Best of Isaac Asimov Part 1

Best of Isaac Asimov.

ISAAC ASIMOV.

Introduction.

I must admit the t.i.tle of this book gives me pause. Who says the enclosed stories are my 'best'? Do I? Does the editor? Or some critic? Some reader? A general vote among the entire population of the world? And whoever says it--can it be so? Can the word 'best' mean anything at all, except to some particular person in some particular mood? Perhaps not--so if we allow the word to stand as an absolute, you, or you, or perhaps you, may be appalled at omissions or inclusions or, never having read me before, may even be impelled to cry out, 'Good heavens, are those his best?' So I'll be honest with all of you. What is included here in this book are a dozen stories chosen in such a way as to span a third of a century of writing, with two early samples, two late samples, and eight from the gold decade (for me) of the Fifties. Those presented are as nearly representative as is consistent with the careful selection of good stories (i.e. those the editor and I like), and as nearly the best of my stories as is consistent with making them representative. I suppose we ought really call the book, 'The Pretty Good and Pretty Representative Stories of Isaac Asimov', but who would then buy it? So 'best' it is. As to the individual stories-- (1) 'Marooned Off Vesta' was the very first story I ever published, so its inclusion is virtually a necessity. It wasn't the first I ever wrote with the hope of publication. Actually, it was the third. The first was never sold and no longer exists; the second was sold a couple of years after it was written, but is not very good. Far be it from me to crave indulgence, but I think it is important to understand that at the time I wrote and sold the story (in 1938) I was eighteen years old and had spent all the years I could remember in a city-slum. My vision of strong adventurers bravely facing danger in distant vastnesses was just that--visionary. (2) 'Nightfall', written two and a half years later, was the thirty-second story I had written (what else did I have to do in those days except work in my father's candy store and study for my college degrees) and perhaps the fourteenth story published. Yet within less than three years of the start of my career it turned out that I had written the best of Asimov. At least, 'Nightfall' has been frequently reprinted, is commonly referred to as a 'cla.s.sic', and when some magazine, or fan organization, conducts a vote on short stories, it frequently ends up on the top of the list--not only of my stories but of anybody's. One of its advantages is that it has a unique plot. There was nothing resembling it ever published before (as far as I know) and of course, it is now so well known that nothing like it can be published again. It's nice to have one story like that, anyway. Yet I was only twenty-one when I wrote it and was still feeling my way. It isn't my favorite. Later on, I'll tell you what my favorite is and you can then judge for yourself. (3) 'C-Chute' comes after a ten-year hiatus, as far as the stories included in this book are concerned. I hadn't quit writing of course, don't think that. To be sure, I had slowed down a bit, what with the war and the time-consuming effort toward the doctorate, but the real reason for the gap is that I spent most of the Forties writing the stories collected in my books I, Robot and The Foundation Trilogy. It seemed inadvisable to amputate portions of either for this collection. 'C-Chute' comes near the beginning of my 'mature' period (or whatever you want to call it). I had my Ph.D.; I was an a.s.sistant Professor of Biochemistry at Boston University School of Medicine; I had published my first three books, and I was full of self-confidence. What's more I had broken away from exclusive dependence on Astounding Science Fiction. New magazines had arisen to challenge its leadership, notably Galaxy, and also Fantasy and Science Fiction. 'C-Chute' appeared in Galaxy. So did the next two stories in the collection. (4) 'The Martian Way' represents my reaction to the McCarthy era, a time, in the early fifties, when Americans seemed to abandon their own history and become, in some cases, witch-hunters; in some cases, victims; and in most cases, cowards. (Brave men remained, fortunately, which is why we pulled out of it.) 