way, For the night her shroud is weaving. "Flomma, lomma, hys, Sang I of a kiss, No, thou surely art mistaken. Didst thou hear it, say? Cast the thought away; Look on me as one forsaken. "Oh, good-night! good-night! Dreams of eyes so bright, Hold me now in soft embraces, But that wily word, Which thou thought'st unheard, Leaves in me of love no traces. "I my window close, But in sweet repose Songs from thee I hear returning; Calling me they smile, And my thoughts beguile,-- Must I e'er for thee be yearning?" CHAPTER XII. Several years have passed since the last scene. It is well on in the autumn. The school-master comes walking up to Nordistuen, opens the outer door, finds no one at home, opens another, finds no one at home; and thus he keeps on until he reaches the innermost room in the long building. There Ole Nordistuen is sitting alone, by the side of his bed, his eyes fixed on his hands. The school-master salutes him, and receives a greeting in return; he finds a stool, and seats himself in front of Ole. "You have sent for me," he says. "I have." The school-master takes a fresh quid of tobacco, glances around the room, picks up a book that is lying on the bench, and turns over the leaves. "What did you want of me?" "I was just sitting here thinking it over." The school-master gives himself plenty of time, searches for his spectacles in order to read the title of the book, wipes them and puts them on. "You are growing old, now, Ole." "Yes, it was about that I wanted to talk with you. I am tottering downward; I will soon rest in the grave." "You must see to it that you rest well there, Ole." He closes the book and sits looking at the binding. "That is a good book you are holding in your hands." "It is not bad. How often have you gone beyond the cover, Ole?" "Why, of late, I"-- The school-master lays aside the book and puts away his spectacles. "Things are not going as you wish to have them, Ole?" "They have not done so as far back as I can remember." "Ah, so it was with me for a long time. I lived at variance with a good friend, and wanted _him_ to come to _me_, and all the while I was unhappy. At last I took it into my head to go to _him_, and since then all has been well with me." Ole looks up and says nothing. The school-master: "How do you think the gard is doing, Ole?" "Failing, like myself." "Who shall have it when you are gone?" "That is what I do not know, and it is that, too, which troubles me." "Your neighbors are doing well now, Ole." "Yes, they have that agriculturist to help them." The school-master turned unconcernedly toward the window: "You should have help,--you, too, Ole. You cannot walk much, and you know very little of the new ways of management." Ole: "I do not suppose there is any one who would help me." "Have you asked for it?" Ole is silent. The school-master: "I myself dealt just so with the Lord for a long time. 'You are not kind to me,' I said to Him. 'Have you prayed me to be so?' asked He. No; I had not done so. Then I prayed, and since then all has been truly well with me." Ole is silent; but now the school-master, too, is silent. Finally Ole says:-- "I have a grandchild; she knows what would please me before I am taken away, but she does not do it." The school-master smiles. "Possibly it would not please her?" Ole makes no reply. The school-master: "There are many things which trouble you; but as far as I can understand they all concern the gard." Ole says, quietly,-- "It has been handed down for many generations, and the soil is good. All that father after father has toiled for lies in it; but now it does not thrive. Nor do I know who shall drive in when I am driven out. It will not be one of the family." "Your granddaughter will preserve the family." "But how can he who takes her take the gard? That is what I want to know before I die. You have no time to lose, Baard, either for me or for the gard." They were both silent; at last the school-master says,-- "Shall we walk out and take a look at the gard in this fine weather?" "Yes; let us do so. I have work-people on the slope; they are gathering leaves, but they do not work except when I am watching them." He totters off after his large cap and staff, and says, meanwhile,-- "They do not seem to like to work for me; I cannot understand it." When they were once out and turning the corner of the house, he paused. "Just look here. No order: the wood flung about, the axe not even stuck in the block." He stooped with difficulty, picked up the axe, and drove it in fast. "Here you see a skin that has fallen down; but has any one hung it up again?" He did it himself. "And the store-house; do you think the ladder is carried away?" He set it aside. He paused, and looking at the school-master, said,-- "This is the way it is every single day." As they proceeded upward they heard a merry song from the slopes. "Why, they are singing over their work," said the school-master. "That is little Knut Ostistuen who is singing; he is helping his father gather leaves. Over yonder _my_ people are working; you will not find them singing." "That is not one of the parish songs, is it?" "No, it is not." "Oyvind Pladsen has been much in Ostistuen; perhaps that is one of the songs he has introduced into the parish, for there is always singing where he is." There was no reply to this. The field they were crossing was not in good condition; it required attention. The school-master commented on this, and then Ole stopped. "It is not in my power to do more," said he, quite pathetically. "Hired work-people without attention cost too much. But it is hard to walk over such a field, I can assure you." As their conversation now turned on the size of the gard, and what portion of it most needed cultivation, they decided to go up the slope that they might have a view of the whole. When they at length had reached a high elevation, and could take it all in, the old man became moved. "Indeed, I should not like to leave it so. We have labored hard down there, both I and those who went before me, but there is nothing to show for it." A song rang out directly over their heads, but with the peculiar shrilling of a boy's voice when it is poured out with all its might. They were not far from the tree in whose top was perched little Knut Ostistuen, gathering leaves for his father, and they were compelled to listen to the boy:-- "When on mountain peaks you hie, 'Mid green slopes to tarry, In your scrip pray no more tie, Than you well can carry. Take no hindrances along To the crystal fountains; Drown them in a cheerful song, Send them down the mountains. "Birds there greet you from the trees, Gossip seeks the valley; Purer, sweeter grows the breeze, As you upward sally. Fill your lungs, and onward rove, Ever gayly singing, Childhood's memories, heath and grove, Rosy-hued, are bringing. "Pause the shady groves among, Hear yon mighty roaring, Solitude's majestic song Upward far is soaring. All the world's distraction comes When there rolls a pebble; Each forgotten duty hums In the brooklet's treble. "Pray, while overhead, dear heart, Anxious mem'ries hover; Then go on: the better part You'll above discover. Who hath chosen Christ as guide, Daniel and Moses, Finds contentment far and wide, And in peace reposes."[1] [Footnote 1: Auber Forestier's translation.] Ole had sat down and covered his face with his hands. "Here I will talk with you," said the school-master, and seated himself by his side. Down at Pladsen, Oyvind had just returned home from a somewhat long journey, the post-boy was still at the door, as the horse was resting. Although Oyvind now had a good income as agriculturist of the district, he still lived in his little room down at Pladsen, and helped his parents every spare moment. Pladsen was cultivated from one end to the other, but it was so small that Oyvind called it "mother's toy-farm," for it was she, in particular, who saw to the farming. He had changed his clothes, his father had come in from the mill, white with meal, and had also dressed. They just stood talking about taking a short walk before supper, when the mother came in quite pale. "Here are singular strangers coming up to the house; oh dear! look out!" Both men turned to the window, and Oyvind was the first to exclaim:-- "It is the school-master, and--yes, I almost believe--why, certainly it is he!" "Yes, it is old Ole Nordistuen," said Thore, moving away from the window that he might not be seen; for the two were already near the door. Just as Oyvind was leaving the window he caught the school-master's eye, Baard smiled, and cast a glance back at old Ole, who was laboring along with his staff in small, short steps, one foot being constantly raised higher than the other. Outside the school-master was heard to say, "He has recently returned home, I suppose," and Ole to exclaim twice over, "Well, well!" They remained a long time quiet in the passage. The mother had crept up to the corner where the milk-shelf was; Oyvind had assumed his favorite position, that is, he leaned with his back against the large table, with his face toward the door; his father was sitting near him. At length there came a knock at the door, and in stepped the school-master, who drew off his hat, afterward Ole, who pulled off his cap, and then turned to shut the door. It took him a long time to do so; he was evidently embarrassed. Thore rising, asked them to be seated; they sat down, side by side, on the bench in front of the window. Thore took his seat again. And the wooing proceeded as shall now be told. The school-master: "We are having fine weather this autumn, after all." Thore: "It has been mending of late." "It is likely to remain pleasant, now that the wind is over in that quarter." "Are you through with your harvesting up yonder?" "Not yet; Ole Nordistuen here, whom, perhaps, you know, would like very much to have help from you, Oyvind, if there is nothing else in the way." Oyvind: "If help is desired, I shall do what I can." "Well, there is no great hurry. The gard is not doing well, he thinks, and he believes what is wanting is the right kind of tillage and superintendence." Oyvind: "I am so little at home." The school-master looks at Ole. The latter feels that he must now rush into the fire; he clears his throat a couple of times, and begins hastily and shortly,-- "It was--it is--yes. What I meant was that you should be in a certain way established--that you should--yes--be the same as at home up yonder with us,--be there, when you were not away." "Many thanks for the offer, but I should rather remain where I now live." Ole looks at the school-master, who says,-- "Ole's brain seems to be in a whirl to-day. The fact is he has been here once before, and the recollection of that makes his words get all confused." Ole, quickly: "That is it, yes; I ran a madman's race. I strove against the girl until the tree split. But let by-gones be by-gones; the wind, not the snow, beats down the grain; the rain-brook does not tear up large stones; snow does not lie long on the ground in May; it is not the thunder that kills people." They all four laugh; the school-master says: "Ole means that he does not want you to remember that time any longer; nor you, either, Thore." Ole looks at them, uncertain whether he dare begin again. Then Thore says,-- "The briar takes hold with many teeth, but causes no wound. In me there are certainly no thorns left." Ole: "I did not know the boy then. Now I see that what he sows thrives; the harvest answers to the promise of the spring; there is money in his finger-tips, and I should like to get hold of him." Oyvind looks at the father, he at the mother, she from them to the school-master, and then all three at the latter. "Ole thinks that he has a large gard"-- Ole breaks in: "A large gard, but badly managed. I can do no more. I am old, and my legs refuse to run the errands of my head. But it will pay to take hold up yonder." "The largest gard in the parish, and that by a great deal," interrupts the school-master. "The largest gard in the parish; that is just the misfortune; shoes that are too large fall off; it is a fine thing to have a good gun, but one should be able to lift it." Then turning quickly towards Oyvind, "Would you be willing to lend a hand to it?" "Do you mean for me to be gard overseer?" "Precisely--yes; you should have the gard." "I should _have_ the gard?" "Just so--yes: then you could manage it." "But"-- "You will not?" "Why, of course, I will." "Yes, yes, yes, yes; then it is decided, as the hen said when she flew into the water." "But"-- Ole looks puzzled at the school-master. "Oyvind is asking, I suppose, whether he shall have Marit, to." Ole, abruptly: "Marit in the bargain; Marit in the bargain!" Then Oyvind burst out laughing, and jumped right up; all three laughed with him. Oyvind rubbed his hands, paced the floor, and kept repeating again and again: "Marit in the bargain! Marit in the bargain!" Thore gave a deep chuckle, the mother in the corner kept her eyes fastened on her son until they filled with tears. Ole, in great excitement: "What do you think of the gard?" "Magnificent land!" "Magnificent land; is it not?" "No pasture equal to it!" "No pasture equal to it! Something can be done with it?" "It will become the best gard in the district!" "It will become the best gard in the district! Do you think so? Do you mean that?" "As surely as I am standing here!" "There, is not that just what I have said?" They both talked equally fast, and fitted together like the cogs of two wheels. "But money, you see, money? I have no money." "We will get on slowly without money; but get on we shall!" "We shall get on! Of course we will! But if we _had_ money, it would go faster you say?" "Many times faster." "Many times? We ought to have money! Yes, yes; a man can chew who has not all his teeth; he who drives with oxen will get on, too." The mother stood blinking at Thore, who gave her many quick side glances as he sat swaying his body to and fro, and stroking his knees with his hands. The school-master also winked at him. Thore's lips parted, he coughed a little, and made an effort to speak; but Ole and Oyvind both kept on talking in an uninterrupted stream, laughed and kept up such a clatter that no one else could be heard. "You must be quiet for a little while, Thore has something he wants to say," puts in the school-master. They pause and look at Thore, who finally begins, in a low tone:-- "It has so happened that we have had a mill on our place. Of late it has turned out that we have had two. These mills have always brought in a few shillings during the year; but neither my father nor I have used any of these shillings except while Oyvind was away. The school-master has managed them, and he says they have prospered well where they are; but now it is best that Oyvind should take them for Nordistuen." The mother stood in a corner, shrinking away into almost nothing, as she gazed with sparkling eyes at Thore, who looked very grave, and had an almost stupid expression on his face. Ole Nordistuen sat nearly opposite him, with wide-gaping mouth. Oyvind was the first to rouse from his astonishment, and burst out,-- "Does it not seem as if good luck went with me!" With this he crossed the floor to his father, and gave him a slap on the shoulder that rang through the room. "You, father!" cried he, and rubbing his hands together he continued his walk. "How much money might it be?" finally asked Ole, in a low tone, of the school-master. "It is not so little." "Some hundreds?" "Rather more." "Rather more? Oyvind, rather more! Lord help us, what a gard it will be!" He got up, laughing aloud. "I must go with you up to Marit," says Oyvind. "We can use the conveyance that is standing outside, then it will not take long." "Yes, at once! at once! Do you, too, want everything done with haste?" "Yes, with haste and wrong." "With haste and wrong! Just the way it was with me when I was young, precisely." "Here is your cap and staff; now I am going to drive you away." "You are going to drive me away, ha--ha--ha! But you are coming with me; are you not? You are coming with me? All the rest of you come along, too; we must sit together this evening as long as the coals are alive. Come along!" They promised that they would come. Oyvind helped Ole into the conveyance, and they drove off to Nordistuen. The large dog was not the only one up there who was surprised when Ole Nordistuen came driving into the gard with Oyvind Pladsen. While Oyvind was helping Ole out of the conveyance, and servants and laborers were gaping at them, Marit came out in the passage to see what the dog kept barking at; but paused, as if suddenly bewitched, turned fiery red, and ran in. Old Ole, meanwhile, shouted so tremendously for her when he got into the house that she had to come forward again. "Go and make yourself trim, girl; here is the one who is to have the gard!" "Is that true?" she cries, involuntarily, and so loud that the words rang through the room. "Yes; it is true!" replies Oyvind, clapping his hands. At this she swings round on her toe, flings away what she has in her hand, and runs out; but Oyvind follows her. Soon came the school-master, and Thore and his wife. The old man had ordered candles put on the table, which he had had spread with a white cloth. Wine and beer were offered, and Ole kept going round himself, lifting his feet even higher than usual; but the right foot always higher than the left. Before this little tale ends, it may be told that five weeks later Oyvind and Marit were united in the parish church. The school-master himself led the singing on the occasion, for the assistant chorister was ill. His voice was broken now, for he was old; but it seemed to Oyvind that it did the heart good to hear him. When the young man had given Marit his hand, and was leading her to the altar, the school-master nodded at him from the chancel, just as Oyvind had seen him do, in fancy, when sitting sorrowfully at that dance long ago. Oyvind nodded back while tears welled up to his eyes. These tears at the dance were the forerunners of those at the wedding. Between them lay Oyvind's faith and his work. Here endeth the story of A HAPPY BOY. Transcriber's Note: Some words which appear to be typos are printed thus in the original book. A list of these possible misprints follows: ascendency payed skees wadmal aptest inclosed secresy gayly End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Happy Boy, by Bjornstjerne Bjornson * END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A HAPPY BOY * *** This file should be named 12633.txt or 12633.zip * This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: https://www.gutenberg.org/1/2/6/3/12633/ Produced by David S. Miller Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: https://www.gutenberg.org This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.	锘縏he Project Gutenberg EBook of A Happy Boy, by Bjornstjerne Bjornson This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: A Happy Boy Author: Bjornstjerne Bjornson Release Date: June 16, 2004 [EBook #12633] Language: English * START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A HAPPY BOY * Produced by David S. Miller A HAPPY BOY BY BJORNSTJERNE BJORNSON TRANSLATED FROM THE NORSE BY RASMUS B. ANDERSON AUTHOR'S EDITION PUBLISHER'S NOTE. The present edition of Bjornstjerne Bjornson's works is published by special arrangement with the author. Mr. Bjornson has designated Prof. Rasmus B. Anderson as his American translator, cooperates with him, and revises each work before it is translated, thus giving his personal attention to this edition. PREFACE. "A Happy Boy" was written in 1859 and 1860. It is, in my estimation, Bjornson's best story of peasant life. In it the author has succeeded in drawing the characters with _remarkable distinctness_, while his profound psychological insight, his perfectly artless simplicity of style, and his thorough sympathy with the hero and his surroundings are nowhere more apparent. This view is sustained by the great popularity of "A Happy Boy" throughout Scandinavia. It is proper to add, that in the present edition of Bjornson's stories, previous translations have been consulted, and that in this manner a few happy words and phrases have been found and adopted. This volume will be followed by "The Fisher Maiden," in which Bjornson makes a new departure, and exhibits his powers in a somewhat different vein of story-telling. RASMUS B. ANDERSON. ASGARD, MADISON, WISCONSIN, November, 1881. A HAPPY BOY. CHAPTER I. His name was Oyvind, and he cried when he was born. But no sooner did he sit up on his mother's lap than he laughed, and when the candle was lit in the evening the room rang with his laughter, but he cried when he was not allowed to reach it. "Something remarkable will come of that boy!" said the mother. A barren cliff, not a very high one, though, overhung the house where he was born; fir and birch looked down upon the roof, the bird-cherry strewed flowers over it. And on the roof was a little goat belonging to Oyvind; it was kept there that it might not wander away, and Oyvind bore leaves and grass up to it. One fine day the goat leaped down and was off to the cliff; it went straight up and soon stood where it had never been before. Oyvind did not see the goat when he came out in the afternoon, and thought at once of the fox. He grew hot all over, and gazing about him, cried,-- "Killy-killy-killy-killy-goat!" "Ba-a-a-a!" answered the goat, from the brow of the hill, putting its head on one side and peering down. At the side of the goat there was kneeling a little girl. "Is this goat yours?" asked she. Oyvind opened wide his mouth and eyes, thrust both hands into his pants and said,-- "Who are you?" "I am Marit, mother's young one, father's fiddle, the hulder of the house, granddaughter to Ola Nordistuen of the Heidegards, four years old in the autumn, two days after the frost nights--I am!" "Is that who you are?" cried he, drawing a long breath, for he had not ventured to take one while she was speaking. "Is this goat yours?" she again inquired. "Ye-es!" replied he, raising his eyes. "I have taken such a liking to the goat;--you will not give it to me?" "No, indeed I will not." She lay kicking up her heels and staring down at him, and presently she said: "But if I give you a twisted bun for the goat, can I have it then?" Oyvind was the son of poor people; he had tasted twisted bun only once in his life, that was when grandfather came to his house, and he had never eaten anything equal to it before or since. He fixed his eyes on the girl. "Let me see the bun first?" said he. She was not slow in producing a large twisted bun that she held in her hand. "Here it is!" cried she, and tossed it down to him. "Oh! it broke in pieces!" exclaimed the boy, picking up every fragment with the utmost care. He could not help tasting of the very smallest morsel, and it was so good that he had to try another piece, and before he knew it himself he had devoured the whole bun. "Now the goat belongs to me," said the girl. The boy paused with the last morsel in his mouth; the girl lay there laughing, and the goat stood by her side, with its white breast and shining brown hair, giving sidelong glances down. "Could you not wait a while," begged the boy,--his heart beginning to throb. Then the girl laughed more than ever, and hurriedly got up on her knees. "No, the goat is mine," said she, and threw her arms about it, then loosening one of her garters she fastened it around its neck. Oyvind watched her. She rose to her feet and began to tug at the goat; it would not go along with her, and stretched its neck over the edge of the cliff toward Oyvind. "Ba-a-a-a!" said the goat. Then the little girl took hold of its hair with one hand, pulled at the garter with the other, and said prettily: "Come, now, goat, you shall go into the sitting-room and eat from mother's dish and my apron." And then she sang,-- "Come, boy's pretty goatie, Come, calf, my delight, Come here, mewing pussie, In shoes snowy white, Yellow ducks, from your shelter, Come forth, helter-skelter. Come, doves, ever beaming, With soft feathers gleaming! The grass is still wet, But sun 't will soon get; Now call, though early 't is in the summer, And autumn will be the new-comer."[1] [Footnote 1: Auber Forestier's translation.] There the boy stood. He had taken care of the goat ever since winter, when it was born, and it had never occurred to him that he could lose it; but now it was gone in an instant, and he would never see it again. The mother came trolling up from the beach, with some wooden pails she had been scouring; she saw the boy sitting on the grass, with his legs crossed under him, crying, and went to him. "What makes you cry?" "Oh, my goat--my goat!" "Why, where is the goat?" asked the mother, glancing up at the roof. "It will never come back any more," said the boy. "Dear me! how can _that_ be?" Oyvind would not confess at once. "Has the fox carried it off?" "Oh, I wish it were the fox!" "You must have lost your senses!" cried the mother. "What has become of the goat?" "Oh--oh--oh! I was so unlucky. I sold it for a twisted bun!" The moment he uttered the words he realized what it was to sell the goat for a bun; he had not thought about it before. The mother said,-- "What do you imagine the little goat thinks of you now, since you were willing to sell it for a twisted bun?" The boy reflected upon this himself, and felt perfectly sure that he never could know happiness more in _this_ world--nor in heaven either, he thought, afterwards. He was so overwhelmed with sorrow that he promised himself that he would never do anything wrong again,--neither cut the cord of the spinning-wheel, nor let the sheep loose, nor go down to the sea alone. He fell asleep lying there, and he dreamed that the goat had reached heaven. There the Lord was sitting, with a long beard, as in the Catechism, and the goat stood munching at the leaves of a shining tree; but Oyvind sat alone on the roof, and, could get no higher. Then something wet was thrust right against his ear, and he started up. "Ba-a-a-a!" he heard, and it was the goat that had returned to him. "What! have you come back again?" With these words he sprang up, seized it by the two fore-legs, and danced about with it as if it were a brother. He pulled it by the beard, and was on the point of going in to his mother with it, when he heard some one behind him, and saw the little girl sitting on the greensward beside him. Now he understood the whole thing, and he let go of the goat. "Is it you who have brought the goat?" She sat tearing up the grass with her hands, and said, "I was not allowed to keep it; grandfather is up there waiting." While the boy stood staring at her, a sharp voice from the road above called, "Well!" Then she remembered what she had to do: she rose, walked up to Oyvind, thrust one of her dirt-covered hands into his, and, turning her face away, said, "I beg your pardon." But then her courage forsook her, and, flinging herself on the goat, she burst into tears. "I believe you had better keep the goat," faltered Oyvind, looking away. "Make haste, now!" said her grandfather, from the hill; and Marit got up and walked, with hesitating feet, upward. "You have forgotten your garter," Oyvind shouted after her. She turned and bestowed a glance, first on the garter, then on him. Finally she formed a great resolve, and replied, in a choked voice, "You may keep it." He walked up to her, took her by the hand, and said, "I thank you!" "Oh, there is nothing to thank me for," she answered, and, drawing a piteous sigh, went on. Oyvind sat down on the grass again, the goat roaming about near him; but he was no longer as happy with it as before. CHAPTER II. The goat was tethered near the house, but Oyvind wandered off, with his eyes fixed on the cliff. The mother came and sat down beside him; he asked her to tell him stories about things that were far away, for now the goat was no longer enough to content him. So his mother told him how once everything could talk: the mountain talked to the brook, and the brook to the river, and the river to the sea, and the sea to the sky; he asked if the sky did not talk to any one, and was told that it talked to the clouds, and the clouds to the trees, the trees to the grass, the grass to the flies, the flies to the beasts, and the beasts to the children, but the children to grown people; and thus it continued until it had gone round in a circle, and neither knew where it had begun. Oyvind gazed at the cliff, the trees, the sea, and the sky, and he had never truly seen them before. The cat came out just then, and stretched itself out on the door-step, in the sunshine. "What does the cat say?" asked Oyvind, and pointed. The mother sang,-- "Evening sunshine softly is dying, On the door-step lazy puss is lying. 'Two small mice, Cream so thick and nice; Four small bits of fish Stole I from a dish; Well-filled am I and sleek, Am very languid and meek,' Says the pussie."[1] [Footnote 1: Auber Forestier's translation.] Then the cock came strutting up with all the hens. "What does the cock say?" asked Oyvind, clapping his hands. The mother sang,-- "Mother-hen her wings now are sinking, Chanticleer on one leg stands thinking: 'High, indeed, You gray goose can speed; Never, surely though, she Clever as a cock can be. Seek your shelter, hens, I pray, Gone is the sun to his rest for to-day,'-- Says the rooster."[1] [Footnote 1: Auber Forestier's translation.] Two small birds sat singing on the gable. "What are the birds saying?" asked Oyvind, and laughed. "'Dear Lord, how pleasant is life, For those who have neither toil nor strife,'-- Say the birds."[2] --was the answer. [Footnote 2: Translated by H.R.G.] Thus he learned what all were saying, even to the ant crawling in the moss and the worm working in the bark. The same summer his mother undertook to teach him to read. He had had books for a long time, and wondered how it would be when they, too, should begin to talk. Now the letters were transformed into beasts and birds and all living creatures; and soon they began to move about together, two and two; _a_ stood resting beneath a tree called _b_, _c_ came and joined it; but when three or four were grouped together they seemed to get angry with one another, and nothing would then go right. The farther he advanced the more completely he found himself forgetting what the letters were; he longest remembered _a_, which he liked best; it was a little black lamb and was on friendly terms with all the rest; but soon _a_, too, was forgotten, the books no longer contained stories, only lessons. Then one day his mother came in and said to him,-- "To-morrow school begins again, and you are going with me up to the gard." Oyvind had heard that school was a place where many boys played together, and he had nothing against that. He was greatly pleased; he had often been to the gard, but not when there was school there, and he walked faster than his mother up the hill-side, so eager was he. When they came to the house of the old people, who lived on their annuity, a loud buzzing, like that from the mill at home, met them, and he asked his mother what it was. "It is the children reading," answered she, and he was delighted, for thus it was that he had read before he learned the letters. On entering he saw so many children round a table that there could not be more at church; others sat on their dinner-pails along the wall, some stood in little knots about an arithmetic table; the school-master, an old, gray-haired man, sat on a stool by the hearth, filling his pipe. They all looked up when Oyvind and his mother came in, and the clatter ceased as if the mill-stream had been turned off. Every eye was fixed on the new-comers; the mother saluted the school-master, who returned her greeting. "I have come here to bring a little boy who wants to learn to read," said the mother. "What is the fellow's name?" inquired the school-master, fumbling down in his leathern pouch after tobacco. "Oyvind," replied the mother, "he knows his letters and he can spell." "You do not say so!" exclaimed the school-master. "Come here, you white-head!" "Oyvind walked up to him, the school-master took him up on his knee and removed his cap. "What a nice little boy!" said he, stroking the child's hair. Oyvind looked up into his eyes and laughed. "Are you laughing at me!" The old man knit his brow, as he spoke. "Yes, I am," replied Oyvind, with a merry peal of laughter. Then the school-master laughed, too; the mother laughed; the children knew now that they had permission to laugh, and so they all laughed together. With this Oyvind was initiated into school. When he was to take his seat, all the scholars wished to make room for him; he on his part looked about for a long time; while the other children whispered and pointed, he turned in every direction, his cap in his hand, his book under his arm. "Well, what now?" asked the school-master, who was again busied with his pipe. Just as the boy was about turning toward the school-master, he espied, near the hearthstone close beside him, sitting on a little red-painted box, Marit with the many names; she had hidden her face behind both hands and sat peeping out at him. "I will sit here!" cried Oyvind, promptly, and seizing a lunch-box he seated himself at her side. Now she raised the arm nearest him a little and peered at him from under her elbow; forthwith he, too, covered his face with both hands and looked at her from under his elbow. Thus they sat cutting up capers until she laughed, and then he laughed also; the other little folks noticed this, and they joined in the laughter; suddenly a voice which was frightfully strong, but which grew milder as it spoke, interposed with,-- "Silence, troll-children, wretches, chatter-boxes!--hush, and be good to me, sugar-pigs!" It was the school-master, who had a habit of flaring up, but becoming good-natured again before he was through. Immediately there was quiet in the school, until the pepper grinders again began to go; they read aloud, each from his book; the most delicate trebles piped up, the rougher voices drumming louder and louder in order to gain the ascendency, and here and there one chimed in, louder than the others. In all his life Oyvind had never had such fun. "Is it always so here?" he whispered to Marit. "Yes, always," said she. Later they had to go forward to the school-master and read; a little boy was afterwards appointed to teach them to read, and then they were allowed to go and sit quietly down again. "I have a goat now myself," said Marit. "Have you?" "Yes, but it is not as pretty as yours." "Why do you never come up to the cliff again?" "Grandfather is afraid I might fall over." "Why, it is not so very high." "Grandfather will not let me, nevertheless." "Mother knows a great many songs," said Oyvind. "Grandfather does, too, I can tell you." "Yes, but he does not know mother's songs." "Grandfather knows one about a dance. Do you want to hear it?" "Yes, very much." "Well, then, come nearer this way, that the school-master may not see us." He moved close to her, and then she recited a little snatch of a song, four or five times, until the boy learned it, and it was the first thing he learned at school. "Dance!" cried the fiddle; Its strings all were quaking, The lensmand's son making Spring up and say "Ho!" "Stay!" called out Ola, And tripped him up lightly; The girls laughed out brightly, The lensmand lay low. "Hop!" said then Erik, His heel upward flinging; The beams fell to ringing, The walls gave a shriek. "Stop!" shouted Elling, His collar then grasping, And held him up, gasping: "Why, you're far too weak!" "Hey!" spoke up Rasmus, Fair Randi then seizing; "Come, give without teasing That kiss. Oh! you know!" "Nay!" answered Randi, And boxing him smartly, Dashed off, crying tartly: "Take that now and go!"[1] [Footnote 1: Auber Forestier's translation.] "Up, youngsters!" cried the school-master; "this is the first day, so you shall be let off early; but first we must say a prayer and sing." The whole school was now alive; the little folks jumped down from the benches, ran across the floor and all spoke at once. "Silence, little gypsies, young rascals, yearlings!--be still and walk nicely across the floor, little children!" said the school-master, and they quietly took their places, after which the school-master stood in front of them and made a short prayer. Then they sang; the school-master started the tune, in a deep bass; all the children, folding their hands, joined in. Oyvind stood at the foot, near the door, with Marit, looking on; they also clasped their hands, but they could not sing. This was the first day at school. CHAPTER III. Oyvind grew and became a clever boy; he was among the first scholars at school, and at home he was faithful in all his tasks. This was because at home he loved his mother and at school the school-master; he saw but little of his father, who was always either off fishing or was attending to the mill, where half the parish had their grinding done. What had the most influence on his mind in these days was the school-master's history, which his mother related to him one evening as they sat by the hearth. It sank into his books, it thrust itself beneath every word the school-master spoke, it lurked in the school-room when all was still. It caused him to be obedient and reverent, and to have an easier apprehension as it were of everything that was taught him. The history ran thus:-- The school-master's name was Baard, and he once had a brother whose name was Anders. They thought a great deal of each other; they both enlisted; they lived together in the town, and took part in the war, both being made corporals, and serving in the same company. On their return home after the war, every one thought they were two splendid fellows. Now their father died; he had a good deal of personal property, which was not easy to divide, but the brothers decided, in order that this should be no cause of disagreement between them, to put the things up at auction, so that each might buy what he wanted, and the proceeds could be divided between them. No sooner said than done. Their father had owned a large gold watch, which had a wide-spread fame, because it was the only gold watch people in that part of the country had seen, and when it was put up many a rich man tried to get it until the two brothers began to take part in the bidding; then the rest ceased. Now, Baard expected Anders to let him have the watch, and Anders expected the same of Baard; each bid in his turn to put the other to the test, and they looked hard at each other while bidding. When the watch had been run up to twenty dollars, it seemed to Baard that his brother was not acting rightly, and he continued to bid until he got it almost up to thirty; as Anders kept on, it struck Baard that his brother could not remember how kind he had always been to him, nor that he was the elder of the two, and the watch went up to over thirty dollars. Anders still kept on. Then Baard suddenly bid forty dollars, and ceased to look at his brother. It grew very still in the auction-room, the voice of the lensmand one was heard calmly naming the price. Anders, standing there, thought if Baard could afford to give forty dollars he could also, and if Baard grudged him the watch, he might as well take it. He bid higher. This Baard felt to be the greatest disgrace that had ever befallen him; he bid fifty dollars, in a very low tone. Many people stood around, and Anders did not see how his brother could so mock at him in the hearing of all; he bid higher. At length Baard laughed. "A hundred dollars and my brotherly affection in the bargain," said he, and turning left the room. A little later, some one came out to him, just as he was engaged in saddling the horse he had bought a short time before. "The watch is yours," said the man; "Anders has withdrawn." The moment Baard heard this there passed through him a feeling of compunction; he thought of his brother, and not of the watch. The horse was saddled, but Baard paused with his hand on its back, uncertain whether to ride away or no. Now many people came out, among them Anders, who when he saw his brother standing beside the saddled horse, not knowing what Baard was reflecting on, shouted out to him:-- "Thank you for the watch, Baard! You will not see it run the day your brother treads on your heels." "Nor the day I ride to the gard again," replied Baard, his face very white, swinging himself into the saddle. Neither of them ever again set foot in the house where they had lived with their father. A short time after, Anders married into a houseman's family; but Baard was not invited to the wedding, nor was he even at church. The first year of Anders' marriage the only cow he owned was found dead beyond the north side of the house, where it was tethered, and no one could find out what had killed it. Several misfortunes followed, and he kept going downhill; but the worst of all was when his barn, with all that it contained, burned down in the middle of the winter; no one knew how the fire had originated. "This has been done by some one who wishes me ill," said Anders,--and he wept that night. He was now a poor man and had lost all ambition for work. The next evening Baard appeared in his room. Anders was in bed when he entered, but sprang directly up. "What do you want here?" he cried, then stood silent, staring fixedly at his brother. Baard waited a little before he answered,-- "I wish to offer you help, Anders; things are going badly for you." "I am faring as you meant I should, Baard! Go, I am not sure that I can control myself." "You mistake, Anders; I repent"-- "Go, Baard, or God be merciful to us both!" Baard fell back a few steps, and with quivering voice he murmured,-- "If you want the watch you shall have it." "Go, Baard!" shrieked the other, and Baard left, not daring to linger longer. Now with Baard it had been as follows: As soon as he had heard of his brother's misfortunes, his heart melted; but pride held him back. He felt impelled to go to church, and there he made good resolves, but he was not able to carry them out. Often he got far enough to see Anders' house; but now some one came out of the door; now there was a stranger there; again Anders was outside chopping wood, so there was always something in the way. But one Sunday, late in the winter, he went to church again, and Anders was there too. Baard saw him; he had grown pale and thin; he wore the same clothes as in former days when the brothers were constant companions, but now they were old and patched. During the sermon Anders kept his eyes fixed on the priest, and Baard thought he looked good and kind; he remembered their childhood and what a good boy Anders had been. Baard went to communion that day, and he made a solemn vow to his God that he would be reconciled with his brother whatever might happen. This determination passed through his soul while he was drinking the wine, and when he rose he wanted to go right to him and sit down beside him; but some one was in the way and Anders did not look up. After service, too, there was something in the way; there were too many people; Anders' wife was walking at his side, and Baard was not acquainted with her; he concluded that it would be best to go to his brother's house and have a serious talk with him. When evening came he set forth. He went straight to the sitting-room door and listened, then he heard his name spoken; it was by the wife. "He took the sacrament to-day," said she; "he surely thought of you." "No; he did not think of me," said Anders. "I know him; he thinks only of himself." For a long time there was silence; the sweat poured from Baard as he stood there, although it was a cold evening. The wife inside was busied with a kettle that crackled and hissed on the hearth; a little infant cried now and then, and Anders rocked it. At last the wife spoke these few words:-- "I believe you both think of each other without being willing to admit it." "Let us talk of something else," replied Anders. After a while he got up and moved towards the door. Baard was forced to hide in the wood-shed; but to that very place Anders came to get an armful of wood. Baard stood in the corner and saw him distinctly; he had put off his threadbare Sunday clothes and wore the uniform he had brought home with him from the war, the match to Baard's, and which he had promised his brother never to touch but to leave for an heirloom, Baard having given him a similar promise. Anders' uniform was now patched and worn; his strong, well-built frame was encased, as it were, in a bundle of rags; and, at the same time, Baard heard the gold watch ticking in his own pocket. Anders walked to where the fagots lay; instead of stooping at once to pick them up, he paused, leaned back against the wood-pile and gazed up at the sky, which glittered brightly with stars. Then he drew a sigh and muttered,-- "Yes--yes--yes;--O Lord! O Lord!" As long as Baard lived he heard these words. He wanted to step forward, but just then his brother coughed, and it seemed so difficult, more was not required to hold him back. Anders took up his armful of wood, and brushed past Baard, coming so close to him that the twigs struck his face, making it smart. For fully ten minutes he stood as if riveted to the spot, and it is doubtful when he would have left, had he not, after his great emotion, been seized with a shivering fit that shook him through and through. Then he moved away; he frankly confessed to himself that he was too cowardly to go in, and so he now formed a new plan. From an ash-box which stood in the corner he had just left, he took some bits of charcoal, found a resinous pine-splint, went up to the barn, closed the door and struck a light. When he had lit the pine-splint, he held it up to find the wooden peg where Anders hung his lantern when he came early in the morning to thresh. Baard took his gold watch and hung it on the peg, blew out his light and left; and then he felt so relieved that he bounded over the snow like a young boy. The next day he heard that the barn had burned to the ground during the night. No doubt sparks had fallen from the torch that had lit him while he was hanging up his watch. This so overwhelmed him that he kept his room all day like a sick man, brought out his hymn-book, and sang until the people in the house thought he had gone mad. But in the evening he went out; it was bright moonlight. He walked to his brother's place, dug in the ground where the fire had been, and found, as he had expected, a little melted lump of gold. It was the watch. It was with this in his tightly closed hand that he went in to his brother, imploring peace, and was about to explain everything. A little girl had seen him digging in the ashes, some boys on their way to a dance had noticed him going down toward the place the preceding Sunday evening; the people in the house where he lived testified how curiously he had acted on Monday, and as every one knew that he and his brother were bitter enemies, information was given and a suit instituted. No one could prove anything against Baard, but suspicion rested on him. Less than ever, now, did he feel able to approach his brother. Anders had thought of Baard when the barn was burned, but had spoken of it to no one. When he saw him enter his room, the following evening, pale and excited, he immediately thought: "Now he is smitten with remorse, but for such a terrible crime against his brother he shall have no forgiveness." Afterwards he heard how people had seen Baard go down to the barn the evening of the fire, and, although nothing was brought to light at the trial, Anders firmly believed his brother to be guilty. They met at the trial; Baard in his good clothes, Anders in his patched ones. Baard looked at his brother as he entered, and his eyes wore so piteous an expression of entreaty that Anders felt it in the inmost depths of his heart. "He does not want me to say anything," thought Anders, and when he was asked if he suspected his brother of the deed, he said loudly and decidedly, "No!" Anders took to hard drinking from that day, and was soon far on the road to ruin. Still worse was it with Baard; although he did not drink, he was scarcely to be recognized by those who had known him before. Late one evening a poor woman entered the little room Baard rented, and begged him to accompany her a short distance. He knew her: it was his brother's wife. Baard understood forthwith what her errand was; he grew deathly pale, dressed himself, and went with her without a word. There was a glimmer of light from Anders' window, it twinkled and disappeared, and they were guided by this light, for there was no path across the snow. When Baard stood once more in the passage, a strange odor met him which made him feel ill. They entered. A little child stood by the fireplace eating charcoal; its whole face was black, but as it looked up and laughed it displayed white teeth,--it was the brother's child. There on the bed, with a heap of clothes thrown over him, lay Anders, emaciated, with smooth, high forehead, and with his hollow eyes fixed on his brother. Baard's knees trembled; he sat down at the foot of the bed and burst into a violent fit of weeping. The sick man looked at him intently and said nothing. At length he asked his wife to go out, but Baard made a sign to her to remain; and now these two brothers began to talk together. They accounted for everything from the day they had bid for the watch up to the present moment. Baard concluded by producing the lump of gold he always carried about him, and it now became manifest to the brothers that in all these years neither had known a happy day. Anders did not say much, for he was not able to do so, but Baard watched by his bed as long as he was ill. "Now I am perfectly well," said Anders one morning on waking. "Now, my brother, we will live long together, and never leave each other, just as in the old days." But that day he died. Baard took charge of the wife and the child, and they fared well from that time. What the brothers had talked of together by the bed, burst through the walls and the night, and was soon known to all the people in the parish, and Baard became the most respected man among them. He was honored as one who had known great sorrow and found happiness again, or as one who had been absent for a very long time. Baard grew inwardly strong through all this friendliness about him; he became a truly pious man, and wanted to be useful, he said, and so the old corporal took to teaching school. What he impressed upon the children, first and last, was love, and he practiced it himself, so that the children clung to him as to a playmate and father in one. Such was the history of the school-master, and so deeply did it root itself in Oyvind's mind that it became both religion and education for him. The school-master grew to be almost a supernatural being in his eyes, although he sat there so sociably, grumbling at the scholars. Not to know every lesson for him was impossible, and if Oyvind got a smile or a pat on his head after he had recited, he felt warm and happy for a whole day. It always made the deepest impression on the children when the old school-master sometimes before singing made a little speech to them, and at least once a week read aloud some verses about loving one's neighbor. When he read the first of those verses, his voice always trembled, although he had been reading it now some twenty or thirty years. It ran thus:-- "Love thy neighbor with Christian zeal! Crush him not with an iron heel, Though he in dust be prostrated! Love's all powerful, quickening hand Guides, forever, with magic wand All that it has created." But when he had recited the whole poem and had paused a little, he would cry, and his eyes would twinkle,-- "Up, small trolls! and go nicely home without any noise,--go quietly, that I may only hear good of you, little toddlers!" But when they were making the most noise in hunting up their books and dinner-pails, he shouted above it all,-- "Come again to-morrow, as soon as it is light, or I will give you a thrashing. Come again in good season, little girls and boys, and then we will be industrious." CHAPTER IV. Of Oyvind's further progress until a year before confirmation there is not much to report. He studied in the morning, worked through the day, and played in the evening. As he had an unusually sprightly disposition, it was not long before the neighboring children fell into the habit of resorting in their playtime to where he was to be found. A large hill sloped down to the bay in front of the place, bordered by the cliff on one side and the wood on the other, as before described; and all winter long, on pleasant evenings and on Sundays, this served as coasting-ground for the parish young folks. Oyvind was master of the hill, and he owned two sleds, "Fleet-foot" and "Idler;" the latter he loaned out to larger parties, the former he managed himself, holding Marit on his lap. The first thing Oyvind did in those days on awaking, was to look out and see whether it was thawing, and if it was gray and lowering over the bushes beyond the bay, or if he heard a dripping from the roof, he was long about dressing, as though there were nothing to be accomplished that day. But if he awoke, especially on a Sunday, to crisp, frosty, clear weather, to his best clothes and no work, only catechism or church in the morning, with the whole afternoon and evening free--heigh! then the boy made one spring out of bed, donned his clothes in a hurry as if for a fire, and could scarcely eat a mouthful. As soon as afternoon had come, and the first boy on skees drew in sight along the road-side, swinging his guide-pole above his head and shouting so that echoes resounded through the mountain-ridges about the lake; and then another on the road on a sled, and still another and another,--off started Oyvind with "Fleet-foot," bounded down the hill, and stopped among the last-comers, with a long, ringing shout that pealed from ridge to ridge all along the bay, and died away in the far distance. Then he would look round for Marit, but when she had come he payed no further attention to her. At last there came a Christmas, when Oyvind and Marit might be about sixteen or seventeen, and were both to be confirmed in the spring. The fourth day after Christmas there was a party at the upper Heidegards, at Marit's grandparents', by whom she had been brought up, and who had been promising her this party for three years, and now at last had to give it during the holidays. Oyvind was invited to it. It was a somewhat cloudy evening but not cold; no stars could be seen; the next day must surely bring rain. There blew a sleepy wind over the snow, which was swept away here and there on the white Heidefields; elsewhere it had drifted. Along the part of the road where there was but little snow, were smooth sheets of ice of a blue-black hue, lying between the snow and the bare field, and glittering in patches as far as the eye could reach. Along the mountain-sides there had been avalanches; it was dark and bare in their track, but on either side light and snow-clad, except where the forest birch-trees put their heads together and made dark shadows. No water was visible, but half-naked heaths and bogs lay under the deeply-fissured, melancholy mountains. Gards were spread in thick clusters in the centre of the plain; in the gloom of the winter evening they resembled black clumps, from which light shot out over the fields, now from one window, now from another; from these lights it might be judged that those within were busy. Young people, grown-up and half-grown-up, were flocking together from diverse directions; only a few of them came by the road, the others had left it at least when they approached the gards, and stole onward, one behind the stable, a couple near the store-house, some stayed for a long time behind the barn, screaming like foxes, others answered from afar like cats; one stood behind the smoke-house, barking like a cross old dog whose upper notes were cracked; and at last all joined in a general chase. The girls came sauntering along in large groups, having a few boys, mostly small ones, with them, who had gathered about them on the road in order to appear like young men. When such a bevy of girls arrived at the gard and one or two of the grown youths saw them, the girls parted, flew into the passages or down in the garden, and had to be dragged thence into the house, one by one. Some were so excessively bashful that Marit had to be sent for, and then she came out and insisted upon their entering. Sometimes, too, there appeared one who had had no invitation and who had by no means intended to go in, coming only to look on, until perhaps she might have a chance just to take one single dance. Those whom Marit liked well she invited into a small chamber, where her grandfather sat smoking his pipe, and her grandmother was walking about. The old people offered them something to drink and spoke kindly to them. Oyvind was not among those invited in, and this seemed to him rather strange. The best fiddler of the parish could not come until later, so meanwhile they had to content themselves with the old one, a houseman, who went by the name of Gray-Knut. He knew four dances; as follows: two spring dances, a halling, and an old dance, called the Napoleon waltz; but gradually he had been compelled to transform the halling into a schottishe by altering the accent, and in the same manner a spring dance had to become a polka-mazurka. He now struck up and the dancing began. Oyvind did not dare join in at once, for there were too many grown folks here; but the half-grown-up ones soon united, thrust one another forward, drank a little strong ale to strengthen their courage, and then Oyvind came forward with them. The room grew warm to them; merriment and ale mounted to their heads. Marit was on the floor most of the time that evening, no doubt because the party was at her grandparents'; and this led Oyvind to look frequently at her; but she was always dancing with others. He longed to dance with her himself, and so he sat through one dance, in order to be able to hasten to her side the moment it was ended; and he did so, but a tall, swarthy fellow, with thick hair, threw himself in his way. "Back, youngster!" he shouted, and gave Oyvind a push that nearly made him fall backwards over Marit. Never before had such a thing occurred to Oyvind; never had any one been otherwise than kind to him; never had he been called "youngster" when he wanted to take part; he blushed crimson, but said nothing, and drew back to the place where the new fiddler, who had just arrived, had taken his seat and was tuning his instrument. There was silence in the crowd, every one was waiting to hear the first vigorous tones from "the chief fiddler." He tried his instrument and kept on tuning; this lasted a long time; but finally he began with a spring dance, the boys shouted and leaped, couple after couple coming into the circle. Oyvind watched Marit dancing with the thick-haired man; she laughed over the man's shoulder and her white teeth glistened. Oyvind felt a strange, sharp pain in his heart for the first time in his life. He looked longer and longer at her, but however it might be, it seemed to him that Marit was now a young maiden. "It cannot be so, though," thought he, "for she still takes part with the rest of us in our coasting." But grown-up she was, nevertheless, and after the dance was ended, the dark-haired man pulled her down on his lap; she tore herself away, but still she sat down beside him. Oyvind's eyes turned to the man, who wore a fine blue broadcloth suit, blue checked shirt, and a soft silk neckerchief; he had a small face, vigorous blue eyes, a laughing, defiant mouth. He was handsome. Oyvind looked more and more intently, finally scanned himself also; he had had new trousers for Christmas, which he had taken much delight in, but now he saw that they were only gray wadmal; his jacket was of the same material, but old and dark; his vest, of checked homespun, was also old, and had two bright buttons and a black one. He glanced around him and it seemed to him that very few were so poorly clad as he. Marit wore a black, close-fitting dress of a fine material, a silver brooch in her neckerchief and had a folded silk handkerchief in her hand. On the back of her head was perched a little black silk cap, which was tied under the chin with a broad, striped silk ribbon. She was fair and had rosy cheeks, and she was laughing; the man was talking to her and was laughing too. The fiddler started another tune, and the dancing was about to begin again. A comrade came and sat down beside Oyvind. "Why are you not dancing, Oyvind? " he asked pleasantly. "Dear me!" said Oyvind, "I do not look fit." "Do not look fit?" cried his comrade; but before he could say more, Oyvind inquired,-- "Who is that in the blue broadcloth suit, dancing with Marit?" "That is Jon Hatlen, he who has been away so long at an agricultural school and is now to take the gard." At that moment Marit and Jon sat down. "Who is that boy with light hair sitting yonder by the fiddler, staring at me?" asked Jon. Then Marit laughed and said,-- "He is the son of the houseman at Pladsen." Oyvind had always known that he was a houseman's son; but until now he had never realized it. It made him feel so very little, smaller than all the rest; in order to keep up he had to try and think of all that hitherto had made him happy and proud, from the coasting hill to each kind word. He thought, too, of his mother and his father, who were now sitting at home and thinking that he was having a good time, and he could scarcely hold back his tears. Around him all were laughing and joking, the fiddle rang right into his ear, it was a moment in which something black seemed to rise up before him, but then he remembered the school with all his companions, and the school-master who patted him, and the priest who at the last examination had given him a book and told him he was a clever boy. His father himself had sat by listening and had smiled on him. "Be good now, dear Oyvind," he thought he heard the school-master say, taking him on his lap, as when he was a child. "Dear me! it all matters so little, and in fact all people are kind; it merely seems as if they were not. We two will be clever, Oyvind, just as clever as Jon Hatlen; we shall yet have good clothes, and dance with Marit in a light room, with a hundred people in it; we will smile and talk together; there will be a bride and bridegroom, a priest, and I will be in the choir smiling upon you, and mother will be at home, and there will be a large gard with twenty cows, three horses, and Marit as good and kind as at school." The dancing ceased. Oyvind saw Marit on the bench in front of him, and Jon by her side with his face close up to hers; again there came that great burning pain in his breast, and he seemed to be saying to himself: "It is true, I am suffering." Just then Marit rose, and she came straight to him. She stooped over him. "You must not sit there staring so fixedly at me," said she; "you might know that people are noticing it. Take some one now and join the dancers." He made no reply, but he could not keep back the tears that welled up to his eyes as he looked at her. Marit had already risen to go when she saw this, and paused; suddenly she grew as red as fire, turned and went back to her place, but having arrived there she turned again and took another seat. Jon followed her forthwith. Oyvind got up from the bench, passed through the crowd, out in the grounds, sat down on a porch, and then, not knowing what he wanted there rose, but sat down again, thinking he might just as well sit there as anywhere else. He did not care about going home, nor did he desire to go in again, it was all one to him. He was not capable of considering what had happened; he did not want to think of it; neither did he wish to think of the future, for there was nothing to which he looked forward. "But what, then, is it I am thinking of?" he queried, half aloud, and when he had heard his own voice, he thought: "You can still speak, can you laugh?" And then he tried it; yes, he could laugh, and so he laughed loud, still louder, and then it occurred to him that it was very amusing to be sitting laughing here all by himself, and he laughed again. But Hans, the comrade who had been sitting beside him, came out after him. "Good gracious, what are you laughing at?" he asked, pausing in front of the porch. At this Oyvind was silent. Hans remained standing, as if waiting to see what further might happen. Oyvind got up, looked cautiously about him and said in a low tone,-- "Now Hans, I will tell you why I have been so happy before: it was because I did not really love any one; from the day we love some one, we cease to be happy," and he burst into tears. "Oyvind!" a voice whispered out in the court; "Oyvind!" He paused and listened. "Oyvind," was repeated once more, a little louder. "It must be she," he thought. "Yes," he answered, also in a whisper; and hastily wiping his eyes he came forward. A woman stole softly across the gard. [Transcriber's Note: The above sentence should read, "A woman stole softly across the yard." In other early translations, the words "yard" and "court-yard" are used here. "Gard" in this case is apparently a typo. The use of the word, "gard" throughout the rest of this story refers to "farm."] "Are you there?" she asked. "Yes," he answered, standing still. "Who is with you?" "Hans." But Hans wanted to go. "No, no!" besought Oyvind. She slowly drew near them, and it was Marit. "You left so soon," said she to Oyvind. He knew not what to reply; thereupon Marit, too, became embarrassed, and all three were silent. But Hans gradually managed to steal away. The two remained behind, neither looking at each other, nor stirring. Finally Marit whispered:-- "I have been keeping some Christmas goodies in my pocket for you, Oyvind, the whole evening, but I have had no chance to give them to you before." She drew forth some apples, a slice of a cake from town, and a little half pint bottle, which she thrust into his hand, and said he might keep. Oyvind took them. "Thank you!" said he, holding out his hand; hers was warm, and he dropped it at once as if it had burned him. "You have danced a good deal this evening," he murmured. "Yes, I have," she replied, "but _you_ have not danced much," she added. "I have not," he rejoined. "Why did you not dance?" "Oh"-- "Oyvind!" "Yes." "Why did you sit looking at me so?" "Oh--Marit!" "What!" "Why did you dislike having me look at you?" "There were so many people." "You danced a great deal with Jon Hatlen this evening." "I did." "He dances well." "Do you think so?" "Oh, yes. I do not know how it is, but this evening I could not bear to have you dance with him, Marit." He turned away,--it had cost him something to say this. "I do not understand you, Oyvind." "Nor do I understand myself; it is very stupid of me. Good-by, Marit; I will go now." He made a step forward without looking round. Then she called after him. "You make a mistake about what you saw." He stopped. "That you have already become a maiden is no mistake." He did not say what she had expected, therefore she was silent; but at that moment she saw the light from a pipe right in front of her. It was her grandfather, who had just turned the corner and was coming that way. He stood still. "Is it here you are, Marit?" "Yes." "With whom are you talking?" "With Oyvind." "Whom did you say?" "Oyvind Pladsen." "Oh! the son of the houseman at Pladsen. Come at once and go in with me." CHAPTER V. The next morning, when Oyvind opened his eyes, it was from a long, refreshing sleep and happy dreams. Marit had been lying on the cliff, throwing leaves down on him; he had caught them and tossed them back again, so they had gone up and down in a thousand colors and forms; the sun was shining, and the whole cliff glittered beneath its rays. On awaking Oyvind looked around to find them all gone; then he remembered the day before, and the burning, cruel pain in his heart began at once. "This, I shall never be rid of again," thought he; and there came over him a feeling of indifference, as though his whole future had dropped away from him. "Why, you have slept a long time," said his mother, who sat beside him spinning. "Get up now and eat your breakfast; your father is already in the forest cutting wood." Her voice seemed to help him; he rose with a little more courage. His mother was no doubt thinking of her own dancing days, for she sat singing to the sound of the spinning-wheel, while he dressed himself and ate his breakfast. Her humming finally made him rise from the table and go to the window; the same dullness and depression he had felt before took possession of him now, and he was forced to rouse himself, and think of work. The weather had changed, there had come a little frost into the air, so that what yesterday had threatened to fall in rain, to-day came down as sleet. Oyvind put on his snow-socks, a fur cap, his sailor's jacket and mittens, said farewell, and started off, with his axe on his shoulder. Snow fell slowly, in great, wet flakes; he toiled up over the coasting hill, in order to turn into the forest on the left. Never before, winter or summer, had he climbed this hill without recalling something that made him happy, or to which he was looking forward. Now it was a dull, weary walk. He slipped in the damp snow, his knees were stiff, either from the party yesterday or from his low spirits; he felt that it was all over with the coasting-hill for that year, and with it, forever. He longed for something different as he threaded his way in among the tree-trunks, where the snow fell softly. A frightened ptarmigan screamed and fluttered a few yards away, but everything else stood as if awaiting a word which never was spoken. But what his aspirations were, he did not distinctly know, only they concerned nothing at home, nothing abroad, neither pleasure nor work; but rather something far above, soaring upward like a song. Soon all became concentrated in one defined desire, and this was to be confirmed in the spring, and on that occasion to be number one. His heart beat wildly as he thought of it, and before he could yet hear his father's axe in the quivering little trees, this wish throbbed within him with more intensity than anything he had known in all his life. His father, as usual, did not have much to say to him; they chopped away together and both dragged the wood into heaps. Now and then they chanced to meet, and on one such occasion Oyvind remarked, in a melancholy tone, "A houseman has to work very hard." "He as well as others," said the father, as he spit in the palm of his hand and took up the axe again. When the tree was felled and the father had drawn it up to the pile, Oyvind said,-- "If you were a gardman you would not have to work so hard." "Oh! then there would doubtless be other things to distress us," and he grasped his axe with both hands. The mother came up with dinner for them; they sat down. The mother was in high spirits, she sat humming and beating time with her feet. "What are you going to make of yourself when you are grown up, Oyvind?" said she, suddenly. "For a houseman's son, there are not many openings," he replied. "The school-master says you must go to the seminary," said she. "Can people go there free?" inquired Oyvind. "The school-fund pays," answered the father, who was eating. "Would you like to go?" asked the mother. "I should like to learn something, but not to become a school-master." They were all silent for a time. The mother hummed again and gazed before her; but Oyvind went off and sat down by himself. "We do not actually need to borrow of the school-fund," said the mother, when the boy was gone. Her husband looked at her. "Such poor folks as we?" "It does not please me, Thore, to have you always passing yourself off for poor when you are not so." They both stole glances down after the boy to find out if he could hear. The father looked sharply at his wife. "You talk as though you were very wise." She laughed. "It is just the same as not thanking God that things have prospered with us," said she, growing serious. "We can surely thank Him without wearing silver buttons," observed the father. "Yes, but to let Oyvind go to the dance, dressed as he was yesterday, is not thanking Him either." "Oyvind is a houseman's son." "That is no reason why he should not wear suitable clothes when we can afford it." "Talk about it so he can hear it himself!" "He does not hear it; but I should like to have him do so," said she, and looked bravely at her husband, who was gloomy, and laid down his spoon to take his pipe. "Such a poor houseman's place as we have!" said he. "I have to laugh at you, always talking about the place, as you are. Why do you never speak of the mills?" "Oh! you and the mills. I believe you cannot bear to hear them go." "Yes, I can, thank God! might they but go night and day!" "They have stood still now, since before Christmas." "Folks do not grind here about Christmas time." "They grind when there is water; but since there has been a mill at New Stream, we have fared badly here." "The school-master did not say so to-day." "I shall get a more discreet fellow than the school-master to manage our money." "Yes, he ought least of all to talk with your own wife." Thore made no reply to this; he had just lit his pipe, and now, leaning up against a bundle of fagots, he let his eyes wander, first from his wife, then from his son, and fixed them on an old crow's-nest which hung, half overturned, from a fir-branch above. Oyvind sat by himself with the future stretching before him like a long, smooth sheet of ice, across which for the first time he found himself sweeping onward from shore to shore. That poverty hemmed him in on every side, he felt, but for that reason his whole mind was bent on breaking through it. From Marit it had undoubtedly parted him forever; he regarded her as half engaged to Jon Hatlen; but he had determined to vie with him and her through the entire race of life. Never again to be rebuffed as he had been yesterday, and in view of this to keep out of the way until he made something of himself, and then, with the aid of Almighty God, to continue to be something, --occupied all his thoughts, and there arose within his soul not a single doubt of his success. He had a dim idea that through study he would get on best; to what goal it would lead he must consider later. There was coasting in the evening; the children came to the hill, but Oyvind was not with them. He sat reading by the fire-place, feeling that he had not a moment to lose. The children waited a long time; at length, one and another became impatient, approached the house, and laying their faces against the window-pane shouted in; but Oyvind pretended not to hear them. Others came, and evening after evening they lingered about outside, in great surprise; but Oyvind turned his back to them and went on reading, striving faithfully to gather the meaning of the words. Afterwards he heard that Marit was not there either. He read with a diligence which even his father was forced to say went too far. He became grave; his face, which had been so round and soft, grew thinner and sharper, his eye more stern; he rarely sang, and never played; the right time never seemed to come. When the temptation to do so beset him, he felt as if some one whispered, "later, later!" and always "later!" The children slid, shouted, and laughed a while as of old, but when they failed to entice him out either through his own love of coasting, or by shouting to him with their faces pressed against the window-pane, they gradually fell away, found other playgrounds, and soon the hill was deserted. But the school-master soon noticed that this was not the old Oyvind who read because it was his turn, and played because it was a necessity. He often talked with him, coaxed and admonished him; but he did not succeed in finding his way to the boy's heart so easily as in days of old. He spoke also with the parents, the result of the conference being that he came down one Sunday evening, late in the winter, and said, after he had sat a while,-- "Come now, Oyvind, let us go out; I want to have a talk with you." Oyvind put on his things and went with him. They wended their way up toward the Heidegards; a brisk conversation was kept up, but about nothing in particular; when they drew near the gards the school-master turned aside in the direction of one that lay in the centre, and when they had advanced a little farther, shouting and merriment met them. "What is going on here?" asked Oyvind. "There is a dance here," said the school-master; "shall we not go in?" "No." "Will you not take part in a dance, boy?" "No; not yet." "Not yet? When, then?" Oyvind did not answer. "What do you mean by _yet_?" As the youth did not answer, the school-master said,-- "Come, now, no such nonsense." "No, I will not go." He was very decided and at the same time agitated. "The idea of your own school-master standing here and begging you to go to a dance." There was a long pause. "Is there any one in there whom you are afraid to see?" "I am sure I cannot tell who may be in there." "But is there likely to be any one?" Oyvind was silent. Then the school-master walked straight up to him, and laying his hand on his shoulder, said,-- "Are you afraid to see Marit?" Oyvind looked down; his breathing became heavy and quick. "Tell me, Oyvind, my boy?" Oyvind made no reply. "You are perhaps ashamed to confess it since you are not yet confirmed; but tell me, nevertheless, my dear Oyvind, and you shall not regret it." Oyvind raised his eyes but could not speak the word, and let his gaze wander away. "You are not happy, either, of late. Does she care more for any one else than for you?" Oyvind was still silent, and the school-master, feeling slightly hurt, turned away from him. They retraced their steps. After they had walked a long distance, the school-master paused long enough for Oyvind to come up to his side. "I presume you are very anxious to be confirmed," said he. "Yes." "What do you think of doing afterwards?" "I should like to go to the seminary." "And then become a school-master?" "No." "You do not think that is great enough?" Oyvind made no reply. Again they walked on for some distance. "When you have been through the seminary, what will you do?" "I have not fairly considered that." "If you had money, I dare say you would like to buy yourself a gard?" "Yes, but keep the mills." "Then you had better enter the agricultural school." "Do pupils learn as much there as at the seminary?" "Oh, no! but they learn what they can make use of later." "Do they get numbers there too?" "Why do you ask?" "I should like to be a good scholar." "That you can surely be without a number." They walked on in silence again until they saw Pladsen; a light shone from the house, the cliff hanging over it was black now in the winter evening; the lake below was covered with smooth, glittering ice, but there was no snow on the forest skirting the silent bay; the moon sailed overhead, mirroring the forest trees in the ice. "It is beautiful here at Pladsen," said the school-master. There were times when Oyvind could see these things with the same eyes with which he looked when his mother told him nursery tales, or with the vision he had when he coasted on the hill-side, and this was one of those times,--all lay exalted and purified before him. "Yes, it is beautiful," said he, but he sighed. "Your father has found everything he wanted in this home; you, too, might be contented here." The joyous aspect of the spot suddenly disappeared. The school-master stood as if awaiting an answer; receiving none, he shook his head and entered the house with Oyvind. He sat a while with the family, but was rather silent than talkative, whereupon the others too became silent. When he took his leave, both husband and wife followed him outside of the door; it seemed as if both expected him to say something. Meanwhile, they stood gazing up into the night. "It has grown so unusually quiet here," finally said the mother, "since the children have gone away with their sports." "Nor have you a _child_ in the house any longer, either," said the school-master. The mother knew what he meant. "Oyvind has not been happy of late," said she. "Ah, no! he who is ambitious never is happy,"--and he gazed up with an old man's calmness into God's peaceful heavens above. CHAPTER VI. Half a year later--in the autumn it was (the confirmation had been postponed until then)--the candidates for confirmation of the main parish sat in the parsonage servant's hall, waiting examination, among them was Oyvind Pladsen and Marit Heidegards. Marit had just come down from the priest, from whom she had received a handsome book and much praise; she laughed and chatted with her girl friends on all sides and glanced around among the boys. Marit was a full-grown girl, easy and frank in her whole address, and the boys as well as the girls knew that Jon Hatlen, the best match in the parish, was courting her,--well might she be happy as she sat there. Down by the door stood some girls and boys who had not passed; they were crying, while Marit and her friends were laughing; among them was a little boy in his father's boots and his mother's Sunday kerchief. "Oh, dear! oh, dear!" sobbed he, "I dare not go home again." And this overcame those who had not yet been up with the power of sympathy; there was a universal silence. Anxiety filled their throats and eyes; they could not see distinctly, neither could they swallow; and this they felt a continual desire to do. One sat reckoning over how much he knew; and although but a few hours before he had discovered that he knew everything, now he found out just as confidently that he knew nothing, not even how to read in a book. Another summed up the list of his sins, from the time he was large enough to remember until now, and he decided that it would not be at all remarkable if the Lord decreed that he should be rejected. A third sat taking note of all things about him: if the clock which was about to strike did not make its first stroke before he could count twenty, he would pass; if the person he heard in the passage proved to be the gard-boy Lars, he would pass; if the great rain-drop, working its way down over the pane, came as far as the moulding of the window, he would pass. The final and decisive proof was to be if he succeeded in twisting his right foot about the left,--and this it was quite impossible for him to do. A fourth was convinced in his own mind that if he was only questioned about Joseph in Bible history and about baptism in the Catechism, or about Saul, or about domestic duties, or about Jesus, or about the Commandments, or--he still sat rehearsing when he was called. A fifth had taken a special fancy to the Sermon on the Mount; he had dreamed about the Sermon on the Mount; he was sure of being questioned on the Sermon on the Mount; he kept repeating the Sermon on the Mount to himself; he had to go out doors and read over the Sermon on the Mount--when he was called up to be examined on the great and the small prophets. A sixth thought of the priest who was an excellent man and knew his father so well; he thought, too, of the school-master, who had such a kindly face, and of God who was all goodness and mercy, and who had aided so many before both Jacob and Joseph; and then he remembered that his mother and brothers and sisters were at home praying for him, which surely must help. The seventh renounced all he had meant to become in this world. Once he had thought that he would like to push on as far as being a king, once as far as general or priest; now that time was over. But even to the moment of his coming here he had thought of going to sea and becoming a captain; perhaps a pirate, and acquiring enormous riches; now he gave up first the riches, then the pirate, then the captain, then the mate; he paused at sailor, at the utmost boatswain; indeed, it was possible that he would not go to sea at all, but would take a houseman's place on his father's gard. The eighth was more hopeful about his case but not certain, for even the aptest scholar was not certain. He thought of the clothes he was to be confirmed in, wondering what they would be used for if he did not pass. But if he passed he was going to town to get a broadcloth suit, and coming home again to dance at Christmas to the envy of all the boys and the astonishment of all the girls. The ninth reckoned otherwise: he prepared a little account book with the Lord, in which he set down on one side, as it were, "Debit:" he must let me pass, and on the other "Credit:" then I will never tell any more lies, never tittle-tattle any more, always go to church, let the girls alone, and break myself of swearing. The tenth, however, thought that if Ole Hansen had passed last year it would be more than unjust if he who had always done better at school, and, moreover, came of a better family, did not get through this year. By his side sat the eleventh, who was wrestling with the most alarming plans of revenge in the event of his not being passed: either to burn down the school-house, or to run away from the parish and come back again as the denouncing judge of the priest and the whole school commission, but magnanimously allow mercy to take the place of justice. To begin with, he would take service at the house of the priest of the neighboring parish, and there stand number one next year, and answer so that the whole church would marvel. But the twelfth sat alone under the clock, with both hands in his pockets, and looked mournfully out over the assemblage. No one here knew what a burden he bore, what a responsibility he had assumed. At home there was one who knew,--for he was betrothed. A large, long-legged spider was crawling over the floor and drew near his foot; he was in the habit of treading on this loathsome insect, but to-day he tenderly raised his foot that it might go in peace whither it would. His voice was as gentle as a collect, his eyes said incessantly that all men were good, his hands made a humble movement out of his pockets up to his hair to stroke it down more smoothly. If he could only glide gently through this dangerous needle's eye, he would doubtless grow out again on the other side, chew tobacco, and announce his engagement. And down on a low stool with his legs drawn up under him, sat the anxious thirteenth; his little flashing eyes sped round the room three times each second, and through the passionate, obstinate head stormed in motley confusion the combined thoughts of the other twelve: from the mightiest hope to the most crushing doubt, from the most humble resolves to the most devastating plans of revenge; and, meanwhile, he had eaten up all the loose flesh on his right thumb, and was busied now with his nails, sending large pieces across the floor. Oyvind sat by the window, he had been upstairs and had answered everything that had been asked him; but the priest had not said anything, neither had the school-master. For more than half a year he had been considering what they both would say when they came to know how hard he had toiled, and he felt now deeply disappointed as well as wounded. There sat Marit, who for far less exertion and knowledge had received both encouragement and reward; it was just in order to stand high in her eyes that he had striven, and now she smilingly won what he had labored with so much self-denial to attain. Her laughter and joking burned into his soul, the freedom with which she moved about pained him. He had carefully avoided speaking with her since that evening, it would take years, he thought; but the sight of her sitting there so happy and superior, weighed him to the ground, and all his proud determinations drooped like leaves after a rain. He strove gradually to shake off his depression. Everything depended on whether he became number one to-day, and for this he was waiting. It was the school-master's wont to linger a little after the rest with the priest to arrange about the order of the young people, and afterwards to go down and report the result; it was, to be sure, not the final decision, merely what the priest and he had for the present agreed upon. The conversation became livelier after a considerable number had been examined and passed; but now the ambitious ones plainly distinguished themselves from the happy ones; the latter left as soon as they found company, in order to announce their good fortune to their parents, or they waited for the sake of others who were not yet ready; the former, on the contrary, grew more and more silent and their eyes were fixed in suspense on the door. At length the children were all through, the last had come down, and so the school-master must now be talking with the priest. Oyvind glanced at Marit; she was just as happy as before, but she remained in her seat, whether waiting for her own pleasure or for some one else, he knew not. How pretty Marit had become! He had never seen so dazzlingly lovely a complexion; her nose was slightly turned up, and a dainty smile played about the mouth. She kept her eyes partially closed when not looking directly at any one, but for that reason her gaze always had unsuspected power when it did come; and, as though she wished herself to add that she meant nothing by this, she half smiled at the same moment. Her hair was rather dark than light, but it was wavy and crept far over the brow on either side, so that, together with the half closed eyes, it gave the face a hidden expression that one could never weary of studying. It never seemed quite sure whom it was she was looking for when she was sitting alone and among others, nor what she really had in mind when she turned to speak to any one, for she took back immediately, as it were, what she gave. "Under all this Jon Hatlen is hidden, I suppose," thought Oyvind, but still stared constantly at her. Now came the school-master. All left their places and stormed about him. "What number am I?"--"And I?"--"And I--I?" "Hush! you overgrown young ones! No uproar here! Be quiet and you shall hear about it, children." He looked slowly around. "You are number two," said he to a boy with blue eyes, who was gazing up at him most beseechingly; and the boy danced out of the circle. "You are number three," he tapped a red-haired, active little fellow who stood tugging at his jacket. "You are number five; you number eight," and so on. Here he caught sight of Marit. "You are number one of the girls,"--she blushed crimson over face and neck, but tried to smile. "You are number twelve; you have been lazy, you rogue, and full of mischief; you number eleven, nothing better to be expected, my boy; you, number thirteen, must study hard and come to the next examination, or it will go badly with you!" Oyvind could bear it no longer; number one, to be sure, had not been mentioned, but he had been standing all the time so that the school-master could see him. "School-master!" He did not hear. "School-master!" Oyvind had to repeat this three times before it was heard. At last the school-master looked at him. "Number nine or ten, I do not remember which," said he, and turned to another. "Who is number one, then?" inquired Hans, who was Oyvind's best friend. "It is not you, curly-head!" said the school-master, rapping him over the hand with a roll of paper. "Who is it, then?" asked others. "Who is it? Yes; who is it?" "He will find that out who has the number," replied the school-master, sternly. He would have no more questions. "Now go home nicely, children. Give thanks to your God and gladden your parents. Thank your old school-master too; you would have been in a pretty fix if it had not been for him." They thanked him, laughed, and went their way jubilantly, for at this moment when they were about to go home to their parents they all felt happy. Only one remained behind, who could not at once find his books, and who when he had found them sat down as if he must read them over again. The school-master went up to him. "Well, Oyvind, are you not going with the rest?" There was no reply. "Why do you open your books?" "I want to find out what I answered wrong to-day." "You answered nothing wrong." Then Oyvind looked at him; tears filled his eyes, but he gazed intently at the school-master, while one by one trickled down his cheeks, and not a word did he say. The school-master sat down in front of him. "Are you not glad that you passed?" There was a quivering about the lips but no reply. "Your mother and father will be very glad," said the school-master, and looked at Oyvind. The boy struggled hard to gain power of utterance, finally he asked in low, broken tones,-- "Is it--because I--am a houseman's son that I only stand number nine or ten?" "No doubt that was it," replied the school-master. "Then it is of no use for me to work," said Oyvind, drearily, and all his bright dreams vanished. Suddenly he raised his head, lifted his right hand, and bringing it down on the table with all his might, flung himself forward on his face and burst into passionate tears. The school-master let him lie and weep,--weep as long as he would. It lasted a long time, but the school-master waited until the weeping grew more childlike. Then taking Oyvind's head in both hands, he raised it and gazed into the tear-stained face. "Do you believe that it is God who has been with you now," said he, drawing the boy affectionately toward him. Oyvind was still sobbing, but not so violently as before; his tears flowed more calmly, but he neither dared look at him who questioned nor answer. "This, Oyvind, has been a well-merited recompense. You have not studied from love of your religion, or of your parents; you have studied from vanity." There was silence in the room after every sentence the school-master uttered. Oyvind felt his gaze resting on him, and he melted and grew humble under it. "With such wrath in your heart, you could not have come forward to make a covenant with your God. Do you think you could, Oyvind?" "No," the boy stammered, as well as he was able. "And if you stood there with vain joy, over being number one, would you not be coming forward with a sin?" "Yes, I should," whispered Oyvind, and his lips quivered. "You still love me, Oyvind?" "Yes;" here he looked up for the first time. "Then I will tell you that it was I who had you put down; for I am very fond of you, Oyvind." The other looked at him, blinked several times, and the tears rolled down in rapid succession. "You are not displeased with me for that?" "No;" he looked up full in the school-master's face, although his voice was choked. "My dear child, I will stand by you as long as I live." The school-master waited for Oyvind until the latter had gathered together his books, then said that he would accompany him home. They walked slowly along. At first Oyvind was silent and his struggle went on, but gradually he gained his self-control. He was convinced that what had occurred was the best thing that in any way could have happened to him; and before he reached home, his belief in this had become so strong that he gave thanks to his God, and told the school-master so. "Yes, now we can think of accomplishing something in life," said the school-master, "instead of playing blind-man's buff, and chasing after numbers. What do you say to the seminary?" "Why, I should like very much to go there." "Are you thinking of the agricultural school?" "Yes." "That is, without doubt, the best; it provides other openings than a school-master's position." "But how can I go there? I earnestly desire it, but I have not the means." "Be industrious and good, and I dare say the means will be found." Oyvind felt completely overwhelmed with gratitude. His eyes sparkled, his breath came lightly, he glowed with that infinite love that bears us along when we experience some unexpected kindness from a fellow-creature. At such a moment, we fancy that our whole future will be like wandering in the fresh mountain air; we are wafted along more than we walk. When they reached home both parents were within, and had been sitting there in quiet expectation, although it was during working hours of a busy time. The school-master entered first, Oyvind followed; both were smiling. "Well?" said the father, laying aside a hymn-book, in which he had just been reading a "Prayer for a Confirmation Candidate." His mother stood by the hearth, not daring to say anything; she was smiling, but her hand was trembling. Evidently she was expecting good news, but did not wish to betray herself. "I merely had to come to gladden you with the news, that he answered every question put to him; and that the priest said, when Oyvind had left him, that he had never had a more apt scholar." "Is it possible!" said the mother, much affected. "Well, that is good," said his father, clearing his throat unsteadily. After it had been still for some time, the mother asked, softly,-- "What number will he have?" "Number nine or ten," said the school-master, calmly. The mother looked at the father; he first at her, then at Oyvind, and said,-- "A houseman's son can expect no more." Oyvind returned his gaze. Something rose up in his throat once more, but he hastily forced himself to think of things that he loved, one by one, until it was choked down again. "Now I had better go," said the school-master, and nodding, turned away. Both parents followed him as usual out on the door-step; here the school-master took a quid of tobacco, and smiling said,-- "He will be number one, after all; but it is not worth while that he should know anything about it until the day comes." "No, no," said the father, and nodded. "No, no," said the mother, and she nodded too; after which she grasped the school-master's hand and added: "We thank you for all you do for him." "Yes, you have our thanks," said the father, and the school-master moved away. They long stood there gazing after him. CHAPTER VII. The school-master had judged the boy correctly when he asked the priest to try whether Oyvind could bear to stand number one. During the three weeks which elapsed before the confirmation, he was with the boy every day. It is one thing for a young, tender soul to yield to an impression; what through faith it shall attain is another thing. Many dark hours fell upon Oyvind before he learned to choose the goal of his future from something better than ambition and defiance. Often in the midst of his work he lost his interest and stopped short: what was it all for, what would he gain by it?--and then presently he would remember the school-master, his words and his kindness; and this human medium forced him to rise up again every time he fell from a comprehension of his higher duty. In those days while they were preparing at Pladsen for the confirmation, they were also preparing for Oyvind's departure for the agricultural school, for this was to take place the following day. Tailor and shoemaker were sitting in the family-room; the mother was baking in the kitchen, the father working at a chest. There was a great deal said about what Oyvind would cost his parents in the next two years; about his not being able to come home the first Christmas, perhaps not the second either, and how hard it would be to be parted so long. They spoke also of the love Oyvind should bear his parents who were willing to sacrifice themselves for their child's sake. Oyvind sat like one who had tried sailing out into the world on his own responsibility, but had been wrecked and was now picked up by kind people. Such is the feeling that humility gives, and with it comes much more. As the great day drew near he dared call himself prepared, and also dared look forward with trustful resignation. Whenever Marit's image would present itself, he cautiously thrust it aside, although he felt a pang in so doing. He tried to gain practice in this, but never made any progress in strength; on the contrary, it was the pain that grew. Therefore he was weary the last evening, when, after a long self-examination, he prayed that the Lord would not put him to the test in this matter. The school-master came as the day was drawing to a close. They all sat down together in the family-room, after washing and dressing themselves neat and clean, as was customary the evening before going to communion, or morning service. The mother was agitated, the father silent; parting was to follow the morrow's ceremony, and it was uncertain when they could all sit down together again. The school-master brought out the hymn-books, read the service, sang with the family, and afterwards said a short prayer, just as the words came into his mind. These four people now sat together until late in the evening, the thoughts of each centering within; then they parted with the best wishes for the coming day and what it was to consecrate. Oyvind was obliged to admit, as he laid himself down, that he had never gone to bed so happy before; he gave this an interpretation of his own,--he understood it to mean: I have never before gone to bed feeling so resigned to God's will and so happy in it. Marit's face at once rose up before him again, and the last thing he was conscious of was that he lay and examined himself: not quite happy, not quite,--and that he answered: yes, quite; but again: not quite; yes, quite; no, not quite. When he awoke he at once remembered the day, prayed, and felt strong, as one does in the morning. Since the summer, he had slept alone in the attic; now he rose, and put on his handsome new clothes, very carefully, for he had never owned such before. There was especially a round broadcloth jacket, which he had to examine over and over again before he became accustomed to it. He hung up a little looking-glass when he had adjusted his collar, and for the fourth time drew on his jacket. At sight of his own contented face, with the unusually light hair surrounding it, reflected and smiling in the glass, it occurred to him that this must certainly be vanity again. "Yes, but people must be well-dressed and tidy," he reasoned, drawing his face away from the glass, as if it were a sin to look in it. "To be sure, but not quite so delighted with themselves, for the sake of the matter." "No, certainly not, but the Lord must also like to have one care to look well." "That may be; but He would surely like it better to have you do so without taking so much notice of it yourself." "That is true; but it happens now because everything is so new." "Yes, but you must gradually lay the habit aside."--He caught himself carrying on such a self-examining conversation, now upon one theme, now upon another, so that not a sin should fall on the day and stain it; but at the same time he knew that he had other struggles to meet. When he came down-stairs, his parents sat all dressed, waiting breakfast for him. He went up to them and taking their hands thanked them for the clothes, and received in return a "wear-them-out-with-good-health."[1] They sat down to table, prayed silently, and ate. The mother cleared the table, and carried in the lunch-box for the journey to church. The father put on his jacket, the mother fastened her kerchief; they took their hymn-books, locked up the house, and started. As soon as they had reached the upper road they met the church-faring people, driving and walking, the confirmation candidates scattered among them, and in one group and another white-haired grand-parents, who had felt moved to come out on this great occasion. [Footnote 1: A common expression among the peasantry of Norway, meaning: "You are welcome."] It was an autumn day without sunshine, as when the weather is about to change. Clouds gathered together and dispersed again; sometimes out of one great mass were formed twenty smaller ones, which sped across the sky with orders for a storm; but below, on the earth, it was still calm, the foliage hung lifeless, not a leaf stirring; the air was a trifle sultry; people carried their outer wraps with them but did not use them. An unusually large multitude had assembled round the church, which stood in an open space; but the confirmation children immediately went into the church in order to be arranged in their places before service began. Then it was that the school-master, in a blue broadcloth suit, frock coat, and knee-breeches, high shoes, stiff cravat, and a pipe protruding from his back coat pocket, came down towards them, nodded and smiled, tapped one on the shoulder, spoke a few words to another about answering loudly and distinctly, and meanwhile worked his way along to the poor-box, where Oyvind stood answering all the questions of his friend Hans in reference to his journey. "Good-day, Oyvind. How fine you look to-day!" He took him by the jacket collar as if he wished to speak to him. "Listen. I believe everything good of you. I have been talking with the priest; you will be allowed to keep your place; go up to number one and answer distinctly!" Oyvind looked up at him amazed; the school-master nodded; the boy took a few steps, stopped, a few steps more, stopped again: "Yes, it surely is so; he has spoken to the priest for me,"--and the boy walked swiftly up to his place. "You are to be number one, after all," some one whispered to him. "Yes," answered Oyvind, in a low voice, but did not feel quite sure yet whether he dared think so. The assignment of places was over, the priest had come, the bells were ringing, and the people pouring into church. Then Oyvind saw Marit Heidegards just in front of him; she saw him too; but they were both so awed by the sacredness of the place that they dared not greet each other. He only noticed that she was dazzlingly beautiful and that her hair was uncovered; more he did not see. Oyvind, who for more than half a year had been building such great plans about standing opposite her, forgot, now that it had come to the point, both the place and her, and that he had in any way thought of them. After all was ended the relatives and acquaintances came up to offer their congratulations; next came Oyvind's comrades to take leave of him, as they had heard that he was to depart the next day; then there came many little ones with whom he had coasted on the hill-sides and whom he had assisted at school, and who now could not help whimpering a little at parting. Last came the school-master, silently took Oyvind and his parents by the hands, and made a sign to start for home; he wanted to accompany them. The four were together once more, and this was to be the last evening. On the way home they met many others who took leave of Oyvind and wished him good luck; but they had no other conversation until they sat down together in the family-room. The school-master tried to keep them in good spirits; the fact was now that the time had come they all shrank from the two long years of separation, for up to this time they had never been parted a single day; but none of them would acknowledge it. The later it grew the more dejected Oyvind became; he was forced to go out to recover his composure a little. It was dusk now and there were strange sounds in the air. Oyvind remained standing on the door-step gazing upward. From the brow of the cliff he then heard his own name called, quite softly; it was no delusion, for it was repeated twice. He looked up and faintly distinguished a female form crouching between the trees and looking down. "Who is it?" asked he. "I hear you are going away," said a low voice, "so I had to come to you and say good-by, as you would not come to me." "Dear me! Is that you, Marit? I shall come up to you." "No, pray do not. I have waited so long, and if you come I should have to wait still longer; no one knows where I am and I must hurry home." "It was kind of you to come," said he. "I could not bear to have you leave so, Oyvind; we have known each other since we were children." "Yes; we have." "And now we have not spoken to each other for half a year." "No; we have not." "We parted so strangely, too, that time." "We did. I think I must come up to you!" "Oh, no! do not come! But tell me: you are not angry with me?" "Goodness! how could you think so?" "Good-by, then, Oyvind, and my thanks for all the happy times we have had together!" "Wait, Marit!" "Indeed I must go; they will miss me." "Marit! Marit!" "No, I dare not stay away any longer, Oyvind. Good-by." "Good-by!" Afterwards he moved about as in a dream, and answered very absently when he was addressed. This was ascribed to his journey, as was quite natural; and indeed it occupied his whole mind at the moment when the school-master took leave of him in the evening and put something into his hand, which he afterwards found to be a five-dollar bill. But later, when he went to bed, he thought not of the journey, but of the words which had come down from the brow of the cliff, and those that had been sent up again. As a child Marit was not allowed to come on the cliff, because her grandfather feared she might fall down. Perhaps she will come down some day, any way. CHAPTER VIII. DEAR PARENTS,--We have to study much more now than at first, but as I am less behind the others than I was, it is not so hard. I shall change many things in father's place when I come home; for there is much that is wrong there, and it is wonderful that it has prospered as well as it has. But I shall make everything right, for I have learned a great deal. I want to go to some place where I can put into practice all I now know, and so I must look for a high position when I get through here. No one here considers Jon Hatlen as clever as he is thought to be at home with us; but as he has a gard of his own, this does not concern any one but himself. Many who go from here get very high salaries, but they are paid so well because ours is the best agricultural school in the country. Some say the one in the next district is better, but this is by no means true. There are two words here: one is called Theory, the other Practice. It is well to have them both, for one is nothing without the other; but still the latter is the better. Now the former means, to understand the cause and principle of a work; the latter, to be able to perform it: as, for instance, in regard to a quagmire; for there are many who know what should be done with a quagmire and yet do it wrong, because they are not able to put their knowledge into practice. Many, on the other hand, are skillful in doing, but do not know what ought to be done; and thus they too may make bad work of it, for there are many kinds of quagmires. But we at the agricultural school learn both words. The superintendent is so skillful that he has no equal. At the last agricultural meeting for the whole country, he led in two discussions, and the other superintendents had only one each, and upon careful consideration his statements were always sustained. At the meeting before the last, where he was not present, there was nothing but idle talk. The lieutenant who teaches surveying was chosen by the superintendent only on account of his ability, for the other schools have no lieutenant. He is so clever that he was the best scholar at the military academy. The school-master asks if I go to church. Yes, of course I go to church, for now the priest has an assistant, and his sermons fill all the congregation with terror, and it is a pleasure to listen to him. He belongs to the new religion they have in Christiania, and people think him too strict, but it is good for them that he is so. Just now we are studying much history, which we have not done before, and it is curious to observe all that has happened in the world, but especially in our country, for we have always won, except when we have lost, and then we always had the smaller number. We now have liberty; and no other nation has so much of it as we, except America; but there they are not happy. Our freedom should be loved by us above everything. Now I will close for this time, for I have written a very long letter. The school-master will read it, I suppose, and when he answers for you, get him to tell me some news about one thing or another, for he never does so of himself. But now accept hearty greetings from your affectionate son, O. THORESEN. DEAR PARENTS,--Now I must tell you that we have had examinations, and that I stood 'excellent' in many things, and 'very good' in writing and surveying, but 'good' in Norwegian composition. This comes, the superintendent says, from my not having read enough, and he has made me a present of some of Ole Vig's books, which are matchless, for I understand everything in them. The superintendent is very kind to me, and he tells us many things. Everything here is very inferior compared with what they have abroad; we understand almost nothing, but learn everything from the Scotch and Swiss, although horticulture we learn from the Dutch. Many visit these countries. In Sweden, too, they are much more clever than we, and there the superintendent himself has been. I have been here now nearly a year, and I thought that I had learned a great deal; but when I heard what those who passed the examination knew, and considered that they would not amount to anything either when they came into contact with foreigners, I became very despondent. And then the soil here in Norway is so poor compared with what it is abroad; it does not at all repay us for what we do with it. Moreover, people will not learn from the experience of others; and even if they would, and if the soil was much better, they really have not the money to cultivate it. It is remarkable that things have prospered as well as they have. I am now in the highest class, and am to remain there a year before I get through. But most of my companions have left and I long for home. I feel alone, although I am not so by any means, but one has such a strange feeling when one has been long absent. I once thought I should become so much of a scholar here; but I am not making the progress I anticipated. What shall I do with myself when I leave here? First, of course, I will come home; afterwards, I suppose, I will have to seek something to do, but it must not be far away. Farewell, now, dear parents! Give greetings to all who inquire for me, and tell them that I have everything pleasant here but that now I long to be at home again. Your affectionate son, OYVIND THORESEN PLADSEN. DEAR SCHOOL-MASTER,--With this I ask if you will deliver the inclosed letter and not speak of it to any one. And if you will not, then you must burn it. OYVIND THORESEN PLADSEN. TO THE MOST HONORED MAIDEN, MARIT KNUDSDATTER NORDISTUEN AT THE UPPER HEIDEGARDS:-- You will no doubt be much surprised at receiving a letter from me; but you need not be for I only wish to ask how you are. You must send me a few words as soon as possible, giving me all particulars. Regarding myself, I have to say that I shall be through here in a year. Most respectfully, OYVIND PLADSEN. TO OYVIND PLADSEN, AT THE AGRICULTURAL SCHOOL:-- Your letter was duly received by me from the school-master, and I will answer since you request it. But I am afraid to do so, now that you are so learned; and I have a letter-writer, but it does not help me. So I will have to try what I can do, and you must take the will for the deed; but do not show this, for if you do you are not the one I think you are. Nor must you keep it, for then some one might see it, but you must burn it, and this you will have to promise me to do. There were so many things I wanted to write about, but I do not quite dare. We have had a good harvest; potatoes bring a high price, and here at the Heidegards we have plenty of them. But the bear has done much mischief among the cattle this summer: he killed two of Ole Nedregard's cattle and injured one belonging to our houseman so badly that it had to be killed for beef. I am weaving a large piece of cloth, something like a Scotch plaid, and it is difficult. And now I will tell you that I am still at home, and that there are those who would like to have it otherwise. Now I have no more to write about for this time, and so I must bid you farewell. MARIT KNUDSDATTER. P.S.--Be sure and burn this letter. TO THE AGRICULTURIST, OYVIND THORESEN PLADSEN:-- As I have told you before, Oyvind, he who walks with God has come into the good inheritance. But now you must listen to my advice, and that is not to take the world with yearning and tribulation, but to trust in God and not allow your heart to consume you, for if you do you will have another god besides Him. Next I must inform you that your father and your mother are well, but I am troubled with one of my hips; for now the war breaks out afresh with all that was suffered in it. What youth sows age must reap; and this is true both in regard to the mind and the body, which now throbs and pains, and tempts one to make any number of lamentations. But old age should not complain; for wisdom flows from wounds, and pain preaches patience, that man may grow strong enough for the last journey. To-day I have taken up my pen for many reasons, and first and above all for the sake of Marit, who has become a God-fearing maiden, but who is as light of foot as a reindeer, and of rather a fickle disposition. She would be glad to abide by one thing, but is prevented from so doing by her nature; but I have often before seen that with hearts of such weak stuff the Lord is indulgent and long-suffering, and does not allow them to be tempted beyond their strength, lest they break to pieces, for she is very fragile. I duly gave her your letter, and she hid it from all save her own heart. If God will lend His aid in this matter, I have nothing against it, for Marit is most charming to young men, as plainly can be seen, and she has abundance of earthly goods, and the heavenly ones she has too, with all her fickleness. For the fear of God in her mind is like water in a shallow pond: it is there when it rains, but it is gone when the sun shines. My eyes can endure no more at present, for they see well at a distance, but pain me and fill with tears when I look at small objects. In conclusion, I will advise you, Oyvind, to have your God with you in all your desires and undertakings, for it is written: "Better is an handful with quietness, than both the hands full with travail and vexation of spirit." Ecclesiastes, iv. 6. Your old school-master, BAARD ANDERSEN OPDAL. TO THE MOST HONORED MAIDEN, MARIT KNUDSDATTER HEIDEGARDS:-- You have my thanks for your letter, which I have read and burned, as you requested. You write of many things, but not at all concerning that of which I wanted you to write. Nor do I dare write anything definite before I know how you are in _every respect_. The school-master's letter says nothing that one can depend on, but he praises you and he says you are fickle. That, indeed, you were before. Now I do not know what to think, and so you must write, for it will not be well with me until you do. Just now I remember best about your coming to the cliff that last evening and what you said then. I will say no more this time, and so farewell. Most respectfully, OYVIND PLADSEN. TO OYVIND THORESEN PLADSEN:-- The school-master has given me another letter from you, and I have just read it, but I do not understand it in the least, and that, I dare say, is because I am not learned. You want to know how it is with me in every respect; and I am healthy and well, and there is nothing at all the matter with me. I eat heartily, especially when I get milk porridge. I sleep at night, and occasionally in the day-time too. I have danced a great deal this winter, for there have been many parties here, and that has been very pleasant. I go to church when the snow is not too deep; but we have had a great deal of snow this winter. Now, I presume, you know everything, and if you do not, I can think of nothing better than for you to write to me once more. MARIT KNUDSDATTER. TO THE MOST HONORED MAIDEN, MARIT KNUDSDATTER HEIDEGARDS:-- I have received your letter, but you seem inclined to leave me no wiser than I was before. Perhaps this may be meant for an answer. I do not know. I dare not write anything that I wish to write, for I do not know you. But possibly you do not know me either. You must not think that I am any longer the soft cheese you squeezed the water away from when I sat watching you dance. I have laid on many shelves to dry since that time. Neither am I like those long-haired dogs who drop their ears at the least provocation and take flight from people, as in former days. I can stand fire now. Your letter was very playful, but it jested where it should not have jested at all, for you understood me very well, and you could see that I did not ask in sport, but because of late I can think of nothing else than the subject I questioned you about. I was waiting in deep anxiety, and there came to me only foolery and laughter. Farewell, Marit Heidegards, I shall not look at you too much, as I did at that dance. May you both eat well, and sleep well, and get your new web finished, and above all, may you be able to shovel away the snow which lies in front of the church-door. Most respectfully, OYVIND THORESEN PLADSEN. TO THE AGRICULTURIST, OYVIND THORESEN, AT THE AGRICULTURAL SCHOOL:-- Notwithstanding my advanced years, and the weakness of my eyes, and the pain in my right hip, I must yield to the importunity of the young, for we old people are needed by them when they have caught themselves in some snare. They entice us and weep until they are set free, but then at once run away from us again, and will take no further advice. Now it is Marit; she coaxes me with many sweet words to write at the same time she does, for she takes comfort in not writing alone. I have read your letter; she thought that she had Jon Hatlen or some other fool to deal with, and not one whom school-master Baard had trained; but now she is in a dilemma. However, you have been too severe, for there are certain women who take to jesting in order to avoid weeping, and who make no difference between the two. But it pleases me to have you take serious things seriously, for otherwise you could not laugh at nonsense. Concerning the feelings of both, it is now apparent from many things that you are bent on having each other. About Marit I have often been in doubt, for she is like the wind's course; but I have now learned that notwithstanding this she has resisted Jon Hatlen's advances, at which her grandfather's wrath is sorely kindled. She was happy when your offer came, and if she jested it was from joy, not from any harm. She has endured much, and has done so in order to wait for him on whom her mind was fixed. And now you will not have her, but cast her away as you would a naughty child. This was what I wanted to tell you. And this counsel I must add, that you should come to an understanding with her, for you can find enough else to be at variance with. I am like the old man who has lived through three generations; I have seen folly and its course. Your mother and father send love by me. They are expecting you home; but I would not write of this before, lest you should become homesick. You do not know your father; he is like a tree which makes no moan until it is hewn down. But if ever any mischance should befall you, then you will learn to know him, and you will wonder at the richness of his nature. He has had heavy burdens to bear, and is silent in worldly matters; but your mother has relieved his mind from earthly anxiety, and now daylight is beginning to break through the gloom. Now my eyes grow dim, my hand refuses to do more. Therefore I commend you to Him whose eye ever watches, and whose hand is never weary. BAARD ANDERSEN OPDAL. TO OYVIND PLADSEN:-- You seem to be displeased with me, and this greatly grieves me. For I did not mean to make you angry. I meant well. I know I have often failed to do rightly by you, and that is why I write to you now; but you must not show the letter to any one. Once I had everything just as I desired, and then I was not kind; but now there is no one who cares for me, and I am very wretched. Jon Hatlen has made a lampoon about me, and all the boys sing it, and I no longer dare go to the dances. Both the old people know about it, and I have to listen to many harsh words. Now I am sitting alone writing, and you must not show my letter. You have learned much and are able to advise me, but you are now far away. I have often been down to see your parents, and have talked with your mother, and we have become good friends; but I did not like to say anything about it, for you wrote so strangely. The school-master only makes fun of me, and he knows nothing about the lampoon, for no one in the parish would presume to sing such a thing to him. I stand alone now, and have no one to speak with. I remember when we were children, and you were so kind to me; and I always sat on your sled, and I could wish that I were a child again. I cannot ask you to answer me, for I dare not do so. But if you will answer just once more I will never forget it in you, Oyvind. MARIT KNUDSDATTER. Please burn this letter; I scarcely know whether I dare send it. DEAR MARIT,--Thank you for your letter; you wrote it in a lucky hour. I will tell you now, Marit, that I love you so much that I can scarcely wait here any longer; and if you love me as truly in return all the lampoons of Jon and harsh words of others shall be like leaves which grow too plentifully on the tree. Since I received your letter I feel like a new being, for double my former strength has come to me, and I fear no one in the whole world. After I had sent my last letter I regretted it so that I almost became ill. And now you shall hear what the result of this was. The superintendent took me aside and asked what was the matter with me; he fancied I was studying too hard. Then he told me that when my year was out I might remain here one more, without expense. I could help him with sundry things, and he would teach me more. Then I thought that work was the only thing I had to rely on, and I thanked him very much; and I do not yet repent it, although now I long for you, for the longer I stay here the better right I shall have to ask for you one day. How happy I am now! I work like three people, and never will I be behind-hand in any work! But you must have a book that I am reading, for there is much in it about love. I read in it in the evening when the others are sleeping, and then I read your letter over again. Have you thought about our meeting? I think of it so often, and you, too, must try and find out how delightful it will be. I am truly happy that I have toiled and studied so much, although it was hard before; for now I can say what I please to you, and smile over it in my heart. I shall give you many books to read, that you may see how much tribulation they have borne who have truly loved each other, and that they would rather die of grief than forsake each other. And that is what we would do, and do it with the greatest joy. True, it will be nearly two years before we see each other, and still longer before we get each other; but with every day that passes there is one day less to wait; we must think of this while we are working. My next letter shall be about many things; but this evening I have no more paper, and the others are asleep. Now I will go to bed and think of you, and I will do so until I fall asleep. Your friend, OYVIND PLADSEN. CHAPTER IX. One Saturday, in midsummer, Thore Pladsen rowed across the lake to meet his son, who was expected to arrive that afternoon from the agricultural school, where he had finished his course. The mother had hired women several days beforehand, and everything was scoured and clean. The bedroom had been put in order some time before, a stove had been set up, and there Oyvind was to be. To-day the mother carried in fresh greens, laid out clean linen, made up the bed, and all the while kept looking out to see if, perchance, any boat were coming across the lake. A plentiful table was spread in the house, and there was always something wanting, or flies to chase away, and the bedroom was dusty,--continually dusty. Still no boat came. The mother leaned against the window and looked across the waters; then she heard a step near at hand on the road, and turned her head. It was the school- master, who was coming slowly down the hill, supporting himself on a staff, for his hip troubled him. His intelligent eyes looked calm. He paused to rest, and nodded to her:-- "Not come yet?" "No; I expect them every moment." "Fine weather for haymaking, to-day." "But warm for old folks to be walking." The school-master looked at her, smiling,-- "Have any young folks been out to-day?" "Yes; but are gone again." "Yes, yes, to be sure; there will most likely be a meeting somewhere this evening." "I presume there will be. Thore says they shall not meet in his house until they have the old man's consent." "Right, quite right." Presently the mother cried,-- "There! I think they are coming." The school-master looked long in the distance. "Yes, indeed! it is they." The mother left the window, and he went into the house. After he had rested a little and taken something to drink, they proceeded down to the shore, while the boat darted toward them, making rapid headway, for both father and son were rowing. The oarsmen had thrown off their jackets, the waters whitened beneath their strokes; and so the boat soon drew near those who were waiting. Oyvind turned his head and looked up; he saw the two at the landing-place, and resting his oars, he shouted,-- "Good-day, mother! Good-day, school-master!" "What a manly voice he has," said the mother, her face sparkling. "O dear, O dear! he is as fair as ever," she added. The school-master drew in the boat. The father laid down his oars, Oyvind sprang past him and out of the boat, shook hands first with his mother, then with the school-master. He laughed and laughed again; and, quite contrary to the custom of peasants, immediately began to pour out a flood of words about the examination, the journey, the superintendent's certificate, and good offers; he inquired about the crops and his acquaintances, all save one. The father had paused to carry things up from the boat, but, wanting to hear, too, thought they might remain there for the present, and joined the others. And so they walked up toward the house, Oyvind laughing and talking, the mother laughing, too, for she was utterly at a loss to know what to say. The school-master moved slowly along at Oyvind's side, watching his old pupil closely; the father walked at a respectful distance. And thus they reached home. Oyvind was delighted with everything he saw: first because the house was painted, then because the mill was enlarged, then because the leaden windows had been taken out in the family-room and in the bed-chamber, and white glass had taken the place of green, and the window frames had been made larger. When he entered everything seemed astonishingly small, and not at all as he remembered it, but very cheerful. The clock cackled like a fat hen, the carved chairs almost seemed as if they would speak; he knew every dish on the table spread before him, the freshly white-washed hearth smiled welcome; the greens, decorating the walls, scattered about them their fragrance, the juniper, strewn over the floor, gave evidence of the festival. They all sat down to the meal; but there was not much eaten, for Oyvind rattled away without ceasing. The others viewed him now more composedly, and observed in what respect he had altered, in what he remained unchanged; looked at what was entirely new about him, even to the blue broadcloth suit he wore. Once when he had been telling a long story about one of his companions and finally concluded, as there was a little pause, the father said,-- "I scarcely understand a word that you say, boy; you talk so very fast." They all laughed heartily, and Oyvind not the least. He knew very well this was true, but it was not possible for him to speak more slowly. Everything new he had seen and learned, during his long absence from home, had so affected his imagination and understanding, and had so driven him out of his accustomed demeanor, that faculties which long had lain dormant were roused up, as it were, and his brain was in a state of constant activity. Moreover, they observed that he had a habit of arbitrarily taking up two or three words here and there, and repeating them again and again from sheer haste. He seemed to be stumbling over himself. Sometimes this appeared absurd, but then he laughed and it was forgotten. The school-master and the father sat watching to see if any of the old thoughtfulness was gone; but it did not seem so. Oyvind remembered everything, and was even the one to remind the others that the boat should be unloaded. He unpacked his clothes at once and hung them up, displayed his books, his watch, everything new, and all was well cared for, his mother said. He was exceedingly pleased with his little room. He would remain at home for the present, he said,--help with the hay-making, and study. Where he should go later he did not know; but it made not the least difference to him. He had acquired a briskness and vigor of thought which it did one good to see, and an animation in the expression of his feelings which is so refreshing to a person who the whole year through strives to repress his own. The school-master grew ten years younger. "Now we have come _so far_ with him," said he, beaming with satisfaction as he rose to go. When the mother returned from waiting on him, as usual, to the door-step, she called Oyvind into the bedroom. "Some one will be waiting for you at nine o'clock," whispered she. "Where?" "On the cliff." Oyvind glanced at the clock; it was nearly nine. He could not wait in the house, but went out, clambered up the side of the cliff, paused on the top, and looked around. The house lay directly below; the bushes on the roof had grown large, all the young trees round about him had also grown, and he recognized every one of them. His eyes wandered down the road, which ran along the cliff, and was bordered by the forest on the other side. The road lay there, gray and solemn, but the forest was enlivened with varied foliage; the trees were tall and well grown. In the little bay lay a boat with unfurled sail; it was laden with planks and awaiting a breeze. Oyvind gazed across the water which had borne him away and home again. There it stretched before him, calm and smooth; some sea-birds flew over it, but made no noise, for it was late. His father came walking up from the mill, paused on the door-step, took a survey of all about him, as his son had done, then went down to the water to take the boat in for the night. The mother appeared at the side of the house, for she had been in the kitchen. She raised her eyes toward the cliff as she crossed the farm-yard with something for the hens, looked up again and began to hum. Oyvind sat down to wait. The underbrush was so dense that he could not see very far into the forest, but he listened to the slightest sound. For a long time he heard nothing but the birds that flew up and cheated him,--after a while a squirrel that was leaping from tree to tree. But at length there was a rustling farther off; it ceased a moment, and then began again. He rises, his heart throbs, the blood rushes to his head; then something breaks through the brushes close by him; but it is a large, shaggy dog, which, on seeing him, pauses on three legs without stirring. It is the dog from the Upper Heidegards, and close behind him another rustling is heard. The dog turns his head and wags his tail; now Marit appears. A bush caught her dress; she turned to free it, and so she was standing when Oyvind saw her first. Her head was bare, her hair twisted up as girls usually wear it in every-day attire; she had on a thick plaid dress without sleeves, and nothing about the neck except a turned-down linen collar. She had just stolen away from work in the fields, and had not ventured on any change of dress. Now she looked up askance and smiled; her white teeth shone, her eyes sparkled beneath the half-closed lids. Thus she stood for a moment working with her fingers, and then she came forward, growing rosier and rosier with each step. He advanced to meet her, and took her hand between both of his. Her eyes were fixed on the ground, and so they stood. "Thank you for all your letters," was the first thing he said; and when she looked up a little and laughed, he felt that she was the most roguish troll he could meet in a wood; but he was captured, and she, too, was evidently caught. "How tall you have grown," said she, meaning something quite different. She looked at him more and more, laughed more and more, and he laughed, too; but they said nothing. The dog had seated himself on the slope, and was surveying the gard. Thore observed the dog's head from the water, but could not for his life understand what it could be that was showing itself on the cliff above. But the two had now let go of each other's hands and were beginning to talk a little. And when Oyvind was once under way he burst into such a rapid stream of words that Marit had to laugh at him. "Yes, you see, this is the way it is when I am happy--truly happy, you see; and as soon as it was settled between us two, it seemed as if there burst open a lock within me--wide open, you see." She laughed. Presently she said,-- "I know almost by heart all the letters you sent me." "And I yours! But you always wrote such short ones." "Because you always wanted them to be so long." "And when I desired that we should write more about something, then you changed the subject." "'I show to the best advantage when you see my tail,'[1] said the hulder." [Footnote 1: The hulder in the Norse folk-lore appears like a beautiful woman, and usually wears a blue petticoat and a white sword; but she unfortunately has a long tail, like a cow's, which she anxiously strives to conceal when she is among people. She is fond of cattle, particularly brindled, of which she possesses a beautiful and thriving stock. They are without horns. She was once at a merry-making, where every one was desirous of dancing with the handsome, strange damsel; but in the midst of the mirth a young man, who had just begun a dance with her, happened to cast his eye on her tail. Immediately guessing whom he had gotten for a partner, he was not a little terrified; but, collecting himself, and unwilling to betray her, he merely said to her when the dance was over: "Fair maid, you will lose your garter." She instantly vanished, but afterwards rewarded the silent and considerate youth with beautiful presents and a good breed of cattle. FAYE'S _Traditions_.--NOTE BY TRANSLATOR.] "Ah! that is so. You have never told me how you got rid of Jon Hatlen." "I laughed." "How?" "Laughed. Do not you know what it is to laugh?" "Yes; I can laugh." "Let me see!" "Whoever beard of such a thing! Surely, I must have something to laugh at." "I do not need that when I am happy." "Are you happy now, Marit?" "Pray, am I laughing now?" "Yes; you are, indeed." He took both her hands in his and clapped them together over and over again, gazing into her face. Here the dog began to growl, then his hair bristled and he fell to barking at something below, growing more and more savage, and finally quite furious. Marit sprang back in alarm; but Oyvind went forward and looked down. It was his father the dog was barking at. He was standing at the foot of the cliff with both hands in his pockets, gazing at the dog. "Are you there, you two? What mad dog is that you have up there?" "It is the dog from the Heidegards," answered Oyvind, somewhat embarrassed. "How the deuce did it get up there?" Now the mother had put her head out of the kitchen door, for she had heard the dreadful noise, and at once knew what it meant; and laughing, she said,-- "That dog is roaming about there every day, so there is nothing remarkable in it." "Well, I must say it is a fierce dog." "It will behave better if I stroke it," thought Oyvind, and he did so. The dog stopped barking, but growled. The father walked away as though he knew nothing, and the two on the cliff were saved from discovery. "It was all right this time," said Marit, as they drew near to each other again. "Do you expect it to be worse hereafter?" "I know one who will keep a close watch on us--that I do." "Your grandfather?" "Yes, indeed." "But he shall do us no harm." "Not the least." "And you promise that?" "Yes, I promise it, Oyvind." "How beautiful you are, Marit!" "So the fox said to the raven and got the cheese." "I mean to have the cheese, too, I can assure you." "You shall not have it." "But I will take it." She turned her head, but he did not take it. "I can tell you one thing, Oyvind, though." She looked up sideways as she spoke. "Well?" "How homely you have grown!" "Ah! you are going to give me the cheese, anyway; are you?" "No, I am not," and she turned away again. "Now I must go, Oyvind." "I will go with you." "But not beyond the woods; grandfather might see you." "No, not beyond the woods. Dear me! are you running?" "Why, we cannot walk side by side here." "But this is not going together?" "Catch me, then!" She ran; he after her; and soon she was fast in the bushes, so that he overtook her. "Have I caught you forever, Merit?" His hand was on her waist. "I think so," said she, and laughed; but she was both flushed and serious. "Well, now is the time," thought he, and he made a movement to kiss her; but she bent her head down under his arm, laughed, and ran away. She paused, though, by the last trees. "And when shall we meet again?" whispered she. "To-morrow, to-morrow!" he whispered in return. "Yes; to-morrow." "Good-by," and she ran on. "Marit!" She stopped. "Say, was it not strange that we met first on the cliff?" "Yes, it was." She ran on again. Oyvind gazed long after her. The dog ran on before her, barking; Marit followed, quieting him. Oyvind turned, took off his cap and tossed it into the air, caught it, and threw it up again. "Now I really think I am beginning to be happy," said the boy, and went singing homeward. CHAPTER X. One afternoon later in the summer, as his mother and a girl were raking hay, while Oyvind and his father were carrying it in, there came a little barefooted and bareheaded boy, skipping down the hill-side and across the meadows to Oyvind, and gave him a note. "You run well, my boy," said Oyvind. "I am paid for it," answered the boy. On being asked if he was to have an answer, the reply was No; and the boy took his way home over the cliff, for some one was coming after him up on the road, he said. Oyvind opened the note with some difficulty, for it was folded in a strip, then tied in a knot, then sealed and stamped; and the note ran thus:-- "He is now on the march; but he moves slowly. Run into the woods and hide yourself! THE ONE YOU KNOW." "I will do no such thing," thought Oyvind; and gazed defiantly up the hills. Nor did he wait long before an old man appeared on the hill-top, paused to rest, walked on a little, rested again. Both Thore and his wife stopped to look. Thore soon smiled, however; his wife, on the other hand, changed color. "Do you know him?" "Yes, it is not very easy to make a mistake here." Father and son again began to carry hay; but the latter took care that they were always together. The old man on the hill slowly drew near, like a heavy western storm. He was very tall and rather corpulent; he was lame and walked with a labored gait, leaning on a staff. Soon he came so near that they could see him distinctly; he paused, removed his cap and wiped away the perspiration with a handkerchief. He was quite bald far back on the head; he had a round, wrinkled face, small, glittering, blinking eyes, bushy eyebrows, and had lost none of his teeth. When he spoke it was in a sharp, shrill voice, that seemed to be hopping over gravel and stones; but it lingered on an "r" here and there with great satisfaction, rolling it over for several yards, and at the same time making a tremendous leap in pitch. He had been known in his younger days as a lively but quick-tempered man; in his old age, through much adversity, he had become irritable and suspicious. Thore and his son came and went many times before Ole could make his way to them; they both knew that he did not come for any good purpose, therefore it was all the more comical that he never got there. Both had to walk very serious, and talk in a whisper; but as this did not come to an end it became ludicrous. Only half a word that is to the point can kindle laughter under such circumstances, and especially when it is dangerous to laugh. When at last Ole was only a few rods distant, but which seemed never to grow less, Oyvind said, dryly, in a low tone,-- "He must carry a heavy load, that man,"--and more was not required. "I think you are not very wise," whispered the father, although he was laughing himself. "Hem, hem!" said Ole, coughing on the hill. "He is getting his throat ready," whispered Thore. Oyvind fell on his knees in front of the haycock, buried his head in the hay, and laughed. His father also bowed down. "Suppose we go into the barn," whispered he, and taking an armful of hay he trotted off. Oyvind picked up a little tuft, rushed after him, bent crooked with laughter, and dropped down as soon as he was inside the barn. His father was a grave man, but if he once got to laughing, there first began within him a low chuckling, with an occasional ha-ha-ha, gradually growing longer and longer, until all blended in a single loud peal, after which came wave after wave with a longer gasp between each. Now he was under way. The son lay on the floor, the father stood beside him, both laughing with all their might. Occasionally they had such fits of laughter. "But this is inconvenient," said the father. Finally they were at a loss to know how this would end, for the old man must surely have reached the gard. "I will not go out," said the father; "I have no business with him." "Well, then, I will not go out either," replied Oyvind. "Hem, hem!" was heard just outside of the barn wall. The father held up a threatening finger to his boy. "Come, out with you!" "Yes; you go first!" "No, you be off at once." "Well, go you first." And they brushed the dust off each other, and advanced very seriously. When they came below the barn-bridge they saw Ole standing with his face towards the kitchen door, as if he were reflecting. He held his cap in the same hand as his staff, and with his handkerchief was wiping the sweat from his bald head, at the same time pulling at the bushy tufts behind his ears and about his neck until they stuck out like spikes. Oyvind hung behind his father, so the latter was obliged to stand still, and in order to put an end to this he said with excessive gravity,-- "Is the old gentleman out for a walk?" Ole turned, looked sharply at him, and put on his cap before he replied,-- "Yes, so it seems." "Perhaps you are tired; will you not walk in?" "Oh! I can rest very well here; my errand will not take long." Some one set the kitchen door ajar and looked out; between it and Thore stood old Ole, with his cap-visor down over his eyes, for the cap was too large now that he had lost his hair. In order to be able to see he threw his head pretty far back; he held his staff in his right hand, while the left was firmly pressed against his side when he was not gesticulating; and this he never did more vigorously than by stretching the hand half way out and holding it passive a moment, as a guard for his dignity. "Is that your son who is standing behind you?" he began, abruptly. "So they say." "Oyvind is his name, is it not?" "Yes; they call him Oyvind." "He has been at one of those agricultural schools down south, I believe?" "There was something of the kind; yes." "Well, my girl--she--my granddaughter--Marit, you know--she has gone mad of late." "That is too bad." "She refuses to marry." "Well, really?" "She will not have any of the gard boys who offer themselves." "Ah, indeed." "But people say he is to blame; he who is standing there." "Is that so?" "He is said to have turned her head--yes; he there, your son Oyvind." "The deuce he has!" "See you, I do not like to have any one take my horses when I let them loose on the mountains, neither do I choose to have any one take my daughters when I allow them to go to a dance. I will not have it." "No, of course not." "I cannot go with them; I am old, I cannot be forever on the lookout." "No, no! no, no!" "Yes, you see, I will have order and propriety; there the block must stand, and there the axe must lie, and there the knife, and there they must sweep, and there throw rubbish out,--not outside the door, but yonder in the corner, just there--yes; and nowhere else. So, when I say to her: 'not this one but that one!' I expect it to be that one, and not this one!" "Certainly." "But it is not so. For three years she has persisted in thwarting me, and for three years we have not been happy together. This is bad; and if he is at the bottom of it, I will tell him so that you may hear it, you, his father, that it will not do him any good. He may as well give it up." "Yes, yes." Ole looked a moment at Thore, then he said,-- "Your answers are short." "A sausage is no longer." Here Oyvind had to laugh, although he was in no mood to do so. But with daring persons fear always borders on laughter, and now it inclined to the latter. "What are you laughing at?" asked Ole, shortly and sharply. "I?" "Are you laughing at me?" "The Lord forbid!" but his own answer increased his desire to laugh. Ole saw this, and grew absolutely furious. Both Thore and Oyvind tried to make amends with serious faces and entreaties to walk in; but it was the pent-up wrath of three years that was now seeking vent, and there was no checking it. "You need not think you can make a fool of me," he began; "I am on a lawful errand: I am protecting my grandchild's happiness, as I understand it, and puppy laughter shall not hinder me. One does not bring up girls to toss them down into the first houseman's place that opens its doors, and one does not manage an estate for forty years only to hand the whole over to the first one who makes a fool of the girl. My daughter made herself ridiculous until she was allowed to marry a vagabond. He drank them both into the grave, and I had to take the child and pay for the fun; but, by my troth! it shall not be the same with my granddaughter, and now you know _that_! I tell you, as sure as my name is Ole Nordistuen of the Heidegards, the priest shall sooner publish the bans of the hulder-folks up in the Nordal forest than give out such names from the pulpit as Marit's and yours, you Christmas clown! Do you think you are going to drive respectable suitors away from the gard, forsooth? Well; you just try to come there, and you shall have such a journey down the hills that your shoes will come after you like smoke. You snickering fox! I suppose you have a notion that I do not know what you are thinking of, both you and she. Yes, you think that old Ole Nordistuen will turn his nose to the skies yonder, in the churchyard, and then you will trip forward to the altar. No; I have lived now sixty-six years, and I will prove to you, boy, that I shall live until you waste away over it, both of you! I can tell you this, too, that you may cling to the house like new-fallen snow, yet not so much as see the soles of her feet; for I mean to send her from the parish. I am going to send her where she will be safe; so you may flutter about here like a chattering jay all you please, and marry the rain and the north wind. This is all I have to say to you; but now you, who are his father, know my sentiments, and if you desire the welfare of him whom this concerns, you had better advise him to lead the stream where it can find its course; across my possessions it is forbidden." He turned away with short, hasty steps, lifting his right foot rather higher than the left, and grumbling to himself. Those left behind were completely sobered; a foreboding of evil had become blended with their jesting and laughter, and the house seemed, for a while, as empty as after a great fright. The mother who, from the kitchen door had heard everything, anxiously sought Oyvind's eyes, scarcely able to keep back her tears, but she would not make it harder for him by saying a single word. After they had all silently entered the house, the father sat down by the window, and gazed out after Ole, with much earnestness in his face; Oyvind's eyes hung on the slightest change of countenance; for on his father's first words almost depended the future of the two young people. If Thore united his refusal with Ole's, it could scarcely be overcome. Oyvind's thoughts flew, terrified, from obstacle to obstacle; for a time he saw only poverty, opposition, misunderstanding, and a sense of wounded honor, and every prop he tried to grasp seemed to glide away from him. It increased his uneasiness that his mother was standing with her hand on the latch of the kitchen-door, uncertain whether she had the courage to remain inside and await the issue, and that she at last lost heart entirely and stole out. Oyvind gazed fixedly at his father, who never took his eyes from the window; the son did not dare speak, for the other must have time to think the matter over fully. But at the same moment his soul had fully run its course of anxiety, and regained its poise once more. "No one but God can part us in the end," he thought to himself, as he looked at his father's wrinkled brow. Soon after this something occurred. Thore drew a long sigh, rose, glanced round the room, and met his son's gaze. He paused, and looked long at him. "It was my will that you should give her up, for one should hesitate about succeeding through entreaties or threats. But if you are determined not to give her up, you may let me know when the opportunity comes, and perhaps I can help you." He started off to his work, and the son followed. But that evening Oyvind had his plan formed: he would endeavor to become agriculturist for the district, and ask the inspector and the school-master to aid him. "If she only remains firm, with God's help, I shall win her through my work." He waited in vain for Marit that evening, but as he walked about he sang his favorite song:-- "Hold thy head up, thou eager boy! Time a hope or two may destroy, Soon in thy eye though is beaming, Light that above thee is beaming! "Hold thy head up, and gaze about! Something thou'lt find that "Come!" does shout; Thousands of tongues it has bringing Tidings of peace with their singing. "Hold thy head up; within thee, too, Rises a mighty vault of blue, Wherein are harp tones sounding, Swinging, exulting, rebounding. "Hold thy head up, and loudly sing! Keep not back what would sprout in spring; Powers fermenting, glowing, Must find a time for growing. "Hold thy head up; baptism take, From the hope that on high does break, Arches of light o'er us throwing, And in each life-spark glowing."[1] [Footnote 1: Auber Forestier's translation.] CHAPTER XI. It was during the noonday rest; the people at the great Heidegards were sleeping, the hay was scattered over the meadows, the rakes were staked in the ground. Below the barn-bridge stood the hay sleds, the harness lay, taken off, beside them, and the horses were tethered at a little distance. With the exception of the latter and some hens that had strayed across the fields, not a living creature was visible on the whole plain. There was a notch in the mountains above the gards, and through it the road led to the Heidegard saeters,--large, fertile mountain plains. A man was standing in this notch, taking a survey of the plain below, just as if he were watching for some one. Behind him lay a little mountain lake, from which flowed the brook which made this mountain pass; on either side of this lake ran cattle-paths, leading to the saeters, which could be seen in the distance. There floated toward him a shouting and a barking, cattle-bells tinkled among the mountain ridges; for the cows had straggled apart in search of water, and the dogs and herd-boys were vainly striving to drive them together. The cows came galloping along with the most absurd antics and involuntary plunges, and with short, mad bellowing, their tails held aloft, they rushed down into the water, where they came to a stand; every time they moved their heads the tinkling of their bells was heard across the lake. The dogs drank a little, but stayed behind on firm land; the herd-boys followed, and seated themselves on the warm, smooth hill-side. Here they drew forth their lunch boxes, exchanged with one another, bragged about their dogs, oxen, and the family they lived with, then undressed, and sprang into the water with the cows. The dogs persisted in not going in; but loitered lazily around, their heads hanging, with hot eyes and lolling tongues. Round about on the slopes not a bird was to be seen, not a sound was heard, save the prattling of children and the tinkling of bells; the heather was parched and dry, the sun blazed on the hill-sides, so that everything was scorched by its heat. It was Oyvind who was sitting up there in the mid-day sun, waiting. He sat in his shirt-sleeves, close by the brook which flowed from the lake. No one yet appeared on the Heidegard plain, and he was gradually beginning to grow anxious when suddenly a large dog came walking with heavy steps out of a door in Nordistuen, followed by a girl in white sleeves. She tripped across the meadow toward the cliff; he felt a strong desire to shout down to her, but dared not. He took a careful survey of the gard to see if any one might come out and notice her, but there seemed to be no danger of detection, and several times he rose from impatience. She arrived at last, following a path by the side of the brook, the dog a little in advance of her, snuffing the air, she catching hold of the low shrubs, and walking with more and more weary gait. Oyvind sprang downward; the dog growled and was hushed; but as soon as Marit saw Oyvind coming she sat down on a large stone, as red as blood, tired and overcome by the heat. He flung himself down on the stone by her side. "Thank you for coming." "What heat and what a distance! Have you been here long?" "No. Since we are watched in the evening, we must make use of the noon. But after this I think we will not act so secretly, nor take so much trouble; it was just about this I wanted to speak to you." "Not so secretly?" "I know very well that all that is done secretly pleases you best; but to show courage pleases you also. To-day I have come to have a long talk with you, and now you must listen." "Is it true that you are trying to be agriculturist for the district?" "Yes, and I expect to succeed. In this I have a double purpose: first, to win a position for myself; but secondly, and chiefly, to accomplish something which your grandfather can see and understand. Luckily it chances that most of the Heidegard freeholders are young people who wish for improvements and desire help; they have money, too. So I shall begin among them. I shall regulate everything from their stables to their water-pipes; I shall give lectures and work; I shall fairly besiege the old man with good deeds." "Those are brave words. What more, Oyvind?" "Why, the rest simply concerns us two. You must not go away." "Not if he orders it?" "And keep nothing secret that concerns us two." "Even if he torments me?" "We gain more and defend ourselves better by allowing everything to be open. We must manage to be so constantly before the eyes of people, that they are constantly forced to talk about how fond we are of each other; so much the sooner will they wish that all may go well with us. You must not leave home. There is danger of gossip forcing its way between those who are parted. We pay no heed to any idle talk the first year, but we begin by degrees to believe in it the second. We two will meet once a week and laugh away the mischief people would like to make between us; we shall be able to meet occasionally at a dance, and keep step together until everything sings about us, while those who backbite us are sitting around. We shall meet at church and greet each other so that it may attract the attention of all those who wish us a hundred miles apart. If any one makes a song about us we will sit down together and try to get up one in answer to it; we must succeed if we assist each other. No one can harm us if we keep together, and thus _show_ people that we keep together. All unhappy love belongs either to timid people, or weak people, or sick people, or calculating people, who keep waiting for some special opportunity, or cunning people, who, in the end, smart for their own cunning; or to sensuous people that do not care enough for each other to forget rank and distinction; they go and hide from sight, they send letters, they tremble at a word, and finally they mistake fear, that constant uneasiness and irritation in the blood, for love, become wretched and dissolve like sugar. Oh pshaw! if they truly loved each other they would have no fear; they would laugh, and would openly march to the church door, in the face of every smile and every word. I have read about it in books, and I have seen it for myself. That is a pitiful love which chooses a secret course. Love naturally begins in secresy because it begins in shyness; but it must live openly because it lives in joy. It is as when the leaves are changing; that which is to grow cannot conceal itself, and in every instance you see that all which is dry falls from the tree the moment the new leaves begin to sprout. He who gains love casts off all the old, dead rubbish he formerly clung to, the sap wells up and rushes onward; and should no one notice it then? Hey, my girl! they shall become happy at seeing us happy; two who are betrothed and remain true to each other confer a benefit on people, for they give them a poem which their children learn by heart to the shame of their unbelieving parents. I have read of many such cases; and some still live in the memory of the people of this parish, and those who relate these stories, and are moved by them, are the children of the very persons who once caused all the mischief. Yes, Marit, now we two will join hands, so; yes, and we will promise each other to cling together, so; yes, and now it will all come right. Hurrah!" He was about to take hold of her head, but she turned it away and glided down off the stone. He kept his seat; she came back, and leaning her arms on his knee, stood talking with him, looking up into his face. "Listen, Oyvind; what if he is determined I shall leave home, how then?" "Then you must say No, right out." "Oh, dear! how would that be possible?" "He cannot carry you out to the carriage." "If he does not quite do that, he can force me in many other ways." "That I do not believe; you owe obedience, to be sure, as long as it is not a sin; but it is also your duty to let him fully understand how hard it is for you to be obedient this time. I am sure he will change his mind when he sees this; now he thinks, like most people, that it is only childish nonsense. Prove to him that it is something more." "He is not to be trifled with, I can assure you. He watches me like a tethered goat." "But you tug at the tether several times a day." "That is not true." "Yes, you do; every time you think of me in secret you tug at it." "Yes, in that way. But are you so very sure that I think often of you?" "You would not be sitting here if you did not." "Why, dear me! did you not send word for me to come?" "But you came because your thoughts drove you here." "Rather because the weather was so fine." "You said a while ago that it was too warm." "To go _up_ hill, yes; but _down_ again?" "Why did you come up, then?" "That I might run down again." "Why did you not run down before this?" "Because I had to rest." "And talk with me about love?" "It was an easy matter to give you the pleasure of listening." "While the birds sang." "And the others were sleeping." "And the bells rang." "In the shady grove." Here they both saw Marit's grandfather come sauntering out into the yard, and go to the bell-rope to ring the farm people up. The people came slowly forth from the barns, sheds, and houses, moved sleepily toward their horses and rakes, scattered themselves over the meadow, and presently all was life and work again. Only the grandfather went in and out of the houses, and finally up on the highest barn-bridge and looked out. There came running up to him a little boy, whom he must have called. The boy, sure enough, started off in the direction of Pladsen. The grandfather, meanwhile, moved about the gard, often looking upward and having a suspicion, at least, that the black spot on the "giant rock" was Marit and Oyvind. Now for the second time Marit's great dog was the cause of trouble. He saw a strange horse drive in to the Heidegards, and believing himself to be only doing his duty, began to bark with all his might. They hushed the dog, but he had grown angry and would not be quiet; the grandfather stood below staring up. But matters grew still worse, for all the herd-boys' dogs heard with surprise the strange voice and came running up. When they saw that it was a large, wolf-like giant, all the stiff-haired Lapp-dogs gathered about him. Marit became so terrified that she ran away without saying farewell. Oyvind rushed into the midst of the fray, kicked and fought; but the dogs merely changed the field of battle, and then flew at one another again, with hideous howls and kicks; Oyvind after them again, and so it kept on until they had rolled over to the edge of the brook, when he once more came running up. The result of this was that they all tumbled together into the water, just at a place where it was quite deep, and there they parted, shame-faced. Thus ended this forest battle. Oyvind walked through the forest until he reached the parish road; but Marit met her grandfather up by the fence. This was the dog's fault. "Where do you come from?" "From the wood." "What were you doing there?" "Plucking berries." "That is not true." "No; neither is it." "What were you doing, then?" "I was talking with some one." "Was it with the Pladsen boy?" "Yes." "Hear me now, Marit; to-morrow you leave home." "No." "Listen to me, Marit; I have but one single thing to say, only one: you _shall_ go." "You cannot lift me into the carriage." "Indeed? Can I not?" "No; because you will not." "Will I not? Listen now, Marit, just for sport, you see, just for sport. I am going to tell you that I will crush the backbone of that worthless fellow of yours." "No; you would not dare do so." "I would not dare? Do you say I would not dare? Who should interfere? Who?" "The school-master." "School--school--school-master. Does he trouble his head about that fellow, do you think?" "Yes; it is he who has kept him at the agricultural school." "The school-master?" "The school-master." "Hearken now, Marit; I will have no more of this nonsense; you shall leave the parish. You only cause me sorrow and trouble; that was the way with your mother, too, only sorrow and trouble. I am an old man. I want to see you well provided for. I will not live in people's talk as a fool just for this matter. I only wish your own good; you should understand this, Marit. Soon I will be gone, and then you will be left alone. What would have become of your mother if it had not been for me? Listen, Marit; be sensible, pay heed to what I have to say. I only desire your own good." "No, you do not." "Indeed? What do I want, then?" "To carry out your own will, that is what you want; but you do not ask about mine." "And have you a will, you young sea-gull, you? Do you suppose you know what is for your good, you fool? I will give you a taste of the rod, I will, for all you are so big and tall. Listen now, Marit; let me talk kindly with you. You are not so bad at heart, but you have lost your senses. You must listen to me. I am an old and sensible man. We will talk kindly together a little; I have not done so remarkably well in the world as folks think; a poor bird on the wing could easily fly away with the little I have; your father handled it roughly, indeed he did. Let us care for ourselves in this world, it is the best thing we can do. It is all very well for the school-master to talk, for he has money himself; so has the priest;--let them preach. But with us who must slave for our daily bread, it is quite different. I am old. I know much. I have seen many things; love, you see, may do very well to talk about; yes, but it is not worth much. It may answer for priests and such folks, peasants must look at it in a different light. First food, you see, then God's Word, and then a little writing and arithmetic, and then a little love, if it happens to come in the way; but, by the Eternals! there is no use in beginning with love and ending with food. What can you say, now, Marit?" "I do not know." "You do not know what you ought to answer?" "Yes, indeed, I know that." "Well, then?" "May I say it?" "Yes; of course you may say it." "I care a great deal for that love of mine." He stood aghast for a moment, recalling a hundred similar conversations with similar results, then he shook his head, turned his back, and walked away. He picked a quarrel with the housemen, abused the girls, beat the large dog, and almost frightened the life out of a little hen that had strayed into the field; but to Marit he said nothing. That evening Marit was so happy when she went up-stairs to bed, that she opened the window, lay in the window-frame, looked out and sang. She had found a pretty little love-song, and it was that she sang. "Lovest thou but me, I will e'er love thee, All my days on earth, so fondly; Short were summer's days, Now the flower decays,-- Comes again with spring, so kindly. "What you said last year Still rings in my ear, As I all alone am sitting, And your thoughts do try In my heart to fly,-- Picture life in sunshine flitting. "Litli--litli--loy, Well I hear the boy, Sighs behind the birches heaving. I am in dismay, Thou must show the way, For the night her shroud is weaving. "Flomma, lomma, hys, Sang I of a kiss, No, thou surely art mistaken. Didst thou hear it, say? Cast the thought away; Look on me as one forsaken. "Oh, good-night! good-night! Dreams of eyes so bright, Hold me now in soft embraces, But that wily word, Which thou thought'st unheard, Leaves in me of love no traces. "I my window close, But in sweet repose Songs from thee I hear returning; Calling me they smile, And my thoughts beguile,-- Must I e'er for thee be yearning?" CHAPTER XII. Several years have passed since the last scene. It is well on in the autumn. The school-master comes walking up to Nordistuen, opens the outer door, finds no one at home, opens another, finds no one at home; and thus he keeps on until he reaches the innermost room in the long building. There Ole Nordistuen is sitting alone, by the side of his bed, his eyes fixed on his hands. The school-master salutes him, and receives a greeting in return; he finds a stool, and seats himself in front of Ole. "You have sent for me," he says. "I have." The school-master takes a fresh quid of tobacco, glances around the room, picks up a book that is lying on the bench, and turns over the leaves. "What did you want of me?" "I was just sitting here thinking it over." The school-master gives himself plenty of time, searches for his spectacles in order to read the title of the book, wipes them and puts them on. "You are growing old, now, Ole." "Yes, it was about that I wanted to talk with you. I am tottering downward; I will soon rest in the grave." "You must see to it that you rest well there, Ole." He closes the book and sits looking at the binding. "That is a good book you are holding in your hands." "It is not bad. How often have you gone beyond the cover, Ole?" "Why, of late, I"-- The school-master lays aside the book and puts away his spectacles. "Things are not going as you wish to have them, Ole?" "They have not done so as far back as I can remember." "Ah, so it was with me for a long time. I lived at variance with a good friend, and wanted _him_ to come to _me_, and all the while I was unhappy. At last I took it into my head to go to _him_, and since then all has been well with me." Ole looks up and says nothing. The school-master: "How do you think the gard is doing, Ole?" "Failing, like myself." "Who shall have it when you are gone?" "That is what I do not know, and it is that, too, which troubles me." "Your neighbors are doing well now, Ole." "Yes, they have that agriculturist to help them." The school-master turned unconcernedly toward the window: "You should have help,--you, too, Ole. You cannot walk much, and you know very little of the new ways of management." Ole: "I do not suppose there is any one who would help me." "Have you asked for it?" Ole is silent. The school-master: "I myself dealt just so with the Lord for a long time. 'You are not kind to me,' I said to Him. 'Have you prayed me to be so?' asked He. No; I had not done so. Then I prayed, and since then all has been truly well with me." Ole is silent; but now the school-master, too, is silent. Finally Ole says:-- "I have a grandchild; she knows what would please me before I am taken away, but she does not do it." The school-master smiles. "Possibly it would not please her?" Ole makes no reply. The school-master: "There are many things which trouble you; but as far as I can understand they all concern the gard." Ole says, quietly,-- "It has been handed down for many generations, and the soil is good. All that father after father has toiled for lies in it; but now it does not thrive. Nor do I know who shall drive in when I am driven out. It will not be one of the family." "Your granddaughter will preserve the family." "But how can he who takes her take the gard? That is what I want to know before I die. You have no time to lose, Baard, either for me or for the gard." They were both silent; at last the school-master says,-- "Shall we walk out and take a look at the gard in this fine weather?" "Yes; let us do so. I have work-people on the slope; they are gathering leaves, but they do not work except when I am watching them." He totters off after his large cap and staff, and says, meanwhile,-- "They do not seem to like to work for me; I cannot understand it." When they were once out and turning the corner of the house, he paused. "Just look here. No order: the wood flung about, the axe not even stuck in the block." He stooped with difficulty, picked up the axe, and drove it in fast. "Here you see a skin that has fallen down; but has any one hung it up again?" He did it himself. "And the store-house; do you think the ladder is carried away?" He set it aside. He paused, and looking at the school-master, said,-- "This is the way it is every single day." As they proceeded upward they heard a merry song from the slopes. "Why, they are singing over their work," said the school-master. "That is little Knut Ostistuen who is singing; he is helping his father gather leaves. Over yonder _my_ people are working; you will not find them singing." "That is not one of the parish songs, is it?" "No, it is not." "Oyvind Pladsen has been much in Ostistuen; perhaps that is one of the songs he has introduced into the parish, for there is always singing where he is." There was no reply to this. The field they were crossing was not in good condition; it required attention. The school-master commented on this, and then Ole stopped. "It is not in my power to do more," said he, quite pathetically. "Hired work-people without attention cost too much. But it is hard to walk over such a field, I can assure you." As their conversation now turned on the size of the gard, and what portion of it most needed cultivation, they decided to go up the slope that they might have a view of the whole. When they at length had reached a high elevation, and could take it all in, the old man became moved. "Indeed, I should not like to leave it so. We have labored hard down there, both I and those who went before me, but there is nothing to show for it." A song rang out directly over their heads, but with the peculiar shrilling of a boy's voice when it is poured out with all its might. They were not far from the tree in whose top was perched little Knut Ostistuen, gathering leaves for his father, and they were compelled to listen to the boy:-- "When on mountain peaks you hie, 'Mid green slopes to tarry, In your scrip pray no more tie, Than you well can carry. Take no hindrances along To the crystal fountains; Drown them in a cheerful song, Send them down the mountains. "Birds there greet you from the trees, Gossip seeks the valley; Purer, sweeter grows the breeze, As you upward sally. Fill your lungs, and onward rove, Ever gayly singing, Childhood's memories, heath and grove, Rosy-hued, are bringing. "Pause the shady groves among, Hear yon mighty roaring, Solitude's majestic song Upward far is soaring. All the world's distraction comes When there rolls a pebble; Each forgotten duty hums In the brooklet's treble. "Pray, while overhead, dear heart, Anxious mem'ries hover; Then go on: the better part You'll above discover. Who hath chosen Christ as guide, Daniel and Moses, Finds contentment far and wide, And in peace reposes."[1] [Footnote 1: Auber Forestier's translation.] Ole had sat down and covered his face with his hands. "Here I will talk with you," said the school-master, and seated himself by his side. Down at Pladsen, Oyvind had just returned home from a somewhat long journey, the post-boy was still at the door, as the horse was resting. Although Oyvind now had a good income as agriculturist of the district, he still lived in his little room down at Pladsen, and helped his parents every spare moment. Pladsen was cultivated from one end to the other, but it was so small that Oyvind called it "mother's toy-farm," for it was she, in particular, who saw to the farming. He had changed his clothes, his father had come in from the mill, white with meal, and had also dressed. They just stood talking about taking a short walk before supper, when the mother came in quite pale. "Here are singular strangers coming up to the house; oh dear! look out!" Both men turned to the window, and Oyvind was the first to exclaim:-- "It is the school-master, and--yes, I almost believe--why, certainly it is he!" "Yes, it is old Ole Nordistuen," said Thore, moving away from the window that he might not be seen; for the two were already near the door. Just as Oyvind was leaving the window he caught the school-master's eye, Baard smiled, and cast a glance back at old Ole, who was laboring along with his staff in small, short steps, one foot being constantly raised higher than the other. Outside the school-master was heard to say, "He has recently returned home, I suppose," and Ole to exclaim twice over, "Well, well!" They remained a long time quiet in the passage. The mother had crept up to the corner where the milk-shelf was; Oyvind had assumed his favorite position, that is, he leaned with his back against the large table, with his face toward the door; his father was sitting near him. At length there came a knock at the door, and in stepped the school-master, who drew off his hat, afterward Ole, who pulled off his cap, and then turned to shut the door. It took him a long time to do so; he was evidently embarrassed. Thore rising, asked them to be seated; they sat down, side by side, on the bench in front of the window. Thore took his seat again. And the wooing proceeded as shall now be told. The school-master: "We are having fine weather this autumn, after all." Thore: "It has been mending of late." "It is likely to remain pleasant, now that the wind is over in that quarter." "Are you through with your harvesting up yonder?" "Not yet; Ole Nordistuen here, whom, perhaps, you know, would like very much to have help from you, Oyvind, if there is nothing else in the way." Oyvind: "If help is desired, I shall do what I can." "Well, there is no great hurry. The gard is not doing well, he thinks, and he believes what is wanting is the right kind of tillage and superintendence." Oyvind: "I am so little at home." The school-master looks at Ole. The latter feels that he must now rush into the fire; he clears his throat a couple of times, and begins hastily and shortly,-- "It was--it is--yes. What I meant was that you should be in a certain way established--that you should--yes--be the same as at home up yonder with us,--be there, when you were not away." "Many thanks for the offer, but I should rather remain where I now live." Ole looks at the school-master, who says,-- "Ole's brain seems to be in a whirl to-day. The fact is he has been here once before, and the recollection of that makes his words get all confused." Ole, quickly: "That is it, yes; I ran a madman's race. I strove against the girl until the tree split. But let by-gones be by-gones; the wind, not the snow, beats down the grain; the rain-brook does not tear up large stones; snow does not lie long on the ground in May; it is not the thunder that kills people." They all four laugh; the school-master says: "Ole means that he does not want you to remember that time any longer; nor you, either, Thore." Ole looks at them, uncertain whether he dare begin again. Then Thore says,-- "The briar takes hold with many teeth, but causes no wound. In me there are certainly no thorns left." Ole: "I did not know the boy then. Now I see that what he sows thrives; the harvest answers to the promise of the spring; there is money in his finger-tips, and I should like to get hold of him." Oyvind looks at the father, he at the mother, she from them to the school-master, and then all three at the latter. "Ole thinks that he has a large gard"-- Ole breaks in: "A large gard, but badly managed. I can do no more. I am old, and my legs refuse to run the errands of my head. But it will pay to take hold up yonder." "The largest gard in the parish, and that by a great deal," interrupts the school-master. "The largest gard in the parish; that is just the misfortune; shoes that are too large fall off; it is a fine thing to have a good gun, but one should be able to lift it." Then turning quickly towards Oyvind, "Would you be willing to lend a hand to it?" "Do you mean for me to be gard overseer?" "Precisely--yes; you should have the gard." "I should _have_ the gard?" "Just so--yes: then you could manage it." "But"-- "You will not?" "Why, of course, I will." "Yes, yes, yes, yes; then it is decided, as the hen said when she flew into the water." "But"-- Ole looks puzzled at the school-master. "Oyvind is asking, I suppose, whether he shall have Marit, to." Ole, abruptly: "Marit in the bargain; Marit in the bargain!" Then Oyvind burst out laughing, and jumped right up; all three laughed with him. Oyvind rubbed his hands, paced the floor, and kept repeating again and again: "Marit in the bargain! Marit in the bargain!" Thore gave a deep chuckle, the mother in the corner kept her eyes fastened on her son until they filled with tears. Ole, in great excitement: "What do you think of the gard?" "Magnificent land!" "Magnificent land; is it not?" "No pasture equal to it!" "No pasture equal to it! Something can be done with it?" "It will become the best gard in the district!" "It will become the best gard in the district! Do you think so? Do you mean that?" "As surely as I am standing here!" "There, is not that just what I have said?" They both talked equally fast, and fitted together like the cogs of two wheels. "But money, you see, money? I have no money." "We will get on slowly without money; but get on we shall!" "We shall get on! Of course we will! But if we _had_ money, it would go faster you say?" "Many times faster." "Many times? We ought to have money! Yes, yes; a man can chew who has not all his teeth; he who drives with oxen will get on, too." The mother stood blinking at Thore, who gave her many quick side glances as he sat swaying his body to and fro, and stroking his knees with his hands. The school-master also winked at him. Thore's lips parted, he coughed a little, and made an effort to speak; but Ole and Oyvind both kept on talking in an uninterrupted stream, laughed and kept up such a clatter that no one else could be heard. "You must be quiet for a little while, Thore has something he wants to say," puts in the school-master. They pause and look at Thore, who finally begins, in a low tone:-- "It has so happened that we have had a mill on our place. Of late it has turned out that we have had two. These mills have always brought in a few shillings during the year; but neither my father nor I have used any of these shillings except while Oyvind was away. The school-master has managed them, and he says they have prospered well where they are; but now it is best that Oyvind should take them for Nordistuen." The mother stood in a corner, shrinking away into almost nothing, as she gazed with sparkling eyes at Thore, who looked very grave, and had an almost stupid expression on his face. Ole Nordistuen sat nearly opposite him, with wide-gaping mouth. Oyvind was the first to rouse from his astonishment, and burst out,-- "Does it not seem as if good luck went with me!" With this he crossed the floor to his father, and gave him a slap on the shoulder that rang through the room. "You, father!" cried he, and rubbing his hands together he continued his walk. "How much money might it be?" finally asked Ole, in a low tone, of the school-master. "It is not so little." "Some hundreds?" "Rather more." "Rather more? Oyvind, rather more! Lord help us, what a gard it will be!" He got up, laughing aloud. "I must go with you up to Marit," says Oyvind. "We can use the conveyance that is standing outside, then it will not take long." "Yes, at once! at once! Do you, too, want everything done with haste?" "Yes, with haste and wrong." "With haste and wrong! Just the way it was with me when I was young, precisely." "Here is your cap and staff; now I am going to drive you away." "You are going to drive me away, ha--ha--ha! But you are coming with me; are you not? You are coming with me? All the rest of you come along, too; we must sit together this evening as long as the coals are alive. Come along!" They promised that they would come. Oyvind helped Ole into the conveyance, and they drove off to Nordistuen. The large dog was not the only one up there who was surprised when Ole Nordistuen came driving into the gard with Oyvind Pladsen. While Oyvind was helping Ole out of the conveyance, and servants and laborers were gaping at them, Marit came out in the passage to see what the dog kept barking at; but paused, as if suddenly bewitched, turned fiery red, and ran in. Old Ole, meanwhile, shouted so tremendously for her when he got into the house that she had to come forward again. "Go and make yourself trim, girl; here is the one who is to have the gard!" "Is that true?" she cries, involuntarily, and so loud that the words rang through the room. "Yes; it is true!" replies Oyvind, clapping his hands. At this she swings round on her toe, flings away what she has in her hand, and runs out; but Oyvind follows her. Soon came the school-master, and Thore and his wife. The old man had ordered candles put on the table, which he had had spread with a white cloth. Wine and beer were offered, and Ole kept going round himself, lifting his feet even higher than usual; but the right foot always higher than the left. Before this little tale ends, it may be told that five weeks later Oyvind and Marit were united in the parish church. The school-master himself led the singing on the occasion, for the assistant chorister was ill. His voice was broken now, for he was old; but it seemed to Oyvind that it did the heart good to hear him. When the young man had given Marit his hand, and was leading her to the altar, the school-master nodded at him from the chancel, just as Oyvind had seen him do, in fancy, when sitting sorrowfully at that dance long ago. Oyvind nodded back while tears welled up to his eyes. These tears at the dance were the forerunners of those at the wedding. Between them lay Oyvind's faith and his work. Here endeth the story of A HAPPY BOY. Transcriber's Note: Some words which appear to be typos are printed thus in the original book. A list of these possible misprints follows: ascendency payed skees wadmal aptest inclosed secresy gayly End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Happy Boy, by Bjornstjerne Bjornson * END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A HAPPY BOY * *** This file should be named 12633.txt or 12633.zip * This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: https://www.gutenberg.org/1/2/6/3/12633/ Produced by David S. Miller Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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锘縏he Project Gutenberg EBook of Celebrity, by James McKimmey This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Celebrity Author: James McKimmey Illustrator: Paul Orban Release Date: September 12, 2009 [EBook #29962] Language: English * START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CELEBRITY * Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net [Illustration] _Sound the fanfare! Beat the drums! Shout hosannas! Here he comes...._ CELEBRITY By James McKimmey, Jr. June 19, 1978. Celebrity day. The city stretched. Empty streets glistened from the bath of a water truck. Dew-wet grass winked at the fresh peeping sun, like millions of shimmering diamonds. A bird chirped. Another. The city yawned. Rows of houses lay like square ivory beads on patches of green felt. A boy drove his bicycle down the middle of an elm-bordered avenue, whistling loudly, while tightly rolled newspapers arced from his hand and slapped against porches. Lights snapped on in a thousand windows, shining yellowly against the cool whiteness of dawn. Men blinked and touched beard-stubbled chins. Women moved sleepily toward porcelain and chrome kitchens. A truck roared and garbage pails rattled. There was a smell of sour orange rinds and wet leaves and unfolding flowers. Over this came the smell of toasting bread and frying bacon. Doors swung open, slippered feet padded across porches and hands groped for the rolled newspapers. The air was stricken with the blaring sound of transcribed music and the excited voices of commercial announcers. The doors swung shut and the sounds were muted. A million people shifted and stretched and scratched. The sun rose above the horizon. Celebrity day. * * * * * Doors slammed again, and half-consumed cups of coffee lay cooling behind. Children wiped at sleepy eyes and mothers swept crumbs, touching self-conscious fingers at their own bed-ruffled hair. Laborers and clerks and lawyers and doctors strode down sidewalks and climbed into automobiles and busses and sleek-nosed elevated trains. The city moved. To the center of the city, where the tall buildings stretched to the lighting sky, came the horde, like thousands of ants toward a comb of honey. Wheels sang and whined. Horns blasted. Whistles blew. And waiting, strung above the wide streets between the cold marquees and the dead neon tubes, were the banners and the flags and the bunting. The air warmed and the sun brightened. Voices chattered. Elbows nudged. Mouths smiled, teeth shone, and there was the sound of laughter, rising over the pushing throngs. The city was happy. The bunting dipped and the banners fluttered and the flags whipped. At the edge of the city, the airport tightened itself. Waiting, waiting for the silver and blue rocket. The rocket of the Celebrity. A large hotel, towering above the pulsing streets, began the quiver of activity. As though a great electric current had been run through its cubes and shafts and hollows, the hotel crackled. Desk clerks clicked bells and bell boys hopped. Elevators rose and fell. In the cellar, wine bottles were dusted by quick, nervous hands. In the kitchen, a towering cake was frosted and decorated. Orders cracked. Hands flew and feet chattered against tile. In one rich expansive suite a giant hoop of multi-colored flowers was placed in the center of a room. It was in the air. Laughter, awe, worship, _excitement_! Ropes went up and stretched between lamp posts. Blue-coated men on horses began blocking streets. Old women with wooden boxes, children with flashing eyes, men in rich suits and tattered suits began filling the sidewalks. Curbs became lined with people. Bars threw open doors and fresh air met stale air. Men with fat faces, thin faces, white faces, red faces, twitching with the anticipation of holiday freedom, gulped jiggers of raw whiskey and shuddered happily. Children giggled and yelled and sprinted in crazy zig-zags. Men in white caps hustled in front of the lined curbs, shouting, carrying their boxes of ice-cream. Men with buttons, men with pennants, men with balloons joined the shouting, and the sound rose in the air and the city smiled and shifted and its heart pounded. The hotel whirred inside itself. The airport tensed and searched the sky. * * * * * Time moved and the swelling throngs jammed the sidewalks, raising their strengthening sound between the tall buildings. Windows popped open and faces beamed. Tentative showers of confetti drifted down through the air. The city waited, its pulse thumping. The rocket was a black point in the sky. It grew. White-suited men scattered over the landing strip. Photographers crouched. Bulbs snapped into reflectors. Cameras pointed. The rocket landed. A door snapped open. Blue uniforms converged and flash bulbs popped. There were shouts and orders and men running. Gates swung and there was a blue-rimmed movement to a black open car. Sirens moaned, screamed. And the black car was moving swiftly into the city. Beneath the buildings, marching bands in red and blue and yellow uniforms stood assembled. Girls in short skirts and tasseled hats spun silver batons into the warm air. Bare legs kicked. Black boots flashed. The crowd swayed against the ropes, and there was laughter and sweating and squinting. The black car reached the heart of the city. Sirens died. Rows of men snapped to attention. Policemen aligned their motorcycles. A baton shimmered high against the sun and came down. A cymbal crashed. Drums cracked. Music blared. And there was a movement down the street. The black car rolled along, while tape swept down from the buildings in long swirling ribbons. There was a snow of confetti. And from the throats of the people came the first roar. It grew, building, building in volume, and the city thundered its welcome to the man sitting upon the back of the open car, the small man who tipped his hat and smiled and blinked behind his glasses: Joseph S. Stettison, B.A., B.S., M.S., M.D., Ph.D., L.M. (Hon.), F.R.C.O.G. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _If Worlds of Science Fiction_ July 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Celebrity, by James McKimmey * END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CELEBRITY * *** This file should be named 29962.txt or 29962.zip * This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: https://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/9/6/29962/ Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: https://www.gutenberg.org This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.	锘縏he Project Gutenberg EBook of Celebrity, by James McKimmey This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Celebrity Author: James McKimmey Illustrator: Paul Orban Release Date: September 12, 2009 [EBook #29962] Language: English * START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CELEBRITY * Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net [Illustration] _Sound the fanfare! Beat the drums! Shout hosannas! Here he comes...._ CELEBRITY By James McKimmey, Jr. June 19, 1978. Celebrity day. The city stretched. Empty streets glistened from the bath of a water truck. Dew-wet grass winked at the fresh peeping sun, like millions of shimmering diamonds. A bird chirped. Another. The city yawned. Rows of houses lay like square ivory beads on patches of green felt. A boy drove his bicycle down the middle of an elm-bordered avenue, whistling loudly, while tightly rolled newspapers arced from his hand and slapped against porches. Lights snapped on in a thousand windows, shining yellowly against the cool whiteness of dawn. Men blinked and touched beard-stubbled chins. Women moved sleepily toward porcelain and chrome kitchens. A truck roared and garbage pails rattled. There was a smell of sour orange rinds and wet leaves and unfolding flowers. Over this came the smell of toasting bread and frying bacon. Doors swung open, slippered feet padded across porches and hands groped for the rolled newspapers. The air was stricken with the blaring sound of transcribed music and the excited voices of commercial announcers. The doors swung shut and the sounds were muted. A million people shifted and stretched and scratched. The sun rose above the horizon. Celebrity day. * * * * * Doors slammed again, and half-consumed cups of coffee lay cooling behind. Children wiped at sleepy eyes and mothers swept crumbs, touching self-conscious fingers at their own bed-ruffled hair. Laborers and clerks and lawyers and doctors strode down sidewalks and climbed into automobiles and busses and sleek-nosed elevated trains. The city moved. To the center of the city, where the tall buildings stretched to the lighting sky, came the horde, like thousands of ants toward a comb of honey. Wheels sang and whined. Horns blasted. Whistles blew. And waiting, strung above the wide streets between the cold marquees and the dead neon tubes, were the banners and the flags and the bunting. The air warmed and the sun brightened. Voices chattered. Elbows nudged. Mouths smiled, teeth shone, and there was the sound of laughter, rising over the pushing throngs. The city was happy. The bunting dipped and the banners fluttered and the flags whipped. At the edge of the city, the airport tightened itself. Waiting, waiting for the silver and blue rocket. The rocket of the Celebrity. A large hotel, towering above the pulsing streets, began the quiver of activity. As though a great electric current had been run through its cubes and shafts and hollows, the hotel crackled. Desk clerks clicked bells and bell boys hopped. Elevators rose and fell. In the cellar, wine bottles were dusted by quick, nervous hands. In the kitchen, a towering cake was frosted and decorated. Orders cracked. Hands flew and feet chattered against tile. In one rich expansive suite a giant hoop of multi-colored flowers was placed in the center of a room. It was in the air. Laughter, awe, worship, _excitement_! Ropes went up and stretched between lamp posts. Blue-coated men on horses began blocking streets. Old women with wooden boxes, children with flashing eyes, men in rich suits and tattered suits began filling the sidewalks. Curbs became lined with people. Bars threw open doors and fresh air met stale air. Men with fat faces, thin faces, white faces, red faces, twitching with the anticipation of holiday freedom, gulped jiggers of raw whiskey and shuddered happily. Children giggled and yelled and sprinted in crazy zig-zags. Men in white caps hustled in front of the lined curbs, shouting, carrying their boxes of ice-cream. Men with buttons, men with pennants, men with balloons joined the shouting, and the sound rose in the air and the city smiled and shifted and its heart pounded. The hotel whirred inside itself. The airport tensed and searched the sky. * * * * * Time moved and the swelling throngs jammed the sidewalks, raising their strengthening sound between the tall buildings. Windows popped open and faces beamed. Tentative showers of confetti drifted down through the air. The city waited, its pulse thumping. The rocket was a black point in the sky. It grew. White-suited men scattered over the landing strip. Photographers crouched. Bulbs snapped into reflectors. Cameras pointed. The rocket landed. A door snapped open. Blue uniforms converged and flash bulbs popped. There were shouts and orders and men running. Gates swung and there was a blue-rimmed movement to a black open car. Sirens moaned, screamed. And the black car was moving swiftly into the city. Beneath the buildings, marching bands in red and blue and yellow uniforms stood assembled. Girls in short skirts and tasseled hats spun silver batons into the warm air. Bare legs kicked. Black boots flashed. The crowd swayed against the ropes, and there was laughter and sweating and squinting. The black car reached the heart of the city. Sirens died. Rows of men snapped to attention. Policemen aligned their motorcycles. A baton shimmered high against the sun and came down. A cymbal crashed. Drums cracked. Music blared. And there was a movement down the street. The black car rolled along, while tape swept down from the buildings in long swirling ribbons. There was a snow of confetti. And from the throats of the people came the first roar. It grew, building, building in volume, and the city thundered its welcome to the man sitting upon the back of the open car, the small man who tipped his hat and smiled and blinked behind his glasses: Joseph S. Stettison, B.A., B.S., M.S., M.D., Ph.D., L.M. (Hon.), F.R.C.O.G. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _If Worlds of Science Fiction_ July 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Celebrity, by James McKimmey * END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CELEBRITY * *** This file should be named 29962.txt or 29962.zip * This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: https://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/9/6/29962/ Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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锘縏he Project Gutenberg EBook of Felony, by James Causey This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Felony Author: James Causey Illustrator: Vidmer Release Date: April 8, 2010 [EBook #31922] Language: English * START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FELONY * Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. _Vogel started with crossword puzzles ... and worked his way up to Man's greatest enigma!_ * * * * * When he was nine, Vogel almost killed another boy who inadvertently scattered his half-completed jigsaw puzzle. At sixteen, he discovered the mysteries of the Danish Gambit, and cried. At twenty-two, he crouched in a foxhole on Okinawa, oblivious to the death bursting about him, squinting in a painful ecstasy at the tattered fragment of newspaper on his knee. His sergeant screamed in agony, then died at his elbow. Vogel's face lit up. "Slay," he said happily, scribbling. As crossword puzzles go, it had been a toughie. At thirty, he was Production Manager of Sachs Fixtures. His men hated him. The General Manager loved him. Tall, gaunt and ruthless, he could glance at any detail print and instantly pinpoint the pattern of final assembly, total man-hour budget and fabrication lead time. Once, he made a mistake. On a forty-thousand-dollar job lot he estimated too high on production scrap. When the final assemblies were completed, they had two feet of bulb extension left over. It disturbed him. He spent that evening in his den brooding over chessmen. His wife let him alone. Next day, he hired Amenth. * * * * * Personnel called that morning and apologized. "No experience, but amazing shop aptitude. He's coming down to you for an interview." "I want," Vogel said into the phone, "three bench men. By noon. _With_ shop experience." Personnel was sorry. Vogel snarled and hung up. "Hello, please, sir," said a voice. Vogel stared, icily. Meekness cowered in front of his desk. Meekness in the form of a small birdlike person with beseeching amber eyes. "I am Amenth," he said, cringing. Vogel eyed the olive skin, the cheekbones, the blue-black hair. "A wetback," he said. "Three men short and they send me wetbacks. You know sheet metal, buster?" "I am not of the understanding," Amenth offered. "Experience, no." He beamed. "Aptitude, yes." Fighting apoplexy, Vogel took him out into the shop. Amenth cringed at the howl of air tools and punch presses. Vogel contemptuously took him by the arm and led him to a workbench where a wizened persimmon of a man performed deft lightnings with rivets and air wrench. "Benny, this is Amenth. He's new." Vogel pronounced it like a curse. "Get him some goggles from the crib, a rivet gun." Vogel returned to his office scowling. The phone rang almost instantly. "Boss," said Benny, "he's from nothing--all thumbs with an air wrench and he don't know alclad from stainless." "Be right out," Vogel said, hanging up. Before he had a chance to fire Amenth, the Fabrication Super came in with a production problem. Vogel solved it, but it was almost an hour before he returned to Benny's bench--and stared. Amenth was a blur of motion. His Keller chattered like a live thing. A furious sweating Benny snapped at Vogel, "You playing practical jokes? Look, this guy's gone crazy, he's fifty per cent under standard! Tell him to slow down before I file a grievance." Amenth beamed. "I am of the aptitude," he said. A queer deep tingle went through Vogel. The crystal delight of challenge he felt when confronted by an apparently impregnable fianchetto. That was the first day. * * * * * A week later, Vogel was compiling a progress report from completed shop travelers. Abruptly he scowled at one traveler, then said, "Charlie!" "Yes, sir," one of the planners said. "Why didn't these galley panels go out for drop hammer?" Charlie peered at the form and whistled. "Somebody must have changed the planning sheet." "Get me the story!" Charlie went hurriedly out into the shop. Some time later he returned with a pale dazed look. "It's this guy in assembly," he said. "Name is Amenth. He didn't even read the traveler. Just looked at the attached detail print and decided to miter the edges, then reverse the flange with a weld." He threw the completed part on Vogel's desk. "Go ahead, check those tolerances," he said whitely. "Right on the money." Vogel walked over to a calculator and figured. There was a dreamy expression in his eyes. He said softly, "All fabrication in our own shop. A net saving of 93 cents per unit, or eight hundred dollars total. I believe you planned this item, Charlie." Vogel fired him. That same afternoon Amenth came into the office on Vogel's order. "Sir?" "Don't you know how to read a traveler?" Vogel asked sternly. "It was a lucky accident." Amenth looked terrified. "I just read the print--" "And did what seemed logical." Statement, then a very quiet question. "What happened to your accent?" The little man looked blank. Vogel took a slow deep breath. "I've got a material planning job open," he said tightly. "Three-fifty to start. Interested?" For a moment he thought Amenth would lick his hand. The little man took to planning sheets like a duck to water. He pored feverishly over blueprints, turning out travelers in a steady flood. Vogel watched him. He went over to Personnel, requested Amenth's employment application, read it and scowled. It was a masterpiece of anonymity. Birthplace: New York. Former Occupation: Laborer. Hobbies: None. He memorized Amenth's address and returned the application. Vogel always ate lunch in the office with his expediters. That noon two of them got into an argument about the planets. "I say there is life on Mars," Pete Stone insisted stubbornly. "When the polar ice cap melts, the water runs along the canals and traces of green from growing vegetation can be spotted." "Which proves nothing," Harvey Lamb yawned. Lamb was chief expediter. "Man couldn't live there, anyway. There's not enough oxygen." "You would be amazed," Amenth said quietly, "at the adaptability of Man." Vogel set down his thermos and leaned forward. "You mean Martians, for instance, could live here, assuming they existed and had spaceships?" Amenth's smile was infinitely bitter. "Until they'd go mad." The talk turned to baseball. Vogel lit his pipe and gave Amenth a surreptitious glance. The little man slumped in the corner, bleak and withdrawn. This was delicious. * * * * * Vogel left the shop and drove across town to Amenth's address. It turned out to be an ancient rooming house on the West Side. Mrs. Reardon, the landlady, was an apathetic woman who brightened when he asked her about Amenth. "He moved in just three weeks ago." Her face softened in recollection. "He was like a lost dog coming in out of the rain. Couldn't hardly speak English and he wanted me to trust him for the rent. I must have been crazy." Her nostrils flared. "Not that he hasn't paid up. Are you a cop?" Vogel nodded as he took out his wallet. In it was his honorary sheriff's badge, but he doubted if the woman would know the difference. She didn't. She led the way upstairs to Amenth's room, worrying, and Vogel assured her they were only looking for a hit-and-run witness, that it was strictly routine. Amenth's room was incredibly aseptic, barren of pictures, ash trays, dirty laundry, any of the normal masculine debris. Vogel got the stark impression of a convict's cell. In the bleak dresser were two pair of socks, underwear, one tie. In the closet hung one white shirt ... period. Everything wore an indefinable patina of newness. Two books graced the top of the dresser. Vogel recognized one of them, a text on fabrication and design which Amenth had borrowed from his office. The other was a child's primer of English. "He stays in his room almost every night--reads mostly, and he speaks English much better now," said Mrs. Reardon. "A good tenant--I can't complain--and he's quiet and clean." She described Amenth and Vogel shook his head. "Our man is about sixty, with a beard," he said. "Funny coincidence. It's a strange name." Mrs. Reardon agreed. Vogel drove back to the shop, whistling. [Illustration] He did not go to his chess club that night, but went to the library instead. He read about Flying Saucers, about space travel, about the possibility of life on other planets. Sometimes he chuckled. Once he frowned deeply and bit his lip. That night in bed, listening to his wife's shallow breathing, he said, "Alice." "Yes?" "Supposing you were lost on a desert island. What would you do?" "I'd build a raft," she said sleepily. Vogel smiled into the darkness. Next day he made a systematic tour of the stockroom, scanning the racks of completed sub-assemblies, the gleaming fixture components, the rows of panels, brackets, extrusions, all waiting like soldiers to march from the stockroom into final assembly. Vogel suddenly grunted. There, half hidden behind a row of stainless-steel basin assemblies, was a nine-inch bowl. He examined it. The bowl was heavy and shiny. There was no part number stamp, and the metal was not alclad, not stainless, not cad nor zinc. Five small copper discs had been welded to the lower flange. Vogel carefully scraped off a sample with a file. Then he replaced the part in the stock rack and went into his office where he placed the sample in an envelope. That afternoon he ranged the shop like a hound. In the shipping crib, he found a half-completed detail that struck a chord of strangeness. Two twisted copper vanes with a crumpled shop traveler signed by Amenth. The next operation specified furnace braze. Vogel squinted at the attached detail print. It was a current job number. He spent the next two hours in the ozalid room, leafing through the print files. The job number called for a deep-freeze showcase, and there were exactly two hundred and seven detail drawings involved. Not one of them matched the print in shipping. After an almost silent dinner at home, he sat smoking his pipe, waiting for the phone to ring. It rang at eight. "It's platinum," Carstairs said. Tim Carstairs was a night-shift chemist. "Anything wrong, Mr. Vogel?" "No." Vogel paused. "Thanks, Tim." He hung up, glanced at his fingers. They were shaking. "You," Alice said, "look ready to call mate in three." "I'm going over to the shop," he said, kissing her. "Don't wait up." * * * * * He was not surprised to see the light on in the parts control section. Amenth was writing planning sheets. "I don't believe we authorized overtime," Vogel told him mildly, hanging up his coat. "Just loose ends." Amenth's smile was nervous. "Tying up these burden charts. I'm on my own time." "Thought I'd set up next month's budget." Vogel sat at his desk. "By the way, what did you do before you came here?" "Odd jobs." Amenth's lips twitched. "Your family live on the coast?" Sweat glistened on the little man's forehead. "Ah--no. My folks passed on years ago." Cat and mouse. "You've done good work lately." Vogel yawned, studying the progress chart on the wall. Behind him he heard a soft exhalation of relief, the furtive rustle of papers as Amenth cleaned off his desk. When Amenth finally left, Vogel went over to his desk and methodically ransacked the work in process file. It took him two hours to find what he was looking for. One: A schematic detail on graph paper which resembled no type of circuit Vogel had ever seen. Two: Fourteen completed shop travelers on which were typed clearly, _Call Amenth upon completion_. That was not unusual; most expediters wanted to be notified when a hot part hit Inspection. The unusual part was that no inspection stamp had been placed opposite the final operation of _Inspect_, _Identify_, _Return to Stock_. Ergo, Amenth had inspected and stocked the parts himself. Three: A progress chart with dates, indicating four detail parts still remaining in fabrication. Final assembly date--tomorrow! The following afternoon, Vogel sat alone in the conference room. The door opened and Amenth came in. "You sent for me, sir?" "Sit down, Amenth. Let's talk a while." Amenth sat down uneasily. "We're considering you for promotion," Vogel said, silencing the little man's protests with a deprecating wave. "But we've got to know if you're ready. Let's talk about your job." Amenth relaxed. They talked shop for a few moments, then Vogel opened a folder, took out his watch. "Very good," he said. "Now let's check your initiative potential." As Amenth stiffened, Vogel reassured him, "Relax. It's a routine association test." For the next ten minutes he timed Amenth's responses with a stop watch. Most of the words were familiar shop words and most of the responses were standard. "_Job._" "Escape," Amenth said instantly. "_Blueprint._" "Create." "_Noise._" "Hate." "_Want._" "Home!" It was all so childish, so obvious, and Amenth's eyes were frightened amber pools when Vogel dismissed him. No matter. Let him suspect. Vogel studied the reaction results with grim amusement. Outside, the shop roared. And Amenth's travelers sped the rounds: Issue material; Shear to size; Form on brake; Weld per print; Miter, drill, inspect, stock. One by one, the strange details were being formed, finished, to lie inert in the stockroom, to await final assembly. Assembly. Of _what_? Tonight was project completion. * * * * * Midnight. Vogel stood in darkness, leaning against the wall. He was tired. He had maintained this vigil for three hours. His right leg was numb and he started to shift position, then froze as he heard footsteps. Three aisles over, a light exploded, blindingly. He held his breath. From outside in fabrication came the muffled clang of drill press and power brake, the sounds of the night shift. He waited. Three aisles over, something moved. Someone fumbled in the stock bins, collecting shaped pieces of metal, grunting with the effort of piling them on the salvage bench, now panting with impatience while assembling the parts. There was a hammering, a fitting together, a flash of light, a humming of power and finally a sob of relief. Vogel's hand slipped into his coat pocket and grasped the gun. He moved silently. Amenth stood at the salvage bench, adjusting studs and connecting terminals. Vogel stared at the final assembly. It was a helmet. A large silvery helmet, connected to a nightmarish maze of wiring, mounted on a rectangular plastic base. It hummed, although there was no visible source of power. Amenth put on the helmet with a feverish haste. Vogel chuckled. Amenth stood motionless. Then as his hand darted toward a stand, Vogel said sharply, "Don't!" Amenth stared at the gun. "Take it off!" Vogel's voice was iron. Amenth slowly took off the helmet. His eyes were golden with tears. "Please," he said. "Mars or Venus?" Vogel said. "Which?" "N-neither. You could not grasp the concept. Let me go. Please!" "Where?" Vogel prodded. "Another dimension?" "You would call it that," the alien whispered. Hope brightened his face. "You want something? Wealth? Power?" It was the way he said the words, like a white trader offering his aborigine captors glass beads to set him free. Vogel nodded toward the circuit. "That hookup--you tap the gravitational field direct? Cosmic rays?" "Your planet's magnet force lines. Look, I'll leave you the schematic diagram. It's simple, really. You can use it to transmute--" He babbled on with a heartbreaking eagerness, and Vogel listened. "In my own world," said Amenth brokenly, "I am a moron. A criminal moron. Once, out of a childish malice, I destroyed beauty. One of the singing crystals." He shuddered. "I was punished. They sent me here--to the snake pit. Sentence for felony. This--" he indicated the helmet--"would have fused three seconds after I used it. So, incidentally, would this entire shop. I had no time to construct a feedback dispersion." "Tell me about your world," Vogel said. Amenth told him. Vogel's breath hissed softly between his teeth. All his life an unformed vision had tormented him, driven him toward perfection. Abruptly the vision was reality. He smiled, moved forward. "You shouldn't have told me." Amenth saw the intent in his eyes and started to beg. Vogel clipped him behind the ear. He put the helmet on, gingerly. The electrodes tingled against his temple and his grin was wry as he thought of Alice. Then he depressed the stud. Vogel sobbed. * * * * * Color blinded him, rainbows blared in sweet, sparkling thunder. He whimpered, covering his eyes. The music drowned him in a fugue of weeping delight. Slowly he raised his head. He stood ankle-deep in gold crystals that stretched out forever in a splendid sea of flame. The crystals sang softly, achingly, to a silver sun in an emerald sky. A grove of blue needle trees tinkled in ecstasy on his left. And beyond those trees.... The city sang. White spires foamed skyward in impossible cataracts of glory. A glissando of joy burned his eardrums, and he could not face that living splendor. It was the city beyond dreams, beyond legend, the city where all dreams end. He strode toward it, raptly. The crystals screamed. The blue needle forest lashed wildly, and terror shivered through the air in shrieking dissonance. From the blue forest, people ran. Beautiful people, with great golden eyes and scarlet tunics. They could have been Amenth's brothers and sisters. They stared, horror and revulsion twisting their faces. They started toward him. Vogel understood. If destroying beauty on this world was a crime, then killing ugliness must be a duty. On this world, he was ugly-- --JAMES CAUSEY * * * * * End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Felony, by James Causey * END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FELONY * *** This file should be named 31922.txt or 31922.zip * This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/3/1/9/2/31922/ Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Felony Author: James Causey Illustrator: Vidmer Release Date: April 8, 2010 [EBook #31922] Language: English * START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FELONY * Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. _Vogel started with crossword puzzles ... and worked his way up to Man's greatest enigma!_ * * * * * When he was nine, Vogel almost killed another boy who inadvertently scattered his half-completed jigsaw puzzle. At sixteen, he discovered the mysteries of the Danish Gambit, and cried. At twenty-two, he crouched in a foxhole on Okinawa, oblivious to the death bursting about him, squinting in a painful ecstasy at the tattered fragment of newspaper on his knee. His sergeant screamed in agony, then died at his elbow. Vogel's face lit up. "Slay," he said happily, scribbling. As crossword puzzles go, it had been a toughie. At thirty, he was Production Manager of Sachs Fixtures. His men hated him. The General Manager loved him. Tall, gaunt and ruthless, he could glance at any detail print and instantly pinpoint the pattern of final assembly, total man-hour budget and fabrication lead time. Once, he made a mistake. On a forty-thousand-dollar job lot he estimated too high on production scrap. When the final assemblies were completed, they had two feet of bulb extension left over. It disturbed him. He spent that evening in his den brooding over chessmen. His wife let him alone. Next day, he hired Amenth. * * * * * Personnel called that morning and apologized. "No experience, but amazing shop aptitude. He's coming down to you for an interview." "I want," Vogel said into the phone, "three bench men. By noon. _With_ shop experience." Personnel was sorry. Vogel snarled and hung up. "Hello, please, sir," said a voice. Vogel stared, icily. Meekness cowered in front of his desk. Meekness in the form of a small birdlike person with beseeching amber eyes. "I am Amenth," he said, cringing. Vogel eyed the olive skin, the cheekbones, the blue-black hair. "A wetback," he said. "Three men short and they send me wetbacks. You know sheet metal, buster?" "I am not of the understanding," Amenth offered. "Experience, no." He beamed. "Aptitude, yes." Fighting apoplexy, Vogel took him out into the shop. Amenth cringed at the howl of air tools and punch presses. Vogel contemptuously took him by the arm and led him to a workbench where a wizened persimmon of a man performed deft lightnings with rivets and air wrench. "Benny, this is Amenth. He's new." Vogel pronounced it like a curse. "Get him some goggles from the crib, a rivet gun." Vogel returned to his office scowling. The phone rang almost instantly. "Boss," said Benny, "he's from nothing--all thumbs with an air wrench and he don't know alclad from stainless." "Be right out," Vogel said, hanging up. Before he had a chance to fire Amenth, the Fabrication Super came in with a production problem. Vogel solved it, but it was almost an hour before he returned to Benny's bench--and stared. Amenth was a blur of motion. His Keller chattered like a live thing. A furious sweating Benny snapped at Vogel, "You playing practical jokes? Look, this guy's gone crazy, he's fifty per cent under standard! Tell him to slow down before I file a grievance." Amenth beamed. "I am of the aptitude," he said. A queer deep tingle went through Vogel. The crystal delight of challenge he felt when confronted by an apparently impregnable fianchetto. That was the first day. * * * * * A week later, Vogel was compiling a progress report from completed shop travelers. Abruptly he scowled at one traveler, then said, "Charlie!" "Yes, sir," one of the planners said. "Why didn't these galley panels go out for drop hammer?" Charlie peered at the form and whistled. "Somebody must have changed the planning sheet." "Get me the story!" Charlie went hurriedly out into the shop. Some time later he returned with a pale dazed look. "It's this guy in assembly," he said. "Name is Amenth. He didn't even read the traveler. Just looked at the attached detail print and decided to miter the edges, then reverse the flange with a weld." He threw the completed part on Vogel's desk. "Go ahead, check those tolerances," he said whitely. "Right on the money." Vogel walked over to a calculator and figured. There was a dreamy expression in his eyes. He said softly, "All fabrication in our own shop. A net saving of 93 cents per unit, or eight hundred dollars total. I believe you planned this item, Charlie." Vogel fired him. That same afternoon Amenth came into the office on Vogel's order. "Sir?" "Don't you know how to read a traveler?" Vogel asked sternly. "It was a lucky accident." Amenth looked terrified. "I just read the print--" "And did what seemed logical." Statement, then a very quiet question. "What happened to your accent?" The little man looked blank. Vogel took a slow deep breath. "I've got a material planning job open," he said tightly. "Three-fifty to start. Interested?" For a moment he thought Amenth would lick his hand. The little man took to planning sheets like a duck to water. He pored feverishly over blueprints, turning out travelers in a steady flood. Vogel watched him. He went over to Personnel, requested Amenth's employment application, read it and scowled. It was a masterpiece of anonymity. Birthplace: New York. Former Occupation: Laborer. Hobbies: None. He memorized Amenth's address and returned the application. Vogel always ate lunch in the office with his expediters. That noon two of them got into an argument about the planets. "I say there is life on Mars," Pete Stone insisted stubbornly. "When the polar ice cap melts, the water runs along the canals and traces of green from growing vegetation can be spotted." "Which proves nothing," Harvey Lamb yawned. Lamb was chief expediter. "Man couldn't live there, anyway. There's not enough oxygen." "You would be amazed," Amenth said quietly, "at the adaptability of Man." Vogel set down his thermos and leaned forward. "You mean Martians, for instance, could live here, assuming they existed and had spaceships?" Amenth's smile was infinitely bitter. "Until they'd go mad." The talk turned to baseball. Vogel lit his pipe and gave Amenth a surreptitious glance. The little man slumped in the corner, bleak and withdrawn. This was delicious. * * * * * Vogel left the shop and drove across town to Amenth's address. It turned out to be an ancient rooming house on the West Side. Mrs. Reardon, the landlady, was an apathetic woman who brightened when he asked her about Amenth. "He moved in just three weeks ago." Her face softened in recollection. "He was like a lost dog coming in out of the rain. Couldn't hardly speak English and he wanted me to trust him for the rent. I must have been crazy." Her nostrils flared. "Not that he hasn't paid up. Are you a cop?" Vogel nodded as he took out his wallet. In it was his honorary sheriff's badge, but he doubted if the woman would know the difference. She didn't. She led the way upstairs to Amenth's room, worrying, and Vogel assured her they were only looking for a hit-and-run witness, that it was strictly routine. Amenth's room was incredibly aseptic, barren of pictures, ash trays, dirty laundry, any of the normal masculine debris. Vogel got the stark impression of a convict's cell. In the bleak dresser were two pair of socks, underwear, one tie. In the closet hung one white shirt ... period. Everything wore an indefinable patina of newness. Two books graced the top of the dresser. Vogel recognized one of them, a text on fabrication and design which Amenth had borrowed from his office. The other was a child's primer of English. "He stays in his room almost every night--reads mostly, and he speaks English much better now," said Mrs. Reardon. "A good tenant--I can't complain--and he's quiet and clean." She described Amenth and Vogel shook his head. "Our man is about sixty, with a beard," he said. "Funny coincidence. It's a strange name." Mrs. Reardon agreed. Vogel drove back to the shop, whistling. [Illustration] He did not go to his chess club that night, but went to the library instead. He read about Flying Saucers, about space travel, about the possibility of life on other planets. Sometimes he chuckled. Once he frowned deeply and bit his lip. That night in bed, listening to his wife's shallow breathing, he said, "Alice." "Yes?" "Supposing you were lost on a desert island. What would you do?" "I'd build a raft," she said sleepily. Vogel smiled into the darkness. Next day he made a systematic tour of the stockroom, scanning the racks of completed sub-assemblies, the gleaming fixture components, the rows of panels, brackets, extrusions, all waiting like soldiers to march from the stockroom into final assembly. Vogel suddenly grunted. There, half hidden behind a row of stainless-steel basin assemblies, was a nine-inch bowl. He examined it. The bowl was heavy and shiny. There was no part number stamp, and the metal was not alclad, not stainless, not cad nor zinc. Five small copper discs had been welded to the lower flange. Vogel carefully scraped off a sample with a file. Then he replaced the part in the stock rack and went into his office where he placed the sample in an envelope. That afternoon he ranged the shop like a hound. In the shipping crib, he found a half-completed detail that struck a chord of strangeness. Two twisted copper vanes with a crumpled shop traveler signed by Amenth. The next operation specified furnace braze. Vogel squinted at the attached detail print. It was a current job number. He spent the next two hours in the ozalid room, leafing through the print files. The job number called for a deep-freeze showcase, and there were exactly two hundred and seven detail drawings involved. Not one of them matched the print in shipping. After an almost silent dinner at home, he sat smoking his pipe, waiting for the phone to ring. It rang at eight. "It's platinum," Carstairs said. Tim Carstairs was a night-shift chemist. "Anything wrong, Mr. Vogel?" "No." Vogel paused. "Thanks, Tim." He hung up, glanced at his fingers. They were shaking. "You," Alice said, "look ready to call mate in three." "I'm going over to the shop," he said, kissing her. "Don't wait up." * * * * * He was not surprised to see the light on in the parts control section. Amenth was writing planning sheets. "I don't believe we authorized overtime," Vogel told him mildly, hanging up his coat. "Just loose ends." Amenth's smile was nervous. "Tying up these burden charts. I'm on my own time." "Thought I'd set up next month's budget." Vogel sat at his desk. "By the way, what did you do before you came here?" "Odd jobs." Amenth's lips twitched. "Your family live on the coast?" Sweat glistened on the little man's forehead. "Ah--no. My folks passed on years ago." Cat and mouse. "You've done good work lately." Vogel yawned, studying the progress chart on the wall. Behind him he heard a soft exhalation of relief, the furtive rustle of papers as Amenth cleaned off his desk. When Amenth finally left, Vogel went over to his desk and methodically ransacked the work in process file. It took him two hours to find what he was looking for. One: A schematic detail on graph paper which resembled no type of circuit Vogel had ever seen. Two: Fourteen completed shop travelers on which were typed clearly, _Call Amenth upon completion_. That was not unusual; most expediters wanted to be notified when a hot part hit Inspection. The unusual part was that no inspection stamp had been placed opposite the final operation of _Inspect_, _Identify_, _Return to Stock_. Ergo, Amenth had inspected and stocked the parts himself. Three: A progress chart with dates, indicating four detail parts still remaining in fabrication. Final assembly date--tomorrow! The following afternoon, Vogel sat alone in the conference room. The door opened and Amenth came in. "You sent for me, sir?" "Sit down, Amenth. Let's talk a while." Amenth sat down uneasily. "We're considering you for promotion," Vogel said, silencing the little man's protests with a deprecating wave. "But we've got to know if you're ready. Let's talk about your job." Amenth relaxed. They talked shop for a few moments, then Vogel opened a folder, took out his watch. "Very good," he said. "Now let's check your initiative potential." As Amenth stiffened, Vogel reassured him, "Relax. It's a routine association test." For the next ten minutes he timed Amenth's responses with a stop watch. Most of the words were familiar shop words and most of the responses were standard. "_Job._" "Escape," Amenth said instantly. "_Blueprint._" "Create." "_Noise._" "Hate." "_Want._" "Home!" It was all so childish, so obvious, and Amenth's eyes were frightened amber pools when Vogel dismissed him. No matter. Let him suspect. Vogel studied the reaction results with grim amusement. Outside, the shop roared. And Amenth's travelers sped the rounds: Issue material; Shear to size; Form on brake; Weld per print; Miter, drill, inspect, stock. One by one, the strange details were being formed, finished, to lie inert in the stockroom, to await final assembly. Assembly. Of _what_? Tonight was project completion. * * * * * Midnight. Vogel stood in darkness, leaning against the wall. He was tired. He had maintained this vigil for three hours. His right leg was numb and he started to shift position, then froze as he heard footsteps. Three aisles over, a light exploded, blindingly. He held his breath. From outside in fabrication came the muffled clang of drill press and power brake, the sounds of the night shift. He waited. Three aisles over, something moved. Someone fumbled in the stock bins, collecting shaped pieces of metal, grunting with the effort of piling them on the salvage bench, now panting with impatience while assembling the parts. There was a hammering, a fitting together, a flash of light, a humming of power and finally a sob of relief. Vogel's hand slipped into his coat pocket and grasped the gun. He moved silently. Amenth stood at the salvage bench, adjusting studs and connecting terminals. Vogel stared at the final assembly. It was a helmet. A large silvery helmet, connected to a nightmarish maze of wiring, mounted on a rectangular plastic base. It hummed, although there was no visible source of power. Amenth put on the helmet with a feverish haste. Vogel chuckled. Amenth stood motionless. Then as his hand darted toward a stand, Vogel said sharply, "Don't!" Amenth stared at the gun. "Take it off!" Vogel's voice was iron. Amenth slowly took off the helmet. His eyes were golden with tears. "Please," he said. "Mars or Venus?" Vogel said. "Which?" "N-neither. You could not grasp the concept. Let me go. Please!" "Where?" Vogel prodded. "Another dimension?" "You would call it that," the alien whispered. Hope brightened his face. "You want something? Wealth? Power?" It was the way he said the words, like a white trader offering his aborigine captors glass beads to set him free. Vogel nodded toward the circuit. "That hookup--you tap the gravitational field direct? Cosmic rays?" "Your planet's magnet force lines. Look, I'll leave you the schematic diagram. It's simple, really. You can use it to transmute--" He babbled on with a heartbreaking eagerness, and Vogel listened. "In my own world," said Amenth brokenly, "I am a moron. A criminal moron. Once, out of a childish malice, I destroyed beauty. One of the singing crystals." He shuddered. "I was punished. They sent me here--to the snake pit. Sentence for felony. This--" he indicated the helmet--"would have fused three seconds after I used it. So, incidentally, would this entire shop. I had no time to construct a feedback dispersion." "Tell me about your world," Vogel said. Amenth told him. Vogel's breath hissed softly between his teeth. All his life an unformed vision had tormented him, driven him toward perfection. Abruptly the vision was reality. He smiled, moved forward. "You shouldn't have told me." Amenth saw the intent in his eyes and started to beg. Vogel clipped him behind the ear. He put the helmet on, gingerly. The electrodes tingled against his temple and his grin was wry as he thought of Alice. Then he depressed the stud. Vogel sobbed. * * * * * Color blinded him, rainbows blared in sweet, sparkling thunder. He whimpered, covering his eyes. The music drowned him in a fugue of weeping delight. Slowly he raised his head. He stood ankle-deep in gold crystals that stretched out forever in a splendid sea of flame. The crystals sang softly, achingly, to a silver sun in an emerald sky. A grove of blue needle trees tinkled in ecstasy on his left. And beyond those trees.... The city sang. White spires foamed skyward in impossible cataracts of glory. A glissando of joy burned his eardrums, and he could not face that living splendor. It was the city beyond dreams, beyond legend, the city where all dreams end. He strode toward it, raptly. The crystals screamed. The blue needle forest lashed wildly, and terror shivered through the air in shrieking dissonance. From the blue forest, people ran. Beautiful people, with great golden eyes and scarlet tunics. They could have been Amenth's brothers and sisters. They stared, horror and revulsion twisting their faces. They started toward him. Vogel understood. If destroying beauty on this world was a crime, then killing ugliness must be a duty. On this world, he was ugly-- --JAMES CAUSEY * * * * * End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Felony, by James Causey * END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FELONY * *** This file should be named 31922.txt or 31922.zip * This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/3/1/9/2/31922/ Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. 