'The Martian Way', written and published at the height of the McCarthy era, was my own personal statement of position. I felt very brave at the time and was disappointed that no one ever as much as frowned at me in consequence. I must have been too subtle--or too unimportant. A second point about the story is that I managed to foresee something accurately, Science fiction writers are often a.s.sumed to be keen-eyed peerers-into-the-future who see things others don't. Actually, few writers have much of a record in this respect and mine, at best, can only be said to attain the abysmally-low average. Just the same, in 'The Martian Way', I described the euphoric effects of the s.p.a.cewalk fifteen years before anyone had s.p.a.ce-walked--and then, when they did, euphoria is apparently what they experienced. (5) 'The Deep' is the sleeper of the collection. Every once in a while I wrote a story which, though good in my opinion (and I don't like all my stories), seems to stir up no reaction. This is one of them. Perhaps it's because I deliberately chose to describe a society in which mother-love was a crime and the world wasn't ready for that (6) 'The Fun They Had' is probably the biggest surprise of my literary career. A personal friend asked me to write a little science fiction story for a syndicated boys-and-girls newspaper page he edited and I agreed for friendship's sake. I expected it would appear in a few newspapers for one day and would then disappear forever. However, Fantasy and Science Fiction picked it up and, to my surprise, the reprint requests began to come in. It has been reprinted at least thirty times, and there has been no time in perhaps fifteen years (including right now) when new reprints haven't been pending. Why? I don't know why. If I had the critic's mentality (which I emphatically don't) I would sit down and try to a.n.a.lyze my stories, work out the factors that make some more successful than others, cultivate those factors, and simply explode with excellence. But the devil with that. I won't buy success at the price of self-consciousness. I don't have the temperament for it. f11 write as I please. and let the critics do the a.n.a.lyzing. (Yesterday, someone said to me that a critic was like a eunuch in a harem. He could observe, study, and a.n.a.lyze--but he couldn't do it himself.) (7) 'The Last Question' is my personal favorite, the one story I made sure would not be omitted from this collection. Why is it my favorite? For one thing I got the idea all at once and didn't have to fiddle with it; and I wrote it in whiteheat and scarcely had to change a word. This sort of thing endears any story to any writer. Then, too, it has had the strangest effect on my readers. Frequently someone writes to ask me if I can write them the name of a story, which they think I may have written, and tell them where to find it. They don't remember the t.i.tle but when they describe the story it is invariably 'The Last Question'. This has reached the point where I recently received a long-distance phone call from a desperate man who began, 'Dr. Asimov, there's a story I think you wrote, whose t.i.tle I can't remember--' at which point I interrupted to tell him it was 'The Last Question' and when I described the plot it proved to be indeed the story he was after. I left him convinced I could read minds at a distance of a thousand miles. No other story I have written has anything like this effect on my readers--producing at once an unshakeable memory of the plot and an unshakeable forgettery of the t.i.tle and even author. I think it may be that the story fills them so frighteningly full, that they can retain none of the side-issues. (8) 'The Dead Past' was written after I had been teaching for seven years. I was as saturated as could be with the world of scientific research. Naturally, anyone who writes is going to reveal the world in which he is immersed, whether he wants to or desperately wants not to. I've never tried to avoid letting my personal background creep into my stories, but I must admit it has rarely crept in quite as thickly as it did in this one. As an example of how my stories work out, consider this-- I had my protagonist interested in Carthage because I myself am a great admirer of Hannibal and have never quite gotten over the Battle of Zama. I introduced Carthage, idly, without any intention of weaving it into the plot. But it got woven in just the same. That happens to me over and over. Some writers work out the stories in meticulous detail before starting, and stick to the outline. P. G. Wodehouse does it, I understand, and I worship his books. But just the same I don't. I work out my