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锘縏he Project Gutenberg EBook of Forever, by Robert Sheckley This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Forever Author: Robert Sheckley Illustrator: Dick Francis Release Date: July 22, 2009 [EBook #29487] Language: English * START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FOREVER * Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net FOREVER By NED LANG _Of all the irksome, frustrating, maddening discoveries--was there no way of keeping it discovered?_ Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS With so much at stake, Charles Dennison should not have been careless. An inventor cannot afford carelessness, particularly when his invention is extremely valuable and obviously patentable. There are too many grasping hands ready to seize what belongs to someone else, too many men who feast upon the creativity of the innocent. A touch of paranoia would have served Dennison well; but he was lacking in that vital characteristic of inventors. And he didn't even realize the full extent of his carelessness until a bullet, fired from a silenced weapon, chipped a granite wall not three inches from his head. Then he knew. But by then it was too late. Charles Dennison had been left a more than adequate income by his father. He had gone to Harvard, served a hitch in the Navy, then continued his education at M.I.T. Since the age of thirty-two, he had been engaged in private research, working in his own small laboratory in Riverdale, New York. Plant biology was his field. He published several noteworthy papers, and sold a new insecticide to a development corporation. The royalties helped him to expand his facilities. Dennison enjoyed working alone. It suited his temperament, which was austere but not unfriendly. Two or three times a year, he would come to New York, see some plays and movies, and do a little serious drinking. He would then return gratefully to his seclusion. He was a bachelor and seemed destined to remain that way. Not long after his fortieth birthday, Dennison stumbled across an intriguing clue which led him into a different branch of biology. He pursued his clue, developed it, extended it slowly into a hypothesis. After three more years, a lucky accident put the final proofs into his hands. He had invented a most effective longevity drug. It was not proof against violence; aside from that, however, it could fairly be called an immortality serum. * * * * * Now was the time for caution. But years of seclusion had made Dennison unwary of people and their motives. He was more or less heedless of the world around him; it never occurred to him that the world was not equally heedless of him. He thought only about his serum. It was valuable and patentable. But was it the sort of thing that should be revealed? Was the world ready for an immortality drug? He had never enjoyed speculation of this sort. But since the atom bomb, many scientists had been forced to look at the ethics of their profession. Dennison looked at his and decided that immortality was inevitable. Mankind had, throughout its existence, poked and probed into the recesses of nature, trying to figure out how things worked. If one man didn't discover fire, or the use of the lever, or gunpowder, or the atom bomb, or immortality, another would. Man willed to know all nature's secrets, and there was no way of keeping them hidden. Armed with this bleak but comforting philosophy, Dennison packed his formulas and proofs into a briefcase, slipped a two-ounce bottle of the product into a jacket pocket, and left his Riverdale laboratory. It was already evening. He planned to spend the night in a good midtown hotel, see a movie, and proceed to the Patent Office in Washington the following day. On the subway, Dennison was absorbed in a newspaper. He was barely conscious of the men sitting on either side of him. He became aware of them only when the man on his right poked him firmly in the ribs. Dennison glanced over and saw the snub nose of a small automatic, concealed from the rest of the car by a newspaper, resting against his side. "What is this?" Dennison asked. "Hand it over," the man said. Dennison was stunned. How could anyone have known about his discovery? And how could they dare try to rob him in a public subway car? Then he realized that they were probably just after his money. "I don't have much on me," Dennison said hoarsely, reaching for his wallet. The man on his left leaned over and slapped the briefcase. "Not money," he said. "The immortality stuff." * * * * * In some unaccountable fashion, they knew. What if he refused to give up his briefcase? Would they dare fire the automatic in the subway? It was a very small caliber weapon. Its noise might not even be heard above the subway's roar. And probably they felt justified in taking the risk for a prize as great as the one Dennison carried. He looked at them quickly. They were mild-looking men, quietly, almost somberly dressed. Something about their clothing jogged Dennison's memory unpleasantly, but he didn't have time to place the recollection. The automatic was digging painfully into his ribs. The subway was coming to a station. Dennison glanced at the man on his left and caught the glint of light on a tiny hypodermic. Many inventors, involved only in their own thoughts, are slow of reaction. But Dennison had been a gunnery officer in the Navy and had seen his share of action. He was damned if he was going to give up his invention so easily. He jumped from his seat and the hypo passed through the sleeve of his coat, just missing his arm. He swung the briefcase at the man with the automatic, catching him across the forehead with the metal edge. As the doors opened, he ran past a popeyed subway guard, up the stairs and into the street. The two men followed, one of them streaming blood from his forehead. Dennison ran, looking wildly around for a policeman. The men behind him were screaming, "Stop, thief! Police! Police! Stop that man!" Apparently they were also prepared to face the police and to claim the briefcase and bottle as their own. Ridiculous! Yet the complete and indignant confidence in their shrill voices unnerved Dennison. He hated a scene. Still, a policeman would be best. The briefcase was filled with proof of who he was. Even his name was initialed on the outside of the briefcase. One glance would tell anyone ... He caught a flash of metal from his briefcase, and, still running, looked at it. He was shocked to see a metal plate fixed to the cowhide, over the place where his initials had been. The man on his left must have done that when he slapped the briefcase. Dennison dug at the plate with his fingertips, but it would not come off. It read, _Property of Edward James Flaherty, Smithfield Institute_. Perhaps a policeman wouldn't be so much help, after all. But the problem was academic, for Dennison saw no policeman along the crowded Bronx street. People stood aside as he ran past, staring open-mouthed, offering neither assistance nor interference. But the men behind him were still screaming, "Stop the thief! Stop the thief!" The entire long block was alerted. The people, like some sluggish beast goaded reluctantly into action, began to make tentative movements toward Dennison, impelled by the outraged cries of his pursuers. * * * * * Unless he balanced the scales of public opinion, some do-gooder was going to interfere soon. Dennison conquered his shyness and pride, and called out, "Help me! They're trying to rob me! Stop them!" But his voice lacked the moral indignation, the absolute conviction of his two shrill-voiced pursuers. A burly young man stepped forward to block Dennison's way, but at the last moment a woman pulled him back. "Don't get into trouble, Charley." "Why don't someone call a cop?" "Yeah, where are the cops?" "Over at a big fire on 178th Street, I hear." "We oughta stop that guy." "I'm willing if you're willing." Dennison's way was suddenly blocked by four grinning youths, teen-agers in black motorcycle jackets and boots, excited by the chance for a little action, delighted at the opportunity to hit someone in the name of law and order. [Illustration] Dennison saw them, swerved suddenly and sprinted across the street. A bus loomed in front of him. He hurled himself out of its way, fell, got up again and ran on. His pursuers were delayed by the dense flow of traffic. Their high-pitched cries faded as Dennison turned into a side street, ran down its length, then down another. He was in a section of massive apartment buildings. His lungs felt like a blast furnace and his left side seemed to be sewed together with red-hot wire. There was no help for it, he had to rest. It was then that the first bullet, fired from a silenced weapon, chipped a granite wall not three inches from his head. That was when Dennison realized the full extent of his carelessness. He pulled the bottle out of his pocket. He had hoped to carry out more experiments on the serum before trying it on human beings. Now there was no choice. Dennison yanked out the stopper and drained the contents. Immediately he was running again, as a second bullet scored the granite wall. The great blocks of apartments loomed endlessly ahead of him, silent and alien. There were no walkers upon the streets. There was only Dennison, running more slowly now past the immense, blank-faced apartments. * * * * * A long black car came up behind him, its searchlight probing into doors and alleys. Was it the police? "That's him!" cried the shrill, unnerving voice of one of Dennison's pursuers. Dennison ducked into a narrow alley between buildings, raced down it and into the next street. There were two cars on that street, at either end of the block, their headlights shining toward each other, moving slowly to trap him in the middle. The alley gleamed with light now, from the first car's headlights shining down it. He was surrounded. Dennison raced to the nearest apartment building and yanked at the door. It was locked. The two cars were almost even with him. And, looking at them, Dennison remembered the unpleasant jog his memory had given him earlier. The two cars were hearses. The men in the subway, with their solemn faces, solemn clothing, subdued neckties, shrill, indignant voices--they had reminded him of undertakers. They _had_ been undertakers! Of course! Of course! Oil companies might want to block the invention of a cheap new fuel which could put them out of business; steel corporations might try to stop the development of an inexpensive, stronger-than-steel plastic ... And the production of an immortality serum would put the undertakers out of business. His progress, and the progress of thousands of other researchers in biology, must have been watched. And when he made his discovery, they had been ready. The hearses stopped, and somber-faced, respectable-looking men in black suits and pearl-gray neckties poured out and seized him. The briefcase was yanked out of his hand. He felt the prick of a needle in his shoulder. Then, with no transitional dizziness, he passed out. * * * * * He came to sitting in an armchair. There were armed men on either side of him. In front of him stood a small, plump, undistinguished-looking man in sedate clothing. "My name is Mr. Bennet," the plump man said. "I wish to beg your forgiveness, Mr. Dennison, for the violence to which you were subjected. We found out about your invention only at the last moment and therefore had to improvise. The bullets were meant only to frighten and delay you. Murder was not our intention." "You merely wanted to steal my discovery," Dennison said. "Not at all," Mr. Bennet told him. "The secret of immortality has been in our possession for quite some time." "I see. Then you want to keep immortality from the public in order to safeguard your damned undertaking business!" "Isn't that rather a naive view?" Mr. Bennet asked, smiling. "As it happens, my associates and I are _not_ undertakers. We took on the disguise in order to present an understandable motive if our plan to capture you had misfired. In that event, others would have believed exactly--and only--what you thought: that our purpose was to safeguard our business." Dennison frowned and watchfully waited. "Disguises come easily to us," Mr. Bennet said, still smiling. "Perhaps you have heard rumors about a new carburetor suppressed by the gasoline companies, or a new food source concealed by the great food suppliers, or a new synthetic hastily destroyed by the cotton-owning interests. That was us. And the inventions ended up here." "You're trying to impress me," Dennison said. "Certainly." "Why did you stop me from patenting my immortality serum?" "The world is not ready for it yet," said Mr. Bennet. "It isn't ready for a lot of things," Dennison said. "Why didn't you block the atom bomb?" "We tried, disguised as mercenary coal and oil interests. But we failed. However, we have succeeded with a surprising number of things." "But what's the purpose behind it all?" "Earth's welfare," Mr. Bennet said promptly. "Consider what would happen if the people were given your veritable immortality serum. The problems of birth rate, food production, living space all would be aggravated. Tensions would mount, war would be imminent--" "So what?" Dennison challenged. "That's how things are right now, _without_ immortality. Besides, there have been cries of doom about every new invention or discovery. Gunpowder, the printing press, nitroglycerin, the atom bomb, they were all supposed to destroy the race. But mankind has learned how to handle them. It had to! You can't turn back the clock, and you can't un-discover something. If it's there, mankind must deal with it!" "Yes, in a bumbling, bloody, inefficient fashion," said Mr. Bennet, with an expression of distaste. "Well, that's how Man is." "Not if he's properly led," Mr. Bennet said. "No?" * * * * * "Certainly not," said Mr. Bennet. "You see, the immortality serum provides a solution to the problem of political power. Rule by a permanent and enlightened elite is by far the best form of government; infinitely better than the blundering inefficiencies of democratic rule. But throughout history, this elite, whether monarchy, oligarchy, dictatorship or junta, has been unable to perpetuate itself. Leaders die, the followers squabble for power, and chaos is close behind. With immortality, this last flaw would be corrected. There would be no discontinuity of leadership, for the leaders would always be there." "A permanent dictatorship," Dennison said. "Yes. A permanent, benevolent rule by small, carefully chosen elite corps, based upon the sole and exclusive possession of immortality. It's historically inevitable. The only question is, who is going to get control first?" "And you think you are?" Dennison demanded. "Of course. Our organization is still small, but absolutely solid. It is bolstered by every new invention that comes into our hands and by every scientist who joins our ranks. Our time will come, Dennison! We'd like to have you with us, among the elite." "You want _me_ to join you?" Dennison asked, bewildered. "We do. Our organization needs creative scientific minds to help us in our work, to help us save mankind from itself." "Count me out," Dennison said, his heart beating fast. "You won't join us?" "I'd like to see you all hanged." Mr. Bennet nodded thoughtfully and pursed his small lips. "You have taken your own serum, have you not?" Dennison nodded. "I suppose that means you kill me now?" "We don't kill," Mr. Bennet said. "We merely wait. I think you are a reasonable man, and I think you'll come to see things our way. We'll be around a long time. So will you. Take him away." Dennison was led to an elevator that dropped deep into the Earth. He was marched down a long passageway lined with armed men. They went through four massive doors. At the fifth, Dennison was pushed inside alone, and the door was locked behind him. He was in a large, well-furnished apartment. There were perhaps twenty people in the room, and they came forward to meet him. One of them, a stocky, bearded man, was an old college acquaintance of Dennison's. "Jim Ferris?" "That's right," Ferris said. "Welcome to the Immortality Club, Dennison." "I read you were killed in an air crash last year." "I merely--disappeared," Ferris said, with a rueful smile, "after inventing the immortality serum. Just like the others." "All of them?" "Fifteen of the men here invented the serum independently. The rest are successful inventors in other fields. Our oldest member is Doctor Li, a serum discoverer, who disappeared from San Francisco in 1911. You are our latest acquisition. Our clubhouse is probably the most carefully guarded place on Earth." * * * * * Dennison said, "Nineteen-eleven!" Despair flooded him and he sat down heavily in a chair. "Then there's no possibility of rescue?" "None. There are only four choices available to us," Ferris said. "Some have left us and joined the Undertakers. Others have suicided. A few have gone insane. The rest of us have formed the Immortality Club." "What for?" Dennison bewilderedly asked. "To get out of this place!" said Ferris. "To escape and give our discoveries to the world. To stop those hopeful little dictators upstairs." "They must know what you're planning." "Of course. But they let us live because, every so often, one of us gives up and joins them. And they don't think we can ever break out. They're much too smug. It's the basic defect of all power-elites, and their eventual undoing." "You said this was the most closely guarded place on Earth?" "It is," Ferris said. "And some of you have been trying to break out for fifty years? Why, it'll take forever to escape!" "Forever is exactly how long we have," said Ferris. "But we hope it won't take quite that long. Every new man brings new ideas, plans. One of them is bound to work." "_Forever_," Dennison said, his face buried in his hands. "You can go back upstairs and join them," Ferris said, with a hard note to his voice, "or you can suicide, or just sit in a corner and go quietly mad. Take your pick." Dennison looked up. "I must be honest with you and with myself. I don't think we can escape. Furthermore, I don't think any of you really believe we can." Ferris shrugged his shoulders. "Aside from that," Dennison said, "I think it's a damned good idea. If you'll bring me up to date, I'll contribute whatever I can to the Forever Project. And let's hope their complacency lasts." "It will," Ferris said. * * * * * The escape did not take forever, of course. In one hundred and thirty-seven years, Dennison and his colleagues made their successful breakout and revealed the Undertakers' Plot. The Undertakers were tried before the High Court on charges of kidnapping, conspiracy to overthrow the government, and illegal possession of immortality. They were found guilty on all counts and summarily executed. Dennison and his colleagues were also in illegal possession of immortality, which is the privilege only of our governmental elite. But the death penalty was waived in view of the Immortality Club's service to the State. This mercy was premature, however. After some months the members of the Immortality Club went into hiding, with the avowed purpose of overthrowing the Elite Rule and disseminating immortality among the masses. Project Forever, as they termed it, has received some support from dissidents, who have not yet been apprehended. It cannot be considered a serious threat. But this deviationist action in no way detracts from the glory of the Club's escape from the Undertakers. The ingenious way in which Dennison and his colleagues broke out of their seemingly impregnable prison, using only a steel belt buckle, a tungsten filament, three hens' eggs, and twelve chemicals that can be readily obtained from the human body, is too well known to be repeated here. --NED LANG Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Galaxy Science Fiction_ February 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Forever Author: Robert Sheckley Illustrator: Dick Francis Release Date: July 22, 2009 [EBook #29487] Language: English * START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FOREVER * Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net FOREVER By NED LANG _Of all the irksome, frustrating, maddening discoveries--was there no way of keeping it discovered?_ Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS With so much at stake, Charles Dennison should not have been careless. An inventor cannot afford carelessness, particularly when his invention is extremely valuable and obviously patentable. There are too many grasping hands ready to seize what belongs to someone else, too many men who feast upon the creativity of the innocent. A touch of paranoia would have served Dennison well; but he was lacking in that vital characteristic of inventors. And he didn't even realize the full extent of his carelessness until a bullet, fired from a silenced weapon, chipped a granite wall not three inches from his head. Then he knew. But by then it was too late. Charles Dennison had been left a more than adequate income by his father. He had gone to Harvard, served a hitch in the Navy, then continued his education at M.I.T. Since the age of thirty-two, he had been engaged in private research, working in his own small laboratory in Riverdale, New York. Plant biology was his field. He published several noteworthy papers, and sold a new insecticide to a development corporation. The royalties helped him to expand his facilities. Dennison enjoyed working alone. It suited his temperament, which was austere but not unfriendly. Two or three times a year, he would come to New York, see some plays and movies, and do a little serious drinking. He would then return gratefully to his seclusion. He was a bachelor and seemed destined to remain that way. Not long after his fortieth birthday, Dennison stumbled across an intriguing clue which led him into a different branch of biology. He pursued his clue, developed it, extended it slowly into a hypothesis. After three more years, a lucky accident put the final proofs into his hands. He had invented a most effective longevity drug. It was not proof against violence; aside from that, however, it could fairly be called an immortality serum. * * * * * Now was the time for caution. But years of seclusion had made Dennison unwary of people and their motives. He was more or less heedless of the world around him; it never occurred to him that the world was not equally heedless of him. He thought only about his serum. It was valuable and patentable. But was it the sort of thing that should be revealed? Was the world ready for an immortality drug? He had never enjoyed speculation of this sort. But since the atom bomb, many scientists had been forced to look at the ethics of their profession. Dennison looked at his and decided that immortality was inevitable. Mankind had, throughout its existence, poked and probed into the recesses of nature, trying to figure out how things worked. If one man didn't discover fire, or the use of the lever, or gunpowder, or the atom bomb, or immortality, another would. Man willed to know all nature's secrets, and there was no way of keeping them hidden. Armed with this bleak but comforting philosophy, Dennison packed his formulas and proofs into a briefcase, slipped a two-ounce bottle of the product into a jacket pocket, and left his Riverdale laboratory. It was already evening. He planned to spend the night in a good midtown hotel, see a movie, and proceed to the Patent Office in Washington the following day. On the subway, Dennison was absorbed in a newspaper. He was barely conscious of the men sitting on either side of him. He became aware of them only when the man on his right poked him firmly in the ribs. Dennison glanced over and saw the snub nose of a small automatic, concealed from the rest of the car by a newspaper, resting against his side. "What is this?" Dennison asked. "Hand it over," the man said. Dennison was stunned. How could anyone have known about his discovery? And how could they dare try to rob him in a public subway car? Then he realized that they were probably just after his money. "I don't have much on me," Dennison said hoarsely, reaching for his wallet. The man on his left leaned over and slapped the briefcase. "Not money," he said. "The immortality stuff." * * * * * In some unaccountable fashion, they knew. What if he refused to give up his briefcase? Would they dare fire the automatic in the subway? It was a very small caliber weapon. Its noise might not even be heard above the subway's roar. And probably they felt justified in taking the risk for a prize as great as the one Dennison carried. He looked at them quickly. They were mild-looking men, quietly, almost somberly dressed. Something about their clothing jogged Dennison's memory unpleasantly, but he didn't have time to place the recollection. The automatic was digging painfully into his ribs. The subway was coming to a station. Dennison glanced at the man on his left and caught the glint of light on a tiny hypodermic. Many inventors, involved only in their own thoughts, are slow of reaction. But Dennison had been a gunnery officer in the Navy and had seen his share of action. He was damned if he was going to give up his invention so easily. He jumped from his seat and the hypo passed through the sleeve of his coat, just missing his arm. He swung the briefcase at the man with the automatic, catching him across the forehead with the metal edge. As the doors opened, he ran past a popeyed subway guard, up the stairs and into the street. The two men followed, one of them streaming blood from his forehead. Dennison ran, looking wildly around for a policeman. The men behind him were screaming, "Stop, thief! Police! Police! Stop that man!" Apparently they were also prepared to face the police and to claim the briefcase and bottle as their own. Ridiculous! Yet the complete and indignant confidence in their shrill voices unnerved Dennison. He hated a scene. Still, a policeman would be best. The briefcase was filled with proof of who he was. Even his name was initialed on the outside of the briefcase. One glance would tell anyone ... He caught a flash of metal from his briefcase, and, still running, looked at it. He was shocked to see a metal plate fixed to the cowhide, over the place where his initials had been. The man on his left must have done that when he slapped the briefcase. Dennison dug at the plate with his fingertips, but it would not come off. It read, _Property of Edward James Flaherty, Smithfield Institute_. Perhaps a policeman wouldn't be so much help, after all. But the problem was academic, for Dennison saw no policeman along the crowded Bronx street. People stood aside as he ran past, staring open-mouthed, offering neither assistance nor interference. But the men behind him were still screaming, "Stop the thief! Stop the thief!" The entire long block was alerted. The people, like some sluggish beast goaded reluctantly into action, began to make tentative movements toward Dennison, impelled by the outraged cries of his pursuers. * * * * * Unless he balanced the scales of public opinion, some do-gooder was going to interfere soon. Dennison conquered his shyness and pride, and called out, "Help me! They're trying to rob me! Stop them!" But his voice lacked the moral indignation, the absolute conviction of his two shrill-voiced pursuers. A burly young man stepped forward to block Dennison's way, but at the last moment a woman pulled him back. "Don't get into trouble, Charley." "Why don't someone call a cop?" "Yeah, where are the cops?" "Over at a big fire on 178th Street, I hear." "We oughta stop that guy." "I'm willing if you're willing." Dennison's way was suddenly blocked by four grinning youths, teen-agers in black motorcycle jackets and boots, excited by the chance for a little action, delighted at the opportunity to hit someone in the name of law and order. [Illustration] Dennison saw them, swerved suddenly and sprinted across the street. A bus loomed in front of him. He hurled himself out of its way, fell, got up again and ran on. His pursuers were delayed by the dense flow of traffic. Their high-pitched cries faded as Dennison turned into a side street, ran down its length, then down another. He was in a section of massive apartment buildings. His lungs felt like a blast furnace and his left side seemed to be sewed together with red-hot wire. There was no help for it, he had to rest. It was then that the first bullet, fired from a silenced weapon, chipped a granite wall not three inches from his head. That was when Dennison realized the full extent of his carelessness. He pulled the bottle out of his pocket. He had hoped to carry out more experiments on the serum before trying it on human beings. Now there was no choice. Dennison yanked out the stopper and drained the contents. Immediately he was running again, as a second bullet scored the granite wall. The great blocks of apartments loomed endlessly ahead of him, silent and alien. There were no walkers upon the streets. There was only Dennison, running more slowly now past the immense, blank-faced apartments. * * * * * A long black car came up behind him, its searchlight probing into doors and alleys. Was it the police? "That's him!" cried the shrill, unnerving voice of one of Dennison's pursuers. Dennison ducked into a narrow alley between buildings, raced down it and into the next street. There were two cars on that street, at either end of the block, their headlights shining toward each other, moving slowly to trap him in the middle. The alley gleamed with light now, from the first car's headlights shining down it. He was surrounded. Dennison raced to the nearest apartment building and yanked at the door. It was locked. The two cars were almost even with him. And, looking at them, Dennison remembered the unpleasant jog his memory had given him earlier. The two cars were hearses. The men in the subway, with their solemn faces, solemn clothing, subdued neckties, shrill, indignant voices--they had reminded him of undertakers. They _had_ been undertakers! Of course! Of course! Oil companies might want to block the invention of a cheap new fuel which could put them out of business; steel corporations might try to stop the development of an inexpensive, stronger-than-steel plastic ... And the production of an immortality serum would put the undertakers out of business. His progress, and the progress of thousands of other researchers in biology, must have been watched. And when he made his discovery, they had been ready. The hearses stopped, and somber-faced, respectable-looking men in black suits and pearl-gray neckties poured out and seized him. The briefcase was yanked out of his hand. He felt the prick of a needle in his shoulder. Then, with no transitional dizziness, he passed out. * * * * * He came to sitting in an armchair. There were armed men on either side of him. In front of him stood a small, plump, undistinguished-looking man in sedate clothing. "My name is Mr. Bennet," the plump man said. "I wish to beg your forgiveness, Mr. Dennison, for the violence to which you were subjected. We found out about your invention only at the last moment and therefore had to improvise. The bullets were meant only to frighten and delay you. Murder was not our intention." "You merely wanted to steal my discovery," Dennison said. "Not at all," Mr. Bennet told him. "The secret of immortality has been in our possession for quite some time." "I see. Then you want to keep immortality from the public in order to safeguard your damned undertaking business!" "Isn't that rather a naive view?" Mr. Bennet asked, smiling. "As it happens, my associates and I are _not_ undertakers. We took on the disguise in order to present an understandable motive if our plan to capture you had misfired. In that event, others would have believed exactly--and only--what you thought: that our purpose was to safeguard our business." Dennison frowned and watchfully waited. "Disguises come easily to us," Mr. Bennet said, still smiling. "Perhaps you have heard rumors about a new carburetor suppressed by the gasoline companies, or a new food source concealed by the great food suppliers, or a new synthetic hastily destroyed by the cotton-owning interests. That was us. And the inventions ended up here." "You're trying to impress me," Dennison said. "Certainly." "Why did you stop me from patenting my immortality serum?" "The world is not ready for it yet," said Mr. Bennet. "It isn't ready for a lot of things," Dennison said. "Why didn't you block the atom bomb?" "We tried, disguised as mercenary coal and oil interests. But we failed. However, we have succeeded with a surprising number of things." "But what's the purpose behind it all?" "Earth's welfare," Mr. Bennet said promptly. "Consider what would happen if the people were given your veritable immortality serum. The problems of birth rate, food production, living space all would be aggravated. Tensions would mount, war would be imminent--" "So what?" Dennison challenged. "That's how things are right now, _without_ immortality. Besides, there have been cries of doom about every new invention or discovery. Gunpowder, the printing press, nitroglycerin, the atom bomb, they were all supposed to destroy the race. But mankind has learned how to handle them. It had to! You can't turn back the clock, and you can't un-discover something. If it's there, mankind must deal with it!" "Yes, in a bumbling, bloody, inefficient fashion," said Mr. Bennet, with an expression of distaste. "Well, that's how Man is." "Not if he's properly led," Mr. Bennet said. "No?" * * * * * "Certainly not," said Mr. Bennet. "You see, the immortality serum provides a solution to the problem of political power. Rule by a permanent and enlightened elite is by far the best form of government; infinitely better than the blundering inefficiencies of democratic rule. But throughout history, this elite, whether monarchy, oligarchy, dictatorship or junta, has been unable to perpetuate itself. Leaders die, the followers squabble for power, and chaos is close behind. With immortality, this last flaw would be corrected. There would be no discontinuity of leadership, for the leaders would always be there." "A permanent dictatorship," Dennison said. "Yes. A permanent, benevolent rule by small, carefully chosen elite corps, based upon the sole and exclusive possession of immortality. It's historically inevitable. The only question is, who is going to get control first?" "And you think you are?" Dennison demanded. "Of course. Our organization is still small, but absolutely solid. It is bolstered by every new invention that comes into our hands and by every scientist who joins our ranks. Our time will come, Dennison! We'd like to have you with us, among the elite." "You want _me_ to join you?" Dennison asked, bewildered. "We do. Our organization needs creative scientific minds to help us in our work, to help us save mankind from itself." "Count me out," Dennison said, his heart beating fast. "You won't join us?" "I'd like to see you all hanged." Mr. Bennet nodded thoughtfully and pursed his small lips. "You have taken your own serum, have you not?" Dennison nodded. "I suppose that means you kill me now?" "We don't kill," Mr. Bennet said. "We merely wait. I think you are a reasonable man, and I think you'll come to see things our way. We'll be around a long time. So will you. Take him away." Dennison was led to an elevator that dropped deep into the Earth. He was marched down a long passageway lined with armed men. They went through four massive doors. At the fifth, Dennison was pushed inside alone, and the door was locked behind him. He was in a large, well-furnished apartment. There were perhaps twenty people in the room, and they came forward to meet him. One of them, a stocky, bearded man, was an old college acquaintance of Dennison's. "Jim Ferris?" "That's right," Ferris said. "Welcome to the Immortality Club, Dennison." "I read you were killed in an air crash last year." "I merely--disappeared," Ferris said, with a rueful smile, "after inventing the immortality serum. Just like the others." "All of them?" "Fifteen of the men here invented the serum independently. The rest are successful inventors in other fields. Our oldest member is Doctor Li, a serum discoverer, who disappeared from San Francisco in 1911. You are our latest acquisition. Our clubhouse is probably the most carefully guarded place on Earth." * * * * * Dennison said, "Nineteen-eleven!" Despair flooded him and he sat down heavily in a chair. "Then there's no possibility of rescue?" "None. There are only four choices available to us," Ferris said. "Some have left us and joined the Undertakers. Others have suicided. A few have gone insane. The rest of us have formed the Immortality Club." "What for?" Dennison bewilderedly asked. "To get out of this place!" said Ferris. "To escape and give our discoveries to the world. To stop those hopeful little dictators upstairs." "They must know what you're planning." "Of course. But they let us live because, every so often, one of us gives up and joins them. And they don't think we can ever break out. They're much too smug. It's the basic defect of all power-elites, and their eventual undoing." "You said this was the most closely guarded place on Earth?" "It is," Ferris said. "And some of you have been trying to break out for fifty years? Why, it'll take forever to escape!" "Forever is exactly how long we have," said Ferris. "But we hope it won't take quite that long. Every new man brings new ideas, plans. One of them is bound to work." "_Forever_," Dennison said, his face buried in his hands. "You can go back upstairs and join them," Ferris said, with a hard note to his voice, "or you can suicide, or just sit in a corner and go quietly mad. Take your pick." Dennison looked up. "I must be honest with you and with myself. I don't think we can escape. Furthermore, I don't think any of you really believe we can." Ferris shrugged his shoulders. "Aside from that," Dennison said, "I think it's a damned good idea. If you'll bring me up to date, I'll contribute whatever I can to the Forever Project. And let's hope their complacency lasts." "It will," Ferris said. * * * * * The escape did not take forever, of course. In one hundred and thirty-seven years, Dennison and his colleagues made their successful breakout and revealed the Undertakers' Plot. The Undertakers were tried before the High Court on charges of kidnapping, conspiracy to overthrow the government, and illegal possession of immortality. They were found guilty on all counts and summarily executed. Dennison and his colleagues were also in illegal possession of immortality, which is the privilege only of our governmental elite. But the death penalty was waived in view of the Immortality Club's service to the State. This mercy was premature, however. After some months the members of the Immortality Club went into hiding, with the avowed purpose of overthrowing the Elite Rule and disseminating immortality among the masses. Project Forever, as they termed it, has received some support from dissidents, who have not yet been apprehended. It cannot be considered a serious threat. But this deviationist action in no way detracts from the glory of the Club's escape from the Undertakers. The ingenious way in which Dennison and his colleagues broke out of their seemingly impregnable prison, using only a steel belt buckle, a tungsten filament, three hens' eggs, and twelve chemicals that can be readily obtained from the human body, is too well known to be repeated here. --NED LANG Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Galaxy Science Fiction_ February 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. 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锘縏he Project Gutenberg EBook of Homesick, by Lyn Venable This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Homesick Author: Lyn Venable Illustrator: Ed Emshwiller Release Date: August 3, 2009 [EBook #29599] Language: English * START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOMESICK * Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net [Illustration] _Homesick_ By LYN VENABLE Illustrated by EMSH _What thrill is there in going out among the stars if coming back means bitter loneliness?_ Frankston pushed listlessly at a red checker with his right forefinger. He knew the move would cost him a man, but he lacked enough interest in the game to plot out a safe move. His opponent, James, jumped the red disk with a black king and removed it from the board. Gregory, across the room, flicked rapidly through the pages of a magazine, too rapidly to be reading anything, or even looking at the pictures. Ross lay quietly on his bunk, staring out of the viewport. The four were strangely alike in appearance, nearly the same age, the age where gray hairs finally outnumber black, or baldness takes over. The age when the expanding waistline has begun to sag tiredly, when robust middle age begins the slow accelerating decline toward senility. A strange group to find aboard a spaceship, but then _The Columbus_ was a very strange ship. Bolted to its outer hull, just under the viewports, were wooden boxes full of red geraniums, and ivy wound tenuous green fronds over the gleaming hull that had withstood the bombardment of pinpoint meteors and turned away the deadly power of naked cosmic rays. Frankston glanced at his wristchrono. It was one minute to six. "In about a minute," he thought, "Ross will say something about going out to water his geraniums." The wristchrono ticked fifty-nine times. "I think I'll go out and water my geraniums," said Ross. * * * * * No one glanced up. Then Gregory threw his magazine on the floor. Ross got up and walked, limping slightly, to a wall locker. He pulled out the heavy, ungainly spacesuit and the big metal bulb of a headpiece. He carried them to his bunk and laid them carefully down. "Will somebody please help me on with my suit?" he asked. For one more long moment, no one moved. Then James got up and began to help Ross fit his legs into the suit. Ross had arthritis, not badly, but enough so that he needed a little help climbing into a spacesuit. James pulled the heavy folds of the suit up around Ross's body and held it while Ross extended his arms into the sleeve sections. His hands, in the heavy gauntlets, were too unwieldy to do the front fastenings, and he stood silently while James did it for him. Ross lifted the helmet, staring at it as a cripple might regard a wheelchair which he loathed but was wholly dependent upon. Then he fitted the helmet over his head and James fastened it down and lifted the oxygen tank to his back. "Ready?" asked James. The bulbous headpiece inclined in a nod. James walked to a panel and threw a switch marked INNER LOCK. A round aperture slid silently open. Ross stepped through it and the door shut behind him as James threw the switch back to its original position. Opposite the switch marked OUTER LOCK a signal glowed redly and James threw another switch. A moment later the signal flickered out. Frankston, with a violent gesture, swept the checker board clean. Red and black men clattered to the floor, rolling and spinning. Nobody picked them up. "What does he do it for?" demanded Frankston in a tight voice. "What does he get out of those stinking geraniums he can't touch or smell?" "Shut up," said Gregory. James looked up sharply. Curtness was unusual for Gregory, a bad sign. Frankston was the one he'd been watching, the one who'd shown signs of cracking, but after so long, even a psycho-expert's opinion might be haywire. Who was a yardstick? Who was normal? "Geraniums don't smell much anyway," added Gregory in a more conciliatory tone. "Yeah," agreed Frankston, "I'd forgotten that. But why does he torture himself like this, and us, too?" "Because that's what he wanted to do," answered James. "Sure," agreed Gregory, "the whole trip--the last twenty years of it, anyhow--all he could talk about was how, when he got back to Earth, he was going to buy a little place in the country and raise flowers." "Well, we're back," muttered Frankston, with a terrible bitterness. "He's raising flowers, but not in any little place in the country." * * * * * Gregory continued almost dreamily, "Remember the last night out? We were all gathered around the viewscreen. And there was Earth, getting bigger and greener and closer all the time. Remember what it felt like to be going back, after thirty years?" "Thirty years cooped up in this ship," grumbled Frankston. "All our twenties and thirties and forties ..." "But we were coming home." There was a rapt expression on Gregory's lined and weathered face. "We were looking forward to the twenty or maybe thirty good years we had left, talking about what we'd do, where we'd live, wondering what had changed on Earth. At least we had that last night out. All the data was stashed away in the microfiles, all the data about planets with air we couldn't breathe and food we couldn't eat. We were going home, home to big, friendly, green Earth." Frankston's face suddenly crumpled as though he were about to weep and he cradled his head against his arms. "God, do we have to go over it all again? Not again tonight!" "Leave him alone," ordered James with an inflection of command in his voice. "Go to the other section of the ship if you don't want to listen. He has to keep going over it, just like Ross has to keep watering his geraniums." Frankston remained motionless and Gregory looked gratefully at James. James was the steady one. It was easier for him because he understood. Gregory's face became more and more animated as he lost himself, living again his recollections: "The day we blasted in. The crowds. Thousands of people, all there to see us come in. We were proud. Of course, we thought we were the first to land, just like we'd been the first to go out. Those cheers, coming from thousands of people at once. For us. Ross-- Lt. Ross--was the first one out of the lock. We'd decided on that; he'd been in command for almost ten years, ever since Commander Stevens died. You remember Stevens, don't you? He took over when we lost Captain Willers. Well, anyway, Ross out first, and then you, James, and you, Frankston, and then Trippitt, and me last, because you were all specialists and I was just a crewman. _The_ crewman, I should say, the only one left. "Ross hesitated and almost stumbled when he stepped out, and tears began pouring from his eyes, but I thought--well, you know, coming home after thirty years and all that. But when I stepped out of the lock, my eyes stung like fire and a thousand needles seemed to jab at my skin. "And then the President himself stepped forward with the flowers. That's where the real trouble began, with the flowers. I remember Ross stretching out his arms to take the bouquet, like a mother reaching for a baby. Then suddenly he dropped them, sneezing and coughing and sobbing for breath, and the President reached out to help him, asking him over and over what was wrong. "It was the same with all of us, and we turned and staggered back to the ship, closing the lock behind us. It was bad then. God, I'll never forget it! The five of us, moaning in agony, gasping for breath, our eyes all swollen shut, and the itching ... that itching." Gregory shuddered. * * * * * Even the emotionally disciplined James set his teeth and felt his scalp crawl at the memory of that horror. He glanced toward the viewport, as though to cleanse his mind of the memory. He could see Ross out there, among the geraniums, moving slowly and painfully in his heavy spacesuit. Occupational therapy. Ross watered flowers and Gregory talked and Frankston was bitter and ... himself? Observation, maybe. Gregory's voice began again, "And then they were pounding on the lock, begging us to let the doctor in, but we were all rolling and thrashing with the itching, burning, sneezing, and finally James got himself under control enough to open the locks and let them in. "Then came the tests, allergy tests. Remember those? They'd cut a little row of scratches in your arm ..." Each man instinctively glanced at his forearm, saw neat rows of tiny pink scars, row on row. "Then they'd put a little powder in each cut and each kind of powder was an extract of some common substance we might be allergic to. The charts they made were full of 'P's, P for positive, long columns of big, red 'P's. All pollen, dust, wool, nylon, cotton, fish, meat, fruit, vegetables, grain, milk, whisky, cigarettes, dogs, cats--everything! And wasn't it funny about us being allergic to women's face powder? Ha! We were allergic to women from their nylon hose to their face powder. "Thirty years of breathing purified, sterilized, filtered air, thirty years of drinking distilled water and swallowing synthetic food tablets had changed us. The only things we weren't allergic to were the metal and plastic and synthetics of our ship, _this_ ship. We're allergic to Earth. That's funny, isn't it?" Gregory began to rock back and forth, laughing the thin high laugh of hysteria. James silently walked to a water hydrant and filled a plastic cup. He brought Gregory a small white pill. "You wouldn't take this with the rest of us at supper. You'd better take it now. You need it." Gregory nodded bleakly, sobering at once, and swallowed the pellet. He made a face after the water. "Distilled," he spat. "Distilled ... no flavor ... no life ... like us ... distilled." "If only we could have blasted off again." Frankston's voice came muffled through his hands. "It wouldn't have made any difference where. Anywhere or nowhere. No, our fine ship is obsolete and we're old, much too old. They have the spacedrive now. Men don't make thirty-year junkets into space and come back allergic to Earth. They go out, and in a month or two they're back, with their hair still black and their eyes still bright and their uniforms still fit. A month or two is all. Those crowds that cheered us, they were proud of us and sorry for us, because we'd been out thirty years and they never expected us back at all. But it was inconvenient for Spaceport." Bitter sarcasm tinged his voice. "They actually had to postpone the regular monthly Trans-Galactic run to let us in with this big, clumsy hulk." "Why didn't we ever see any of the new ships either going out or coming back?" asked Gregory. * * * * * Frankston shook his head. "You don't see a ship when it's in spacedrive. It's out of normal space-time dimensions. We had a smattering of the theory at cadet school ... anyway, if one did flash into normal space-time--say, for instance, coming in for a landing--the probability of us being at the same place at the same time was almost nil. 'Two ships passing in the night' as the old saying goes." Gregory nodded, "I guess Trippitt was the lucky one." "You didn't see Trippitt die," replied James. "What was it?" asked Frankston. "What killed Trippitt? So quickly, too. He was only outside a few minutes like the rest of us, and eight hours later he was dead." "We couldn't be sure," answered James. "Some virus. There are countless varieties. People live in a contaminated atmosphere all their lives, build up a resistance to them. Sometimes a particularly virulent strain will produce an epidemic, but most people, if they're affected, will have a mild case of whatever it is and recover. But after thirty years in space, thirty years of breathing perfectly pure, uncontaminated air, Trippitt had no antibodies in his bloodstream. The virus hit and he died." "But why didn't the rest of us get it?" asked Gregory. "We were lucky. Viruses are like that." "Those people talked about building a home for us," muttered Frankston. "Why didn't they?" "It wouldn't have been any different," answered James gently. "It would have been the same, almost an exact duplicate of the ship, everything but the rockets. Same metal and plastic and filtered air and synthetic food. It couldn't have had wool rugs or down pillows or smiling wives or fresh air or eggs for breakfast. It would have been just like this. So, since the ship was obsolete, they gave it to us, and a plot of ground to anchor it to, and we're home. They did the best they could for us, the very best they could." "But I feel stifled, shut in!" "The ship is large, Frankston. We all crowd into this section because, without each other, we'd go mad." James kicked the edge of the magazine on the floor. "Thank God we're not allergic to decontaminated paper. There's still reading." "We're getting old," said Gregory. "Some day one of us will be here alone." "God help him then," answered James, with more emotion than was usual for him. * * * * * During the latter part of the conversation, the little red signal had been flashing persistently. Finally James saw it. Ross was in the outer lock. James threw the decontaminator switch and the signal winked out. Every trace of dust and pollen would have to be removed from Ross's suit before he could come inside the ship. "Just like on an alien planet," commented Gregory. "Isn't that what this is to us--an alien planet?" asked Frankston, and neither of the other men dared answer his bitter question. A few minutes later, Ross was back in the cabin, and James helped him out of his spacesuit. "How are the geraniums, Ross?" asked Gregory. "Fine," said Ross enthusiastically. "They're doing just fine." He walked over to his bunk and lay down on his side so he could see out of the viewport. There would be an hour left before darkness fell, an hour to watch the geraniums. They were tall and red, and swayed slightly in the evening breeze. --LYN VENABLE Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Galaxy Science Fiction_ December 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Homesick Author: Lyn Venable Illustrator: Ed Emshwiller Release Date: August 3, 2009 [EBook #29599] Language: English * START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOMESICK * Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net [Illustration] _Homesick_ By LYN VENABLE Illustrated by EMSH _What thrill is there in going out among the stars if coming back means bitter loneliness?_ Frankston pushed listlessly at a red checker with his right forefinger. He knew the move would cost him a man, but he lacked enough interest in the game to plot out a safe move. His opponent, James, jumped the red disk with a black king and removed it from the board. Gregory, across the room, flicked rapidly through the pages of a magazine, too rapidly to be reading anything, or even looking at the pictures. Ross lay quietly on his bunk, staring out of the viewport. The four were strangely alike in appearance, nearly the same age, the age where gray hairs finally outnumber black, or baldness takes over. The age when the expanding waistline has begun to sag tiredly, when robust middle age begins the slow accelerating decline toward senility. A strange group to find aboard a spaceship, but then _The Columbus_ was a very strange ship. Bolted to its outer hull, just under the viewports, were wooden boxes full of red geraniums, and ivy wound tenuous green fronds over the gleaming hull that had withstood the bombardment of pinpoint meteors and turned away the deadly power of naked cosmic rays. Frankston glanced at his wristchrono. It was one minute to six. "In about a minute," he thought, "Ross will say something about going out to water his geraniums." The wristchrono ticked fifty-nine times. "I think I'll go out and water my geraniums," said Ross. * * * * * No one glanced up. Then Gregory threw his magazine on the floor. Ross got up and walked, limping slightly, to a wall locker. He pulled out the heavy, ungainly spacesuit and the big metal bulb of a headpiece. He carried them to his bunk and laid them carefully down. "Will somebody please help me on with my suit?" he asked. For one more long moment, no one moved. Then James got up and began to help Ross fit his legs into the suit. Ross had arthritis, not badly, but enough so that he needed a little help climbing into a spacesuit. James pulled the heavy folds of the suit up around Ross's body and held it while Ross extended his arms into the sleeve sections. His hands, in the heavy gauntlets, were too unwieldy to do the front fastenings, and he stood silently while James did it for him. Ross lifted the helmet, staring at it as a cripple might regard a wheelchair which he loathed but was wholly dependent upon. Then he fitted the helmet over his head and James fastened it down and lifted the oxygen tank to his back. "Ready?" asked James. The bulbous headpiece inclined in a nod. James walked to a panel and threw a switch marked INNER LOCK. A round aperture slid silently open. Ross stepped through it and the door shut behind him as James threw the switch back to its original position. Opposite the switch marked OUTER LOCK a signal glowed redly and James threw another switch. A moment later the signal flickered out. Frankston, with a violent gesture, swept the checker board clean. Red and black men clattered to the floor, rolling and spinning. Nobody picked them up. "What does he do it for?" demanded Frankston in a tight voice. "What does he get out of those stinking geraniums he can't touch or smell?" "Shut up," said Gregory. James looked up sharply. Curtness was unusual for Gregory, a bad sign. Frankston was the one he'd been watching, the one who'd shown signs of cracking, but after so long, even a psycho-expert's opinion might be haywire. Who was a yardstick? Who was normal? "Geraniums don't smell much anyway," added Gregory in a more conciliatory tone. "Yeah," agreed Frankston, "I'd forgotten that. But why does he torture himself like this, and us, too?" "Because that's what he wanted to do," answered James. "Sure," agreed Gregory, "the whole trip--the last twenty years of it, anyhow--all he could talk about was how, when he got back to Earth, he was going to buy a little place in the country and raise flowers." "Well, we're back," muttered Frankston, with a terrible bitterness. "He's raising flowers, but not in any little place in the country." * * * * * Gregory continued almost dreamily, "Remember the last night out? We were all gathered around the viewscreen. And there was Earth, getting bigger and greener and closer all the time. Remember what it felt like to be going back, after thirty years?" "Thirty years cooped up in this ship," grumbled Frankston. "All our twenties and thirties and forties ..." "But we were coming home." There was a rapt expression on Gregory's lined and weathered face. "We were looking forward to the twenty or maybe thirty good years we had left, talking about what we'd do, where we'd live, wondering what had changed on Earth. At least we had that last night out. All the data was stashed away in the microfiles, all the data about planets with air we couldn't breathe and food we couldn't eat. We were going home, home to big, friendly, green Earth." Frankston's face suddenly crumpled as though he were about to weep and he cradled his head against his arms. "God, do we have to go over it all again? Not again tonight!" "Leave him alone," ordered James with an inflection of command in his voice. "Go to the other section of the ship if you don't want to listen. He has to keep going over it, just like Ross has to keep watering his geraniums." Frankston remained motionless and Gregory looked gratefully at James. James was the steady one. It was easier for him because he understood. Gregory's face became more and more animated as he lost himself, living again his recollections: "The day we blasted in. The crowds. Thousands of people, all there to see us come in. We were proud. Of course, we thought we were the first to land, just like we'd been the first to go out. Those cheers, coming from thousands of people at once. For us. Ross-- Lt. Ross--was the first one out of the lock. We'd decided on that; he'd been in command for almost ten years, ever since Commander Stevens died. You remember Stevens, don't you? He took over when we lost Captain Willers. Well, anyway, Ross out first, and then you, James, and you, Frankston, and then Trippitt, and me last, because you were all specialists and I was just a crewman. _The_ crewman, I should say, the only one left. "Ross hesitated and almost stumbled when he stepped out, and tears began pouring from his eyes, but I thought--well, you know, coming home after thirty years and all that. But when I stepped out of the lock, my eyes stung like fire and a thousand needles seemed to jab at my skin. "And then the President himself stepped forward with the flowers. That's where the real trouble began, with the flowers. I remember Ross stretching out his arms to take the bouquet, like a mother reaching for a baby. Then suddenly he dropped them, sneezing and coughing and sobbing for breath, and the President reached out to help him, asking him over and over what was wrong. "It was the same with all of us, and we turned and staggered back to the ship, closing the lock behind us. It was bad then. God, I'll never forget it! The five of us, moaning in agony, gasping for breath, our eyes all swollen shut, and the itching ... that itching." Gregory shuddered. * * * * * Even the emotionally disciplined James set his teeth and felt his scalp crawl at the memory of that horror. He glanced toward the viewport, as though to cleanse his mind of the memory. He could see Ross out there, among the geraniums, moving slowly and painfully in his heavy spacesuit. Occupational therapy. Ross watered flowers and Gregory talked and Frankston was bitter and ... himself? Observation, maybe. Gregory's voice began again, "And then they were pounding on the lock, begging us to let the doctor in, but we were all rolling and thrashing with the itching, burning, sneezing, and finally James got himself under control enough to open the locks and let them in. "Then came the tests, allergy tests. Remember those? They'd cut a little row of scratches in your arm ..." Each man instinctively glanced at his forearm, saw neat rows of tiny pink scars, row on row. "Then they'd put a little powder in each cut and each kind of powder was an extract of some common substance we might be allergic to. The charts they made were full of 'P's, P for positive, long columns of big, red 'P's. All pollen, dust, wool, nylon, cotton, fish, meat, fruit, vegetables, grain, milk, whisky, cigarettes, dogs, cats--everything! And wasn't it funny about us being allergic to women's face powder? Ha! We were allergic to women from their nylon hose to their face powder. "Thirty years of breathing purified, sterilized, filtered air, thirty years of drinking distilled water and swallowing synthetic food tablets had changed us. The only things we weren't allergic to were the metal and plastic and synthetics of our ship, _this_ ship. We're allergic to Earth. That's funny, isn't it?" Gregory began to rock back and forth, laughing the thin high laugh of hysteria. James silently walked to a water hydrant and filled a plastic cup. He brought Gregory a small white pill. "You wouldn't take this with the rest of us at supper. You'd better take it now. You need it." Gregory nodded bleakly, sobering at once, and swallowed the pellet. He made a face after the water. "Distilled," he spat. "Distilled ... no flavor ... no life ... like us ... distilled." "If only we could have blasted off again." Frankston's voice came muffled through his hands. "It wouldn't have made any difference where. Anywhere or nowhere. No, our fine ship is obsolete and we're old, much too old. They have the spacedrive now. Men don't make thirty-year junkets into space and come back allergic to Earth. They go out, and in a month or two they're back, with their hair still black and their eyes still bright and their uniforms still fit. A month or two is all. Those crowds that cheered us, they were proud of us and sorry for us, because we'd been out thirty years and they never expected us back at all. But it was inconvenient for Spaceport." Bitter sarcasm tinged his voice. "They actually had to postpone the regular monthly Trans-Galactic run to let us in with this big, clumsy hulk." "Why didn't we ever see any of the new ships either going out or coming back?" asked Gregory. * * * * * Frankston shook his head. "You don't see a ship when it's in spacedrive. It's out of normal space-time dimensions. We had a smattering of the theory at cadet school ... anyway, if one did flash into normal space-time--say, for instance, coming in for a landing--the probability of us being at the same place at the same time was almost nil. 'Two ships passing in the night' as the old saying goes." Gregory nodded, "I guess Trippitt was the lucky one." "You didn't see Trippitt die," replied James. "What was it?" asked Frankston. "What killed Trippitt? So quickly, too. He was only outside a few minutes like the rest of us, and eight hours later he was dead." "We couldn't be sure," answered James. "Some virus. There are countless varieties. People live in a contaminated atmosphere all their lives, build up a resistance to them. Sometimes a particularly virulent strain will produce an epidemic, but most people, if they're affected, will have a mild case of whatever it is and recover. But after thirty years in space, thirty years of breathing perfectly pure, uncontaminated air, Trippitt had no antibodies in his bloodstream. The virus hit and he died." "But why didn't the rest of us get it?" asked Gregory. "We were lucky. Viruses are like that." "Those people talked about building a home for us," muttered Frankston. "Why didn't they?" "It wouldn't have been any different," answered James gently. "It would have been the same, almost an exact duplicate of the ship, everything but the rockets. Same metal and plastic and filtered air and synthetic food. It couldn't have had wool rugs or down pillows or smiling wives or fresh air or eggs for breakfast. It would have been just like this. So, since the ship was obsolete, they gave it to us, and a plot of ground to anchor it to, and we're home. They did the best they could for us, the very best they could." "But I feel stifled, shut in!" "The ship is large, Frankston. We all crowd into this section because, without each other, we'd go mad." James kicked the edge of the magazine on the floor. "Thank God we're not allergic to decontaminated paper. There's still reading." "We're getting old," said Gregory. "Some day one of us will be here alone." "God help him then," answered James, with more emotion than was usual for him. * * * * * During the latter part of the conversation, the little red signal had been flashing persistently. Finally James saw it. Ross was in the outer lock. James threw the decontaminator switch and the signal winked out. Every trace of dust and pollen would have to be removed from Ross's suit before he could come inside the ship. "Just like on an alien planet," commented Gregory. "Isn't that what this is to us--an alien planet?" asked Frankston, and neither of the other men dared answer his bitter question. A few minutes later, Ross was back in the cabin, and James helped him out of his spacesuit. "How are the geraniums, Ross?" asked Gregory. "Fine," said Ross enthusiastically. "They're doing just fine." He walked over to his bunk and lay down on his side so he could see out of the viewport. There would be an hour left before darkness fell, an hour to watch the geraniums. They were tall and red, and swayed slightly in the evening breeze. --LYN VENABLE Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Galaxy Science Fiction_ December 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Homesick, by Lyn Venable * END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOMESICK * *** This file should be named 29599.txt or 29599.zip * This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/5/9/29599/ Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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锘縏he Project Gutenberg EBook of Keep Out, by Fredric Brown This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Keep Out Author: Fredric Brown Illustrator: Ernest Schroeder Release Date: June 17, 2009 [EBook #29142] Language: English * START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KEEP OUT * Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net [Illustration] KEEP OUT BY FREDERIC BROWN _With no more room left on Earth, and with Mars hanging up there empty of life, somebody hit on the plan of starting a colony on the Red Planet. It meant changing the habits and physical structure of the immigrants, but that worked out fine. In fact, every possible factor was covered--except one of the flaws of human nature...._ Daptine is the secret of it. Adaptine, they called it first; then it got shortened to daptine. It let us adapt. They explained it all to us when we were ten years old; I guess they thought we were too young to understand before then, although we knew a lot of it already. They told us just after we landed on Mars. "You're _home_, children," the Head Teacher told us after we had gone into the glassite dome they'd built for us there. And he told us there'd be a special lecture for us that evening, an important one that we must all attend. And that evening he told us the whole story and the whys and wherefores. He stood up before us. He had to wear a heated space suit and helmet, of course, because the temperature in the dome was comfortable for us but already freezing cold for him and the air was already too thin for him to breathe. His voice came to us by radio from inside his helmet. "Children," he said, "you are home. This is Mars, the planet on which you will spend the rest of your lives. You are Martians, the first Martians. You have lived five years on Earth and another five in space. Now you will spend ten years, until you are adults, in this dome, although toward the end of that time you will be allowed to spend increasingly long periods outdoors. "Then you will go forth and make your own homes, live your own lives, as Martians. You will intermarry and your children will breed true. They too will be Martians. "It is time you were told the history of this great experiment of which each of you is a part." Then he told us. Man, he said, had first reached Mars in 1985. It had been uninhabited by intelligent life (there is plenty of plant life and a few varieties of non-flying insects) and he had found it by terrestrial standards uninhabitable. Man could survive on Mars only by living inside glassite domes and wearing space suits when he went outside of them. Except by day in the warmer seasons it was too cold for him. The air was too thin for him to breathe and long exposure to sunlight--less filtered of rays harmful to him than on Earth because of the lesser atmosphere--could kill him. The plants were chemically alien to him and he could not eat them; he had to bring all his food from Earth or grow it in hydroponic tanks. * * * * * For fifty years he had tried to colonize Mars and all his efforts had failed. Besides this dome which had been built for us there was only one other outpost, another glassite dome much smaller and less than a mile away. It had looked as though mankind could never spread to the other planets of the solar system besides Earth for of all of them Mars was the least inhospitable; if he couldn't live here there was no use even trying to colonize the others. And then, in 2034, thirty years ago, a brilliant biochemist named Waymoth had discovered daptine. A miracle drug that worked not on the animal or person to whom it was given, but on the progeny he conceived during a limited period of time after inoculation. It gave his progeny almost limitless adaptability to changing conditions, provided the changes were made gradually. Dr. Waymoth had inoculated and then mated a pair of guinea pigs; they had borne a litter of five and by placing each member of the litter under different and gradually changing conditions, he had obtained amazing results. When they attained maturity one of those guinea pigs was living comfortably at a temperature of forty below zero Fahrenheit, another was quite happy at a hundred and fifty above. A third was thriving on a diet that would have been deadly poison for an ordinary animal and a fourth was contented under a constant X-ray bombardment that would have killed one of its parents within minutes. Subsequent experiments with many litters showed that animals who had been adapted to similar conditions bred true and their progeny was conditioned from birth to live under those conditions. "Ten years later, ten years ago," the Head Teacher told us, "you children were born. Born of parents carefully selected from those who volunteered for the experiment. And from birth you have been brought up under carefully controlled and gradually changing conditions. "From the time you were born the air you have breathed has been very gradually thinned and its oxygen content reduced. Your lungs have compensated by becoming much greater in capacity, which is why your chests are so much larger than those of your teachers and attendants; when you are fully mature and are breathing air like that of Mars, the difference will be even greater. "Your bodies are growing fur to enable you to stand the increasing cold. You are comfortable now under conditions which would kill ordinary people quickly. Since you were four years old your nurses and teachers have had to wear special protection to survive conditions that seem normal to you. "In another ten years, at maturity, you will be completely acclimated to Mars. Its air will be your air; its food plants your food. Its extremes of temperature will be easy for you to endure and its median temperatures pleasant to you. Already, because of the five years we spent in space under gradually decreased gravitational pull, the gravity of Mars seems normal to you. "It will be your planet, to live on and to populate. You are the children of Earth but you are the first Martians." Of course we had known a lot of those things already. * * * * * The last year was the best. By then the air inside the dome--except for the pressurized parts where our teachers and attendants live--was almost like that outside, and we were allowed out for increasingly long periods. It is good to be in the open. The last few months they relaxed segregation of the sexes so we could begin choosing mates, although they told us there is to be no marriage until after the final day, after our full clearance. Choosing was not difficult in my case. I had made my choice long since and I'd felt sure that she felt the same way; I was right. Tomorrow is the day of our freedom. Tomorrow we will be Martians, _the_ Martians. Tomorrow we shall take over the planet. Some among us are impatient, have been impatient for weeks now, but wiser counsel prevailed and we are waiting. We have waited twenty years and we can wait until the final day. And tomorrow is the final day. Tomorrow, at a signal, we will kill the teachers and the other Earthmen among us before we go forth. They do not suspect, so it will be easy. We have dissimulated for years now, and they do not know how we hate them. They do not know how disgusting and hideous we find them, with their ugly misshapen bodies, so narrow-shouldered and tiny-chested, their weak sibilant voices that need amplification to carry in our Martian air, and above all their white pasty hairless skins. We shall kill them and then we shall go and smash the other dome so all the Earthmen there will die too. If more Earthmen ever come to punish us, we can live and hide in the hills where they'll never find us. And if they try to build more domes here we'll smash them. We want no more to do with Earth. This is our planet and we want no aliens. Keep off! Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Amazing Stories_ March 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Keep Out, by Fredric Brown * END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KEEP OUT * *** This file should be named 29142.txt or 29142.zip * This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/1/4/29142/ Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Keep Out Author: Fredric Brown Illustrator: Ernest Schroeder Release Date: June 17, 2009 [EBook #29142] Language: English * START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KEEP OUT * Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net [Illustration] KEEP OUT BY FREDERIC BROWN _With no more room left on Earth, and with Mars hanging up there empty of life, somebody hit on the plan of starting a colony on the Red Planet. It meant changing the habits and physical structure of the immigrants, but that worked out fine. In fact, every possible factor was covered--except one of the flaws of human nature...._ Daptine is the secret of it. Adaptine, they called it first; then it got shortened to daptine. It let us adapt. They explained it all to us when we were ten years old; I guess they thought we were too young to understand before then, although we knew a lot of it already. They told us just after we landed on Mars. "You're _home_, children," the Head Teacher told us after we had gone into the glassite dome they'd built for us there. And he told us there'd be a special lecture for us that evening, an important one that we must all attend. And that evening he told us the whole story and the whys and wherefores. He stood up before us. He had to wear a heated space suit and helmet, of course, because the temperature in the dome was comfortable for us but already freezing cold for him and the air was already too thin for him to breathe. His voice came to us by radio from inside his helmet. "Children," he said, "you are home. This is Mars, the planet on which you will spend the rest of your lives. You are Martians, the first Martians. You have lived five years on Earth and another five in space. Now you will spend ten years, until you are adults, in this dome, although toward the end of that time you will be allowed to spend increasingly long periods outdoors. "Then you will go forth and make your own homes, live your own lives, as Martians. You will intermarry and your children will breed true. They too will be Martians. "It is time you were told the history of this great experiment of which each of you is a part." Then he told us. Man, he said, had first reached Mars in 1985. It had been uninhabited by intelligent life (there is plenty of plant life and a few varieties of non-flying insects) and he had found it by terrestrial standards uninhabitable. Man could survive on Mars only by living inside glassite domes and wearing space suits when he went outside of them. Except by day in the warmer seasons it was too cold for him. The air was too thin for him to breathe and long exposure to sunlight--less filtered of rays harmful to him than on Earth because of the lesser atmosphere--could kill him. The plants were chemically alien to him and he could not eat them; he had to bring all his food from Earth or grow it in hydroponic tanks. * * * * * For fifty years he had tried to colonize Mars and all his efforts had failed. Besides this dome which had been built for us there was only one other outpost, another glassite dome much smaller and less than a mile away. It had looked as though mankind could never spread to the other planets of the solar system besides Earth for of all of them Mars was the least inhospitable; if he couldn't live here there was no use even trying to colonize the others. And then, in 2034, thirty years ago, a brilliant biochemist named Waymoth had discovered daptine. A miracle drug that worked not on the animal or person to whom it was given, but on the progeny he conceived during a limited period of time after inoculation. It gave his progeny almost limitless adaptability to changing conditions, provided the changes were made gradually. Dr. Waymoth had inoculated and then mated a pair of guinea pigs; they had borne a litter of five and by placing each member of the litter under different and gradually changing conditions, he had obtained amazing results. When they attained maturity one of those guinea pigs was living comfortably at a temperature of forty below zero Fahrenheit, another was quite happy at a hundred and fifty above. A third was thriving on a diet that would have been deadly poison for an ordinary animal and a fourth was contented under a constant X-ray bombardment that would have killed one of its parents within minutes. Subsequent experiments with many litters showed that animals who had been adapted to similar conditions bred true and their progeny was conditioned from birth to live under those conditions. "Ten years later, ten years ago," the Head Teacher told us, "you children were born. Born of parents carefully selected from those who volunteered for the experiment. And from birth you have been brought up under carefully controlled and gradually changing conditions. "From the time you were born the air you have breathed has been very gradually thinned and its oxygen content reduced. Your lungs have compensated by becoming much greater in capacity, which is why your chests are so much larger than those of your teachers and attendants; when you are fully mature and are breathing air like that of Mars, the difference will be even greater. "Your bodies are growing fur to enable you to stand the increasing cold. You are comfortable now under conditions which would kill ordinary people quickly. Since you were four years old your nurses and teachers have had to wear special protection to survive conditions that seem normal to you. "In another ten years, at maturity, you will be completely acclimated to Mars. Its air will be your air; its food plants your food. Its extremes of temperature will be easy for you to endure and its median temperatures pleasant to you. Already, because of the five years we spent in space under gradually decreased gravitational pull, the gravity of Mars seems normal to you. "It will be your planet, to live on and to populate. You are the children of Earth but you are the first Martians." Of course we had known a lot of those things already. * * * * * The last year was the best. By then the air inside the dome--except for the pressurized parts where our teachers and attendants live--was almost like that outside, and we were allowed out for increasingly long periods. It is good to be in the open. The last few months they relaxed segregation of the sexes so we could begin choosing mates, although they told us there is to be no marriage until after the final day, after our full clearance. Choosing was not difficult in my case. I had made my choice long since and I'd felt sure that she felt the same way; I was right. Tomorrow is the day of our freedom. Tomorrow we will be Martians, _the_ Martians. Tomorrow we shall take over the planet. Some among us are impatient, have been impatient for weeks now, but wiser counsel prevailed and we are waiting. We have waited twenty years and we can wait until the final day. And tomorrow is the final day. Tomorrow, at a signal, we will kill the teachers and the other Earthmen among us before we go forth. They do not suspect, so it will be easy. We have dissimulated for years now, and they do not know how we hate them. They do not know how disgusting and hideous we find them, with their ugly misshapen bodies, so narrow-shouldered and tiny-chested, their weak sibilant voices that need amplification to carry in our Martian air, and above all their white pasty hairless skins. We shall kill them and then we shall go and smash the other dome so all the Earthmen there will die too. If more Earthmen ever come to punish us, we can live and hide in the hills where they'll never find us. And if they try to build more domes here we'll smash them. We want no more to do with Earth. This is our planet and we want no aliens. Keep off! Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Amazing Stories_ March 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Keep Out, by Fredric Brown * END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KEEP OUT * *** This file should be named 29142.txt or 29142.zip * This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/1/4/29142/ Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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茂禄驴The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Right to Read, by Richard Stallman This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. This is a COPYRIGHTED Project Gutenberg eBook, Details Below Please follow the copyright guidelines in this file. Title: The Right to Read Author: Richard Stallman Release Date: November, 1999 [EBook #1981] [Most recently updated: February 18, 2020] Language: English and French Character set encoding: UTF-8 * START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RIGHT TO READ * Copyright (C) 1996 Richard Stallman The Right to Read by Richard Stallman [Illustration] Table of Contents Author's Note References Other Texts to Read This article appeared in the February 1997 issue of Communications of the ACM (Volume 40, Number 2). (from "The Road To Tycho", a collection of articles about the antecedents of the Lunarian Revolution, published in Luna City in 2096) For Dan Halbert, the road to Tycho began in college--when Lissa Lenz asked to borrow his computer. Hers had broken down, and unless she could borrow another, she would fail her midterm project. There was no one she dared ask, except Dan. This put Dan in a dilemma. He had to help her--but if he lent her his computer, she might read his books. Aside from the fact that you could go to prison for many years for letting someone else read your books, the very idea shocked him at first. Like everyone, he had been taught since elementary school that sharing books was nasty and wrong--something that only pirates would do. And there wasn't much chance that the SPA--the Software Protection Authority--would fail to catch him. In his software class, Dan had learned that each book had a copyright monitor that reported when and where it was read, and by whom, to Central Licensing. (They used this information to catch reading pirates, but also to sell personal interest profiles to retailers.) The next time his computer was networked, Central Licensing would find out. He, as computer owner, would receive the harshest punishment--for not taking pains to prevent the crime. Of course, Lissa did not necessarily intend to read his books. She might want the computer only to write her midterm. But Dan knew she came from a middle-class family and could hardly afford the tuition, let alone her reading fees. Reading his books might be the only way she could graduate. He understood this situation; he himself had had to borrow to pay for all the research papers he read. (10% of those fees went to the researchers who wrote the papers; since Dan aimed for an academic career, he could hope that his own research papers, if frequently referenced, would bring in enough to repay this loan.) Later on, Dan would learn there was a time when anyone could go to the library and read journal articles, and even books, without having to pay. There were independent scholars who read thousands of pages without government library grants. But in the 1990s, both commercial and nonprofit journal publishers had begun charging fees for access. By 2047, libraries offering free public access to scholarly literature were a dim memory. There were ways, of course, to get around the SPA and Central Licensing. They were themselves illegal. Dan had had a classmate in software, Frank Martucci, who had obtained an illicit debugging tool, and used it to skip over the copyright monitor code when reading books. But he had told too many friends about it, and one of them turned him in to the SPA for a reward (students deep in debt were easily tempted into betrayal). In 2047, Frank was in prison, not for pirate reading, but for possessing a debugger. Dan would later learn that there was a time when anyone could have debugging tools. There were even free debugging tools available on CD or downloadable over the net. But ordinary users started using them to bypass copyright monitors, and eventually a judge ruled that this had become their principal use in actual practice. This meant they were illegal; the debuggers' developers were sent to prison. Programmers still needed debugging tools, of course, but debugger vendors in 2047 distributed numbered copies only, and only to officially licensed and bonded programmers. The debugger Dan used in software class was kept behind a special firewall so that it could be used only for class exercises. It was also possible to bypass the copyright monitors by installing a modified system kernel. Dan would eventually find out about the free kernels, even entire free operating systems, that had existed around the turn of the century. But not only were they illegal, like debuggers--you could not install one if you had one, without knowing your computer's root password. And neither the FBI nor Microsoft Support would tell you that. Dan concluded that he couldn't simply lend Lissa his computer. But he couldn't refuse to help her, because he loved her. Every chance to speak with her filled him with delight. And that she chose him to ask for help, that could mean she loved him too. Dan resolved the dilemma by doing something even more unthinkable--he lent her the computer, and told her his password. This way, if Lissa read his books, Central Licensing would think he was reading them. It was still a crime, but the SPA would not automatically find out about it. They would only find out if Lissa reported him. Of course, if the school ever found out that he had given Lissa his own password, it would be curtains for both of them as students, regardless of what she had used it for. School policy was that any interference with their means of monitoring students' computer use was grounds for disciplinary action. It didn't matter whether you did anything harmful--the offense was making it hard for the administrators to check on you. They assumed this meant you were doing something else forbidden, and they did not need to know what it was. Students were not usually expelled for this--not directly. Instead they were banned from the school computer systems, and would inevitably fail all their classes. Later, Dan would learn that this kind of university policy started only in the 1980s, when university students in large numbers began using computers. Previously, universities maintained a different approach to student discipline; they punished activities that were harmful, not those that merely raised suspicion. Lissa did not report Dan to the SPA. His decision to help her led to their marriage, and also led them to question what they had been taught about piracy as children. The couple began reading about the history of copyright, about the Soviet Union and its restrictions on copying, and even the original United States Constitution. They moved to Luna, where they found others who had likewise gravitated away from the long arm of the SPA. When the Tycho Uprising began in 2062, the universal right to read soon became one of its central aims. Author's Note The right to read is a battle being fought today. Although it may take 50 years for our present way of life to fade into obscurity, most of the specific laws and practices described above have already been proposed--either by the Clinton Administration or by publishers. There is one exception: the idea that the FBI and Microsoft will keep the root passwords for personal computers. This is an extrapolation from the Clipper chip and similar Clinton Administration key-escrow proposals, together with a long-term trend: computer systems are increasingly set up to give absentee operators control over the people actually using the computer system. The SPA, which actually stands for Software Publisher's Association, is not today an official police force. Unofficially, it acts like one. It invites people to inform on their coworkers and friends; like the Clinton Administration, it advocates a policy of collective responsibility whereby computer owners must actively enforce copyright or be punished. The SPA is currently threatening small Internet service providers, demanding they permit the SPA to monitor all users. Most ISPs surrender when threatened, because they cannot afford to fight back in court. (Atlanta Journal-Constitution, 1 Oct 96, D3.) At least one ISP, Community ConneXion in Oakland CA, refused the demand and was actually sued. The SPA is said to have dropped this suit recently, but they are sure to continue the campaign in various other ways. The university security policies described above are not imaginary. For example, a computer at one Chicago-area university prints this message when you log in (quotation marks are in the original): "This system is for the use of authorized users only. Individuals using this computer system without authority or in the excess of their authority are subject to having all their activities on this system monitored and recorded by system personnel. In the course of monitoring individuals improperly using this system or in the course of system maintenance, the activities of authorized user may also be monitored. Anyone using this system expressly consents to such monitoring and is advised that if such monitoring reveals possible evidence of illegal activity or violation of University regulations system personnel may provide the evidence of such monitoring to University authorities and/or law enforcement officials." This is an interesting approach to the Fourth Amendment: pressure most everyone to agree, in advance, to waive their rights under it. References The administration's "White Paper": Information Infrastructure Task Force, Intellectual Property and the National Information Infrastructure: The Report of the Working Group on Intellectual Property Rights (1995). An explanation of the White Paper: The Copyright Grab, Pamela Samuelson, Wired, Jan. 1996 Other Texts to Read FSF & GNU inquiries & questions to [email protected]. Other ways to contact the FSF. Comments on these web pages to [email protected], send other questions to [email protected]. Copyright 1996 Richard Stallman Verbatim copying and distribution of this entire article is permitted in any medium, provided this notice is preserved. Updated: 12 Feb markg End of the Project Gutenberg Etext of The Right to Read, English Version Le droit de lire Richard Stallman [Illustration] Table of Contents Note de l'auteur References Cet article a 脙漏t脙漏 publi脙漏 dans la parution de f脙漏vrier 1997 de Communications of the ACM (volume 40, num脙漏ro 2). (extrait de "The Road to Tycho", une collection d'articles sur les ant脙漏c脙漏dents de la R脙漏volution lunaire, publi脙漏e 脙聽 Luna City en 2096) Pour Dan Halbert, la route vers Tycho commen脙搂a 脙聽 l'universit脙漏 -- quand Lissa Lenz lui demanda de lui pr脙陋ter son ordinateur. Le sien 脙漏tait en panne, et 脙聽 moins qu'elle puisse en emprunter un autre, elle 脙漏chouerait son projet de mi-session. Il n'y avait personne d'autre 脙聽 qui elle osait demander, 脙聽 part Dan. Ceci posa un dilemme 脙聽 Dan. Il se devait de l'aider -- mais s'il lui pr脙陋tait son ordinateur, elle pourrait lire ses livres. 脙聙 part le fait que vous pouviez aller en prison pour plusieurs ann脙漏es pour avoir laiss脙漏 quelqu'un lire vos livres, l'id脙漏e m脙陋me le choqua au d脙漏part. Comme 脙聽 tout le monde, on lui avait enseign脙漏 d脙篓s l'脙漏cole primaire que partager des livres 脙漏tait malicieux et immoral -- une chose que seuls les pirates font. Et il 脙漏tait improbable que la SPA -- la Software Protection Authority -- manquerait de le pincer. Dans ses cours sur les logiciels, Dan avait appris que chaque livre avait un moniteur de copyright qui rapportait quand et o脙鹿 il 脙漏tait lu, et par qui, 脙聽 la Centrale des licences. (Elle utilisait ces informations pour attraper les lecteurs pirates, mais aussi pour vendre des renseignements personnels 脙聽 des d脙漏taillants.) La prochaine fois que son ordinateur serait en r脙漏seau, la Centrale des licences se rendrait compte. Dan, comme propri脙漏taire d'ordinateur, subirait les punitions les plus s脙漏v脙篓res -- pour ne pas avoir tout tent脙漏 pour 脙漏viter le crime. Bien s脙禄r, Lissa n'avait pas n脙漏cessairement l'intention de lire ses livres. Elle pourrait ne vouloir l'ordinateur que pour 脙漏crire son projet. Mais Dan savait qu'elle venait d'une famille de classe moyenne et qu'elle arrivait difficilement 脙聽 payer ses frais de scolarit脙漏, sans compter ses frais de lecture. Lire les livres de Dan pourrait 脙陋tre sa seule fa脙搂on de graduer. Il comprenait cette situation; lui-m脙陋me avait eu 脙聽 emprunter pour payer pour tous les articles scientifiques qu'il avait eu 脙聽 lire. (10% de ces frais allaient aux chercheurs qui 脙漏crivaient ces articles; puisque Dan visait une carri脙篓re acad脙漏mique, il pouvait esp脙漏rer que si ses propres articles scientiques 脙漏taient souvent lus, il gagnerait un revenu suffisant pour rembourser sa dette.) Par la suite, Dan apprendrait qu'il y eut un temps o脙鹿 n'importe qui pouvait aller 脙聽 la biblioth脙篓que et lire des articles de journaux, et m脙陋me des livres, sans avoir 脙聽 payer. Il y avait des universitaires ind脙漏pendants qui lisaient des milliers de pages sans subventions des biblioth脙篓ques gouvernementales. Mais dans les ann脙漏es 1990, les 脙漏diteurs aussi bien commerciaux qu'脙聽 but non lucratif avaient commenc脙漏脙聽 facturer l'acc脙篓s. En 2047, les biblioth脙篓ques offrant un acc脙篓s public gratuit 脙聽 la litt脙漏rature scientifique n'脙漏taient qu'un p脙垄le souvenir. Il y avait des fa脙搂ons, bien s脙禄r, de contourner la SPA et la Centrale des licences. Elles 脙漏taient elles-m脙陋mes ill脙漏gales. Dan avait eu un compagnon de classe dans son cours sur les logiciels, Frank Martucci, qui avait obtenu un outil ill脙漏gal de d脙漏boguage, et l'avait utilis脙漏 pour outrepasser le code du moniteur de copyright quand il lisait des livres. Mais il en avait parl脙漏脙聽 trop d'amis, et l'un d'eux l'a d脙漏nonc脙漏 aupr脙篓s de la SPA pour une r脙漏compense (des 脙漏tudiants cribl脙漏s de dettes pouvaient facilement 脙陋tre tent脙漏s par la trahison). En 2047, Frank 脙漏tait en prison, non pas pour lecture pirate, mais pour possession d'un d脙漏bogueur. Dan apprendrait plus tard qu'il y eut un temps o脙鹿 n'importe qui pouvait poss脙漏der des outils de d脙漏boguage. Il y avait m脙陋me des outils de d脙漏boguage disponibles gratuitement sur des CD ou qu'on pouvait t脙漏l脙漏charger du Net. Mais des usagers ordinaires commenc脙篓rent 脙聽 s'en servir pour outrepasser les moniteurs de copyright, et 脙漏ventuellement un juge a d脙漏cid脙漏 que c'脙漏tait devenu leur principale utilisation en pratique. Ceci voulait dire qu'ils 脙漏taient ill脙漏gaux; les d脙漏veloppeurs de ces d脙漏bogueurs furent envoy脙漏s en prison. Les programmeurs avaient encore besoin d'outils pour d脙漏boguer, bien s脙禄r, mais les vendeurs de d脙漏bogueurs en 2047 ne distribuaient que des copies num脙漏rot脙漏es, et seulement 脙聽 des programmeurs officiellement licenci脙漏s et soumis. Le d脙漏bogueur que Dan utilisait dans son cours sur les logiciels 脙漏tait gard脙漏 derri脙篓re un garde-barri脙篓re sp脙漏cial afin qu'il ne puisse servir que pour les exercices du cours. Il 脙漏tait aussi possible de contourner les moniteurs de copyright en installant un noyau syst脙篓me modifi脙漏. Dan apprendrait 脙漏ventuellement l'existence de noyaux libres, et m脙陋me de syst脙篓mes d'exploitation enti脙篓rement libres, qui avaient exist脙漏 au tournant du si脙篓cle. Mais non seulement 脙漏taient-ils ill脙漏gaux, comme les d脙漏bogueurs, mais vous ne pouviez en installer un, si vous en aviez un, sans connaitre le mot de passe de l'usager superviseur de votre ordinateur. Or, ni le FBI ni l'Aide technique Microsoft ne vous le r脙漏v脙篓lerait. Dan conclut qu'il ne pouvait simplement pr脙陋ter son ordinateur 脙聽 Lissa. Mais il ne pouvait refuser de l'aider, car il l'aimait. Chaque chance de lui parler le remplissait d'aise. Et le fait qu'elle l'avait choisi pour demander de l'aide pouvait signifier qu'elle l'aimait aussi. Dan r脙漏solut le dilemme en faisant une chose encore plus impensable -- il lui pr脙陋ta l'ordinateur, et lui dit son mot de passe. Ainsi, si Lissa lisait ses livres, la Centrale des licences penserait que c'脙漏tait lui qui les lisait. C'脙漏tait quand m脙陋me un crime, mais la SPA ne s'en rendrait pas compte automatiquement. Ils ne s'en rendraient compte que si Lissa le d脙漏non脙搂ait. Bien s脙禄r, si l'脙漏cole devait un jour apprendre qu'il avait donn脙漏 son propre mot de passe 脙聽 Lissa, ce serait la fin de leurs 脙漏tudes, peu importe ce 脙聽 quoi le mot de passe aurait servi. La politique de l'脙漏cole 脙漏tait que toute interf脙漏rence avec ses m脙漏canismes de surveillance de l'utilisation des ordinateurs par les 脙漏tudiants 脙漏tait punissable. Il n'importait pas qu'aucun mal n'ait 脙漏t脙漏 fait -- l'offense 脙漏tait de se rendre difficile 脙聽 surveiller par les administrateurs. Ils supposaient que 脙搂a signifiait que vous faisiez quelque chose d'autre qui 脙漏tait interdit, et ils n'avaient pas besoin de savoir de quoi il s'agissait. Les 脙漏tudiants n'脙漏taient habituellement pas expuls脙漏s pour cela -- pas directement. Ils 脙漏taient plut脙麓t bannis des syst脙篓mes informatiques de l'脙漏cole, et 脙漏chouaient in脙漏vitablement leurs cours. Plus tard, Dan apprendrait que ce genre de politique n'a commenc脙漏 dans les universit脙漏s que dans les ann脙漏es 1980, quand des 脙漏tudiants commenc脙篓rent 脙聽脙陋tre nombreux 脙聽 utiliser des ordinateurs. Avant, les universit脙漏s avaient une approche diff脙漏rente au sujet de la discipline aupr脙篓s des 脙漏tudiants; elles punissaient des activit脙漏s qui causaient du tort, et non pas simplement celles qui soulevaient des doutes. Lissa ne d脙漏non脙搂a pas Dan 脙聽 la SPA. La d脙漏cision de Dan de l'aider mena 脙聽 leur mariage, et les amena aussi 脙聽 remettre en question ce qu'on leur avait enseign脙漏 durant leur enfance au sujet du piratage. Le couple se mit 脙聽 lire sur l'histoire du copyright, sur l'Union sovi脙漏tique et ses restrictions sur la copie, et m脙陋me sur la Constitution originale des 脙聣tats-Unis. Ils d脙漏m脙漏nag脙篓rent 脙聽 Luna, o脙鹿 ils trouv脙篓rent d'autres gens qui comme eux avaient pris leurs distances par rapport au long bras de la SPA. Quand la r脙漏volte de Tycho commen脙搂a en 2062, le droit universel de lire devint bient脙麓t un de ses buts principaux. Note de l'auteur C'est aujourd'hui m脙陋me qu'on se bat pour le droit de lire. M脙陋me si cela pourrait prendre 50 ans pour que notre fa脙搂on de vivre actuelle s'efface dans l'obscurit脙漏, la plupart des lois et pratiques d脙漏crites pr脙漏c脙漏demment ont d脙漏j脙聽脙漏t脙漏 propos脙漏es -- soit par l'Administration Clinton ou par des 脙漏diteurs. Il y a une exception: l'id脙漏e que le FBI ou Microsoft gardera les mots de passe de l'usager superviseur des ordinateurs personnels. Ceci est une extrapolation du Clipper Chip et d'autres propositions de "key-escrow" de l'Administration Clinton, ainsi que d'une tendance 脙聽 long terme: de plus en plus de syst脙篓mes informatiques sont configur脙漏s pour donner 脙聽 des op脙漏rateurs absents le contr脙麓le sur les gens qui utilisent le syst脙篓me. La SPA, qui veut en fait dire Software Publisher's Association, n'est pas aujourd'hui une force polici脙篓re officielle. De fa脙搂on officieuse, elle se comporte ainsi. Elle invite les gens 脙聽 faire de la d脙漏lation 脙聽 l'endroit de leur coll脙篓gues et amis; comme l'Administration Clinton, elle pr脙漏conise une politique de responsabilit脙漏 collective o脙鹿 les propri脙漏taires d'ordinateurs doivent activement faire respecter le copyright ou 脙陋tre punis. La SPA menace actuellement de petits fournisseurs d'acc脙篓s 脙聽 l'Internet, en exigeant qu'ils lui permettent de surveiller tous les usagers. La plupart des fournisseurs capitulent lorsqu'ils sont menac脙漏s, parce qu'ils n'ont pas les moyens de contre-attaquer en cour. (Atlanta Journal-Constitution, 1er octobre 1996, page D3.) Au moins un fournisseur, Community ConneXion 脙聽 Oakland en Californie, a refus脙漏 la demande et a 脙漏t脙漏 cons脙漏quemment poursuivi. Il appert que la SPA a abandonn脙漏 cette poursuite r脙漏cemment, mais ils vont s脙禄rement continuer cette campagne de diverses autres fa脙搂ons. Les politiques universitaires de s脙漏curit脙漏 d脙漏crites pr脙漏c脙漏demment ne sont pas imaginaires. Par exemple, un ordinateur dans une universit脙漏 de la r脙漏gion de Chicago affiche le message suivant quand on s'y branche (les guillemets sont dans l'original -- ce qui suit est une traduction): "Ce syst脙篓me est r脙漏serv脙漏 aux usagers autoris脙漏s. Les individus qui utilisent ce syst脙篓me informatique sans autorisation ou au del脙聽 de leur autorisation pourront faire l'objet d'une surveillance et d'un enregistrement par le personnel de toutes leurs activit脙漏s sur ce syst脙篓me. Lors de la surveillance d'individus utilisant le syst脙篓me inad脙漏quatement, ou lors d'activit脙漏s d'entretien du syst脙篓me, les activit脙漏s d'usagers autoris脙漏s pourraient aussi 脙陋tre surveill脙漏es. Quiconque utilise ce syst脙篓me consent express脙漏ment 脙聽 une telle surveillance et est avis脙漏 que si cette surveillance r脙漏v脙篓le des indices d'une possible activit脙漏 ill脙漏gale ou violation des r脙篓glements de l'Universit脙漏, le personnel du syst脙篓me peut fournir ces indices aux autorit脙漏s de l'Universit脙漏 et/ou aux forces de l'ordre." Il s'agit d'une approche int脙漏ressante face au Quatri脙篓me amendement: faire pression sur presque tout le monde pour qu'il accepte d'avance de renoncer aux droits qu'il leur accorde. References The administration's "White Paper": Information Infrastructure Task Force, Intellectual Property and the National Information Infrastructure: The Report of the Working Group on Intellectual Property Rights (1995). An explanation of the White Paper: The Copyright Grab, Pamela Samuelson, Wired, Jan. 1996 FSF & GNU inquiries & questions to [email protected]. Other ways to contact the FSF. Comments on these web pages to [email protected], send other questions to [email protected]. Copyright 1996 Richard Stallman Translated by Pierre Sarrazin [[email protected]] on February 16th, 1999. Verbatim copying and distribution of this entire article is permitted in any medium, provided this notice is preserved. Updated: 13 Mar 1999 jonas End of the Project Gutenberg Etext of The Right to Read, French Version End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Right to Read, by Richard Stallman * END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RIGHT TO READ * *** This file should be named 1981-0.txt or 1981-0.zip * This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/1/9/8/1981/ START* SMALL PRINT! for COPYRIGHT PROTECTED ETEXTS *** TITLE AND COPYRIGHT NOTICE: The Right to Read by Richard Stallman Copyright 1996 Richard Stallman This etext is distributed by Professor Michael S. 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Ver.04.29.93 FOR COPYRIGHT PROTECTED ETEXTSEND*	茂禄驴The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Right to Read, by Richard Stallman This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. This is a COPYRIGHTED Project Gutenberg eBook, Details Below Please follow the copyright guidelines in this file. Title: The Right to Read Author: Richard Stallman Release Date: November, 1999 [EBook #1981] [Most recently updated: February 18, 2020] Language: English and French Character set encoding: UTF-8 * START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RIGHT TO READ * Copyright (C) 1996 Richard Stallman The Right to Read by Richard Stallman [Illustration] Table of Contents Author's Note References Other Texts to Read This article appeared in the February 1997 issue of Communications of the ACM (Volume 40, Number 2). (from "The Road To Tycho", a collection of articles about the antecedents of the Lunarian Revolution, published in Luna City in 2096) For Dan Halbert, the road to Tycho began in college--when Lissa Lenz asked to borrow his computer. Hers had broken down, and unless she could borrow another, she would fail her midterm project. There was no one she dared ask, except Dan. This put Dan in a dilemma. He had to help her--but if he lent her his computer, she might read his books. Aside from the fact that you could go to prison for many years for letting someone else read your books, the very idea shocked him at first. Like everyone, he had been taught since elementary school that sharing books was nasty and wrong--something that only pirates would do. And there wasn't much chance that the SPA--the Software Protection Authority--would fail to catch him. In his software class, Dan had learned that each book had a copyright monitor that reported when and where it was read, and by whom, to Central Licensing. (They used this information to catch reading pirates, but also to sell personal interest profiles to retailers.) The next time his computer was networked, Central Licensing would find out. He, as computer owner, would receive the harshest punishment--for not taking pains to prevent the crime. Of course, Lissa did not necessarily intend to read his books. She might want the computer only to write her midterm. But Dan knew she came from a middle-class family and could hardly afford the tuition, let alone her reading fees. Reading his books might be the only way she could graduate. He understood this situation; he himself had had to borrow to pay for all the research papers he read. (10% of those fees went to the researchers who wrote the papers; since Dan aimed for an academic career, he could hope that his own research papers, if frequently referenced, would bring in enough to repay this loan.) Later on, Dan would learn there was a time when anyone could go to the library and read journal articles, and even books, without having to pay. There were independent scholars who read thousands of pages without government library grants. But in the 1990s, both commercial and nonprofit journal publishers had begun charging fees for access. By 2047, libraries offering free public access to scholarly literature were a dim memory. There were ways, of course, to get around the SPA and Central Licensing. They were themselves illegal. Dan had had a classmate in software, Frank Martucci, who had obtained an illicit debugging tool, and used it to skip over the copyright monitor code when reading books. But he had told too many friends about it, and one of them turned him in to the SPA for a reward (students deep in debt were easily tempted into betrayal). In 2047, Frank was in prison, not for pirate reading, but for possessing a debugger. Dan would later learn that there was a time when anyone could have debugging tools. There were even free debugging tools available on CD or downloadable over the net. But ordinary users started using them to bypass copyright monitors, and eventually a judge ruled that this had become their principal use in actual practice. This meant they were illegal; the debuggers' developers were sent to prison. Programmers still needed debugging tools, of course, but debugger vendors in 2047 distributed numbered copies only, and only to officially licensed and bonded programmers. The debugger Dan used in software class was kept behind a special firewall so that it could be used only for class exercises. It was also possible to bypass the copyright monitors by installing a modified system kernel. Dan would eventually find out about the free kernels, even entire free operating systems, that had existed around the turn of the century. But not only were they illegal, like debuggers--you could not install one if you had one, without knowing your computer's root password. And neither the FBI nor Microsoft Support would tell you that. Dan concluded that he couldn't simply lend Lissa his computer. But he couldn't refuse to help her, because he loved her. Every chance to speak with her filled him with delight. And that she chose him to ask for help, that could mean she loved him too. Dan resolved the dilemma by doing something even more unthinkable--he lent her the computer, and told her his password. This way, if Lissa read his books, Central Licensing would think he was reading them. It was still a crime, but the SPA would not automatically find out about it. They would only find out if Lissa reported him. Of course, if the school ever found out that he had given Lissa his own password, it would be curtains for both of them as students, regardless of what she had used it for. School policy was that any interference with their means of monitoring students' computer use was grounds for disciplinary action. It didn't matter whether you did anything harmful--the offense was making it hard for the administrators to check on you. They assumed this meant you were doing something else forbidden, and they did not need to know what it was. Students were not usually expelled for this--not directly. Instead they were banned from the school computer systems, and would inevitably fail all their classes. Later, Dan would learn that this kind of university policy started only in the 1980s, when university students in large numbers began using computers. Previously, universities maintained a different approach to student discipline; they punished activities that were harmful, not those that merely raised suspicion. Lissa did not report Dan to the SPA. His decision to help her led to their marriage, and also led them to question what they had been taught about piracy as children. The couple began reading about the history of copyright, about the Soviet Union and its restrictions on copying, and even the original United States Constitution. They moved to Luna, where they found others who had likewise gravitated away from the long arm of the SPA. When the Tycho Uprising began in 2062, the universal right to read soon became one of its central aims. Author's Note The right to read is a battle being fought today. Although it may take 50 years for our present way of life to fade into obscurity, most of the specific laws and practices described above have already been proposed--either by the Clinton Administration or by publishers. There is one exception: the idea that the FBI and Microsoft will keep the root passwords for personal computers. This is an extrapolation from the Clipper chip and similar Clinton Administration key-escrow proposals, together with a long-term trend: computer systems are increasingly set up to give absentee operators control over the people actually using the computer system. The SPA, which actually stands for Software Publisher's Association, is not today an official police force. Unofficially, it acts like one. It invites people to inform on their coworkers and friends; like the Clinton Administration, it advocates a policy of collective responsibility whereby computer owners must actively enforce copyright or be punished. The SPA is currently threatening small Internet service providers, demanding they permit the SPA to monitor all users. Most ISPs surrender when threatened, because they cannot afford to fight back in court. (Atlanta Journal-Constitution, 1 Oct 96, D3.) At least one ISP, Community ConneXion in Oakland CA, refused the demand and was actually sued. The SPA is said to have dropped this suit recently, but they are sure to continue the campaign in various other ways. The university security policies described above are not imaginary. For example, a computer at one Chicago-area university prints this message when you log in (quotation marks are in the original): "This system is for the use of authorized users only. Individuals using this computer system without authority or in the excess of their authority are subject to having all their activities on this system monitored and recorded by system personnel. In the course of monitoring individuals improperly using this system or in the course of system maintenance, the activities of authorized user may also be monitored. Anyone using this system expressly consents to such monitoring and is advised that if such monitoring reveals possible evidence of illegal activity or violation of University regulations system personnel may provide the evidence of such monitoring to University authorities and/or law enforcement officials." This is an interesting approach to the Fourth Amendment: pressure most everyone to agree, in advance, to waive their rights under it. References The administration's "White Paper": Information Infrastructure Task Force, Intellectual Property and the National Information Infrastructure: The Report of the Working Group on Intellectual Property Rights (1995). An explanation of the White Paper: The Copyright Grab, Pamela Samuelson, Wired, Jan. 1996 Other Texts to Read FSF & GNU inquiries & questions to [email protected]. Other ways to contact the FSF. Comments on these web pages to [email protected], send other questions to [email protected]. Copyright 1996 Richard Stallman Verbatim copying and distribution of this entire article is permitted in any medium, provided this notice is preserved. Updated: 12 Feb markg End of the Project Gutenberg Etext of The Right to Read, English Version Le droit de lire Richard Stallman [Illustration] Table of Contents Note de l'auteur References Cet article a 脙漏t脙漏 publi脙漏 dans la parution de f脙漏vrier 1997 de Communications of the ACM (volume 40, num脙漏ro 2). (extrait de "The Road to Tycho", une collection d'articles sur les ant脙漏c脙漏dents de la R脙漏volution lunaire, publi脙漏e 脙聽 Luna City en 2096) Pour Dan Halbert, la route vers Tycho commen脙搂a 脙聽 l'universit脙漏 -- quand Lissa Lenz lui demanda de lui pr脙陋ter son ordinateur. Le sien 脙漏tait en panne, et 脙聽 moins qu'elle puisse en emprunter un autre, elle 脙漏chouerait son projet de mi-session. Il n'y avait personne d'autre 脙聽 qui elle osait demander, 脙聽 part Dan. Ceci posa un dilemme 脙聽 Dan. Il se devait de l'aider -- mais s'il lui pr脙陋tait son ordinateur, elle pourrait lire ses livres. 脙聙 part le fait que vous pouviez aller en prison pour plusieurs ann脙漏es pour avoir laiss脙漏 quelqu'un lire vos livres, l'id脙漏e m脙陋me le choqua au d脙漏part. Comme 脙聽 tout le monde, on lui avait enseign脙漏 d脙篓s l'脙漏cole primaire que partager des livres 脙漏tait malicieux et immoral -- une chose que seuls les pirates font. Et il 脙漏tait improbable que la SPA -- la Software Protection Authority -- manquerait de le pincer. Dans ses cours sur les logiciels, Dan avait appris que chaque livre avait un moniteur de copyright qui rapportait quand et o脙鹿 il 脙漏tait lu, et par qui, 脙聽 la Centrale des licences. (Elle utilisait ces informations pour attraper les lecteurs pirates, mais aussi pour vendre des renseignements personnels 脙聽 des d脙漏taillants.) La prochaine fois que son ordinateur serait en r脙漏seau, la Centrale des licences se rendrait compte. Dan, comme propri脙漏taire d'ordinateur, subirait les punitions les plus s脙漏v脙篓res -- pour ne pas avoir tout tent脙漏 pour 脙漏viter le crime. Bien s脙禄r, Lissa n'avait pas n脙漏cessairement l'intention de lire ses livres. Elle pourrait ne vouloir l'ordinateur que pour 脙漏crire son projet. Mais Dan savait qu'elle venait d'une famille de classe moyenne et qu'elle arrivait difficilement 脙聽 payer ses frais de scolarit脙漏, sans compter ses frais de lecture. Lire les livres de Dan pourrait 脙陋tre sa seule fa脙搂on de graduer. Il comprenait cette situation; lui-m脙陋me avait eu 脙聽 emprunter pour payer pour tous les articles scientifiques qu'il avait eu 脙聽 lire. (10% de ces frais allaient aux chercheurs qui 脙漏crivaient ces articles; puisque Dan visait une carri脙篓re acad脙漏mique, il pouvait esp脙漏rer que si ses propres articles scientiques 脙漏taient souvent lus, il gagnerait un revenu suffisant pour rembourser sa dette.) Par la suite, Dan apprendrait qu'il y eut un temps o脙鹿 n'importe qui pouvait aller 脙聽 la biblioth脙篓que et lire des articles de journaux, et m脙陋me des livres, sans avoir 脙聽 payer. Il y avait des universitaires ind脙漏pendants qui lisaient des milliers de pages sans subventions des biblioth脙篓ques gouvernementales. Mais dans les ann脙漏es 1990, les 脙漏diteurs aussi bien commerciaux qu'脙聽 but non lucratif avaient commenc脙漏脙聽 facturer l'acc脙篓s. En 2047, les biblioth脙篓ques offrant un acc脙篓s public gratuit 脙聽 la litt脙漏rature scientifique n'脙漏taient qu'un p脙垄le souvenir. Il y avait des fa脙搂ons, bien s脙禄r, de contourner la SPA et la Centrale des licences. Elles 脙漏taient elles-m脙陋mes ill脙漏gales. Dan avait eu un compagnon de classe dans son cours sur les logiciels, Frank Martucci, qui avait obtenu un outil ill脙漏gal de d脙漏boguage, et l'avait utilis脙漏 pour outrepasser le code du moniteur de copyright quand il lisait des livres. Mais il en avait parl脙漏脙聽 trop d'amis, et l'un d'eux l'a d脙漏nonc脙漏 aupr脙篓s de la SPA pour une r脙漏compense (des 脙漏tudiants cribl脙漏s de dettes pouvaient facilement 脙陋tre tent脙漏s par la trahison). En 2047, Frank 脙漏tait en prison, non pas pour lecture pirate, mais pour possession d'un d脙漏bogueur. Dan apprendrait plus tard qu'il y eut un temps o脙鹿 n'importe qui pouvait poss脙漏der des outils de d脙漏boguage. Il y avait m脙陋me des outils de d脙漏boguage disponibles gratuitement sur des CD ou qu'on pouvait t脙漏l脙漏charger du Net. Mais des usagers ordinaires commenc脙篓rent 脙聽 s'en servir pour outrepasser les moniteurs de copyright, et 脙漏ventuellement un juge a d脙漏cid脙漏 que c'脙漏tait devenu leur principale utilisation en pratique. Ceci voulait dire qu'ils 脙漏taient ill脙漏gaux; les d脙漏veloppeurs de ces d脙漏bogueurs furent envoy脙漏s en prison. Les programmeurs avaient encore besoin d'outils pour d脙漏boguer, bien s脙禄r, mais les vendeurs de d脙漏bogueurs en 2047 ne distribuaient que des copies num脙漏rot脙漏es, et seulement 脙聽 des programmeurs officiellement licenci脙漏s et soumis. Le d脙漏bogueur que Dan utilisait dans son cours sur les logiciels 脙漏tait gard脙漏 derri脙篓re un garde-barri脙篓re sp脙漏cial afin qu'il ne puisse servir que pour les exercices du cours. Il 脙漏tait aussi possible de contourner les moniteurs de copyright en installant un noyau syst脙篓me modifi脙漏. Dan apprendrait 脙漏ventuellement l'existence de noyaux libres, et m脙陋me de syst脙篓mes d'exploitation enti脙篓rement libres, qui avaient exist脙漏 au tournant du si脙篓cle. Mais non seulement 脙漏taient-ils ill脙漏gaux, comme les d脙漏bogueurs, mais vous ne pouviez en installer un, si vous en aviez un, sans connaitre le mot de passe de l'usager superviseur de votre ordinateur. Or, ni le FBI ni l'Aide technique Microsoft ne vous le r脙漏v脙篓lerait. Dan conclut qu'il ne pouvait simplement pr脙陋ter son ordinateur 脙聽 Lissa. Mais il ne pouvait refuser de l'aider, car il l'aimait. Chaque chance de lui parler le remplissait d'aise. Et le fait qu'elle l'avait choisi pour demander de l'aide pouvait signifier qu'elle l'aimait aussi. Dan r脙漏solut le dilemme en faisant une chose encore plus impensable -- il lui pr脙陋ta l'ordinateur, et lui dit son mot de passe. Ainsi, si Lissa lisait ses livres, la Centrale des licences penserait que c'脙漏tait lui qui les lisait. C'脙漏tait quand m脙陋me un crime, mais la SPA ne s'en rendrait pas compte automatiquement. Ils ne s'en rendraient compte que si Lissa le d脙漏non脙搂ait. Bien s脙禄r, si l'脙漏cole devait un jour apprendre qu'il avait donn脙漏 son propre mot de passe 脙聽 Lissa, ce serait la fin de leurs 脙漏tudes, peu importe ce 脙聽 quoi le mot de passe aurait servi. La politique de l'脙漏cole 脙漏tait que toute interf脙漏rence avec ses m脙漏canismes de surveillance de l'utilisation des ordinateurs par les 脙漏tudiants 脙漏tait punissable. Il n'importait pas qu'aucun mal n'ait 脙漏t脙漏 fait -- l'offense 脙漏tait de se rendre difficile 脙聽 surveiller par les administrateurs. Ils supposaient que 脙搂a signifiait que vous faisiez quelque chose d'autre qui 脙漏tait interdit, et ils n'avaient pas besoin de savoir de quoi il s'agissait. Les 脙漏tudiants n'脙漏taient habituellement pas expuls脙漏s pour cela -- pas directement. Ils 脙漏taient plut脙麓t bannis des syst脙篓mes informatiques de l'脙漏cole, et 脙漏chouaient in脙漏vitablement leurs cours. Plus tard, Dan apprendrait que ce genre de politique n'a commenc脙漏 dans les universit脙漏s que dans les ann脙漏es 1980, quand des 脙漏tudiants commenc脙篓rent 脙聽脙陋tre nombreux 脙聽 utiliser des ordinateurs. Avant, les universit脙漏s avaient une approche diff脙漏rente au sujet de la discipline aupr脙篓s des 脙漏tudiants; elles punissaient des activit脙漏s qui causaient du tort, et non pas simplement celles qui soulevaient des doutes. Lissa ne d脙漏non脙搂a pas Dan 脙聽 la SPA. La d脙漏cision de Dan de l'aider mena 脙聽 leur mariage, et les amena aussi 脙聽 remettre en question ce qu'on leur avait enseign脙漏 durant leur enfance au sujet du piratage. Le couple se mit 脙聽 lire sur l'histoire du copyright, sur l'Union sovi脙漏tique et ses restrictions sur la copie, et m脙陋me sur la Constitution originale des 脙聣tats-Unis. Ils d脙漏m脙漏nag脙篓rent 脙聽 Luna, o脙鹿 ils trouv脙篓rent d'autres gens qui comme eux avaient pris leurs distances par rapport au long bras de la SPA. Quand la r脙漏volte de Tycho commen脙搂a en 2062, le droit universel de lire devint bient脙麓t un de ses buts principaux. Note de l'auteur C'est aujourd'hui m脙陋me qu'on se bat pour le droit de lire. M脙陋me si cela pourrait prendre 50 ans pour que notre fa脙搂on de vivre actuelle s'efface dans l'obscurit脙漏, la plupart des lois et pratiques d脙漏crites pr脙漏c脙漏demment ont d脙漏j脙聽脙漏t脙漏 propos脙漏es -- soit par l'Administration Clinton ou par des 脙漏diteurs. Il y a une exception: l'id脙漏e que le FBI ou Microsoft gardera les mots de passe de l'usager superviseur des ordinateurs personnels. Ceci est une extrapolation du Clipper Chip et d'autres propositions de "key-escrow" de l'Administration Clinton, ainsi que d'une tendance 脙聽 long terme: de plus en plus de syst脙篓mes informatiques sont configur脙漏s pour donner 脙聽 des op脙漏rateurs absents le contr脙麓le sur les gens qui utilisent le syst脙篓me. La SPA, qui veut en fait dire Software Publisher's Association, n'est pas aujourd'hui une force polici脙篓re officielle. De fa脙搂on officieuse, elle se comporte ainsi. Elle invite les gens 脙聽 faire de la d脙漏lation 脙聽 l'endroit de leur coll脙篓gues et amis; comme l'Administration Clinton, elle pr脙漏conise une politique de responsabilit脙漏 collective o脙鹿 les propri脙漏taires d'ordinateurs doivent activement faire respecter le copyright ou 脙陋tre punis. La SPA menace actuellement de petits fournisseurs d'acc脙篓s 脙聽 l'Internet, en exigeant qu'ils lui permettent de surveiller tous les usagers. La plupart des fournisseurs capitulent lorsqu'ils sont menac脙漏s, parce qu'ils n'ont pas les moyens de contre-attaquer en cour. (Atlanta Journal-Constitution, 1er octobre 1996, page D3.) Au moins un fournisseur, Community ConneXion 脙聽 Oakland en Californie, a refus脙漏 la demande et a 脙漏t脙漏 cons脙漏quemment poursuivi. Il appert que la SPA a abandonn脙漏 cette poursuite r脙漏cemment, mais ils vont s脙禄rement continuer cette campagne de diverses autres fa脙搂ons. Les politiques universitaires de s脙漏curit脙漏 d脙漏crites pr脙漏c脙漏demment ne sont pas imaginaires. Par exemple, un ordinateur dans une universit脙漏 de la r脙漏gion de Chicago affiche le message suivant quand on s'y branche (les guillemets sont dans l'original -- ce qui suit est une traduction): "Ce syst脙篓me est r脙漏serv脙漏 aux usagers autoris脙漏s. Les individus qui utilisent ce syst脙篓me informatique sans autorisation ou au del脙聽 de leur autorisation pourront faire l'objet d'une surveillance et d'un enregistrement par le personnel de toutes leurs activit脙漏s sur ce syst脙篓me. Lors de la surveillance d'individus utilisant le syst脙篓me inad脙漏quatement, ou lors d'activit脙漏s d'entretien du syst脙篓me, les activit脙漏s d'usagers autoris脙漏s pourraient aussi 脙陋tre surveill脙漏es. Quiconque utilise ce syst脙篓me consent express脙漏ment 脙聽 une telle surveillance et est avis脙漏 que si cette surveillance r脙漏v脙篓le des indices d'une possible activit脙漏 ill脙漏gale ou violation des r脙篓glements de l'Universit脙漏, le personnel du syst脙篓me peut fournir ces indices aux autorit脙漏s de l'Universit脙漏 et/ou aux forces de l'ordre." Il s'agit d'une approche int脙漏ressante face au Quatri脙篓me amendement: faire pression sur presque tout le monde pour qu'il accepte d'avance de renoncer aux droits qu'il leur accorde. References The administration's "White Paper": Information Infrastructure Task Force, Intellectual Property and the National Information Infrastructure: The Report of the Working Group on Intellectual Property Rights (1995). An explanation of the White Paper: The Copyright Grab, Pamela Samuelson, Wired, Jan. 1996 FSF & GNU inquiries & questions to [email protected]. Other ways to contact the FSF. Comments on these web pages to [email protected], send other questions to [email protected]. Copyright 1996 Richard Stallman Translated by Pierre Sarrazin [[email protected]] on February 16th, 1999. Verbatim copying and distribution of this entire article is permitted in any medium, provided this notice is preserved. Updated: 13 Mar 1999 jonas End of the Project Gutenberg Etext of The Right to Read, French Version End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Right to Read, by Richard Stallman * END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RIGHT TO READ * *** This file should be named 1981-0.txt or 1981-0.zip * This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/1/9/8/1981/ START* SMALL PRINT! for COPYRIGHT PROTECTED ETEXTS *** TITLE AND COPYRIGHT NOTICE: The Right to Read by Richard Stallman Copyright 1996 Richard Stallman This etext is distributed by Professor Michael S. 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锘縏he Project Gutenberg EBook of Let There Be Light, by Horace Brown Fyfe This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Let There Be Light Author: Horace Brown Fyfe Release Date: May 30, 2010 [EBook #32592] Language: English * START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LET THERE BE LIGHT * Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net Let There Be Light By Horace B. Fyfe [Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from IF Worlds of Science Fiction November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] [Sidenote: _No matter what the future, one factor must always be reckoned with--the ingenuity of the human animal._] The two men attacked the thick tree trunk with a weary savagery. In the bright sunlight, glistening spatters of sweat flew from them as the old axes bit alternately into the wood. Blackie stood nearby, on the gravel shoulder of the highway, rubbing his short beard as he considered the depth of the white notch. Turning his broad, tanned face to glance along the patched and cracked concrete to where squat Vito kept watch, he caught the latter's eye and beckoned. "Okay, Sid--Mike. We'll take it a while." The rhythm of the axe-strokes ceased. Red Mike swept the back of a forearm across the semi-shaven stubble that set him as something of a dandy. Wordlessly, big Sid ambled up the road to replace Vito. "Pretty soon, now," boasted Mike, eyeing the cut with satisfaction. "Think it'll bring them?" "Sure," replied Blackie, spitting on his hands and lifting one of the worn tools. "That's what they're for." "Funny," mused Mike, "how some keep going an' others bust. These musta been workin' since I was a little kid--since before the last blitz." "Aw, they don't hafta do much. 'Cept in winter when they come out to clear snow, all they do is put in a patch now an' then." Mike stared moodily at the weathered surface of the highway and edged back to avoid the reflected heat. "It beats me how they know a spot has cracked." "I guess there's machines to run the machines," sighed Blackie. "I dunno; I was too young. Okay, Vito?" The relieving pair fell to. Mike stepped out of range of the flying chips to sit at the edge of the soft grass which was attempting another invasion of the gravel shoulder. Propelled by the strength of Vito's powerful torso, a single chip spun through the air to his feet. He picked it up and held it to his nose. It had a good, clean smell. When at length the tree crashed down across the road, Blackie led them to the ambush he had chosen that morning. It was fifty yards up the road toward the ruined city--off to the side where a clump of trees and bushes provided shade and concealment. "Wish we brought something to eat," Vito said. "Didn't know it would take so long to creep up on 'em this morning," said Blackie. "The women'll have somethin' when we get back." "They better," said Mike. He measured a slender branch with his eye. After a moment, he pulled out a hunting knife, worn thin by years of sharpening, and cut off a straight section of the branch. He began whittling. "You damn' fool!" Sid objected. "You want the busted spot on the tree to show?" "Aw, _they_ ain't got the brains to notice." "The hell they ain't! It stands out like one o' them old street signs. D'ya think they can tell, Blackie?" "I dunno. Maybe." Blackie rose cautiously to peer over a bed of blackberry bushes. "Guess I'll skin up a tree an' see if anything's in sight." He hitched up his pants, looking for an easy place to climb. His blue denims had been stoutly made, but weakened by many rips and patches, and he did not want to rip them on a snag. It was becoming difficult to find good, unrotted clothing in the old ruins. * * * * * Choosing a branch slightly over his head, he sprang for it, pulled, kicked against the trunk, and flowed up into the foliage with no apparent effort. The others waited below. Sid glanced up occasionally, Vito idly kicked at one of the clubs made from an old two-by-four. The other lay beneath the piled jackets; but enough of the end protruded to show that they had been chopped from the same timber, gray-painted on one side, stained and gouged on the other where boards had once been nailed. A coil of rope lay beside the axes. High in the upper branches, Blackie braced himself with negligent confidence and stared along the concrete ribbon. _From here_, he thought, _you'd almost think the place was still alive, instead of crumbling around our ears._ The windows of the distant houses were dark, unglassed holes, but the sunlight made the masonry clean and shining. To Blackie, the ragged tops of most of the buildings were as natural as the tattered look of the few people he knew. Beyond, toward the center of the city, was real evidence of his race's bygone might--a vast jumble of shattered stone and fused metal. Queer weeds and mosses infected the area, but it would be centuries before they could mask the desolation. Better covered, were the heaps along the road, seemingly shoved just beyond the gravel shoulders--mouldering mounds which legend said were once machines to ride in along the pavement. Something glinted at the bend of the highway. Blackie peered closer. He swarmed down the tree from branch to branch, so lithely that the trio below hardly had the warning of the vibrating leaves before he dropped, cat-footed, among them. "They're comin'!" He shrugged quickly into his stained jacket, emulated in silent haste by the others. Vito rubbed his hands down the hairy chest left revealed by his open jacket and hefted one of the clubs. In his broad paws, it seemed light. They were quiet, watching Sid peer out through narrowly parted brush of the undergrowth. Blackie fidgeted behind him. Finally, he reached out as if to pull the other aside, but at that moment Sid released the bushes and crouched. The others, catching his warning glance, fell prone, peering through shrubbery and around tree trunks with savage eyes. The distant squawk of a jay became suddenly very clear, as did the sighing of a faint breeze through the leaves overhead. Then a new, clanking, humming sound intruded. A procession of three vehicles rolled along the highway at an unvarying pace which took no account of patches or worn spots. They jounced in turn across a patch laid over a previous, unsuccessful patch, and halted before the felled tree. Two were bulldozers; the third was a light truck with compartments for tools. No human figures were visible. A moment later, the working force appeared--a column of eight robots. These deployed as they reached the obstacle, and explored like colossal ants along its length. "What're they after?" asked Mike, whispering although he lay fifty yards away. "They're lookin' over the job for whatever sends them out," Blackie whispered back. "See those little lights stickin' out the tops o' their heads? I heard tell, once, that's how they're run." Some of the robots took saws from the truck and began to cut through the tree trunk. Others produced cables and huge hooks to attach the obstacle to the bulldozers. "Look at 'em go!" sighed Sid, hunching his stiff shoulders jealously. "Took us hours, an' they're half done already." They watched as the robots precisely severed the part of the tree that blocked the highway, going not one inch beyond the gravel shoulder, and helped the bulldozers to tug it aside. On the opposite side of the concrete, the shoulder tapered off into a six-foot drop. The log was jockeyed around parallel to this ditch and rolled into it, amid a thrashing of branches and a spurting of small pebbles. "Glad we're on the high side," whispered Mike. "That thing 'ud squash a guy's guts right out!" "Keep listenin' to me," Blackie said, "an' you'll keep on bein' in the right place at the right time." Mike raised his eyebrows at Vito, who thrust out his lower lip and nodded sagely. Sid grinned, but no one contradicted the boast. "They're linin' up," Blackie warned tensely. "You guys ready? Where's that rope?" Someone thrust it into his hands. Still squinting at the scene on the highway, he fumbled for the ends and held one out to Mike. The others gripped their clubs. "Now, remember!" ordered Blackie. "Me an' Mike will trip up the last one in line. You two get in there quick an' wallop him over the head--but good!" "Don't go away while we're doin' it," said big Sid. "They won't chase ya, but they look out fer themselves. I don't wanna get tossed twenty feet again!" The eyes of the others flicked toward the jagged white scar running down behind Sid's right ear and under the collar of his jacket. Then they swung back to the road. "Good!" breathed Blackie. "The rollin' stuff's goin' first." The truck and bulldozers set out toward the city, with the column of robots marching a fair distance behind. The latter approached the ambush--drew abreast--began to pass. Blackie raised himself to a crouch with just the tips of his fingers steadying him. * * * * * As the last robot plodded by, he surged out of the brush, joined to Red Mike by their grips on the twenty feet of rope. They ran up behind the marching machine, trailed by the others. In his right hand, Blackie twirled the part of the rope hanging between him and Mike. On the second swing, he got it over the head of the robot. He saw Mike brace himself. The robot staggered. It pivoted clumsily to its left, groping vaguely for the hindrance. Mike and Blackie tugged again, and the machine wound up facing them in its efforts to maintain balance. Its companions marched steadily along the road. "Switch ends!" barked Blackie. Alert, Mike tossed him the other end of the rope and caught Blackie's. They ran past the robot on either side, looping it in. Blackie kept going until he was above the ditch. He wound a turn of rope about his forearm and plunged down the bank. [Illustration: _With skill of long practice, they brought the robot down._] A shower of gravel spattered after him as Mike jammed his heels into the shoulder of the highway to anchor the other end. Then he heard the booming sound of the robot's fall. Blackie clawed his way up the bank. Vito and Sid were smashing furiously at the floundering machine. Mike danced about the melee with bared teeth, charging in once as if to leap upon the quarry with both feet. Frustrated by the peril of the whirling two-by-fours, he swept up handfuls of gravel to hurl. Blackie turned to run for one of the axes. Just then, Sid struck home to the head of the robot. Sparks spat out amid a tinkle of glass. The machine ceased all motion. "All right!" panted Blackie. "All _right_! That's enough!" They stepped back, snarls fading. A handful of gravel trickled through Mike's fingers and pattered loudly on the concrete. Gradually, the men began to straighten up, seeing the robot as an inert heap of metal rather than as a weird beast in its death throes. "We better load up an' get," said Blackie. "We wanna be over on the trail if they send somethin' up the road to look for _this_." Vito dragged the robot off the highway by the head, and they began the task of lashing it to the two-by-fours. It was about two hours later when they plodded around a street corner among the ruins and stopped before a fairly intact building. By that time, they had picked up an escort of dirty, half-clad children who ran ahead to spread the news. Two other men and a handful of women gathered around with eager exclamations. The hunters dropped their catch. "Better get to work on him," said Blackie, glancing at the sky. "Be dark soon." The men who had remained as guards ran inside the entrance of polished granite and brought out tools: hammers, crowbars, hatchets. Behind them hurried women with basins and large cans. The original four, weary from the weight of the robot despite frequent pauses on the trail, stepped back. "Where first, Blackie?" asked one of the men, waiting for the women to untangle the rope and timbers. "Try all the joints. After that, we'll crack him open down the middle for the main supply tank." He watched the metal give way under the blows. As the robot was dismembered, the fluid that had lubricated the complex mechanism flowed from its wounds and was poured by the women into a five-gallon can. "Bring a cupful, Judy," Blackie told his woman, a wiry blond girl. "I wanna see if it's as good as the last." He lit a stick at the fire as they crossed the littered, once-ornate lobby, and she followed him down a dim hall. He pulled aside the skins that covered their doorway, then stumbled his way to the table. The window was still uncovered against the night chill, but it looked out on a courtyard shadowed by towering walls. To eyes adjusted to the sunny street, the room was dark. Judy poured the oil into the makeshift lamp, waited for the rag wick to soak, and held it out to Blackie. He lit the wick from his stick. "It burns real good, Blackie," the girl said, wrinkling her nose against the first oily smoke. "Gee, you're smart to catch one the first day out." "Tell them other dames to watch how they use it!" he warned. "This oughta last a month or more when we get him all emptied." He blew out the dying flame on the stick and dropped the charred wood thoughtfully to the floor. "Naw, I ain't so smart," he admitted, "or I'd figure a way to make one of them work the garden for us. Maybe someday--but _this_ kind won't do nothin' but fix that goddam road, an' what good's that to anybody?" His woman moved the burning lamp carefully to the center of the table. "Anyway, it's gonna be better'n last winter," she said. "We'll have lights now." 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Fyfe [Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from IF Worlds of Science Fiction November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] [Sidenote: _No matter what the future, one factor must always be reckoned with--the ingenuity of the human animal._] The two men attacked the thick tree trunk with a weary savagery. In the bright sunlight, glistening spatters of sweat flew from them as the old axes bit alternately into the wood. Blackie stood nearby, on the gravel shoulder of the highway, rubbing his short beard as he considered the depth of the white notch. Turning his broad, tanned face to glance along the patched and cracked concrete to where squat Vito kept watch, he caught the latter's eye and beckoned. "Okay, Sid--Mike. We'll take it a while." The rhythm of the axe-strokes ceased. Red Mike swept the back of a forearm across the semi-shaven stubble that set him as something of a dandy. Wordlessly, big Sid ambled up the road to replace Vito. "Pretty soon, now," boasted Mike, eyeing the cut with satisfaction. "Think it'll bring them?" "Sure," replied Blackie, spitting on his hands and lifting one of the worn tools. "That's what they're for." "Funny," mused Mike, "how some keep going an' others bust. These musta been workin' since I was a little kid--since before the last blitz." "Aw, they don't hafta do much. 'Cept in winter when they come out to clear snow, all they do is put in a patch now an' then." Mike stared moodily at the weathered surface of the highway and edged back to avoid the reflected heat. "It beats me how they know a spot has cracked." "I guess there's machines to run the machines," sighed Blackie. "I dunno; I was too young. Okay, Vito?" The relieving pair fell to. Mike stepped out of range of the flying chips to sit at the edge of the soft grass which was attempting another invasion of the gravel shoulder. Propelled by the strength of Vito's powerful torso, a single chip spun through the air to his feet. He picked it up and held it to his nose. It had a good, clean smell. When at length the tree crashed down across the road, Blackie led them to the ambush he had chosen that morning. It was fifty yards up the road toward the ruined city--off to the side where a clump of trees and bushes provided shade and concealment. "Wish we brought something to eat," Vito said. "Didn't know it would take so long to creep up on 'em this morning," said Blackie. "The women'll have somethin' when we get back." "They better," said Mike. He measured a slender branch with his eye. After a moment, he pulled out a hunting knife, worn thin by years of sharpening, and cut off a straight section of the branch. He began whittling. "You damn' fool!" Sid objected. "You want the busted spot on the tree to show?" "Aw, _they_ ain't got the brains to notice." "The hell they ain't! It stands out like one o' them old street signs. D'ya think they can tell, Blackie?" "I dunno. Maybe." Blackie rose cautiously to peer over a bed of blackberry bushes. "Guess I'll skin up a tree an' see if anything's in sight." He hitched up his pants, looking for an easy place to climb. His blue denims had been stoutly made, but weakened by many rips and patches, and he did not want to rip them on a snag. It was becoming difficult to find good, unrotted clothing in the old ruins. * * * * * Choosing a branch slightly over his head, he sprang for it, pulled, kicked against the trunk, and flowed up into the foliage with no apparent effort. The others waited below. Sid glanced up occasionally, Vito idly kicked at one of the clubs made from an old two-by-four. The other lay beneath the piled jackets; but enough of the end protruded to show that they had been chopped from the same timber, gray-painted on one side, stained and gouged on the other where boards had once been nailed. A coil of rope lay beside the axes. High in the upper branches, Blackie braced himself with negligent confidence and stared along the concrete ribbon. _From here_, he thought, _you'd almost think the place was still alive, instead of crumbling around our ears._ The windows of the distant houses were dark, unglassed holes, but the sunlight made the masonry clean and shining. To Blackie, the ragged tops of most of the buildings were as natural as the tattered look of the few people he knew. Beyond, toward the center of the city, was real evidence of his race's bygone might--a vast jumble of shattered stone and fused metal. Queer weeds and mosses infected the area, but it would be centuries before they could mask the desolation. Better covered, were the heaps along the road, seemingly shoved just beyond the gravel shoulders--mouldering mounds which legend said were once machines to ride in along the pavement. Something glinted at the bend of the highway. Blackie peered closer. He swarmed down the tree from branch to branch, so lithely that the trio below hardly had the warning of the vibrating leaves before he dropped, cat-footed, among them. "They're comin'!" He shrugged quickly into his stained jacket, emulated in silent haste by the others. Vito rubbed his hands down the hairy chest left revealed by his open jacket and hefted one of the clubs. In his broad paws, it seemed light. They were quiet, watching Sid peer out through narrowly parted brush of the undergrowth. Blackie fidgeted behind him. Finally, he reached out as if to pull the other aside, but at that moment Sid released the bushes and crouched. The others, catching his warning glance, fell prone, peering through shrubbery and around tree trunks with savage eyes. The distant squawk of a jay became suddenly very clear, as did the sighing of a faint breeze through the leaves overhead. Then a new, clanking, humming sound intruded. A procession of three vehicles rolled along the highway at an unvarying pace which took no account of patches or worn spots. They jounced in turn across a patch laid over a previous, unsuccessful patch, and halted before the felled tree. Two were bulldozers; the third was a light truck with compartments for tools. No human figures were visible. A moment later, the working force appeared--a column of eight robots. These deployed as they reached the obstacle, and explored like colossal ants along its length. "What're they after?" asked Mike, whispering although he lay fifty yards away. "They're lookin' over the job for whatever sends them out," Blackie whispered back. "See those little lights stickin' out the tops o' their heads? I heard tell, once, that's how they're run." Some of the robots took saws from the truck and began to cut through the tree trunk. Others produced cables and huge hooks to attach the obstacle to the bulldozers. "Look at 'em go!" sighed Sid, hunching his stiff shoulders jealously. "Took us hours, an' they're half done already." They watched as the robots precisely severed the part of the tree that blocked the highway, going not one inch beyond the gravel shoulder, and helped the bulldozers to tug it aside. On the opposite side of the concrete, the shoulder tapered off into a six-foot drop. The log was jockeyed around parallel to this ditch and rolled into it, amid a thrashing of branches and a spurting of small pebbles. "Glad we're on the high side," whispered Mike. "That thing 'ud squash a guy's guts right out!" "Keep listenin' to me," Blackie said, "an' you'll keep on bein' in the right place at the right time." Mike raised his eyebrows at Vito, who thrust out his lower lip and nodded sagely. Sid grinned, but no one contradicted the boast. "They're linin' up," Blackie warned tensely. "You guys ready? Where's that rope?" Someone thrust it into his hands. Still squinting at the scene on the highway, he fumbled for the ends and held one out to Mike. The others gripped their clubs. "Now, remember!" ordered Blackie. "Me an' Mike will trip up the last one in line. You two get in there quick an' wallop him over the head--but good!" "Don't go away while we're doin' it," said big Sid. "They won't chase ya, but they look out fer themselves. I don't wanna get tossed twenty feet again!" The eyes of the others flicked toward the jagged white scar running down behind Sid's right ear and under the collar of his jacket. Then they swung back to the road. "Good!" breathed Blackie. "The rollin' stuff's goin' first." The truck and bulldozers set out toward the city, with the column of robots marching a fair distance behind. The latter approached the ambush--drew abreast--began to pass. Blackie raised himself to a crouch with just the tips of his fingers steadying him. * * * * * As the last robot plodded by, he surged out of the brush, joined to Red Mike by their grips on the twenty feet of rope. They ran up behind the marching machine, trailed by the others. In his right hand, Blackie twirled the part of the rope hanging between him and Mike. On the second swing, he got it over the head of the robot. He saw Mike brace himself. The robot staggered. It pivoted clumsily to its left, groping vaguely for the hindrance. Mike and Blackie tugged again, and the machine wound up facing them in its efforts to maintain balance. Its companions marched steadily along the road. "Switch ends!" barked Blackie. Alert, Mike tossed him the other end of the rope and caught Blackie's. They ran past the robot on either side, looping it in. Blackie kept going until he was above the ditch. He wound a turn of rope about his forearm and plunged down the bank. [Illustration: _With skill of long practice, they brought the robot down._] A shower of gravel spattered after him as Mike jammed his heels into the shoulder of the highway to anchor the other end. Then he heard the booming sound of the robot's fall. Blackie clawed his way up the bank. Vito and Sid were smashing furiously at the floundering machine. Mike danced about the melee with bared teeth, charging in once as if to leap upon the quarry with both feet. Frustrated by the peril of the whirling two-by-fours, he swept up handfuls of gravel to hurl. Blackie turned to run for one of the axes. Just then, Sid struck home to the head of the robot. Sparks spat out amid a tinkle of glass. The machine ceased all motion. "All right!" panted Blackie. "All _right_! That's enough!" They stepped back, snarls fading. A handful of gravel trickled through Mike's fingers and pattered loudly on the concrete. Gradually, the men began to straighten up, seeing the robot as an inert heap of metal rather than as a weird beast in its death throes. "We better load up an' get," said Blackie. "We wanna be over on the trail if they send somethin' up the road to look for _this_." Vito dragged the robot off the highway by the head, and they began the task of lashing it to the two-by-fours. It was about two hours later when they plodded around a street corner among the ruins and stopped before a fairly intact building. By that time, they had picked up an escort of dirty, half-clad children who ran ahead to spread the news. Two other men and a handful of women gathered around with eager exclamations. The hunters dropped their catch. "Better get to work on him," said Blackie, glancing at the sky. "Be dark soon." The men who had remained as guards ran inside the entrance of polished granite and brought out tools: hammers, crowbars, hatchets. Behind them hurried women with basins and large cans. The original four, weary from the weight of the robot despite frequent pauses on the trail, stepped back. "Where first, Blackie?" asked one of the men, waiting for the women to untangle the rope and timbers. "Try all the joints. After that, we'll crack him open down the middle for the main supply tank." He watched the metal give way under the blows. As the robot was dismembered, the fluid that had lubricated the complex mechanism flowed from its wounds and was poured by the women into a five-gallon can. "Bring a cupful, Judy," Blackie told his woman, a wiry blond girl. "I wanna see if it's as good as the last." He lit a stick at the fire as they crossed the littered, once-ornate lobby, and she followed him down a dim hall. He pulled aside the skins that covered their doorway, then stumbled his way to the table. The window was still uncovered against the night chill, but it looked out on a courtyard shadowed by towering walls. To eyes adjusted to the sunny street, the room was dark. Judy poured the oil into the makeshift lamp, waited for the rag wick to soak, and held it out to Blackie. He lit the wick from his stick. "It burns real good, Blackie," the girl said, wrinkling her nose against the first oily smoke. "Gee, you're smart to catch one the first day out." "Tell them other dames to watch how they use it!" he warned. "This oughta last a month or more when we get him all emptied." He blew out the dying flame on the stick and dropped the charred wood thoughtfully to the floor. "Naw, I ain't so smart," he admitted, "or I'd figure a way to make one of them work the garden for us. Maybe someday--but _this_ kind won't do nothin' but fix that goddam road, an' what good's that to anybody?" His woman moved the burning lamp carefully to the center of the table. "Anyway, it's gonna be better'n last winter," she said. "We'll have lights now." End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Let There Be Light, by Horace Brown Fyfe * END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LET THERE BE LIGHT * *** This file should be named 32592.txt or 32592.zip * This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: https://www.gutenberg.org/3/2/5/9/32592/ Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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锘縏he Project Gutenberg EBook of Sales Talk, by Con Blomberg This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: Sales Talk Author: Con Blomberg Release Date: April 1, 2016 [EBook #51616] Language: English * START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SALES TALK * Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction December 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] To live different and exciting lives, all I had to do was sign here--and give up my own life! Looking out the window, I saw them crossing the court toward the building--two of them. One, the taller with yellow hair, was carrying a flat, expensive briefcase, and the other, of course, was carrying the large square box that contained the Sim. The buzzer sounded, announcing them at the door, and I opened it with mixed feelings. I wasn't sure myself how I would act and--well, you hear so many stories about EL, and this was really my first contact with them. They were standing out in front, looking just like a couple of door-to-door salesmen. And that's just what they were, even if they were called Electro Medical Consultants. Just a fancy name for salesmen. They were very neat in appearance, just as good salesmen should be. Their hats looked new and so did their shoes. "Ah, Mr. Gaines," said the yellow-haired one, sticking out his neatly manicured but definitely masculine hand, "I'm very happy to meet you, sir." His grin could only be described as sincerely boyish. "Come in," I said, feeling like smiling back, so effectively pleasant were their grins. "Come in and sit down, won't you?" So they came in, doffing their hats, and sat down in two chairs that I ordinarily didn't use. They seemed to know instinctively which was _my_ favorite chair. Oh, they were smooth! "Now, Mr. Gaines," said the light-haired man, "perhaps I should start off with a little introduction all around and a short explanation of what Electronic Living can mean to you." No one had mentioned EL up to that point, yet they knew without a doubt that I had correctly identified them. Talk about confidence--it was like a physical force in the room. "I'm Jake Long and this is Arnie Blik," said the light-haired one, rising and gripping my hand with a warm, dry, just right handshake. "Pleased to meet you," said Blik, gripping my hand in turn with an identical warm, dry, just right handshake. "I'm going to ask you for a bit of your time," said Long, "and I certainly hope you can grant us a few minutes without too much inconvenience." * * * * * I murmured something about having plenty of time. That was a laugh, and he and I both knew it. I had so little to do, I almost welcomed them just for sheer entertainment value. "Well, that's fine," said Long, "but rest assured we aren't going to try to waste any of your time. We intend to make it short and sweet, as they say." He did such a good job of keeping up the fiction of me being a busy man that I almost believed it myself. "You probably know more about Electronic Living than I do," he said, and I felt for an instant that I did, "but we'll go over it anyway just so you understand me a little better. You'll remember back in 1958-1959 there was a lot of work done--or I should say a beginning made--in developing an electronic eye for people who had lost their eyesight. This was a start of Electronic Living in its crudest form. These early pioneers, using what little knowledge was available of the brain then, were actually able to insert a probe in the brain and enable the blind person to 'see' light. At first it was just the difference between light and dark, but after a while they did develop a kind of vision--and then finally, after much work, the system grew into actual electronic vision. "This was, as I said, the start of Electronic Living because it advanced the basic premise that the brain can utilize outside electrical impulses for its own purposes. And of course it wasn't long before some experimenters had rigged up a human television receiver. What they did was set up a series of brain probes which were directly connected to a small television receiving apparatus, and the subject could then 'see' the broadcast image without the use of his eyes. "Since this rough beginning, we at EL have done a lot of work, and we are now able to reproduce every sort of physical sensation known to man through electronic brain connections. "And recently, as a further refinement, we have been able to capture internal brain voltages and use them to reproduce thoughtlike sensations. Unfortunately, these are still in the realm of strong emotions and not true thoughts, but they are extremely effective. "Now, it is this combination of physical sensation voltages and internal brain voltages, when fed into your brain from a simple tape like this, that produces what we call Electronic Living." With that he pulled a piece of tape out of his pocket as if producing an elephant from a thimble. * * * * * Arnie Blik hadn't said a word up to this point. He had hung on every word his partner uttered as though it were all new to him. Now he took up the song. "May I ask if you've ever experienced Electric Living?" he asked. "No," I said. I really had once or twice, but I figured it was none of his business. "Ah. Well, if you have no objection, I'd like to use this Simulator here for a few minutes and give you a bare idea of what's going on in Electronic Living today." "Sure," I said. "Go right ahead." Blik opened up the Sim and fished out a hat that was shaped much like a medieval knight's helmet, except that it had a couple of big fat wires connected to it at the back. "Just a moment while I tune it in," Blik said, lowering the helmet part way over his head. He closed his eyes and began fiddling with a series of small knots and buttons which were mounted inside the case. Finally he took it off his head and approached me, carrying this ridiculous helmet like it was a crown on a velvet pillow. "You will be experiencing a basketball player," he said, and plopped it down over my head. When the helmet came down, there was a momentary blank period, and then suddenly I was a basketball player who was playing a fast professional game. I was good, or should say he was? He felt exultation because his team was ahead and he'd put them there with a difficult shot. I could feel the pounding of his heart and the strain of his chest as he gulped in huge quantities of air. His eyes ranged around the court, following his teammates and opponents. It was something, all right, but not everything, because on top of the sensations and emotions of the basketball player, I was getting another series of feelings and emotion which were my own. Superimposed on the other players on the court was the image of my own living room with the two men watching me. Over the smell of sweat of the basketball players came the odor of my apartment. Above the sensation of running, jumping and colliding with other players was the sensation of sitting in my favorite chair with a weight on my head. In short, I was two people at one time. Even the emotions of the basketball player--joy at making a basket, a flare of rage at a rough opponent, and the surge of hope that a teammate would come through--were clouded over with my own emotions of not completely accepting as right the whole concept of EL, coupled with the feeling that I didn't want to show any reaction in front of the EL men. After a short time, Blik removed the Sim, and the basketball player's Life Experience faded away. The two EL men looked at me expectantly. "Hmmm," I said, forcing myself to appear neutral. They did not seem to be disappointed by my reaction or lack of it. * * * * * "Quite an experience, wasn't it?" said Blik, putting the Sim down on the floor. "Of course you realize that you don't get the full effect because you actually have two primary sets of electric images going into the brain. We never have been able to overcome the subject's own real physical and mental sensation with a device that works outside the skull." "But I'm sure Mr. Gaines gets the idea," said Long. "I'm sure I do," I said. The damn thing was plenty intriguing, but somehow, despite all its good points, I wasn't really sold on it. "Perhaps you'd be interested in the kind of thing we have programmed for our EL subscribers," said Long with a kindly smile. "If you are someone who likes active sports, we can give you an evening of that kind of thing. We don't program sports in the daytime or early evening because it interferes with the regular sports consumers, but it's nice to have later on in the evening if you like it." I nodded in what I hoped was a cold manner. "Perhaps you'd like the milieu built up around a hard-working farmer or laborer for a daytime program. A certain amount of physical labor which is coupled with a strong emotion of accomplishment and pride. An excellent milieu and one of our most popular currently." "Very interesting," I said noncommitally, intrigued in spite of myself. Then it was Blik's turn. "If you are interested in the social type of thing, we have several new milieus that fit right in with this sort of thing. I can recall one of a formal dinner party which has strong emotional connotations of well-being and a sense of--grandeur--yes, grandeur in the old meaning of the word. And in this same milieu it is possible to get the bon-vivant type of thing. You know, the raconteur who is a real spellbinder. That has a strong emotion of ego-fulfillment." "Very interesting," I said again, "but it doesn't quite fill the bill as far as I'm--" "Arnie, we've been overlooking the obvious," said Long. "Mr. Gaines is looking more for the intellectual type of Life Experience. Now, I recall one of a sculptor which has a fine feel to it. Extremely intellectual and yet artistically creative, if you know what I mean. And then there's an extremely thrilling milieu dealing with a symphony conductor in which there is an absolute physical thrill that is audio-inspired. Just the thing for anyone who is an audiophile, I'd say." I had to admit that it was beginning to sound more appealing all the time and I found myself wondering just which Life Experience one would pick first if he were to go EL. "Of course," said Blik, with a manly grin, "we have the thing we call our 'playboy milieu' which is strictly a sensual sort of a thing. It often appeals rather strongly to new subscribers, although I have to warn you that it soon becomes an Experience which palls on you." * * * * * He almost had me with that one, because after all I have normal male curiosity and all that, and naturally it's always these "playboy milieus" that you hear the most about among people who are non-EL subscribers. Yes, for a minute or two there, I was teetering on the brink, but my better sense did ultimately win out and I could feel the emotion of resistance welling up inside me. "Well, actually, gentlemen, it isn't a case of not finding the right milieu, because I'm sure you have anything that I could ever want. It's more on philosophical grounds that I find that I hesitate to go along with Electronic Living," I said boldly. Just saying it gave me a tremendous lift. "Ah," said Long, looking at the ceiling and making a tent of his fingers in front of his chest. "I always enjoy talking with a man who has a philosophical bent. In fact," he said, unfolding the tent and leaning close to me and lowering his voice a little, "it's the one big pleasure I get out of this job." "I'm afraid that I have to agree with you there, Jack," said Blik, digging his toe into the rug in a distinctly boyish manner. * * * * * "Why don't you sort of fill us in on your thinking, Mr. Gaines?" urged Long. "Well," I said, feeling warm under the collar and allowing my hand to tremble slightly with emotion as I got into what I now realized was the meat of my resistance to EL. "Well, let's take it from the word go. If I sign up with you now, I'll go down to the Electronic Living Center tomorrow or the next day and they'll take me into an operating room and put some tiny probes into my brain, and aside from a momentary twinge or two, I won't feel a thing. And then when it's over I'll walk out of the room looking just the way I did before, except that I'll have a neat little connection mounted high on the left side of my head where it can be tastefully covered with hair when not in use. "And I'll probably come back to this apartment to find the Electronic Living Machine installed in that corner, tastefully decorated to look like an old-fashioned antique bookcase, or a modern bar, or whatever I want it to look like. But whatever it looks like, there will be a comfortable chair unobtrusively attached to the ELM and sooner or later I'll sit down in that chair and read over the list of Life Experiences and select one. "Then I'll sink back in the chair and the little connection on my head will fit neatly into another little connection on the chair, because my chair will fit only me, and it will fit me perfectly. "And then, while I drift off to EL-land, the chair will unfold around me so that all sight and sound and almost all feeling will disappear and I'll be like a chrysalis in a cocoon. "So for two or three or eight hours I'll stay inside the cocoon, living another person's life. And while I'm in there, everyone will be sighing a sigh of relief that here is another potential producer who has finally given up the ghost and turned consumer. "Then when the tape is through, the cocoon will open and I'll wake up tired or refreshed or satiated or somehow changed, and then I'll get out to the food center and dial a meal or call someone up, or go out and walk around or something." * * * * * I was really getting wound up, but Long broke in on me. "Tell me a little more," he said, "about that one idea, will you? You know, the idea about how you will give up being a producer and will be all consumer?" "I was just coming to that," I said hotly. "Yes, they'll probably enroll my name on the EL subscribers roll with a big cheer, and all my non-EL friends will hear about it and they'll raise their eyebrows, or maybe they'll sign up too. "But the point is this. Is it right for me, a big, strong, healthy human being with powers of perception and reasoning and a capability for work and creativeness--is it right for me to substitute this dream world of EL for actual real thinking, or doing, or creating? Do any of us have the right to subvert our normal impulses for creation and for living in this way?" "A good question," said Long with a sigh. "I'm afraid he's put it in pretty unanswerable terms, all right. Except for one minor point, I couldn't help but agree with everything he said, in spite of the fact that I--well, I'm sold on EL, naturally." We sat for a while just sort of gazing around at nothing. Finally Blik spoke up. "What was that one point that you disagreed on Jack?" he asked his partner. "I've been running Mr. Gaines' statement over in my mind and I can't seem to find the flaw you mentioned." "Oh, it was nothing," said Long impatiently. "Just a minor point." "No, I mean it," said Blik. "I'd really like to know." "Not worth talking about. Let's pack up and not take any more of Mr. Gaines' time." "Come on, Jack, tell me what it was," said Blik, in a rather positive way, I thought. "Really, Arnie," said Long, firing up a little, "take it easy, will you? We don't want to have to argue about some little point that doesn't mean anything. Just forget it." His attitude changed quickly from irritation to downright nastiness. Apparently, as head of the sales team, he wasn't going to take anything from a subordinate. It kind of irritated me in turn, because he gave me the impression that he felt as if he was too good to talk with us about it. "All right, all right," said Blik, "the hell with it. So it was a minor point." "Why not tell him?" I asked Long, cutting in quickly as Blik made a move to pack up the Sim. * * * * * Long turned toward me with a supercilious look that put me in the same category as assistants who had the temerity to question the boss. Then in an instant the mask returned and he was just as polite and smooth as ever--but I'd seen the crack in the slickness before he changed. It really got me where I live. That's one thing I can't stand--an assault on the ego by a slick bum like that, who thinks he's so good. "Oh, I don't see how it can be that small a point," I said. "Especially if you thought of it." I said the last part as insultingly as I knew how, and I saw the color rise in his face. "Yes, speak up," said Blik, siding with me. "He's got a right to know." "All right," said Long with some asperity that even the professional mask couldn't hide, "but I warn you that it's strictly a minor point." "So it's a minor," said Blik. "Tell us." "The point is," said Long, after a short pause to collect his thoughts, "that EL fills a need for some people. You see, with the big upsurge in automation years ago, it got harder and harder for a production-oriented economy to survive. Jobs got fewer and easier. People were thrown out of work. During the early years of automation, there was a lot of population displacement because of a lack of jobs, and this made for a lot of economic juggling which really didn't help matters. "It wasn't until some ten years ago that people finally came to the conclusion that production was outstripping the need for labor and that, in fact, production was beginning to become a burden on the economy. And so they turned things around a bit. Instead of giving rewards and subsidies to the production end of the economy, they began giving it to the consuming end. That was really the only way out of the hole. "But it was soon found that people are not merely organisms geared to consume. At first it was grand and glorious, but after a bit the urge to create, to work, to think began to assert itself strongly, and that's where EL came along. EL was developed to give unsatisfied people satisfactions that they couldn't get anywhere else. They couldn't be allowed to produce because that was what was wrecking things. So they had to be provided with a synthetic 'production-fulfillment.' "Today these producer-minded people can get any sort of satisfaction they need from EL, and it keeps them from wandering around trying to produce something that would just be a hindrance. After all, what we need is consumership, not production. "But that's a relatively minor point, as I said earlier," Long concluded looking at me with a superior air. "It's such a minor point, it won't even bear discussion." * * * * * His manner, underneath the slick facade, implied that he wouldn't deign to discuss it with two peasants like Blik and me under any circumstances. "Just a minute," I said. "It's _not_ a minor point at all. It seems to me that you've hit the core of the problem." "A minor point," insisted Long, his eyes blazing, although his face retained the mask of the smiling salesman. "Perhaps I didn't make myself clear," I said. "Have you ever stopped to think that if you take EL into the larger picture, it does serve a purpose, and perhaps we are all here for a different reason than I had originally discussed? Maybe the thing to be is a super-consumer--maybe definitive consumership is the most vital thing in our life, not the production of things." "Well, that's an idea, sure enough," said Blik suddenly. He had been silent during the flare-up between Long and me. "But I can't help but think," he continued, "that your original argument was a little tighter. The old virtues do have a place, don't they?" You see how slick, how well-trained, how cunning they were? When Blik opened his mouth, the bubble burst, and I knew that they had neatly switched me around to where I was arguing against myself. Up until the instant Blik started talking, I was actually selling myself on EL, and the truth was that I had almost completed the job by that time. If he had remained silent, I probably would have signed the contract--I think I would have fought to sign it. I felt an emotion of strength and power then. A top EL team had given me the works and I had seen through them. They still didn't know they had lost, but they would--just as soon as I opened my mouth to speak. The emotion of victory is sweeter than almost anything else, and all the sweeter for having skirted defeat. "You know, Arnie," I said, "I agree with you. The old virtues are best. I think EL is a living hell." It was a sight to see, believe me. Their slick, slick faces folded like paper houses in a hurricane. Blik's hands were shaking as he bent over and started packing up the Sim without another word. You have to be good to know that fast that you have lost irrevocably. They got up then and scooped their hats up from the floor and put them on. The gracious, gentlemanly conduct was a thing of the past. "Tell me," said Long, his hand on the door, the edge of the EL contract peeking untidily out of his expensive briefcase, "where did we make our mistake?" I laughed a good loud whoop. It felt good. "It was when Arnie here switched sides." "Stupid fool," said Long, looking as though he wanted to slam the square box containing the Sim over Blik's head. "Sorry, old man," Blik said, coloring a deep red. "I'll try to make it up next time." "Not with me, you won't," said Long. "Technician!" They opened the door and went out. I jigged with glee as I looked out the window and watched them cross the court. Long was walking along in a high dudgeon, his briefcase swinging angrily with every step. Blik was trotting along to one side and behind him, his shoulders slumped, defeat written all over his form and walk. * * * * * I looked around as the wall swung open and Rommy walked in with his hand outstretched. "Congratulations!" he said, beaming widely. "It was perfect! My God, it's a delight for a director to work with a real group of competent actors. All three of you were perfect!" "Thanks," I said. "I hope I was as good as you think when we play the tape back." I felt along the base of my skull where the transmitter hung encased in Natur-flesh and covered with fake hair. I could hardly believe it was there, it felt so natural. Rommy looked out the window. Long and Blik were walking back through the gate, talking and waving their arms the way people do when they're excited about doing a good job. "There's a pair of sweethearts," said Rommy. "Real actors, those boys. I checked out the transmission right up to the last minute and they really gave out--you couldn't find a quiver of disbelief or strain. They _felt_ it." "So did I," I said, sitting down and putting my feet up on a low table on the set. "Tell me, Rommy, what in hell is EL going to use these tapes for, anyway? It seems to me it would be sort of dangerous to put all this on tape." "We couldn't tell you before because it might have spoiled your reactions, but we have a lot of EL subscribers who are down deep opposed to EL, and this tape will be sort of a catharsis for them. It'll give them a real jolt." "Oh, producer types who are struggling to become consumer types," I said. "They'll experience the role I just got through playing, and it will make them feel they didn't sign the contract, huh?" "There's more to it than that," said Rommy. "There are some people who just like to experience an extremely strong sales-resistant emotion, mostly because they're pushovers. We wouldn't make a tape like this just for the anti-EL jerks. It's too expensive." "Tell me," I said, "what are you using Long and Blik for? I thought I detected transmitters on them, too." "Just the opposite from what you were doing. Some people like to experience a setback or even a complete failure now and then. Sort of an opposite to the 'high' tapes. Lord knows we got hundreds of 'high' tapes, but not many low ones, so we're starting to build a library of them now. A lot of subscribers are getting tired of winning all the time and they'd like to experience a defeat or two once in a while just for the contrast." Long and Blik came in the door without knocking. Rommy was on his feet in an instant. "Boys," he shouted, "you were great! I checked the tapes and nobody could be lower than you guys walking out across that court. It was sensational. Probably the best thing that's ever been done here at EL Studios!" 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Title: Sales Talk Author: Con Blomberg Release Date: April 1, 2016 [EBook #51616] Language: English * START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SALES TALK * Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction December 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] To live different and exciting lives, all I had to do was sign here--and give up my own life! Looking out the window, I saw them crossing the court toward the building--two of them. One, the taller with yellow hair, was carrying a flat, expensive briefcase, and the other, of course, was carrying the large square box that contained the Sim. The buzzer sounded, announcing them at the door, and I opened it with mixed feelings. I wasn't sure myself how I would act and--well, you hear so many stories about EL, and this was really my first contact with them. They were standing out in front, looking just like a couple of door-to-door salesmen. And that's just what they were, even if they were called Electro Medical Consultants. Just a fancy name for salesmen. They were very neat in appearance, just as good salesmen should be. Their hats looked new and so did their shoes. "Ah, Mr. Gaines," said the yellow-haired one, sticking out his neatly manicured but definitely masculine hand, "I'm very happy to meet you, sir." His grin could only be described as sincerely boyish. "Come in," I said, feeling like smiling back, so effectively pleasant were their grins. "Come in and sit down, won't you?" So they came in, doffing their hats, and sat down in two chairs that I ordinarily didn't use. They seemed to know instinctively which was _my_ favorite chair. Oh, they were smooth! "Now, Mr. Gaines," said the light-haired man, "perhaps I should start off with a little introduction all around and a short explanation of what Electronic Living can mean to you." No one had mentioned EL up to that point, yet they knew without a doubt that I had correctly identified them. Talk about confidence--it was like a physical force in the room. "I'm Jake Long and this is Arnie Blik," said the light-haired one, rising and gripping my hand with a warm, dry, just right handshake. "Pleased to meet you," said Blik, gripping my hand in turn with an identical warm, dry, just right handshake. "I'm going to ask you for a bit of your time," said Long, "and I certainly hope you can grant us a few minutes without too much inconvenience." * * * * * I murmured something about having plenty of time. That was a laugh, and he and I both knew it. I had so little to do, I almost welcomed them just for sheer entertainment value. "Well, that's fine," said Long, "but rest assured we aren't going to try to waste any of your time. We intend to make it short and sweet, as they say." He did such a good job of keeping up the fiction of me being a busy man that I almost believed it myself. "You probably know more about Electronic Living than I do," he said, and I felt for an instant that I did, "but we'll go over it anyway just so you understand me a little better. You'll remember back in 1958-1959 there was a lot of work done--or I should say a beginning made--in developing an electronic eye for people who had lost their eyesight. This was a start of Electronic Living in its crudest form. These early pioneers, using what little knowledge was available of the brain then, were actually able to insert a probe in the brain and enable the blind person to 'see' light. At first it was just the difference between light and dark, but after a while they did develop a kind of vision--and then finally, after much work, the system grew into actual electronic vision. "This was, as I said, the start of Electronic Living because it advanced the basic premise that the brain can utilize outside electrical impulses for its own purposes. And of course it wasn't long before some experimenters had rigged up a human television receiver. What they did was set up a series of brain probes which were directly connected to a small television receiving apparatus, and the subject could then 'see' the broadcast image without the use of his eyes. "Since this rough beginning, we at EL have done a lot of work, and we are now able to reproduce every sort of physical sensation known to man through electronic brain connections. "And recently, as a further refinement, we have been able to capture internal brain voltages and use them to reproduce thoughtlike sensations. Unfortunately, these are still in the realm of strong emotions and not true thoughts, but they are extremely effective. "Now, it is this combination of physical sensation voltages and internal brain voltages, when fed into your brain from a simple tape like this, that produces what we call Electronic Living." With that he pulled a piece of tape out of his pocket as if producing an elephant from a thimble. * * * * * Arnie Blik hadn't said a word up to this point. He had hung on every word his partner uttered as though it were all new to him. Now he took up the song. "May I ask if you've ever experienced Electric Living?" he asked. "No," I said. I really had once or twice, but I figured it was none of his business. "Ah. Well, if you have no objection, I'd like to use this Simulator here for a few minutes and give you a bare idea of what's going on in Electronic Living today." "Sure," I said. "Go right ahead." Blik opened up the Sim and fished out a hat that was shaped much like a medieval knight's helmet, except that it had a couple of big fat wires connected to it at the back. "Just a moment while I tune it in," Blik said, lowering the helmet part way over his head. He closed his eyes and began fiddling with a series of small knots and buttons which were mounted inside the case. Finally he took it off his head and approached me, carrying this ridiculous helmet like it was a crown on a velvet pillow. "You will be experiencing a basketball player," he said, and plopped it down over my head. When the helmet came down, there was a momentary blank period, and then suddenly I was a basketball player who was playing a fast professional game. I was good, or should say he was? He felt exultation because his team was ahead and he'd put them there with a difficult shot. I could feel the pounding of his heart and the strain of his chest as he gulped in huge quantities of air. His eyes ranged around the court, following his teammates and opponents. It was something, all right, but not everything, because on top of the sensations and emotions of the basketball player, I was getting another series of feelings and emotion which were my own. Superimposed on the other players on the court was the image of my own living room with the two men watching me. Over the smell of sweat of the basketball players came the odor of my apartment. Above the sensation of running, jumping and colliding with other players was the sensation of sitting in my favorite chair with a weight on my head. In short, I was two people at one time. Even the emotions of the basketball player--joy at making a basket, a flare of rage at a rough opponent, and the surge of hope that a teammate would come through--were clouded over with my own emotions of not completely accepting as right the whole concept of EL, coupled with the feeling that I didn't want to show any reaction in front of the EL men. After a short time, Blik removed the Sim, and the basketball player's Life Experience faded away. The two EL men looked at me expectantly. "Hmmm," I said, forcing myself to appear neutral. They did not seem to be disappointed by my reaction or lack of it. * * * * * "Quite an experience, wasn't it?" said Blik, putting the Sim down on the floor. "Of course you realize that you don't get the full effect because you actually have two primary sets of electric images going into the brain. We never have been able to overcome the subject's own real physical and mental sensation with a device that works outside the skull." "But I'm sure Mr. Gaines gets the idea," said Long. "I'm sure I do," I said. The damn thing was plenty intriguing, but somehow, despite all its good points, I wasn't really sold on it. "Perhaps you'd be interested in the kind of thing we have programmed for our EL subscribers," said Long with a kindly smile. "If you are someone who likes active sports, we can give you an evening of that kind of thing. We don't program sports in the daytime or early evening because it interferes with the regular sports consumers, but it's nice to have later on in the evening if you like it." I nodded in what I hoped was a cold manner. "Perhaps you'd like the milieu built up around a hard-working farmer or laborer for a daytime program. A certain amount of physical labor which is coupled with a strong emotion of accomplishment and pride. An excellent milieu and one of our most popular currently." "Very interesting," I said noncommitally, intrigued in spite of myself. Then it was Blik's turn. "If you are interested in the social type of thing, we have several new milieus that fit right in with this sort of thing. I can recall one of a formal dinner party which has strong emotional connotations of well-being and a sense of--grandeur--yes, grandeur in the old meaning of the word. And in this same milieu it is possible to get the bon-vivant type of thing. You know, the raconteur who is a real spellbinder. That has a strong emotion of ego-fulfillment." "Very interesting," I said again, "but it doesn't quite fill the bill as far as I'm--" "Arnie, we've been overlooking the obvious," said Long. "Mr. Gaines is looking more for the intellectual type of Life Experience. Now, I recall one of a sculptor which has a fine feel to it. Extremely intellectual and yet artistically creative, if you know what I mean. And then there's an extremely thrilling milieu dealing with a symphony conductor in which there is an absolute physical thrill that is audio-inspired. Just the thing for anyone who is an audiophile, I'd say." I had to admit that it was beginning to sound more appealing all the time and I found myself wondering just which Life Experience one would pick first if he were to go EL. "Of course," said Blik, with a manly grin, "we have the thing we call our 'playboy milieu' which is strictly a sensual sort of a thing. It often appeals rather strongly to new subscribers, although I have to warn you that it soon becomes an Experience which palls on you." * * * * * He almost had me with that one, because after all I have normal male curiosity and all that, and naturally it's always these "playboy milieus" that you hear the most about among people who are non-EL subscribers. Yes, for a minute or two there, I was teetering on the brink, but my better sense did ultimately win out and I could feel the emotion of resistance welling up inside me. "Well, actually, gentlemen, it isn't a case of not finding the right milieu, because I'm sure you have anything that I could ever want. It's more on philosophical grounds that I find that I hesitate to go along with Electronic Living," I said boldly. Just saying it gave me a tremendous lift. "Ah," said Long, looking at the ceiling and making a tent of his fingers in front of his chest. "I always enjoy talking with a man who has a philosophical bent. In fact," he said, unfolding the tent and leaning close to me and lowering his voice a little, "it's the one big pleasure I get out of this job." "I'm afraid that I have to agree with you there, Jack," said Blik, digging his toe into the rug in a distinctly boyish manner. * * * * * "Why don't you sort of fill us in on your thinking, Mr. Gaines?" urged Long. "Well," I said, feeling warm under the collar and allowing my hand to tremble slightly with emotion as I got into what I now realized was the meat of my resistance to EL. "Well, let's take it from the word go. If I sign up with you now, I'll go down to the Electronic Living Center tomorrow or the next day and they'll take me into an operating room and put some tiny probes into my brain, and aside from a momentary twinge or two, I won't feel a thing. And then when it's over I'll walk out of the room looking just the way I did before, except that I'll have a neat little connection mounted high on the left side of my head where it can be tastefully covered with hair when not in use. "And I'll probably come back to this apartment to find the Electronic Living Machine installed in that corner, tastefully decorated to look like an old-fashioned antique bookcase, or a modern bar, or whatever I want it to look like. But whatever it looks like, there will be a comfortable chair unobtrusively attached to the ELM and sooner or later I'll sit down in that chair and read over the list of Life Experiences and select one. "Then I'll sink back in the chair and the little connection on my head will fit neatly into another little connection on the chair, because my chair will fit only me, and it will fit me perfectly. "And then, while I drift off to EL-land, the chair will unfold around me so that all sight and sound and almost all feeling will disappear and I'll be like a chrysalis in a cocoon. "So for two or three or eight hours I'll stay inside the cocoon, living another person's life. And while I'm in there, everyone will be sighing a sigh of relief that here is another potential producer who has finally given up the ghost and turned consumer. "Then when the tape is through, the cocoon will open and I'll wake up tired or refreshed or satiated or somehow changed, and then I'll get out to the food center and dial a meal or call someone up, or go out and walk around or something." * * * * * I was really getting wound up, but Long broke in on me. "Tell me a little more," he said, "about that one idea, will you? You know, the idea about how you will give up being a producer and will be all consumer?" "I was just coming to that," I said hotly. "Yes, they'll probably enroll my name on the EL subscribers roll with a big cheer, and all my non-EL friends will hear about it and they'll raise their eyebrows, or maybe they'll sign up too. "But the point is this. Is it right for me, a big, strong, healthy human being with powers of perception and reasoning and a capability for work and creativeness--is it right for me to substitute this dream world of EL for actual real thinking, or doing, or creating? Do any of us have the right to subvert our normal impulses for creation and for living in this way?" "A good question," said Long with a sigh. "I'm afraid he's put it in pretty unanswerable terms, all right. Except for one minor point, I couldn't help but agree with everything he said, in spite of the fact that I--well, I'm sold on EL, naturally." We sat for a while just sort of gazing around at nothing. Finally Blik spoke up. "What was that one point that you disagreed on Jack?" he asked his partner. "I've been running Mr. Gaines' statement over in my mind and I can't seem to find the flaw you mentioned." "Oh, it was nothing," said Long impatiently. "Just a minor point." "No, I mean it," said Blik. "I'd really like to know." "Not worth talking about. Let's pack up and not take any more of Mr. Gaines' time." "Come on, Jack, tell me what it was," said Blik, in a rather positive way, I thought. "Really, Arnie," said Long, firing up a little, "take it easy, will you? We don't want to have to argue about some little point that doesn't mean anything. Just forget it." His attitude changed quickly from irritation to downright nastiness. Apparently, as head of the sales team, he wasn't going to take anything from a subordinate. It kind of irritated me in turn, because he gave me the impression that he felt as if he was too good to talk with us about it. "All right, all right," said Blik, "the hell with it. So it was a minor point." "Why not tell him?" I asked Long, cutting in quickly as Blik made a move to pack up the Sim. * * * * * Long turned toward me with a supercilious look that put me in the same category as assistants who had the temerity to question the boss. Then in an instant the mask returned and he was just as polite and smooth as ever--but I'd seen the crack in the slickness before he changed. It really got me where I live. That's one thing I can't stand--an assault on the ego by a slick bum like that, who thinks he's so good. "Oh, I don't see how it can be that small a point," I said. "Especially if you thought of it." I said the last part as insultingly as I knew how, and I saw the color rise in his face. "Yes, speak up," said Blik, siding with me. "He's got a right to know." "All right," said Long with some asperity that even the professional mask couldn't hide, "but I warn you that it's strictly a minor point." "So it's a minor," said Blik. "Tell us." "The point is," said Long, after a short pause to collect his thoughts, "that EL fills a need for some people. You see, with the big upsurge in automation years ago, it got harder and harder for a production-oriented economy to survive. Jobs got fewer and easier. People were thrown out of work. During the early years of automation, there was a lot of population displacement because of a lack of jobs, and this made for a lot of economic juggling which really didn't help matters. "It wasn't until some ten years ago that people finally came to the conclusion that production was outstripping the need for labor and that, in fact, production was beginning to become a burden on the economy. And so they turned things around a bit. Instead of giving rewards and subsidies to the production end of the economy, they began giving it to the consuming end. That was really the only way out of the hole. "But it was soon found that people are not merely organisms geared to consume. At first it was grand and glorious, but after a bit the urge to create, to work, to think began to assert itself strongly, and that's where EL came along. EL was developed to give unsatisfied people satisfactions that they couldn't get anywhere else. They couldn't be allowed to produce because that was what was wrecking things. So they had to be provided with a synthetic 'production-fulfillment.' "Today these producer-minded people can get any sort of satisfaction they need from EL, and it keeps them from wandering around trying to produce something that would just be a hindrance. After all, what we need is consumership, not production. "But that's a relatively minor point, as I said earlier," Long concluded looking at me with a superior air. "It's such a minor point, it won't even bear discussion." * * * * * His manner, underneath the slick facade, implied that he wouldn't deign to discuss it with two peasants like Blik and me under any circumstances. "Just a minute," I said. "It's _not_ a minor point at all. It seems to me that you've hit the core of the problem." "A minor point," insisted Long, his eyes blazing, although his face retained the mask of the smiling salesman. "Perhaps I didn't make myself clear," I said. "Have you ever stopped to think that if you take EL into the larger picture, it does serve a purpose, and perhaps we are all here for a different reason than I had originally discussed? Maybe the thing to be is a super-consumer--maybe definitive consumership is the most vital thing in our life, not the production of things." "Well, that's an idea, sure enough," said Blik suddenly. He had been silent during the flare-up between Long and me. "But I can't help but think," he continued, "that your original argument was a little tighter. The old virtues do have a place, don't they?" You see how slick, how well-trained, how cunning they were? When Blik opened his mouth, the bubble burst, and I knew that they had neatly switched me around to where I was arguing against myself. Up until the instant Blik started talking, I was actually selling myself on EL, and the truth was that I had almost completed the job by that time. If he had remained silent, I probably would have signed the contract--I think I would have fought to sign it. I felt an emotion of strength and power then. A top EL team had given me the works and I had seen through them. They still didn't know they had lost, but they would--just as soon as I opened my mouth to speak. The emotion of victory is sweeter than almost anything else, and all the sweeter for having skirted defeat. "You know, Arnie," I said, "I agree with you. The old virtues are best. I think EL is a living hell." It was a sight to see, believe me. Their slick, slick faces folded like paper houses in a hurricane. Blik's hands were shaking as he bent over and started packing up the Sim without another word. You have to be good to know that fast that you have lost irrevocably. They got up then and scooped their hats up from the floor and put them on. The gracious, gentlemanly conduct was a thing of the past. "Tell me," said Long, his hand on the door, the edge of the EL contract peeking untidily out of his expensive briefcase, "where did we make our mistake?" I laughed a good loud whoop. It felt good. "It was when Arnie here switched sides." "Stupid fool," said Long, looking as though he wanted to slam the square box containing the Sim over Blik's head. "Sorry, old man," Blik said, coloring a deep red. "I'll try to make it up next time." "Not with me, you won't," said Long. "Technician!" They opened the door and went out. I jigged with glee as I looked out the window and watched them cross the court. Long was walking along in a high dudgeon, his briefcase swinging angrily with every step. Blik was trotting along to one side and behind him, his shoulders slumped, defeat written all over his form and walk. * * * * * I looked around as the wall swung open and Rommy walked in with his hand outstretched. "Congratulations!" he said, beaming widely. "It was perfect! My God, it's a delight for a director to work with a real group of competent actors. All three of you were perfect!" "Thanks," I said. "I hope I was as good as you think when we play the tape back." I felt along the base of my skull where the transmitter hung encased in Natur-flesh and covered with fake hair. I could hardly believe it was there, it felt so natural. Rommy looked out the window. Long and Blik were walking back through the gate, talking and waving their arms the way people do when they're excited about doing a good job. "There's a pair of sweethearts," said Rommy. "Real actors, those boys. I checked out the transmission right up to the last minute and they really gave out--you couldn't find a quiver of disbelief or strain. They _felt_ it." "So did I," I said, sitting down and putting my feet up on a low table on the set. "Tell me, Rommy, what in hell is EL going to use these tapes for, anyway? It seems to me it would be sort of dangerous to put all this on tape." "We couldn't tell you before because it might have spoiled your reactions, but we have a lot of EL subscribers who are down deep opposed to EL, and this tape will be sort of a catharsis for them. It'll give them a real jolt." "Oh, producer types who are struggling to become consumer types," I said. "They'll experience the role I just got through playing, and it will make them feel they didn't sign the contract, huh?" "There's more to it than that," said Rommy. "There are some people who just like to experience an extremely strong sales-resistant emotion, mostly because they're pushovers. We wouldn't make a tape like this just for the anti-EL jerks. It's too expensive." "Tell me," I said, "what are you using Long and Blik for? I thought I detected transmitters on them, too." "Just the opposite from what you were doing. Some people like to experience a setback or even a complete failure now and then. Sort of an opposite to the 'high' tapes. Lord knows we got hundreds of 'high' tapes, but not many low ones, so we're starting to build a library of them now. A lot of subscribers are getting tired of winning all the time and they'd like to experience a defeat or two once in a while just for the contrast." Long and Blik came in the door without knocking. Rommy was on his feet in an instant. "Boys," he shouted, "you were great! I checked the tapes and nobody could be lower than you guys walking out across that court. It was sensational. Probably the best thing that's ever been done here at EL Studios!" 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锘縏he Project Gutenberg EBook of Subversive, by Dallas McCord Reynolds This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Subversive Author: Dallas McCord Reynolds Illustrator: Schoenherr Release Date: October 26, 2007 [EBook #23197] Language: English * START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SUBVERSIVE * Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Analog_ December 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. Subscript characters are shown within {braces}. Subversive "Subversive" is, in essence, a negative term--it means simply "against the existent system." It doesn't mean subversives all agree ... by Mack Reynolds Illustrated by Schoenherr The young man with the brown paper bag said, "Is Mrs. Coty in?" "I'm afraid she isn't. Is there anything I can do?" "You're Mr. Coty? I came about the soap." He held up the paper bag. "Soap?" Mr. Coty said blankly. He was the epitome of mid-aged husband complete to pipe, carpet slippers and office-slump posture. "That's right. I'm sure she told you about it. My name's Dickens. Warren Dickens. I sold her--" "Look here, you mean to tell me in this day and age you go around from door to door peddling soap? Great guns, boy, you'd do better on unemployment insurance. It's permanent now." Warren Dickens registered distress. "Mr. Coty, could I come in and tell you about it? If I can make the first delivery to you instead of Mrs. Coty, shucks, it'll save me coming back." Coty led him back into the living room, motioned him to a chair and settled into what was obviously his own favorite, handily placed before the telly. Coty said tolerantly, "Now then, what's this about selling soap? What kind of soap? What brand?" "Oh, it has no name, sir. That's the point." The other looked at him. "That's why we can sell it for three cents a cake, instead of twenty-five." Dickens opened the paper bag and fished out an ordinary enough looking cake of soap and handed it to the older man. Mr. Coty took it, stared down at it, turned it over in his hands. He was still blank. "Well, what's different about it?" [Illustration] "There's nothing different about it. It's the same as any other soap." "I mean, how come you sell it for three cents a cake, and what's the fact it has no name got to do with it?" Warren Dickens leaned forward and went into what was obviously a strictly routine pitch. "Mr. Coty, have you ever considered what you're buying when they nick you twenty-five cents on your credit card for a bar of soap in an ultra-market?" There was an edge of impatience in the older man's voice. "I buy soap!" "No, sir. That's your mistake. What you buy is a telly show, in fact several of them, with all their expensive comedians, singers, musicians, dancers, news commentators, network vice presidents, and all the rest. Then you buy fancy packaging. You'll note, by the way, that our product hasn't even a piece of tissue paper wrapped around it. Fancy packaging designed by some of the most competent commercial artists and motivational research men in the country. Then you buy distribution. From the factory all the way to the retail ultra-market where your wife shops. And every time that bar of soap goes from one wholesaler or distributor to another, the price roughly doubles. You also buy a brain trust whose full time project is to keep you using their soap and not letting their competitors talk you into switching brands. The brain trust, of course, also works on luring away the competitor's customers to their product. Shucks, Mr. Coty, practically none of that twenty-five cents you spend to buy a cake of soap goes for soap. So small a percentage that you might as well forget about it." Mr. Coty was obviously taken aback. "Well, how do I know this nameless soap you're peddling is, well, any good?" Warren Dickens sighed deeply, and in such wise that it was obvious that he had so sighed before. "Sir, there is no difference between soaps. Oh, they might use a slightly different perfume, or tint it a slightly different color, but for all practical purposes common hand soap, common bath soap, is soap, period. All the stuff the copy writers dream up about secret ingredients and health for your skin, and cosmetic qualities, and all the rest, is Madison Avenue gobbledygook and applies as well to one brand as another. As a matter of fact, often two different soap companies, supposedly keen competitors, and using widely different advertising, have their products manufactured in the same plant." Mr. Coty blinked at him. Shifted in his chair. Rubbed his chin as though checking his morning shave. "Well ... well, then where do you get _your_ soap?" "The same place. We buy in fantastically large lots from one of the gigantic automated soap plants." Mr. Coty had him now. "Ah, ha! Then how come you sell it for three cents a cake, instead of twenty-five?" "I've been telling you. Our soap doesn't even have a name, not to mention an advertising budget. Far from spending fortunes redesigning our packaging every few months in attempts to lure new customers, we don't package the stuff at all. It comes to you, in the simplest possible wrapping, through the mails. A new supply every month. Three cents a cake. No middlemen, no wholesalers, distributors. No nothing except soap at three cents a cake." Mr. Coty leaned back in his chair. "I'll be darned." He thought it over. "Listen, do you sell anything besides soap?" "Not right now, sir. But soap flakes are coming up next week and I think we'll be going into bread in a month or two." "Bread?" "Yes, sir, bread. Although we'll have to distribute that by truck, and have to have almost hundred per cent coverage in a given section before it's practical. A nickel a loaf." "Five cents a loaf! You can't _make_ bread for that much." "Oh, yes we can. We can't advertise it, package it, and pay a host of in-betweens, is all. From the bakery to you, period." Mr. Coty seemed fascinated. He said, "See here, what's the address of your office?" Warren Dickens shook his head. "Sorry, sir. That's all part of it. We have no swanky offices with big, expensive staffs. We operate on the smallest of shoestrings. No brain trust. No complaint department. No public relations. No literature on how to beautify yourself. No nothing, except good soap at three cents a cake, plus postage. Now, if you'll sign this contract, we'll put you on our mailing list. Ten bars of soap a month, Mrs. Coty said. I brought this first supply so you could test it and see that the whole thing is bona fide." Mr. Coty had to test it, but then he had to admit he couldn't tell any difference between the nameless soap and the product to which he was used. Eventually, he signed, made the first payment, shook hands with young Dickens and saw him to the door. He said, in parting, "I still wonder why you do this, rather than dragging down unemployment insurance like most young men fresh out of school." Warren Dickens screwed up his face. This was a question that wasn't routine. "Well, I make approximately the same, if I stick to it and get enough contracts. And, shucks they're not hard to get. And, well, I'm working, not just bumming on the rest of the country. I'm doing something, something useful." Coty pursed his lips and shrugged. "It's been a long time since anybody cared about that." He looked after the young man as he walked down the walk. Then he turned and headed for the phone, and ten years seemed to drop away from him. He lit the screen with a flick, dialed and said crisply, "That's him, Jerry. Going down the walk now. Don't let him out of your sight." Jerry's face was in the screen but he was obviously peering down, from the helio-jet, locating the subject. "O.K., Tracy, I make him. See you later." His face faded. The man who had called himself Mr. Coty, dialed again, not bothering to light the screen. "All right," he said. "Thank Mrs. Coty and let her come home now." * * * * * Frank Tracy worked his way down an aisle of automated phono-typers and other office equipment. The handful of operators, their faces bored, periodically strolled up and down, needlessly checking that which seldom needed checking. He entered the receptionist's office, flicked a hand at LaVerne Sandell, one of the few employees it seemed impossible to automate out of her position, and said, "The Chief is probably expecting me." "That he is. Go right in, Mr. Tracy." "I'm expecting a call from one of the operatives. Put it through, eh LaVerne?" "Righto." Even as he walked toward the door to the sanctum sanctorum, he grimaced sourly at her. "_Righto_, yet. Isn't that a bit on the maize side? Doesn't sound very authentic to me." "I can see you don't put in your telly time, Mr. Tracy. Slang goes in cycles these days. They simply don't dream up a whole new set of expressions every generation anymore because everybody gets tired of them so soon. Instead, older periods of idiom are revived. For instance, scram is coming back in." He stopped long enough to look at her, frowning. "Scram?" She took him in quizzically, estimating. "Possibly _dust_, or _get lost_, was the term when you were a boy." Tracy chuckled wryly, "Thanks for the compliment, but I go back to the days of _beat it_." In the inner office the Chief looked up at him. "Sit down, Frank. What's the word? Another exponent of free enterprise, pre-historic style?" Frank Tracy found a chair and began talking even while fumbling for briar and tobacco pouch. "No," he grumbled. "I don't think so, not this time. I'm afraid there might be something more to it." His boss leaned back in the massive old-fashioned chair he affected and patted his belly, as though appreciative of a good meal just finished. "Oh? Give it all to me." Tracy finished lighting his pipe, flicked the match out and put it back in his pocket, noting that he'd have to get a new one one of these days. He cleared his throat and said, "Reports began coming in of house to house canvassers selling soap for three cents a bar." "_Three cents a bar?_ They can't manufacture it for that. Will the stuff pass the Health Department?" "Evidently," Tracy said wryly. "The salesman claimed it's the same soap as reputable firms peddle." "Go on." "We had to go to a bit of trouble to get a line on them without raising their suspicion. One of the boys lived in a neighborhood that was being canvassed for new customers and his wife had signed up. So I took her place when the salesman arrived with her first delivery--they deliver the first batch. I let him think I was Bob Coty and questioned him, but not enough to raise his suspicions." "And?" "An outfit selling soap and planning on branching into bread and heavens knows what else. No advertising. No middlemen. No nothing, as the salesman said, except standard soap at three cents a bar." "They can't package it for that!" "They don't package it at all." The Chief raised his chubby right hand and wiped it over his face in a stereotype gesture of resignation. "Did you get his home office address? Maybe there's some way of buying them out--indirectly, of course." "No, sir. It seemed to be somewhat of a secret." The other's eyes widened. "Ridiculous. You can't hide anything like that. There's a hundred ways of tracking them down before the day is out." "Of course. I've got Jerome Wiseman following him in a helio-jet. No use getting rough, as yet. We'll keep it quiet ... assuming that meets with your approval." "You're in the field, Frank. You make the decisions." The phone screen had lighted up and LaVerne's piquant face faded in. "The call Mr. Tracy was expecting from Operative Wiseman." "Put him on," the Chief said, lacing his plump fingers over his stomach. Jerry's face appeared in the screen. He was obviously parked on the street now. He said, "Subject has disappeared into this office building, Tracy. For the past fifteen minutes he's kinda looked as though the day's work was through and since this dump could hardly be anybody's home, he must be reporting to his higher-up." "Let's see the building," Tracy said. The portable screen was directed in such manner that a disreputable appearing building, obviously devoted to fourth-rate businesses, was centered. "O.K.," Tracy said. "I'll be over. You can knock off, Jerry. Oh, except for one thing. Subject's name is Warren Dickens. Just for luck, get a complete dossier on him. I doubt if he's got a criminal or subversive record, but you never know." Jerry said, "Right," and faded. Frank Tracy came to his feet and knocked the rest of his pipe out into the gigantic ashtray on his boss' desk. "Well, I suppose the next step's mine." "Check back with me as soon as you know anything more," the Chief said. He wheezed a sigh as though sorry the interview was over and that he'd have to go back to his desk chores, but shifted his bulk and took up a sheaf of papers. Just as Tracy got to the door, the Chief said, "Oh, yes. Easy on the rough stuff, Tracy. I've been hearing some disquieting reports about some of the overenthusiastic bullyboys on your team. We wouldn't want such material to get in the telly-casts." _Lard bottom_, Tracy growled inwardly as he left. Did the Chief think he liked violence? Did anyone in his right mind like violence? * * * Frank Tracy looked up at the mid-century type office building. He was somewhat surprised that the edifice still remained. Where did the owners ever find profitable tenants? What business could be so small these days that it would be based in such quarters? However, here it was. The lobby was shabby. There was no indication on the list of tenants of the firm he was seeking, nor was there a porter. The elevator was out of repair. He did it the hard way, going from door to door, entering, hat in hand, apologetically, and saying, "Pardon me. You're the people who sell the soap?" They kept telling him no until he reached the third floor and a door to an office even smaller than usual. It was lettered _Freer Enterprises_ and even as he knocked and entered, the wording rang a bell. There was only one desk but it was efficiently equipped with the latest in office gadgetry. The room was quite choked with files and even a Mini-IBM tri-unit. The man behind the desk was old-fashioned enough to wear glasses, but otherwise seemed the average aggressive executive type you expected to meet in these United States of the Americas. He was possibly in his mid-thirties and one of those alert, over-eager characters irritating to those who believe in taking matters less than urgently. He looked up and said snappily, "What can I do for you?" Tracy dropped into an easy-going characterization. "You're the people who sell the soap?" "That is correct. What can I do for you?" Tracy said easily, "Why, I'd like to ask you a few questions about the enterprise." "To what end, sir? You'd be surprised how busy a man I am." Tracy said, "Suppose I'm from the Greater New York _News-Times_ looking for a story?" The other tapped a finger on his desk impatiently. "Pardon me, but in that case I would be inclined to think you a liar. The _News-Times_ knows upon which side its bread is spread. Its advertisers include all the soap companies. It does not dispense free advertising through its news columns." Tracy chuckled wryly, "All right. Let's start again." He brought forth his wallet, flicked through various identification cards until he found the one he wanted and presented it. "Frank Tracy is the name," he said. "Department of Internal Revenue. There seems to be some question as to your corporation taxes." "Oh," the other said, obviously taken aback. "Please have a chair." He read the authentic looking, but spurious credentials. Tracy took the proffered chair and then sat and looked at the other as though it was his turn. "My name is Flowers," the Freer Enterprises man told him, nervously. "Frederic Flowers. Frankly, this is my first month at the job and I'm not too well acquainted with all the ramifications of the business." He moistened his lips. "I hope there is nothing illegal--" He let the sentence fade away. Tracy reclaimed his false identity papers and put them back into his wallet before saying easily, "I really couldn't say, as yet. Let's have a bit of questions and answers and I'll go further into the matter." Flowers regained his confidence. "No reason why not," he said quickly. "So far as I know, all is above board." Frank Tracy let his eyes go about the room. "Why are you established, almost secretly, you might say, in this business backwoods of the city?" "No secret about it," Flowers demurred. "Merely the cheapest rent we could find. We cut costs to the bone, and then shave the bone." "Um-m-m. I've spoken to one of your salesmen, a Warren Dickens, and I suppose he gave me the standard sales talk. I wonder if you could elaborate on your company's policies, its goals, that sort of thing." "Goals?" "You obviously expect to make money, somehow or other, though I don't see that peddling soap at three cents a bar has much of a future. There must be some further angle." Flowers said, "Admittedly, soap is just a beginning. Among other things, it's given us a mailing list of satisfied customers. Consumers who can then be approached for future purchases." * * * * * Frank Tracy relaxed in his chair, reached for pipe and tobacco and let the other go on. But his eyes had narrowed, coldly. Flowers wrapped himself up in his subject. "Mr. Tracy, you probably have no idea of the extent to which the citizens of Greater America are being victimized. Let me use but one example." He came quickly to his feet, crossed to a small toilet which opened off the office and returned with a power-pack electric shaver which he handed to Tracy. Tracy looked at it, put it back on the desk and nodded. "It's the brand I have," he said agreeably. "Yes, and millions of others. What did you pay for it?" Frank Tracy allowed himself a slight smirk. "As a matter of fact, I got mine through a discount outfit, only twenty-five dollars." "_Only_ twenty-five dollars, eh, when the retail price is supposedly thirty-five?" Flowers was triumphant. "A great bargain, eh? Well, let me give you a rundown, Mr. Tracy." He took a quick breath. "True, they're advertised to retail at thirty-five dollars. And stores that sell them at that rate make a profit of fifty per cent. The regional supply house, before them, knocks down from forty to sixty per cent, on the wholesale price. Then the trade name distributor makes at least fifty per cent on the sales to the regional supply houses." "Trade name distributor?" Tracy said, as though ignorant of what the other was talking about. "You mean the manufacturer?" "No, sir. That razor you just looked at bears a trade name of a company that owns no factory of its own. It buys the razors from a large electrical appliances manufacturing complex which turns out several other name brand electric razors as well. The trade name company does nothing except market the product. Its budget, by the way, calls for an expenditure of six dollars on every razor for national advertising." "Well, what are you getting at?" Tracy said impatiently. Frederic Flowers had reached his punch line. "All right, we've traced the razor all the way back to the manufacturing complex which made it. Mr. Tracy, that razor you bought at a discount bargain for twenty-five dollars cost thirty-eight cents to produce." Tracy pretended to be dumfounded. "I don't believe it." "It can be proven." Frank Tracy thought about it for a while. "Well, even if true, so what?" "It's a crime, that's so-what," Flowers blurted indignantly. "And that's where Freer Enterprises comes in. Very shortly, we're going to enter the market with an electric razor retailing for exactly one dollar. No name brand, no advertising, no nothing except a razor just as good as though selling for from twenty-five to fifty dollars." Tracy scoffed his disbelief. "That's where you're wrong. No electric razor manufacturer would sell to you. They'd be cutting their own throats." The Freer Enterprises official shook his head, in scorn. "That's where _you're_ wrong. The same electric appliance manufacturer who produced that razor there will make a similar one, slightly different in appearance, for the same price for us. They don't care what happens to their product once they make their profit from it. Business is business. We'll be at least as good a customer as any of the others have ever been. Eventually, better, since we'll be getting electric razors into the hands of people who never felt they could afford one before." He shook a finger at Tracy. "Manufacturers have been doing this for a long time. I imagine it was the old mail-order houses that started it. They'd get in touch with a manufacturer of, say, typewriters, or outboard motors, or whatever, and order tens of thousands of these, not an iota different from the manufacturer's standard product except for the nameplate. They'd then sell these for as little as half the ordinary retail price." [Illustration] Tracy seemed to think it over for a long moment. Eventually he said, "Even then you're not going to break any records making money. Your distribution costs might be pared to the bone, but you still have some. There'll be darn little profit left on each razor you sell." Flowers was triumphant again. "We're not going to stop at razors, once under way. How about automobiles? Have you any idea of the disparity between the cost of production of a car and what they retail for?" "Well, no." "Here's an example. As far back as about 1930 a barge company transporting some brand-new cars across Lake Erie from Detroit had an accident and lost a couple of hundred. The auto manufacturers sued, trying to get the retail price of each car. Instead, the court awarded them the cost of manufacture. You know what it came to, labor, materials, depreciation on machinery--everything? Seventy-five dollars per car. And that was around 1930. Since then, automation has swept the industry and manufacturing costs per unit have dropped drastically." The Freer Enterprises executive was now in full voice. "But even that's not the ultimate. After all, cars were selling for as cheaply as $425 then. Let's take some items such as aspirin. You can, of course, buy small neatly packaged tins of twelve for twenty-five cents but supposedly more intelligent buyers will buy bottles for forty or fifty cents. If the druggist puts out a special for fifteen cents a bottle it will largely be refused since the advertising conditioned customer doesn't want an inferior product. Actually, of course, aspirin is aspirin and you can buy it, in one hundred pound lots in polyethylene film bags, at about fourteen cents a pound, or in carload lots under the chemical name of acetylsalicylic acid, for eleven cents a pound. And any big chemical corporation will sell you U.S.P. grade Milk of Magnesia at about six dollars a ton. Its chemical name, of course, is magnesium hydroxide, or Mg(OH){2}, and you'd have one thousand quarts in that ton. Buying it beautifully packaged and fully advertised, you'd pay up to a dollar twenty-five a pint in the druggist section of a modern ultra-market." * * * Tracy had heard enough. He said crisply, "All right, Mr. Flowers, of Freer Enterprises, now let me ask you something: Do you consider this country prosperous?" Flowers blinked. Of a sudden, the man across from him seemed to have changed character, added considerable dynamic to his make-up. He flustered, "Yes, I suppose so. But it could be considerably more prosperous if--" Tracy was sneering. "If consumer prices were brought down drastically, eh? Mr. Flowers, you're incredibly na茂ve when it comes to modern economics. Do you realize that one of the most significant developments, economically speaking, took place in the 1950s; something perhaps more significant than the development of atomic power?" Flowers blinked again, mesmerized by the other's new domineering personality. "I ... I don't know what you're talking about." "The majority of employees in the United States turned from blue collars to white." Flowers looked pained. "I don't--" "No, of course you don't or you wouldn't be participating in a subversive attack upon our economy, which, if successful, would lead to the collapse of Western prosperity and eventually to the success of the Soviet Complex." Mr. Flowers gobbled a bit, then gulped. "I'll spell it out for you," Tracy pursued. "In the early days of capitalism, back when Marx and Engels were writing such works as _Capital_, the overwhelming majority of the working class were employed directly in production. For a long time it was quite accurate when the political cartoonists depicted a working man as wearing overalls and carrying a hammer or wrench. In short, employees who got their hands dirty, outnumbered those who didn't. "But with the coming of increased mechanization and eventually automation and the second industrial revolution, more and more employees went into sales, the so-called service industries, advertising and entertainment which has become largely a branch of advertising, distribution, and, above all, government which in this bureaucratic age is largely a matter of regulation of business and property relationships. As automation continued, fewer and fewer of our people were needed to produce all the commodities that the country could assimilate under our present socio-economic system. And I need only point out that the average American _still_ enjoys more material things than any other nation, though admittedly the European countries, and I don't exclude the Soviet Complex, are coming up fast." Flowers said indignantly, "But what's this charge that I'm participating in a subversive--" "Mr. Flowers," Tracy overrode him, "let's not descend to pure maize in our denials of the obvious. If this outfit of yours, Freer Enterprises, was successful in its fondest dreams, what would happen?" "Why, the consumers would be able to buy commodities at a fraction of the present cost!" Tracy half came to his feet and pounded the table with fierce emphasis. "_What would they buy them with? They'd all be out of jobs!