ending, decide on a beginning and then proceed, letting everything in-between work itself out as I come to it. (9) 'The Dying Night' is an example of a mystery as well as a science fiction story, I have been a mystery reader as long as I have been a science fiction reader and, on the whole, I think I enjoy mysteries more. I'm not sure why that is. Perhaps it was that after I became an established science fiction writer I was no longer able to relax with science fiction stories. I read every story keenly aware that it might be worse than mine, in which case I had no patience with it, or that it might be better, in which case I felt miserable. Mysteries, especially the intellectual puzzle variety (ah, good old Hercule Poirot), offered me no such stumbling blocks. Sooner or later, then, I was bound to try my hand at science fiction mysteries and 'The Dying Night' is one of these. (10), Anniversary' was written to fulfill a request--that I write a story for the March, 1959, issue of Amazing Stories as a way of celebrating the twentieth anniversary of the March, 1939, issue, which had contained my first published story, 'Marooned Off Vesta', So (inevitably) I wrote a story dealing with the characters of 'Marooned Off Vesta' twenty years later. The magazine then ran both stories together, and I was sure someone would send me a letter saying that my writing was better in the first story, but no one did. (Perhaps a reader of this book will decide it would be humorous to do so, but if so, please restrain yourself.) (11) 'The Billiard Ball' comes, in this collection, after an eight-year hiatus and is an example of my 'late' style. (That is, if there is such a thing. Some critics say that it is a flaw in my literary nature that I haven't grown; that my late stories have the same style and aura of my early stories. Maybe you'll think so, too, and scorn me in consequence--but then, I've already told you what some people think of critics.) The reason for the hiatus is that in 1958 I quit the academic life to become a full-time writer. I at once proceeded to write everything under the sun (straight science, straight mystery, children's books, histories, literary annotations, etymology, humor, etc., etc.) except science fiction. I never entirely abandoned it, of course--witness 'The Billiard Ball'. (12) 'Mirror Image' is a particularly recent science fiction short story I've written for the magazines and, unlike the first eleven stories, has not yet had time to be reprinted. One of the reasons for writing it was to appease those readers who were forever asking me for sequels; for one more book involving characters who have appeared in previous books. One of the most frequent requests was that I write a third novel to succeed The Caves of Steel and The Naked Sun, both of which dealt with the adventures of the detective, Elijah Baley, and his robot-a.s.sistant, R. Daneel Olivaw. Unable to find the time to do so, I wrote a short story about them--'Mirror-Image'. Alas, all I got as a result were a spate of letters saying, 'Thanks, but we mean a novel.' Anyway, there you are. Turn the page and you can begin a representative, and possibly a more or less 'best', 115,000 words or so out of the roughly 2,000,000 words of science fiction I have written so far. I hope it amuses you. And if it doesn't, remember that I have also written about 7,500,000 words of non-science-fiction, and you are at least spared any of that.

ISAAC ASIMOV.

Marooned Off Vesta

"Will you please stop walking up and down like that?" said Warren Moore from the couch. "It won't do any of us any good. Think of our blessings; we're airtight, aren't we?" Mark Brandon whirled and ground his teeth at him. "I'm glad you feel happy about that," he spat out viciously. "Of course, you don't know that our air supply will last only three days." He resumed his interrupted stride with a defiant air. Moore yawned and stretched, a.s.sumed a more comfortable position, and replied. "Expending all that energy will only use it up faster. Why don't you take a hint from Mike here? He's taking it easy." "Mike" was Michael Shea, late a member of the crew of the Silver Queen. His short, squat body was resting on the only chair in the room and 'his feet were on the only table. He looked up as his name was mentioned, his mouth widening in a twisted grin. "You've got to expect things like this to happen sometimes," he said. "Bucking the asteroids is risky business. We should've taken the hop. It takes longer, but it's the only