_" Frederic Flowers bug-eyed him. Tracy sat down again and seemingly regained control of himself. His voice was softer now. "Our social system may have its strains and tensions, Mr. Flowers, but it works and we don't want anybody throwing wrenches in its admittedly delicate machinery. Advertising is currently one of the biggest industries of the country. The entertainment industry, admittedly now based on advertising, is gigantic. Our magazines and newspapers, employing hundreds of thousands of employees from editors right on down to newsstand operators, are able to exist only through advertising revenue. Above all, millions of our population are employed in the service industries, and in distribution, in the stock market, in the commodity markets, in all the other branches of distribution which you Freer Enterprises people want to pull down. A third of our working force is now unemployed, but given your way, it would be at least two thirds." Flowers, suddenly suspicious, said, "What has all this to do with the Department of Internal Revenue, Mr. Tracy?" Tracy came to his feet and smiled ruefully, albeit a bit grimly. "Nothing," he admitted. "I have nothing at all to do with that department. Here is my real card, Mr. Flowers." The Freer Enterprises man must have felt a twinge of premonition even as he took it up, but the effect was still enough to startle him. "Bureau of Economic Subversion!" he said. "Now then," Tracy snapped. "I want the names of your higher ups, and the address of your central office, Flowers. Frankly, you're in the soup. As you possibly know, our hush-hush department has unlimited emergency powers, being answerable only to the President." "I ... I've never even heard of it." Flowers stuttered. "But--" Tracy held up a contemptuous hand. "Many people haven't," he said curtly. * * * * * Frank Tracy hurried through the outer office into LaVerne Sandell's domain, and bit out to her, "Tell the Chief I'm here. Crisis. And immediately get my team together, all eight of them. Heavy equipment. Have a jet readied. Chicago. The team will rendezvous at the airport." LaVerne was just as crisp. "Yes, sir." She began doing things with buttons and switches. Tracy hurried into the Chief's office and didn't bother with the usual amenities. He snapped, "Worse than I thought, sir. This outfit is possibly openly subversive. Deliberately undermining the economy." His superior put down the report he was perusing and shifted his bulk backward. "You're sure? We seldom run into such extremes." "I know, I know, but this could be it. Possibly a deliberate program. I've taken the initiative to have Miss Sandell summon my team." "Now, see here, Frank--" The bureau head looked at him anxiously. Tracy said, impatience there, "Chief, you're going to have to let your field men use their discretion. I tell you, this thing is a potential snowball. I'll play it cool. Arrange things so that there'll be no scandal for the telly-reporters. But we've got to chill this one quickly, or it'll be on a coast to coast basis before the year is out. They're even talking about going into automobiles." The Chief winced, then said unhappily, "All right, Tracy. However, mind what I said. Curb those roughnecks of yours." * * * It proved considerably easier than Frank Tracy had hoped for. Adam Moncure's national headquarters turned out to be in a sparsely settled area not far from Woodstock, Illinois. The house, in the pass茅 ranch style, must have once been a millionaire's baby, what with an artificial fishing lake in the back, a kidney shaped swimming pool, extensive gardens and an imposing approach up a corridor of trees. "Right up to the front door," Tracy growled to the operative driving the first hover-car of their two-vehicle expedition. "The quicker we move, the better." He turned his head to the men in the rear seat. "We five will go in together. I don't expect trouble, they'll have had no advance warning. I made sure of that. Jerry has equipment in his car to blanket any radio sending. We'll take care of phones in the house. No rough stuff, we want to talk to these people." One of the men growled, "Suppose they start shooting?" Tracy snorted. "Then shoot back, of course. But just don't you start it. I shouldn't have to tell you these things." "Got it," one of the others said. He shifted his shoulders to loosen the .38 Recoilless in its holster. At the ornate doorway, the cars, which had been moving fast, a foot or so off the ground, came to a quick halt, settled, and the men disgorged, guns in hand. Tracy called to the occupants of the other vehicle, "On the double. Surround the house. Don't let anybody leave. Come on, boys." They scurried down the flagstone walk, banged on the door. It was opened by a houseman who stared at them uncomprehendingly. "The occupants of this establishment are under arrest," Tracy snapped. He flashed a gold badge. "Take me to Adam Moncure." He turned to his men and gestured with his head. "Take over, boys. Jerry, you come with me." The houseman was terrified, but not to the point of being unable to lead them to a gigantic former living room, now converted to offices. There was an older man, and four assistants. All in shirt sleeves in concession to the mid-western summer, none armed from all Tracy could see. They looked up in surprise, rather than dismay. The older man snapped, "What is the meaning of this intrusion?" Jerry chuckled sourly. Frank Tracy said, "You're all under arrest. Jerry, herd these clerks, or whatever they are, into some other room. Get any other occupants of the house together, too. And watch them carefully, confound it. Don't underestimate these people. And make a search for secret rooms, cellars, that sort of thing." "Right," Jerry growled. The older of the five Freer Enterprises men was on his feet now. He was a thin, angry faced type, gray of hair and somewhere in his sixties. "I want to know the meaning of this!" he roared. "Adam Moncure?" Tracy said crisply. "That is correct. And to what do I owe this cavalier intrusion into my home and place of business?" Jerry, at pistol point, was herding the four assistants from the room, taking the houseman along with them. Tracy looked at Moncure, speculatively, then dipped into his pockets for pipe and tobacco. He gestured to a chair with his head. "Sit down, Mr. Moncure. The jig is up." "The _jig_?" the other blurted in a fine rage. "I insist--" "O.K., O.K., you'll get your explanation." Tracy sat down on a couch himself and sized up the older man, even as he lit his pipe. Moncure, still breathing heavily in his indignation, took control of himself well enough to be seated. "Well, sir?" he bit out. Tracy said curtly, "Frank Tracy, Bureau of Economic Subversion." "Bureau of Economic Subversion!" Moncure said indignantly. "What in the name of all that's holy is the Bureau of Economic Subversion?" Tracy pointed at him with the pipe stem. "I'll ask a few questions first, please. How many branches of your nefarious outfit are presently under operation?" The other glared at him, but Tracy merely returned the pipe to his mouth and glowered back. Finally Moncure snapped, "There is no purpose in hiding any of our affairs. We have opened preliminary offices only in Chicago and New York. Freer Enterprises is but in its infancy." "Praise Allah for that," Tracy muttered sarcastically. "And thus far we have dealt only in soap. However, as our organization gets under way we plan to branch out into a score, and ultimately hundreds of products." Tracy said, "You can forget about that, Moncure. Freer Enterprises comes to a halt as of today. Do you realize that your business tactics would lead to a complete collapse of gainful employment and eventually to a depression such as this nation has never seen before?" "Exactly!" Moncure snapped in return. * * * It was Tracy's turn to react. His eyes widened, then narrowed. "Do you mean that you are deliberately attempting to undermine the economy of the United States of the Americas? Remember, Mr. Moncure, you are under arrest and anything you say may be held against you." "Undermine it!" Moncure said heatedly. "Bring it crashing to the ground is the better term. There has never been such an abortion developed in the history of political economy." He came to his feet again and began storming up and down the room. "A full three quarters of our employed working at nothing jobs, gobbledygook jobs, non-producing jobs, make-work jobs, red-tape bureaucracy jobs. At a time when the nation is supposedly in a breakneck economic competition with the Soviet Complex, we put our best brains into advertising, entertainment and sales, while they put theirs into science and industry." He stopped long enough to shake an indignant finger at the surprised Tracy. "But that isn't the worst of it. Have you ever heard of planned obsolescence?" Tracy acted as though on the defensive. "Well ... sure ..." "In the Soviet Complex, and, for that matter, in Common Europe and other economic competitors of ours, they simply don't believe in planned obsolescence and all its related nonsense. Razor blades, everywhere except in this country, don't go dull after two or three shaves. Cars don't fall apart after two or three years, or even become so out of style that the owner feels that he's losing status by being seen in it, the owners expect to keep them half a lifetime. Automobile batteries don't go to pieces after eighteen months, they last for a decade. And on and on!" The old boy was really unwinding now. "Nor is even that the nadir of this socio-economic hodge-podge we've allowed to develop, this economy of production for sale, rather than production for use." He stabbed with his finger. "I think one of the best examples of what was to come was to be witnessed way back at the end of the Second War. The idea of the ball-bearing pen was in the air. The first one to hurry into production gave his pen a tremendous build-up. It had ink enough to last three years, it would make many carbon copies, you could use it under water. And so on and so forth. It cost fifteen dollars, and there was only one difficulty with it. It wouldn't write. Not that that made any difference because it sold like hotcakes what with all the promotion. He wasn't interested in whether or not it would write, but only in whether or not it would sell." Moncure threw up his hands dramatically. "I ask you, can such an economic system be taken seriously?" "What's your point?" Tracy growled dangerously. He'd never met one this far out, before. "Isn't it obvious? Continue this ridiculous economy and we'll lose the battle for men's minds. You can't have an economic system that allows such nonsense as large scale unemployment of trained employees, planned obsolescence, union featherbedding, and an overwhelming majority of those who are employed wasting their labor on unproductive employment." Tracy said, "Then if I understand you correctly, Freer Enterprises was deliberately organized for the purpose of undermining the economy so that it will collapse and have to be reorganized on a different basis." "That is _exactly_ correct," Moncure said defiantly. "I am devoting my whole fortune to this cause. And there is nothing in American law that prevents me from following through with my plans." "You're right there," Tracy said wryly. "There's nothing in American law that prevents you. However, you see, I have no connection whatsoever with the American government." He slipped the gun from its holster. * * * * * Frank Tracy made his way wearily into LaVerne's domain. She looked up from the desk. "Everything go all right, Mr. Tracy?" "I suppose so. Tell Comrade Zotov that I'm back from Chicago, please." She clicked switches, said something into an inner-office communicator, then looked up again. "He'll see you immediately, Mr. Tracy." Pavel Zotov looked up from his endless paperwork and wheezed the sigh of a fat man. He correctly interpreted the expression of his field operative. "Pour us a couple of drinks, Frank, or would you rather have it _Frol_, today?" His best field man grunted as he walked over to the bar. "Vodka, eh? _Chort vesmiot_ how tired one can become of this everlasting bourbon." He reached into the refrigerator compartment and brought forth a bottle of iced Stolichnaya. He poured two three-ounce charges and brought them back to his bureau chief's desk. They toasted silently, knocked back the colorless spirit. Pavel Zotov said, "Well, Frol?" The man usually called Frank Tracy said, "The worst case yet. This one had quite a clear picture of the true situation. He saw the necessity--given _their_ viewpoint, of course--of getting out of the fantastic rut their economy has fallen into." He ran his hand over his mouth in a gesture of weariness. "Chief, do you have any idea of how long it would take us to catch up to them, if we ever did, if they really turned this economy on full blast, as an alternative to their present foul-up?" "That's why we're here," the Chief said heavily. "What did you do?" The man sometimes called Tracy told him. Zotov winced. "I thought I ordered you--" "You did," the man called Tracy told him curtly, "but what alternative was there? The fire will completely destroy the records. I have the names and addresses of all the others connected with Freer Enterprises. We'll have to arrange car accidents, that sort of thing." The fat man's lips worked. "We can't get by with this indefinitely, Frol. With such blatant tactics, sooner or later their C.I.A. or F.B.I. is going to get wind of us." Tracy came to his feet angrily. "What alternative have we? We've been sent over here to do a job. We're doing it. If we're caught, who knows better than we that we're expendable? If you don't mind, I'm going on home." As he left the office, through the secret door that led through the innocuous looking garage, the man they called Frank Tracy was inwardly thinking, "Zotov might be my superior, and a top man in the party, but he's too soft for this job. Perhaps I'd better send a report back to Moscow on him." 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Subversive Author: Dallas McCord Reynolds Illustrator: Schoenherr Release Date: October 26, 2007 [EBook #23197] Language: English * START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SUBVERSIVE * Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Analog_ December 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. Subscript characters are shown within {braces}. Subversive "Subversive" is, in essence, a negative term--it means simply "against the existent system." It doesn't mean subversives all agree ... by Mack Reynolds Illustrated by Schoenherr The young man with the brown paper bag said, "Is Mrs. Coty in?" "I'm afraid she isn't. Is there anything I can do?" "You're Mr. Coty? I came about the soap." He held up the paper bag. "Soap?" Mr. Coty said blankly. He was the epitome of mid-aged husband complete to pipe, carpet slippers and office-slump posture. "That's right. I'm sure she told you about it. My name's Dickens. Warren Dickens. I sold her--" "Look here, you mean to tell me in this day and age you go around from door to door peddling soap? Great guns, boy, you'd do better on unemployment insurance. It's permanent now." Warren Dickens registered distress. "Mr. Coty, could I come in and tell you about it? If I can make the first delivery to you instead of Mrs. Coty, shucks, it'll save me coming back." Coty led him back into the living room, motioned him to a chair and settled into what was obviously his own favorite, handily placed before the telly. Coty said tolerantly, "Now then, what's this about selling soap? What kind of soap? What brand?" "Oh, it has no name, sir. That's the point." The other looked at him. "That's why we can sell it for three cents a cake, instead of twenty-five." Dickens opened the paper bag and fished out an ordinary enough looking cake of soap and handed it to the older man. Mr. Coty took it, stared down at it, turned it over in his hands. He was still blank. "Well, what's different about it?" [Illustration] "There's nothing different about it. It's the same as any other soap." "I mean, how come you sell it for three cents a cake, and what's the fact it has no name got to do with it?" Warren Dickens leaned forward and went into what was obviously a strictly routine pitch. "Mr. Coty, have you ever considered what you're buying when they nick you twenty-five cents on your credit card for a bar of soap in an ultra-market?" There was an edge of impatience in the older man's voice. "I buy soap!" "No, sir. That's your mistake. What you buy is a telly show, in fact several of them, with all their expensive comedians, singers, musicians, dancers, news commentators, network vice presidents, and all the rest. Then you buy fancy packaging. You'll note, by the way, that our product hasn't even a piece of tissue paper wrapped around it. Fancy packaging designed by some of the most competent commercial artists and motivational research men in the country. Then you buy distribution. From the factory all the way to the retail ultra-market where your wife shops. And every time that bar of soap goes from one wholesaler or distributor to another, the price roughly doubles. You also buy a brain trust whose full time project is to keep you using their soap and not letting their competitors talk you into switching brands. The brain trust, of course, also works on luring away the competitor's customers to their product. Shucks, Mr. Coty, practically none of that twenty-five cents you spend to buy a cake of soap goes for soap. So small a percentage that you might as well forget about it." Mr. Coty was obviously taken aback. "Well, how do I know this nameless soap you're peddling is, well, any good?" Warren Dickens sighed deeply, and in such wise that it was obvious that he had so sighed before. "Sir, there is no difference between soaps. Oh, they might use a slightly different perfume, or tint it a slightly different color, but for all practical purposes common hand soap, common bath soap, is soap, period. All the stuff the copy writers dream up about secret ingredients and health for your skin, and cosmetic qualities, and all the rest, is Madison Avenue gobbledygook and applies as well to one brand as another. As a matter of fact, often two different soap companies, supposedly keen competitors, and using widely different advertising, have their products manufactured in the same plant." Mr. Coty blinked at him. Shifted in his chair. Rubbed his chin as though checking his morning shave. "Well ... well, then where do you get _your_ soap?" "The same place. We buy in fantastically large lots from one of the gigantic automated soap plants." Mr. Coty had him now. "Ah, ha! Then how come you sell it for three cents a cake, instead of twenty-five?" "I've been telling you. Our soap doesn't even have a name, not to mention an advertising budget. Far from spending fortunes redesigning our packaging every few months in attempts to lure new customers, we don't package the stuff at all. It comes to you, in the simplest possible wrapping, through the mails. A new supply every month. Three cents a cake. No middlemen, no wholesalers, distributors. No nothing except soap at three cents a cake." Mr. Coty leaned back in his chair. "I'll be darned." He thought it over. "Listen, do you sell anything besides soap?" "Not right now, sir. But soap flakes are coming up next week and I think we'll be going into bread in a month or two." "Bread?" "Yes, sir, bread. Although we'll have to distribute that by truck, and have to have almost hundred per cent coverage in a given section before it's practical. A nickel a loaf." "Five cents a loaf! You can't _make_ bread for that much." "Oh, yes we can. We can't advertise it, package it, and pay a host of in-betweens, is all. From the bakery to you, period." Mr. Coty seemed fascinated. He said, "See here, what's the address of your office?" Warren Dickens shook his head. "Sorry, sir. That's all part of it. We have no swanky offices with big, expensive staffs. We operate on the smallest of shoestrings. No brain trust. No complaint department. No public relations. No literature on how to beautify yourself. No nothing, except good soap at three cents a cake, plus postage. Now, if you'll sign this contract, we'll put you on our mailing list. Ten bars of soap a month, Mrs. Coty said. I brought this first supply so you could test it and see that the whole thing is bona fide." Mr. Coty had to test it, but then he had to admit he couldn't tell any difference between the nameless soap and the product to which he was used. Eventually, he signed, made the first payment, shook hands with young Dickens and saw him to the door. He said, in parting, "I still wonder why you do this, rather than dragging down unemployment insurance like most young men fresh out of school." Warren Dickens screwed up his face. This was a question that wasn't routine. "Well, I make approximately the same, if I stick to it and get enough contracts. And, shucks they're not hard to get. And, well, I'm working, not just bumming on the rest of the country. I'm doing something, something useful." Coty pursed his lips and shrugged. "It's been a long time since anybody cared about that." He looked after the young man as he walked down the walk. Then he turned and headed for the phone, and ten years seemed to drop away from him. He lit the screen with a flick, dialed and said crisply, "That's him, Jerry. Going down the walk now. Don't let him out of your sight." Jerry's face was in the screen but he was obviously peering down, from the helio-jet, locating the subject. "O.K., Tracy, I make him. See you later." His face faded. The man who had called himself Mr. Coty, dialed again, not bothering to light the screen. "All right," he said. "Thank Mrs. Coty and let her come home now." * * * * * Frank Tracy worked his way down an aisle of automated phono-typers and other office equipment. The handful of operators, their faces bored, periodically strolled up and down, needlessly checking that which seldom needed checking. He entered the receptionist's office, flicked a hand at LaVerne Sandell, one of the few employees it seemed impossible to automate out of her position, and said, "The Chief is probably expecting me." "That he is. Go right in, Mr. Tracy." "I'm expecting a call from one of the operatives. Put it through, eh LaVerne?" "Righto." Even as he walked toward the door to the sanctum sanctorum, he grimaced sourly at her. "_Righto_, yet. Isn't that a bit on the maize side? Doesn't sound very authentic to me." "I can see you don't put in your telly time, Mr. Tracy. Slang goes in cycles these days. They simply don't dream up a whole new set of expressions every generation anymore because everybody gets tired of them so soon. Instead, older periods of idiom are revived. For instance, scram is coming back in." He stopped long enough to look at her, frowning. "Scram?" She took him in quizzically, estimating. "Possibly _dust_, or _get lost_, was the term when you were a boy." Tracy chuckled wryly, "Thanks for the compliment, but I go back to the days of _beat it_." In the inner office the Chief looked up at him. "Sit down, Frank. What's the word? Another exponent of free enterprise, pre-historic style?" Frank Tracy found a chair and began talking even while fumbling for briar and tobacco pouch. "No," he grumbled. "I don't think so, not this time. I'm afraid there might be something more to it." His boss leaned back in the massive old-fashioned chair he affected and patted his belly, as though appreciative of a good meal just finished. "Oh? Give it all to me." Tracy finished lighting his pipe, flicked the match out and put it back in his pocket, noting that he'd have to get a new one one of these days. He cleared his throat and said, "Reports began coming in of house to house canvassers selling soap for three cents a bar." "_Three cents a bar?_ They can't manufacture it for that. Will the stuff pass the Health Department?" "Evidently," Tracy said wryly. "The salesman claimed it's the same soap as reputable firms peddle." "Go on." "We had to go to a bit of trouble to get a line on them without raising their suspicion. One of the boys lived in a neighborhood that was being canvassed for new customers and his wife had signed up. So I took her place when the salesman arrived with her first delivery--they deliver the first batch. I let him think I was Bob Coty and questioned him, but not enough to raise his suspicions." "And?" "An outfit selling soap and planning on branching into bread and heavens knows what else. No advertising. No middlemen. No nothing, as the salesman said, except standard soap at three cents a bar." "They can't package it for that!" "They don't package it at all." The Chief raised his chubby right hand and wiped it over his face in a stereotype gesture of resignation. "Did you get his home office address? Maybe there's some way of buying them out--indirectly, of course." "No, sir. It seemed to be somewhat of a secret." The other's eyes widened. "Ridiculous. You can't hide anything like that. There's a hundred ways of tracking them down before the day is out." "Of course. I've got Jerome Wiseman following him in a helio-jet. No use getting rough, as yet. We'll keep it quiet ... assuming that meets with your approval." "You're in the field, Frank. You make the decisions." The phone screen had lighted up and LaVerne's piquant face faded in. "The call Mr. Tracy was expecting from Operative Wiseman." "Put him on," the Chief said, lacing his plump fingers over his stomach. Jerry's face appeared in the screen. He was obviously parked on the street now. He said, "Subject has disappeared into this office building, Tracy. For the past fifteen minutes he's kinda looked as though the day's work was through and since this dump could hardly be anybody's home, he must be reporting to his higher-up." "Let's see the building," Tracy said. The portable screen was directed in such manner that a disreputable appearing building, obviously devoted to fourth-rate businesses, was centered. "O.K.," Tracy said. "I'll be over. You can knock off, Jerry. Oh, except for one thing. Subject's name is Warren Dickens. Just for luck, get a complete dossier on him. I doubt if he's got a criminal or subversive record, but you never know." Jerry said, "Right," and faded. Frank Tracy came to his feet and knocked the rest of his pipe out into the gigantic ashtray on his boss' desk. "Well, I suppose the next step's mine." "Check back with me as soon as you know anything more," the Chief said. He wheezed a sigh as though sorry the interview was over and that he'd have to go back to his desk chores, but shifted his bulk and took up a sheaf of papers. Just as Tracy got to the door, the Chief said, "Oh, yes. Easy on the rough stuff, Tracy. I've been hearing some disquieting reports about some of the overenthusiastic bullyboys on your team. We wouldn't want such material to get in the telly-casts." _Lard bottom_, Tracy growled inwardly as he left. Did the Chief think he liked violence? Did anyone in his right mind like violence? * * * Frank Tracy looked up at the mid-century type office building. He was somewhat surprised that the edifice still remained. Where did the owners ever find profitable tenants? What business could be so small these days that it would be based in such quarters? However, here it was. The lobby was shabby. There was no indication on the list of tenants of the firm he was seeking, nor was there a porter. The elevator was out of repair. He did it the hard way, going from door to door, entering, hat in hand, apologetically, and saying, "Pardon me. You're the people who sell the soap?" They kept telling him no until he reached the third floor and a door to an office even smaller than usual. It was lettered _Freer Enterprises_ and even as he knocked and entered, the wording rang a bell. There was only one desk but it was efficiently equipped with the latest in office gadgetry. The room was quite choked with files and even a Mini-IBM tri-unit. The man behind the desk was old-fashioned enough to wear glasses, but otherwise seemed the average aggressive executive type you expected to meet in these United States of the Americas. He was possibly in his mid-thirties and one of those alert, over-eager characters irritating to those who believe in taking matters less than urgently. He looked up and said snappily, "What can I do for you?" Tracy dropped into an easy-going characterization. "You're the people who sell the soap?" "That is correct. What can I do for you?" Tracy said easily, "Why, I'd like to ask you a few questions about the enterprise." "To what end, sir? You'd be surprised how busy a man I am." Tracy said, "Suppose I'm from the Greater New York _News-Times_ looking for a story?" The other tapped a finger on his desk impatiently. "Pardon me, but in that case I would be inclined to think you a liar. The _News-Times_ knows upon which side its bread is spread. Its advertisers include all the soap companies. It does not dispense free advertising through its news columns." Tracy chuckled wryly, "All right. Let's start again." He brought forth his wallet, flicked through various identification cards until he found the one he wanted and presented it. "Frank Tracy is the name," he said. "Department of Internal Revenue. There seems to be some question as to your corporation taxes." "Oh," the other said, obviously taken aback. "Please have a chair." He read the authentic looking, but spurious credentials. Tracy took the proffered chair and then sat and looked at the other as though it was his turn. "My name is Flowers," the Freer Enterprises man told him, nervously. "Frederic Flowers. Frankly, this is my first month at the job and I'm not too well acquainted with all the ramifications of the business." He moistened his lips. "I hope there is nothing illegal--" He let the sentence fade away. Tracy reclaimed his false identity papers and put them back into his wallet before saying easily, "I really couldn't say, as yet. Let's have a bit of questions and answers and I'll go further into the matter." Flowers regained his confidence. "No reason why not," he said quickly. "So far as I know, all is above board." Frank Tracy let his eyes go about the room. "Why are you established, almost secretly, you might say, in this business backwoods of the city?" "No secret about it," Flowers demurred. "Merely the cheapest rent we could find. We cut costs to the bone, and then shave the bone." "Um-m-m. I've spoken to one of your salesmen, a Warren Dickens, and I suppose he gave me the standard sales talk. I wonder if you could elaborate on your company's policies, its goals, that sort of thing." "Goals?" "You obviously expect to make money, somehow or other, though I don't see that peddling soap at three cents a bar has much of a future. There must be some further angle." Flowers said, "Admittedly, soap is just a beginning. Among other things, it's given us a mailing list of satisfied customers. Consumers who can then be approached for future purchases." * * * * * Frank Tracy relaxed in his chair, reached for pipe and tobacco and let the other go on. But his eyes had narrowed, coldly. Flowers wrapped himself up in his subject. "Mr. Tracy, you probably have no idea of the extent to which the citizens of Greater America are being victimized. Let me use but one example." He came quickly to his feet, crossed to a small toilet which opened off the office and returned with a power-pack electric shaver which he handed to Tracy. Tracy looked at it, put it back on the desk and nodded. "It's the brand I have," he said agreeably. "Yes, and millions of others. What did you pay for it?" Frank Tracy allowed himself a slight smirk. "As a matter of fact, I got mine through a discount outfit, only twenty-five dollars." "_Only_ twenty-five dollars, eh, when the retail price is supposedly thirty-five?" Flowers was triumphant. "A great bargain, eh? Well, let me give you a rundown, Mr. Tracy." He took a quick breath. "True, they're advertised to retail at thirty-five dollars. And stores that sell them at that rate make a profit of fifty per cent. The regional supply house, before them, knocks down from forty to sixty per cent, on the wholesale price. Then the trade name distributor makes at least fifty per cent on the sales to the regional supply houses." "Trade name distributor?" Tracy said, as though ignorant of what the other was talking about. "You mean the manufacturer?" "No, sir. That razor you just looked at bears a trade name of a company that owns no factory of its own. It buys the razors from a large electrical appliances manufacturing complex which turns out several other name brand electric razors as well. The trade name company does nothing except market the product. Its budget, by the way, calls for an expenditure of six dollars on every razor for national advertising." "Well, what are you getting at?" Tracy said impatiently. Frederic Flowers had reached his punch line. "All right, we've traced the razor all the way back to the manufacturing complex which made it. Mr. Tracy, that razor you bought at a discount bargain for twenty-five dollars cost thirty-eight cents to produce." Tracy pretended to be dumfounded. "I don't believe it." "It can be proven." Frank Tracy thought about it for a while. "Well, even if true, so what?" "It's a crime, that's so-what," Flowers blurted indignantly. "And that's where Freer Enterprises comes in. Very shortly, we're going to enter the market with an electric razor retailing for exactly one dollar. No name brand, no advertising, no nothing except a razor just as good as though selling for from twenty-five to fifty dollars." Tracy scoffed his disbelief. "That's where you're wrong. No electric razor manufacturer would sell to you. They'd be cutting their own throats." The Freer Enterprises official shook his head, in scorn. "That's where _you're_ wrong. The same electric appliance manufacturer who produced that razor there will make a similar one, slightly different in appearance, for the same price for us. They don't care what happens to their product once they make their profit from it. Business is business. We'll be at least as good a customer as any of the others have ever been. Eventually, better, since we'll be getting electric razors into the hands of people who never felt they could afford one before." He shook a finger at Tracy. "Manufacturers have been doing this for a long time. I imagine it was the old mail-order houses that started it. They'd get in touch with a manufacturer of, say, typewriters, or outboard motors, or whatever, and order tens of thousands of these, not an iota different from the manufacturer's standard product except for the nameplate. They'd then sell these for as little as half the ordinary retail price." [Illustration] Tracy seemed to think it over for a long moment. Eventually he said, "Even then you're not going to break any records making money. Your distribution costs might be pared to the bone, but you still have some. There'll be darn little profit left on each razor you sell." Flowers was triumphant again. "We're not going to stop at razors, once under way. How about automobiles? Have you any idea of the disparity between the cost of production of a car and what they retail for?" "Well, no." "Here's an example. As far back as about 1930 a barge company transporting some brand-new cars across Lake Erie from Detroit had an accident and lost a couple of hundred. The auto manufacturers sued, trying to get the retail price of each car. Instead, the court awarded them the cost of manufacture. You know what it came to, labor, materials, depreciation on machinery--everything? Seventy-five dollars per car. And that was around 1930. Since then, automation has swept the industry and manufacturing costs per unit have dropped drastically." The Freer Enterprises executive was now in full voice. "But even that's not the ultimate. After all, cars were selling for as cheaply as $425 then. Let's take some items such as aspirin. You can, of course, buy small neatly packaged tins of twelve for twenty-five cents but supposedly more intelligent buyers will buy bottles for forty or fifty cents. If the druggist puts out a special for fifteen cents a bottle it will largely be refused since the advertising conditioned customer doesn't want an inferior product. Actually, of course, aspirin is aspirin and you can buy it, in one hundred pound lots in polyethylene film bags, at about fourteen cents a pound, or in carload lots under the chemical name of acetylsalicylic acid, for eleven cents a pound. And any big chemical corporation will sell you U.S.P. grade Milk of Magnesia at about six dollars a ton. Its chemical name, of course, is magnesium hydroxide, or Mg(OH){2}, and you'd have one thousand quarts in that ton. Buying it beautifully packaged and fully advertised, you'd pay up to a dollar twenty-five a pint in the druggist section of a modern ultra-market." * * * Tracy had heard enough. He said crisply, "All right, Mr. Flowers, of Freer Enterprises, now let me ask you something: Do you consider this country prosperous?" Flowers blinked. Of a sudden, the man across from him seemed to have changed character, added considerable dynamic to his make-up. He flustered, "Yes, I suppose so. But it could be considerably more prosperous if--" Tracy was sneering. "If consumer prices were brought down drastically, eh? Mr. Flowers, you're incredibly na茂ve when it comes to modern economics. Do you realize that one of the most significant developments, economically speaking, took place in the 1950s; something perhaps more significant than the development of atomic power?" Flowers blinked again, mesmerized by the other's new domineering personality. "I ... I don't know what you're talking about." "The majority of employees in the United States turned from blue collars to white." Flowers looked pained. "I don't--" "No, of course you don't or you wouldn't be participating in a subversive attack upon our economy, which, if successful, would lead to the collapse of Western prosperity and eventually to the success of the Soviet Complex." Mr. Flowers gobbled a bit, then gulped. "I'll spell it out for you," Tracy pursued. "In the early days of capitalism, back when Marx and Engels were writing such works as _Capital_, the overwhelming majority of the working class were employed directly in production. For a long time it was quite accurate when the political cartoonists depicted a working man as wearing overalls and carrying a hammer or wrench. In short, employees who got their hands dirty, outnumbered those who didn't. "But with the coming of increased mechanization and eventually automation and the second industrial revolution, more and more employees went into sales, the so-called service industries, advertising and entertainment which has become largely a branch of advertising, distribution, and, above all, government which in this bureaucratic age is largely a matter of regulation of business and property relationships. As automation continued, fewer and fewer of our people were needed to produce all the commodities that the country could assimilate under our present socio-economic system. And I need only point out that the average American _still_ enjoys more material things than any other nation, though admittedly the European countries, and I don't exclude the Soviet Complex, are coming up fast." Flowers said indignantly, "But what's this charge that I'm participating in a subversive--" "Mr. Flowers," Tracy overrode him, "let's not descend to pure maize in our denials of the obvious. If this outfit of yours, Freer Enterprises, was successful in its fondest dreams, what would happen?" "Why, the consumers would be able to buy commodities at a fraction of the present cost!" Tracy half came to his feet and pounded the table with fierce emphasis. "_What would they buy them with? They'd all be out of jobs!_" Frederic Flowers bug-eyed him. Tracy sat down again and seemingly regained control of himself. His voice was softer now. "Our social system may have its strains and tensions, Mr. Flowers, but it works and we don't want anybody throwing wrenches in its admittedly delicate machinery. Advertising is currently one of the biggest industries of the country. The entertainment industry, admittedly now based on advertising, is gigantic. Our magazines and newspapers, employing hundreds of thousands of employees from editors right on down to newsstand operators, are able to exist only through advertising revenue. Above all, millions of our population are employed in the service industries, and in distribution, in the stock market, in the commodity markets, in all the other branches of distribution which you Freer Enterprises people want to pull down. A third of our working force is now unemployed, but given your way, it would be at least two thirds." Flowers, suddenly suspicious, said, "What has all this to do with the Department of Internal Revenue, Mr. Tracy?" Tracy came to his feet and smiled ruefully, albeit a bit grimly. "Nothing," he admitted. "I have nothing at all to do with that department. Here is my real card, Mr. Flowers." The Freer Enterprises man must have felt a twinge of premonition even as he took it up, but the effect was still enough to startle him. "Bureau of Economic Subversion!" he said. "Now then," Tracy snapped. "I want the names of your higher ups, and the address of your central office, Flowers. Frankly, you're in the soup. As you possibly know, our hush-hush department has unlimited emergency powers, being answerable only to the President." "I ... I've never even heard of it." Flowers stuttered. "But--" Tracy held up a contemptuous hand. "Many people haven't," he said curtly. * * * * * Frank Tracy hurried through the outer office into LaVerne Sandell's domain, and bit out to her, "Tell the Chief I'm here. Crisis. And immediately get my team together, all eight of them. Heavy equipment. Have a jet readied. Chicago. The team will rendezvous at the airport." LaVerne was just as crisp. "Yes, sir." She began doing things with buttons and switches. Tracy hurried into the Chief's office and didn't bother with the usual amenities. He snapped, "Worse than I thought, sir. This outfit is possibly openly subversive. Deliberately undermining the economy." His superior put down the report he was perusing and shifted his bulk backward. "You're sure? We seldom run into such extremes." "I know, I know, but this could be it. Possibly a deliberate program. I've taken the initiative to have Miss Sandell summon my team." "Now, see here, Frank--" The bureau head looked at him anxiously. Tracy said, impatience there, "Chief, you're going to have to let your field men use their discretion. I tell you, this thing is a potential snowball. I'll play it cool. Arrange things so that there'll be no scandal for the telly-reporters. But we've got to chill this one quickly, or it'll be on a coast to coast basis before the year is out. They're even talking about going into automobiles." The Chief winced, then said unhappily, "All right, Tracy. However, mind what I said. Curb those roughnecks of yours." * * * It proved considerably easier than Frank Tracy had hoped for. Adam Moncure's national headquarters turned out to be in a sparsely settled area not far from Woodstock, Illinois. The house, in the pass茅 ranch style, must have once been a millionaire's baby, what with an artificial fishing lake in the back, a kidney shaped swimming pool, extensive gardens and an imposing approach up a corridor of trees. "Right up to the front door," Tracy growled to the operative driving the first hover-car of their two-vehicle expedition. "The quicker we move, the better." He turned his head to the men in the rear seat. "We five will go in together. I don't expect trouble, they'll have had no advance warning. I made sure of that. Jerry has equipment in his car to blanket any radio sending. We'll take care of phones in the house. No rough stuff, we want to talk to these people." One of the men growled, "Suppose they start shooting?" Tracy snorted. "Then shoot back, of course. But just don't you start it. I shouldn't have to tell you these things." "Got it," one of the others said. He shifted his shoulders to loosen the .38 Recoilless in its holster. At the ornate doorway, the cars, which had been moving fast, a foot or so off the ground, came to a quick halt, settled, and the men disgorged, guns in hand. Tracy called to the occupants of the other vehicle, "On the double. Surround the house. Don't let anybody leave. Come on, boys." They scurried down the flagstone walk, banged on the door. It was opened by a houseman who stared at them uncomprehendingly. "The occupants of this establishment are under arrest," Tracy snapped. He flashed a gold badge. "Take me to Adam Moncure." He turned to his men and gestured with his head. "Take over, boys. Jerry, you come with me." The houseman was terrified, but not to the point of being unable to lead them to a gigantic former living room, now converted to offices. There was an older man, and four assistants. All in shirt sleeves in concession to the mid-western summer, none armed from all Tracy could see. They looked up in surprise, rather than dismay. The older man snapped, "What is the meaning of this intrusion?" Jerry chuckled sourly. Frank Tracy said, "You're all under arrest. Jerry, herd these clerks, or whatever they are, into some other room. Get any other occupants of the house together, too. And watch them carefully, confound it. Don't underestimate these people. And make a search for secret rooms, cellars, that sort of thing." "Right," Jerry growled. The older of the five Freer Enterprises men was on his feet now. He was a thin, angry faced type, gray of hair and somewhere in his sixties. "I want to know the meaning of this!" he roared. "Adam Moncure?" Tracy said crisply. "That is correct. And to what do I owe this cavalier intrusion into my home and place of business?" Jerry, at pistol point, was herding the four assistants from the room, taking the houseman along with them. Tracy looked at Moncure, speculatively, then dipped into his pockets for pipe and tobacco. He gestured to a chair with his head. "Sit down, Mr. Moncure. The jig is up." "The _jig_?" the other blurted in a fine rage. "I insist--" "O.K., O.K., you'll get your explanation." Tracy sat down on a couch himself and sized up the older man, even as he lit his pipe. Moncure, still breathing heavily in his indignation, took control of himself well enough to be seated. "Well, sir?" he bit out. Tracy said curtly, "Frank Tracy, Bureau of Economic Subversion." "Bureau of Economic Subversion!" Moncure said indignantly. "What in the name of all that's holy is the Bureau of Economic Subversion?" Tracy pointed at him with the pipe stem. "I'll ask a few questions first, please. How many branches of your nefarious outfit are presently under operation?" The other glared at him, but Tracy merely returned the pipe to his mouth and glowered back. Finally Moncure snapped, "There is no purpose in hiding any of our affairs. We have opened preliminary offices only in Chicago and New York. Freer Enterprises is but in its infancy." "Praise Allah for that," Tracy muttered sarcastically. "And thus far we have dealt only in soap. However, as our organization gets under way we plan to branch out into a score, and ultimately hundreds of products." Tracy said, "You can forget about that, Moncure. Freer Enterprises comes to a halt as of today. Do you realize that your business tactics would lead to a complete collapse of gainful employment and eventually to a depression such as this nation has never seen before?" "Exactly!" Moncure snapped in return. * * * It was Tracy's turn to react. His eyes widened, then narrowed. "Do you mean that you are deliberately attempting to undermine the economy of the United States of the Americas? Remember, Mr. Moncure, you are under arrest and anything you say may be held against you." "Undermine it!" Moncure said heatedly. "Bring it crashing to the ground is the better term. There has never been such an abortion developed in the history of political economy." He came to his feet again and began storming up and down the room. "A full three quarters of our employed working at nothing jobs, gobbledygook jobs, non-producing jobs, make-work jobs, red-tape bureaucracy jobs. At a time when the nation is supposedly in a breakneck economic competition with the Soviet Complex, we put our best brains into advertising, entertainment and sales, while they put theirs into science and industry." He stopped long enough to shake an indignant finger at the surprised Tracy. "But that isn't the worst of it. Have you ever heard of planned obsolescence?" Tracy acted as though on the defensive. "Well ... sure ..." "In the Soviet Complex, and, for that matter, in Common Europe and other economic competitors of ours, they simply don't believe in planned obsolescence and all its related nonsense. Razor blades, everywhere except in this country, don't go dull after two or three shaves. Cars don't fall apart after two or three years, or even become so out of style that the owner feels that he's losing status by being seen in it, the owners expect to keep them half a lifetime. Automobile batteries don't go to pieces after eighteen months, they last for a decade. And on and on!" The old boy was really unwinding now. "Nor is even that the nadir of this socio-economic hodge-podge we've allowed to develop, this economy of production for sale, rather than production for use." He stabbed with his finger. "I think one of the best examples of what was to come was to be witnessed way back at the end of the Second War. The idea of the ball-bearing pen was in the air. The first one to hurry into production gave his pen a tremendous build-up. It had ink enough to last three years, it would make many carbon copies, you could use it under water. And so on and so forth. It cost fifteen dollars, and there was only one difficulty with it. It wouldn't write. Not that that made any difference because it sold like hotcakes what with all the promotion. He wasn't interested in whether or not it would write, but only in whether or not it would sell." Moncure threw up his hands dramatically. "I ask you, can such an economic system be taken seriously?" "What's your point?" Tracy growled dangerously. He'd never met one this far out, before. "Isn't it obvious? Continue this ridiculous economy and we'll lose the battle for men's minds. You can't have an economic system that allows such nonsense as large scale unemployment of trained employees, planned obsolescence, union featherbedding, and an overwhelming majority of those who are employed wasting their labor on unproductive employment." Tracy said, "Then if I understand you correctly, Freer Enterprises was deliberately organized for the purpose of undermining the economy so that it will collapse and have to be reorganized on a different basis." "That is _exactly_ correct," Moncure said defiantly. "I am devoting my whole fortune to this cause. And there is nothing in American law that prevents me from following through with my plans." "You're right there," Tracy said wryly. "There's nothing in American law that prevents you. However, you see, I have no connection whatsoever with the American government." He slipped the gun from its holster. * * * * * Frank Tracy made his way wearily into LaVerne's domain. She looked up from the desk. "Everything go all right, Mr. Tracy?" "I suppose so. Tell Comrade Zotov that I'm back from Chicago, please." She clicked switches, said something into an inner-office communicator, then looked up again. "He'll see you immediately, Mr. Tracy." Pavel Zotov looked up from his endless paperwork and wheezed the sigh of a fat man. He correctly interpreted the expression of his field operative. "Pour us a couple of drinks, Frank, or would you rather have it _Frol_, today?" His best field man grunted as he walked over to the bar. "Vodka, eh? _Chort vesmiot_ how tired one can become of this everlasting bourbon." He reached into the refrigerator compartment and brought forth a bottle of iced Stolichnaya. He poured two three-ounce charges and brought them back to his bureau chief's desk. They toasted silently, knocked back the colorless spirit. Pavel Zotov said, "Well, Frol?" The man usually called Frank Tracy said, "The worst case yet. This one had quite a clear picture of the true situation. He saw the necessity--given _their_ viewpoint, of course--of getting out of the fantastic rut their economy has fallen into." He ran his hand over his mouth in a gesture of weariness. "Chief, do you have any idea of how long it would take us to catch up to them, if we ever did, if they really turned this economy on full blast, as an alternative to their present foul-up?" "That's why we're here," the Chief said heavily. "What did you do?" The man sometimes called Tracy told him. Zotov winced. "I thought I ordered you--" "You did," the man called Tracy told him curtly, "but what alternative was there? The fire will completely destroy the records. I have the names and addresses of all the others connected with Freer Enterprises. We'll have to arrange car accidents, that sort of thing." The fat man's lips worked. "We can't get by with this indefinitely, Frol. With such blatant tactics, sooner or later their C.I.A. or F.B.I. is going to get wind of us." Tracy came to his feet angrily. "What alternative have we? We've been sent over here to do a job. We're doing it. If we're caught, who knows better than we that we're expendable? If you don't mind, I'm going on home." As he left the office, through the secret door that led through the innocuous looking garage, the man they called Frank Tracy was inwardly thinking, "Zotov might be my superior, and a top man in the party, but he's too soft for this job. Perhaps I'd better send a report back to Moscow on him." End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Subversive, by Dallas McCord Reynolds * END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SUBVERSIVE * *** This file should be named 23197-8.txt or 23197-8.zip * This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/2/3/1/9/23197/ Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. 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We are planning on making some changes in our donation structure in 2000, so you might want to email me, [email protected] beforehand. END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTSVer.04.29.93END THE ADVENTURES OF PADDY THE BEAVER Thornton W. Burgess 1917 CONTENTS: CHAPTER I Paddy the Beaver Begins Work. II Paddy Plans a Pond. III Paddy Has Many Visitors. IV Sammy Jay Speaks His Mind. V Paddy Keeps His Promise. VI Farmer Brown's Boy Grows Curious. VII Farmer Brown's Boy Gets Another Surprise. VIII Peter Rabbit Gets a Ducking. IX Paddy Plans a House. X Paddy Starts His House XI Peter Rabbit and Jerry Muskrat are Puzzled. XII Jerry Muskrat Learns Something. XIII The Queer Storehouse. XIV A Footprint in the Mud. XV Sammy Jay Makes Paddy a Call. XVI Old Man Coyote Is Very Crafty. XVII Old Man Coyote is Disappointed. XVIII Old Man Coyote Tries Another Plan. XIX Paddy and Sammy Jay Become Friends. XX Sammy Jay Offers To Help Paddy. XXI Paddy and Sammy Jay Work Together. XXII Paddy Finishes His Harvest. CHAPTER I Paddy the Beaver Begins Work. Work, work all the night While the stars are shining bright; Work, work all the day; I have got no time to play. This little rhyme Paddy the Beaver made up as he toiled at building the dam which was to make the pond he so much desired deep in the Green Forest. Of course it wasn't quite true, that about working all night and all day. Nobody could do that, you know, and keep it up. Everybody has to rest and sleep. Yes, and everybody has to play a little to be at their best. So it wasn't quite true that Paddy worked all day after working all night. But it was true that Paddy had no time to play. He had too much to do. He had had his playtime during the long summer, and now he had to get ready for the long, cold winter. Now, of all the little workers in the Green Forest, on the Green Meadows, and in the Smiling Pool, none can compare with Paddy the Beaver, not even his cousin, Jerry Muskrat. Happy Jack Squirrel and Striped Chipmunk store up food for the long, cold months when rough Brother North Wind and Jack Frost rule, and Jerry Muskrat builds a fine house wherein to keep warm and comfortable, but all this is as nothing to the work of Paddy the Beaver. As I said before, Paddy had had a long playtime through the summer. He had wandered up and down the Laughing Brook. He had followed it way up to the place where it started. And all the time he had been studying and studying to make sure that he wanted to stay in the Green Forest. In the first place, he had to be sure that there was plenty of the kind of food that he likes. Then he had to be equally sure that he could make a pond near where this particular food grew. Last of all, he had to satisfy himself that if he did make a pond and build a home, he would be reasonably safe in it. And all these things he had done in his playtime. Now he was ready to go to work, and when Paddy begins work, he sticks to it until it is finished. He says that is the only way to succeed, and you know and I know that he is right. Now Paddy the Beaver can see at night just as Reddy Fox and Peter Rabbit and Bobby Coon can, and he likes the night best, because he feels safest then. But he can see in the daytime too, and when he feels that he is perfectly safe and no one is watching, he works then too. Of course, the first thing to do was to build a dam across the Laughing Brook to make the pond he so much needed. He chose a low, open place deep in the Green Forest, around the edge of which grew many young aspen trees, the bark of which is his favorite food. Through the middle of this open place flowed the Laughing Brook. At the lower edge was just the place for a dam. It would not have to be very long, and when it was finished and the water was stopped in the Laughing Brook, it would just have to flow over the low, open place and make a pond there. Paddy's eyes twinkled when he first saw it. It was right then that he made up his mind to stay in the Green Forest. So now that he was ready to begin his dam he went up the Laughing Brook to a place where alders and willows grew, and there he began work; that work was the cutting of a great number of trees by means of his big front teeth which were given him for just this purpose. And as he worked, Paddy was happy, for one can never be truly happy who does no work. CHAPTER II Paddy Plans a Pond. Paddy the Beaver was busy cutting down trees for the dam he had planned to build. Up in the woods of the North from which he had come to the Green Forest, he had learned all about tree-cutting and dam-building and canal-digging and house-building. Paddy's father and mother had been very wise in the Beaver world, and Paddy had been quick to learn. So now he knew just what to do and the best way of doing it. You know, a great many people waste time and labor doing things the wrong way, so that they have to be done over again. They forget to be sure they are right, and so they go ahead until they find they are wrong, and all their work goes for nothing. But Paddy the Beaver isn't this kind. Paddy would never have leaped into the spring with the steep sides without looking, as Grandfather Frog did. So now he carefully picked out the trees to cut. He could not afford to waste time cutting down a tree that wasn't going to be just what he wanted when it was down. When he was sure that the tree was right, he looked up at the top to find out whether, when he had cut it, it would fall clear of other trees. He had learned to do that when he was quite young and heedless. He remembered just how he had felt when, after working hard, oh, so hard, to cut a big tree, he had warned all his friends to get out of the way so that they would not be hurt when it fell, and then it hadn't fallen at all because the top had caught in another tree. He was so mortified that he didn't get over it for a long time. So now he made sure that a tree was going to fall clear and just where he wanted it. Then he sat up on his hind legs, and with his great broad tail for a brace, began to make the chips fly. You know Paddy has the most wonderful teeth for cutting. They are long and broad and sharp. He would begin by making a deep bite, and then another just a little way below. Then he would pry out the little piece of wood between. When he had cut very deep on one side so that the tree would fall that way, he would work around to the other side. Just as soon as the tree began to lean and he was sure that it was going to fall, he would scamper away so as to be out of danger. He loved to see those tall trees lean forward slowly, then faster and faster, till they struck the ground with a crash. Just as soon as they were down, he would trim off the branches until the trees where just long poles. This was easy work, for he could take off a good-sized branch with one bite. On many he left their bushy tops. When he had trimmed them to suit him and had cut them into the right lengths, he would tug and pull them down to the place where he meant to build his dam. There he placed the poles side by side, not across the Laughing Brook like a bridge, but with the big ends pointing up the Laughing Brook, which was quite broad but shallow right there. To keep them from floating away, he rolled stones and piled mud on the bushy ends. Clear across on both sides he laid those poles until the water began to rise. Then he dragged more poles and piled them on top of these and wedged short sticks crosswise between them. And all the time the Laughing Brook was having harder and harder work to run. Its merry laugh grew less merry and finally almost stopped, because, you see, the water could not get through between all those poles and sticks fast enough. It was just about that time that the little people of the Smiling Pool decided that it was time to see just what Paddy was doing, and they started up the Laughing Brook, leaving only Grandfather Frog and the tadpoles in the Smiling Pool, which for a little while would smile no more. CHAPTER III Paddy Has Many Visitors. Paddy the Beaver knew perfectly well that he would have visitors just as soon as he began to build his dam. He expected a lot of them. You see he knew that none of them ever had seen a Beaver at work unless perhaps it was Prickly Porky the Porcupine, who also had come down from the North. So as he worked he kept his ears open, and he smiled to himself as he heard a little rustle here and then a little rustle there. He knew just what those little rustles meant. Each one meant another visitor. Yes, Sir, each rustle meant another visitor, and yet not one had shown himself. Paddy chuckled. "Seems to me that you are dreadfully afraid to show yourselves," said he in a loud voice, just as if he were talking to nobody in particular. Everything was still. There wasn't so much as a rustle after Paddy spoke. He chuckled again. He could just feel ever so many eyes watching him, though he didn't see a single pair. And he knew that the reason his visitors were hiding so carefully was because they were afraid of him. You see, Paddy was much bigger than most of the little meadow and forest people, and they didn't know what kind of a temper he might have. It is always safest to be very distrustful of strangers. That is one of the very first things taught all little meadow and forest children. Of course, Paddy knew all about this. He had been brought up that way. "Be sure, and then you'll never be sorry" had been one of his mother's favorite sayings, and he had always remembered it. Indeed, it had saved him a great deal of trouble. So now he was perfectly willing to go right on working and let his hidden visitors watch him until they were sure that he meant them no harm. You see, he himself felt quite sure that none of them was big enough to do him any harm. Little Joe Otter was the only one he had any doubts about, and he felt quite sure that Little Joe wouldn't try to pick a quarrel. So he kept right on cutting trees, trimming off the branches, and hauling the trunks down to the dam he was building. Some of them he floated down the Laughing Brook. This was easier. Now when the little people of the Smiling Pool, who were the first to find out that Paddy the Beaver had come to the Green Forest, had started up the Laughing Brook to see what he was doing, they had told the Merry Little Breezes where they were going. The Merry Little Breezes had been greatly excited. They couldn't understand how a stranger could have been living in the Green Forest without their knowledge. You see, they quite forgot that they very seldom wandered to the deepest part of the Green Forest. Of course they started at once, as fast as they could go, to tell all the other little people who live on or around the Green Meadows, all but Old Man Coyote. For some reason they thought it best not to tell him. They were a little doubtful about Old Man Coyote. He was so big and strong and so sly and smart that all his neighbors were afraid of him. Perhaps the Merry Little Breezes had this fact in mind, and knew that none would dare go to call on the stranger if they knew that Old Man Coyote was going too. Anyway, they simply passed the time of day with Old Mr. Coyote and hurried on to tell everyone else, and the very last one they met was Sammy Jay. CHAPTER IV Sammy Jay Speaks His Mind When Sammy Jay reached the place deep in the Green Forest Where Paddy the Beaver was so hard at work, he didn't hide as had the little four-footed people. You see, of course, he had no reason to hide, because he felt perfectly safe. Paddy had just cut a big tree, and it fell with a crash as Sammy came hurrying up. Sammy was so surprised that for a minute he couldn't find his tongue. He had not supposed that anybody but Farmer Brown or Farmer Brown's boy could cut down so large a tree as that, and it quite took his breath away. But he got it again in a minute. He was boiling with anger, anyway, to think that he should have been the last to learn that Paddy had come down from the North to make his home in the Green Forest, and here was a chance to speak his mind. "Thief! thief! thief!" He screamed in his harshest voice. Paddy the Beaver looked up with a twinkle in his eyes. "Hello, Mr. Jay. I see you haven't any better manners than your cousin who lives up where I come from," said he. "Thief! thief! thief!" screamed Sammy, hopping up and down, he was so angry. "Meaning yourself, I suppose," said Paddy. "I never did see an honest Jay, and I don't suppose I ever will." "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Peter Rabbit, who had quite forgotten that he was hiding. "Oh, how do you do, Mr. Rabbit? I'm very glad you have called on me this morning," said Paddy, just as if he hadn't known all the time just where Peter was. "Mr. Jay seems to have gotten out of the wrong side of his bed this morning." Peter laughed again. "He always does," said he. "If he didn't, he wouldn't be happy. You wouldn't think it to look at him, but he is happy right now. He doesn't know it, but he is. He always is happy when he can show what a bad temper he has." Sammy Jay glared down at Peter. Then he glared at Paddy. And all the time he still shrieked "Thief!" as hard as ever he could. Paddy kept right on working, paying no attention to Sammy. This made Sammy more angry than ever. He kept coming nearer and nearer until at last he was in the very tree that Paddy happened to be cutting. Paddy's eyes twinkled. "I'm no thief!" he exclaimed suddenly. "You are! You are! Thief! Thief!" shrieked Sammy. "You're steeling our trees!" "They're not your trees," retorted Paddy. "They belong to the Green Forest, and the Green Forest belongs to all who love it, and we all have a perfect right to take what we need from it. I need these trees, and I've just as much right to take them as you have to take the fat acorns that drop in the fall." "No such thing!" screamed Sammy. You know he can't talk without screaming, and the more excited he gets, the louder he screams. "No such thing! Acorns are food. They are meant to eat. I have to have them to live. But you are cutting down whole trees. You are spoiling the Green Forest. You don't belong here. Nobody invited you, and nobody wants you. You're a thief!" Then up spoke Jerry Muskrat who, you know, is cousin to Paddy the Beaver. "Don't you mind him," said he, pointing at Sammy Jay. "Nobody does. He's the greatest trouble-maker in the Green Forest or on the Green Meadows. He would steal from his own relatives. Don't mind what he says, Cousin Paddy." Now all this time Paddy had been working away just as if no one was around. Just as Jerry stopped speaking, Paddy thumped the ground with his tail, which is his way of warning people to watch out, and suddenly scurried away as fast as he could run. Sammy Jay was so surprised that he couldn't find his tongue for a minute, and he didn't notice anything peculiar about that tree. Then suddenly he felt himself falling. With a frightened scream, he spread his wings to fly, but branches of the tree swept him down with them right into the Laughing Brook. You see, while Sammy had been speaking his mind, Paddy the Beaver had cut down the very tree in which he was sitting. Sammy wasn't hurt, but he was wet and muddy and terribly frightened--the most miserable-looking Jay that ever was seen. It was too much for all the little people who were hiding. They just had to laugh. Then they all came out to pay their respects to Paddy the Beaver. CHAPTER V Paddy Keeps His Promise. Paddy the Beaver kept right on working just as if he hadn't any visitors. You see, it is a big undertaking to build a dam. And when that was done there was a house to build and a supply of food for the winter to cut and store. Oh, Paddy the Beaver had no time for idle gossip, you may be sure! So he kept right on building his dam. It didn't look much like a dam at first, and some of Paddy's visitors turned up their noses when they first saw it. They had heard stories of what a wonderful dam-builder Paddy was, and they had expected to see something like the smooth, grass-covered bank with which Farmer Brown kept the Big River from running back on his low lands. Instead, all they saw was a great pile of poles and sticks which looked like anything but a dam. "Pooh!" exclaimed Billy Mink, "I guess we needn't worry about the Laughing Brook and the Smiling Pool, if that is the best Paddy can do. Why, the water of the Laughing Brook will work through that in no time." Of course Paddy heard him, but he said nothing, just kept right on working. "Just look at the way he has laid those sticks!" continued Billy Mink. "Seems as if anyone would know enough to lay them across the Laughing Brook instead of just the other way. I could build a better dam than that." Paddy said nothing; he just kept right on working. "Yes, Sir," Billy boasted. "I could build a better dam than that. Why, that pile of sticks will never stop the water." "Is something the matter with your eyesight, Billy Mink?" inquired Jerry Muskrat. "Of course not!" retorted Billy indignantly. "Why?" "Oh, nothing much, only you don't seem to notice that already the Laughing Brook is over its banks above Paddy's dam," replied Jerry, who had been studying the dam with a great deal of interest. Billy looked a wee bit foolish, for sure enough there was a little pool just above the dam, and it was growing bigger. Sammy was terribly put out to think that anything should be going on that he didn't know about first. You know he is very fond of prying into the affairs of other people, and he loves dearly to boast that there is nothing going on in the Green Forest or on the Green Meadows that he doesn't know about. So now his pride was hurt, and he was in a terrible rage as he started after the Merry Little Breezes for the place deep in the Green Forest where they said Paddy the Beaver was at work. He didn't believe a word of it, but he would see for himself. Paddy still kept at work, saying nothing. He was digging in front of the dam now, and the mud and grass he dug up he stuffed in between the ends of the sticks and patted them down with his hands. He did this all along the front of the dam and on top of it, too, wherever he thought it was needed. Of course this made it harder for the water to work through, and the little pond above the dam began to grow faster. It wasn't a great while before it was nearly to the top of the dam, which at first was very low. Then Paddy brought more sticks. This was easier now, because he could float them down from where he was cutting. He would put them in place on the top of the dam, then hurry for more. Wherever it was needed, he would put in mud. He even rolled a few stones in to help hold the mass. So the dam grew and grew, and so did the pond above the dam. Of course, it took a good many days to build so big a dam, and a lot of hard work! Every morning the little people of the Green Forest and the Green Meadow would visit it, and every morning they would find that it had grown a great deal in the night, for that is when Paddy likes best to work. By this time, the Laughing Brook had stopped laughing, and down in the Smiling Pool there was hardly water enough for the minnows to feel safe a minute. Billy Mink had stopped making fun of the dam, and all the little people who live in the Laughing Brook and Smiling Pool were terribly worried. To be sure, Paddy had warned them of what he was going to do, and had promised that as soon as his pond was big enough, the water would once more run in the Laughing Brook. They tried to believe him, but they couldn't help having just a wee bit of fear that he might not be wholly honest. You see, they didn't know him, for he was a stranger. Jerry Muskrat was the only one who seemed absolutely sure that everything would be all right. Perhaps that was because Paddy is his cousin, and Jerry couldn't help feeling proud of such a big cousin and one who was so smart. So day by day the dam grew, and pond grew, and one morning Grandfather Frog, down in what had once been the Smiling Pool, heard a sound that made his heart jump for joy. It was a murmur that kept growing and growing, until at last it was the merry laugh of the Laughing Brook. Then he knew that Paddy had kept his word, and water would once more fill the Smiling Pool. CHAPTER VI Farmer Brown's Boy Grows Curious. Now it happened that the very day before Paddy the Beaver decided that his pond was big enough, and so allowed the water to run in the Laughing Brook once more, Farmer Brown's boy took it into his head to go fishing in the Smiling Pool. Just as usual he went whistling down across the Green Meadows. Somehow, when he goes fishing, he always feels like whistling. Grandfather Frog heard him coming and dived into the little bit of water remaining in the Smiling Pool and stirred up the mud at the bottom so that Farmer Brown's boy shouldn't see him. Nearer and nearer drew the whistle. Suddenly it stopped right short off. Farmer Brown's boy had come in sight of the Smiling Pool or rather, it was what used to be the Smiling Pool. Now there wasn't any Smiling Pool, for the very little pool left was too small and sickly looking to smile. There were great banks of mud, out of which grew the bulrushes. The lily pads were forlornly stretched out toward the tiny pool of water remaining. Where the banks were steep and high, the holes that Jerry Muskrat and Billy Mink knew so well were plain to see. Over at one side stood Jerry Muskrat's house, wholly out of water. Somehow, it seemed to Farmer Brown's boy that he must be dreaming. He never, never had seen anything like this before, not even in the very driest weather of the hottest part of the summer. He looked this way and looked that way. The Green Meadows looked just as usual. The Green Forest looked just as usual. The Laughing Brook--ha! What was the matter with the Laughing Brook? He couldn't hear it and that, you know, was very unusual. He dropped his rod and ran over to the Laughing Brook. There wasn't any brook. No, sir, there wasn't any brook; just pools of water with the tiniest of streams trickling between. Big stones over which he had always seen the water running in the prettiest of little white falls were bare and dry. In the little pools frightened minnows were darting about. Farmer Brown's boy scratched his head in a puzzled way. "I don't understand it," said he. "I don't understand it at all. Something must have gone wrong with the springs that supply the water for the Laughing Brook. They must have failed. Yes, Sir, that is just what must have happened. But I never heard of such a thing happening before, and I really don't see how it could happen. He stared up into the Green Forest just as if he thought he could see those springs. Of course, he didn't think anything of the kind. He was just turning it all over in his mind. "I know what I'll do, I'll go up to those springs this afternoon and find out what the trouble is," he said out loud. "They are way over almost on the other side of the Green Forest, and the easiest way to get there will be to start from home and cut across the Old Pasture up to the edge of the Mountain behind the Green Forest. If I try to follow up the Laughing Brook now, it will take too long, because it winds and twists so. Besides, it is too hard work." With that, Farmer Brown's boy went back and picked up his rod. Then he started for home across the Green Meadows, and for once he wasn't whistling. You see, he was too busy thinking. In fact, he was so busy thinking that he didn't see Jimmy Skunk until he almost stepped on him, and then he gave a frightened jump and ran, for without a gun he was just as much afraid of Jimmy as Jimmy was of him when he did have a gun. Jimmy just grinned and went on about his business. It always tickles Jimmy to see people run away from him, especially people so much bigger than himself; they look so silly. "I should think that they would have learned by this time that if they don't bother me, I won't bother them, he muttered as he rolled over a stone to look for fat beetles. "Somehow, folks never seem to understand me." CHAPTER VII Farmer Brown's Boy Gets Another Surprise. Across the Old Pasture to the foot of the Mountain back of the Green Forest tramped Farmer Brown's boy. Ahead of him trotted Bowser the Hound, sniffing and snuffing for the tracks of Reddy or Granny Fox. Of course he didn't find them, for Reddy and Granny hadn't been up in the Old Pasture for a long time. But he did find old Jed Thumper, the big gray Rabbit who had made things so uncomfortable for Peter Rabbit once upon a time and gave old Jed such a fright that he didn't look where he was going and almost ran head-first into Farmer Brown's boy. "Hi, there, you old cottontail!" yelled Farmer Brown's boy, and this frightened off Jed still more, so that he actually ran right past his own castle of bullbriars without seeing it. Farmer Brown's boy kept on his way, laughing at the fright of old Jed Thumper. Presently he reached the springs from which came the water that made the very beginning of the Laughing Brook. He expected to find them dry, for way down on the Green Meadows the Smiling Pool was nearly dry, and the Laughing Brook was nearly dry, and he had supposed that of course the reason was that the springs where the Laughing Brook started were no longer bubbling. But they were! The clear cold water came bubbling up out of the ground just as it always had, and ran off down into the Green Forest in a little stream that would grow and grow as it ran and became the Laughing Brook. Farmer Brown's boy took off his ragged old straw hat and scowled down at the bubbling water just as if it had no business to be bubbling there. Of course, he didn't think just that. The fact is, he didn't know just what he did think. Here were the springs bubbling away just as they always had. There was the little stream starting off down into the Green Forest with a gurgle that by and by would become a laugh, just as it always had. And yet down on the Green Meadows on the other side of the Green Forest there was no longer a Laughing Brook or a Smiling Pool. He felt as if he ought to pinch himself to make sure that he was awake and not dreaming. "I don't know what it means," said he, talking out loud. "No, Sir, I don't know what it means at all, but I'm going to find out. There's a cause for everything in this world, and when a fellow doesn't know a thing, it is his business to find out all about it. I'm going to find out what has happened to the Laughing Brook, if it takes me a year!" With that he started to follow the little stream which ran gurgling down into the Green Forest. He had followed that little stream more than once, and now he found it just as he remembered it. The farther it ran, the larger it grew, until at last it became the Laughing Brook, merrily tumbling over rocks and making deep pools in which the trout loved to hide. At last he came to the edge of a little open hollow in the very heart of the Green Forest. He knew what splendid deep holes there were in the Laughing Brook here, and how the big trout loved to lie in them because they were deep and cool. He was thinking of these trout now and wishing that he had brought along his fishing rod. He pushed his way through a thicket of alders and then--Farmer Brown's boy stopped suddenly and fairly gasped! He had to stop because there right in front of him was a pond! He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Then he stooped down and put his hand in the water to see if it was real. There was no doubt about it. It was real water--a real pond where there never had been a pond before. It was very still there in the heart of the Green Forest. It was always very still there, but it seemed stiller than usual as he tramped around the edge of this strange pond. He felt as if it were all a dream. He wondered if pretty soon he wouldn't wake up and find it all untrue. But he didn't, so he kept on tramping until presently he came to a dam--a splendid dam of logs and sticks and mud. Over the top of it the water was running, and down in the Green Forest below he could hear the Laughing Brook just beginning to laugh once more. Farmer Brown's boy sat down with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. He was almost too much surprised to even think. CHAPTER VIII Peter Rabbit Gets a Ducking. Farmer Brown's boy sat with his chin in his hands staring at the new pond in the Green Forest and at the dam which had made it. That dam puzzled him. Who could have built it? What did they build it for? Why hadn't he heard them chopping? He looked carelessly at the stump of one of the trees, and then a still more puzzled look made deep furrows between his eyes. It looked-- yes, it looked very much as if teeth, and not an axe, had cut down that tree. Farmer Brown's boy stared and stared, his mouth gaping wide open. He looked so funny that Peter Rabbit, who was hiding under an old pile of brush close by, nearly laughed right out. But Peter didn't laugh. No, Sir, Peter didn't laugh, for just that very minute something happened. Sniff! Sniff! That was right behind him at the very edge of the old brushpile, and every hair on Peter stood on end with fright. "Bow, wow, wow!" It seemed to Peter that the great voice was right in his very ears. It frightened him so that he just had to jump. He didn't have time to think. And so he jumped right out from under the pile of brush and of course right into plain sight. And the very instant he jumped there came another great roar behind him. Of course it was from Bowser the Hound. You see, Bowser had been following the trail of his master, but as he always stops to sniff at everything he passes, he had been some distance behind. When he came to the pile of brush under which Peter was hiding he had sniffed at that, and of course he had smelled Peter right away. Now when Peter jumped out so suddenly, he had landed right at one end of the dam. The second roar of Bowser's great voice frightened him still more, and he jumped right up on the dam. There was nothing for him to do now but go across, and it wasn't the best of going. No, indeed, it wasn't the best of going. You see, it was mostly a tangle of sticks. Happy Jack Squirrel or Chatterer the Red Squirrel or Striped Chipmunk would have skipped across it without the least trouble. But Peter Rabbit has no sharp little claws with which to cling to logs and sticks, and right away he was in a peck of trouble. He slipped down between the sticks, scrambled out, slipped again, and then, trying to make a long jump, he lost his balance and--tumbled heels over head into the water. Poor Peter Rabbit! He gave himself up for lost this time. He could swim, but at best he is a poor swimmer and doesn't like the water. He couldn't dive and keep out of sight like Jerry Muskrat or Billy Mink. All he could do was to paddle as fast as his legs would go. The water had gone up his nose and down his throat so that he choked, and all the time he felt sure that Bowser the Hound would plunge in after him and catch him. And if he shouldn't why Farmer Brown's boy would simply wait for him to come ashore and then catch him. But Farmer Brown's boy didn't do anything of the kind. No, Sir, he didn't. Instead he shouted to Bowser and called him away. Bowser didn't want to come, but he long ago learned to obey, and very slowly he walked over to where his master was sitting. "You know it wouldn't be fair, old fellow, to try to catch Peter now. It wouldn't be fair at all, and we never want to do anything unfair, do we?" said he. Perhaps Bowser didn't agree, but he wagged his tail as if he did, and sat down beside his master to watch Peter swim. It seemed to Peter as if he never, never would reach the shore, though really it was only a very little distance that he had to swim. When he did scramble out, he was a sorry-looking Rabbit. He didn't waste any time, but started for home as fast as he could go, lipperty-lipperty-lip. And Farmer Brown's boy and Bowser the Hound just laughed and didn't try to catch him at all. "Well, I never!" exclaimed Sammy Jay, who had seen it all from the top of a pine tree. "Well, I never! I guess Farmer Brown's boy isn't so bad, after all." CHAPTER IX Paddy Plans a House. Paddy the Beaver sat on his dam, and his eyes shone with happiness as he looked out over the shining water of the pond he had made. All around the edge of it grew the tall trees of the Green Forest. It was very beautiful and very still and very lonesome. That is, it would have seemed lonesome to almost anyone but Paddy the Beaver. But Paddy never is lonesome. You see, he finds company in the trees and flowers and all the little plants. It was still, very, very still. Over on one side was a beautiful rosy glow in the water. It was the reflection from jolly, round, red Mr. Sun. Paddy couldn't see him because of the tall trees, but he knew exactly what Mr. Sun was doing. He was going to bed behind the Purple Hills. Pretty soon the little stars would come out and twinkle down at him. He loves the little stars and always watches for the first one. Yes, Paddy the Beaver was very happy. He would have been perfectly happy except for one thing. Farmer Brown's boy had found his dam and pond that very afternoon, and Paddy wasn't quite sure what Farmer Brown's boy might do. He had kept himself snugly hidden while Farmer Brown's boy was there, and he felt quite sure that Farmer Brown's boy didn't know who had built the dam. But for this reason he might, he just might, try to find out all about it, and that would mean that Paddy would always have to be on the watch. "But what's the use of worrying over troubles that haven't come yet, and may never come? Time enough to worry when they do come," said Paddy to himself, which shows that Paddy has a great deal of wisdom in his little brown head. "The thing for me to do now is to get ready for winter, and that means a great deal of work," he continued. "Let me see, I've got to build a house, a big, stout, warm house, where I will be warm and safe when my pond is frozen over. And I've got to lay in a supply of food, enough to last me until gentle Sister South Wind comes to prepare the way for lovely Mistress Spring. My, my, I can't afford to be sitting here dreaming when there is so much to be done!" With that Paddy slipped into the water and swam all around his new pond to make sure of just the best place to build his house. Now, placing one's house in just the right place is a very important matter. Some people are dreadfully careless about this. Jimmy Skunk, for instance, often makes the mistake of digging his house (you know Jimmy makes his house underground) right where everyone who happens along that way will see it. Perhaps that is because Jimmy is so independent that he doesn't care who knows where he lives. But Paddy the Beaver never is careless. He always chooses just the very best place. He makes sure that it is best before he begins. So now, although he was quite positive just where his house should be, he swam around the pond to make doubly sure. Then, when he was quite satisfied, he swam over to the place he had chosen. It was where the water was quite deep. "There mustn't be the least chance that the ice will ever get thick enough too close up my doorway, said he, "and I'm sure it never will here. I must make the foundations strong and the walls thick. I must have plenty of mud to plaster with, and inside, up above the water, I must have the snuggest, warmest room where I can sleep in comfort. This is the place to build it, and it is high time I was at work." With that Paddy swam over to the place where he had cut the trees for his dam, and his heart was light, for he had long ago learned that the surest way to be happy is to be busy. CHAPTER X Paddy Starts His House. Jerry Muskrat was very much interested when he found that Paddy the Beaver, who you know, is his cousin, was building a house. Jerry is a house-builder himself, and down deep in his heart he very much doubted if Paddy could build as good a house as he could. His house was down in the Smiling Pool, and Jerry thought it a very wonderful house indeed, and was very proud of it. It was built of mud and sod and little alder and willow twigs and bulrushes. Jerry had spent one winter in it, and he had decided to spend another there after he had fixed it up a little. So, as long as he didn't have to build a brand-new house, he could afford the time to watch his cousin Paddy. Perhaps he hoped that Paddy would ask his advice. But Paddy did nothing of the kind. He had seen Jerry Muskrat's house, and he had smiled. But he had taken great pains not to let Jerry see that smile. He wouldn't have hurt Jerry's feelings for the world. He is too polite and good-natured to do anything like that. So Jerry sat on the end of an old log and watched Paddy work. The first thing to build was the foundation. This was of mud and grass with sticks worked into it to hold it together. Paddy dug the mud from the bottom of his new pond. And because the pond was new, there was a great deal of grassy sod there, which was just what Paddy needed. It was very convenient. Jerry watched a little while and then, because Jerry is a worker himself, he just had to get busy and help. Rather timidly he told his big cousin that he would like to have a share in building the new house. "All right," replied Paddy, "that will be fine. You can bring mud while I am getting the sticks and grass." So Jerry dived down to the bottom of the pond and dug up mud and piled it on the foundation and was happy. The little stars looked down and twinkled merrily as they watched the two workers. So the foundation grew and grew down under the water. Jerry was very much surprised at the size of it. It was ever and ever so much bigger than the foundation for his own house. You see, he had forgotten how much bigger Paddy is. Each night Jerry and Paddy worked, resting during the daytime. Occasionally Bobby Coon or Reddy Fox or Unc' Billy Possum or Jimmy Skunk would come to the edge of the pond to see what was going on. Peter Rabbit came every night. But they couldn't see much because, you know, Paddy and Jerry were working under water. But at last Peter was rewarded. There, just above the water, was a splendid platform of mud and grass and sticks. A great many sticks were carefully laid as soon as the platform was above the water, for Paddy was very particular about this. You see, it was to be the floor for the splendid room he was planning to build. When it suited him, he began to pile mud in the very middle. Jerry puzzled and puzzled over this. Where was Paddy's room going to be, if he piled up the mud that way? But he didn't like to ask questions, so he kept right on helping. Paddy would dive down to the bottom and then come up with double handfuls of mud, which he held against his chest. He would scramble out onto the platform and waddle over to the pile in the middle, where he would put the mud and pat it down. Then back to the bottom for more. And so the mud pile grew and grew, until it was quite two feet high. "Now," said Paddy, "I'll build the walls, and I guess you can't help me much with those. I'm going to begin them tomorrow night. Perhaps you will like to see me do it, Cousin Jerry." "I certainly will," replied Jerry, still puzzling over that pile of mud in the middle. CHAPTER XI Peter Rabbit and Jerry Muskrat Are Puzzled. Jerry Muskrat was more and more sure that his big cousin, Paddy the Beaver, didn't know quite so much as he might about house-building. Jerry would have liked to offer some suggestions, but he didn't quite dare. You see, he was very anxious not to displease his big cousin. But he felt that he simply had got to speak his mind to someone, so he swam across to where he had seen Peter Rabbit almost every night since Paddy began to build. Sure enough, Peter was there, sitting up very straight and staring with big round eyes at the platform of mud and sticks out in the water where Paddy the Beaver was at work. "Well, Peter, what do you think of it?" asked Jerry "What is it?" asked Peter innocently. "Is it another dam?" Jerry threw back his head and laughed and laughed. Peter looked at him suspiciously. "I don't see anything to laugh at," said he. "Why, it's a house, you stupid. It's Paddy's new house," replied Jerry, wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes. "I'm not stupid!" retorted Peter. "How was I to know that that pile of mud and sticks is meant for a house? It certainly doesn't look it. Where is the door?" "To tell you the truth, I don't think it is much of a house myself," replied Jerry. "It has got a door, all right. In fact it has got three. You can't see them because they are under water, and there is a passage from each right up through that platform of mud and sticks, which is the foundation of the house. It really is a very fine foundation, Peter; it really is. But what I can't understand is what Paddy is thinking of by building that great pile of mud right in the middle. When he gets his walls built, where will his bedroom be? There won't be any room at all. It won't be a house at all--just a big useless pile of sticks and mud. Peter scratched his head and then pulled his whiskers thoughtfully as he gazed out at the pile in the water where Paddy the Beaver was at work. "It does look foolish, that's a fact," said he. "Why don't you point out to him the mistake he is making, Jerry? You have built such a splendid house yourself that you ought to be able to help Paddy and show him his mistakes." Jerry had smiled a very self-satisfied smile when Peter mentioned his fine house, but he shook his head at the suggestion that he should give Paddy advice. "I--I don't just like to," he confessed. "You know, he might not like it and--and it doesn't seem as if it would be quite polite. Peter sniffed. "That wouldn't trouble me any if he were my cousin," said he. Jerry shook his head, "No, I don't believe it would," he replied, "but it does trouble me and--and--well, I think I'll wait awhile." Now all this time Paddy had been hard at work. He was bringing the longest branches which he had cut from the trees out of which he had built his dam, and a lot of slender willow and alder poles. He pushed these ahead of him as he swam. When he reached the foundation of his house, he would lean them against the pile of mud in the middle with their big ends resting on the foundation. So he worked all the way around until by and by the mud pile in the middle couldn't be seen. It was completely covered with sticks, and they were cunningly fastened together at the tops. CHAPTER XII Jerry Muskrat Learns Something If you think you know it all You are riding for a fall. Use your ears and use your eyes, But hold your tongue and you'll be wise. Jerry Muskrat will tell you that is as true as true can be. Jerry knows. He found it out for himself. Now he is very careful what he says about other people or what they are doing. But he wasn't so careful when his cousin, Paddy the Beaver, was building his house. No, Sir, Jerry wasn't so careful then. He though he knew more about building a house than Paddy did. He was sure of it when he watched Paddy heap up a great pile of mud right in the middle where his room ought to be, and then build a wall of sticks around it. He said as much to Peter Rabbit. Now it is never safe to say anything to Peter Rabbit that you don't care to have others know. Peter has a great deal of respect for Jerry Muskrat's opinion on house-building. You see, he very much admires Jerry's snug house in the Smiling Pool. It really is a very fine house, and Jerry may be excused for being proud of it. But that doesn't excuse Jerry for thinking that he knows all there is to know about house-building. Of course Peter told everyone he met that Paddy the Beaver was making a foolish mistake in building his house, and that Jerry Muskrat, who ought to know, said so. So whenever they got the chance, the little people of the Green Forest and Green Meadows would steal up to the shore of Paddy's new pond and chuckle as they looked out at the great pile of sticks and mud which Paddy had built for a house, but in which he had forgotten to make a room. At least they supposed that he had forgotten this very important thing. He must have, for there wasn't any room. It was a great joke. They laughed a lot about it, and they lost a great deal of the respect for Paddy which they had had since he built his wonderful dam. Jerry and Peter sat in the moonlight talking it over. Paddy had stopped bringing sticks for his wall. He had dived down out of sight, and he was gone a long time. Suddenly Jerry noticed that the water had grown very, very muddy all around Paddy's new house. He wrinkled his brows trying to think what Paddy could be doing. Presently Paddy came up for air. Then he went down again, and the water grew muddier than ever. This went on for a long time. Every little while Paddy would come up for air and a few minutes of rest. Then down he would go, and the water would grow muddier and muddier. At last Jerry could stand it no longer. He just had to see what was going on. He slipped into the water and swam over to where the water was muddiest. Just as he got there up came Paddy. "Hello, Cousin Jerry!" said he. "I was just going to invite you over to see what you think of my house inside. Just follow me." Paddy dived, and Jerry dived after him. He followed Paddy in at one of the three doorways under water and up a smooth hall right into the biggest, nicest bedroom Jerry had ever seen in all his life. He just gasped in sheer surprise. He couldn't do anything else. He couldn't find his tongue to say a word. Here he was in this splendid great room up above the water, and he had been so sure that there wasn't any room at all! He just didn't know what to make of it. Paddy's eyes twinkled. "Well," said he, "what do you think of it?" "I--I--think it is splendid, just perfectly splendid! But I don't understand it at all, Cousin Paddy. I--I--Where is that great pile of mud I helped you build in the middle?" Jerry looked as foolish as he felt when he asked this. "Why, I've dug it all away. That's what made the water so muddy," replied Paddy. "But what did you build it for in the first place?" Jerry asked. "Because I had to have something solid to rest my sticks against while I was building my walls, of course," replied Paddy. When I got the tops fastened together for a roof, they didn't need a support any longer, and then I dug it away to make this room. I couldn't have built such a big room any other way. I see you don't know very much about house-building, Cousin Jerry." "I--I'm afraid I don't," confessed Jerry sadly. CHAPTER XIII The Queer Storehouse. Everybody knew that Paddy the Beaver was laying up a supply of food for the winter, and everybody thought it was queer food. That is, everybody but Prickly Porky the Porcupine thought so. Prickly Porky likes the same kind of food, but he never lays up a supply. He just goes out and gets it when he wants it, winter or summer. What kind of food was it? Why, bark, to be sure. Yes, Sir, it was just bark--the bark of certain kinds of trees. Now Prickly Porky can climb the trees and eat the bark right there, but Paddy the Beaver cannot climb, and if he would just eat the bark that he can reach from the ground, it would take such a lot of trees to keep him filled up that he would soon spoil the Green Forest. You know, when the bark is taken off a tree all the way around, the tree dies. That is because all the things that a tree draws out of the ground to make it grow and keep it alive are carried up from the roots in the sap, and the sap cannot go up the tree trunks and into the branches when the bark is taken off, because it is up the inside of the bark that it travels. So when the bark is taken from a tree all the way around the trunk, the tree just starves to death. Now Paddy the Beaver loves the Green Forest as dearly as you and I do, and perhaps even a little more dearly. You see, it is his home. Besides, Paddy never is wasteful. So he cuts down a tree so that he can get all the bark instead of killing a whole lot of trees for a very little bark, as he might do if he were lazy. There isn't a lazy bone in him--not one. The bark he likes best is from the aspen. When he cannot get that, he will eat the bark from the poplar, the alder, the willow, and even the birch. But he likes the aspen so much better that he will work very hard to get it. Perhaps it tastes better because he does have to work so hard for it. There were some aspen trees growing right on the edge of the pond Paddy had made in the Green Forest. These he cut just as he had cut the trees for his dam. As soon as a tree was down, he would cut it into short lengths, and with these swim out to where the water was deep, close to his new house. He took them one by one and carried the first ones to the bottom, where he pushed them into the mud just enough to hold them. Then, as fast as he brought more, he piled them on the first ones. And so the pile grew and grew. Jerry Muskrat, Peter Rabbit, Bobby Coon, and the other little people of the Green Forest watched him with the greatest interest and curiosity. They couldn't quite make out what he was doing. It was almost as if he were building the foundation for another house. "What's he doing, Jerry?" demanded Peter, when he could keep still no longer. "I don't exactly know," replied Jerry. "He said that he was going to lay in a supply of food for the winter, just as I told you, and I suppose that is what he is doing. But I don't quite understand what he is taking it all out into the pond for. I believe I'll go ask him." "Do, and then come tell us," begged Peter, who was growing so curious that he couldn't sit still. So Jerry swam out to where Paddy was so busy. "Is this your food supply, Cousin Paddy?" he asked. "Yes," replied Paddy, crawling up on the side of his house to rest. "Yes, this is my food supply. Isn't it splendid?" "I guess it is," replied Jerry, trying to be polite, "though I like lily roots and clams better. But what are you going to do with it? Where is your storehouse?" "This pond is my storehouse," replied Paddy. "I will make a great pile right here close to my house, and the water will keep it nice and fresh all winter. When the pond is frozen over, all I will have to do is to slip out of one of my doorways down there on the bottom, swim over here and get a stick, and fill my stomach. Isn't it handy?" CHAPTER XIV A Footprint in the Mud. Very early one morning Paddy the Beaver heard Sammy Jay making a terrible fuss over in the aspen trees on the edge of the pond Paddy had made in the Green Forest. Paddy couldn't see because he was inside his house, and it has no window, but he could hear. He wrinkled up his brows thoughtfully. "Seems to me that Sammy is very much excited this morning," said he, a way he has because he is so much alone. "When he screams like that, Sammy is usually trying to do two things at once--make trouble for somebody and keep somebody else out of trouble; and when you come to think of it, that's rather a funny way of doing. It shows that he isn't all bad, and at the same time he is a long way from being all good. Now, I should say from the sounds that Sammy has discovered Reddy Fox trying to steal up on someone over where my aspen trees are growing. Reddy is afraid of me, but I suspect that he knows that Peter Rabbit has been hanging around here a lot lately, watching me work, and he thinks perhaps he can watch Peter. I shall have to whisper in one of Peter's long ears and tell him to watch out." After a while he heard Sammy Jay's voice growing fainter and fainter in the Green Forest. Finally he couldn't hear it at all. "Whoever was here has gone away, and Sammy has followed just to torment them," thought Paddy. He was very busy making a bed. He is very particular about his bed, is Paddy the Beaver. He makes it of fine splinters of wood which he splits off with those wonderful great cutting teeth of his. This makes the driest kind of a bed. It requires a great deal of patience and work, but patience is one of the first things a little Beaver learns, and honest work well done is one of the greatest pleasures in the world, as Paddy long ago found out for himself. So he kept at work on his bed for some time after all was still outside. At last Paddy decided that he would go over to his aspen trees and look them over to decide which ones he would cut the next night. He slid down one of his long halls, out the doorway at the bottom on the pond, and then swam up to the surface, where he floated for a few minutes with just his head out of water. And all the time his eyes and nose and ears were busy looking, smelling, and listening for any sign of danger. Everything was still. Sure that he was quite safe, Paddy swam across to the place where the aspen trees grew, and waddled out on the shore. Paddy looked this way and looked that way. He looked up in the treetops, and he looked off up the hill, but most of all he looked at the ground. Yes, Sir, Paddy just studied the ground. You see, he hadn't forgotten the fuss Sammy Jay had been making there, and he was trying to find out what it was all about. At first he didn't see anything unusual, but by and by he happened to notice a little wet place, and right in the middle of it was something that made Paddy's eyes open wide. It was a footprint! Someone had carelessly stepped in the mud. "Ha!" exclaimed Paddy, and the hair on his back lifted ever so little, and for a minute he had a prickly feeling all over. The footprint was very much like that of Reddy Fox, only it was larger. "Ha!" said Paddy again. "That certainly is the foot print of Old Man Coyote! I see I have got to watch out more sharply than I had thought for. All right, Mr. Coyote; now that I know you are about, you'll have to be smarter than I think you are to catch me. You certainly will be back here tonight looking for me, so I think I'll do my cutting right now in the daytime." CHAPTER XV Sammy Jay Makes Paddy a Call. Paddy the Beaver was hard at work. He had just cut down a good- sized aspen tree and now he was gnawing it into short lengths to put in his food pile in the pond. As he worked, Paddy was doing a lot of thinking about the footprint of Old Man Coyote in a little patch of mud, for he knew that meant that Old Man Coyote had discovered his pond, and would be hanging around, hoping to catch Paddy off his guard. Paddy knew it just as well as if Old Man Coyote had told him so. That was why he was at work cutting his food supply in the daytime. Usually he works at night, and he knew that Old Man Coyote knew it. "He'll try to catch me then," thought Paddy, "so I'll do my working on land now and fool him." The tree he was cutting began to sway and crack. Paddy cut out One more big chip, then hurried away to a safe place while the tree fell with a crash. "Thief! thief! thief!" screamed a voice just back of Paddy. "Hello, Sammy Jay! I see you don't feel any better than usual this morning," said Paddy. "Don't you want to sit up in this tree while I cut it down?" Sammy grew black in the face with anger, for he knew that Paddy was laughing at him. You remember how only a few days before he had been so intent on calling Paddy bad names that he actually hadn't noticed that Paddy was cutting the very tree in which he was sitting, and so when it fell he had had a terrible fright. "You think you are very smart, Mr. Beaver, but you'll think differently one of these fine days!" screamed Sammy. "If you knew what I know, you wouldn't be so well satisfied with yourself." "What do you know?" asked Paddy, pretending to be very much alarmed. "I'm not going to tell you what I know," retorted Sammy Jay. "You'll find out soon enough. And when you do find out, you'll never steal another tree from our Green Forest. Somebody is going to catch you, and it isn't Farmer Brown's boy either!" Paddy pretended to be terribly frightened. "Oh, who is it? Please tell me, Mr. Jay," he begged. Now to be called Mr. Jay made Sammy feel very important. Nearly everybody else called him Sammy. He swelled himself out trying to look as important as he felt, and his eyes snapped with pleasure. He was actually making Paddy the Beaver afraid. At least, he thought he was. "No, Sir, I won't tell you," he replied. "I wouldn't be you for a great deal, though! Somebody who is smarter than you are is going to catch you, and when he gets through with you, there won't be anything left but a few bones. No, Sir, nothing but a few bones!" "Oh, Mr. Jay, this is terrible news! Whatever am I to do?" cried Paddy, all the time keeping on at work cutting another tree. "There's nothing you can do," replied Sammy, grinning wickedly at Paddy's fright. "There's nothing you can do unless you go right straight back to the North where you came from. You think you are very smart, but--" Sammy didn't finish. Crack! Over fell the tree Paddy had been cutting and the top of it fell straight into the alder in which Sammy was sitting. "Oh! Oh! Help!" shrieked Sammy, spreading his wings and flying away just in time. Paddy sat down and laughed until his sides ached. "Come make me another call someday, Sammy!" he said. "And when you do, please bring some real news. I know all about Old Man Coyote. You can tell him for me that when he is planning to catch people he should be careful not to leave footprints to give himself away." Sammy didn't reply. He just sneaked off through the Green Forest, looking quite as foolish as he felt. CHAPTER XVI Old Man Coyote is Very Crafty. Coyote has a crafty brain; His wits are sharp his ends to gain. There is nothing in the world more true than that. Old Man Coyote has the craftiest brain of all the little people of the Green Forest or the Green Meadows. Sharp as are the wits of old Granny Fox, they are not quite so sharp as the wits of Old Man Coyote. If you want to fool him, you will have to get up very early in the morning, and then it is more than likely that you will be the one fooled, not he. There is very little going on around him that he doesn't know about. But once in a while something escapes him. The coming of Paddy the Beaver to the Green Forest was one of these things. He didn't know a thing about Paddy until Paddy had finished his dam and his house, and was cutting his supply of food for the winter. You see, it was this way: When the Merry Little Breezes of Old Mother West Wind first heard what was going on in the Green Forest and hurried around over the Green Meadows and through the Green Forest to spread the news, as is their way, they took the greatest pains not to even hint it to Old Man Coyote because they were afraid that he would make trouble and perhaps drive Paddy away. The place that Paddy had chosen to build his dam was so deep in the Green Forest that Old Man Coyote seldom went that way. So it was that he knew nothing about Paddy, and Paddy knew nothing about him for some time. But after awhile Old Man Coyote noticed that the little people of the Green Meadows were not about as much as usual. They seemed to have a secret of some kind. He mentioned the matter to his friend, Digger the Badger. Digger had been so intent on his own affairs that he hadn't noticed anything unusual, but when Old Man Coyote mentioned the matter he remembered that Blacky the Crow headed straight for the Green Forest every morning. Several times he had seen Sammy Jay flying in the same direction as if in a great hurry to get somewhere. Old Man Coyote grinned. "That's all I need to know, friend Digger," said he. "When Blacky the Crow and Sammy Jay visit a place more than once, something interesting is going on there. I think I'll take a stroll up through the Green Forest and have a look around." With that, off Old Man Coyote started. But he was too sly and crafty to go straight to the Green Forest. He pretended to hunt around over the Green Meadows just as he usually did, all the time working nearer and nearer to the Green Forest. When he reached the edge of it, he slipped in among the trees, and when he felt that no one was likely to see him, he began to run this way and that way with his nose to the ground. "Ha!" he exclaimed presently, "Reddy Fox has been this way lately." Pretty soon he found another trail. "So," said he, "Peter Rabbit has been over here a good deal of late, and his trail goes in the same direction as that of Reddy Fox. I guess all I have to do now is to follow Peter's trail, and it will lead me to what I want to find out." So Old Man Coyote followed Peter's trail, and he presently came to the pond of Paddy the Beaver. "Ha!" said he, as he looked out and saw Paddy's new house. "So there is a newcomer to the Green Forest! I have always heard that Beaver is very good eating. My stomach begins to feel empty this very minute." His mouth began to water, and a fierce, hungry look shone in his eyes. It was just then that Sammy Jay saw him and began to scream at the top of his lungs so that Paddy the Beaver over in his house heard him. Old Man Coyote knew that it was of no use to stay longer with Sammy Jay about, so he took a hasty look at the pond and found where Paddy came ashore to cut his food. Then, shaking his fist at Sammy Jay, he started straight back for the Green Meadows. "I'll just pay a visit here in the night," said he, "and give Mr. Beaver a surprise while he is at work." But with all his craft, Old Man Coyote didn't notice that he left a footprint in the mud. CHAPTER XVII Old Man Coyote is Disappointed. Old Man Coyote lay stretched out in his favorite napping place on the Green Meadows. He was thinking of what he had found out up in the Green Forest that morning--that Paddy the Beaver was living there. Old Man Coyote's thoughts seemed very pleasant to himself, though really they were very dreadful thoughts. You see, he was thinking how easy it was going to be to catch Paddy the Beaver, and what a splendid meal he would make. He licked his chops at the thought. "He doesn't know I know he's here," thought Old Man Coyote. "In fact, I don't believe heaven knows that I am anywhere around. Of course he won't be watching for me. He cuts his trees at night, so all I will have to do is to hide right close by where he is at work, and he'll walk right into my mouth. Sammy Jay knows I was up there this morning, but Sammy sleeps at night, so he will not give the alarm. My, my, how good that Beaver will taste!" He licked his chops once more, then yawned and closed his eyes for a nap. Old Man Coyote waited until jolly, round red Mr. Sun had gone to bed behind the Purple Hills, and the Black Shadows had crept out across the Green Meadows. Then, keeping in the blackest of them, and looking very much like a shadow of himself, he slipped into the Green Forest. It was dark in there, and he made straight for Paddy's new pond, trotting along swiftly without making a sound. When he was near the aspen trees which he knew Paddy was planning to cut, he crept forward very slowly and carefully. Everything was still as still could be. "Good!" thought Old Man Coyote. "I am here first, and now all I need do is to hide and wait for Paddy to come ashore." So he stretched himself flat behind some brush close beside the little path Paddy had made up from the edge of the water and waited. It was very still, so still that it seemed almost as if he could hear his heart beat. He could see the little stars twinkling in the sky and their own reflections twinkling back at them from the water of Paddy's pond. Old Man Coyote waited and waited. He is very patient when there is something to gain by it. For such a splendid dinner as Paddy the Beaver would make, he felt that he could well afford to be patient. So he waited and waited, and everything was as still as if no living thing but the trees where there. Even the trees seemed to be asleep. At last, after a long, long time, he heard just the faintest splash. He pricked up his ears and peeped out on the pond with the hungriest look in his yellow eyes. There was a little line of silver coming straight toward him. He knew that it was made by Paddy the Beaver swimming. Nearer and nearer it drew. Old Man Coyote chuckled way down deep inside, without making a sound. He could see Paddy's head now, and Paddy was coming straight in, as if he hadn't a fear in the world. Almost to the edge of the pond swam Paddy. Then he stopped. In a few minutes he began to swim again, but this time it was back in the direction of his house, and he seemed to be carrying something. It was one of the little food logs he had cut that day, and he was taking it out to his storehouse. Then back he came for another. And so he kept on, never once coming ashore. Old Man Coyote waited until Paddy had carried the last log to his storehouse and then, with a loud whack on the water with his broad tail, had dived and disappeared in his house. Then Old Man Coyote arose and started elsewhere to look for his dinner, and in his heart was bitter disappointment. CHAPTER XVIII Old Man Coyote Tries Another Plan. For three nights Old Man Coyote had stolen up through the green Forest with the coming of the Black Shadows and had hidden among the aspen trees where Paddy the Beaver cut his food, and for three nights Paddy had failed to come ashore. Each night he had seemed to have enough food logs in the water to keep him busy without cutting more. Old Man Coyote lay there, and the hungry look in his eyes changed to one of doubt and then to suspicion. Could it be that Paddy the Beaver was smarter than he thought? It began to look very much as if Paddy knew perfectly well that he was hiding there each night. Yes, Sir, that's the way it looked. For three nights Paddy hadn't cut a single tree, and yet each night he had plenty of food logs ready to take to his storehouse in the pond. "That means that he comes ashore in the daytime and cuts his trees," thought Old Man Coyote as, tired and with black anger in his heart, he trotted home the third night. "He couldn't have found out about me himself; he isn't smart enough. It must be that someone has told him. And nobody knows that I have been over there but Sammy Jay. It must be he who has been the tattletale. I think I'll visit Paddy by daylight tomorrow, and then we'll see!" Now the trouble with some smart people is that they are never able to believe that others may be as smart as they. Old Man Coyote didn't know that the first time he had visited Paddy's pond he had left behind him a footprint in a little patch of soft mud. If he had known it, he wouldn't have believed that Paddy would be smart enough to guess what that footprint meant. So Old Man coyote laid all the blame at the door of Sammy Jay, and that very morning, when Sammy came flying over the Green Meadows, Old Man Coyote accused him of being a tattletale and threatened the most dreadful things to Sammy if ever he caught him. Now Sammy had flown down to the green Meadows to tell Old Man Coyote how Paddy was doing all his work on land in the daytime. But when Old Man Coyote began to call him a tattletale and accuse him of having warned Paddy, and to threaten dreadful things, he straightway forgot all his anger at Paddy and turned it all on Old Man Coyote. He called him everything he could think of, and this was a great deal, for Sammy has a wicked tongue. When he hadn't any breath left, he flew over to the Green Forest, and there he hid where he could watch all that was going on. That afternoon Old Man Coyote tried his new plan. He slipped into the Green Forest, looking this way and that way to be sure that no one saw him. Then very, very softly, he crept up through the Green Forest toward the pond of Paddy the Beaver. As he drew near, he heard a crash, and it make him smile. He knew what it meant. It meant that Paddy was at work cutting down trees. With his stomach almost on the ground, he crept forward little by little, little by little, taking the greatest care not to rustle so much as a leaf. Presently he reached a place where he could see the aspen trees, and there, sure enough, was Paddy, sitting up on his hind legs and hard at work cutting another tree. Old Man Coyote lay down for a few minutes to watch. Then he wriggled a little nearer. Slowly and carefully he drew his legs under him and made ready for a rush. Paddy the Beaver was his at last! At just that very minute a harsh scream rang out right over his head: "Thief! thief! thief!" It was Sammy Jay, who had followed him all the way. Paddy the Beaver didn't stop to even look around. He knew what that meant, and he scrambled down his little path to the water as he never had scrambled before. And as he dived with a great splash, Old Man Coyote landed with a great jump on the very edge of the pond. CHAPTER XIX Paddy and Sammy Jay Become Friends. Paddy the Beaver floated in his pond and grinned in the most provoking way at Old Man Coyote, who had so nearly caught him. Old Man Coyote fairly danced with anger on the bank. He had felt so sure of Paddy that time that it was hard work to believe that Paddy had really gotten away from him. He bared his long, cruel teeth, and he looked very fierce and ugly. "Come on in; the water's fine!" called Paddy. Now, of course this wasn't a nice thing for Paddy to do, for it only made Old Man Coyote all the angrier. You see, Paddy knew perfectly well that he was absolutely safe, and he just couldn't resist the temptation to say some unkind things. He had had to be on the watch for days lest he should be caught, and so he hadn't been able to work quite so well as he could have done with nothing to fear, and he still had a lot of preparations to make for winter. So he told Old Man Coyote just what he thought of him, and that he wasn't as smart as he thought he was or he never would have left a foot print in the mud to give him away. When Sammy Jay, who was listening and chuckling as he listened, heard that, he flew down where he would be just out of reach of Old Man Coyote, and then he just turned that tongue of his loose, and you know that some people say that Sammy's tongue is hung in the middle and wags at both ends. Of course this isn't really so, but when he gets to abusing people it seems as if it must be true. He called Old Man Coyote every bad name he could think of. He called him a sneak, a thief, a coward, a bully, and a lot of other things. "You said I had warned Paddy that you were trying to catch him and that was why you failed to find him at work at night, and all the time you had warned him yourself!" screamed Sammy. "I used to think that you were smart, but I know better now. Paddy is twice as smart as you are. "Mr. Coyote is every so sly; Mr. Coyote is clever and spry; If you believe all you hear. Mr. Coyote is naught of the kind; Mr. Coyote is stupid and blind; He can't catch a flea on his ear." Paddy the Beaver laughed till the tears came at Sammy's foolish verse, but it made Old Man Coyote angrier than ever. He was angry with Paddy for escaping from him, and he was angry with Sammy, terribly angry, and the worst of it was he couldn't catch either one, for one was at home in the water and the other was at home in the air and he couldn't follow in either place. Finally he saw it was of no use to stay there to be laughed at, so, muttering and grumbling, he started for the Green Meadows. As soon as he was out of sight Paddy turned to Sammy Jay. "Mr. Jay," said he, knowing how it pleased Sammy to be called mister. "Mr. Jay, you have done me a mighty good turn today, and I am not going to forget it. You can call me what you please and scream at me all you please, but you won't get any satisfaction out of it, because I simply won't get angry. I will say to myself, 'Mr. Jay saved my life the other day,' and then I won't mind your tongue." Now this made Sammy feel very proud and very happy. You know it is very seldom that he hears anything nice said of him. He flew down on the stump of one of the trees Paddy had cut. "Let's be friends," said he. "With all my heart!" replied Paddy. CHAPTER XX Sammy Jay Offers To Help Paddy. Paddy sat looking thoughtfully at the aspen trees he would have to cut to complete his store of food for the winter. All those near the edge of his pond had been cut. The others were scattered about some little distance away. "I don't know," said Paddy out loud. "I don't know." "What don't you know?" asked Sammy Jay, who, now that he and Paddy had become friends, was very much interested in what Paddy was doing. "Why," replied Paddy, "I don't know just how I am going to get those trees. Now that Old Man Coyote is watching for me, it isn't safe for me to go very far from my pond. I suppose I could dig a canal up to some of the nearest trees and then float them down to the pond, but it is hard to work and keep watch for enemies at the same time. I guess I'll have to be content with some of these alders growing close to the water, but he bark of aspens is so much better that I--I wish I could get them." "What's a canal?" asked Sammy abruptly. "A canal? Why a canal is a kind of ditch in which water can run," replied Paddy. Sammy nodded. "I've seen Farmer Brown dig one over on the Green Meadows, but it looked like a great deal of work. I didn't suppose that anyone else could do it. Do you really mean that you can dig a canal, Paddy?" "Of course I mean it," replied Paddy, in a surprised tone of voice. "I have helped dig lots of canals. You ought to see some of them back where I came from." "I'd like to," replied Sammy. "I think it is perfectly wonderful. I don't see how you do it." "It's easy enough when you know how," replied Paddy. "If I dared to, I'd show you." Sammy had a sudden idea. It almost made him gasp. "I tell you what, you work and I'll keep watch!" he cried. "You know my eyes are very sharp." "Will you?" cried Paddy eagerly. "That would be perfectly splendid. You have the sharpest eyes of anyone whom I know, and I would feel perfectly safe with you on watch. But I don't want to put you to all to that trouble, Mr. Jay." "Of course I will," replied Sammy, "and it won't be any trouble at all. I'll just love to do it." You see, it made Sammy feel very proud to have Paddy say that he had such sharp eyes. "When will you begin?" "Right away, if you will just take a look around and see that it is perfectly safe for me to come out on land." Sammy didn't wait to hear more. He spread his beautiful blue wings and started off over the Green Forest straight for the Green Meadows. Paddy watched him go with a puzzled and disappointed air. "That's funny," thought he. "I thought he really meant it, and now off he goes without even saying good-by." In a little while back came Sammy, all out of breath. "It's all right," he panted. "You can go to work just as soon as you please." Paddy looked more puzzled than ever. "How do you know?" he asked. "I haven't seen you looking around." "I did better than that," replied Sammy. "If Old Man Coyote had been hiding somewhere in the Green Forest, it might have taken me some time to find him. But he isn't. You see, I flew straight over to his home in the Green Meadows to see if he is there, and he is. He's taking a sun bath and looking as cross as two sticks. I don't think he'll be back here this morning, but I'll keep a sharp watch while you work." Paddy made Sammy a low bow. "You certainly are smart, Mr. Jay," said he. "I wouldn't have thought of going over to Old Man Coyote's home to see if he was there. I'll feel perfectly safe with you on guard. Now I'll get to work." CHAPTER XXI Paddy and Sammy Jay Work Together. Jerry Muskrat had been home at the Smiling Pool for several days. But he couldn't stay there long. Oh, my, no! He just had to get back to see what his big cousin, Paddy the Beaver, was doing. So as soon as he was sure that everything was all right at the Smiling Pool he hurried back up the Laughing Brook to Paddy's pond, deep in the Green Forest. As soon as he was in sight of it, he looked eagerly for Paddy. At first he didn't see him. Then he stopped and gazed over at the place where Paddy had been cutting aspen trees for food. Something was going on there, something queer. He couldn't make it out. Jus then Sammy Jay came flying over. "What's Paddy doing?" Jerry asked. Sammy Jay dropped down to the top of an alder tree and fluffed out all his feathers in a very important way. "Oh," said he, "Paddy and I are building something!" "You! Paddy and you! Ha, ha! Paddy and you building something!" Jerry laughed. "Yes, me!" snapped Sammy angrily. "That's what I said; Paddy and I are building something." Jerry had begun to swim across the pond by this time, and Sammy was flying across. "Why don't you tell the truth, Sammy, and say that Paddy is building something and you are making him all the trouble you can?" called Jerry. Sammy's eyes snapped angrily, and he darted down at Jerry's little brown head. "It isn't true!" he shrieked. "You ask Paddy if I'm not helping!" Jerry ducked under water to escape Sammy's sharp bill. When he came up again, Sammy was over in the little grove of aspen trees where Paddy was at work. Then Jerry discovered something. What was it? Why a little water-path led right up to the aspen trees, and there, at the end of the little water-path, was Paddy the Beaver hard at work. He was digging and piling the earth on one side very neatly. In fact, he was making the water-path longer. Jerry swam right up the little water-path to where Paddy was working. "Good morning, Cousin Paddy," said he. "What are you doing?" "Oh," replied Paddy, "Sammy Jay and I are building a canal." Sammy Jay looked down at Jerry in triumph, and Jerry looked at Paddy as if he thought that he was joking. "Sammy Jay? What's Sammy Jay got to do about it?" demanded Jerry. "A whole lot," replied Paddy. "You see, he keeps watch while I work. If he didn't, I couldn't work, and there wouldn't be any canal. Old Man Coyote has been trying to catch me, and I wouldn't dare work on shore if it wasn't that I am sure that the sharpest eyes in the Green Forest are watching for danger." Sammy Jay looked very much pleased indeed and very proud. "So you see, it takes both of us to make this canal; I dig while Sammy watches. So we are building it together," concluded Paddy with a twinkle in his eyes. "I see," said Jerry slowly. Then he turned to Sammy Jay. "I beg your pardon, Sammy," said he. "I do indeed." "That's all right," replied Sammy airily. "What do you think of our canal?" "I think it is wonderful," replied Jerry. And indeed it was a very fine canal, straight, wide, and deep enough for Paddy to swim in and float his logs out to the pond. Yes, indeed, it was a very fine canal. CHAPTER XXII Paddy Finishes His Harvest. "Sharp his tongue and sharp his eyes-- Sammy guards against surprise. If 'twere not for Sammy Jay I could do no work today." When Sammy overheard Paddy the Beaver say that to Jerry Muskrat, it made him swell up all over with pure pride. You see, Sammy is so used to hearing bad things about himself that to hear something nice like that pleased him immensely. He straightway forgot all the mean things he had said to Paddy when he first saw him--how he had called him a thief because he had cut the aspen trees he needed. He forgot all this. He forgot how Paddy had made him the laughingstock of the Green Forest and the Green Meadows by cutting down the very tree in which he had been sitting. He forgot everything but that Paddy had trusted him to keep watch and now was saying nice things about him. He made up his mind that he would deserve all the nice things that Paddy could say, and he thought that Paddy was the finest fellow in the world. Jerry Muskrat looked doubtful. He didn't trust Sammy, and he took care not to go far from the water when he heard that Old Man Coyote had been hanging around. But Paddy worked away just as if he hadn't a fear in the world. "The way to make people want to be trusted is to trust them" said he to himself. "If I show Sammy Jay that I don't really trust him, he will think it is of no use to try and will give it up. But if I do trust him, and he knows that I do, he'll be the best watchman in the Green Forest." And this shows that Paddy the Beaver has a great deal of wisdom, for it was just as he thought. Sammy was on hand bright and early every morning. He made sure that Old Man Coyote was nowhere in the Green Forest, and then he settled himself comfortably in the top of a tall pine tree where he could see all that was going on while Paddy the Beaver worked. Paddy had finished his canal, and a beautiful canal it was, leading straight from his pond up to the aspen trees. As soon as he had finished it, he began to cut the trees. As soon as one was down he would cut it into short lengths and roll them into the canal. Then he would float them out to his pond and over to his storehouse. He took the larger branches, on which there was sweet, tender bark, in the same way, for Paddy is never wasteful. After a while he went over to his storehouse, which, you know, was nothing but a great pile of aspen logs and branches in his pond close by his house. He studied it very carefully. Then he swam back and climbed up on the bank of his canal. "Mr. Jay," said he, "I think our work is about finished." "What!" cried Sammy, "Aren't you going to cut the rest of those aspen trees?" "No," replied Paddy. "Enough is always enough, and I've got enough to last me all winter. I want those trees for next year. Now I am fixed for the winter. I think I'll take it easy for a while." Sammy looked disappointed. You see, he had just begun to learn that the greatest pleasure in the world comes from doing things for other people. For the first time since he could remember, someone wanted him around land it gave him such a good feeling down deep inside! 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We are planning on making some changes in our donation structure in 2000, so you might want to email me, [email protected] beforehand. END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTSVer.04.29.93END THE ADVENTURES OF PADDY THE BEAVER Thornton W. Burgess 1917 CONTENTS: CHAPTER I Paddy the Beaver Begins Work. II Paddy Plans a Pond. III Paddy Has Many Visitors. IV Sammy Jay Speaks His Mind. V Paddy Keeps His Promise. VI Farmer Brown's Boy Grows Curious. VII Farmer Brown's Boy Gets Another Surprise. VIII Peter Rabbit Gets a Ducking. IX Paddy Plans a House. X Paddy Starts His House XI Peter Rabbit and Jerry Muskrat are Puzzled. XII Jerry Muskrat Learns Something. XIII The Queer Storehouse. XIV A Footprint in the Mud. XV Sammy Jay Makes Paddy a Call. XVI Old Man Coyote Is Very Crafty. XVII Old Man Coyote is Disappointed. XVIII Old Man Coyote Tries Another Plan. XIX Paddy and Sammy Jay Become Friends. XX Sammy Jay Offers To Help Paddy. XXI Paddy and Sammy Jay Work Together. XXII Paddy Finishes His Harvest. CHAPTER I Paddy the Beaver Begins Work. Work, work all the night While the stars are shining bright; Work, work all the day; I have got no time to play. This little rhyme Paddy the Beaver made up as he toiled at building the dam which was to make the pond he so much desired deep in the Green Forest. Of course it wasn't quite true, that about working all night and all day. Nobody could do that, you know, and keep it up. Everybody has to rest and sleep. Yes, and everybody has to play a little to be at their best. So it wasn't quite true that Paddy worked all day after working all night. But it was true that Paddy had no time to play. He had too much to do. He had had his playtime during the long summer, and now he had to get ready for the long, cold winter. Now, of all the little workers in the Green Forest, on the Green Meadows, and in the Smiling Pool, none can compare with Paddy the Beaver, not even his cousin, Jerry Muskrat. Happy Jack Squirrel and Striped Chipmunk store up food for the long, cold months when rough Brother North Wind and Jack Frost rule, and Jerry Muskrat builds a fine house wherein to keep warm and comfortable, but all this is as nothing to the work of Paddy the Beaver. As I said before, Paddy had had a long playtime through the summer. He had wandered up and down the Laughing Brook. He had followed it way up to the place where it started. And all the time he had been studying and studying to make sure that he wanted to stay in the Green Forest. In the first place, he had to be sure that there was plenty of the kind of food that he likes. Then he had to be equally sure that he could make a pond near where this particular food grew. Last of all, he had to satisfy himself that if he did make a pond and build a home, he would be reasonably safe in it. And all these things he had done in his playtime. Now he was ready to go to work, and when Paddy begins work, he sticks to it until it is finished. He says that is the only way to succeed, and you know and I know that he is right. Now Paddy the Beaver can see at night just as Reddy Fox and Peter Rabbit and Bobby Coon can, and he likes the night best, because he feels safest then. But he can see in the daytime too, and when he feels that he is perfectly safe and no one is watching, he works then too. Of course, the first thing to do was to build a dam across the Laughing Brook to make the pond he so much needed. He chose a low, open place deep in the Green Forest, around the edge of which grew many young aspen trees, the bark of which is his favorite food. Through the middle of this open place flowed the Laughing Brook. At the lower edge was just the place for a dam. It would not have to be very long, and when it was finished and the water was stopped in the Laughing Brook, it would just have to flow over the low, open place and make a pond there. Paddy's eyes twinkled when he first saw it. It was right then that he made up his mind to stay in the Green Forest. So now that he was ready to begin his dam he went up the Laughing Brook to a place where alders and willows grew, and there he began work; that work was the cutting of a great number of trees by means of his big front teeth which were given him for just this purpose. And as he worked, Paddy was happy, for one can never be truly happy who does no work. CHAPTER II Paddy Plans a Pond. Paddy the Beaver was busy cutting down trees for the dam he had planned to build. Up in the woods of the North from which he had come to the Green Forest, he had learned all about tree-cutting and dam-building and canal-digging and house-building. Paddy's father and mother had been very wise in the Beaver world, and Paddy had been quick to learn. So now he knew just what to do and the best way of doing it. You know, a great many people waste time and labor doing things the wrong way, so that they have to be done over again. They forget to be sure they are right, and so they go ahead until they find they are wrong, and all their work goes for nothing. But Paddy the Beaver isn't this kind. Paddy would never have leaped into the spring with the steep sides without looking, as Grandfather Frog did. So now he carefully picked out the trees to cut. He could not afford to waste time cutting down a tree that wasn't going to be just what he wanted when it was down. When he was sure that the tree was right, he looked up at the top to find out whether, when he had cut it, it would fall clear of other trees. He had learned to do that when he was quite young and heedless. He remembered just how he had felt when, after working hard, oh, so hard, to cut a big tree, he had warned all his friends to get out of the way so that they would not be hurt when it fell, and then it hadn't fallen at all because the top had caught in another tree. He was so mortified that he didn't get over it for a long time. So now he made sure that a tree was going to fall clear and just where he wanted it. Then he sat up on his hind legs, and with his great broad tail for a brace, began to make the chips fly. You know Paddy has the most wonderful teeth for cutting. They are long and broad and sharp. He would begin by making a deep bite, and then another just a little way below. Then he would pry out the little piece of wood between. When he had cut very deep on one side so that the tree would fall that way, he would work around to the other side. Just as soon as the tree began to lean and he was sure that it was going to fall, he would scamper away so as to be out of danger. He loved to see those tall trees lean forward slowly, then faster and faster, till they struck the ground with a crash. Just as soon as they were down, he would trim off the branches until the trees where just long poles. This was easy work, for he could take off a good-sized branch with one bite. On many he left their bushy tops. When he had trimmed them to suit him and had cut them into the right lengths, he would tug and pull them down to the place where he meant to build his dam. There he placed the poles side by side, not across the Laughing Brook like a bridge, but with the big ends pointing up the Laughing Brook, which was quite broad but shallow right there. To keep them from floating away, he rolled stones and piled mud on the bushy ends. Clear across on both sides he laid those poles until the water began to rise. Then he dragged more poles and piled them on top of these and wedged short sticks crosswise between them. And all the time the Laughing Brook was having harder and harder work to run. Its merry laugh grew less merry and finally almost stopped, because, you see, the water could not get through between all those poles and sticks fast enough. It was just about that time that the little people of the Smiling Pool decided that it was time to see just what Paddy was doing, and they started up the Laughing Brook, leaving only Grandfather Frog and the tadpoles in the Smiling Pool, which for a little while would smile no more. CHAPTER III Paddy Has Many Visitors. Paddy the Beaver knew perfectly well that he would have visitors just as soon as he began to build his dam. He expected a lot of them. You see he knew that none of them ever had seen a Beaver at work unless perhaps it was Prickly Porky the Porcupine, who also had come down from the North. So as he worked he kept his ears open, and he smiled to himself as he heard a little rustle here and then a little rustle there. He knew just what those little rustles meant. Each one meant another visitor. Yes, Sir, each rustle meant another visitor, and yet not one had shown himself. Paddy chuckled. "Seems to me that you are dreadfully afraid to show yourselves," said he in a loud voice, just as if he were talking to nobody in particular. Everything was still. There wasn't so much as a rustle after Paddy spoke. He chuckled again. He could just feel ever so many eyes watching him, though he didn't see a single pair. And he knew that the reason his visitors were hiding so carefully was because they were afraid of him. You see, Paddy was much bigger than most of the little meadow and forest people, and they didn't know what kind of a temper he might have. It is always safest to be very distrustful of strangers. That is one of the very first things taught all little meadow and forest children. Of course, Paddy knew all about this. He had been brought up that way. "Be sure, and then you'll never be sorry" had been one of his mother's favorite sayings, and he had always remembered it. Indeed, it had saved him a great deal of trouble. So now he was perfectly willing to go right on working and let his hidden visitors watch him until they were sure that he meant them no harm. You see, he himself felt quite sure that none of them was big enough to do him any harm. Little Joe Otter was the only one he had any doubts about, and he felt quite sure that Little Joe wouldn't try to pick a quarrel. So he kept right on cutting trees, trimming off the branches, and hauling the trunks down to the dam he was building. Some of them he floated down the Laughing Brook. This was easier. Now when the little people of the Smiling Pool, who were the first to find out that Paddy the Beaver had come to the Green Forest, had started up the Laughing Brook to see what he was doing, they had told the Merry Little Breezes where they were going. The Merry Little Breezes had been greatly excited. They couldn't understand how a stranger could have been living in the Green Forest without their knowledge. You see, they quite forgot that they very seldom wandered to the deepest part of the Green Forest. Of course they started at once, as fast as they could go, to tell all the other little people who live on or around the Green Meadows, all but Old Man Coyote. For some reason they thought it best not to tell him. They were a little doubtful about Old Man Coyote. He was so big and strong and so sly and smart that all his neighbors were afraid of him. Perhaps the Merry Little Breezes had this fact in mind, and knew that none would dare go to call on the stranger if they knew that Old Man Coyote was going too. Anyway, they simply passed the time of day with Old Mr. Coyote and hurried on to tell everyone else, and the very last one they met was Sammy Jay. CHAPTER IV Sammy Jay Speaks His Mind When Sammy Jay reached the place deep in the Green Forest Where Paddy the Beaver was so hard at work, he didn't hide as had the little four-footed people. You see, of course, he had no reason to hide, because he felt perfectly safe. Paddy had just cut a big tree, and it fell with a crash as Sammy came hurrying up. Sammy was so surprised that for a minute he couldn't find his tongue. He had not supposed that anybody but Farmer Brown or Farmer Brown's boy could cut down so large a tree as that, and it quite took his breath away. But he got it again in a minute. He was boiling with anger, anyway, to think that he should have been the last to learn that Paddy had come down from the North to make his home in the Green Forest, and here was a chance to speak his mind. "Thief! thief! thief!" He screamed in his harshest voice. Paddy the Beaver looked up with a twinkle in his eyes. "Hello, Mr. Jay. I see you haven't any better manners than your cousin who lives up where I come from," said he. "Thief! thief! thief!" screamed Sammy, hopping up and down, he was so angry. "Meaning yourself, I suppose," said Paddy. "I never did see an honest Jay, and I don't suppose I ever will." "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Peter Rabbit, who had quite forgotten that he was hiding. "Oh, how do you do, Mr. Rabbit? I'm very glad you have called on me this morning," said Paddy, just as if he hadn't known all the time just where Peter was. "Mr. Jay seems to have gotten out of the wrong side of his bed this morning." Peter laughed again. "He always does," said he. "If he didn't, he wouldn't be happy. You wouldn't think it to look at him, but he is happy right now. He doesn't know it, but he is. He always is happy when he can show what a bad temper he has." Sammy Jay glared down at Peter. Then he glared at Paddy. And all the time he still shrieked "Thief!" as hard as ever he could. Paddy kept right on working, paying no attention to Sammy. This made Sammy more angry than ever. He kept coming nearer and nearer until at last he was in the very tree that Paddy happened to be cutting. Paddy's eyes twinkled. "I'm no thief!" he exclaimed suddenly. "You are! You are! Thief! Thief!" shrieked Sammy. "You're steeling our trees!" "They're not your trees," retorted Paddy. "They belong to the Green Forest, and the Green Forest belongs to all who love it, and we all have a perfect right to take what we need from it. I need these trees, and I've just as much right to take them as you have to take the fat acorns that drop in the fall." "No such thing!" screamed Sammy. You know he can't talk without screaming, and the more excited he gets, the louder he screams. "No such thing! Acorns are food. They are meant to eat. I have to have them to live. But you are cutting down whole trees. You are spoiling the Green Forest. You don't belong here. Nobody invited you, and nobody wants you. You're a thief!" Then up spoke Jerry Muskrat who, you know, is cousin to Paddy the Beaver. "Don't you mind him," said he, pointing at Sammy Jay. "Nobody does. He's the greatest trouble-maker in the Green Forest or on the Green Meadows. He would steal from his own relatives. Don't mind what he says, Cousin Paddy." Now all this time Paddy had been working away just as if no one was around. Just as Jerry stopped speaking, Paddy thumped the ground with his tail, which is his way of warning people to watch out, and suddenly scurried away as fast as he could run. Sammy Jay was so surprised that he couldn't find his tongue for a minute, and he didn't notice anything peculiar about that tree. Then suddenly he felt himself falling. With a frightened scream, he spread his wings to fly, but branches of the tree swept him down with them right into the Laughing Brook. You see, while Sammy had been speaking his mind, Paddy the Beaver had cut down the very tree in which he was sitting. Sammy wasn't hurt, but he was wet and muddy and terribly frightened--the most miserable-looking Jay that ever was seen. It was too much for all the little people who were hiding. They just had to laugh. Then they all came out to pay their respects to Paddy the Beaver. CHAPTER V Paddy Keeps His Promise. Paddy the Beaver kept right on working just as if he hadn't any visitors. You see, it is a big undertaking to build a dam. And when that was done there was a house to build and a supply of food for the winter to cut and store. Oh, Paddy the Beaver had no time for idle gossip, you may be sure! So he kept right on building his dam. It didn't look much like a dam at first, and some of Paddy's visitors turned up their noses when they first saw it. They had heard stories of what a wonderful dam-builder Paddy was, and they had expected to see something like the smooth, grass-covered bank with which Farmer Brown kept the Big River from running back on his low lands. Instead, all they saw was a great pile of poles and sticks which looked like anything but a dam. "Pooh!" exclaimed Billy Mink, "I guess we needn't worry about the Laughing Brook and the Smiling Pool, if that is the best Paddy can do. Why, the water of the Laughing Brook will work through that in no time." Of course Paddy heard him, but he said nothing, just kept right on working. "Just look at the way he has laid those sticks!" continued Billy Mink. "Seems as if anyone would know enough to lay them across the Laughing Brook instead of just the other way. I could build a better dam than that." Paddy said nothing; he just kept right on working. "Yes, Sir," Billy boasted. "I could build a better dam than that. Why, that pile of sticks will never stop the water." "Is something the matter with your eyesight, Billy Mink?" inquired Jerry Muskrat. "Of course not!" retorted Billy indignantly. "Why?" "Oh, nothing much, only you don't seem to notice that already the Laughing Brook is over its banks above Paddy's dam," replied Jerry, who had been studying the dam with a great deal of interest. Billy looked a wee bit foolish, for sure enough there was a little pool just above the dam, and it was growing bigger. Sammy was terribly put out to think that anything should be going on that he didn't know about first. You know he is very fond of prying into the affairs of other people, and he loves dearly to boast that there is nothing going on in the Green Forest or on the Green Meadows that he doesn't know about. So now his pride was hurt, and he was in a terrible rage as he started after the Merry Little Breezes for the place deep in the Green Forest where they said Paddy the Beaver was at work. He didn't believe a word of it, but he would see for himself. Paddy still kept at work, saying nothing. He was digging in front of the dam now, and the mud and grass he dug up he stuffed in between the ends of the sticks and patted them down with his hands. He did this all along the front of the dam and on top of it, too, wherever he thought it was needed. Of course this made it harder for the water to work through, and the little pond above the dam began to grow faster. It wasn't a great while before it was nearly to the top of the dam, which at first was very low. Then Paddy brought more sticks. This was easier now, because he could float them down from where he was cutting. He would put them in place on the top of the dam, then hurry for more. Wherever it was needed, he would put in mud. He even rolled a few stones in to help hold the mass. So the dam grew and grew, and so did the pond above the dam. Of course, it took a good many days to build so big a dam, and a lot of hard work! Every morning the little people of the Green Forest and the Green Meadow would visit it, and every morning they would find that it had grown a great deal in the night, for that is when Paddy likes best to work. By this time, the Laughing Brook had stopped laughing, and down in the Smiling Pool there was hardly water enough for the minnows to feel safe a minute. Billy Mink had stopped making fun of the dam, and all the little people who live in the Laughing Brook and Smiling Pool were terribly worried. To be sure, Paddy had warned them of what he was going to do, and had promised that as soon as his pond was big enough, the water would once more run in the Laughing Brook. They tried to believe him, but they couldn't help having just a wee bit of fear that he might not be wholly honest. You see, they didn't know him, for he was a stranger. Jerry Muskrat was the only one who seemed absolutely sure that everything would be all right. Perhaps that was because Paddy is his cousin, and Jerry couldn't help feeling proud of such a big cousin and one who was so smart. So day by day the dam grew, and pond grew, and one morning Grandfather Frog, down in what had once been the Smiling Pool, heard a sound that made his heart jump for joy. It was a murmur that kept growing and growing, until at last it was the merry laugh of the Laughing Brook. Then he knew that Paddy had kept his word, and water would once more fill the Smiling Pool. CHAPTER VI Farmer Brown's Boy Grows Curious. Now it happened that the very day before Paddy the Beaver decided that his pond was big enough, and so allowed the water to run in the Laughing Brook once more, Farmer Brown's boy took it into his head to go fishing in the Smiling Pool. Just as usual he went whistling down across the Green Meadows. Somehow, when he goes fishing, he always feels like whistling. Grandfather Frog heard him coming and dived into the little bit of water remaining in the Smiling Pool and stirred up the mud at the bottom so that Farmer Brown's boy shouldn't see him. Nearer and nearer drew the whistle. Suddenly it stopped right short off. Farmer Brown's boy had come in sight of the Smiling Pool or rather, it was what used to be the Smiling Pool. Now there wasn't any Smiling Pool, for the very little pool left was too small and sickly looking to smile. There were great banks of mud, out of which grew the bulrushes. The lily pads were forlornly stretched out toward the tiny pool of water remaining. Where the banks were steep and high, the holes that Jerry Muskrat and Billy Mink knew so well were plain to see. Over at one side stood Jerry Muskrat's house, wholly out of water. Somehow, it seemed to Farmer Brown's boy that he must be dreaming. He never, never had seen anything like this before, not even in the very driest weather of the hottest part of the summer. He looked this way and looked that way. The Green Meadows looked just as usual. The Green Forest looked just as usual. The Laughing Brook--ha! What was the matter with the Laughing Brook? He couldn't hear it and that, you know, was very unusual. He dropped his rod and ran over to the Laughing Brook. There wasn't any brook. No, sir, there wasn't any brook; just pools of water with the tiniest of streams trickling between. Big stones over which he had always seen the water running in the prettiest of little white falls were bare and dry. In the little pools frightened minnows were darting about. Farmer Brown's boy scratched his head in a puzzled way. "I don't understand it," said he. "I don't understand it at all. Something must have gone wrong with the springs that supply the water for the Laughing Brook. They must have failed. Yes, Sir, that is just what must have happened. But I never heard of such a thing happening before, and I really don't see how it could happen. He stared up into the Green Forest just as if he thought he could see those springs. Of course, he didn't think anything of the kind. He was just turning it all over in his mind. "I know what I'll do, I'll go up to those springs this afternoon and find out what the trouble is," he said out loud. "They are way over almost on the other side of the Green Forest, and the easiest way to get there will be to start from home and cut across the Old Pasture up to the edge of the Mountain behind the Green Forest. If I try to follow up the Laughing Brook now, it will take too long, because it winds and twists so. Besides, it is too hard work." With that, Farmer Brown's boy went back and picked up his rod. Then he started for home across the Green Meadows, and for once he wasn't whistling. You see, he was too busy thinking. In fact, he was so busy thinking that he didn't see Jimmy Skunk until he almost stepped on him, and then he gave a frightened jump and ran, for without a gun he was just as much afraid of Jimmy as Jimmy was of him when he did have a gun. Jimmy just grinned and went on about his business. It always tickles Jimmy to see people run away from him, especially people so much bigger than himself; they look so silly. "I should think that they would have learned by this time that if they don't bother me, I won't bother them, he muttered as he rolled over a stone to look for fat beetles. "Somehow, folks never seem to understand me." CHAPTER VII Farmer Brown's Boy Gets Another Surprise. Across the Old Pasture to the foot of the Mountain back of the Green Forest tramped Farmer Brown's boy. Ahead of him trotted Bowser the Hound, sniffing and snuffing for the tracks of Reddy or Granny Fox. Of course he didn't find them, for Reddy and Granny hadn't been up in the Old Pasture for a long time. But he did find old Jed Thumper, the big gray Rabbit who had made things so uncomfortable for Peter Rabbit once upon a time and gave old Jed such a fright that he didn't look where he was going and almost ran head-first into Farmer Brown's boy. "Hi, there, you old cottontail!" yelled Farmer Brown's boy, and this frightened off Jed still more, so that he actually ran right past his own castle of bullbriars without seeing it. Farmer Brown's boy kept on his way, laughing at the fright of old Jed Thumper. Presently he reached the springs from which came the water that made the very beginning of the Laughing Brook. He expected to find them dry, for way down on the Green Meadows the Smiling Pool was nearly dry, and the Laughing Brook was nearly dry, and he had supposed that of course the reason was that the springs where the Laughing Brook started were no longer bubbling. But they were! The clear cold water came bubbling up out of the ground just as it always had, and ran off down into the Green Forest in a little stream that would grow and grow as it ran and became the Laughing Brook. Farmer Brown's boy took off his ragged old straw hat and scowled down at the bubbling water just as if it had no business to be bubbling there. Of course, he didn't think just that. The fact is, he didn't know just what he did think. Here were the springs bubbling away just as they always had. There was the little stream starting off down into the Green Forest with a gurgle that by and by would become a laugh, just as it always had. And yet down on the Green Meadows on the other side of the Green Forest there was no longer a Laughing Brook or a Smiling Pool. He felt as if he ought to pinch himself to make sure that he was awake and not dreaming. "I don't know what it means," said he, talking out loud. "No, Sir, I don't know what it means at all, but I'm going to find out. There's a cause for everything in this world, and when a fellow doesn't know a thing, it is his business to find out all about it. I'm going to find out what has happened to the Laughing Brook, if it takes me a year!" With that he started to follow the little stream which ran gurgling down into the Green Forest. He had followed that little stream more than once, and now he found it just as he remembered it. The farther it ran, the larger it grew, until at last it became the Laughing Brook, merrily tumbling over rocks and making deep pools in which the trout loved to hide. At last he came to the edge of a little open hollow in the very heart of the Green Forest. He knew what splendid deep holes there were in the Laughing Brook here, and how the big trout loved to lie in them because they were deep and cool. He was thinking of these trout now and wishing that he had brought along his fishing rod. He pushed his way through a thicket of alders and then--Farmer Brown's boy stopped suddenly and fairly gasped! He had to stop because there right in front of him was a pond! He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Then he stooped down and put his hand in the water to see if it was real. There was no doubt about it. It was real water--a real pond where there never had been a pond before. It was very still there in the heart of the Green Forest. It was always very still there, but it seemed stiller than usual as he tramped around the edge of this strange pond. He felt as if it were all a dream. He wondered if pretty soon he wouldn't wake up and find it all untrue. But he didn't, so he kept on tramping until presently he came to a dam--a splendid dam of logs and sticks and mud. Over the top of it the water was running, and down in the Green Forest below he could hear the Laughing Brook just beginning to laugh once more. Farmer Brown's boy sat down with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. He was almost too much surprised to even think. CHAPTER VIII Peter Rabbit Gets a Ducking. Farmer Brown's boy sat with his chin in his hands staring at the new pond in the Green Forest and at the dam which had made it. That dam puzzled him. Who could have built it? What did they build it for? Why hadn't he heard them chopping? He looked carelessly at the stump of one of the trees, and then a still more puzzled look made deep furrows between his eyes. It looked-- yes, it looked very much as if teeth, and not an axe, had cut down that tree. Farmer Brown's boy stared and stared, his mouth gaping wide open. He looked so funny that Peter Rabbit, who was hiding under an old pile of brush close by, nearly laughed right out. But Peter didn't laugh. No, Sir, Peter didn't laugh, for just that very minute something happened. Sniff! Sniff! That was right behind him at the very edge of the old brushpile, and every hair on Peter stood on end with fright. "Bow, wow, wow!" It seemed to Peter that the great voice was right in his very ears. It frightened him so that he just had to jump. He didn't have time to think. And so he jumped right out from under the pile of brush and of course right into plain sight. And the very instant he jumped there came another great roar behind him. Of course it was from Bowser the Hound. You see, Bowser had been following the trail of his master, but as he always stops to sniff at everything he passes, he had been some distance behind. When he came to the pile of brush under which Peter was hiding he had sniffed at that, and of course he had smelled Peter right away. Now when Peter jumped out so suddenly, he had landed right at one end of the dam. The second roar of Bowser's great voice frightened him still more, and he jumped right up on the dam. There was nothing for him to do now but go across, and it wasn't the best of going. No, indeed, it wasn't the best of going. You see, it was mostly a tangle of sticks. Happy Jack Squirrel or Chatterer the Red Squirrel or Striped Chipmunk would have skipped across it without the least trouble. But Peter Rabbit has no sharp little claws with which to cling to logs and sticks, and right away he was in a peck of trouble. He slipped down between the sticks, scrambled out, slipped again, and then, trying to make a long jump, he lost his balance and--tumbled heels over head into the water. Poor Peter Rabbit! He gave himself up for lost this time. He could swim, but at best he is a poor swimmer and doesn't like the water. He couldn't dive and keep out of sight like Jerry Muskrat or Billy Mink. All he could do was to paddle as fast as his legs would go. The water had gone up his nose and down his throat so that he choked, and all the time he felt sure that Bowser the Hound would plunge in after him and catch him. And if he shouldn't why Farmer Brown's boy would simply wait for him to come ashore and then catch him. But Farmer Brown's boy didn't do anything of the kind. No, Sir, he didn't. Instead he shouted to Bowser and called him away. Bowser didn't want to come, but he long ago learned to obey, and very slowly he walked over to where his master was sitting. "You know it wouldn't be fair, old fellow, to try to catch Peter now. It wouldn't be fair at all, and we never want to do anything unfair, do we?" said he. Perhaps Bowser didn't agree, but he wagged his tail as if he did, and sat down beside his master to watch Peter swim. It seemed to Peter as if he never, never would reach the shore, though really it was only a very little distance that he had to swim. When he did scramble out, he was a sorry-looking Rabbit. He didn't waste any time, but started for home as fast as he could go, lipperty-lipperty-lip. And Farmer Brown's boy and Bowser the Hound just laughed and didn't try to catch him at all. "Well, I never!" exclaimed Sammy Jay, who had seen it all from the top of a pine tree. "Well, I never! I guess Farmer Brown's boy isn't so bad, after all." CHAPTER IX Paddy Plans a House. Paddy the Beaver sat on his dam, and his eyes shone with happiness as he looked out over the shining water of the pond he had made. All around the edge of it grew the tall trees of the Green Forest. It was very beautiful and very still and very lonesome. That is, it would have seemed lonesome to almost anyone but Paddy the Beaver. But Paddy never is lonesome. You see, he finds company in the trees and flowers and all the little plants. It was still, very, very still. Over on one side was a beautiful rosy glow in the water. It was the reflection from jolly, round, red Mr. Sun. Paddy couldn't see him because of the tall trees, but he knew exactly what Mr. Sun was doing. He was going to bed behind the Purple Hills. Pretty soon the little stars would come out and twinkle down at him. He loves the little stars and always watches for the first one. Yes, Paddy the Beaver was very happy. He would have been perfectly happy except for one thing. Farmer Brown's boy had found his dam and pond that very afternoon, and Paddy wasn't quite sure what Farmer Brown's boy might do. He had kept himself snugly hidden while Farmer Brown's boy was there, and he felt quite sure that Farmer Brown's boy didn't know who had built the dam. But for this reason he might, he just might, try to find out all about it, and that would mean that Paddy would always have to be on the watch. "But what's the use of worrying over troubles that haven't come yet, and may never come? Time enough to worry when they do come," said Paddy to himself, which shows that Paddy has a great deal of wisdom in his little brown head. "The thing for me to do now is to get ready for winter, and that means a great deal of work," he continued. "Let me see, I've got to build a house, a big, stout, warm house, where I will be warm and safe when my pond is frozen over. And I've got to lay in a supply of food, enough to last me until gentle Sister South Wind comes to prepare the way for lovely Mistress Spring. My, my, I can't afford to be sitting here dreaming when there is so much to be done!" With that Paddy slipped into the water and swam all around his new pond to make sure of just the best place to build his house. Now, placing one's house in just the right place is a very important matter. Some people are dreadfully careless about this. Jimmy Skunk, for instance, often makes the mistake of digging his house (you know Jimmy makes his house underground) right where everyone who happens along that way will see it. Perhaps that is because Jimmy is so independent that he doesn't care who knows where he lives. But Paddy the Beaver never is careless. He always chooses just the very best place. He makes sure that it is best before he begins. So now, although he was quite positive just where his house should be, he swam around the pond to make doubly sure. Then, when he was quite satisfied, he swam over to the place he had chosen. It was where the water was quite deep. "There mustn't be the least chance that the ice will ever get thick enough too close up my doorway, said he, "and I'm sure it never will here. I must make the foundations strong and the walls thick. I must have plenty of mud to plaster with, and inside, up above the water, I must have the snuggest, warmest room where I can sleep in comfort. This is the place to build it, and it is high time I was at work." With that Paddy swam over to the place where he had cut the trees for his dam, and his heart was light, for he had long ago learned that the surest way to be happy is to be busy. CHAPTER X Paddy Starts His House. Jerry Muskrat was very much interested when he found that Paddy the Beaver, who you know, is his cousin, was building a house. Jerry is a house-builder himself, and down deep in his heart he very much doubted if Paddy could build as good a house as he could. His house was down in the Smiling Pool, and Jerry thought it a very wonderful house indeed, and was very proud of it. It was built of mud and sod and little alder and willow twigs and bulrushes. Jerry had spent one winter in it, and he had decided to spend another there after he had fixed it up a little. So, as long as he didn't have to build a brand-new house, he could afford the time to watch his cousin Paddy. Perhaps he hoped that Paddy would ask his advice. But Paddy did nothing of the kind. He had seen Jerry Muskrat's house, and he had smiled. But he had taken great pains not to let Jerry see that smile. He wouldn't have hurt Jerry's feelings for the world. He is too polite and good-natured to do anything like that. So Jerry sat on the end of an old log and watched Paddy work. The first thing to build was the foundation. This was of mud and grass with sticks worked into it to hold it together. Paddy dug the mud from the bottom of his new pond. And because the pond was new, there was a great deal of grassy sod there, which was just what Paddy needed. It was very convenient. Jerry watched a little while and then, because Jerry is a worker himself, he just had to get busy and help. Rather timidly he told his big cousin that he would like to have a share in building the new house. "All right," replied Paddy, "that will be fine. You can bring mud while I am getting the sticks and grass." So Jerry dived down to the bottom of the pond and dug up mud and piled it on the foundation and was happy. The little stars looked down and twinkled merrily as they watched the two workers. So the foundation grew and grew down under the water. Jerry was very much surprised at the size of it. It was ever and ever so much bigger than the foundation for his own house. You see, he had forgotten how much bigger Paddy is. Each night Jerry and Paddy worked, resting during the daytime. Occasionally Bobby Coon or Reddy Fox or Unc' Billy Possum or Jimmy Skunk would come to the edge of the pond to see what was going on. Peter Rabbit came every night. But they couldn't see much because, you know, Paddy and Jerry were working under water. But at last Peter was rewarded. There, just above the water, was a splendid platform of mud and grass and sticks. A great many sticks were carefully laid as soon as the platform was above the water, for Paddy was very particular about this. You see, it was to be the floor for the splendid room he was planning to build. When it suited him, he began to pile mud in the very middle. Jerry puzzled and puzzled over this. Where was Paddy's room going to be, if he piled up the mud that way? But he didn't like to ask questions, so he kept right on helping. Paddy would dive down to the bottom and then come up with double handfuls of mud, which he held against his chest. He would scramble out onto the platform and waddle over to the pile in the middle, where he would put the mud and pat it down. Then back to the bottom for more. And so the mud pile grew and grew, until it was quite two feet high. "Now," said Paddy, "I'll build the walls, and I guess you can't help me much with those. I'm going to begin them tomorrow night. Perhaps you will like to see me do it, Cousin Jerry." "I certainly will," replied Jerry, still puzzling over that pile of mud in the middle. CHAPTER XI Peter Rabbit and Jerry Muskrat Are Puzzled. Jerry Muskrat was more and more sure that his big cousin, Paddy the Beaver, didn't know quite so much as he might about house-building. Jerry would have liked to offer some suggestions, but he didn't quite dare. You see, he was very anxious not to displease his big cousin. But he felt that he simply had got to speak his mind to someone, so he swam across to where he had seen Peter Rabbit almost every night since Paddy began to build. Sure enough, Peter was there, sitting up very straight and staring with big round eyes at the platform of mud and sticks out in the water where Paddy the Beaver was at work. "Well, Peter, what do you think of it?" asked Jerry "What is it?" asked Peter innocently. "Is it another dam?" Jerry threw back his head and laughed and laughed. Peter looked at him suspiciously. "I don't see anything to laugh at," said he. "Why, it's a house, you stupid. It's Paddy's new house," replied Jerry, wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes. "I'm not stupid!" retorted Peter. "How was I to know that that pile of mud and sticks is meant for a house? It certainly doesn't look it. Where is the door?" "To tell you the truth, I don't think it is much of a house myself," replied Jerry. "It has got a door, all right. In fact it has got three. You can't see them because they are under water, and there is a passage from each right up through that platform of mud and sticks, which is the foundation of the house. It really is a very fine foundation, Peter; it really is. But what I can't understand is what Paddy is thinking of by building that great pile of mud right in the middle. When he gets his walls built, where will his bedroom be? There won't be any room at all. It won't be a house at all--just a big useless pile of sticks and mud. Peter scratched his head and then pulled his whiskers thoughtfully as he gazed out at the pile in the water where Paddy the Beaver was at work. "It does look foolish, that's a fact," said he. "Why don't you point out to him the mistake he is making, Jerry? You have built such a splendid house yourself that you ought to be able to help Paddy and show him his mistakes." Jerry had smiled a very self-satisfied smile when Peter mentioned his fine house, but he shook his head at the suggestion that he should give Paddy advice. "I--I don't just like to," he confessed. "You know, he might not like it and--and it doesn't seem as if it would be quite polite. Peter sniffed. "That wouldn't trouble me any if he were my cousin," said he. Jerry shook his head, "No, I don't believe it would," he replied, "but it does trouble me and--and--well, I think I'll wait awhile." Now all this time Paddy had been hard at work. He was bringing the longest branches which he had cut from the trees out of which he had built his dam, and a lot of slender willow and alder poles. He pushed these ahead of him as he swam. When he reached the foundation of his house, he would lean them against the pile of mud in the middle with their big ends resting on the foundation. So he worked all the way around until by and by the mud pile in the middle couldn't be seen. It was completely covered with sticks, and they were cunningly fastened together at the tops. CHAPTER XII Jerry Muskrat Learns Something If you think you know it all You are riding for a fall. Use your ears and use your eyes, But hold your tongue and you'll be wise. Jerry Muskrat will tell you that is as true as true can be. Jerry knows. He found it out for himself. Now he is very careful what he says about other people or what they are doing. But he wasn't so careful when his cousin, Paddy the Beaver, was building his house. No, Sir, Jerry wasn't so careful then. He though he knew more about building a house than Paddy did. He was sure of it when he watched Paddy heap up a great pile of mud right in the middle where his room ought to be, and then build a wall of sticks around it. He said as much to Peter Rabbit. Now it is never safe to say anything to Peter Rabbit that you don't care to have others know. Peter has a great deal of respect for Jerry Muskrat's opinion on house-building. You see, he very much admires Jerry's snug house in the Smiling Pool. It really is a very fine house, and Jerry may be excused for being proud of it. But that doesn't excuse Jerry for thinking that he knows all there is to know about house-building. Of course Peter told everyone he met that Paddy the Beaver was making a foolish mistake in building his house, and that Jerry Muskrat, who ought to know, said so. So whenever they got the chance, the little people of the Green Forest and Green Meadows would steal up to the shore of Paddy's new pond and chuckle as they looked out at the great pile of sticks and mud which Paddy had built for a house, but in which he had forgotten to make a room. At least they supposed that he had forgotten this very important thing. He must have, for there wasn't any room. It was a great joke. They laughed a lot about it, and they lost a great deal of the respect for Paddy which they had had since he built his wonderful dam. Jerry and Peter sat in the moonlight talking it over. Paddy had stopped bringing sticks for his wall. He had dived down out of sight, and he was gone a long time. Suddenly Jerry noticed that the water had grown very, very muddy all around Paddy's new house. He wrinkled his brows trying to think what Paddy could be doing. Presently Paddy came up for air. Then he went down again, and the water grew muddier than ever. This went on for a long time. Every little while Paddy would come up for air and a few minutes of rest. Then down he would go, and the water would grow muddier and muddier. At last Jerry could stand it no longer. He just had to see what was going on. He slipped into the water and swam over to where the water was muddiest. Just as he got there up came Paddy. "Hello, Cousin Jerry!" said he. "I was just going to invite you over to see what you think of my house inside. Just follow me." Paddy dived, and Jerry dived after him. He followed Paddy in at one of the three doorways under water and up a smooth hall right into the biggest, nicest bedroom Jerry had ever seen in all his life. He just gasped in sheer surprise. He couldn't do anything else. He couldn't find his tongue to say a word. Here he was in this splendid great room up above the water, and he had been so sure that there wasn't any room at all! He just didn't know what to make of it. Paddy's eyes twinkled. "Well," said he, "what do you think of it?" "I--I--think it is splendid, just perfectly splendid! But I don't understand it at all, Cousin Paddy. I--I--Where is that great pile of mud I helped you build in the middle?" Jerry looked as foolish as he felt when he asked this. "Why, I've dug it all away. That's what made the water so muddy," replied Paddy. "But what did you build it for in the first place?" Jerry asked. "Because I had to have something solid to rest my sticks against while I was building my walls, of course," replied Paddy. When I got the tops fastened together for a roof, they didn't need a support any longer, and then I dug it away to make this room. I couldn't have built such a big room any other way. I see you don't know very much about house-building, Cousin Jerry." "I--I'm afraid I don't," confessed Jerry sadly. CHAPTER XIII The Queer Storehouse. Everybody knew that Paddy the Beaver was laying up a supply of food for the winter, and everybody thought it was queer food. That is, everybody but Prickly Porky the Porcupine thought so. Prickly Porky likes the same kind of food, but he never lays up a supply. He just goes out and gets it when he wants it, winter or summer. What kind of food was it? Why, bark, to be sure. Yes, Sir, it was just bark--the bark of certain kinds of trees. Now Prickly Porky can climb the trees and eat the bark right there, but Paddy the Beaver cannot climb, and if he would just eat the bark that he can reach from the ground, it would take such a lot of trees to keep him filled up that he would soon spoil the Green Forest. You know, when the bark is taken off a tree all the way around, the tree dies. That is because all the things that a tree draws out of the ground to make it grow and keep it alive are carried up from the roots in the sap, and the sap cannot go up the tree trunks and into the branches when the bark is taken off, because it is up the inside of the bark that it travels. So when the bark is taken from a tree all the way around the trunk, the tree just starves to death. Now Paddy the Beaver loves the Green Forest as dearly as you and I do, and perhaps even a little more dearly. You see, it is his home. Besides, Paddy never is wasteful. So he cuts down a tree so that he can get all the bark instead of killing a whole lot of trees for a very little bark, as he might do if he were lazy. There isn't a lazy bone in him--not one. The bark he likes best is from the aspen. When he cannot get that, he will eat the bark from the poplar, the alder, the willow, and even the birch. But he likes the aspen so much better that he will work very hard to get it. Perhaps it tastes better because he does have to work so hard for it. There were some aspen trees growing right on the edge of the pond Paddy had made in the Green Forest. These he cut just as he had cut the trees for his dam. As soon as a tree was down, he would cut it into short lengths, and with these swim out to where the water was deep, close to his new house. He took them one by one and carried the first ones to the bottom, where he pushed them into the mud just enough to hold them. Then, as fast as he brought more, he piled them on the first ones. And so the pile grew and grew. Jerry Muskrat, Peter Rabbit, Bobby Coon, and the other little people of the Green Forest watched him with the greatest interest and curiosity. They couldn't quite make out what he was doing. It was almost as if he were building the foundation for another house. "What's he doing, Jerry?" demanded Peter, when he could keep still no longer. "I don't exactly know," replied Jerry. "He said that he was going to lay in a supply of food for the winter, just as I told you, and I suppose that is what he is doing. But I don't quite understand what he is taking it all out into the pond for. I believe I'll go ask him." "Do, and then come tell us," begged Peter, who was growing so curious that he couldn't sit still. So Jerry swam out to where Paddy was so busy. "Is this your food supply, Cousin Paddy?" he asked. "Yes," replied Paddy, crawling up on the side of his house to rest. "Yes, this is my food supply. Isn't it splendid?" "I guess it is," replied Jerry, trying to be polite, "though I like lily roots and clams better. But what are you going to do with it? Where is your storehouse?" "This pond is my storehouse," replied Paddy. "I will make a great pile right here close to my house, and the water will keep it nice and fresh all winter. When the pond is frozen over, all I will have to do is to slip out of one of my doorways down there on the bottom, swim over here and get a stick, and fill my stomach. Isn't it handy?" CHAPTER XIV A Footprint in the Mud. Very early one morning Paddy the Beaver heard Sammy Jay making a terrible fuss over in the aspen trees on the edge of the pond Paddy had made in the Green Forest. Paddy couldn't see because he was inside his house, and it has no window, but he could hear. He wrinkled up his brows thoughtfully. "Seems to me that Sammy is very much excited this morning," said he, a way he has because he is so much alone. "When he screams like that, Sammy is usually trying to do two things at once--make trouble for somebody and keep somebody else out of trouble; and when you come to think of it, that's rather a funny way of doing. It shows that he isn't all bad, and at the same time he is a long way from being all good. Now, I should say from the sounds that Sammy has discovered Reddy Fox trying to steal up on someone over where my aspen trees are growing. Reddy is afraid of me, but I suspect that he knows that Peter Rabbit has been hanging around here a lot lately, watching me work, and he thinks perhaps he can watch Peter. I shall have to whisper in one of Peter's long ears and tell him to watch out." After a while he heard Sammy Jay's voice growing fainter and fainter in the Green Forest. Finally he couldn't hear it at all. "Whoever was here has gone away, and Sammy has followed just to torment them," thought Paddy. He was very busy making a bed. He is very particular about his bed, is Paddy the Beaver. He makes it of fine splinters of wood which he splits off with those wonderful great cutting teeth of his. This makes the driest kind of a bed. It requires a great deal of patience and work, but patience is one of the first things a little Beaver learns, and honest work well done is one of the greatest pleasures in the world, as Paddy long ago found out for himself. So he kept at work on his bed for some time after all was still outside. At last Paddy decided that he would go over to his aspen trees and look them over to decide which ones he would cut the next night. He slid down one of his long halls, out the doorway at the bottom on the pond, and then swam up to the surface, where he floated for a few minutes with just his head out of water. And all the time his eyes and nose and ears were busy looking, smelling, and listening for any sign of danger. Everything was still. Sure that he was quite safe, Paddy swam across to the place where the aspen trees grew, and waddled out on the shore. Paddy looked this way and looked that way. He looked up in the treetops, and he looked off up the hill, but most of all he looked at the ground. Yes, Sir, Paddy just studied the ground. You see, he hadn't forgotten the fuss Sammy Jay had been making there, and he was trying to find out what it was all about. At first he didn't see anything unusual, but by and by he happened to notice a little wet place, and right in the middle of it was something that made Paddy's eyes open wide. It was a footprint! Someone had carelessly stepped in the mud. "Ha!" exclaimed Paddy, and the hair on his back lifted ever so little, and for a minute he had a prickly feeling all over. The footprint was very much like that of Reddy Fox, only it was larger. "Ha!" said Paddy again. "That certainly is the foot print of Old Man Coyote! I see I have got to watch out more sharply than I had thought for. All right, Mr. Coyote; now that I know you are about, you'll have to be smarter than I think you are to catch me. You certainly will be back here tonight looking for me, so I think I'll do my cutting right now in the daytime." CHAPTER XV Sammy Jay Makes Paddy a Call. Paddy the Beaver was hard at work. He had just cut down a good- sized aspen tree and now he was gnawing it into short lengths to put in his food pile in the pond. As he worked, Paddy was doing a lot of thinking about the footprint of Old Man Coyote in a little patch of mud, for he knew that meant that Old Man Coyote had discovered his pond, and would be hanging around, hoping to catch Paddy off his guard. Paddy knew it just as well as if Old Man Coyote had told him so. That was why he was at work cutting his food supply in the daytime. Usually he works at night, and he knew that Old Man Coyote knew it. "He'll try to catch me then," thought Paddy, "so I'll do my working on land now and fool him." The tree he was cutting began to sway and crack. Paddy cut out One more big chip, then hurried away to a safe place while the tree fell with a crash. "Thief! thief! thief!" screamed a voice just back of Paddy. "Hello, Sammy Jay! I see you don't feel any better than usual this morning," said Paddy. "Don't you want to sit up in this tree while I cut it down?" Sammy grew black in the face with anger, for he knew that Paddy was laughing at him. You remember how only a few days before he had been so intent on calling Paddy bad names that he actually hadn't noticed that Paddy was cutting the very tree in which he was sitting, and so when it fell he had had a terrible fright. "You think you are very smart, Mr. Beaver, but you'll think differently one of these fine days!" screamed Sammy. "If you knew what I know, you wouldn't be so well satisfied with yourself." "What do you know?" asked Paddy, pretending to be very much alarmed. "I'm not going to tell you what I know," retorted Sammy Jay. "You'll find out soon enough. And when you do find out, you'll never steal another tree from our Green Forest. Somebody is going to catch you, and it isn't Farmer Brown's boy either!" Paddy pretended to be terribly frightened. "Oh, who is it? Please tell me, Mr. Jay," he begged. Now to be called Mr. Jay made Sammy feel very important. Nearly everybody else called him Sammy. He swelled himself out trying to look as important as he felt, and his eyes snapped with pleasure. He was actually making Paddy the Beaver afraid. At least, he thought he was. "No, Sir, I won't tell you," he replied. "I wouldn't be you for a great deal, though! Somebody who is smarter than you are is going to catch you, and when he gets through with you, there won't be anything left but a few bones. No, Sir, nothing but a few bones!" "Oh, Mr. Jay, this is terrible news! Whatever am I to do?" cried Paddy, all the time keeping on at work cutting another tree. "There's nothing you can do," replied Sammy, grinning wickedly at Paddy's fright. "There's nothing you can do unless you go right straight back to the North where you came from. You think you are very smart, but--" Sammy didn't finish. Crack! Over fell the tree Paddy had been cutting and the top of it fell straight into the alder in which Sammy was sitting. "Oh! Oh! Help!" shrieked Sammy, spreading his wings and flying away just in time. Paddy sat down and laughed until his sides ached. "Come make me another call someday, Sammy!" he said. "And when you do, please bring some real news. I know all about Old Man Coyote. You can tell him for me that when he is planning to catch people he should be careful not to leave footprints to give himself away." Sammy didn't reply. He just sneaked off through the Green Forest, looking quite as foolish as he felt. CHAPTER XVI Old Man Coyote is Very Crafty. Coyote has a crafty brain; His wits are sharp his ends to gain. There is nothing in the world more true than that. Old Man Coyote has the craftiest brain of all the little people of the Green Forest or the Green Meadows. Sharp as are the wits of old Granny Fox, they are not quite so sharp as the wits of Old Man Coyote. If you want to fool him, you will have to get up very early in the morning, and then it is more than likely that you will be the one fooled, not he. There is very little going on around him that he doesn't know about. But once in a while something escapes him. The coming of Paddy the Beaver to the Green Forest was one of these things. He didn't know a thing about Paddy until Paddy had finished his dam and his house, and was cutting his supply of food for the winter. You see, it was this way: When the Merry Little Breezes of Old Mother West Wind first heard what was going on in the Green Forest and hurried around over the Green Meadows and through the Green Forest to spread the news, as is their way, they took the greatest pains not to even hint it to Old Man Coyote because they were afraid that he would make trouble and perhaps drive Paddy away. The place that Paddy had chosen to build his dam was so deep in the Green Forest that Old Man Coyote seldom went that way. So it was that he knew nothing about Paddy, and Paddy knew nothing about him for some time. But after awhile Old Man Coyote noticed that the little people of the Green Meadows were not about as much as usual. They seemed to have a secret of some kind. He mentioned the matter to his friend, Digger the Badger. Digger had been so intent on his own affairs that he hadn't noticed anything unusual, but when Old Man Coyote mentioned the matter he remembered that Blacky the Crow headed straight for the Green Forest every morning. Several times he had seen Sammy Jay flying in the same direction as if in a great hurry to get somewhere. Old Man Coyote grinned. "That's all I need to know, friend Digger," said he. "When Blacky the Crow and Sammy Jay visit a place more than once, something interesting is going on there. I think I'll take a stroll up through the Green Forest and have a look around." With that, off Old Man Coyote started. But he was too sly and crafty to go straight to the Green Forest. He pretended to hunt around over the Green Meadows just as he usually did, all the time working nearer and nearer to the Green Forest. When he reached the edge of it, he slipped in among the trees, and when he felt that no one was likely to see him, he began to run this way and that way with his nose to the ground. "Ha!" he exclaimed presently, "Reddy Fox has been this way lately." Pretty soon he found another trail. "So," said he, "Peter Rabbit has been over here a good deal of late, and his trail goes in the same direction as that of Reddy Fox. I guess all I have to do now is to follow Peter's trail, and it will lead me to what I want to find out." So Old Man Coyote followed Peter's trail, and he presently came to the pond of Paddy the Beaver. "Ha!" said he, as he looked out and saw Paddy's new house. "So there is a newcomer to the Green Forest! I have always heard that Beaver is very good eating. My stomach begins to feel empty this very minute." His mouth began to water, and a fierce, hungry look shone in his eyes. It was just then that Sammy Jay saw him and began to scream at the top of his lungs so that Paddy the Beaver over in his house heard him. Old Man Coyote knew that it was of no use to stay longer with Sammy Jay about, so he took a hasty look at the pond and found where Paddy came ashore to cut his food. Then, shaking his fist at Sammy Jay, he started straight back for the Green Meadows. "I'll just pay a visit here in the night," said he, "and give Mr. Beaver a surprise while he is at work." But with all his craft, Old Man Coyote didn't notice that he left a footprint in the mud. CHAPTER XVII Old Man Coyote is Disappointed. Old Man Coyote lay stretched out in his favorite napping place on the Green Meadows. He was thinking of what he had found out up in the Green Forest that morning--that Paddy the Beaver was living there. Old Man Coyote's thoughts seemed very pleasant to himself, though really they were very dreadful thoughts. You see, he was thinking how easy it was going to be to catch Paddy the Beaver, and what a splendid meal he would make. He licked his chops at the thought. "He doesn't know I know he's here," thought Old Man Coyote. "In fact, I don't believe heaven knows that I am anywhere around. Of course he won't be watching for me. He cuts his trees at night, so all I will have to do is to hide right close by where he is at work, and he'll walk right into my mouth. Sammy Jay knows I was up there this morning, but Sammy sleeps at night, so he will not give the alarm. My, my, how good that Beaver will taste!" He licked his chops once more, then yawned and closed his eyes for a nap. Old Man Coyote waited until jolly, round red Mr. Sun had gone to bed behind the Purple Hills, and the Black Shadows had crept out across the Green Meadows. Then, keeping in the blackest of them, and looking very much like a shadow of himself, he slipped into the Green Forest. It was dark in there, and he made straight for Paddy's new pond, trotting along swiftly without making a sound. When he was near the aspen trees which he knew Paddy was planning to cut, he crept forward very slowly and carefully. Everything was still as still could be. "Good!" thought Old Man Coyote. "I am here first, and now all I need do is to hide and wait for Paddy to come ashore." So he stretched himself flat behind some brush close beside the little path Paddy had made up from the edge of the water and waited. It was very still, so still that it seemed almost as if he could hear his heart beat. He could see the little stars twinkling in the sky and their own reflections twinkling back at them from the water of Paddy's pond. Old Man Coyote waited and waited. He is very patient when there is something to gain by it. For such a splendid dinner as Paddy the Beaver would make, he felt that he could well afford to be patient. So he waited and waited, and everything was as still as if no living thing but the trees where there. Even the trees seemed to be asleep. At last, after a long, long time, he heard just the faintest splash. He pricked up his ears and peeped out on the pond with the hungriest look in his yellow eyes. There was a little line of silver coming straight toward him. He knew that it was made by Paddy the Beaver swimming. Nearer and nearer it drew. Old Man Coyote chuckled way down deep inside, without making a sound. He could see Paddy's head now, and Paddy was coming straight in, as if he hadn't a fear in the world. Almost to the edge of the pond swam Paddy. Then he stopped. In a few minutes he began to swim again, but this time it was back in the direction of his house, and he seemed to be carrying something. It was one of the little food logs he had cut that day, and he was taking it out to his storehouse. Then back he came for another. And so he kept on, never once coming ashore. Old Man Coyote waited until Paddy had carried the last log to his storehouse and then, with a loud whack on the water with his broad tail, had dived and disappeared in his house. Then Old Man Coyote arose and started elsewhere to look for his dinner, and in his heart was bitter disappointment. CHAPTER XVIII Old Man Coyote Tries Another Plan. For three nights Old Man Coyote had stolen up through the green Forest with the coming of the Black Shadows and had hidden among the aspen trees where Paddy the Beaver cut his food, and for three nights Paddy had failed to come ashore. Each night he had seemed to have enough food logs in the water to keep him busy without cutting more. Old Man Coyote lay there, and the hungry look in his eyes changed to one of doubt and then to suspicion. Could it be that Paddy the Beaver was smarter than he thought? It began to look very much as if Paddy knew perfectly well that he was hiding there each night. Yes, Sir, that's the way it looked. For three nights Paddy hadn't cut a single tree, and yet each night he had plenty of food logs ready to take to his storehouse in the pond. "That means that he comes ashore in the daytime and cuts his trees," thought Old Man Coyote as, tired and with black anger in his heart, he trotted home the third night. "He couldn't have found out about me himself; he isn't smart enough. It must be that someone has told him. And nobody knows that I have been over there but Sammy Jay. It must be he who has been the tattletale. I think I'll visit Paddy by daylight tomorrow, and then we'll see!" Now the trouble with some smart people is that they are never able to believe that others may be as smart as they. Old Man Coyote didn't know that the first time he had visited Paddy's pond he had left behind him a footprint in a little patch of soft mud. If he had known it, he wouldn't have believed that Paddy would be smart enough to guess what that footprint meant. So Old Man coyote laid all the blame at the door of Sammy Jay, and that very morning, when Sammy came flying over the Green Meadows, Old Man Coyote accused him of being a tattletale and threatened the most dreadful things to Sammy if ever he caught him. Now Sammy had flown down to the green Meadows to tell Old Man Coyote how Paddy was doing all his work on land in the daytime. But when Old Man Coyote began to call him a tattletale and accuse him of having warned Paddy, and to threaten dreadful things, he straightway forgot all his anger at Paddy and turned it all on Old Man Coyote. He called him everything he could think of, and this was a great deal, for Sammy has a wicked tongue. When he hadn't any breath left, he flew over to the Green Forest, and there he hid where he could watch all that was going on. That afternoon Old Man Coyote tried his new plan. He slipped into the Green Forest, looking this way and that way to be sure that no one saw him. Then very, very softly, he crept up through the Green Forest toward the pond of Paddy the Beaver. As he drew near, he heard a crash, and it make him smile. He knew what it meant. It meant that Paddy was at work cutting down trees. With his stomach almost on the ground, he crept forward little by little, little by little, taking the greatest care not to rustle so much as a leaf. Presently he reached a place where he could see the aspen trees, and there, sure enough, was Paddy, sitting up on his hind legs and hard at work cutting another tree. Old Man Coyote lay down for a few minutes to watch. Then he wriggled a little nearer. Slowly and carefully he drew his legs under him and made ready for a rush. Paddy the Beaver was his at last! At just that very minute a harsh scream rang out right over his head: "Thief! thief! thief!" It was Sammy Jay, who had followed him all the way. Paddy the Beaver didn't stop to even look around. He knew what that meant, and he scrambled down his little path to the water as he never had scrambled before. And as he dived with a great splash, Old Man Coyote landed with a great jump on the very edge of the pond. CHAPTER XIX Paddy and Sammy Jay Become Friends. Paddy the Beaver floated in his pond and grinned in the most provoking way at Old Man Coyote, who had so nearly caught him. Old Man Coyote fairly danced with anger on the bank. He had felt so sure of Paddy that time that it was hard work to believe that Paddy had really gotten away from him. He bared his long, cruel teeth, and he looked very fierce and ugly. "Come on in; the water's fine!" called Paddy. Now, of course this wasn't a nice thing for Paddy to do, for it only made Old Man Coyote all the angrier. You see, Paddy knew perfectly well that he was absolutely safe, and he just couldn't resist the temptation to say some unkind things. He had had to be on the watch for days lest he should be caught, and so he hadn't been able to work quite so well as he could have done with nothing to fear, and he still had a lot of preparations to make for winter. So he told Old Man Coyote just what he thought of him, and that he wasn't as smart as he thought he was or he never would have left a foot print in the mud to give him away. When Sammy Jay, who was listening and chuckling as he listened, heard that, he flew down where he would be just out of reach of Old Man Coyote, and then he just turned that tongue of his loose, and you know that some people say that Sammy's tongue is hung in the middle and wags at both ends. Of course this isn't really so, but when he gets to abusing people it seems as if it must be true. He called Old Man Coyote every bad name he could think of. He called him a sneak, a thief, a coward, a bully, and a lot of other things. "You said I had warned Paddy that you were trying to catch him and that was why you failed to find him at work at night, and all the time you had warned him yourself!" screamed Sammy. "I used to think that you were smart, but I know better now. Paddy is twice as smart as you are. "Mr. Coyote is every so sly; Mr. Coyote is clever and spry; If you believe all you hear. Mr. Coyote is naught of the kind; Mr. Coyote is stupid and blind; He can't catch a flea on his ear." Paddy the Beaver laughed till the tears came at Sammy's foolish verse, but it made Old Man Coyote angrier than ever. He was angry with Paddy for escaping from him, and he was angry with Sammy, terribly angry, and the worst of it was he couldn't catch either one, for one was at home in the water and the other was at home in the air and he couldn't follow in either place. Finally he saw it was of no use to stay there to be laughed at, so, muttering and grumbling, he started for the Green Meadows. As soon as he was out of sight Paddy turned to Sammy Jay. "Mr. Jay," said he, knowing how it pleased Sammy to be called mister. "Mr. Jay, you have done me a mighty good turn today, and I am not going to forget it. You can call me what you please and scream at me all you please, but you won't get any satisfaction out of it, because I simply won't get angry. I will say to myself, 'Mr. Jay saved my life the other day,' and then I won't mind your tongue." Now this made Sammy feel very proud and very happy. You know it is very seldom that he hears anything nice said of him. He flew down on the stump of one of the trees Paddy had cut. "Let's be friends," said he. "With all my heart!" replied Paddy. CHAPTER XX Sammy Jay Offers To Help Paddy. Paddy sat looking thoughtfully at the aspen trees he would have to cut to complete his store of food for the winter. All those near the edge of his pond had been cut. The others were scattered about some little distance away. "I don't know," said Paddy out loud. "I don't know." "What don't you know?" asked Sammy Jay, who, now that he and Paddy had become friends, was very much interested in what Paddy was doing. "Why," replied Paddy, "I don't know just how I am going to get those trees. Now that Old Man Coyote is watching for me, it isn't safe for me to go very far from my pond. I suppose I could dig a canal up to some of the nearest trees and then float them down to the pond, but it is hard to work and keep watch for enemies at the same time. I guess I'll have to be content with some of these alders growing close to the water, but he bark of aspens is so much better that I--I wish I could get them." "What's a canal?" asked Sammy abruptly. "A canal? Why a canal is a kind of ditch in which water can run," replied Paddy. Sammy nodded. "I've seen Farmer Brown dig one over on the Green Meadows, but it looked like a great deal of work. I didn't suppose that anyone else could do it. Do you really mean that you can dig a canal, Paddy?" "Of course I mean it," replied Paddy, in a surprised tone of voice. "I have helped dig lots of canals. You ought to see some of them back where I came from." "I'd like to," replied Sammy. "I think it is perfectly wonderful. I don't see how you do it." "It's easy enough when you know how," replied Paddy. "If I dared to, I'd show you." Sammy had a sudden idea. It almost made him gasp. "I tell you what, you work and I'll keep watch!" he cried. "You know my eyes are very sharp." "Will you?" cried Paddy eagerly. "That would be perfectly splendid. You have the sharpest eyes of anyone whom I know, and I would feel perfectly safe with you on watch. But I don't want to put you to all to that trouble, Mr. Jay." "Of course I will," replied Sammy, "and it won't be any trouble at all. I'll just love to do it." You see, it made Sammy feel very proud to have Paddy say that he had such sharp eyes. "When will you begin?" "Right away, if you will just take a look around and see that it is perfectly safe for me to come out on land." Sammy didn't wait to hear more. He spread his beautiful blue wings and started off over the Green Forest straight for the Green Meadows. Paddy watched him go with a puzzled and disappointed air. "That's funny," thought he. "I thought he really meant it, and now off he goes without even saying good-by." In a little while back came Sammy, all out of breath. "It's all right," he panted. "You can go to work just as soon as you please." Paddy looked more puzzled than ever. "How do you know?" he asked. "I haven't seen you looking around." "I did better than that," replied Sammy. "If Old Man Coyote had been hiding somewhere in the Green Forest, it might have taken me some time to find him. But he isn't. You see, I flew straight over to his home in the Green Meadows to see if he is there, and he is. He's taking a sun bath and looking as cross as two sticks. I don't think he'll be back here this morning, but I'll keep a sharp watch while you work." Paddy made Sammy a low bow. "You certainly are smart, Mr. Jay," said he. "I wouldn't have thought of going over to Old Man Coyote's home to see if he was there. I'll feel perfectly safe with you on guard. Now I'll get to work." CHAPTER XXI Paddy and Sammy Jay Work Together. Jerry Muskrat had been home at the Smiling Pool for several days. But he couldn't stay there long. Oh, my, no! He just had to get back to see what his big cousin, Paddy the Beaver, was doing. So as soon as he was sure that everything was all right at the Smiling Pool he hurried back up the Laughing Brook to Paddy's pond, deep in the Green Forest. As soon as he was in sight of it, he looked eagerly for Paddy. At first he didn't see him. Then he stopped and gazed over at the place where Paddy had been cutting aspen trees for food. Something was going on there, something queer. He couldn't make it out. Jus then Sammy Jay came flying over. "What's Paddy doing?" Jerry asked. Sammy Jay dropped down to the top of an alder tree and fluffed out all his feathers in a very important way. "Oh," said he, "Paddy and I are building something!" "You! Paddy and you! Ha, ha! Paddy and you building something!" Jerry laughed. "Yes, me!" snapped Sammy angrily. "That's what I said; Paddy and I are building something." Jerry had begun to swim across the pond by this time, and Sammy was flying across. "Why don't you tell the truth, Sammy, and say that Paddy is building something and you are making him all the trouble you can?" called Jerry. Sammy's eyes snapped angrily, and he darted down at Jerry's little brown head. "It isn't true!" he shrieked. "You ask Paddy if I'm not helping!" Jerry ducked under water to escape Sammy's sharp bill. When he came up again, Sammy was over in the little grove of aspen trees where Paddy was at work. Then Jerry discovered something. What was it? Why a little water-path led right up to the aspen trees, and there, at the end of the little water-path, was Paddy the Beaver hard at work. He was digging and piling the earth on one side very neatly. In fact, he was making the water-path longer. Jerry swam right up the little water-path to where Paddy was working. "Good morning, Cousin Paddy," said he. "What are you doing?" "Oh," replied Paddy, "Sammy Jay and I are building a canal." Sammy Jay looked down at Jerry in triumph, and Jerry looked at Paddy as if he thought that he was joking. "Sammy Jay? What's Sammy Jay got to do about it?" demanded Jerry. "A whole lot," replied Paddy. "You see, he keeps watch while I work. If he didn't, I couldn't work, and there wouldn't be any canal. Old Man Coyote has been trying to catch me, and I wouldn't dare work on shore if it wasn't that I am sure that the sharpest eyes in the Green Forest are watching for danger." Sammy Jay looked very much pleased indeed and very proud. "So you see, it takes both of us to make this canal; I dig while Sammy watches. So we are building it together," concluded Paddy with a twinkle in his eyes. "I see," said Jerry slowly. Then he turned to Sammy Jay. "I beg your pardon, Sammy," said he. "I do indeed." "That's all right," replied Sammy airily. "What do you think of our canal?" "I think it is wonderful," replied Jerry. And indeed it was a very fine canal, straight, wide, and deep enough for Paddy to swim in and float his logs out to the pond. Yes, indeed, it was a very fine canal. CHAPTER XXII Paddy Finishes His Harvest. "Sharp his tongue and sharp his eyes-- Sammy guards against surprise. If 'twere not for Sammy Jay I could do no work today." When Sammy overheard Paddy the Beaver say that to Jerry Muskrat, it made him swell up all over with pure pride. You see, Sammy is so used to hearing bad things about himself that to hear something nice like that pleased him immensely. He straightway forgot all the mean things he had said to Paddy when he first saw him--how he had called him a thief because he had cut the aspen trees he needed. He forgot all this. He forgot how Paddy had made him the laughingstock of the Green Forest and the Green Meadows by cutting down the very tree in which he had been sitting. He forgot everything but that Paddy had trusted him to keep watch and now was saying nice things about him. He made up his mind that he would deserve all the nice things that Paddy could say, and he thought that Paddy was the finest fellow in the world. Jerry Muskrat looked doubtful. He didn't trust Sammy, and he took care not to go far from the water when he heard that Old Man Coyote had been hanging around. But Paddy worked away just as if he hadn't a fear in the world. "The way to make people want to be trusted is to trust them" said he to himself. "If I show Sammy Jay that I don't really trust him, he will think it is of no use to try and will give it up. But if I do trust him, and he knows that I do, he'll be the best watchman in the Green Forest." And this shows that Paddy the Beaver has a great deal of wisdom, for it was just as he thought. Sammy was on hand bright and early every morning. He made sure that Old Man Coyote was nowhere in the Green Forest, and then he settled himself comfortably in the top of a tall pine tree where he could see all that was going on while Paddy the Beaver worked. Paddy had finished his canal, and a beautiful canal it was, leading straight from his pond up to the aspen trees. As soon as he had finished it, he began to cut the trees. As soon as one was down he would cut it into short lengths and roll them into the canal. Then he would float them out to his pond and over to his storehouse. He took the larger branches, on which there was sweet, tender bark, in the same way, for Paddy is never wasteful. After a while he went over to his storehouse, which, you know, was nothing but a great pile of aspen logs and branches in his pond close by his house. He studied it very carefully. Then he swam back and climbed up on the bank of his canal. "Mr. Jay," said he, "I think our work is about finished." "What!" cried Sammy, "Aren't you going to cut the rest of those aspen trees?" "No," replied Paddy. "Enough is always enough, and I've got enough to last me all winter. I want those trees for next year. Now I am fixed for the winter. I think I'll take it easy for a while." Sammy looked disappointed. You see, he had just begun to learn that the greatest pleasure in the world comes from doing things for other people. For the first time since he could remember, someone wanted him around land it gave him such a good feeling down deep inside! Perhaps it was because he remembered that good feeling that the next spring he was so willing and anxious to help poor Mrs. Quack. What he did for her and all about her terrible adventures I will tell you in the next book. The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Adventures of Paddy the Beaver by Thornton W. 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锘縏he Project Gutenberg eBook, The Big Bounce, by Walter S. Tevis, Illustrated by Johnson This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Big Bounce Author: Walter S. Tevis Release Date: October 23, 2007 [eBook #23153] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) *START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BIG BOUNCE* E-text prepared by Greg Weeks, Jacqueline Jeremy, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (https://www.pgdp.net) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 23153-h.htm or 23153-h.zip: (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/3/1/5/23153/23153-h/23153-h.htm) or (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/3/1/5/23153/23153-h.zip) _Seeing it in action, anybody would quaver in alarm: What hath Farnsworth overwrought?_ Illustrated by Johnson "Let me show you something," Farnsworth said. He set his near-empty drink--a Bacardi martini--on the mantel and waddled out of the room toward the basement. I sat in my big leather chair, feeling very peaceful with the world, watching the fire. Whatever Farnsworth would have to show to-night would be far more entertaining than watching T.V.--my custom on other evenings. Farnsworth, with his four labs in the house and his very tricky mind, never failed to provide my best night of the week. When he returned, after a moment, he had with him a small box, about three inches square. He held this carefully in one hand and stood by the fireplace dramatically--or as dramatically as a very small, very fat man with pink cheeks can stand by a fireplace of the sort that seems to demand a big man with tweeds, pipe and, perhaps, a saber wound. Anyway, he held the box dramatically and he said, "Last week, I was playing around in the chem lab, trying to make a new kind of rubber eraser. Did quite well with the other drafting equipment, you know, especially the dimensional curve and the photosensitive ink. Well, I approached the job by trying for a material that would absorb graphite without abrading paper." I was a little disappointed with this; it sounded pretty tame. But I said, "How did it come out?" * * * * * He screwed his pudgy face up thoughtfully. "Synthesized the material, all right, and it seems to work, but the interesting thing is that it has a certain--ah--secondary property that would make it quite awkward to use. Interesting property, though. Unique, I am inclined to believe." This began to sound more like it. "And what property is that?" I poured myself a shot of straight rum from the bottle sitting on the table beside me. I did not like straight rum, but I preferred it to Farnsworth's rather imaginative cocktails. "I'll show you, John," he said. He opened the box and I could see that it was packed with some kind of batting. He fished in this and withdrew a gray ball about the size of a golfball and set the box on the mantel. "And that's the--eraser?" I asked. "Yes," he said. Then he squatted down, held the ball about a half-inch from the floor, dropped it. It bounced, naturally enough. Then it bounced again. And again. Only this was not natural, for on the second bounce the ball went higher in the air than on the first, and on the third bounce higher still. After a half minute, my eyes were bugging out and the little ball was bouncing four feet in the air and going higher each time. I grabbed my glass. "What the hell!" I said. Farnsworth caught the ball in a pudgy hand and held it. He was smiling a little sheepishly. "Interesting effect, isn't it?" "Now wait a minute," I said, beginning to think about it. "What's the gimmick? What kind of motor do you have in that thing?" His eyes were wide and a little hurt. "No gimmick, John. None at all. Just a very peculiar molecular structure." "Structure!" I said. "Bouncing balls just don't pick up energy out of nowhere, I don't care how their molecules are put together. And you don't get energy out without putting energy in." "Oh," he said, "that's the really interesting thing. Of course you're right; energy _does_ go into the ball. Here, I'll show you." He let the ball drop again and it began bouncing, higher and higher, until it was hitting the ceiling. Farnsworth reached out to catch it, but he fumbled and the thing glanced off his hand, hit the mantelpiece and zipped across the room. It banged into the far wall, richocheted, banked off three other walls, picking up speed all the time. When it whizzed by me like a rifle bullet, I began to get worried, but it hit against one of the heavy draperies by the window and this damped its motion enough so that it fell to the floor. * * * * * It started bouncing again immediately, but Farnsworth scrambled across the room and grabbed it. He was perspiring a little and he began instantly to transfer the ball from one hand to another and back again as if it were hot. "Here," he said, and handed it to me. I almost dropped it. "It's like a ball of ice!" I said. "Have you been keeping it in the refrigerator?" "No. As a matter of fact, it was at room temperature a few minutes ago." "Now wait a minute," I said. "I only teach physics in high school, but I know better than that. Moving around in warm air doesn't make anything cold except by evaporation." "Well, there's your input and output, John," he said. "The ball lost heat and took on motion. Simple conversion." My jaw must have dropped to my waist. "Do you mean that that little thing is converting heat to kinetic energy?" "Apparently." "But that's impossible!" He was beginning to smile thoughtfully. The ball was not as cold now as it had been and I was holding it in my lap. "A steam engine does it," he said, "and a steam turbine. Of course, they're not very efficient." "They work mechanically, too, and only because water expands when it turns to steam." "This seems to do it differently," he said, sipping thoughtfully at his dark-brown martini. "I don't know exactly how--maybe something piezo-electric about the way its molecules slide about. I ran some tests--measured its impact energy in foot pounds and compared that with the heat loss in BTUs. Seemed to be about 98 per cent efficient, as close as I could tell. Apparently it converts heat into bounce very well. Interesting, isn't it?" "_Interesting?_" I almost came flying out of my chair. My mind was beginning to spin like crazy. "If you're not pulling my leg with this thing, Farnsworth, you've got something by the tail there that's just a little bit bigger than the discovery of fire." He blushed modestly. "I'd rather thought that myself," he admitted. "Good Lord, look at the heat that's available!" I said, getting really excited now. * * * * * Farnsworth was still smiling, very pleased with himself. "I suppose you could put this thing in a box, with convection fins, and let it bounce around inside--" "I'm way ahead of you," I said. "But that wouldn't work. All your kinetic energy would go right back to heat, on impact--and eventually that little ball would build up enough speed to blast its way through any box you could build." "Then how would you work it?" "Well," I said, choking down the rest of my rum, "you'd seal the ball in a big steel cylinder, attach the cylinder to a crankshaft and flywheel, give the thing a shake to start the ball bouncing back and forth, and let it run like a gasoline engine or something. It would get all the heat it needed from the air in a normal room. Mount the apparatus in your house and it would pump your water, operate a generator and keep you cool at the same time!" I sat down again, shakily, and began pouring myself another drink. Farnsworth had taken the ball from me and was carefully putting it back in its padded box. He was visibly showing excitement, too; I could see that his cheeks were ruddier and his eyes even brighter than normal. "But what if you want the cooling and don't have any work to be done?" "Simple," I said. "You just let the machine turn a flywheel or lift weights and drop them, or something like that, outside your house. You have an air intake inside. And if, in the winter, you don't want to lose heat, you just mount the thing in an outside building, attach it to your generator and use the power to do whatever you want--heat your house, say. There's plenty of heat in the outside air even in December." "John," said Farnsworth, "you are very ingenious. It might work." "Of course it'll work." Pictures were beginning to light up in my head. "And don't you realize that this is the answer to the solar power problem? Why, mirrors and selenium are, at best, ten per cent efficient! Think of big pumping stations on the Sahara! All that heat, all that need for power, for irrigation!" I paused a moment for effect. "Farnsworth, this can change the very shape of the Earth!" Farnsworth seemed to be lost in thought. Finally he looked at me strangely and said, "Perhaps we had better try to build a model." * * * * * I was so excited by the thing that I couldn't sleep that night. I kept dreaming of power stations, ocean liners, even automobiles, being operated by balls bouncing back and forth in cylinders. I even worked out a spaceship in my mind, a bullet-shaped affair with a huge rubber ball on its end, gyroscopes to keep it oriented properly, the ball serving as solution to that biggest of missile-engineering problems, excess heat. You'd build a huge concrete launching field, supported all the way down to bedrock, hop in the ship and start bouncing. Of course it would be kind of a rough ride.... In the morning, I called my superintendent and told him to get a substitute for the rest of the week; I was going to be busy. Then I started working in the machine shop in Farnsworth's basement, trying to turn out a working model of a device that, by means of a crankshaft, oleo dampers and a reciprocating cylinder, would pick up some of that random kinetic energy from the bouncing ball and do something useful with it, like turning a drive shaft. I was just working out a convection-and-air pump system for circulating hot air around the ball when Farnsworth came in. He had tucked carefully under his arm a sphere of about the size of a basketball and, if he had made it to my specifications, weighing thirty-five pounds. He had a worried frown on his forehead. "It looks good," I said. "What's the trouble?" "There seems to be a slight hitch," he said. "I've been testing for conductivity. It seems to be quite low." "That's what I'm working on now. It's just a mechanical problem of pumping enough warm air back to the ball. We can do it with no more than a twenty per cent efficiency loss. In an engine, that's nothing." "Maybe you're right. But this material conducts heat even less than rubber does." "The little ball yesterday didn't seem to have any trouble," I said. "Naturally not. It had had plenty of time to warm up before I started it. And its mass-surface area relationship was pretty low--the larger you make a sphere, of course, the more mass inside in proportion to the outside area." "You're right, but I think we can whip it. We may have to honeycomb the ball and have part of the work the machine does operate a big hot air pump; but we can work it out." * * * * * All that day, I worked with lathe, milling machine and hacksaw. After clamping the new big ball securely to a workbench, Farnsworth pitched in to help me. But we weren't able to finish by nightfall and Farnsworth turned his spare bedroom over to me for the night. I was too tired to go home. And too tired to sleep soundly, too. Farnsworth lived on the edge of San Francisco, by a big truck by-pass, and almost all night I wrestled with the pillow and sheets, listening half-consciously to those heavy trucks rumbling by, and in my mind, always, that little gray ball, bouncing and bouncing and bouncing.... At daybreak, I came abruptly fully awake with the sound of crashing echoing in my ears, a battering sound that seemed to come from the basement. I grabbed my coat and pants, rushed out of the room, almost knocked over Farnsworth, who was struggling to get his shoes on out in the hall, and we scrambled down the two flights of stairs together. The place was a chaos, battered and bashed equipment everywhere, and on the floor, overturned against the far wall, the table that the ball had been clamped to. The ball itself was gone. I had not been fully asleep all night, and the sight of that mess, and what it meant, jolted me immediately awake. Something, probably a heavy truck, had started a tiny oscillation in that ball. And the ball had been heavy enough to start the table bouncing with it until, by dancing that table around the room, it had literally torn the clamp off and shaken itself free. What had happened afterward was obvious, with the ball building up velocity with every successive bounce. But where was the ball now? Suddenly Farnsworth cried out hoarsely, "Look!" and I followed his outstretched, pudgy finger to where, at one side of the basement, a window had been broken open--a small window, but plenty big enough for something the size of a basketball to crash through it. There was a little weak light coming from outdoors. And then I saw the ball. It was in Farnsworth's back yard, bouncing a little sluggishly on the grass. The grass would damp it, hold it back, until we could get to it. Unless.... I took off up the basement steps like a streak. Just beyond the back yard, I had caught a glimpse of something that frightened me. A few yards from where I had seen the ball was the edge of the big six-lane highway, a broad ribbon of smooth, hard concrete. [Illustration] I got through the house to the back porch, rushed out and was in the back yard just in time to see the ball take its first bounce onto the concrete. I watched it, fascinated, when it hit--after the soft, energy absorbing turf, the concrete was like a springboard. Immediately the ball flew high in the air. I was running across the yard toward it, praying under my breath, _Fall on that grass next time_. It hit before I got to it, and right on the concrete again, and this time I saw it go straight up at least fifty feet. * * * * * My mind was suddenly full of thoughts of dragging mattresses from the house, or making a net or something to stop that hurtling thirty-five pounds; but I stood where I was, unable to move, and saw it come down again on the highway. It went up a hundred feet. And down again on the concrete, about fifteen feet further down the road. In the direction of the city. That time it was two hundred feet, and when it hit again, it made a thud that you could have heard for a quarter of a mile. I could practically see it flatten out on the road before it took off upward again, at twice the speed it had hit at. Suddenly generating an idea, I whirled and ran back to Farnsworth's house. He was standing in the yard now, shivering from the morning air, looking at me like a little lost and badly scared child. "Where are your car keys?" I almost shouted at him. "In my pocket." "Come on!" I took him by the arm and half dragged him to the carport. I got the keys from him, started the car, and by mangling about seven traffic laws and three prize rosebushes, managed to get on the highway, facing in the direction that the ball was heading. "Look," I said, trying to drive down the road and search for the ball at the same time. "It's risky, but if I can get the car under it and we can hop out in time, it should crash through the roof. That ought to slow it down enough for us to nab it." "But--what about my car?" Farnsworth bleated. "What about that first building--or first person--it hits in San Francisco?" "Oh," he said. "Hadn't thought of that." I slowed the car and stuck my head out the window. It was lighter now, but no sign of the ball. "If it happens to get to town--any town, for that matter--it'll be falling from about ten or twenty miles. Or forty." "Maybe it'll go high enough first so that it'll burn. Like a meteor." "No chance," I said. "Built-in cooling system, remember?" Farnsworth formed his mouth into an "Oh" and exactly at that moment there was a resounding _thump_ and I saw the ball hit in a field, maybe twenty yards from the edge of the road, and take off again. This time it didn't seem to double its velocity, and I figured the ground was soft enough to hold it back--but it wasn't slowing down either, not with a bounce factor of better than two to one. * * * * * Without watching for it to go up, I drove as quickly as I could off the road and over--carrying part of a wire fence with me--to where it had hit. There was no mistaking it; there was a depression about three feet deep, like a small crater. I jumped out of the car and stared up. It took me a few seconds to spot it, over my head. One side caught by the pale and slanting morning sunlight, it was only a bright diminishing speck. The car motor was running and I waited until the ball disappeared for a moment and then reappeared. I watched for another couple of seconds until I felt I could make a decent guess on its direction, hollered at Farnsworth to get out of the car--it had just occurred to me that there was no use risking his life, too--dove in and drove a hundred yards or so to the spot I had anticipated. I stuck my head out the window and up. The ball was the size of an egg now. I adjusted the car's position, jumped out and ran for my life. It hit instantly after--about sixty feet from the car. And at the same time, it occurred to me that what I was trying to do was completely impossible. Better to hope that the ball hit a pond, or bounced out to sea, or landed in a sand dune. All we could do would be to follow, and if it ever was damped down enough, grab it. It had hit soft ground and didn't double its height that time, but it had still gone higher. It was out of sight for almost a lifelong minute. And then--incredibly rotten luck--it came down, with an ear-shattering thwack, on the concrete highway again. I had seen it hit, and instantly afterward I saw a crack as wide as a finger open along the entire width of the road. And the ball had flown back up like a rocket. _My God_, I was thinking, _now it means business. And on the next bounce...._ It seemed like an incredibly long time that we craned our necks, Farnsworth and I, watching for it to reappear in the sky. And when it finally did, we could hardly follow it. It whistled like a bomb and we saw the gray streak come plummeting to Earth almost a quarter of a mile away from where we were standing. But we didn't see it go back up again. For a moment, we stared at each other silently. Then Farnsworth almost whispered, "Perhaps it's landed in a pond." "Or in the world's biggest cow-pile," I said. "Come on!" We could have met our deaths by rock salt and buckshot that night, if the farmer who owned that field had been home. We tore up everything we came to getting across it--including cabbages and rhubarb. But we had to search for ten minutes, and even then we didn't find the ball. What we found was a hole in the ground that could have been a small-scale meteor crater. It was a good twenty feet deep. But at the bottom, no ball. * * * * * I stared wildly at it for a full minute before I focused my eyes enough to see, at the bottom, a thousand little gray fragments. And immediately it came to both of us at the same time. A poor conductor, the ball had used up all its available heat on that final impact. Like a golfball that has been dipped in liquid air and dropped, it had smashed into thin splinters. The hole had sloping sides and I scrambled down in it and picked up one of the pieces, using my handkerchief, folded--there was no telling just how cold it would be. It was the stuff, all right. And colder than an icicle. I climbed out. "Let's go home," I said. Farnsworth looked at me thoughtfully. Then he sort of cocked his head to one side and asked, "What do you suppose will happen when those pieces thaw?" I stared at him. I began to think of a thousand tiny slivers whizzing around erratically, richocheting off buildings, in downtown San Francisco and in twenty counties, and no matter what they hit, moving and accelerating as long as there was any heat in the air to give them energy. And then I saw a tool shed, on the other side of the pasture from us. But Farnsworth was ahead of me, waddling along, puffing. He got the shovels out and handed one to me. We didn't say a word, neither of us, for hours. It takes a long time to fill a hole twenty feet deep--especially when you're shoveling very, very carefully and packing down the dirt very, very hard. --WALTER S. TEVIS +----------------------------------------------------+ \|Transcriber's Note: \| \| \| \|The spelling of "richochet" has been retained as in \| \|the original. \| \| \| \|This etext was produced from Galaxy February 1958. \| \|Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\| \|the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. \| +----------------------------------------------------+ *END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BIG BOUNCE* ***** This file should be named 23153.txt or 23153.zip *** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/3/1/5/23153 Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Tevis Release Date: October 23, 2007 [eBook #23153] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) *START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BIG BOUNCE* E-text prepared by Greg Weeks, Jacqueline Jeremy, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (https://www.pgdp.net) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 23153-h.htm or 23153-h.zip: (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/3/1/5/23153/23153-h/23153-h.htm) or (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/3/1/5/23153/23153-h.zip) _Seeing it in action, anybody would quaver in alarm: What hath Farnsworth overwrought?