safe way. But no, the captain wanted to make the schedule; he would go through"--Mike spat disgustedly--"and here we are." "What's the 'hop'?" asked Brandon. "Oh, I take it that friend Mike means that we. should have avoided the asteroid belt by plotting a course outside the plane of the ecliptic," answered Moore. "That's it, isn't it, Mike?" Mike hesitated and then replied cautiously, "Yeah--I guess that's it." Moore smiled blandly and continued, "Well, I wouldn't blame Captain Crane too much. The repulsion screen must have failed five minutes before that chunk of granite barged into us. That's not his fault, though of course we ought to have steered clear instead of relying on the screen." He shook his head meditatively. "The Silver Queen just went to pieces. It's really miraculously lucky that this part of the ship remained intact, and what's more, airtight." "You've got a funny idea of luck, Warren," said Brandon. "Always have, for as long as I've known you. Here we are in a tenth part of a s.p.a.ceship, comprising only three whole rooms, with air for three days, and no prospect of being alive after that, and you have the infernal gall to prate about luck." "Compared to the others who died instantly when the asteroid struck, yes," was Moore's answer. "You think so, eh? Well, let me tell you that instant death isn't so bad compared with what we're going to have to go through. Suffocation is a d.a.m.ned unpleasant way of dying." "We may find a way out," Moore suggested hopefully. "Why not face facts!" Brandon's face was flushed and his voice trembled. "We're done, I tell you! Through!" Mike glanced from one to the other doubtfully and then coughed to attract their attention. "Well, gents, seeing that we're all in the same fix, I guess there's no use hogging things." He drew a small bottle out of his pocket that was filled with a greenish liquid. "Grade A Jabra this is. I ain't too proud to share and share alike." Brandon exhibited the first signs of pleasure for over a day. "Martian Jabra water. Why didn't you say so before?" But as he reached for it, a firm hand clamped down upon his wrist. He looked up into the calm blue eyes of Warren Moore. "Don't be a fool," said Moore, "there isn't enough to keep us drunk for three days. What do you want to do? Go on a tear now and then die cold sober? Let's save this for the last six hours when the air gets stuffy and breathing hurts--then we'll finish the bottle among us and never know when the end comes, or care." Brandon's hand fell away reluctantly. "d.a.m.n it, Warren, you'd bleed ice if you were cut. How can you think straight at a time like this?" He motioned to Mike and the bottle was once more stowed away. Brandon walked to the porthole and gazed out. Moore approached and placed a kindly arm over the shoulders of the younger man. "Why take it so hard, man?" he asked. "You can't last at this rate. Inside of twenty-four hours you'll be a madman if you keep this up." There was no answer. Brandon stared bitterly at the globe that filled almost the entire porthole, so Moore continued, "Watching Vesta won't do you any good either." Mike Shea lumbered up to the porthole. "We'd be safe if we were only down there on Vesta. There're people there. How far away are we?" "Not more than three or four hundred miles judging from its apparent size," answered Moore. "You must remember that it is only two hundred miles in diameter." "Three hundred miles from salvation,'~ murmured Brandon, "and we might as well be a million. If there were only a way to get ourselves out of the orbit this rotten fragment adopted. You know, manage to give ourselves a push so as to start falling. There'd be no danger of crashing if we did, because that midget hasn't got enough gravity to crush a cream puff." "It has enough to keep us in the orbit, " retorted Brandon. "It must have picked us up while we were lying unconscious after the crash. Wish it had come closer; we might have been able to land on it." "Funny place, Vesta," observed Mike Shea. "I was down there two-three times. What a dump! It's all covered with some stuff like snow, only it ain't snow. I forget what they call it." "Frozen carbon dioxide?" prompted Moore. "Yeah, dry ice, that carbon stuff, that's it. They say that's what makes Vesta so shiny." "Of course! That would give it a high albedo." Mike c.o.c.ked a suspicious eye at Moore and decided to let it pa.s.s. "It's hard to see anything down there on account of the snow, but if you look close"--he pointed--"you can see