_ Illustrated by Johnson "Let me show you something," Farnsworth said. He set his near-empty drink--a Bacardi martini--on the mantel and waddled out of the room toward the basement. I sat in my big leather chair, feeling very peaceful with the world, watching the fire. Whatever Farnsworth would have to show to-night would be far more entertaining than watching T.V.--my custom on other evenings. Farnsworth, with his four labs in the house and his very tricky mind, never failed to provide my best night of the week. When he returned, after a moment, he had with him a small box, about three inches square. He held this carefully in one hand and stood by the fireplace dramatically--or as dramatically as a very small, very fat man with pink cheeks can stand by a fireplace of the sort that seems to demand a big man with tweeds, pipe and, perhaps, a saber wound. Anyway, he held the box dramatically and he said, "Last week, I was playing around in the chem lab, trying to make a new kind of rubber eraser. Did quite well with the other drafting equipment, you know, especially the dimensional curve and the photosensitive ink. Well, I approached the job by trying for a material that would absorb graphite without abrading paper." I was a little disappointed with this; it sounded pretty tame. But I said, "How did it come out?" * * * * * He screwed his pudgy face up thoughtfully. "Synthesized the material, all right, and it seems to work, but the interesting thing is that it has a certain--ah--secondary property that would make it quite awkward to use. Interesting property, though. Unique, I am inclined to believe." This began to sound more like it. "And what property is that?" I poured myself a shot of straight rum from the bottle sitting on the table beside me. I did not like straight rum, but I preferred it to Farnsworth's rather imaginative cocktails. "I'll show you, John," he said. He opened the box and I could see that it was packed with some kind of batting. He fished in this and withdrew a gray ball about the size of a golfball and set the box on the mantel. "And that's the--eraser?" I asked. "Yes," he said. Then he squatted down, held the ball about a half-inch from the floor, dropped it. It bounced, naturally enough. Then it bounced again. And again. Only this was not natural, for on the second bounce the ball went higher in the air than on the first, and on the third bounce higher still. After a half minute, my eyes were bugging out and the little ball was bouncing four feet in the air and going higher each time. I grabbed my glass. "What the hell!" I said. Farnsworth caught the ball in a pudgy hand and held it. He was smiling a little sheepishly. "Interesting effect, isn't it?" "Now wait a minute," I said, beginning to think about it. "What's the gimmick? What kind of motor do you have in that thing?" His eyes were wide and a little hurt. "No gimmick, John. None at all. Just a very peculiar molecular structure." "Structure!" I said. "Bouncing balls just don't pick up energy out of nowhere, I don't care how their molecules are put together. And you don't get energy out without putting energy in." "Oh," he said, "that's the really interesting thing. Of course you're right; energy _does_ go into the ball. Here, I'll show you." He let the ball drop again and it began bouncing, higher and higher, until it was hitting the ceiling. Farnsworth reached out to catch it, but he fumbled and the thing glanced off his hand, hit the mantelpiece and zipped across the room. It banged into the far wall, richocheted, banked off three other walls, picking up speed all the time. When it whizzed by me like a rifle bullet, I began to get worried, but it hit against one of the heavy draperies by the window and this damped its motion enough so that it fell to the floor. * * * * * It started bouncing again immediately, but Farnsworth scrambled across the room and grabbed it. He was perspiring a little and he began instantly to transfer the ball from one hand to another and back again as if it were hot. "Here," he said, and handed it to me. I almost dropped it. "It's like a ball of ice!" I said. "Have you been keeping it in the refrigerator?" "No. As a matter of fact, it was at room temperature a few minutes ago." "Now wait a minute," I said. "I only teach physics in high school, but I know better than that. Moving around in warm air doesn't make anything cold except by evaporation." "Well, there's your input and output, John," he said. "The ball lost heat and took on motion. Simple conversion." My jaw must have dropped to my waist. "Do you mean that that little thing is converting heat to kinetic energy?" "Apparently." "But that's impossible!" He was beginning to smile thoughtfully. The ball was not as cold now as it had been and I was holding it in my lap. "A steam engine does it," he said, "and a steam turbine. Of course, they're not very efficient." "They work mechanically, too, and only because water expands when it turns to steam." "This seems to do it differently," he said, sipping thoughtfully at his dark-brown martini. "I don't know exactly how--maybe something piezo-electric about the way its molecules slide about. I ran some tests--measured its impact energy in foot pounds and compared that with the heat loss in BTUs. Seemed to be about 98 per cent efficient, as close as I could tell. Apparently it converts heat into bounce very well. Interesting, isn't it?" "_Interesting?_" I almost came flying out of my chair. My mind was beginning to spin like crazy. "If you're not pulling my leg with this thing, Farnsworth, you've got something by the tail there that's just a little bit bigger than the discovery of fire." He blushed modestly. "I'd rather thought that myself," he admitted. "Good Lord, look at the heat that's available!" I said, getting really excited now. * * * * * Farnsworth was still smiling, very pleased with himself. "I suppose you could put this thing in a box, with convection fins, and let it bounce around inside--" "I'm way ahead of you," I said. "But that wouldn't work. All your kinetic energy would go right back to heat, on impact--and eventually that little ball would build up enough speed to blast its way through any box you could build." "Then how would you work it?" "Well," I said, choking down the rest of my rum, "you'd seal the ball in a big steel cylinder, attach the cylinder to a crankshaft and flywheel, give the thing a shake to start the ball bouncing back and forth, and let it run like a gasoline engine or something. It would get all the heat it needed from the air in a normal room. Mount the apparatus in your house and it would pump your water, operate a generator and keep you cool at the same time!" I sat down again, shakily, and began pouring myself another drink. Farnsworth had taken the ball from me and was carefully putting it back in its padded box. He was visibly showing excitement, too; I could see that his cheeks were ruddier and his eyes even brighter than normal. "But what if you want the cooling and don't have any work to be done?" "Simple," I said. "You just let the machine turn a flywheel or lift weights and drop them, or something like that, outside your house. You have an air intake inside. And if, in the winter, you don't want to lose heat, you just mount the thing in an outside building, attach it to your generator and use the power to do whatever you want--heat your house, say. There's plenty of heat in the outside air even in December." "John," said Farnsworth, "you are very ingenious. It might work." "Of course it'll work." Pictures were beginning to light up in my head. "And don't you realize that this is the answer to the solar power problem? Why, mirrors and selenium are, at best, ten per cent efficient! Think of big pumping stations on the Sahara! All that heat, all that need for power, for irrigation!" I paused a moment for effect. "Farnsworth, this can change the very shape of the Earth!" Farnsworth seemed to be lost in thought. Finally he looked at me strangely and said, "Perhaps we had better try to build a model." * * * * * I was so excited by the thing that I couldn't sleep that night. I kept dreaming of power stations, ocean liners, even automobiles, being operated by balls bouncing back and forth in cylinders. I even worked out a spaceship in my mind, a bullet-shaped affair with a huge rubber ball on its end, gyroscopes to keep it oriented properly, the ball serving as solution to that biggest of missile-engineering problems, excess heat. You'd build a huge concrete launching field, supported all the way down to bedrock, hop in the ship and start bouncing. Of course it would be kind of a rough ride.... In the morning, I called my superintendent and told him to get a substitute for the rest of the week; I was going to be busy. Then I started working in the machine shop in Farnsworth's basement, trying to turn out a working model of a device that, by means of a crankshaft, oleo dampers and a reciprocating cylinder, would pick up some of that random kinetic energy from the bouncing ball and do something useful with it, like turning a drive shaft. I was just working out a convection-and-air pump system for circulating hot air around the ball when Farnsworth came in. He had tucked carefully under his arm a sphere of about the size of a basketball and, if he had made it to my specifications, weighing thirty-five pounds. He had a worried frown on his forehead. "It looks good," I said. "What's the trouble?" "There seems to be a slight hitch," he said. "I've been testing for conductivity. It seems to be quite low." "That's what I'm working on now. It's just a mechanical problem of pumping enough warm air back to the ball. We can do it with no more than a twenty per cent efficiency loss. In an engine, that's nothing." "Maybe you're right. But this material conducts heat even less than rubber does." "The little ball yesterday didn't seem to have any trouble," I said. "Naturally not. It had had plenty of time to warm up before I started it. And its mass-surface area relationship was pretty low--the larger you make a sphere, of course, the more mass inside in proportion to the outside area." "You're right, but I think we can whip it. We may have to honeycomb the ball and have part of the work the machine does operate a big hot air pump; but we can work it out." * * * * * All that day, I worked with lathe, milling machine and hacksaw. After clamping the new big ball securely to a workbench, Farnsworth pitched in to help me. But we weren't able to finish by nightfall and Farnsworth turned his spare bedroom over to me for the night. I was too tired to go home. And too tired to sleep soundly, too. Farnsworth lived on the edge of San Francisco, by a big truck by-pass, and almost all night I wrestled with the pillow and sheets, listening half-consciously to those heavy trucks rumbling by, and in my mind, always, that little gray ball, bouncing and bouncing and bouncing.... At daybreak, I came abruptly fully awake with the sound of crashing echoing in my ears, a battering sound that seemed to come from the basement. I grabbed my coat and pants, rushed out of the room, almost knocked over Farnsworth, who was struggling to get his shoes on out in the hall, and we scrambled down the two flights of stairs together. The place was a chaos, battered and bashed equipment everywhere, and on the floor, overturned against the far wall, the table that the ball had been clamped to. The ball itself was gone. I had not been fully asleep all night, and the sight of that mess, and what it meant, jolted me immediately awake. Something, probably a heavy truck, had started a tiny oscillation in that ball. And the ball had been heavy enough to start the table bouncing with it until, by dancing that table around the room, it had literally torn the clamp off and shaken itself free. What had happened afterward was obvious, with the ball building up velocity with every successive bounce. But where was the ball now? Suddenly Farnsworth cried out hoarsely, "Look!" and I followed his outstretched, pudgy finger to where, at one side of the basement, a window had been broken open--a small window, but plenty big enough for something the size of a basketball to crash through it. There was a little weak light coming from outdoors. And then I saw the ball. It was in Farnsworth's back yard, bouncing a little sluggishly on the grass. The grass would damp it, hold it back, until we could get to it. Unless.... I took off up the basement steps like a streak. Just beyond the back yard, I had caught a glimpse of something that frightened me. A few yards from where I had seen the ball was the edge of the big six-lane highway, a broad ribbon of smooth, hard concrete. [Illustration] I got through the house to the back porch, rushed out and was in the back yard just in time to see the ball take its first bounce onto the concrete. I watched it, fascinated, when it hit--after the soft, energy absorbing turf, the concrete was like a springboard. Immediately the ball flew high in the air. I was running across the yard toward it, praying under my breath, _Fall on that grass next time_. It hit before I got to it, and right on the concrete again, and this time I saw it go straight up at least fifty feet. * * * * * My mind was suddenly full of thoughts of dragging mattresses from the house, or making a net or something to stop that hurtling thirty-five pounds; but I stood where I was, unable to move, and saw it come down again on the highway. It went up a hundred feet. And down again on the concrete, about fifteen feet further down the road. In the direction of the city. That time it was two hundred feet, and when it hit again, it made a thud that you could have heard for a quarter of a mile. I could practically see it flatten out on the road before it took off upward again, at twice the speed it had hit at. Suddenly generating an idea, I whirled and ran back to Farnsworth's house. He was standing in the yard now, shivering from the morning air, looking at me like a little lost and badly scared child. "Where are your car keys?" I almost shouted at him. "In my pocket." "Come on!" I took him by the arm and half dragged him to the carport. I got the keys from him, started the car, and by mangling about seven traffic laws and three prize rosebushes, managed to get on the highway, facing in the direction that the ball was heading. "Look," I said, trying to drive down the road and search for the ball at the same time. "It's risky, but if I can get the car under it and we can hop out in time, it should crash through the roof. That ought to slow it down enough for us to nab it." "But--what about my car?" Farnsworth bleated. "What about that first building--or first person--it hits in San Francisco?" "Oh," he said. "Hadn't thought of that." I slowed the car and stuck my head out the window. It was lighter now, but no sign of the ball. "If it happens to get to town--any town, for that matter--it'll be falling from about ten or twenty miles. Or forty." "Maybe it'll go high enough first so that it'll burn. Like a meteor." "No chance," I said. "Built-in cooling system, remember?" Farnsworth formed his mouth into an "Oh" and exactly at that moment there was a resounding _thump_ and I saw the ball hit in a field, maybe twenty yards from the edge of the road, and take off again. This time it didn't seem to double its velocity, and I figured the ground was soft enough to hold it back--but it wasn't slowing down either, not with a bounce factor of better than two to one. * * * * * Without watching for it to go up, I drove as quickly as I could off the road and over--carrying part of a wire fence with me--to where it had hit. There was no mistaking it; there was a depression about three feet deep, like a small crater. I jumped out of the car and stared up. It took me a few seconds to spot it, over my head. One side caught by the pale and slanting morning sunlight, it was only a bright diminishing speck. The car motor was running and I waited until the ball disappeared for a moment and then reappeared. I watched for another couple of seconds until I felt I could make a decent guess on its direction, hollered at Farnsworth to get out of the car--it had just occurred to me that there was no use risking his life, too--dove in and drove a hundred yards or so to the spot I had anticipated. I stuck my head out the window and up. The ball was the size of an egg now. I adjusted the car's position, jumped out and ran for my life. It hit instantly after--about sixty feet from the car. And at the same time, it occurred to me that what I was trying to do was completely impossible. Better to hope that the ball hit a pond, or bounced out to sea, or landed in a sand dune. All we could do would be to follow, and if it ever was damped down enough, grab it. It had hit soft ground and didn't double its height that time, but it had still gone higher. It was out of sight for almost a lifelong minute. And then--incredibly rotten luck--it came down, with an ear-shattering thwack, on the concrete highway again. I had seen it hit, and instantly afterward I saw a crack as wide as a finger open along the entire width of the road. And the ball had flown back up like a rocket. _My God_, I was thinking, _now it means business. And on the next bounce...._ It seemed like an incredibly long time that we craned our necks, Farnsworth and I, watching for it to reappear in the sky. And when it finally did, we could hardly follow it. It whistled like a bomb and we saw the gray streak come plummeting to Earth almost a quarter of a mile away from where we were standing. But we didn't see it go back up again. For a moment, we stared at each other silently. Then Farnsworth almost whispered, "Perhaps it's landed in a pond." "Or in the world's biggest cow-pile," I said. "Come on!" We could have met our deaths by rock salt and buckshot that night, if the farmer who owned that field had been home. We tore up everything we came to getting across it--including cabbages and rhubarb. But we had to search for ten minutes, and even then we didn't find the ball. What we found was a hole in the ground that could have been a small-scale meteor crater. It was a good twenty feet deep. But at the bottom, no ball. * * * * * I stared wildly at it for a full minute before I focused my eyes enough to see, at the bottom, a thousand little gray fragments. And immediately it came to both of us at the same time. A poor conductor, the ball had used up all its available heat on that final impact. Like a golfball that has been dipped in liquid air and dropped, it had smashed into thin splinters. The hole had sloping sides and I scrambled down in it and picked up one of the pieces, using my handkerchief, folded--there was no telling just how cold it would be. It was the stuff, all right. And colder than an icicle. I climbed out. "Let's go home," I said. Farnsworth looked at me thoughtfully. Then he sort of cocked his head to one side and asked, "What do you suppose will happen when those pieces thaw?" I stared at him. I began to think of a thousand tiny slivers whizzing around erratically, richocheting off buildings, in downtown San Francisco and in twenty counties, and no matter what they hit, moving and accelerating as long as there was any heat in the air to give them energy. And then I saw a tool shed, on the other side of the pasture from us. But Farnsworth was ahead of me, waddling along, puffing. He got the shovels out and handed one to me. We didn't say a word, neither of us, for hours. It takes a long time to fill a hole twenty feet deep--especially when you're shoveling very, very carefully and packing down the dirt very, very hard. --WALTER S. TEVIS +----------------------------------------------------+ \|Transcriber's Note: \| \| \| \|The spelling of "richochet" has been retained as in \| \|the original. \| \| \| \|This etext was produced from Galaxy February 1958. \| \|Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that\| \|the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. \| +----------------------------------------------------+ *END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BIG BOUNCE* ***** This file should be named 23153.txt or 23153.zip *** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/3/1/5/23153 Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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锘縏he Project Gutenberg EBook of The Crystal Crypt, by Philip Kindred Dick This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Crystal Crypt Author: Philip Kindred Dick Release Date: May 6, 2009 [EBook #28698] [Last updated: May 4, 2011] Language: English * START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CRYSTAL CRYPT * Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net THE CRYSTAL CRYPT By PHILIP K. DICK _Stark terror ruled the Inner-Flight ship on that last Mars-Terra run. For the black-clad Leiters were on the prowl ... and the grim red planet was not far behind._ "Attention, Inner-Flight ship! Attention! You are ordered to land at the Control Station on Deimos for inspection. Attention! You are to land at once!" The metallic rasp of the speaker echoed through the corridors of the great ship. The passengers glanced at each other uneasily, murmuring and peering out the port windows at the small speck below, the dot of rock that was the Martian checkpoint, Deimos. "What's up?" an anxious passenger asked one of the pilots, hurrying through the ship to check the escape lock. "We have to land. Keep seated." The pilot went on. "Land? But why?" They all looked at each other. Hovering above the bulging Inner-Flight ship were three slender Martian pursuit craft, poised and alert for any emergency. As the Inner-Flight ship prepared to land the pursuit ships dropped lower, carefully maintaining themselves a short distance away. "There's something going on," a woman passenger said nervously. "Lord, I thought we were finally through with those Martians. Now what?" "I don't blame them for giving us one last going over," a heavy-set business man said to his companion. "After all, we're the last ship leaving Mars for Terra. We're damn lucky they let us go at all." "You think there really will be war?" A young man said to the girl sitting in the seat next to him. "Those Martians won't dare fight, not with our weapons and ability to produce. We could take care of Mars in a month. It's all talk." The girl glanced at him. "Don't be so sure. Mars is desperate. They'll fight tooth and nail. I've been on Mars three years." She shuddered. "Thank goodness I'm getting away. If--" "Prepare to land!" the pilot's voice came. The ship began to settle slowly, dropping down toward the tiny emergency field on the seldom visited moon. Down, down the ship dropped. There was a grinding sound, a sickening jolt. Then silence. "We've landed," the heavy-set business man said. "They better not do anything to us! Terra will rip them apart if they violate one Space Article." "Please keep your seats," the pilot's voice came. "No one is to leave the ship, according to the Martian authorities. We are to remain here." A restless stir filled the ship. Some of the passengers began to read uneasily, others stared out at the deserted field, nervous and on edge, watching the three Martian pursuit ships land and disgorge groups of armed men. The Martian soldiers were crossing the field quickly, moving toward them, running double time. This Inner-Flight spaceship was the last passenger vessel to leave Mars for Terra. All other ships had long since left, returning to safety before the outbreak of hostilities. The passengers were the very last to go, the final group of Terrans to leave the grim red planet, business men, expatriates, tourists, any and all Terrans who had not already gone home. "What do you suppose they want?" the young man said to the girl. "It's hard to figure Martians out, isn't it? First they give the ship clearance, let us take off, and now they radio us to set down again. By the way, my name's Thacher, Bob Thacher. Since we're going to be here awhile--" [Illustration] * * * * * The port lock opened. Talking ceased abruptly, as everyone turned. A black-clad Martian official, a Province Leiter, stood framed against the bleak sunlight, staring around the ship. Behind him a handful of Martian soldiers stood waiting, their guns ready. "This will not take long," the Leiter said, stepping into the ship, the soldiers following him. "You will be allowed to continue your trip shortly." An audible sigh of relief went through the passengers. "Look at him," the girl whispered to Thacher. "How I hate those black uniforms!" "He's just a Provincial Leiter," Thacher said. "Don't worry." The Leiter stood for a moment, his hands on his hips, looking around at them without expression. "I have ordered your ship grounded so that an inspection can be made of all persons aboard," he said. "You Terrans are the last to leave our planet. Most of you are ordinary and harmless-- I am not interested in you. I am interested in finding three saboteurs, three Terrans, two men and a woman, who have committed an incredible act of destruction and violence. They are said to have fled to this ship." Murmurs of surprise and indignation broke out on all sides. The Leiter motioned the soldiers to follow him up the aisle. "Two hours ago a Martian city was destroyed. Nothing remains, only a depression in the sand where the city was. The city and all its people have completely vanished. An entire city destroyed in a second! Mars will never rest until the saboteurs are captured. And we know they are aboard this ship." "It's impossible," the heavy-set business man said. "There aren't any saboteurs here." "We'll begin with you," the Leiter said to him, stepping up beside the man's seat. One of the soldiers passed the Leiter a square metal box. "This will soon tell us if you're speaking the truth. Stand up. Get on your feet." The man rose slowly, flushing. "See here--" "Are you involved in the destruction of the city? Answer!" The man swallowed angrily. "I know nothing about any destruction of any city. And furthermore--" "He is telling the truth," the metal box said tonelessly. "Next person." The Leiter moved down the aisle. A thin, bald-headed man stood up nervously. "No, sir," he said. "I don't know a thing about it." "He is telling the truth," the box affirmed. "Next person! Stand up!" One person after another stood, answered, and sat down again in relief. At last there were only a few people left who had not been questioned. The Leiter paused, studying them intently. "Only five left. The three must be among you. We have narrowed it down." His hand moved to his belt. Something flashed, a rod of pale fire. He raised the rod, pointing it steadily at the five people. "All right, the first one of you. What do you know about this destruction? Are you involved with the destruction of our city?" "No, not at all," the man murmured. "Yes, he's telling the truth," the box intoned. "Next!" "Nothing-- I know nothing. I had nothing to do with it." "True," the box said. The ship was silent. Three people remained, a middle-aged man and his wife and their son, a boy of about twelve. They stood in the corner, staring white-faced at the Leiter, at the rod in his dark fingers. "It must be you," the Leiter grated, moving toward them. The Martian soldiers raised their guns. "It _must_ be you. You there, the boy. What do you know about the destruction of our city? Answer!" The boy shook his head. "Nothing," he whispered. The box was silent for a moment. "He is telling the truth," it said reluctantly. "Next!" "Nothing," the woman muttered. "Nothing." "The truth." "Next!" "I had nothing to do with blowing up your city," the man said. "You're wasting your time." "It is the truth," the box said. For a long time the Leiter stood, toying with his rod. At last he pushed it back in his belt and signalled the soldiers toward the exit lock. "You may proceed on your trip," he said. He walked after the soldiers. At the hatch he stopped, looking back at the passengers, his face grim. "You may go-- But Mars will not allow her enemies to escape. The three saboteurs will be caught, I promise you." He rubbed his dark jaw thoughtfully. "It is strange. I was certain they were on this ship." Again he looked coldly around at the Terrans. "Perhaps I was wrong. All right, proceed! But remember: the three will be caught, even if it takes endless years. Mars will catch them and punish them! I swear it!" * * * * * For a long time no one spoke. The ship lumbered through space again, its jets firing evenly, calmly, moving the passengers toward their own planet, toward home. Behind them Deimos and the red ball that was Mars dropped farther and farther away each moment, disappearing and fading into the distance. A sigh of relief passed through the passengers. "What a lot of hot air that was," one grumbled. "Barbarians!" a woman said. A few of them stood up, moving out into the aisle, toward the lounge and the cocktail bar. Beside Thacher the girl got to her feet, pulling her jacket around her shoulders. "Pardon me," she said, stepping past him. "Going to the bar?" Thacher said. "Mind if I come along?" "I suppose not." They followed the others into the lounge, walking together up the aisle. "You know," Thacher said, "I don't even know your name, yet." "My name is Mara Gordon." "Mara? That's a nice name. What part of Terra are you from? North America? New York?" "I've been in New York," Mara said. "New York is very lovely." She was slender and pretty, with a cloud of dark hair tumbling down her neck, against her leather jacket. They entered the lounge and stood undecided. "Let's sit at a table," Mara said, looking around at the people at the bar, mostly men. "Perhaps that table over there." "But someone's there already," Thacher said. The heavy-set business man had sat down at the table and deposited his sample case on the floor. "Do we want to sit with _him_?" "Oh, it's all right," Mara said, crossing to the table. "May we sit here?" she said to the man. The man looked up, half-rising. "It's a pleasure," he murmured. He studied Thacher intently. "However, a friend of mine will be joining me in a moment." "I'm sure there's room enough for us all," Mara said. She seated herself and Thacher helped her with her chair. He sat down, too, glancing up suddenly at Mara and the business man. They were looking at each other almost as if something had passed between them. The man was middle-aged, with a florid face and tired, grey eyes. His hands were mottled with the veins showing thickly. At the moment he was tapping nervously. "My name's Thacher," Thacher said to him, holding out his hand. "Bob Thacher. Since we're going to be together for a while we might as well get to know each other." The man studied him. Slowly his hand came out. "Why not? My name's Erickson. Ralf Erickson." "Erickson?" Thacher smiled. "You look like a commercial man, to me." He nodded toward the sample case on the floor. "Am I right?" The man named Erickson started to answer, but at that moment there was a stir. A thin man of about thirty had come up to the table, his eyes bright, staring down at them warmly. "Well, we're on our way," he said to Erickson. "Hello, Mara." He pulled out a chair and sat down quickly, folding his hands on the table before him. He noticed Thacher and drew back a little. "Pardon me," he murmured. "Bob Thacher is my name," Thacher said. "I hope I'm not intruding here." He glanced around at the three of them, Mara, alert, watching him intently, heavy-set Erickson, his face blank, and this person. "Say, do you three know each other?" he asked suddenly. There was silence. The robot attendant slid over soundlessly, poised to take their orders. Erickson roused himself. "Let's see," he murmured. "What will we have? Mara?" "Whiskey and water." "You, Jan?" The bright slim man smiled. "The same." "Thacher?" "Gin and tonic." "Whiskey and water for me, also," Erickson said. The robot attendant went off. It returned at once with the drinks, setting them on the table. Each took his own. "Well," Erickson said, holding his glass up. "To our mutual success." * * * * * All drank, Thacher and the three of them, heavy-set Erickson, Mara, her eyes nervous and alert, Jan, who had just come. Again a look passed between Mara and Erickson, a look so swift that he would not have caught it had he not been looking directly at her. "What line do you represent, Mr. Erickson?" Thacher asked. Erickson glanced at him, then down at the sample case on the floor. He grunted. "Well, as you can see, I'm a salesman." Thacher smiled. "I knew it! You get so you can always spot a salesman right off by his sample case. A salesman always has to carry something to show. What are you in, sir?" Erickson paused. He licked his thick lips, his eyes blank and lidded, like a toad's. At last he rubbed his mouth with his hand and reached down, lifting up the sample case. He set it on the table in front of him. "Well?" he said. "Perhaps we might even show Mr. Thacher." They all stared down at the sample case. It seemed to be an ordinary leather case, with a metal handle and a snap lock. "I'm getting curious," Thacher said. "What's in there? You're all so tense. Diamonds? Stolen jewels?" Jan laughed harshly, mirthlessly. "Erick, put it down. We're not far enough away, yet." "Nonsense," Erick rumbled. "We're away, Jan." "Please," Mara whispered. "Wait, Erick." "Wait? Why? What for? You're so accustomed to--" "Erick," Mara said. She nodded toward Thacher. "We don't know him, Erick. Please!" "He's a Terran, isn't he?" Erickson said. "All Terrans are together in these times." He fumbled suddenly at the catch lock on the case. "Yes, Mr. Thacher. I'm a salesman. We're all salesmen, the three of us." "Then you do know each other." "Yes." Erickson nodded. His two companions sat rigidly, staring down. "Yes, we do. Here, I'll show you our line." He opened the case. From it he took a letter-knife, a pencil sharpener, a glass globe paperweight, a box of thumb tacks, a stapler, some clips, a plastic ashtray, and some things Thacher could not identify. He placed the objects in a row in front of him on the table top. Then he closed the sample case. "I gather you're in office supplies," Thacher said. He touched the letter-knife with his finger. "Nice quality steel. Looks like Swedish steel, to me." Erickson nodded, looking into Thacher's face. "Not really an impressive business, is it? Office supplies. Ashtrays, paper clips." He smiled. "Oh--" Thacher shrugged. "Why not? They're a necessity in modern business. The only thing I wonder--" "What's that?" "Well, I wonder how you'd ever find enough customers on Mars to make it worth your while." He paused, examining the glass paperweight. He lifted it up, holding it to the light, staring at the scene within until Erickson took it out of his hand and put it back in the sample case. "And another thing. If you three know each other, why did you sit apart when you got on?" They looked at him quickly. "And why didn't you speak to each other until we left Deimos?" He leaned toward Erickson, smiling at him. "Two men and a woman. Three of you. Sitting apart in the ship. Not speaking, not until the check-station was past. I find myself thinking over what the Martian said. Three saboteurs. A woman and two men." Erickson put the things back in the sample case. He was smiling, but his face had gone chalk white. Mara stared down, playing with a drop of water on the edge of her glass. Jan clenched his hands together nervously, blinking rapidly. "You three are the ones the Leiter was after," Thacher said softly. "You are the destroyers, the saboteurs. But their lie detector-- Why didn't it trap you? How did you get by that? And now you're safe, outside the check-station." He grinned, staring around at them. "I'll be damned! And I really thought you were a salesman, Erickson. You really fooled me." Erickson relaxed a little. "Well, Mr. Thacher, it's in a good cause. I'm sure you have no love for Mars, either. No Terran does. And I see you're leaving with the rest of us." "True," Thacher said. "You must certainly have an interesting account to give, the three of you." He looked around the table. "We still have an hour or so of travel. Sometimes it gets dull, this Mars-Terra run. Nothing to see, nothing to do but sit and drink in the lounge." He raised his eyes slowly. "Any chance you'd like to spin a story to keep us awake?" Jan and Mara looked at Erickson. "Go on," Jan said. "He knows who we are. Tell him the rest of the story." "You might as well," Mara said. Jan let out a sigh suddenly, a sigh of relief. "Let's put the cards on the table, get this weight off us. I'm tired of sneaking around, slipping--" "Sure," Erickson said expansively. "Why not?" He settled back in his chair, unbuttoning his vest. "Certainly, Mr. Thacher. I'll be glad to spin you a story. And I'm sure it will be interesting enough to keep you awake." * * * * * They ran through the groves of dead trees, leaping across the sun-baked Martian soil, running silently together. They went up a little rise, across a narrow ridge. Suddenly Erick stopped, throwing himself down flat on the ground. The others did the same, pressing themselves against the soil, gasping for breath. "Be silent," Erick muttered. He raised himself a little. "No noise. There'll be Leiters nearby, from now on. We don't dare take any chances." Between the three people lying in the grove of dead trees and the City was a barren, level waste of desert, over a mile of blasted sand. No trees or bushes marred the smooth, parched surface. Only an occasional wind, a dry wind eddying and twisting, blew the sand up into little rills. A faint odor came to them, a bitter smell of heat and sand, carried by the wind. Erick pointed. "Look. The City-- There it is." They stared, still breathing deeply from their race through the trees. The City was close, closer than they had ever seen it before. Never had they gotten so close to it in times past. Terrans were never allowed near the great Martian cities, the centers of Martian life. Even in ordinary times, when there was no threat of approaching war, the Martians shrewdly kept all Terrans away from their citadels, partly from fear, partly from a deep, innate sense of hostility toward the white-skinned visitors whose commercial ventures had earned them the respect, and the dislike, of the whole system. "How does it look to you?" Erick said. The City was huge, much larger than they had imagined from the drawings and models they had studied so carefully back in New York, in the War Ministry Office. Huge it was, huge and stark, black towers rising up against the sky, incredibly thin columns of ancient metal, columns that had stood wind and sun for centuries. Around the City was a wall of stone, red stone, immense bricks that had been lugged there and fitted into place by slaves of the early Martian dynasties, under the whiplash of the first great Kings of Mars. An ancient, sun-baked City, a City set in the middle of a wasted plain, beyond groves of dead trees, a City seldom seen by Terrans--but a City studied on maps and charts in every War Office on Terra. A City that contained, for all its ancient stone and archaic towers, the ruling group of all Mars, the Council of Senior Leiters, black-clad men who governed and ruled with an iron hand. The Senior Leiters, twelve fanatic and devoted men, black priests, but priests with flashing rods of fire, lie detectors, rocket ships, intra-space cannon, many more things the Terran Senate could only conjecture about. The Senior Leiters and their subordinate Province Leiters-- Erick and the two behind him suppressed a shudder. "We've got to be careful," Erick said again. "We'll be passing among them, soon. If they guess who we are, or what we're here for--" He snapped open the case he carried, glancing inside for a second. Then he closed it again, grasping the handle firmly. "Let's go," he said. He stood up slowly. "You two come up beside me. I want to make sure you look the way you should." * * * * * Mara and Jan stepped quickly ahead. Erick studied them critically as the three of them walked slowly down the slope, onto the plain, toward the towering black spires of the City. "Jan," Erick said. "Take hold of her hand! Remember, you're going to marry her; she's your bride. And Martian peasants think a lot of their brides." Jan was dressed in the short trousers and coat of the Martian farmer, a knotted rope tied around his waist, a hat on his head to keep off the sun. His skin was dark, colored by dye until it was almost bronze. "You look fine," Erick said to him. He glanced at Mara. Her black hair was tied in a knot, looped through a hollowed-out yuke bone. Her face was dark, too, dark and lined with colored ceremonial pigment, green and orange stripes across her cheeks. Earrings were strung through her ears. On her feet were tiny slippers of perruh hide, laced around her ankles, and she wore long translucent Martian trousers with a bright sash tied around her waist. Between her small breasts a chain of stone beads rested, good-luck charms for the coming marriage. "All right," Erick said. He, himself, wore the flowing grey robe of a Martian priest, dirty robes that were supposed to remain on him all his life, to be buried around him when he died. "I think we'll get past the guards. There should be heavy morning traffic on the road." They walked on, the hard sand crunching under their feet. Against the horizon they could see specks moving, other persons going toward the City, farmers and peasants and merchants, bringing their crops and goods to market. "See the cart!" Mara exclaimed. They were nearing a narrow road, two ruts worn into the sand. A Martian hufa was pulling the cart, its great sides wet with perspiration, its tongue hanging out. The cart was piled high with bales of cloth, rough country cloth, hand dipped. A bent farmer urged the hufa on. "And there." She pointed, smiling. A group of merchants riding small animals were moving along behind the cart, Martians in long robes, their faces hidden by sand masks. On each animal was a pack, carefully tied on with rope. And beyond the merchants, plodding dully along, were peasants and farmers in an endless procession, some riding carts or animals, but mostly on foot. Mara and Jan and Erick joined the line of people, melting in behind the merchants. No one noticed them; no one looked up or gave any sign. The march continued as before. Neither Jan nor Mara said anything to each other. They walked a little behind Erick, who paced with a certain dignity, a certain bearing becoming his position. Once he slowed down, pointing up at the sky. "Look," he murmured, in the Martian hill dialect. "See that?" Two black dots circled lazily. Martian patrol craft, the military on the outlook for any sign of unusual activity. War was almost ready to break out with Terra. Any day, almost any moment. "We'll be just in time," Erick said. "Tomorrow will be too late. The last ship will have left Mars." "I hope nothing stops us," Mara said. "I want to get back home when we're through." * * * * * Half an hour passed. They neared the City, the wall growing as they walked, rising higher and higher until it seemed to blot out the sky itself. A vast wall, a wall of eternal stone that had felt the wind and sun for centuries. A group of Martian soldiers were standing at the entrance, the single passage-gate hewn into the rock, leading to the City. As each person went through the soldiers examined him, poking his garments, looking into his load. Erick tensed. The line had slowed almost to a halt. "It'll be our turn, soon," he murmured. "Be prepared." "Let's hope no Leiters come around," Jan said. "The soldiers aren't so bad." Mara was staring up at the wall and the towers beyond. Under their feet the ground trembled, vibrating and shaking. She could see tongues of flame rising from the towers, from the deep underground factories and forges of the City. The air was thick and dense with particles of soot. Mara rubbed her mouth, coughing. "Here they come," Erick said softly. The merchants had been examined and allowed to pass through the dark gate, the entrance through the wall into the City. They and their silent animals had already disappeared inside. The leader of the group of soldiers was beckoning impatiently to Erick, waving him on. "Come along!" he said. "Hurry up there, old man." Erick advanced slowly, his arms wrapped around his body, looking down at the ground. "Who are you and what's your business here?" the soldier demanded, his hands on his hips, his gun hanging idly at his waist. Most of the soldiers were lounging lazily, leaning against the wall, some even squatting in the shade. Flies crawled on the face of one who had fallen asleep, his gun on the ground beside him. "My business?" Erick murmured. "I am a village priest." "Why do you want to enter the City?" "I must bring these two people before the magistrate to marry them." He indicated Mara and Jan, standing a little behind him. "That is the Law the Leiters have made." The soldier laughed. He circled around Erick. "What do you have in that bag you carry?" "Laundry. We stay the night." "What village are you from?" "Kranos." "Kranos?" The soldier looked to a companion. "Ever heard of Kranos?" "A backward pig sty. I saw it once on a hunting trip." The leader of the soldiers nodded to Jan and Mara. The two of them advanced, their hands clasped, standing close together. One of the soldiers put his hand on Mara's bare shoulder, turning her around. "Nice little wife you're getting," he said. "Good and firm-looking." He winked, grinning lewdly. Jan glanced at him in sullen resentment. The soldiers guffawed. "All right," the leader said to Erick. "You people can pass." Erick took a small purse from his robes and gave the soldier a coin. Then the three of them went into the dark tunnel that was the entrance, passing through the wall of stone, into the City beyond. They were within the City! "Now," Erick whispered. "Hurry." Around them the City roared and cracked, the sound of a thousand vents and machines, shaking the stones under their feet. Erick led Mara and Jan into a corner, by a row of brick warehouses. People were everywhere, hurrying back and forth, shouting above the din, merchants, peddlers, soldiers, street women. Erick bent down and opened the case he carried. From the case he quickly took three small coils of fine metal, intricate meshed wires and vanes worked together into a small cone. Jan took one and Mara took one. Erick put the remaining cone into his robe and snapped the case shut again. "Now remember, the coils must be buried in such a way that the line runs through the center of the City. We must trisect the main section, where the largest concentration of buildings is. Remember the maps! Watch the alleys and streets carefully. Talk to no one if you can help it. Each of you has enough Martian money to buy your way out of trouble. Watch especially for cut-purses, and for heaven's sake, don't get lost." * * * * * Erick broke off. Two black-clad Leiters were coming along the inside of the wall, strolling together with their hands behind their backs. They noticed the three who stood in the corner by the warehouses and stopped. "Go," Erick muttered. "And be back here at sundown." He smiled grimly. "Or never come back." Each went off a different way, walking quickly without looking back. The Leiters watched them go. "The little bride was quite lovely," one Leiter said. "Those hill people have the stamp of nobility in their blood, from the old times." "A very lucky young peasant to possess her," the other said. They went on. Erick looked after them, still smiling a little. Then he joined the surging mass of people that milled eternally through the streets of the City. At dusk they met outside the gate. The sun was soon to set, and the air had turned thin and frigid. It cut through their clothing like knives. Mara huddled against Jan, trembling and rubbing her bare arms. "Well?" Erick said. "Did you both succeed?" Around them peasants and merchants were pouring from the entrance, leaving the City to return to their farms and villages, starting the long trip back across the plain toward the hills beyond. None of them noticed the shivering girl and the young man and the old priest standing by the wall. "Mine's in place," Jan said. "On the other side of the City, on the extreme edge. Buried by a well." "Mine's in the industrial section," Mara whispered, her teeth chattering. "Jan, give me something to put over me! I'm freezing." "Good," Erick said. "Then the three coils should trisect dead center, if the models were correct." He looked up at the darkening sky. Already, stars were beginning to show. Two dots, the evening patrol, moved slowly toward the horizon. "Let's hurry. It won't be long." They joined the line of Martians moving along the road, away from the City. Behind them the City was losing itself in the sombre tones of night, its black spires disappearing into darkness. They walked silently with the country people until the flat ridge of dead trees became visible on the horizon. Then they left the road and turned off, walking toward the trees. "Almost time!" Erick said. He increased his pace, looking back at Jan and Mara impatiently. "Come on!" They hurried, making their way through the twilight, stumbling over rocks and dead branches, up the side of the ridge. At the top Erick halted, standing with his hands on his hips, looking back. "See," he murmured. "The City. The last time we'll ever see it this way." "Can I sit down?" Mara said. "My feet hurt me." Jan pulled at Erick's sleeve. "Hurry, Erick! Not much time left." He laughed nervously. "If everything goes right we'll be able to look at it--forever." "But not like this," Erick murmured. He squatted down, snapping his case open. He took some tubes and wiring out and assembled them together on the ground, at the peak of the ridge. A small pyramid of wire and plastic grew, shaped by his expert hands. At last he grunted, standing up. "All right." "Is it pointed directly at the City?" Mara asked anxiously, looking down at the pyramid. Erick nodded. "Yes, it's placed according--" He stopped, suddenly stiffening. "Get back! It's time! _Hurry!_" Jan ran, down the far side of the slope, away from the City, pulling Mara with him. Erick came quickly after, still looking back at the distant spires, almost lost in the night sky. "Down." Jan sprawled out, Mara beside him, her trembling body pressed against his. Erick settled down into the sand and dead branches, still trying to see. "I want to see it," he murmured. "A miracle. I want to see--" A flash, a blinding burst of violet light, lit up the sky. Erick clapped his hands over his eyes. The flash whitened, growing larger, expanding. Suddenly there was a roar, and a furious hot wind rushed past him, throwing him on his face in the sand. The hot dry wind licked and seared at them, crackling the bits of branches into flame. Mara and Jan shut their eyes, pressed tightly together. "God--" Erick muttered. The storm passed. They opened their eyes slowly. The sky was still alive with fire, a drifting cloud of sparks that was beginning to dissipate with the night wind. Erick stood up unsteadily, helping Jan and Mara to their feet. The three of them stood, staring silently across the dark waste, the black plain, none of them speaking. The City was gone. At last Erick turned away. "That part's done," he said. "Now the rest! Give me a hand, Jan. There'll be a thousand patrol ships around here in a minute." "I see one already," Mara said, pointing up. A spot winked in the sky, a rapidly moving spot. "They're coming, Erick." There was a throb of chill fear in her voice. "I know." Erick and Jan squatted on the ground around the pyramid of tubes and plastic, pulling the pyramid apart. The pyramid was fused, fused together like molten glass. Erick tore the pieces away with trembling fingers. From the remains of the pyramid he pulled something forth, something he held up high, trying to make it out in the darkness. Jan and Mara came close to see, both staring up intently, almost without breathing. "There it is," Erick said. "There!" * * * * * In his hand was a globe, a small transparent globe of glass. Within the glass something moved, something minute and fragile, spires almost too small to be seen, microscopic, a complex web swimming within the hollow glass globe. A web of spires. A City. Erick put the globe into the case and snapped it shut. "Let's go," he said. They began to lope back through the trees, back the way they had come before. "We'll change in the car," he said as they ran. "I think we should keep these clothes on until we're actually inside the car. We still might encounter someone." "I'll be glad to get my own clothing on again," Jan said. "I feel funny in these little pants." "How do you think I feel?" Mara gasped. "I'm freezing in this, what there is of it." "All young Martian brides dress that way," Erick said. He clutched the case tightly as they ran. "I think it looks fine." "Thank you," Mara said, "but it is cold." "What do you suppose they'll think?" Jan asked. "They'll assume the City was destroyed, won't they? That's certain." "Yes," Erick said. "They'll be sure it was blown up. We can count on that. And it will be damn important to us that they think so!" "The car should be around here, someplace," Mara said, slowing down. "No. Farther on," Erick said. "Past that little hill over there. In the ravine, by the trees. It's so hard to see where we are." "Shall I light something?" Jan said. "No. There may be patrols around who--" He halted abruptly. Jan and Mara stopped beside him. "What--" Mara began. A light glimmered. Something stirred in the darkness. There was a sound. "Quick!" Erick rasped. He dropped, throwing the case far away from him, into the bushes. He straightened up tensely. A figure loomed up, moving through the darkness, and behind it came more figures, men, soldiers in uniform. The light flashed up brightly, blinding them. Erick closed his eyes. The light left him, touching Mara and Jan, standing silently together, clasping hands. Then it flicked down to the ground and around in a circle. A Leiter stepped forward, a tall figure in black, with his soldiers close behind him, their guns ready. "You three," the Leiter said. "Who are you? Don't move. Stand where you are." He came up to Erick, peering at him intently, his hard Martian face without expression. He went all around Erick, examining his robes, his sleeves. "Please--" Erick began in a quavering voice, but the Leiter cut him off. "I'll do the talking. Who are you three? What are you doing here? Speak up." "We--we are going back to our village," Erick muttered, staring down, his hands folded. "We were in the City, and now we are going home." One of the soldiers spoke into a mouthpiece. He clicked it off and put it away. "Come with me," the Leiter said. "We're taking you in. Hurry along." "In? Back to the City?" One of the soldiers laughed. "The City is gone," he said. "All that's left of it you can put in the palm of your hand." "But what happened?" Mara said. "No one knows. Come on, hurry it up!" There was a sound. A soldier came quickly out of the darkness. "A Senior Leiter," he said. "Coming this way." He disappeared again. * * * * * "A Senior Leiter." The soldiers stood waiting, standing at a respectful attention. A moment later the Senior Leiter stepped into the light, a black-clad old man, his ancient face thin and hard, like a bird's, eyes bright and alert. He looked from Erick to Jan. "Who are these people?" he demanded. "Villagers going back home." "No, they're not. They don't stand like villagers. Villagers slump--diet, poor food. These people are not villagers. I myself came from the hills, and I know." He stepped close to Erick, looking keenly into his face. "Who are you? Look at his chin--he never shaved with a sharpened stone! Something is wrong here." In his hand a rod of pale fire flashed. "The City is gone, and with it at least half the Leiter Council. It is very strange, a flash, then heat, and a wind. But it was not fission. I am puzzled. All at once the City has vanished. Nothing is left but a depression in the sand." "We'll take them in," the other Leiter said. "Soldiers, surround them. Make certain that--" "Run!" Erick cried. He struck out, knocking the rod from the Senior Leiter's hand. They were all running, soldiers shouting, flashing their lights, stumbling against each other in the darkness. Erick dropped to his knees, groping frantically in the bushes. His fingers closed over the handle of the case and he leaped up. In Terran he shouted to Mara and Jan. "Hurry! To the car! Run!" He set off, down the slope, stumbling through the darkness. He could hear soldiers behind him, soldiers running and falling. A body collided against him and he struck out. Someplace behind him there was a hiss, and a section of the slope went up in flames. The Leiter's rod-- "Erick," Mara cried from the darkness. He ran toward her. Suddenly he slipped, falling on a stone. Confusion and firing. The sound of excited voices. "Erick, is that you?" Jan caught hold of him, helping him up. "The car. It's over here. Where's Mara?" "I'm here," Mara's voice came. "Over here, by the car." A light flashed. A tree went up in a puff of fire, and Erick felt the singe of the heat against his face. He and Jan made their way toward the girl. Mara's hand caught his in the darkness. "Now the car," Erick said. "If they haven't got to it." He slid down the slope into the ravine, fumbling in the darkness, reaching and holding onto the handle of the case. Reaching, reaching-- He touched something cold and smooth. Metal, a metal door handle. Relief flooded through him. "I've found it! Jan, get inside. Mara, come on." He pushed Jan past him, into the car. Mara slipped in after Jan, her small agile body crowding in beside him. "Stop!" a voice shouted from above. "There's no use hiding in that ravine. We'll get you! Come up and--" The sound of voices was drowned out by the roar of the car's motor. A moment later they shot into the darkness, the car rising into the air. Treetops broke and cracked under them as Erick turned the car from side to side, avoiding the groping shafts of pale light from below, the last furious thrusts from the two Leiters and their soldiers. Then they were away, above the trees, high in the air, gaining speed each moment, leaving the knot of Martians far behind. "Toward Marsport," Jan said to Erick. "Right?" Erick nodded. "Yes. We'll land outside the field, in the hills. We can change back to our regular clothing there, our commercial clothing. Damn it--we'll be lucky if we can get there in time for the ship." "The last ship," Mara whispered, her chest rising and falling. "What if we don't get there in time?" Erick looked down at the leather case in his lap. "We'll have to get there," he murmured. "We must!" * * * * * For a long time there was silence. Thacher stared at Erickson. The older man was leaning back in his chair, sipping a little of his drink. Mara and Jan were silent. "So you didn't destroy the City," Thacher said. "You didn't destroy it at all. You shrank it down and put it in a glass globe, in a paperweight. And now you're salesmen again, with a sample case of office supplies!" Erickson smiled. He opened the briefcase and reaching into it he brought out the glass globe paperweight. He held it up, looking into it. "Yes, we stole the City from the Martians. That's how we got by the lie detector. It was true that we knew nothing about a _destroyed_ City." "But why?" Thacher said. "Why steal a City? Why not merely bomb it?" "Ransom," Mara said fervently, gazing into the globe, her dark eyes bright. "Their biggest City, half of their Council--in Erick's hand!" "Mars will have to do what Terra asks," Erickson said. "Now Terra will be able to make her commercial demands felt. Maybe there won't even be a war. Perhaps Terra will get her way without fighting." Still smiling, he put the globe back into the briefcase and locked it. "Quite a story," Thacher said. "What an amazing process, reduction of size-- A whole City reduced to microscopic dimensions. Amazing. No wonder you were able to escape. With such daring as that, no one could hope to stop you." He looked down at the briefcase on the floor. Underneath them the jets murmured and vibrated evenly, as the ship moved through space toward distant Terra. "We still have quite a way to go," Jan said. "You've heard our story, Thacher. Why not tell us yours? What sort of line are you in? What's your business?" "Yes," Mara said. "What do you do?" "What do I do?" Thacher said. "Well, if you like, I'll show you." He reached into his coat and brought out something. Something that flashed and glinted, something slender. A rod of pale fire. The three stared at it. Sickened shock settled over them slowly. Thacher held the rod loosely, calmly, pointing it at Erickson. "We knew you three were on this ship," he said. "There was no doubt of that. But we did not know what had become of the City. My theory was that the City had not been destroyed at all, that something else had happened to it. Council instruments measured a sudden loss of mass in that area, a decrease equal to the mass of the City. Somehow the City had been spirited away, not destroyed. But I could not convince the other Council Leiters of it. I had to follow you alone." Thacher turned a little, nodding to the men sitting at the bar. The men rose at once, coming toward the table. "A very interesting process you have. Mars will benefit a great deal from it. Perhaps it will even turn the tide in our favor. When we return to Marsport I wish to begin work on it at once. And now, if you will please pass me the briefcase--" Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Planet Stories_ January 1954. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Crystal Crypt Author: Philip Kindred Dick Release Date: May 6, 2009 [EBook #28698] [Last updated: May 4, 2011] Language: English * START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CRYSTAL CRYPT * Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net THE CRYSTAL CRYPT By PHILIP K. DICK _Stark terror ruled the Inner-Flight ship on that last Mars-Terra run. For the black-clad Leiters were on the prowl ... and the grim red planet was not far behind._ "Attention, Inner-Flight ship! Attention! You are ordered to land at the Control Station on Deimos for inspection. Attention! You are to land at once!" The metallic rasp of the speaker echoed through the corridors of the great ship. The passengers glanced at each other uneasily, murmuring and peering out the port windows at the small speck below, the dot of rock that was the Martian checkpoint, Deimos. "What's up?" an anxious passenger asked one of the pilots, hurrying through the ship to check the escape lock. "We have to land. Keep seated." The pilot went on. "Land? But why?" They all looked at each other. Hovering above the bulging Inner-Flight ship were three slender Martian pursuit craft, poised and alert for any emergency. As the Inner-Flight ship prepared to land the pursuit ships dropped lower, carefully maintaining themselves a short distance away. "There's something going on," a woman passenger said nervously. "Lord, I thought we were finally through with those Martians. Now what?" "I don't blame them for giving us one last going over," a heavy-set business man said to his companion. "After all, we're the last ship leaving Mars for Terra. We're damn lucky they let us go at all." "You think there really will be war?" A young man said to the girl sitting in the seat next to him. "Those Martians won't dare fight, not with our weapons and ability to produce. We could take care of Mars in a month. It's all talk." The girl glanced at him. "Don't be so sure. Mars is desperate. They'll fight tooth and nail. I've been on Mars three years." She shuddered. "Thank goodness I'm getting away. If--" "Prepare to land!" the pilot's voice came. The ship began to settle slowly, dropping down toward the tiny emergency field on the seldom visited moon. Down, down the ship dropped. There was a grinding sound, a sickening jolt. Then silence. "We've landed," the heavy-set business man said. "They better not do anything to us! Terra will rip them apart if they violate one Space Article." "Please keep your seats," the pilot's voice came. "No one is to leave the ship, according to the Martian authorities. We are to remain here." A restless stir filled the ship. Some of the passengers began to read uneasily, others stared out at the deserted field, nervous and on edge, watching the three Martian pursuit ships land and disgorge groups of armed men. The Martian soldiers were crossing the field quickly, moving toward them, running double time. This Inner-Flight spaceship was the last passenger vessel to leave Mars for Terra. All other ships had long since left, returning to safety before the outbreak of hostilities. The passengers were the very last to go, the final group of Terrans to leave the grim red planet, business men, expatriates, tourists, any and all Terrans who had not already gone home. "What do you suppose they want?" the young man said to the girl. "It's hard to figure Martians out, isn't it? First they give the ship clearance, let us take off, and now they radio us to set down again. By the way, my name's Thacher, Bob Thacher. Since we're going to be here awhile--" [Illustration] * * * * * The port lock opened. Talking ceased abruptly, as everyone turned. A black-clad Martian official, a Province Leiter, stood framed against the bleak sunlight, staring around the ship. Behind him a handful of Martian soldiers stood waiting, their guns ready. "This will not take long," the Leiter said, stepping into the ship, the soldiers following him. "You will be allowed to continue your trip shortly." An audible sigh of relief went through the passengers. "Look at him," the girl whispered to Thacher. "How I hate those black uniforms!" "He's just a Provincial Leiter," Thacher said. "Don't worry." The Leiter stood for a moment, his hands on his hips, looking around at them without expression. "I have ordered your ship grounded so that an inspection can be made of all persons aboard," he said. "You Terrans are the last to leave our planet. Most of you are ordinary and harmless-- I am not interested in you. I am interested in finding three saboteurs, three Terrans, two men and a woman, who have committed an incredible act of destruction and violence. They are said to have fled to this ship." Murmurs of surprise and indignation broke out on all sides. The Leiter motioned the soldiers to follow him up the aisle. "Two hours ago a Martian city was destroyed. Nothing remains, only a depression in the sand where the city was. The city and all its people have completely vanished. An entire city destroyed in a second! Mars will never rest until the saboteurs are captured. And we know they are aboard this ship." "It's impossible," the heavy-set business man said. "There aren't any saboteurs here." "We'll begin with you," the Leiter said to him, stepping up beside the man's seat. One of the soldiers passed the Leiter a square metal box. "This will soon tell us if you're speaking the truth. Stand up. Get on your feet." The man rose slowly, flushing. "See here--" "Are you involved in the destruction of the city? Answer!" The man swallowed angrily. "I know nothing about any destruction of any city. And furthermore--" "He is telling the truth," the metal box said tonelessly. "Next person." The Leiter moved down the aisle. A thin, bald-headed man stood up nervously. "No, sir," he said. "I don't know a thing about it." "He is telling the truth," the box affirmed. "Next person! Stand up!" One person after another stood, answered, and sat down again in relief. At last there were only a few people left who had not been questioned. The Leiter paused, studying them intently. "Only five left. The three must be among you. We have narrowed it down." His hand moved to his belt. Something flashed, a rod of pale fire. He raised the rod, pointing it steadily at the five people. "All right, the first one of you. What do you know about this destruction? Are you involved with the destruction of our city?" "No, not at all," the man murmured. "Yes, he's telling the truth," the box intoned. "Next!" "Nothing-- I know nothing. I had nothing to do with it." "True," the box said. The ship was silent. Three people remained, a middle-aged man and his wife and their son, a boy of about twelve. They stood in the corner, staring white-faced at the Leiter, at the rod in his dark fingers. "It must be you," the Leiter grated, moving toward them. The Martian soldiers raised their guns. "It _must_ be you. You there, the boy. What do you know about the destruction of our city? Answer!" The boy shook his head. "Nothing," he whispered. The box was silent for a moment. "He is telling the truth," it said reluctantly. "Next!" "Nothing," the woman muttered. "Nothing." "The truth." "Next!" "I had nothing to do with blowing up your city," the man said. "You're wasting your time." "It is the truth," the box said. For a long time the Leiter stood, toying with his rod. At last he pushed it back in his belt and signalled the soldiers toward the exit lock. "You may proceed on your trip," he said. He walked after the soldiers. At the hatch he stopped, looking back at the passengers, his face grim. "You may go-- But Mars will not allow her enemies to escape. The three saboteurs will be caught, I promise you." He rubbed his dark jaw thoughtfully. "It is strange. I was certain they were on this ship." Again he looked coldly around at the Terrans. "Perhaps I was wrong. All right, proceed! But remember: the three will be caught, even if it takes endless years. Mars will catch them and punish them! I swear it!" * * * * * For a long time no one spoke. The ship lumbered through space again, its jets firing evenly, calmly, moving the passengers toward their own planet, toward home. Behind them Deimos and the red ball that was Mars dropped farther and farther away each moment, disappearing and fading into the distance. A sigh of relief passed through the passengers. "What a lot of hot air that was," one grumbled. "Barbarians!" a woman said. A few of them stood up, moving out into the aisle, toward the lounge and the cocktail bar. Beside Thacher the girl got to her feet, pulling her jacket around her shoulders. "Pardon me," she said, stepping past him. "Going to the bar?" Thacher said. "Mind if I come along?" "I suppose not." They followed the others into the lounge, walking together up the aisle. "You know," Thacher said, "I don't even know your name, yet." "My name is Mara Gordon." "Mara? That's a nice name. What part of Terra are you from? North America? New York?" "I've been in New York," Mara said. "New York is very lovely." She was slender and pretty, with a cloud of dark hair tumbling down her neck, against her leather jacket. They entered the lounge and stood undecided. "Let's sit at a table," Mara said, looking around at the people at the bar, mostly men. "Perhaps that table over there." "But someone's there already," Thacher said. The heavy-set business man had sat down at the table and deposited his sample case on the floor. "Do we want to sit with _him_?" "Oh, it's all right," Mara said, crossing to the table. "May we sit here?" she said to the man. The man looked up, half-rising. "It's a pleasure," he murmured. He studied Thacher intently. "However, a friend of mine will be joining me in a moment." "I'm sure there's room enough for us all," Mara said. She seated herself and Thacher helped her with her chair. He sat down, too, glancing up suddenly at Mara and the business man. They were looking at each other almost as if something had passed between them. The man was middle-aged, with a florid face and tired, grey eyes. His hands were mottled with the veins showing thickly. At the moment he was tapping nervously. "My name's Thacher," Thacher said to him, holding out his hand. "Bob Thacher. Since we're going to be together for a while we might as well get to know each other." The man studied him. Slowly his hand came out. "Why not? My name's Erickson. Ralf Erickson." "Erickson?" Thacher smiled. "You look like a commercial man, to me." He nodded toward the sample case on the floor. "Am I right?" The man named Erickson started to answer, but at that moment there was a stir. A thin man of about thirty had come up to the table, his eyes bright, staring down at them warmly. "Well, we're on our way," he said to Erickson. "Hello, Mara." He pulled out a chair and sat down quickly, folding his hands on the table before him. He noticed Thacher and drew back a little. "Pardon me," he murmured. "Bob Thacher is my name," Thacher said. "I hope I'm not intruding here." He glanced around at the three of them, Mara, alert, watching him intently, heavy-set Erickson, his face blank, and this person. "Say, do you three know each other?" he asked suddenly. There was silence. The robot attendant slid over soundlessly, poised to take their orders. Erickson roused himself. "Let's see," he murmured. "What will we have? Mara?" "Whiskey and water." "You, Jan?" The bright slim man smiled. "The same." "Thacher?" "Gin and tonic." "Whiskey and water for me, also," Erickson said. The robot attendant went off. It returned at once with the drinks, setting them on the table. Each took his own. "Well," Erickson said, holding his glass up. "To our mutual success." * * * * * All drank, Thacher and the three of them, heavy-set Erickson, Mara, her eyes nervous and alert, Jan, who had just come. Again a look passed between Mara and Erickson, a look so swift that he would not have caught it had he not been looking directly at her. "What line do you represent, Mr. Erickson?" Thacher asked. Erickson glanced at him, then down at the sample case on the floor. He grunted. "Well, as you can see, I'm a salesman." Thacher smiled. "I knew it! You get so you can always spot a salesman right off by his sample case. A salesman always has to carry something to show. What are you in, sir?" Erickson paused. He licked his thick lips, his eyes blank and lidded, like a toad's. At last he rubbed his mouth with his hand and reached down, lifting up the sample case. He set it on the table in front of him. "Well?" he said. "Perhaps we might even show Mr. Thacher." They all stared down at the sample case. It seemed to be an ordinary leather case, with a metal handle and a snap lock. "I'm getting curious," Thacher said. "What's in there? You're all so tense. Diamonds? Stolen jewels?" Jan laughed harshly, mirthlessly. "Erick, put it down. We're not far enough away, yet." "Nonsense," Erick rumbled. "We're away, Jan." "Please," Mara whispered. "Wait, Erick." "Wait? Why? What for? You're so accustomed to--" "Erick," Mara said. She nodded toward Thacher. "We don't know him, Erick. Please!" "He's a Terran, isn't he?" Erickson said. "All Terrans are together in these times." He fumbled suddenly at the catch lock on the case. "Yes, Mr. Thacher. I'm a salesman. We're all salesmen, the three of us." "Then you do know each other." "Yes." Erickson nodded. His two companions sat rigidly, staring down. "Yes, we do. Here, I'll show you our line." He opened the case. From it he took a letter-knife, a pencil sharpener, a glass globe paperweight, a box of thumb tacks, a stapler, some clips, a plastic ashtray, and some things Thacher could not identify. He placed the objects in a row in front of him on the table top. Then he closed the sample case. "I gather you're in office supplies," Thacher said. He touched the letter-knife with his finger. "Nice quality steel. Looks like Swedish steel, to me." Erickson nodded, looking into Thacher's face. "Not really an impressive business, is it? Office supplies. Ashtrays, paper clips." He smiled. "Oh--" Thacher shrugged. "Why not? They're a necessity in modern business. The only thing I wonder--" "What's that?" "Well, I wonder how you'd ever find enough customers on Mars to make it worth your while." He paused, examining the glass paperweight. He lifted it up, holding it to the light, staring at the scene within until Erickson took it out of his hand and put it back in the sample case. "And another thing. If you three know each other, why did you sit apart when you got on?" They looked at him quickly. "And why didn't you speak to each other until we left Deimos?" He leaned toward Erickson, smiling at him. "Two men and a woman. Three of you. Sitting apart in the ship. Not speaking, not until the check-station was past. I find myself thinking over what the Martian said. Three saboteurs. A woman and two men." Erickson put the things back in the sample case. He was smiling, but his face had gone chalk white. Mara stared down, playing with a drop of water on the edge of her glass. Jan clenched his hands together nervously, blinking rapidly. "You three are the ones the Leiter was after," Thacher said softly. "You are the destroyers, the saboteurs. But their lie detector-- Why didn't it trap you? How did you get by that? And now you're safe, outside the check-station." He grinned, staring around at them. "I'll be damned! And I really thought you were a salesman, Erickson. You really fooled me." Erickson relaxed a little. "Well, Mr. Thacher, it's in a good cause. I'm sure you have no love for Mars, either. No Terran does. And I see you're leaving with the rest of us." "True," Thacher said. "You must certainly have an interesting account to give, the three of you." He looked around the table. "We still have an hour or so of travel. Sometimes it gets dull, this Mars-Terra run. Nothing to see, nothing to do but sit and drink in the lounge." He raised his eyes slowly. "Any chance you'd like to spin a story to keep us awake?" Jan and Mara looked at Erickson. "Go on," Jan said. "He knows who we are. Tell him the rest of the story." "You might as well," Mara said. Jan let out a sigh suddenly, a sigh of relief. "Let's put the cards on the table, get this weight off us. I'm tired of sneaking around, slipping--" "Sure," Erickson said expansively. "Why not?" He settled back in his chair, unbuttoning his vest. "Certainly, Mr. Thacher. I'll be glad to spin you a story. And I'm sure it will be interesting enough to keep you awake." * * * * * They ran through the groves of dead trees, leaping across the sun-baked Martian soil, running silently together. They went up a little rise, across a narrow ridge. Suddenly Erick stopped, throwing himself down flat on the ground. The others did the same, pressing themselves against the soil, gasping for breath. "Be silent," Erick muttered. He raised himself a little. "No noise. There'll be Leiters nearby, from now on. We don't dare take any chances." Between the three people lying in the grove of dead trees and the City was a barren, level waste of desert, over a mile of blasted sand. No trees or bushes marred the smooth, parched surface. Only an occasional wind, a dry wind eddying and twisting, blew the sand up into little rills. A faint odor came to them, a bitter smell of heat and sand, carried by the wind. Erick pointed. "Look. The City-- There it is." They stared, still breathing deeply from their race through the trees. The City was close, closer than they had ever seen it before. Never had they gotten so close to it in times past. Terrans were never allowed near the great Martian cities, the centers of Martian life. Even in ordinary times, when there was no threat of approaching war, the Martians shrewdly kept all Terrans away from their citadels, partly from fear, partly from a deep, innate sense of hostility toward the white-skinned visitors whose commercial ventures had earned them the respect, and the dislike, of the whole system. "How does it look to you?" Erick said. The City was huge, much larger than they had imagined from the drawings and models they had studied so carefully back in New York, in the War Ministry Office. Huge it was, huge and stark, black towers rising up against the sky, incredibly thin columns of ancient metal, columns that had stood wind and sun for centuries. Around the City was a wall of stone, red stone, immense bricks that had been lugged there and fitted into place by slaves of the early Martian dynasties, under the whiplash of the first great Kings of Mars. An ancient, sun-baked City, a City set in the middle of a wasted plain, beyond groves of dead trees, a City seldom seen by Terrans--but a City studied on maps and charts in every War Office on Terra. A City that contained, for all its ancient stone and archaic towers, the ruling group of all Mars, the Council of Senior Leiters, black-clad men who governed and ruled with an iron hand. The Senior Leiters, twelve fanatic and devoted men, black priests, but priests with flashing rods of fire, lie detectors, rocket ships, intra-space cannon, many more things the Terran Senate could only conjecture about. The Senior Leiters and their subordinate Province Leiters-- Erick and the two behind him suppressed a shudder. "We've got to be careful," Erick said again. "We'll be passing among them, soon. If they guess who we are, or what we're here for--" He snapped open the case he carried, glancing inside for a second. Then he closed it again, grasping the handle firmly. "Let's go," he said. He stood up slowly. "You two come up beside me. I want to make sure you look the way you should." * * * * * Mara and Jan stepped quickly ahead. Erick studied them critically as the three of them walked slowly down the slope, onto the plain, toward the towering black spires of the City. "Jan," Erick said. "Take hold of her hand! Remember, you're going to marry her; she's your bride. And Martian peasants think a lot of their brides." Jan was dressed in the short trousers and coat of the Martian farmer, a knotted rope tied around his waist, a hat on his head to keep off the sun. His skin was dark, colored by dye until it was almost bronze. "You look fine," Erick said to him. He glanced at Mara. Her black hair was tied in a knot, looped through a hollowed-out yuke bone. Her face was dark, too, dark and lined with colored ceremonial pigment, green and orange stripes across her cheeks. Earrings were strung through her ears. On her feet were tiny slippers of perruh hide, laced around her ankles, and she wore long translucent Martian trousers with a bright sash tied around her waist. Between her small breasts a chain of stone beads rested, good-luck charms for the coming marriage. "All right," Erick said. He, himself, wore the flowing grey robe of a Martian priest, dirty robes that were supposed to remain on him all his life, to be buried around him when he died. "I think we'll get past the guards. There should be heavy morning traffic on the road." They walked on, the hard sand crunching under their feet. Against the horizon they could see specks moving, other persons going toward the City, farmers and peasants and merchants, bringing their crops and goods to market. "See the cart!" Mara exclaimed. They were nearing a narrow road, two ruts worn into the sand. A Martian hufa was pulling the cart, its great sides wet with perspiration, its tongue hanging out. The cart was piled high with bales of cloth, rough country cloth, hand dipped. A bent farmer urged the hufa on. "And there." She pointed, smiling. A group of merchants riding small animals were moving along behind the cart, Martians in long robes, their faces hidden by sand masks. On each animal was a pack, carefully tied on with rope. And beyond the merchants, plodding dully along, were peasants and farmers in an endless procession, some riding carts or animals, but mostly on foot. Mara and Jan and Erick joined the line of people, melting in behind the merchants. No one noticed them; no one looked up or gave any sign. The march continued as before. Neither Jan nor Mara said anything to each other. They walked a little behind Erick, who paced with a certain dignity, a certain bearing becoming his position. Once he slowed down, pointing up at the sky. "Look," he murmured, in the Martian hill dialect. "See that?" Two black dots circled lazily. Martian patrol craft, the military on the outlook for any sign of unusual activity. War was almost ready to break out with Terra. Any day, almost any moment. "We'll be just in time," Erick said. "Tomorrow will be too late. The last ship will have left Mars." "I hope nothing stops us," Mara said. "I want to get back home when we're through." * * * * * Half an hour passed. They neared the City, the wall growing as they walked, rising higher and higher until it seemed to blot out the sky itself. A vast wall, a wall of eternal stone that had felt the wind and sun for centuries. A group of Martian soldiers were standing at the entrance, the single passage-gate hewn into the rock, leading to the City. As each person went through the soldiers examined him, poking his garments, looking into his load. Erick tensed. The line had slowed almost to a halt. "It'll be our turn, soon," he murmured. "Be prepared." "Let's hope no Leiters come around," Jan said. "The soldiers aren't so bad." Mara was staring up at the wall and the towers beyond. Under their feet the ground trembled, vibrating and shaking. She could see tongues of flame rising from the towers, from the deep underground factories and forges of the City. The air was thick and dense with particles of soot. Mara rubbed her mouth, coughing. "Here they come," Erick said softly. The merchants had been examined and allowed to pass through the dark gate, the entrance through the wall into the City. They and their silent animals had already disappeared inside. The leader of the group of soldiers was beckoning impatiently to Erick, waving him on. "Come along!" he said. "Hurry up there, old man." Erick advanced slowly, his arms wrapped around his body, looking down at the ground. "Who are you and what's your business here?" the soldier demanded, his hands on his hips, his gun hanging idly at his waist. Most of the soldiers were lounging lazily, leaning against the wall, some even squatting in the shade. Flies crawled on the face of one who had fallen asleep, his gun on the ground beside him. "My business?" Erick murmured. "I am a village priest." "Why do you want to enter the City?" "I must bring these two people before the magistrate to marry them." He indicated Mara and Jan, standing a little behind him. "That is the Law the Leiters have made." The soldier laughed. He circled around Erick. "What do you have in that bag you carry?" "Laundry. We stay the night." "What village are you from?" "Kranos." "Kranos?" The soldier looked to a companion. "Ever heard of Kranos?" "A backward pig sty. I saw it once on a hunting trip." The leader of the soldiers nodded to Jan and Mara. The two of them advanced, their hands clasped, standing close together. One of the soldiers put his hand on Mara's bare shoulder, turning her around. "Nice little wife you're getting," he said. "Good and firm-looking." He winked, grinning lewdly. Jan glanced at him in sullen resentment. The soldiers guffawed. "All right," the leader said to Erick. "You people can pass." Erick took a small purse from his robes and gave the soldier a coin. Then the three of them went into the dark tunnel that was the entrance, passing through the wall of stone, into the City beyond. They were within the City! "Now," Erick whispered. "Hurry." Around them the City roared and cracked, the sound of a thousand vents and machines, shaking the stones under their feet. Erick led Mara and Jan into a corner, by a row of brick warehouses. People were everywhere, hurrying back and forth, shouting above the din, merchants, peddlers, soldiers, street women. Erick bent down and opened the case he carried. From the case he quickly took three small coils of fine metal, intricate meshed wires and vanes worked together into a small cone. Jan took one and Mara took one. Erick put the remaining cone into his robe and snapped the case shut again. "Now remember, the coils must be buried in such a way that the line runs through the center of the City. We must trisect the main section, where the largest concentration of buildings is. Remember the maps! Watch the alleys and streets carefully. Talk to no one if you can help it. Each of you has enough Martian money to buy your way out of trouble. Watch especially for cut-purses, and for heaven's sake, don't get lost." * * * * * Erick broke off. Two black-clad Leiters were coming along the inside of the wall, strolling together with their hands behind their backs. They noticed the three who stood in the corner by the warehouses and stopped. "Go," Erick muttered. "And be back here at sundown." He smiled grimly. "Or never come back." Each went off a different way, walking quickly without looking back. The Leiters watched them go. "The little bride was quite lovely," one Leiter said. "Those hill people have the stamp of nobility in their blood, from the old times." "A very lucky young peasant to possess her," the other said. They went on. Erick looked after them, still smiling a little. Then he joined the surging mass of people that milled eternally through the streets of the City. At dusk they met outside the gate. The sun was soon to set, and the air had turned thin and frigid. It cut through their clothing like knives. Mara huddled against Jan, trembling and rubbing her bare arms. "Well?" Erick said. "Did you both succeed?" Around them peasants and merchants were pouring from the entrance, leaving the City to return to their farms and villages, starting the long trip back across the plain toward the hills beyond. None of them noticed the shivering girl and the young man and the old priest standing by the wall. "Mine's in place," Jan said. "On the other side of the City, on the extreme edge. Buried by a well." "Mine's in the industrial section," Mara whispered, her teeth chattering. "Jan, give me something to put over me! I'm freezing." "Good," Erick said. "Then the three coils should trisect dead center, if the models were correct." He looked up at the darkening sky. Already, stars were beginning to show. Two dots, the evening patrol, moved slowly toward the horizon. "Let's hurry. It won't be long." They joined the line of Martians moving along the road, away from the City. Behind them the City was losing itself in the sombre tones of night, its black spires disappearing into darkness. They walked silently with the country people until the flat ridge of dead trees became visible on the horizon. Then they left the road and turned off, walking toward the trees. "Almost time!" Erick said. He increased his pace, looking back at Jan and Mara impatiently. "Come on!" They hurried, making their way through the twilight, stumbling over rocks and dead branches, up the side of the ridge. At the top Erick halted, standing with his hands on his hips, looking back. "See," he murmured. "The City. The last time we'll ever see it this way." "Can I sit down?" Mara said. "My feet hurt me." Jan pulled at Erick's sleeve. "Hurry, Erick! Not much time left." He laughed nervously. "If everything goes right we'll be able to look at it--forever." "But not like this," Erick murmured. He squatted down, snapping his case open. He took some tubes and wiring out and assembled them together on the ground, at the peak of the ridge. A small pyramid of wire and plastic grew, shaped by his expert hands. At last he grunted, standing up. "All right." "Is it pointed directly at the City?" Mara asked anxiously, looking down at the pyramid. Erick nodded. "Yes, it's placed according--" He stopped, suddenly stiffening. "Get back! It's time! _Hurry!_" Jan ran, down the far side of the slope, away from the City, pulling Mara with him. Erick came quickly after, still looking back at the distant spires, almost lost in the night sky. "Down." Jan sprawled out, Mara beside him, her trembling body pressed against his. Erick settled down into the sand and dead branches, still trying to see. "I want to see it," he murmured. "A miracle. I want to see--" A flash, a blinding burst of violet light, lit up the sky. Erick clapped his hands over his eyes. The flash whitened, growing larger, expanding. Suddenly there was a roar, and a furious hot wind rushed past him, throwing him on his face in the sand. The hot dry wind licked and seared at them, crackling the bits of branches into flame. Mara and Jan shut their eyes, pressed tightly together. "God--" Erick muttered. The storm passed. They opened their eyes slowly. The sky was still alive with fire, a drifting cloud of sparks that was beginning to dissipate with the night wind. Erick stood up unsteadily, helping Jan and Mara to their feet. The three of them stood, staring silently across the dark waste, the black plain, none of them speaking. The City was gone. At last Erick turned away. "That part's done," he said. "Now the rest! Give me a hand, Jan. There'll be a thousand patrol ships around here in a minute." "I see one already," Mara said, pointing up. A spot winked in the sky, a rapidly moving spot. "They're coming, Erick." There was a throb of chill fear in her voice. "I know." Erick and Jan squatted on the ground around the pyramid of tubes and plastic, pulling the pyramid apart. The pyramid was fused, fused together like molten glass. Erick tore the pieces away with trembling fingers. From the remains of the pyramid he pulled something forth, something he held up high, trying to make it out in the darkness. Jan and Mara came close to see, both staring up intently, almost without breathing. "There it is," Erick said. "There!" * * * * * In his hand was a globe, a small transparent globe of glass. Within the glass something moved, something minute and fragile, spires almost too small to be seen, microscopic, a complex web swimming within the hollow glass globe. A web of spires. A City. Erick put the globe into the case and snapped it shut. "Let's go," he said. They began to lope back through the trees, back the way they had come before. "We'll change in the car," he said as they ran. "I think we should keep these clothes on until we're actually inside the car. We still might encounter someone." "I'll be glad to get my own clothing on again," Jan said. "I feel funny in these little pants." "How do you think I feel?" Mara gasped. "I'm freezing in this, what there is of it." "All young Martian brides dress that way," Erick said. He clutched the case tightly as they ran. "I think it looks fine." "Thank you," Mara said, "but it is cold." "What do you suppose they'll think?" Jan asked. "They'll assume the City was destroyed, won't they? That's certain." "Yes," Erick said. "They'll be sure it was blown up. We can count on that. And it will be damn important to us that they think so!" "The car should be around here, someplace," Mara said, slowing down. "No. Farther on," Erick said. "Past that little hill over there. In the ravine, by the trees. It's so hard to see where we are." "Shall I light something?" Jan said. "No. There may be patrols around who--" He halted abruptly. Jan and Mara stopped beside him. "What--" Mara began. A light glimmered. Something stirred in the darkness. There was a sound. "Quick!" Erick rasped. He dropped, throwing the case far away from him, into the bushes. He straightened up tensely. A figure loomed up, moving through the darkness, and behind it came more figures, men, soldiers in uniform. The light flashed up brightly, blinding them. Erick closed his eyes. The light left him, touching Mara and Jan, standing silently together, clasping hands. Then it flicked down to the ground and around in a circle. A Leiter stepped forward, a tall figure in black, with his soldiers close behind him, their guns ready. "You three," the Leiter said. "Who are you? Don't move. Stand where you are." He came up to Erick, peering at him intently, his hard Martian face without expression. He went all around Erick, examining his robes, his sleeves. "Please--" Erick began in a quavering voice, but the Leiter cut him off. "I'll do the talking. Who are you three? What are you doing here? Speak up." "We--we are going back to our village," Erick muttered, staring down, his hands folded. "We were in the City, and now we are going home." One of the soldiers spoke into a mouthpiece. He clicked it off and put it away. "Come with me," the Leiter said. "We're taking you in. Hurry along." "In? Back to the City?" One of the soldiers laughed. "The City is gone," he said. "All that's left of it you can put in the palm of your hand." "But what happened?" Mara said. "No one knows. Come on, hurry it up!" There was a sound. A soldier came quickly out of the darkness. "A Senior Leiter," he said. "Coming this way." He disappeared again. * * * * * "A Senior Leiter." The soldiers stood waiting, standing at a respectful attention. A moment later the Senior Leiter stepped into the light, a black-clad old man, his ancient face thin and hard, like a bird's, eyes bright and alert. He looked from Erick to Jan. "Who are these people?" he demanded. "Villagers going back home." "No, they're not. They don't stand like villagers. Villagers slump--diet, poor food. These people are not villagers. I myself came from the hills, and I know." He stepped close to Erick, looking keenly into his face. "Who are you? Look at his chin--he never shaved with a sharpened stone! Something is wrong here." In his hand a rod of pale fire flashed. "The City is gone, and with it at least half the Leiter Council. It is very strange, a flash, then heat, and a wind. But it was not fission. I am puzzled. All at once the City has vanished. Nothing is left but a depression in the sand." "We'll take them in," the other Leiter said. "Soldiers, surround them. Make certain that--" "Run!" Erick cried. He struck out, knocking the rod from the Senior Leiter's hand. They were all running, soldiers shouting, flashing their lights, stumbling against each other in the darkness. Erick dropped to his knees, groping frantically in the bushes. His fingers closed over the handle of the case and he leaped up. In Terran he shouted to Mara and Jan. "Hurry! To the car! Run!" He set off, down the slope, stumbling through the darkness. He could hear soldiers behind him, soldiers running and falling. A body collided against him and he struck out. Someplace behind him there was a hiss, and a section of the slope went up in flames. The Leiter's rod-- "Erick," Mara cried from the darkness. He ran toward her. Suddenly he slipped, falling on a stone. Confusion and firing. The sound of excited voices. "Erick, is that you?" Jan caught hold of him, helping him up. "The car. It's over here. Where's Mara?" "I'm here," Mara's voice came. "Over here, by the car." A light flashed. A tree went up in a puff of fire, and Erick felt the singe of the heat against his face. He and Jan made their way toward the girl. Mara's hand caught his in the darkness. "Now the car," Erick said. "If they haven't got to it." He slid down the slope into the ravine, fumbling in the darkness, reaching and holding onto the handle of the case. Reaching, reaching-- He touched something cold and smooth. Metal, a metal door handle. Relief flooded through him. "I've found it! Jan, get inside. Mara, come on." He pushed Jan past him, into the car. Mara slipped in after Jan, her small agile body crowding in beside him. "Stop!" a voice shouted from above. "There's no use hiding in that ravine. We'll get you! Come up and--" The sound of voices was drowned out by the roar of the car's motor. A moment later they shot into the darkness, the car rising into the air. Treetops broke and cracked under them as Erick turned the car from side to side, avoiding the groping shafts of pale light from below, the last furious thrusts from the two Leiters and their soldiers. Then they were away, above the trees, high in the air, gaining speed each moment, leaving the knot of Martians far behind. "Toward Marsport," Jan said to Erick. "Right?" Erick nodded. "Yes. We'll land outside the field, in the hills. We can change back to our regular clothing there, our commercial clothing. Damn it--we'll be lucky if we can get there in time for the ship." "The last ship," Mara whispered, her chest rising and falling. "What if we don't get there in time?" Erick looked down at the leather case in his lap. "We'll have to get there," he murmured. "We must!" * * * * * For a long time there was silence. Thacher stared at Erickson. The older man was leaning back in his chair, sipping a little of his drink. Mara and Jan were silent. "So you didn't destroy the City," Thacher said. "You didn't destroy it at all. You shrank it down and put it in a glass globe, in a paperweight. And now you're salesmen again, with a sample case of office supplies!" Erickson smiled. He opened the briefcase and reaching into it he brought out the glass globe paperweight. He held it up, looking into it. "Yes, we stole the City from the Martians. That's how we got by the lie detector. It was true that we knew nothing about a _destroyed_ City." "But why?" Thacher said. "Why steal a City? Why not merely bomb it?" "Ransom," Mara said fervently, gazing into the globe, her dark eyes bright. "Their biggest City, half of their Council--in Erick's hand!" "Mars will have to do what Terra asks," Erickson said. "Now Terra will be able to make her commercial demands felt. Maybe there won't even be a war. Perhaps Terra will get her way without fighting." Still smiling, he put the globe back into the briefcase and locked it. "Quite a story," Thacher said. "What an amazing process, reduction of size-- A whole City reduced to microscopic dimensions. Amazing. No wonder you were able to escape. With such daring as that, no one could hope to stop you." He looked down at the briefcase on the floor. Underneath them the jets murmured and vibrated evenly, as the ship moved through space toward distant Terra. "We still have quite a way to go," Jan said. "You've heard our story, Thacher. Why not tell us yours? What sort of line are you in? What's your business?" "Yes," Mara said. "What do you do?" "What do I do?" Thacher said. "Well, if you like, I'll show you." He reached into his coat and brought out something. Something that flashed and glinted, something slender. A rod of pale fire. The three stared at it. Sickened shock settled over them slowly. Thacher held the rod loosely, calmly, pointing it at Erickson. "We knew you three were on this ship," he said. "There was no doubt of that. But we did not know what had become of the City. My theory was that the City had not been destroyed at all, that something else had happened to it. Council instruments measured a sudden loss of mass in that area, a decrease equal to the mass of the City. Somehow the City had been spirited away, not destroyed. But I could not convince the other Council Leiters of it. I had to follow you alone." Thacher turned a little, nodding to the men sitting at the bar. The men rose at once, coming toward the table. "A very interesting process you have. Mars will benefit a great deal from it. Perhaps it will even turn the tide in our favor. When we return to Marsport I wish to begin work on it at once. And now, if you will please pass me the briefcase--" Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Planet Stories_ January 1954. 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锘縏he Project Gutenberg EBook of The Doorway, by Evelyn E. Smith This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Doorway Author: Evelyn E. Smith Release Date: June 17, 2009 [EBook #29138] Language: English * START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DOORWAY * Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net _A discerning critic once pointed out that Edgar Allen Poe possessed not so much a distinctive style as a distinctive _manner_. So startlingly original was his approach to the dark castles and haunted woodlands of his own somber creation that he transcended the literary by the sheer magic of his prose. Something of that same magic gleams in the darkly-tapestried little fantasy presented here, beneath Evelyn Smith's eerily enchanted wand._ the doorway _by ... Evelyn E. Smith_ A man may wish he'd married his first love and not really mean it. But an insincere wish may turn ugly in dimensions unknown. "It is my theory," Professor Falabella said, helping himself to a cookie, "that no one ever really makes a decision. What really happens is that whenever alternative courses of action are called for, the individuality splits up and continues on two or more divergent planes, very much like the parthenogenesis of a unicellular animal ... Delicious cookies these, Mrs. Hughes." "Thank you, Professor," Gloria simpered. "I made them myself." "You must give us the recipe," said one of the ladies--and the others murmured agreement, glad to get their individualities on a plane they could understand. "Since most decisions are hardly as momentous as the individual imagines," Professor Falabella continued, "and since the imagination of the average individual is very limited, many of these different planes--or, as they are colloquially known, space-time continuums--may exist in close, even tangential relationship." Gloria rose unobtrusively and took the teapot to the kitchen for a refill. Her husband stood by the sink moodily drinking whiskey out of the bottle so as to avoid having to wash a glass afterward. "Bill, you're not being polite to our guests. Why don't you go out and listen to Professor Falabella?" "I can hear him perfectly well from here," Bill muttered--and indeed the professor's mellifluous tones pervaded every nook and cranny of the thin-walled house. "Long-winded cultist! What is he a professor of, I'd like to know." "Professor Falabella is _not_ a cultist!" affirmed Gloria angrily. "He's a great philosopher." Bill Hughes said something unprintable. "If I'd married Lucy Allison," he continued unkindly, "she'd never have filled the house with long-haired cultists on my so-called day of rest." Gloria's soft chin trembled, and her blue eyes filled with tears. She was beginning to put on weight, he noticed. "I've been hearing nothing but Lucy Allison, Lucy Allison, Lucy Allison for the past year. Y-you said yourself she looked like a horse." "Horses," he observed, "have sense." He was being brutal, but he couldn't help it and didn't want to. Professor Falabella was only the most long-winded of a long series of mystics Gloria was forever dragging into the house. _The trouble with the half-educated_, he thought bitterly, _is that they seek culture in the most peculiar places_. "I'll bet she would have let me have peace on Sunday," he said. "It just goes to show what happens when you marry a woman solely for her looks." He drained the bottle; then hurled it into the garbage pail with a resounding crash. Gloria's shoulders shook as she filled the kettle. "I wish I'd decided to be an old maid," she sobbed. A very unlikely possibility, he thought. Even now, shopworn as she was, Gloria could have a fairly wide range of suitors should something happen to him. She looked sexy, but how deceiving appearances could be! Professor Falabella was still talking as Bill and Gloria emerged from the kitchen. "I believe that it is possible for an individual who exists on a limited plane of imagination to transpose from one plane to an adjacent one without difficulty ... Great Heavens, what was that?" Something had whisked past the archway leading into the foyer. "Don't pay any attention," Gloria smiled nervously. "The house is haunted." "My dear," one of the ladies offered, "I know of the most marvelous exterminator--" "The house," Gloria assured her coldly, "really _is_ haunted. We've been seeing things ever since we moved in." And she really believed it, Bill thought. Believed that the house was haunted, that is. Of course he had seen things too--but he was enlightened enough to know that ghosts don't exist, even if you do see them. Professor Falabella cleared his throat. "As I was saying, it is possible to send the individual through another--well, dimension, as some popular writers would have it, to one of his other spatial existences on the same temporal plane. It is merely necessary for him to find the Door." "Nonsense!" Bill interrupted. "Holy, unmitigated nonsense!" Every head swivelled to look at him. Gloria restrained tears with an effort. "Brute," someone muttered. But ridicule apparently only stimulated the professor. He beamed. "You don't believe me. Your imagination cannot extend to the comprehension of the multifariousness of space." "Nonsense," Bill said again, but less confidently. "I believe that I have discovered the Doorway," Professor Falabella continued, "and the Way is Open. However, most people fear to penetrate the unknown, even though it is to enter another phase of their own existence. I do admit that the shock of spatial transference, no matter how slight, combined with the concrete awareness of a previous spatial relationship would be perhaps too much for the keenly sensitive individualism ..." Bill opened his mouth. "I know what you're about to say, young man!" "You don't have to be a mind reader to know that," Bill assured him. His consonants were already a little slurred and he knew Gloria was ashamed of him. It served her right. He'd been ashamed of her for years. Professor Falabella smiled. His teeth were very sharp and white. "Very well, Mr. Hughes, since you are a skeptic, perhaps you will not object to being the subject of our experiment yourself?" "What kind of an experiment?" Bill asked suspiciously. "Merely to go through the Door. Any door can become the Doorway, if it is transposed into the proper spatial dimension. That door, for instance." Professor Falabella waved his hand toward the doorway of what Gloria liked to call "Bill's study." "You mean you just want me to open the door and go into that room?" Bill asked incredulously. "That's all?" "That is all. Of course, you go with the awareness that it is the threshold of another plane and that you step voluntarily from this existence to an adjacent one." "Sure," Bill said. He had just remembered there was a nearly full bottle of Calvert in the bottom drawer of the desk. "Sure. Anything to oblige." "Very well. Go to the door, and keep remembering that of your own free will you are passing from this plane to the next." "Look out, everybody!" Bill called raucously, as he pulled open the door. "I'm coming in on the next plane!" No one laughed. He stepped over the threshold, shutting the door firmly behind him. A wonderful excuse to get away from those blasted women. He'd climb out of the window as soon as he'd collected the whiskey and give them a nervous moment thinking he'd really passed into another existence. It would serve Gloria right. For a moment, as he crossed, he had a queer sensation. Maybe there was something in what Professor Falabella said. But no, there he was in the study. All that mumbo jumbo was getting him down, that was all. He was a nervous man--only nobody appreciated the fact. Taking a cigarette out of the pack in his pocket, he reached for the lighter on his desk. It wasn't there. Time and time again he'd told Gloria not to touch his things, and always she'd disobeyed him. Company was coming and she must tidy up. Cooking and cleaning--that was all she was good for. But this was carrying tidiness too far; she'd even removed the ashtrays. And where did that glass block paperweight come from? He'd had a penguin in a snowstorm and he'd been happy with it. This was too much. He'd tell Gloria off. Stealing a man's penguin! He opened the door into the living room and bumped into Lucy Allison. "Don't you think you've been in there long enough, Bill?" she asked acridly. "I'm sure your guests would appreciate catching a glimpse of you." "Why, hello, Lucy," he said, surprised. "I didn't know Gloria had invited you--" "Gloria, Gloria, Gloria!" Lucy cut across his sentence. "You've been talking about nothing but that dumb little blonde for months." Because of the people in the room beyond, her voice was pitched low, but her pale eyes glittered unpleasantly behind her spectacles. "I wish you had married her. You'd have made a fine pair." Gently, caressingly, the short hairs on the back of Bill's neck rose. "Come back in here," Lucy said, hauling him back into the living room where a number of people who had been enjoying the domestic fracas suddenly broke into loud and animated chatter. "Dr. Hildebrand was telling us all about nuclear fission." "Can't find an ashtray," Bill muttered, seizing on something tangible. "Can't find an ashtray in the whole darn place." "We've been over this millions of times, Bill. You know--" she smiled at the guests, a smile that carefully excluded Bill. "--I'm allergic to smoke, but I never can get my husband to remember he isn't to smoke inside the house." "Now take the neutron, for example," Dr. Hildebrand said through a mouthful of p芒t茅. "What is the neutron? It is only ... What was that?" The wraith of Gloria crossed the foyer and disappeared. Bill took a step forward; then stood still. Lucy smiled self-consciously. "That's nothing at all. The house is merely haunted." Everyone laughed. "Forgot something," Bill muttered, and dashed back into the study. He yanked open the bottom drawer of the desk. Sure enough, there was a bottle of Schenley, nearly a third full. "There are some advantages," he thought as he tilted it to his lips, "in having a limited imagination." Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Fantastic Universe_ September 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Doorway, by Evelyn E. Smith * END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DOORWAY * *** This file should be named 29138-8.txt or 29138-8.zip * This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: https://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/1/3/29138/ Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Smith This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Doorway Author: Evelyn E. Smith Release Date: June 17, 2009 [EBook #29138] Language: English * START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DOORWAY * Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net _A discerning critic once pointed out that Edgar Allen Poe possessed not so much a distinctive style as a distinctive _manner_. So startlingly original was his approach to the dark castles and haunted woodlands of his own somber creation that he transcended the literary by the sheer magic of his prose. Something of that same magic gleams in the darkly-tapestried little fantasy presented here, beneath Evelyn Smith's eerily enchanted wand._ the doorway _by ... Evelyn E. Smith_ A man may wish he'd married his first love and not really mean it. But an insincere wish may turn ugly in dimensions unknown. "It is my theory," Professor Falabella said, helping himself to a cookie, "that no one ever really makes a decision. What really happens is that whenever alternative courses of action are called for, the individuality splits up and continues on two or more divergent planes, very much like the parthenogenesis of a unicellular animal ... Delicious cookies these, Mrs. Hughes." "Thank you, Professor," Gloria simpered. "I made them myself." "You must give us the recipe," said one of the ladies--and the others murmured agreement, glad to get their individualities on a plane they could understand. "Since most decisions are hardly as momentous as the individual imagines," Professor Falabella continued, "and since the imagination of the average individual is very limited, many of these different planes--or, as they are colloquially known, space-time continuums--may exist in close, even tangential relationship." Gloria rose unobtrusively and took the teapot to the kitchen for a refill. Her husband stood by the sink moodily drinking whiskey out of the bottle so as to avoid having to wash a glass afterward. "Bill, you're not being polite to our guests. Why don't you go out and listen to Professor Falabella?" "I can hear him perfectly well from here," Bill muttered--and indeed the professor's mellifluous tones pervaded every nook and cranny of the thin-walled house. "Long-winded cultist! What is he a professor of, I'd like to know." "Professor Falabella is _not_ a cultist!" affirmed Gloria angrily. "He's a great philosopher." Bill Hughes said something unprintable. "If I'd married Lucy Allison," he continued unkindly, "she'd never have filled the house with long-haired cultists on my so-called day of rest." Gloria's soft chin trembled, and her blue eyes filled with tears. She was beginning to put on weight, he noticed. "I've been hearing nothing but Lucy Allison, Lucy Allison, Lucy Allison for the past year. Y-you said yourself she looked like a horse." "Horses," he observed, "have sense." He was being brutal, but he couldn't help it and didn't want to. Professor Falabella was only the most long-winded of a long series of mystics Gloria was forever dragging into the house. _The trouble with the half-educated_, he thought bitterly, _is that they seek culture in the most peculiar places_. "I'll bet she would have let me have peace on Sunday," he said. "It just goes to show what happens when you marry a woman solely for her looks." He drained the bottle; then hurled it into the garbage pail with a resounding crash. Gloria's shoulders shook as she filled the kettle. "I wish I'd decided to be an old maid," she sobbed. A very unlikely possibility, he thought. Even now, shopworn as she was, Gloria could have a fairly wide range of suitors should something happen to him. She looked sexy, but how deceiving appearances could be! Professor Falabella was still talking as Bill and Gloria emerged from the kitchen. "I believe that it is possible for an individual who exists on a limited plane of imagination to transpose from one plane to an adjacent one without difficulty ... Great Heavens, what was that?" Something had whisked past the archway leading into the foyer. "Don't pay any attention," Gloria smiled nervously. "The house is haunted." "My dear," one of the ladies offered, "I know of the most marvelous exterminator--" "The house," Gloria assured her coldly, "really _is_ haunted. We've been seeing things ever since we moved in." And she really believed it, Bill thought. Believed that the house was haunted, that is. Of course he had seen things too--but he was enlightened enough to know that ghosts don't exist, even if you do see them. Professor Falabella cleared his throat. "As I was saying, it is possible to send the individual through another--well, dimension, as some popular writers would have it, to one of his other spatial existences on the same temporal plane. It is merely necessary for him to find the Door." "Nonsense!" Bill interrupted. "Holy, unmitigated nonsense!" Every head swivelled to look at him. Gloria restrained tears with an effort. "Brute," someone muttered. But ridicule apparently only stimulated the professor. He beamed. "You don't believe me. Your imagination cannot extend to the comprehension of the multifariousness of space." "Nonsense," Bill said again, but less confidently. "I believe that I have discovered the Doorway," Professor Falabella continued, "and the Way is Open. However, most people fear to penetrate the unknown, even though it is to enter another phase of their own existence. I do admit that the shock of spatial transference, no matter how slight, combined with the concrete awareness of a previous spatial relationship would be perhaps too much for the keenly sensitive individualism ..." Bill opened his mouth. "I know what you're about to say, young man!" "You don't have to be a mind reader to know that," Bill assured him. His consonants were already a little slurred and he knew Gloria was ashamed of him. It served her right. He'd been ashamed of her for years. Professor Falabella smiled. His teeth were very sharp and white. "Very well, Mr. Hughes, since you are a skeptic, perhaps you will not object to being the subject of our experiment yourself?" "What kind of an experiment?" Bill asked suspiciously. "Merely to go through the Door. Any door can become the Doorway, if it is transposed into the proper spatial dimension. That door, for instance." Professor Falabella waved his hand toward the doorway of what Gloria liked to call "Bill's study." "You mean you just want me to open the door and go into that room?" Bill asked incredulously. "That's all?" "That is all. Of course, you go with the awareness that it is the threshold of another plane and that you step voluntarily from this existence to an adjacent one." "Sure," Bill said. He had just remembered there was a nearly full bottle of Calvert in the bottom drawer of the desk. "Sure. Anything to oblige." "Very well. Go to the door, and keep remembering that of your own free will you are passing from this plane to the next." "Look out, everybody!" Bill called raucously, as he pulled open the door. "I'm coming in on the next plane!" No one laughed. He stepped over the threshold, shutting the door firmly behind him. A wonderful excuse to get away from those blasted women. He'd climb out of the window as soon as he'd collected the whiskey and give them a nervous moment thinking he'd really passed into another existence. It would serve Gloria right. For a moment, as he crossed, he had a queer sensation. Maybe there was something in what Professor Falabella said. But no, there he was in the study. All that mumbo jumbo was getting him down, that was all. He was a nervous man--only nobody appreciated the fact. Taking a cigarette out of the pack in his pocket, he reached for the lighter on his desk. It wasn't there. Time and time again he'd told Gloria not to touch his things, and always she'd disobeyed him. Company was coming and she must tidy up. Cooking and cleaning--that was all she was good for. But this was carrying tidiness too far; she'd even removed the ashtrays. And where did that glass block paperweight come from? He'd had a penguin in a snowstorm and he'd been happy with it. This was too much. He'd tell Gloria off. Stealing a man's penguin! He opened the door into the living room and bumped into Lucy Allison. "Don't you think you've been in there long enough, Bill?" she asked acridly. "I'm sure your guests would appreciate catching a glimpse of you." "Why, hello, Lucy," he said, surprised. "I didn't know Gloria had invited you--" "Gloria, Gloria, Gloria!" Lucy cut across his sentence. "You've been talking about nothing but that dumb little blonde for months." Because of the people in the room beyond, her voice was pitched low, but her pale eyes glittered unpleasantly behind her spectacles. "I wish you had married her. You'd have made a fine pair." Gently, caressingly, the short hairs on the back of Bill's neck rose. "Come back in here," Lucy said, hauling him back into the living room where a number of people who had been enjoying the domestic fracas suddenly broke into loud and animated chatter. "Dr. Hildebrand was telling us all about nuclear fission." "Can't find an ashtray," Bill muttered, seizing on something tangible. "Can't find an ashtray in the whole darn place." "We've been over this millions of times, Bill. You know--" she smiled at the guests, a smile that carefully excluded Bill. "--I'm allergic to smoke, but I never can get my husband to remember he isn't to smoke inside the house." "Now take the neutron, for example," Dr. Hildebrand said through a mouthful of p芒t茅. "What is the neutron? It is only ... What was that?" The wraith of Gloria crossed the foyer and disappeared. Bill took a step forward; then stood still. Lucy smiled self-consciously. "That's nothing at all. The house is merely haunted." Everyone laughed. "Forgot something," Bill muttered, and dashed back into the study. He yanked open the bottom drawer of the desk. Sure enough, there was a bottle of Schenley, nearly a third full. "There are some advantages," he thought as he tilted it to his lips, "in having a limited imagination." Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Fantastic Universe_ September 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Doorway, by Evelyn E. Smith * END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DOORWAY * *** This file should be named 29138-8.txt or 29138-8.zip * This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: https://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/1/3/29138/ Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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锘縏he Project Gutenberg EBook of The Feeling, by Roger Dee This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license Title: The Feeling Author: Roger Dee Release Date: March 21, 2016 [EBook #51518] Language: English * START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FEELING * Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine April 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] If this story holds true in real practice, it may reveal something about us that we've never known. "We're just starting on the first one--Walraven, ship's communications man," Costain said, low-voiced. "Captain Maxon and Vaughn have called in. There's been no word from Ragan." Coordinator Erwin took his seat beside the psychologist, his bearing as militarily authoritative in spite of civilian clothing as the room's air was medical. "Maybe Ragan won't turn up," Erwin said. "Maybe we've still got a man out there to bring the ship back." Costain made a quieting gesture, his eyes on the three-man psych team grouped about Walraven's wheeled reclining chair. "They've given Walraven a light somnolent. Not enough to put him out, just enough to make him relive the flight in detail. Accurately." The lead psych man killed the room's lighting to a glow. "Lieutenant Walraven, the ship is ready. You are at your post, with Captain Maxon and Lieutenants Vaughn and Ragan. The first Mars flight is about to blast off. How do you feel?" Walraven lay utterly relaxed, his face dreaming. His voice had the waning sound of a tape running down for lack of power. "Jumpy," he said. "But not really afraid. We're too well conditioned for that, I guess. This is a big thing, an important thing. Exciting." * * * * * It had been exciting at first. The long preparation over, training and study and news interviews and final parties all dreamlike and part of the past. Outside now, invisible but hearteningly present beyond the ship's impermeable hull, the essential and privileged people waiting to see them off. The ship's power plant was humming gently like a giant, patient cat. Captain Maxon passed out muscle-relaxant capsules. The total boneless relaxation that was their defense against acceleration came quickly. The ship was two hours out, beyond lunar orbit and still accelerating, when, trained for months against the moment, set each about his task. Readings occupied Maxon and Vaughn and Ragan while Walraven checked his communications and telemetering gear. It was not until the transmitter slot had licked up its first coded tape--no plain text here, security before even safety--and reported all well, the predicted borne out, that they became aware of the Feeling. The four of them sat in their unsqueaking gimbaled seats and looked at each other, sharing the Feeling and knowing that they shared it, but not why. Vaughn, who was given to poetry and some degree of soul-searching, made the first open recognition. "There's something wrong," he said. The others agreed and, agreeing, could add nothing of explanation to the wrongness. Time passed while they sat, seeing within themselves for the answer--and if not for answer, at least for identification--but nothing came and nothing changed except that with time the steady pressure of the Feeling grew stronger. Vaughn, again, was first to react to the pressure. "We've got to do something." He twisted out of his seat and wavered in the small pseudogravity of the ship's continuing acceleration. "I've never in my life felt so desolate, so--" He stopped. "There aren't any words," he said helplessly. Less articulate than Vaughn and knowing it, the others did not try to help find the words. Only Ragan, professional soldier without family or close tie anywhere in the world, had a suggestion. "The ship's power plant is partly psionic," Ragan said. "I don't understand the principle, but it's been drilled into us that no other system can give a one-directional thrust without reaction. The psi-drive is tied into our minds in the same way it's tied into the atomic and electronic components. It's part of us and we're part of it." Even Maxon, crew authority on the combination drive, missed his meaning at first. "If our atomic shielding fails," Ragan explained, "we're irradiated. If our psionics bank fails, we may feel anything. Maybe the trouble is there." Privately they disagreed, certain that nothing so disquieting as the Feeling that weighted them down could be induced even by so cryptic a marriage of dissimilar principles as made up the ship's power plant. Still it was a possible avenue of relief. "It's worth trying," Maxon said, and they checked. And checked, and checked. * * * * * "We worked for hours," Walraven said, "but nothing came of it. None of us, even Maxon, knew enough about the psi-drive to be sure, but we ended up certain that the trouble wasn't there. It was in us." The drug was wearing thin, leaving him pale and shaken. His face had a glisten of sweat under the lowered lights. The lead psych man chose a hypodermic needle, looked to Erwin and Costain for authority, and administered a second injection. "You gave up searching," he said. "What then, Lieutenant?" "We waited," Walraven said. He relaxed, his face smoothing to impersonal detachment as his mind slipped back to the ship and its crew. Watching, Costain felt a sudden deep unease as if the man's mind had really winged back through time and space and carried a part of his own with it. "There was only one more possible check," Walraven said. "We had to wait two days for that." The check was Maxon's idea, simple of execution and unarguable of result. At halfway point acceleration must cease, the ship rotate on its gyros and deceleration set in. There would be a period of waiting when the power plant must be shut off completely. If the Feeling stemmed from the psi-drive, it would lift then. It did not lift. They sat weightless and disoriented while the gyros precessed and the ship swung end by end and the steady pressure of the Feeling mounted up and up without relief. "It gets worse every hour," Vaughn said raggedly. "It's not a matter of time," Maxon said. "It's the distance. The Feeling grows stronger as we get farther from home." They sat for another time without talk, feeling the distance build up behind them and sensing through the unwindowed hull of the ship what the emptiness outside must be like. The ship was no longer an armored projectile bearing them snugly and swiftly to a first planetfall. It was a walnut shell without strength or direction. In the end they talked out their problem because there was nothing else they could do. "We're men," Maxon said, not as if he must convince himself but as if it were a premise that had to be made, a starting point for all logic. "We're reasoning creatures. If the trouble lies in ourselves we can find its source and its reason for being." He picked Vaughn first because Vaughn had been first to sense the wrongness and because the most sensitive link in a chain is also predictably its weakest. "Try," Maxon said. "I know there are no words to describe this thing, but get as close as you can." * * * * * Vaughn tried. "It isn't home-sickness. It's a different thing altogether from nostalgia. It's not just fear. I'm afraid--not of any _thing_, just afraid in the way a child is afraid of falling in his dreams, when he's really had no experience with falling because he's never fallen more than a few inches in his life.... When I think of my wife, it's not the same at all as if I were just in some far corner of the Earth with only land and water between us. Even if I were marooned on an uncharted island somewhere with no hope of seeing home again, I wouldn't feel this way. There wouldn't be this awful _pulling_." Ragan agreed with Vaughn that the Feeling was essentially a _pull_, but beyond agreement could add nothing. Ragan had covered the world without forming a tie to hold him; one place was as good as another and he felt no loss for any particular spot on Earth. "I only want to be back there," he said simply. "Anywhere but here." "I was born on a farm in New England," Walraven said. "Out of the land, like my father and his people before him. I'm part of that land, no matter how far from it I go, because everything I am came from it. I feel uprooted. I don't belong here." _Uprooted_ was the key for which they had hunted. Maxon said slowly, "There are wild animals on Earth that can't live away from their natural homes. Insects--how does a termite feel, cut off from its hive? Maybe that's our trouble. Something bigger than individual men made the human race what it is. Maybe we've been a sort of composite being all along, without knowing it, tied together by the need of each other and not able to exist apart. Maybe no one knew it before because no one was ever isolated in the way we are." Walraven had more to say, almost defiant in his earnestness. "This is going to sound wild, but I've been fighting inside myself ever since Vaughn mentioned being pulled toward home. I have the feeling that if I'd only let go, I'd be back where I belong." He snapped his fingers, the sound loud in the room. "Like that." No one laughed because each found in himself the same conviction waiting to be recognized. Ragan said, "Walraven's right. There's no place on Earth I care for more than another, but I feel I could be back there in any one of them"--he snapped his fingers, as Walraven had done--"as quickly as that." "I know," Maxon said. "But we can't let go. We were sent out to put this ship into orbit around Mars. We've got to take her there." * * * * * Walraven said, "It wasn't easy. The Feeling got worse as we went out and out. Knowing what it was helped a little, but not enough. We held onto each other, the four of us, to keep the group together. We _knew_ what would happen if we let go." The head psych man looked to Costain and put his needle away when Costain shook his head. "The ship," Coordinator Erwin said sharply. "Walraven, you did put her into orbit?" "Yes," Walraven said. "We put her into orbit and turned on the telemetering equipment--they'll be picking up her signals by now--and then we turned our backs on each other and we let go. There wasn't any feeling of motion or speed, but I felt a fresh breeze on my face and when I opened my eyes I was standing beside a familiar stone fence on a hill above the house where I was born. You haven't told me, but the others came back, too, didn't they?" "All but Ragan," Erwin said. His tone made Costain think wryly, _Even the military can snatch at straws_. "Maxon and Vaughn called in. But we haven't heard from Ragan." "He wasn't left behind," Walraven said with certainty. "Ragan has no family, but he has a home. We're standing on it." An orderly came in with an envelope for Costain, who opened it and handed the paper to Erwin. To Walraven, Costain said, "It's a cablegram from North Ireland. Ragan is back." Erwin was still gripping the paper in his hand when he walked with Costain out of the hospital into the bright airiness of a spring day. He glared at the warm, blue sky. "We'll find a way," Erwin said. "We've proved that we can put men on Mars. With the right conditioning, we can keep them there." "You're a dedicated and resolute man, Coordinator," Costain said. "Do you really suppose that any amount of conditioning could fit you to do what those boys failed at?" The long moment of considering that passed before Erwin answered left a fine sheen of sweat on his face. "No," Erwin said. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license Title: The Feeling Author: Roger Dee Release Date: March 21, 2016 [EBook #51518] Language: English * START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FEELING * Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine April 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] If this story holds true in real practice, it may reveal something about us that we've never known. "We're just starting on the first one--Walraven, ship's communications man," Costain said, low-voiced. "Captain Maxon and Vaughn have called in. There's been no word from Ragan." Coordinator Erwin took his seat beside the psychologist, his bearing as militarily authoritative in spite of civilian clothing as the room's air was medical. "Maybe Ragan won't turn up," Erwin said. "Maybe we've still got a man out there to bring the ship back." Costain made a quieting gesture, his eyes on the three-man psych team grouped about Walraven's wheeled reclining chair. "They've given Walraven a light somnolent. Not enough to put him out, just enough to make him relive the flight in detail. Accurately." The lead psych man killed the room's lighting to a glow. "Lieutenant Walraven, the ship is ready. You are at your post, with Captain Maxon and Lieutenants Vaughn and Ragan. The first Mars flight is about to blast off. How do you feel?" Walraven lay utterly relaxed, his face dreaming. His voice had the waning sound of a tape running down for lack of power. "Jumpy," he said. "But not really afraid. We're too well conditioned for that, I guess. This is a big thing, an important thing. Exciting." * * * * * It had been exciting at first. The long preparation over, training and study and news interviews and final parties all dreamlike and part of the past. Outside now, invisible but hearteningly present beyond the ship's impermeable hull, the essential and privileged people waiting to see them off. The ship's power plant was humming gently like a giant, patient cat. Captain Maxon passed out muscle-relaxant capsules. The total boneless relaxation that was their defense against acceleration came quickly. The ship was two hours out, beyond lunar orbit and still accelerating, when, trained for months against the moment, set each about his task. Readings occupied Maxon and Vaughn and Ragan while Walraven checked his communications and telemetering gear. It was not until the transmitter slot had licked up its first coded tape--no plain text here, security before even safety--and reported all well, the predicted borne out, that they became aware of the Feeling. The four of them sat in their unsqueaking gimbaled seats and looked at each other, sharing the Feeling and knowing that they shared it, but not why. Vaughn, who was given to poetry and some degree of soul-searching, made the first open recognition. "There's something wrong," he said. The others agreed and, agreeing, could add nothing of explanation to the wrongness. Time passed while they sat, seeing within themselves for the answer--and if not for answer, at least for identification--but nothing came and nothing changed except that with time the steady pressure of the Feeling grew stronger. Vaughn, again, was first to react to the pressure. "We've got to do something." He twisted out of his seat and wavered in the small pseudogravity of the ship's continuing acceleration. "I've never in my life felt so desolate, so--" He stopped. "There aren't any words," he said helplessly. Less articulate than Vaughn and knowing it, the others did not try to help find the words. Only Ragan, professional soldier without family or close tie anywhere in the world, had a suggestion. "The ship's power plant is partly psionic," Ragan said. "I don't understand the principle, but it's been drilled into us that no other system can give a one-directional thrust without reaction. The psi-drive is tied into our minds in the same way it's tied into the atomic and electronic components. It's part of us and we're part of it." Even Maxon, crew authority on the combination drive, missed his meaning at first. "If our atomic shielding fails," Ragan explained, "we're irradiated. If our psionics bank fails, we may feel anything. Maybe the trouble is there." Privately they disagreed, certain that nothing so disquieting as the Feeling that weighted them down could be induced even by so cryptic a marriage of dissimilar principles as made up the ship's power plant. Still it was a possible avenue of relief. "It's worth trying," Maxon said, and they checked. And checked, and checked. * * * * * "We worked for hours," Walraven said, "but nothing came of it. None of us, even Maxon, knew enough about the psi-drive to be sure, but we ended up certain that the trouble wasn't there. It was in us." The drug was wearing thin, leaving him pale and shaken. His face had a glisten of sweat under the lowered lights. The lead psych man chose a hypodermic needle, looked to Erwin and Costain for authority, and administered a second injection. "You gave up searching," he said. "What then, Lieutenant?" "We waited," Walraven said. He relaxed, his face smoothing to impersonal detachment as his mind slipped back to the ship and its crew. Watching, Costain felt a sudden deep unease as if the man's mind had really winged back through time and space and carried a part of his own with it. "There was only one more possible check," Walraven said. "We had to wait two days for that." The check was Maxon's idea, simple of execution and unarguable of result. At halfway point acceleration must cease, the ship rotate on its gyros and deceleration set in. There would be a period of waiting when the power plant must be shut off completely. If the Feeling stemmed from the psi-drive, it would lift then. It did not lift. They sat weightless and disoriented while the gyros precessed and the ship swung end by end and the steady pressure of the Feeling mounted up and up without relief. "It gets worse every hour," Vaughn said raggedly. "It's not a matter of time," Maxon said. "It's the distance. The Feeling grows stronger as we get farther from home." They sat for another time without talk, feeling the distance build up behind them and sensing through the unwindowed hull of the ship what the emptiness outside must be like. The ship was no longer an armored projectile bearing them snugly and swiftly to a first planetfall. It was a walnut shell without strength or direction. In the end they talked out their problem because there was nothing else they could do. "We're men," Maxon said, not as if he must convince himself but as if it were a premise that had to be made, a starting point for all logic. "We're reasoning creatures. If the trouble lies in ourselves we can find its source and its reason for being." He picked Vaughn first because Vaughn had been first to sense the wrongness and because the most sensitive link in a chain is also predictably its weakest. "Try," Maxon said. "I know there are no words to describe this thing, but get as close as you can." * * * * * Vaughn tried. "It isn't home-sickness. It's a different thing altogether from nostalgia. It's not just fear. I'm afraid--not of any _thing_, just afraid in the way a child is afraid of falling in his dreams, when he's really had no experience with falling because he's never fallen more than a few inches in his life.... When I think of my wife, it's not the same at all as if I were just in some far corner of the Earth with only land and water between us. Even if I were marooned on an uncharted island somewhere with no hope of seeing home again, I wouldn't feel this way. There wouldn't be this awful _pulling_." Ragan agreed with Vaughn that the Feeling was essentially a _pull_, but beyond agreement could add nothing. Ragan had covered the world without forming a tie to hold him; one place was as good as another and he felt no loss for any particular spot on Earth. "I only want to be back there," he said simply. "Anywhere but here." "I was born on a farm in New England," Walraven said. "Out of the land, like my father and his people before him. I'm part of that land, no matter how far from it I go, because everything I am came from it. I feel uprooted. I don't belong here." _Uprooted_ was the key for which they had hunted. Maxon said slowly, "There are wild animals on Earth that can't live away from their natural homes. Insects--how does a termite feel, cut off from its hive? Maybe that's our trouble. Something bigger than individual men made the human race what it is. Maybe we've been a sort of composite being all along, without knowing it, tied together by the need of each other and not able to exist apart. Maybe no one knew it before because no one was ever isolated in the way we are." Walraven had more to say, almost defiant in his earnestness. "This is going to sound wild, but I've been fighting inside myself ever since Vaughn mentioned being pulled toward home. I have the feeling that if I'd only let go, I'd be back where I belong." He snapped his fingers, the sound loud in the room. "Like that." No one laughed because each found in himself the same conviction waiting to be recognized. Ragan said, "Walraven's right. There's no place on Earth I care for more than another, but I feel I could be back there in any one of them"--he snapped his fingers, as Walraven had done--"as quickly as that." "I know," Maxon said. "But we can't let go. We were sent out to put this ship into orbit around Mars. We've got to take her there." * * * * * Walraven said, "It wasn't easy. The Feeling got worse as we went out and out. Knowing what it was helped a little, but not enough. We held onto each other, the four of us, to keep the group together. We _knew_ what would happen if we let go." The head psych man looked to Costain and put his needle away when Costain shook his head. "The ship," Coordinator Erwin said sharply. "Walraven, you did put her into orbit?" "Yes," Walraven said. "We put her into orbit and turned on the telemetering equipment--they'll be picking up her signals by now--and then we turned our backs on each other and we let go. There wasn't any feeling of motion or speed, but I felt a fresh breeze on my face and when I opened my eyes I was standing beside a familiar stone fence on a hill above the house where I was born. You haven't told me, but the others came back, too, didn't they?" "All but Ragan," Erwin said. His tone made Costain think wryly, _Even the military can snatch at straws_. "Maxon and Vaughn called in. But we haven't heard from Ragan." "He wasn't left behind," Walraven said with certainty. "Ragan has no family, but he has a home. We're standing on it." An orderly came in with an envelope for Costain, who opened it and handed the paper to Erwin. To Walraven, Costain said, "It's a cablegram from North Ireland. Ragan is back." Erwin was still gripping the paper in his hand when he walked with Costain out of the hospital into the bright airiness of a spring day. He glared at the warm, blue sky. "We'll find a way," Erwin said. "We've proved that we can put men on Mars. With the right conditioning, we can keep them there." "You're a dedicated and resolute man, Coordinator," Costain said. "Do you really suppose that any amount of conditioning could fit you to do what those boys failed at?" The long moment of considering that passed before Erwin answered left a fine sheen of sweat on his face. "No," Erwin said. 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锘縏he Project Gutenberg EBook of The Man Who Saw the Future, by Edmond Hamilton This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Man Who Saw the Future Author: Edmond Hamilton Illustrator: Leo Morey Release Date: February 13, 2009 [EBook #28062] Language: English * START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN WHO SAW THE FUTURE * Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net Jean de Marselait, Inquisitor Extraordinary of the King of France, raised his head from the parchments that littered the crude desk at which he sat. His glance shifted along the long stone-walled, torchlit room to the file of mail-clad soldiers who stood like steel statues by its door. A word from him and two of them sprang forward. "You may bring in the prisoner," he said. The two disappeared through the door, and in moments there came a clang of opening bolts and grating of heavy hinges from somewhere in the building. Then the clang of the returning soldiers, and they entered the room with another man between them whose hands were fettered. [Illustration: Illustrated by MOREY] He was a straight figure, and was dressed in drab tunic and hose. His dark hair was long and straight, and his face held a dreaming strength, altogether different from the battered visages of the soldiers or the changeless mask of the Inquisitor. The latter regarded the prisoner for a moment, and then lifted one of the parchments from before him and read from it in a smooth, clear voice. "Henri Lothiere, apothecary's assistant of Paris," he read, "is charged in this year of our lord one thousand four hundred and forty-four with offending against God and the king by committing the crime of sorcery." The prisoner spoke for the first time, his voice low but steady. "I am no sorcerer, sire." Jean de Marselait read calmly on from the parchment. "It is stated by many witnesses that for long that part of Paris, called Nanley by some, has been troubled by works of the devil. Ever and anon great claps of thunder have been heard issuing from an open field there without visible cause. They were evidently caused by a sorcerer of power since even exorcists could not halt them. "It is attested by many that the accused, Henri Lothiere, did in spite of the known diabolical nature of the thing, spend much time at the field in question. It is also attested that the said Henri Lothiere did state that in his opinion the thunderclaps were not of diabolical origin, and that if they were studied, their cause might be discovered. "It being suspected from this that Henri Lothiere was himself the sorcerer causing the thunderclaps, he was watched and on the third day of June was seen to go in the early morning to the unholy spot with certain instruments. There he was observed going through strange and diabolical conjurations, when there came suddenly another thunderclap and the said Henri Lothiere did vanish entirely from view in that moment. This fact is attested beyond all doubt. "The news spreading, many hundreds watched around the field during that day. Upon that night before midnight, another thunderclap was heard and the said Henri Lothiere was seen by these hundreds to appear at the field's center as swiftly and as strangely as he had vanished. The fear-stricken hundreds around the field heard him tell them how, by diabolical power, he had gone for hundreds of years into the future, a thing surely possible only to the devil and his minions, and heard him tell other blasphemies before they seized him and brought him to the Inquisitor of the King, praying that he be burned and his work of sorcery thus halted. "Therefore, Henri Lothiere, since you were seen to vanish and to reappear as only the servants of the evil one might do, and were heard by many to utter the blasphemies mentioned, I must adjudge you a sorcerer with the penalty of death by fire. If anything there be that you can advance in palliation of your black offense, however, you may now do so before final sentence is passed upon you." Jean de Marselait laid down the parchment, and raised his eyes to the prisoner. The latter looked round him quickly for a moment, a half-glimpsed panic for an instant in his eyes, then seemed to steady. "Sire, I cannot change the sentence you will pass upon me," he said quietly, "yet do I wish well to relate once, what happened to me and what I saw. Is it permitted me to tell that from first to last?" The Inquisitor's head bent, and Henri Lothiere spoke, his voice gaining in strength and fervor as he continued. * * * * * "Sire, I, Henri Lothiere, am no sorcerer but a simple apothecary's assistant. It was always my nature, from earliest youth, to desire to delve into matters unknown to men; the secrets of the earth and sea and sky, the knowledge hidden from us. I knew well that this was wicked, that the Church teaches all we need to know and that heaven frowns when we pry into its mysteries, but so strong was my desire to know, that many times I concerned myself with matters forbidden. "I had sought to know the nature of the lightning, and the manner of flight of the birds, and the way in which fishes are able to live beneath the waters, and the mystery of the stars. So when these thunderclaps began to be heard in the part of Paris in which I lived, I did not fear them so much as my neighbors. I was eager to learn only what was causing them, for it seemed to me that their cause might be learned. "So I began to go to that field from which they issued, to study them. I waited in it and twice I heard the great thunderclaps myself. I thought they came from near the field's center, and I studied that place. But I could see nothing there that was causing them. I dug in the ground, I looked up for hours into the sky, but there was nothing. And still, at intervals, the thunderclaps sounded. "I still kept going to the field, though I knew that many of my neighbors whispered that I was engaged in sorcery. Upon that morning of the third day of June, it had occurred to me to take certain instruments, such as loadstones, to the field, to see whether anything might be learned with them. I went, a few superstitious ones following me at a distance. I reached the field's center, and started the examinations I had planned. Then came suddenly another thunderclap and with it I passed from the sight of those who had followed and were watching, vanished from view. "Sire, I cannot well describe what happened in that moment. I heard the thunderclap come as though from all the air around me, stunning my ears with its terrible burst of sound. And at the same moment that I heard it, I was buffeted as though by awful winds and seemed falling downward through terrific depths. Then through the hellish uproar, I felt myself bumping upon a hard surface, and the sounds quickly ceased from about me. "I had involuntarily closed my eyes at the great thunderclap, but now, slowly, I opened them. I looked around me, first in stupefaction, and then in growing amazement. For I was not in that familiar field at all, sire, that I had been in a moment before. I was in a room, lying upon its floor, and it was such a room as I had never seen before. "Its walls were smooth and white and gleaming. There were windows in the walls, and they were closed with sheets of glass so smooth and clear that one seemed looking through a clear opening rather than through glass. The floor was of stone, smooth and seamless as though carven from one great rock, yet seeming not, in some way, to be stone at all. There was a great circle of smooth metal inset in it, and it was on it that I was lying. "All around the room were many great things the like of which I had never seen. Some seemed of black metal, seemed contrivances or machines of some sort. Black cords of wire connected them to each other and from part of them came a humming sound that did not stop. Others had glass tubes fixed on the front of them, and there were square black plates on which were many shining little handles and buttons. "There was a sound of voices, and I turned to find that two men were bending over me. They were men like myself, yet they were at the same time like no men I had ever met! One was white-bearded and the other plump and bare of face. Neither of them wore cloak or tunic or hose. Instead they wore loose and straight-hanging garments of cloth. "They were both greatly excited, it seemed, and were talking to each other as they bent over me. I caught a word or two of their speech in a moment, and found it was French they were talking. But it was not the French I knew, being so strange and with so many new words as to be almost a different language. I could understand the drift, though, of what they were saying. "'We have succeeded!' the plump one was shouting excitedly. 'We've brought someone through at last!' "'They will never believe it,' the other replied. 'They'll say it was faked.' "'Nonsense!' cried the first. 'We can do it again, Rastin; we can show them before their own eyes!' "They bent toward me, seeing me staring at them. "'Where are you from?' shouted the plump-faced one. 'What time--what year--what century?' "'He doesn't understand, Thicourt,' muttered the white-bearded one. 'What year is this now, my friend?' he asked me. "I found voice to answer. 'Surely, sirs, whoever you be, you know that this is the year fourteen hundred and forty-four,' I said. "That set them off again into a babble of excited talk, of which I could make out only a word here and there. They lifted me up, seeing how sick and weak I felt, and seated me in a strange, but very comfortable chair. I felt dazed. The two were still talking excitedly, but finally the white-bearded one, Rastin, turned to me. He spoke to me, very slowly, so that I understood him clearly, and he asked me my name. I told him. "'Henri Lothiere,' he repeated. 'Well, Henri, you must try to understand. You are not now in the year 1444. You are five hundred years in the future, or what would seem to you the future. This is the year 1944.' "'And Rastin and I have jerked you out of your own time across five solid centuries,' said the other, grinning. "I looked from one to the other. 'Messieurs,' I pleaded, and Rastin shook his head. "'He does not believe,' he said to the other. Then to me, 'Where were you just before you found yourself here, Henri?' he asked. "'In a field at the outskirts of Paris,' I said. "'Well, look from that window and see if you still believe yourself in your 15th-century Paris.' * * * * * "I went to the window. I looked out. Mother of God, what a sight before my eyes! The familiar gray little houses, the open fields behind them, the saunterers in the dirt streets--all these were gone and it was a new and terrible city that lay about me! Its broad streets were of stone and great buildings of many levels rose on either side of them. Great numbers of people, dressed like the two beside me, moved in the streets and also strange vehicles or carriages, undrawn by horse or ox, that rushed to and fro at undreamed-of speed! I staggered back to the chair. "'You believe now, Henri?' asked the whitebeard, Rastin, kindly enough, and I nodded weakly. My brain was whirling. "He pointed to the circle of metal on the floor and the machines around the room. 'Those are what we used to jerk you from your own time to this one,' he said. "'But how, sirs?' I asked. 'For the love of God, how is it that you can take me from one time to another? Have ye become gods or devils?' "'Neither the one nor the other, Henri,' he answered. 'We are simply scientists, physicists--men who want to know as much as man can know and who spend our lives in seeking knowledge.' "I felt my confidence returning. These were men such as I had dreamed might some day be. 'But what can you do with time?' I asked. 'Is not time a thing unalterable, unchanging?' "Both shook their heads. 'No, Henri, it is not. But lately have our men of science found that out.' "They went on to tell me of things that I could not understand. It seemed they were telling that their men of knowledge had found time to be a mere measurement, or dimension, just as length or breadth or thickness. They mentioned names with reverence that I had never heard--Einstein and De Sitter and Lorentz. I was in a maze at their words. "They said that just as men use force to move or rotate matter from one point along the three known measurements to another, so might matter be rotated from one point in time, the fourth measurement, to another, if the right force were used. They said that their machines produced that force and applied it to the metal circle from five hundred years before to this time of theirs. "They had tried it many times, they said, but nothing had been on the spot at that time and they had rotated nothing but the air above it from the one time to the other, and the reverse. I told them of the thunderclaps that had been heard at the spot in the field and that had made me curious. They said that they had been caused by the changing of the air above the spot from the one time to the other in their trials. I could not understand these things. "They said then that I had happened to be on the spot when they had again turned on their force and so had been rotated out of my own time into theirs. They said that they had always hoped to get someone living from a distant time in that way, since such a man would be a proof to all the other men of knowledge of what they had been able to do. "I could not comprehend, and they saw and told me not to fear. I was not fearful, but excited at the things that I saw around me. I asked of those things and Rastin and Thicourt laughed and explained some of them to me as best they could. Much they said that I did not understand but my eyes saw marvels in that room of which I had never dreamed. "They showed me a thing like a small glass bottle with wires inside, and then told me to touch a button beneath it. I did so and the bottle shone with a brilliant light exceeding that of scores of candles. I shrank back, but they laughed, and when Rastin touched the button again, the light in the glass thing vanished. I saw that there were many of these things in the ceiling. "They showed me also a rounded black object of metal with a wheel at the end. A belt ran around the wheel and around smaller wheels connected to many machines. They touched a lever on this object and a sound of humming came from it and the wheel turned very fast, turning all the machines with the belt. It turned faster than any man could ever have turned it, yet when they touched the lever again, its turning ceased. They said that it was the power of the lightning in the skies that they used to make the light and to turn that wheel! "My brain reeled at the wonders that they showed. One took an instrument from the table that he held to his face, saying that he would summon the other scientists or men of knowledge to see their experiment that night. He spoke into the instrument as though to different men, and let me hear voices from it answering him! They said that the men who answered were leagues separated from him! "I could not believe--and yet somehow I did believe! I was half-dazed with wonder and yet excited too. The white-bearded man, Rastin, saw that, and encouraged me. Then they brought a small box with an opening and placed a black disk on the box, and set it turning in some way. A woman's voice came from the opening of the box, singing. I shuddered when they told me that the woman was one who had died years before. Could the dead speak thus? * * * * * "How can I describe what I saw there? Another box or cabinet there was, with an opening also. I thought it was like that from which I had heard the dead woman singing, but they said it was different. They touched buttons on it and a voice came from it speaking in a tongue I knew not. They said that the man was speaking thousands of leagues from us, in a strange land across the uncrossed western ocean, yet he seemed speaking by my side! "They saw how dazed I was by these things, and gave me wine. At that I took heart, for wine, at least, was as it had always been. "'You will want to see Paris--the Paris of our time, Henri?' asked Rastin. "'But it is different--terrible--' I said. "'We'll take you,' Thicourt said, 'but first your clothes--' "He got a long light coat that they had me put on, that covered my tunic and hose, and a hat of grotesque round shape that they put on my head. They led me then out of the building and into the street. "I gazed astoundedly along that street. It had a raised walk at either side, on which many hundreds of people moved to and fro, all dressed in as strange a fashion. Many, like Rastin and Thicourt, seemed of gentle blood, yet, in spite of this, they did not wear a sword or even a dagger. There were no knights or squires, or priests or peasants. All seemed dressed much the same. "Small lads ran to and fro selling what seemed sheets of very thin white parchment, many times folded and covered with lettering. Rastin said that these had written in them all things that had happened through all the world, even but hours before. I said that to write even one of these sheets would take a clerk many days, but they said that the writing was done in some way very quickly by machines. "In the broad stone street between the two raised walks were rushing back and forth the strange vehicles I had seen from the window. There was no animal pulling or pushing any one of them, yet they never halted their swift rush, and carried many people at unthinkable speed. Sometimes those who walked stepped before the rushing vehicles, and then from them came terrible warning snarls or moans that made the walkers draw back. "One of the vehicles stood at the walk's edge before us, and we entered it and sat side by side on a soft leather seat. Thicourt sat behind a wheel on a post, with levers beside him. He touched these and a humming sound came from somewhere in the vehicle and then it too began to rush forward. Faster and faster along the street it went, yet neither of them seemed afraid. "Many thousands of these vehicles were moving swiftly through the streets about us. We passed on, between great buildings and along wider streets, my eyes and ears numbed by what I saw about me. Then the buildings grew smaller, after we had gone for miles through them, and we were passing through the city's outskirts. I could not believe, hardly, that it was Paris in which I was. "We came to a great flat and open field outside the city and there Thicourt stopped and we got out of the vehicle. There were big buildings at the field's end, and I saw other vehicles rolling out of them across the field, ones different from any I had yet seen, with flat winglike projections on either side. They rolled out over the field very fast and then I cried out as I saw them rising from the ground into the air. Mother of God, they were flying! The men in them were flying! "Rastin and Thicourt took me forward to the great buildings. They spoke to men there and one brought forward one of the winged cars. Rastin told me to get in, and though I was terribly afraid, there was too terrible a fascination that drew me in. Thicourt and Rastin entered after me, and we sat in seats with the other man. He had before him levers and buttons, while at the car's front was a great thing like a double-oar or paddle. A loud roaring came and that double-blade began to whirl so swiftly that I could not see it. Then the car rolled swiftly forward, bumping on the ground, and then ceased to bump. I looked down, then shuddered. The ground was already far beneath! I too, was flying in the air! "We swept upward at terrible speed that increased steadily. The thunder of the car was terrific, and, as the man at the levers changed their position, we curved around and over downward and upward as though birds. Rastin tried to explain to me how the car flew, but it was all too wonderful, and I could not understand. I only knew that a wild thrilling excitement held me, and that it were worth life and death to fly thus, if but for once, as I had always dreamed that men might some day do. "Higher and higher we went. The earth lay far beneath and I saw now that Paris was indeed a mighty city, its vast mass of buildings stretching away almost to the horizons below us. A mighty city of the future that it had been given my eyes to look on! "There were other winged cars darting to and fro in the air about us, and they said that many of these were starting or finishing journeys of hundreds of leagues in the air. Then I cried out as I saw a great shape coming nearer us in the air. It was many rods in length, tapering to a point at both ends, a vast ship sailing in the air! There were great cabins on its lower part and in them we glimpsed people gazing out, coming and going inside, dancing even! They told me that vast ships of the air like this sailed to and fro for thousands of leagues with hundreds inside them. "The huge vessel of the air passed us and then our winged car began to descend. It circled smoothly down to the field like a swooping bird, and, when we landed there, Rastin and Thicourt led me back to the ground-vehicle. It was late afternoon by then, the sun sinking westward, and darkness had descended by the time we rolled back into the great city. "But in that city was not darkness! Lights were everywhere in it, flashing brilliant lights that shone from its mighty buildings and that blinked and burned and ran like water in great symbols upon the buildings above the streets. Their glare was like that of day! We stopped before a great building into which Rastin and Thicourt led me. "It was vast inside and in it were many people in rows on rows of seats. I thought it a cathedral at first but saw soon that it was not. The wall at one end of it, toward which all in it were gazing, had on it pictures of people, great in size, and those pictures were moving as though themselves alive! And they were talking one to another, too, as though with living voices! I trembled. What magic! "With Rastin and Thicourt in seats beside me, I watched the pictures enthralled. It was like looking through a great window into strange worlds. I saw the sea, seemingly tossing and roaring there before me, and then saw on it a ship, a vast ship of size incredible, without sails or oars, holding thousands of people. I seemed on that ship as I watched, seemed moving forward with it. They told me it was sailing over the western ocean that never men had crossed. I feared! "Then another scene, land appearing from the ship. A great statue, upholding a torch, and we on the ship seemed passing beneath it. They said that the ship was approaching a city, the city of New York, but mists hid all before us. Then suddenly the mists before the ship cleared and there before me seemed the city. * * * * * "Mother of God, what a city! Climbing range on range of great mountain-like buildings that aspired up as though to scale heaven itself! Far beneath narrow streets pierced through them and in the picture we seemed to land from the ship, to go through those streets of the city. It was an incredible city of madness! The streets and ways were mere chasms between the sky-toppling buildings! People--people--people--millions on millions of them rushed through the endless streets. Countless ground-vehicles rushed to and fro also, and other different ones that roared above the streets and still others below them! "Winged flying-cars and great airships were sailing to and fro over the titanic city, and in the waters around it great ships of the sea and smaller ships were coming as man never dreamed of surely, that reached out from the mighty city on all sides. And with the coming of darkness, the city blazed with living light! "The pictures changed, showed other mighty cities, though none so terrible as that one. It showed great mechanisms that appalled me. Giant metal things that scooped in an instant from the earth as much as a man might dig in days. Vast things that poured molten metal from them like water. Others that lifted loads that hundreds of men and oxen could not have stirred. "They showed men of knowledge like Rastin and Thicourt beside me. Some were healers, working miraculous cures in a way that I could not understand. Others were gazing through giant tubes at the stars, and the pictures showed what they saw, showed that all of the stars were great suns like our sun, and that our sun was greater than earth, that earth moved around it instead of the reverse! How could such things be, I wondered. Yet they said that it was so, that earth was round like an apple, and that with other earths like it, the planets, moved round the sun. I heard, but could scarce understand. "At last Rastin and Thicourt led me out of that place of living pictures and to their ground-vehicle. We went again through the streets to their building, where first I had found myself. As we went I saw that none challenged my right to go, nor asked who was my lord. And Rastin said that none now had lords, but that all were lord, king and priest and noble, having no more power than any in the land. Each man was his own master! It was what I had hardly dared to hope for, in my own time, and this, I thought, was greatest of all the marvels they had shown me! "We entered again their building but Rastin and Thicourt took me first to another room than the one in which I had found myself. They said that their men of knowledge were gathered there to hear of their feat, and to have it proved to them. "'You would not be afraid to return to your own time, Henri?' asked Rastin, and I shook my head. "'I want to return to it,' I told them. 'I want to tell my people there what I have seen--what the future is that they must strive for.' "'But if they should not believe you?' Thicourt asked. "'Still I must go--must tell them,' I said. "Rastin grasped my hand. 'You are a man, Henri,' he said. Then, throwing aside the cloak and hat I had worn outside, they went with me down to the big white-walled room where first I had found myself. "It was lit brightly now by many of the shining glass things on ceiling and walls, and in it were many men. They all stared strangely at me and at my clothes, and talked excitedly so fast that I could not understand. Rastin began to address them. "He seemed explaining how he had brought me from my own time to his. He used many terms and words that I could not understand, incomprehensible references and phrases, and I could understand but little. I heard again the names of Einstein and De Sitter that I had heard before, repeated frequently by these men as they disputed with Rastin and Thicourt. They seemed disputing about me. "One big man was saying, 'Impossible! I tell you, Rastin, you have faked this fellow!' "Rastin smiled. 'You don't believe that Thicourt and I brought him here from his own time across five centuries?' "A chorus of excited negatives answered him. He had me stand up and speak to them. They asked me many questions, part of which I could not understand. I told them of my life, and of the city of my own time, and of king and priest and noble, and of many simple things that they seemed quite ignorant of. Some appeared to believe me but others did not, and again their dispute broke out. "'There is a way to settle the argument, gentlemen,' said Rastin finally. "'How?' all cried. "'Thicourt and I brought Henri across five centuries by rotating the time-dimensions at this spot,' he said. 'Suppose we reverse that rotation and send him back before your eyes--would that be proof?' "They all said that it would. Rastin turned to me. 'Stand on the metal circle, Henri,' he said. I did so. "All were watching very closely. Thicourt did something quickly with the levers and buttons of the mechanisms in the room. They began to hum, and blue light came from the glass tubes on some. All were quiet, watching me as I stood there on the circle of metal. I met Rastin's eyes and something in me made me call goodbye to him. He waved his hand and smiled. Thicourt pressed more buttons and the hum of the mechanisms grew louder. Then he reached toward another lever. All in the room were tense and I was tense. "Then I saw Thicourt's arm move as he turned one of the many levers. "A terrific clap of thunder seemed to break around me, and as I closed my eyes before its shock, I felt myself whirling around and falling at the same time as though into a maelstrom, just as I had done before. The awful falling sensation ceased in a moment and the sound subsided. I opened my eyes. I was on the ground at the center of the familiar field from which I had vanished hours before, upon the morning of that day. It was night now, though, for that day I had spent five hundred years in the future. "There were many people gathered around the field, fearful, and they screamed and some fled when I appeared in the thunderclap. I went toward those who remained. My mind was full of things I had seen and I wanted to tell them of these things. I wanted to tell them how they must work ever toward that future time of wonder. "But they did not listen. Before I had spoken minutes to them they cried out on me as a sorcerer and a blasphemer, and seized me and brought me here to the Inquisitor, to you, sire. And to you, sire, I have told the truth in all things. I know that in doing so I have set the seal of my own fate, and that only a sorcerer would ever tell such a tale, yet despite that I am glad. Glad that I have told one at least of this time of what I saw five centuries in the future. Glad that I saw! Glad that I saw the things that someday, sometime, must come to be--" * * * * * It was a week later that they burned Henri Lothiere. Jean de Marselait, lifting his gaze from his endless parchment accusation and examens on that afternoon, looked out through the window at a thick curl of black smoke going up from the distant square. "Strange, that one," he mused. "A sorcerer, of course, but such a one as I had never heard before. I wonder," he half-whispered, "was there any truth in that wild tale of his? The future--who can say--what men might do--?" There was silence in the room as he brooded for a moment, and then he shook himself as one ridding himself of absurd speculations. "But tush--enough of these crazy fancies. They will have me for a sorcerer if I yield to these wild fancies and visions _of the future_." And bending again with his pen to the parchment before him, he went gravely on with his work. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Amazing Stories_ February 1961, first published in _Amazing Stories_ October 1930. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Man Who Saw the Future Author: Edmond Hamilton Illustrator: Leo Morey Release Date: February 13, 2009 [EBook #28062] Language: English * START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN WHO SAW THE FUTURE * Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net Jean de Marselait, Inquisitor Extraordinary of the King of France, raised his head from the parchments that littered the crude desk at which he sat. His glance shifted along the long stone-walled, torchlit room to the file of mail-clad soldiers who stood like steel statues by its door. A word from him and two of them sprang forward. "You may bring in the prisoner," he said. The two disappeared through the door, and in moments there came a clang of opening bolts and grating of heavy hinges from somewhere in the building. Then the clang of the returning soldiers, and they entered the room with another man between them whose hands were fettered. [Illustration: Illustrated by MOREY] He was a straight figure, and was dressed in drab tunic and hose. His dark hair was long and straight, and his face held a dreaming strength, altogether different from the battered visages of the soldiers or the changeless mask of the Inquisitor. The latter regarded the prisoner for a moment, and then lifted one of the parchments from before him and read from it in a smooth, clear voice. "Henri Lothiere, apothecary's assistant of Paris," he read, "is charged in this year of our lord one thousand four hundred and forty-four with offending against God and the king by committing the crime of sorcery." The prisoner spoke for the first time, his voice low but steady. "I am no sorcerer, sire." Jean de Marselait read calmly on from the parchment. "It is stated by many witnesses that for long that part of Paris, called Nanley by some, has been troubled by works of the devil. Ever and anon great claps of thunder have been heard issuing from an open field there without visible cause. They were evidently caused by a sorcerer of power since even exorcists could not halt them. "It is attested by many that the accused, Henri Lothiere, did in spite of the known diabolical nature of the thing, spend much time at the field in question. It is also attested that the said Henri Lothiere did state that in his opinion the thunderclaps were not of diabolical origin, and that if they were studied, their cause might be discovered. "It being suspected from this that Henri Lothiere was himself the sorcerer causing the thunderclaps, he was watched and on the third day of June was seen to go in the early morning to the unholy spot with certain instruments. There he was observed going through strange and diabolical conjurations, when there came suddenly another thunderclap and the said Henri Lothiere did vanish entirely from view in that moment. This fact is attested beyond all doubt. "The news spreading, many hundreds watched around the field during that day. Upon that night before midnight, another thunderclap was heard and the said Henri Lothiere was seen by these hundreds to appear at the field's center as swiftly and as strangely as he had vanished. The fear-stricken hundreds around the field heard him tell them how, by diabolical power, he had gone for hundreds of years into the future, a thing surely possible only to the devil and his minions, and heard him tell other blasphemies before they seized him and brought him to the Inquisitor of the King, praying that he be burned and his work of sorcery thus halted. "Therefore, Henri Lothiere, since you were seen to vanish and to reappear as only the servants of the evil one might do, and were heard by many to utter the blasphemies mentioned, I must adjudge you a sorcerer with the penalty of death by fire. If anything there be that you can advance in palliation of your black offense, however, you may now do so before final sentence is passed upon you." Jean de Marselait laid down the parchment, and raised his eyes to the prisoner. The latter looked round him quickly for a moment, a half-glimpsed panic for an instant in his eyes, then seemed to steady. "Sire, I cannot change the sentence you will pass upon me," he said quietly, "yet do I wish well to relate once, what happened to me and what I saw. Is it permitted me to tell that from first to last?" The Inquisitor's head bent, and Henri Lothiere spoke, his voice gaining in strength and fervor as he continued. * * * * * "Sire, I, Henri Lothiere, am no sorcerer but a simple apothecary's assistant. It was always my nature, from earliest youth, to desire to delve into matters unknown to men; the secrets of the earth and sea and sky, the knowledge hidden from us. I knew well that this was wicked, that the Church teaches all we need to know and that heaven frowns when we pry into its mysteries, but so strong was my desire to know, that many times I concerned myself with matters forbidden. "I had sought to know the nature of the lightning, and the manner of flight of the birds, and the way in which fishes are able to live beneath the waters, and the mystery of the stars. So when these thunderclaps began to be heard in the part of Paris in which I lived, I did not fear them so much as my neighbors. I was eager to learn only what was causing them, for it seemed to me that their cause might be learned. "So I began to go to that field from which they issued, to study them. I waited in it and twice I heard the great thunderclaps myself. I thought they came from near the field's center, and I studied that place. But I could see nothing there that was causing them. I dug in the ground, I looked up for hours into the sky, but there was nothing. And still, at intervals, the thunderclaps sounded. "I still kept going to the field, though I knew that many of my neighbors whispered that I was engaged in sorcery. Upon that morning of the third day of June, it had occurred to me to take certain instruments, such as loadstones, to the field, to see whether anything might be learned with them. I went, a few superstitious ones following me at a distance. I reached the field's center, and started the examinations I had planned. Then came suddenly another thunderclap and with it I passed from the sight of those who had followed and were watching, vanished from view. "Sire, I cannot well describe what happened in that moment. I heard the thunderclap come as though from all the air around me, stunning my ears with its terrible burst of sound. And at the same moment that I heard it, I was buffeted as though by awful winds and seemed falling downward through terrific depths. Then through the hellish uproar, I felt myself bumping upon a hard surface, and the sounds quickly ceased from about me. "I had involuntarily closed my eyes at the great thunderclap, but now, slowly, I opened them. I looked around me, first in stupefaction, and then in growing amazement. For I was not in that familiar field at all, sire, that I had been in a moment before. I was in a room, lying upon its floor, and it was such a room as I had never seen before. "Its walls were smooth and white and gleaming. There were windows in the walls, and they were closed with sheets of glass so smooth and clear that one seemed looking through a clear opening rather than through glass. The floor was of stone, smooth and seamless as though carven from one great rock, yet seeming not, in some way, to be stone at all. There was a great circle of smooth metal inset in it, and it was on it that I was lying. "All around the room were many great things the like of which I had never seen. Some seemed of black metal, seemed contrivances or machines of some sort. Black cords of wire connected them to each other and from part of them came a humming sound that did not stop. Others had glass tubes fixed on the front of them, and there were square black plates on which were many shining little handles and buttons. "There was a sound of voices, and I turned to find that two men were bending over me. They were men like myself, yet they were at the same time like no men I had ever met! One was white-bearded and the other plump and bare of face. Neither of them wore cloak or tunic or hose. Instead they wore loose and straight-hanging garments of cloth. "They were both greatly excited, it seemed, and were talking to each other as they bent over me. I caught a word or two of their speech in a moment, and found it was French they were talking. But it was not the French I knew, being so strange and with so many new words as to be almost a different language. I could understand the drift, though, of what they were saying. "'We have succeeded!' the plump one was shouting excitedly. 'We've brought someone through at last!' "'They will never believe it,' the other replied. 'They'll say it was faked.' "'Nonsense!' cried the first. 'We can do it again, Rastin; we can show them before their own eyes!' "They bent toward me, seeing me staring at them. "'Where are you from?' shouted the plump-faced one. 'What time--what year--what century?' "'He doesn't understand, Thicourt,' muttered the white-bearded one. 'What year is this now, my friend?' he asked me. "I found voice to answer. 'Surely, sirs, whoever you be, you know that this is the year fourteen hundred and forty-four,' I said. "That set them off again into a babble of excited talk, of which I could make out only a word here and there. They lifted me up, seeing how sick and weak I felt, and seated me in a strange, but very comfortable chair. I felt dazed. The two were still talking excitedly, but finally the white-bearded one, Rastin, turned to me. He spoke to me, very slowly, so that I understood him clearly, and he asked me my name. I told him. "'Henri Lothiere,' he repeated. 'Well, Henri, you must try to understand. You are not now in the year 1444. You are five hundred years in the future, or what would seem to you the future. This is the year 1944.' "'And Rastin and I have jerked you out of your own time across five solid centuries,' said the other, grinning. "I looked from one to the other. 'Messieurs,' I pleaded, and Rastin shook his head. "'He does not believe,' he said to the other. Then to me, 'Where were you just before you found yourself here, Henri?' he asked. "'In a field at the outskirts of Paris,' I said. "'Well, look from that window and see if you still believe yourself in your 15th-century Paris.' * * * * * "I went to the window. I looked out. Mother of God, what a sight before my eyes! The familiar gray little houses, the open fields behind them, the saunterers in the dirt streets--all these were gone and it was a new and terrible city that lay about me! Its broad streets were of stone and great buildings of many levels rose on either side of them. Great numbers of people, dressed like the two beside me, moved in the streets and also strange vehicles or carriages, undrawn by horse or ox, that rushed to and fro at undreamed-of speed! I staggered back to the chair. "'You believe now, Henri?' asked the whitebeard, Rastin, kindly enough, and I nodded weakly. My brain was whirling. "He pointed to the circle of metal on the floor and the machines around the room. 'Those are what we used to jerk you from your own time to this one,' he said. "'But how, sirs?' I asked. 'For the love of God, how is it that you can take me from one time to another? Have ye become gods or devils?' "'Neither the one nor the other, Henri,' he answered. 'We are simply scientists, physicists--men who want to know as much as man can know and who spend our lives in seeking knowledge.' "I felt my confidence returning. These were men such as I had dreamed might some day be. 'But what can you do with time?' I asked. 'Is not time a thing unalterable, unchanging?' "Both shook their heads. 'No, Henri, it is not. But lately have our men of science found that out.' "They went on to tell me of things that I could not understand. It seemed they were telling that their men of knowledge had found time to be a mere measurement, or dimension, just as length or breadth or thickness. They mentioned names with reverence that I had never heard--Einstein and De Sitter and Lorentz. I was in a maze at their words. "They said that just as men use force to move or rotate matter from one point along the three known measurements to another, so might matter be rotated from one point in time, the fourth measurement, to another, if the right force were used. They said that their machines produced that force and applied it to the metal circle from five hundred years before to this time of theirs. "They had tried it many times, they said, but nothing had been on the spot at that time and they had rotated nothing but the air above it from the one time to the other, and the reverse. I told them of the thunderclaps that had been heard at the spot in the field and that had made me curious. They said that they had been caused by the changing of the air above the spot from the one time to the other in their trials. I could not understand these things. "They said then that I had happened to be on the spot when they had again turned on their force and so had been rotated out of my own time into theirs. They said that they had always hoped to get someone living from a distant time in that way, since such a man would be a proof to all the other men of knowledge of what they had been able to do. "I could not comprehend, and they saw and told me not to fear. I was not fearful, but excited at the things that I saw around me. I asked of those things and Rastin and Thicourt laughed and explained some of them to me as best they could. Much they said that I did not understand but my eyes saw marvels in that room of which I had never dreamed. "They showed me a thing like a small glass bottle with wires inside, and then told me to touch a button beneath it. I did so and the bottle shone with a brilliant light exceeding that of scores of candles. I shrank back, but they laughed, and when Rastin touched the button again, the light in the glass thing vanished. I saw that there were many of these things in the ceiling. "They showed me also a rounded black object of metal with a wheel at the end. A belt ran around the wheel and around smaller wheels connected to many machines. They touched a lever on this object and a sound of humming came from it and the wheel turned very fast, turning all the machines with the belt. It turned faster than any man could ever have turned it, yet when they touched the lever again, its turning ceased. They said that it was the power of the lightning in the skies that they used to make the light and to turn that wheel! "My brain reeled at the wonders that they showed. One took an instrument from the table that he held to his face, saying that he would summon the other scientists or men of knowledge to see their experiment that night. He spoke into the instrument as though to different men, and let me hear voices from it answering him! They said that the men who answered were leagues separated from him! "I could not believe--and yet somehow I did believe! I was half-dazed with wonder and yet excited too. The white-bearded man, Rastin, saw that, and encouraged me. Then they brought a small box with an opening and placed a black disk on the box, and set it turning in some way. A woman's voice came from the opening of the box, singing. I shuddered when they told me that the woman was one who had died years before. Could the dead speak thus? * * * * * "How can I describe what I saw there? Another box or cabinet there was, with an opening also. I thought it was like that from which I had heard the dead woman singing, but they said it was different. They touched buttons on it and a voice came from it speaking in a tongue I knew not. They said that the man was speaking thousands of leagues from us, in a strange land across the uncrossed western ocean, yet he seemed speaking by my side! "They saw how dazed I was by these things, and gave me wine. At that I took heart, for wine, at least, was as it had always been. "'You will want to see Paris--the Paris of our time, Henri?' asked Rastin. "'But it is different--terrible--' I said. "'We'll take you,' Thicourt said, 'but first your clothes--' "He got a long light coat that they had me put on, that covered my tunic and hose, and a hat of grotesque round shape that they put on my head. They led me then out of the building and into the street. "I gazed astoundedly along that street. It had a raised walk at either side, on which many hundreds of people moved to and fro, all dressed in as strange a fashion. Many, like Rastin and Thicourt, seemed of gentle blood, yet, in spite of this, they did not wear a sword or even a dagger. There were no knights or squires, or priests or peasants. All seemed dressed much the same. "Small lads ran to and fro selling what seemed sheets of very thin white parchment, many times folded and covered with lettering. Rastin said that these had written in them all things that had happened through all the world, even but hours before. I said that to write even one of these sheets would take a clerk many days, but they said that the writing was done in some way very quickly by machines. "In the broad stone street between the two raised walks were rushing back and forth the strange vehicles I had seen from the window. There was no animal pulling or pushing any one of them, yet they never halted their swift rush, and carried many people at unthinkable speed. Sometimes those who walked stepped before the rushing vehicles, and then from them came terrible warning snarls or moans that made the walkers draw back. "One of the vehicles stood at the walk's edge before us, and we entered it and sat side by side on a soft leather seat. Thicourt sat behind a wheel on a post, with levers beside him. He touched these and a humming sound came from somewhere in the vehicle and then it too began to rush forward. Faster and faster along the street it went, yet neither of them seemed afraid. "Many thousands of these vehicles were moving swiftly through the streets about us. We passed on, between great buildings and along wider streets, my eyes and ears numbed by what I saw about me. Then the buildings grew smaller, after we had gone for miles through them, and we were passing through the city's outskirts. I could not believe, hardly, that it was Paris in which I was. "We came to a great flat and open field outside the city and there Thicourt stopped and we got out of the vehicle. There were big buildings at the field's end, and I saw other vehicles rolling out of them across the field, ones different from any I had yet seen, with flat winglike projections on either side. They rolled out over the field very fast and then I cried out as I saw them rising from the ground into the air. Mother of God, they were flying! The men in them were flying! "Rastin and Thicourt took me forward to the great buildings. They spoke to men there and one brought forward one of the winged cars. Rastin told me to get in, and though I was terribly afraid, there was too terrible a fascination that drew me in. Thicourt and Rastin entered after me, and we sat in seats with the other man. He had before him levers and buttons, while at the car's front was a great thing like a double-oar or paddle. A loud roaring came and that double-blade began to whirl so swiftly that I could not see it. Then the car rolled swiftly forward, bumping on the ground, and then ceased to bump. I looked down, then shuddered. The ground was already far beneath! I too, was flying in the air! "We swept upward at terrible speed that increased steadily. The thunder of the car was terrific, and, as the man at the levers changed their position, we curved around and over downward and upward as though birds. Rastin tried to explain to me how the car flew, but it was all too wonderful, and I could not understand. I only knew that a wild thrilling excitement held me, and that it were worth life and death to fly thus, if but for once, as I had always dreamed that men might some day do. "Higher and higher we went. The earth lay far beneath and I saw now that Paris was indeed a mighty city, its vast mass of buildings stretching away almost to the horizons below us. A mighty city of the future that it had been given my eyes to look on! "There were other winged cars darting to and fro in the air about us, and they said that many of these were starting or finishing journeys of hundreds of leagues in the air. Then I cried out as I saw a great shape coming nearer us in the air. It was many rods in length, tapering to a point at both ends, a vast ship sailing in the air! There were great cabins on its lower part and in them we glimpsed people gazing out, coming and going inside, dancing even! They told me that vast ships of the air like this sailed to and fro for thousands of leagues with hundreds inside them. "The huge vessel of the air passed us and then our winged car began to descend. It circled smoothly down to the field like a swooping bird, and, when we landed there, Rastin and Thicourt led me back to the ground-vehicle. It was late afternoon by then, the sun sinking westward, and darkness had descended by the time we rolled back into the great city. "But in that city was not darkness! Lights were everywhere in it, flashing brilliant lights that shone from its mighty buildings and that blinked and burned and ran like water in great symbols upon the buildings above the streets. Their glare was like that of day! We stopped before a great building into which Rastin and Thicourt led me. "It was vast inside and in it were many people in rows on rows of seats. I thought it a cathedral at first but saw soon that it was not. The wall at one end of it, toward which all in it were gazing, had on it pictures of people, great in size, and those pictures were moving as though themselves alive! And they were talking one to another, too, as though with living voices! I trembled. What magic! "With Rastin and Thicourt in seats beside me, I watched the pictures enthralled. It was like looking through a great window into strange worlds. I saw the sea, seemingly tossing and roaring there before me, and then saw on it a ship, a vast ship of size incredible, without sails or oars, holding thousands of people. I seemed on that ship as I watched, seemed moving forward with it. They told me it was sailing over the western ocean that never men had crossed. I feared! "Then another scene, land appearing from the ship. A great statue, upholding a torch, and we on the ship seemed passing beneath it. They said that the ship was approaching a city, the city of New York, but mists hid all before us. Then suddenly the mists before the ship cleared and there before me seemed the city. * * * * * "Mother of God, what a city! Climbing range on range of great mountain-like buildings that aspired up as though to scale heaven itself! Far beneath narrow streets pierced through them and in the picture we seemed to land from the ship, to go through those streets of the city. It was an incredible city of madness! The streets and ways were mere chasms between the sky-toppling buildings! People--people--people--millions on millions of them rushed through the endless streets. Countless ground-vehicles rushed to and fro also, and other different ones that roared above the streets and still others below them! "Winged flying-cars and great airships were sailing to and fro over the titanic city, and in the waters around it great ships of the sea and smaller ships were coming as man never dreamed of surely, that reached out from the mighty city on all sides. And with the coming of darkness, the city blazed with living light! "The pictures changed, showed other mighty cities, though none so terrible as that one. It showed great mechanisms that appalled me. Giant metal things that scooped in an instant from the earth as much as a man might dig in days. Vast things that poured molten metal from them like water. Others that lifted loads that hundreds of men and oxen could not have stirred. "They showed men of knowledge like Rastin and Thicourt beside me. Some were healers, working miraculous cures in a way that I could not understand. Others were gazing through giant tubes at the stars, and the pictures showed what they saw, showed that all of the stars were great suns like our sun, and that our sun was greater than earth, that earth moved around it instead of the reverse! How could such things be, I wondered. Yet they said that it was so, that earth was round like an apple, and that with other earths like it, the planets, moved round the sun. I heard, but could scarce understand. "At last Rastin and Thicourt led me out of that place of living pictures and to their ground-vehicle. We went again through the streets to their building, where first I had found myself. As we went I saw that none challenged my right to go, nor asked who was my lord. And Rastin said that none now had lords, but that all were lord, king and priest and noble, having no more power than any in the land. Each man was his own master! It was what I had hardly dared to hope for, in my own time, and this, I thought, was greatest of all the marvels they had shown me! "We entered again their building but Rastin and Thicourt took me first to another room than the one in which I had found myself. They said that their men of knowledge were gathered there to hear of their feat, and to have it proved to them. "'You would not be afraid to return to your own time, Henri?' asked Rastin, and I shook my head. "'I want to return to it,' I told them. 'I want to tell my people there what I have seen--what the future is that they must strive for.' "'But if they should not believe you?' Thicourt asked. "'Still I must go--must tell them,' I said. "Rastin grasped my hand. 'You are a man, Henri,' he said. Then, throwing aside the cloak and hat I had worn outside, they went with me down to the big white-walled room where first I had found myself. "It was lit brightly now by many of the shining glass things on ceiling and walls, and in it were many men. They all stared strangely at me and at my clothes, and talked excitedly so fast that I could not understand. Rastin began to address them. "He seemed explaining how he had brought me from my own time to his. He used many terms and words that I could not understand, incomprehensible references and phrases, and I could understand but little. I heard again the names of Einstein and De Sitter that I had heard before, repeated frequently by these men as they disputed with Rastin and Thicourt. They seemed disputing about me. "One big man was saying, 'Impossible! I tell you, Rastin, you have faked this fellow!' "Rastin smiled. 'You don't believe that Thicourt and I brought him here from his own time across five centuries?' "A chorus of excited negatives answered him. He had me stand up and speak to them. They asked me many questions, part of which I could not understand. I told them of my life, and of the city of my own time, and of king and priest and noble, and of many simple things that they seemed quite ignorant of. Some appeared to believe me but others did not, and again their dispute broke out. "'There is a way to settle the argument, gentlemen,' said Rastin finally. "'How?' all cried. "'Thicourt and I brought Henri across five centuries by rotating the time-dimensions at this spot,' he said. 'Suppose we reverse that rotation and send him back before your eyes--would that be proof?' "They all said that it would. Rastin turned to me. 'Stand on the metal circle, Henri,' he said. I did so. "All were watching very closely. Thicourt did something quickly with the levers and buttons of the mechanisms in the room. They began to hum, and blue light came from the glass tubes on some. All were quiet, watching me as I stood there on the circle of metal. I met Rastin's eyes and something in me made me call goodbye to him. He waved his hand and smiled. Thicourt pressed more buttons and the hum of the mechanisms grew louder. Then he reached toward another lever. All in the room were tense and I was tense. "Then I saw Thicourt's arm move as he turned one of the many levers. "A terrific clap of thunder seemed to break around me, and as I closed my eyes before its shock, I felt myself whirling around and falling at the same time as though into a maelstrom, just as I had done before. The awful falling sensation ceased in a moment and the sound subsided. I opened my eyes. I was on the ground at the center of the familiar field from which I had vanished hours before, upon the morning of that day. It was night now, though, for that day I had spent five hundred years in the future. "There were many people gathered around the field, fearful, and they screamed and some fled when I appeared in the thunderclap. I went toward those who remained. My mind was full of things I had seen and I wanted to tell them of these things. I wanted to tell them how they must work ever toward that future time of wonder. "But they did not listen. Before I had spoken minutes to them they cried out on me as a sorcerer and a blasphemer, and seized me and brought me here to the Inquisitor, to you, sire. And to you, sire, I have told the truth in all things. I know that in doing so I have set the seal of my own fate, and that only a sorcerer would ever tell such a tale, yet despite that I am glad. Glad that I have told one at least of this time of what I saw five centuries in the future. Glad that I saw! Glad that I saw the things that someday, sometime, must come to be--" * * * * * It was a week later that they burned Henri Lothiere. Jean de Marselait, lifting his gaze from his endless parchment accusation and examens on that afternoon, looked out through the window at a thick curl of black smoke going up from the distant square. "Strange, that one," he mused. "A sorcerer, of course, but such a one as I had never heard before. I wonder," he half-whispered, "was there any truth in that wild tale of his? The future--who can say--what men might do--?" There was silence in the room as he brooded for a moment, and then he shook himself as one ridding himself of absurd speculations. "But tush--enough of these crazy fancies. They will have me for a sorcerer if I yield to these wild fancies and visions _of the future_." And bending again with his pen to the parchment before him, he went gravely on with his work. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Amazing Stories_ February 1961, first published in _Amazing Stories_ October 1930. 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锘縏he Project Gutenberg eBook, The Pirate's Pocket Book, by Dion Clayton Calthrop This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Pirate's Pocket Book Author: Dion Clayton Calthrop Release Date: March 8, 2008 [eBook #24783] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) *START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PIRATE'S POCKET BOOK* E-text prepared by Emmy and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (https://www.pgdp.net) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 24783-h.htm or 24783-h.zip: (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/4/7/8/24783/24783-h/24783-h.htm) or (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/4/7/8/24783/24783-h.zip) THE PIRATE'S POCKET BOOK by DION CLAYTON CALTHROP [Illustration] Sisley's Ltd. Makers Of Beautiful Books London THE PIRATE'S POCKET BOOK THIS book you hold in your hand belonged once to a very celebrated Pirate. He was so celebrated that the newspapers--of that time--always said nice things about him, and always knew what he was doing before he did himself. As he was a very truthful man, he did the things, so that the editors might not get into trouble. Which was kind. By which I do not mean that he was always kind. [Illustration: MAP of Tomb's Island (_very exciting_).] Nobody knew how old he was. Some said that he was so old that he had never been born. Some said that he must be young or he could not be so wicked. So you see there were two opinions about him. There are always two opinions about a celebrated man. If you look at him you will see that he dressed to please himself. [Illustration: Supposed birthplace of Tomb family. Family of Bone still living in the cottage.] He wore a nice hat--but you have noticed that; and he had a roving eye. By which I do not mean his eye walked about like this, but that he looked around him a good deal. [Illustration] If you are thinking of becoming a Pirate--and there is plenty of room at the top of every profession--you will have to look about a good deal, because you will have enemies. [Illustration: _He dreams of other worlds to conquer._] Tom Tomb--that was not his name, but it was the way he signed other people's cheques, and your father and mother will tell you that this is a very mean trick--lived partly on an island, and partly on board the _Inky Murk_. [Illustration] You will understand that I mean not with one foot on the island and one on the boat, but sometimes on one and sometimes on the other. [Illustration] Now T. T. never robbed the poor. [Illustration] Because it was not worth his while. [Illustration] [Illustration] But any person who looked rich suffered accordingly. [Illustration] The _Inky Murk_ was the name of his boat. You can make one curiously like it with two chairs and a rug. [Illustration] One day Tomb captured a young fellow--a very handsome lad too. It was off a certain island where Tom Tomb had a neat cottage, in the garden of which he grew flowers for a pastime. [Illustration] Because, of course, he needed a little time to himself in between his tremendous fights. [Illustration] The young fellow was stealing flowers. He was surprised to see Captain Tomb. When I say he was surprised, you will see what I mean by the picture. [Illustration] "What cinderadustmat do you mean," yelled Tomb, in a voice like a railway accident, "by stealing my flowers?" "I thought they were wild," said the young fellow, taking his pipe from his mouth. [Illustration] "Wild!" shrieked Tomb. "Wild!!" he bawled. This last yell was so powerful that three of his buttons flew off his coat. The young fellow caught them neatly in his left hand, and presented them to the Captain on bended knee. [Illustration] The neat act saved the lad's life. "An honour to serve you, Captain Thomas Tomb," said he. [Illustration] "You know me?" asked Tomb, smiling upon the boy. [Illustration] "I thought it must be your face," said the lad boldly. He was about to speak again, had not Tomb silenced him with a gesture. He liked the lad. Had he spoken again, Tomb would have silenced him for ever. He was about to say that any other man with a face like that would have died long ago, from wounded vanity. [Illustration: From a very rare old print.] "Would you care to be a Pirate, my youthful fellow?" said Tomb. [Illustration] The lad hesitated. "My father . . ." he began. "Dead," said Tomb, in a hollow voice. "My mother . . ." "Dead," Tomb replied, in a monotonous whisper. "My brother and sister . . ." Tomb raised a sorrowful hand: his heart was touched. "My family . . ." said the young man in despair. "My poor boy," said Tomb, with tears in his eyes, "my poor, dear fellow, I killed them all not an hour ago." [Illustration] "Then my sweetheart would object to my becoming a Pirate," said the lad, weeping. "Enough," said Tomb; "you are called from henceforth Dingy David. Now to sea!" [Illustration] For ten years they plundered upon the Spanish Main, until they acquired so much money that Bilge Island, Tomb's business address, smelt of hoarded gold, and the beach glittered with jewels. [Illustration] Then both Tomb and David--I am keeping the secret of his real name to the end--became tired of so much adventure. They had sailed in many seas: the Spanish Main--commonly known as the Dining-room Carpetwaters--the Kitchen Archipelago, the Drawing-room Inland Sea, the Creek of Conservatory, and the Lake of Passages. They had roamed the Wilderness of the High Street, the terrors of the Gardens they knew, and the Gulf of Front Hall was common water. So they retired for a breathing space and a wash to that Island where the neat cottage stood and the geraniums grew. [Illustration] They moored the _Inky Murk_ to a low-growing pom-pom tree, and then, stepping carefully, like those unaccustomed to dry land (or wet land either, for the matter of that), they gazed upon each other in silence. [Illustration] No one, not even the most careful observer, would have recognised in the two dusty figures, the once spruce forms of Captain Thomas Tomb and Dingy David. [Illustration] "Home!" said the young fellow, throwing a diamond at a wave-crest. (When I say "diamond"--they were always finding them in corners of their pockets.) "Home once more!" "Cinderadustmat!" exclaimed Tomb. "Let me hear you, oh! let me hear you say the word again!" "Home," said the young fellow, gazing at the ripe ockapillies hanging overhead. [Illustration] Mastering his ill-concealed emotion, T. T. rose and strode--(when I say strode--T. T. never walked: he strolled, strutted, strode, or stepped, invariably)--towards the house. [Illustration] Threw open the door!! xxxxxx! o! z! What a sight met his eyes!! Dust, dust, dust--everywhere. [Illustration] Dust met his eye. (When I say that, I mean that he saw dust--over all the simple cottage furniture he loved.) He groaned three times. The young man, who was idly chewing the stone of a cringet, turned and saw, through the open door, dust, dust, dust. [Illustration] [Illustration] Leaping to his feet, he rushed to the Captain's side. "Captain," said he, "we must have a Charwoman." (I say charwoman, meaning a woman who is paid to do work that other servants are hired to do, but will not.) [Illustration] In less time than it takes to skin an acquadatoric, Dingy David was in the rowing-boat making for the shore of the mainland. [Illustration] Sixty-eight hours of hard rowing, without a rest, brought the strong young fellow to the coast. It was night. [Illustration: Pause--excited reader.] A light burned in the window of the lonely cottage that stood upon the shore. [Illustration] It was the work of a moment for Dingy David to seize upon the beautiful maiden who was writing jam labels, by the light of a solitary candle. Such are the lives of the humble. [Illustration] Without a glance at her face, he carried her at breakneck speed to the boat--pushed off, and rowed like Hercules for the island. [Illustration] Exactly one hundred and thirty-six hours--which is five days sixteen hours from the time he started--David brought the captive beauty and laid her, senseless with fatigue, at the feet of Tom Tomb. [Illustration] "What have we here?" asked Tomb, pronouncing the H very clearly. "A charwoman, sire," responded David; and, smiling, the lad fell asleep. [Illustration] When he awoke the sun was shining and the day was warm. One glance showed him that the cottage was a model of cleanliness. (Pirates are sharp glancers.) [Illustration] A smell of breakfast smote his nostrils pleasantly. It was the work of a moment to dash into the house, wash, shave, and--there, upon a snowy bed, were laid the very clothes in which--long years ago--he had been captured. In another moment he was in them and dashing downstairs, doing up the buttons as he went. He flung himself, panting, into the breakfast-room. [Illustration] The glorious girl looked up from her bacon with a cry. Tomb started to his feet. The young man opened his mouth. [Illustration] "Ermyntrude!" he called. "Wencheslaus!" she exclaimed. For once Tomb's cool courage failed him.--He started back. The sweethearts were in each other's arms. [Illustration] "Listen," said Tomb, when he regained his breath; and they, gazing into each other's eyes, listened. "Gaze elsewhere," said Tomb, "and I will unfold a tale." In the heat of the moment he put his sleeve into the butter. Ermyntrude sprang to his assistance. Tomb enfolded her in his embrace. [Illustration] "This lady is my daughter," he said, turning to Wencheslaus, who stood amazed. "I will not bother you with the story," said Tomb, "but five and forty years ago I wooed and wed her lovely mother. Twenty-one years ago to-day Ermyntrude was born, and her mother, after lingering two years, died. Leaving the girl in the care of an honest fishwife (when I say honest, I mean, as honest as her profession allowed), I roamed the seas as a Pirate: sorrow made me merciless. Then, when I wished to return to my daughter, I found that I had lost her address." "Father!" said Ermyntrude. "My daughter," he exclaimed, "I am a careless man!" "And I?" said Wencheslaus--"what is the secret of my birth?" Going up to him, Tomb, with one superb movement, bared the youth's arm. Upon it was tattooed, in gold and purple, the crest of a noble family. "As I thought!" exclaimed Tomb; then he removed his hat. "Lord Wencheslaus of When-cheeselawn!" "Then my father _was_ . . ." the youth began. "The Duke of Thingamaroo," said Tomb, bowing low. [Illustration] A cry sounded from the cellars of the cottage. Tomb again started. "I had forgotten," said he. Then he put his hand into his pocket, and drew forth this very book. "Ten years ago," said he, consulting his notes, "I told you that I had killed your family. It was not true." "Not true?" said Lord Wencheslaus--for so we must now call him. "Not strictly accurate," Tomb replied. "I immured them in these cellars, with ten years' provisions." With a noble gesture, he flung the key of the cellars upon the table. "Release them, my Lord," he said. [Illustration] We draw a veil over the rapturous meeting. [Illustration] When the boat was loaded with the noble family, Lord Wencheslaus (erstwhile Dingy David) and Ermyntrude Tomb stood hand in hand in front of Captain Thomas Tomb. "You must often come and see us, father," she said. "My little Ermyntrude," he said, "you can bet your back hair your poor old father will often come." Lord W. wrung Tomb's hand: his emotion was too great for words. They stepped into the boat and sailed away. [Illustration] As they touched the mainland they started. Boom! boom!! came the sound of guns across the water. Tom Tomb was at his old game. [Illustration] PRINTED BY NEILL AND COMPANY, LIMITED, EDINBURGH. *END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PIRATE'S POCKET BOOK* ***** This file should be named 24783.txt or 24783.zip *** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/4/7/8/24783 Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Pirate's Pocket Book Author: Dion Clayton Calthrop Release Date: March 8, 2008 [eBook #24783] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) *START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PIRATE'S POCKET BOOK* E-text prepared by Emmy and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (https://www.pgdp.net) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 24783-h.htm or 24783-h.zip: (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/4/7/8/24783/24783-h/24783-h.htm) or (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/4/7/8/24783/24783-h.zip) THE PIRATE'S POCKET BOOK by DION CLAYTON CALTHROP [Illustration] Sisley's Ltd. Makers Of Beautiful Books London THE PIRATE'S POCKET BOOK THIS book you hold in your hand belonged once to a very celebrated Pirate. He was so celebrated that the newspapers--of that time--always said nice things about him, and always knew what he was doing before he did himself. As he was a very truthful man, he did the things, so that the editors might not get into trouble. Which was kind. By which I do not mean that he was always kind. [Illustration: MAP of Tomb's Island (_very exciting_).] Nobody knew how old he was. Some said that he was so old that he had never been born. Some said that he must be young or he could not be so wicked. So you see there were two opinions about him. There are always two opinions about a celebrated man. If you look at him you will see that he dressed to please himself. [Illustration: Supposed birthplace of Tomb family. Family of Bone still living in the cottage.] He wore a nice hat--but you have noticed that; and he had a roving eye. By which I do not mean his eye walked about like this, but that he looked around him a good deal. [Illustration] If you are thinking of becoming a Pirate--and there is plenty of room at the top of every profession--you will have to look about a good deal, because you will have enemies. [Illustration: _He dreams of other worlds to conquer._] Tom Tomb--that was not his name, but it was the way he signed other people's cheques, and your father and mother will tell you that this is a very mean trick--lived partly on an island, and partly on board the _Inky Murk_. [Illustration] You will understand that I mean not with one foot on the island and one on the boat, but sometimes on one and sometimes on the other. [Illustration] Now T. T. never robbed the poor. [Illustration] Because it was not worth his while. [Illustration] [Illustration] But any person who looked rich suffered accordingly. [Illustration] The _Inky Murk_ was the name of his boat. You can make one curiously like it with two chairs and a rug. [Illustration] One day Tomb captured a young fellow--a very handsome lad too. It was off a certain island where Tom Tomb had a neat cottage, in the garden of which he grew flowers for a pastime. [Illustration] Because, of course, he needed a little time to himself in between his tremendous fights. [Illustration] The young fellow was stealing flowers. He was surprised to see Captain Tomb. When I say he was surprised, you will see what I mean by the picture. [Illustration] "What cinderadustmat do you mean," yelled Tomb, in a voice like a railway accident, "by stealing my flowers?" "I thought they were wild," said the young fellow, taking his pipe from his mouth. [Illustration] "Wild!" shrieked Tomb. "Wild!!" he bawled. This last yell was so powerful that three of his buttons flew off his coat. The young fellow caught them neatly in his left hand, and presented them to the Captain on bended knee. [Illustration] The neat act saved the lad's life. "An honour to serve you, Captain Thomas Tomb," said he. [Illustration] "You know me?" asked Tomb, smiling upon the boy. [Illustration] "I thought it must be your face," said the lad boldly. He was about to speak again, had not Tomb silenced him with a gesture. He liked the lad. Had he spoken again, Tomb would have silenced him for ever. He was about to say that any other man with a face like that would have died long ago, from wounded vanity. [Illustration: From a very rare old print.] "Would you care to be a Pirate, my youthful fellow?" said Tomb. [Illustration] The lad hesitated. "My father . . ." he began. "Dead," said Tomb, in a hollow voice. "My mother . . ." "Dead," Tomb replied, in a monotonous whisper. "My brother and sister . . ." Tomb raised a sorrowful hand: his heart was touched. "My family . . ." said the young man in despair. "My poor boy," said Tomb, with tears in his eyes, "my poor, dear fellow, I killed them all not an hour ago." [Illustration] "Then my sweetheart would object to my becoming a Pirate," said the lad, weeping. "Enough," said Tomb; "you are called from henceforth Dingy David. Now to sea!" [Illustration] For ten years they plundered upon the Spanish Main, until they acquired so much money that Bilge Island, Tomb's business address, smelt of hoarded gold, and the beach glittered with jewels. [Illustration] Then both Tomb and David--I am keeping the secret of his real name to the end--became tired of so much adventure. They had sailed in many seas: the Spanish Main--commonly known as the Dining-room Carpetwaters--the Kitchen Archipelago, the Drawing-room Inland Sea, the Creek of Conservatory, and the Lake of Passages. They had roamed the Wilderness of the High Street, the terrors of the Gardens they knew, and the Gulf of Front Hall was common water. So they retired for a breathing space and a wash to that Island where the neat cottage stood and the geraniums grew. [Illustration] They moored the _Inky Murk_ to a low-growing pom-pom tree, and then, stepping carefully, like those unaccustomed to dry land (or wet land either, for the matter of that), they gazed upon each other in silence. [Illustration] No one, not even the most careful observer, would have recognised in the two dusty figures, the once spruce forms of Captain Thomas Tomb and Dingy David. [Illustration] "Home!" said the young fellow, throwing a diamond at a wave-crest. (When I say "diamond"--they were always finding them in corners of their pockets.) "Home once more!" "Cinderadustmat!" exclaimed Tomb. "Let me hear you, oh! let me hear you say the word again!" "Home," said the young fellow, gazing at the ripe ockapillies hanging overhead. [Illustration] Mastering his ill-concealed emotion, T. T. rose and strode--(when I say strode--T. T. never walked: he strolled, strutted, strode, or stepped, invariably)--towards the house. [Illustration] Threw open the door!! xxxxxx! o! z! What a sight met his eyes!! Dust, dust, dust--everywhere. [Illustration] Dust met his eye. (When I say that, I mean that he saw dust--over all the simple cottage furniture he loved.) He groaned three times. The young man, who was idly chewing the stone of a cringet, turned and saw, through the open door, dust, dust, dust. [Illustration] [Illustration] Leaping to his feet, he rushed to the Captain's side. "Captain," said he, "we must have a Charwoman." (I say charwoman, meaning a woman who is paid to do work that other servants are hired to do, but will not.) [Illustration] In less time than it takes to skin an acquadatoric, Dingy David was in the rowing-boat making for the shore of the mainland. [Illustration] Sixty-eight hours of hard rowing, without a rest, brought the strong young fellow to the coast. It was night. [Illustration: Pause--excited reader.] A light burned in the window of the lonely cottage that stood upon the shore. [Illustration] It was the work of a moment for Dingy David to seize upon the beautiful maiden who was writing jam labels, by the light of a solitary candle. Such are the lives of the humble. [Illustration] Without a glance at her face, he carried her at breakneck speed to the boat--pushed off, and rowed like Hercules for the island. [Illustration] Exactly one hundred and thirty-six hours--which is five days sixteen hours from the time he started--David brought the captive beauty and laid her, senseless with fatigue, at the feet of Tom Tomb. [Illustration] "What have we here?" asked Tomb, pronouncing the H very clearly. "A charwoman, sire," responded David; and, smiling, the lad fell asleep. [Illustration] When he awoke the sun was shining and the day was warm. One glance showed him that the cottage was a model of cleanliness. (Pirates are sharp glancers.) [Illustration] A smell of breakfast smote his nostrils pleasantly. It was the work of a moment to dash into the house, wash, shave, and--there, upon a snowy bed, were laid the very clothes in which--long years ago--he had been captured. In another moment he was in them and dashing downstairs, doing up the buttons as he went. He flung himself, panting, into the breakfast-room. [Illustration] The glorious girl looked up from her bacon with a cry. Tomb started to his feet. The young man opened his mouth. [Illustration] "Ermyntrude!" he called. "Wencheslaus!" she exclaimed. For once Tomb's cool courage failed him.--He started back. The sweethearts were in each other's arms. [Illustration] "Listen," said Tomb, when he regained his breath; and they, gazing into each other's eyes, listened. "Gaze elsewhere," said Tomb, "and I will unfold a tale." In the heat of the moment he put his sleeve into the butter. Ermyntrude sprang to his assistance. Tomb enfolded her in his embrace. [Illustration] "This lady is my daughter," he said, turning to Wencheslaus, who stood amazed. "I will not bother you with the story," said Tomb, "but five and forty years ago I wooed and wed her lovely mother. Twenty-one years ago to-day Ermyntrude was born, and her mother, after lingering two years, died. Leaving the girl in the care of an honest fishwife (when I say honest, I mean, as honest as her profession allowed), I roamed the seas as a Pirate: sorrow made me merciless. Then, when I wished to return to my daughter, I found that I had lost her address." "Father!" said Ermyntrude. "My daughter," he exclaimed, "I am a careless man!" "And I?" said Wencheslaus--"what is the secret of my birth?" Going up to him, Tomb, with one superb movement, bared the youth's arm. Upon it was tattooed, in gold and purple, the crest of a noble family. "As I thought!" exclaimed Tomb; then he removed his hat. "Lord Wencheslaus of When-cheeselawn!" "Then my father _was_ . . ." the youth began. "The Duke of Thingamaroo," said Tomb, bowing low. [Illustration] A cry sounded from the cellars of the cottage. Tomb again started. "I had forgotten," said he. Then he put his hand into his pocket, and drew forth this very book. "Ten years ago," said he, consulting his notes, "I told you that I had killed your family. It was not true." "Not true?" said Lord Wencheslaus--for so we must now call him. "Not strictly accurate," Tomb replied. "I immured them in these cellars, with ten years' provisions." With a noble gesture, he flung the key of the cellars upon the table. "Release them, my Lord," he said. [Illustration] We draw a veil over the rapturous meeting. [Illustration] When the boat was loaded with the noble family, Lord Wencheslaus (erstwhile Dingy David) and Ermyntrude Tomb stood hand in hand in front of Captain Thomas Tomb. "You must often come and see us, father," she said. "My little Ermyntrude," he said, "you can bet your back hair your poor old father will often come." Lord W. wrung Tomb's hand: his emotion was too great for words. They stepped into the boat and sailed away. [Illustration] As they touched the mainland they started. Boom! boom!! came the sound of guns across the water. Tom Tomb was at his old game. [Illustration] PRINTED BY NEILL AND COMPANY, LIMITED, EDINBURGH. *END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PIRATE'S POCKET BOOK* ***** This file should be named 24783.txt or 24783.zip *** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/4/7/8/24783 Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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