a sort of gray smudge. I think that's Bennett's dome. That's where they keep the observatory. And there is Calorn's dome up there. That's a fuel station, that is. There's plenty more, too, only I don't see them." He hesitated and then turned to Moore. "Listen, boss, I've been thinking. Wouldn't they be looking for us as soon as they hear about the crash? And wouldn't we be easy to find from Vesta, seeing we're so closer' Moore shook his head, "No, Mike, they won't be looking for us. No one's going to find out about the crash until the Silver Queen fails to turn up on schedule. You see, when the asteroid hit, we didn't have time to send out an SOS"--he sighed--"and they won't find us down there at Vesta, either. We're so small that even at our distance they couldn't see us unless they knew what they were looking for, and exactly where to look." "Hmm." Mike's forehead was corrugated in deep thought. "Then we've got to get to Vesta before three days are up." "You've got the gist of the matter, Mike. Now, if we only knew how to go about it, eh?" Brandon suddenly exploded, "Will you two stop this infernal chitter-chatter and do something? For G.o.d's sake, do something." Moore shrugged his shoulders and without answer returned to the couch. He lounged at ease, apparently carefree, but there was the tiniest crease between his eyes which bespoke concentration. There was no doubt about it; they were in a bad spot. He reviewed the events of the preceding day for perhaps the twentieth time. After the asteroid had struck, tearing the ship apart, he'd gone out like a light; for how long he didn't know, his own watch being broken and no other timepiece available. When he came to, he found himself, along with Mark Brandon, who shared his room, and Mike Shea, a member of the crew, sole occupants of all that was left of the Silver Queen. This remnant was now careening in an orbit about Vesta. At present things were fairly comfortable. There was a food supply that would last a week. Likewise there was a regional Gravitator under the room that kept them at normal weight and would continue to do so for an indefinite time, certainly for longer than the air would last. The lighting system was less satisfactory but had held on so far. There was no doubt, however, where the joker in the pack lay. Three days' air! Not that there weren't other disheartening features. There was no heating system--though it would take a long time for the ship to radiate enough heat into the vacuum of s.p.a.ce to render them too uncomfortable. Far more important was the fact that their part of the ship had neither a means of communication nor a propulsive mechanism. Moore sighed. One fuel jet in working order would fix everything, for one blast in the right direction would send them safely to Vesta. The crease between his eyes deepened. What was to be done? They had but one s.p.a.cesuit among them, one heat ray, and one detonator. That was the sum total of s.p.a.ce appliances after a thorough search of the accessible parts of the ship. A pretty hopeless mess, that. Moore shrugged, rose, and drew himself a gla.s.s of water. He swallowed it mechanically, still deep in thought, when an idea struck him. He glanced curiously at the empty cup in his hand. "Say, Mike," he said, "what kind of water supply have we? Funny that I never thought of that before." Mike's eyes opened to their fullest extent in an expression of ludicrous surprise. "Didn't you know, boss?" "Know what?" asked Moore impatiently. "We've got all the water there was." He waved his hand in an all-inclusive gesture. He paused, but as Moore's expression showed nothing but total mystification, he elaborated, "Don't you see? We've got the main tank, the place where all the water for the whole ship was stored." He pointed to one of the walls. "Do you mean to say that there's a tank full of water adjoining us?" Mike nodded vigorously, "Yep' Cubic vat a hundred feet each way. And she's three-quarters full." Moore was astonished. "Seven hundred and fifty thousand cubic feet of water." Then suddenly: "Why hasn't it run out through the broken pipes?" "It only has one main outlet, which runs down the corridor just outside this room. I was fixing that main when the asteroid hit and had to shut it off. After I came to I opened the pipe leading to our faucet, but that's the only outlet open now." "Oh." Moore had a curious feeling way down deep inside. An idea had half-formed in his brain, but for the life of him he could not drag it into the light of day. He knew only that there was something in what he had just heard that had some important meaning but he just could not place his finger on it. Brandon, meanwhile, had been listening to Shea in silence, and now he emitted a short, humorless laugh. "Fate seems to be having its fill of fun with us, I see. First, it puts us within arm's reach of a place of safety and then sees to it that we have no way of getting there. "Then she provides us with a week's food, three days' air, and a year's supply of water. A year's supply, do you hear me? Enough water to drink and to gargle and to wash and to take baths in and--and to do anything else we want. Water--d.a.m.n the water!" "Oh, take a less serious view, Mark," said Moore in an attempt to break the younger man's melancholy. "Pretend we're a satellite of Vesta--which we are. We have our own period of revolution and of rotation. We have an equator and an axis. Our 'north pole' is located somewhere toward the top of the porthole, pointing toward Vesta, and our 'south' sticks out away from Vesta through the water tank somewhere. Well, as a satellite, we have an atmosphere, and now, you see, we have a newly discovered ocean. "And seriously, we're not so badly off. For the three days our atmosphere will last, we can eat double rations and drink ourselves soggy. h.e.l.l, we have water enough to throw away--" The idea which had been half-formed before suddenly sprang to maturity and was nailed. The careless gesture with which he had accompanied the last remark was frozen in mid-air. His mouth closed with a snap and his head came up with a jerk. But Brandon, immersed in his own thoughts, noticed nothing of Moore's strange actions. "Why don't you complete the a.n.a.logy to a satellite," he sneered, "or do you, as a Professional Optimist, ignore any and all disagreeable facts? If I were you, I'd continue this way." Here he imitated Moore's voice: "The satellite is at present habitable and inhabited but, due to the approaching depletion of its atmosphere in three days, is expected to become a dead world. "Well, why don't you answer? Why do you persist in making a joke out of this? Can't you see--What's the matter?" The last was a surprised exclamation and certainly Moore's actions did merit surprise. He had risen suddenly and, after giving himself a smart rap on the forehead, remained stiff and silent, staring into the far distance with gradually narrowing eyelids. Brandon and Mike Shea watched him in speechless astonishment. Suddenly Moore burst out, "Hal I've got it. Why didn't I think of it before?" His exclamation degenerated into the unintelligible. Mike drew out the Jabra bottle with a significant look, but Moore waved it away impatiently. Whereupon Brandon, without any warning, lashed out with his right, catching the surprised Moore flush on the jaw and toppling him. Moore groaned and rubbed his chin. Somewhat indignant, he asked, "What was the reason for that?" "Stand up and I'll do it again," shouted Brandon, "I can't stand it anymore. I'm sick and tired of being preached at, and having to listen to your Pollyanna talk. You're the one that's going daffy." "Daffy, nothing! Just a little overexcited, that's all. Listen, for G.o.d's sake. I think I know a way--" Brandon glared at him balefully. "Oh, you do, do you? Raise our hopes with some silly scheme and then find it doesn't work. I won't take it, do you hear? I'll find a real use for the water--drown you--and save some of the air besides." Moore lost his temper. "Listen, Mark, you're out of this. I'm going through alone. I don't need your help and I don't want it If you're that sure of dying and that afraid, why not have the agony over? We've got one heat ray and one detonator, both reliable weapons. Take your choice and kill yourself. Shea and I won't interfere." Brandon's lips curled in a last weak gesture of defiance and then suddenly he capitulated, completely and abjectly. "All right, Warren, I'm with you. I--I guess I didn't quite know what I was doing. I don't feel well, Warren. I--I--" "Aw, that's all right, boy." Moore was genuinely sorry for him. "Take it easy. I know how you feel. It's got me too. But you mustn't give in to it. Fight it, or you'll go stark, raving mad. Now you just try and get some sleep and leave everything to me. Things will turn out right yet." Brandon, pressing a hand to an aching forehead, stumbled to the couch and tumbled down. Silent sobs shook his frame while Moore and Shea remained in embarra.s.sed silence nearby.

At last Moore nudged Mike. "Come on," he whispered, "let's get busy. We're going places. Airlock five is at the end of the corridor, isn't it?" Shea nodded and Moore continued, "Is it airtight?" "Well," said Shea after some thought, "the inner door is, of course, but I' don't know anything about the outer one. For all I know it may be a sieve. You see, when I tested the wall for airtightness, I didn't dare open the inner door, because if there was anything wrong with the outer one--blooey!" The accompanying gesture was very expressive. "Then it's up to us to find out about that outer door right now. I've got to get outside some way and we'll just have to take chances. Where's the s.p.a.cesuit?" He grabbed the lone suit from its place in the cupboard, threw it over his shoulder and led the way into the long corridor that ran down the side of the room. He pa.s.sed closed doors behind whose airtight barriers were what once had been pa.s.senger quarters but which were now merely cavities, open to s.p.a.ce. At the end of the corridor was the tight-fitting door of Airlock 5. Moore stopped and surveyed it appraisingly. "Looks all right," he observed, "but of course you can't tell what's outside. G.o.d, I hope it'll work." He frowned. "Of course we could use the entire corridor as an airlock, with the door to our room as the inner door and this as the outer door, but that would mean the loss of half our air supply. We can't afford that--yet." He turned to Shea. " All right, now. The indicator shows that the lock was last used for entrance, so it should be full of air. Open the door the tiniest crack, and if there's a hissing noise, shut it quick." "Here goes," and the lever moved one notch. The mechanism had been severely shaken up during the shock of the crash and its former noiseless workings had given way to a harsh, rasping sound, but it was still in commission. A thin black line appeared on the left-hand side of the lock, marking where the door had slid a fraction of an inch on the runners. There was no hiss! Moore's look of anxiety faded somewhat. He took a small pasteboard from his pocket and held it against the crack. If air were leaking, that card should have held there, pushed by the escaping gas. It fell to the floor. Mike Shea stuck a forefinger in his mouth and then put it against the crack. "Thank the Lord," he breathed, "not a sign of a draft." "Good, good. Open it wider. Go ahead." Another notch and the crack opened farther. And still no draft. Slowly, ever so slowly, notch by notch, it creaked its way wider and wider. The two men held their breaths, afraid that while not actually punctured, the outer door might have been so weakened as to give way any moment. But it held! Moore was jubilant as he wormed into the s.p.a.cesuit. "Things are going fine so far, Mike," he said. "You sit down right here and wait for me. I don't know how long I'll take, but I'll be back. Where's the heat ray? Have you got it?" Shea held out the ray and asked, "But what are you going to do? I'd sort of like to know." Moore paused as he was about to buckle on the helmet. "Did you hear me say inside that we had water enough to throwaway? Well, I've been thinking it over and that's not such a bad idea. I'm going to throw it away." With no other explanation, he stepped into the lock, leaving behind him a very puzzled Mike Shea.

It was with a pounding heart that Moore waited for the outer door to open. His plan was an extraordinarily simple one, but it might not be easy to carry out. There was a sound of creaking gears and sc.r.a.ping ratchets. Air sighed away to nothingness. The door before him slid open a few inches and stuck. Moore's heart sank as for a moment he thought it would not open at all, but after a few preliminary jerks and rattles the barrier slid the rest of the way. He clicked on the magnetic grapple and very cautiously put a foot out into s.p.a.ce. Clumsily he groped his way out to the side of the ship. He had never been outside a ship in open s.p.a.ce before and a vast dread overtook him as he clung there, flylike, to his precarious perch. For a moment dizziness overcame him. He closed his eyes and for five minutes hung there, clutching the smooth sides of what had once been the Silver Queen. The magnetic grapple held him firm and when he opened his eyes once more he found his self-confidence in a measure returned. He gazed about him. For the first time since the crash he saw the stars instead of the vision of Vesta which their porthole afforded. Eagerly he searched the skies for the little blue-white speck that was Earth. It had often amused him that Earth should always be the first object sought by s.p.a.ce travelers when stargazing, but the humor of the situation did not strike him now. However, his search was in vain. From where he lay, Earth was invisible. It, as well as the Sun, must be hidden behind Vesta. Still, there was much else that he could not help but note. Jupiter was off to the left, a brilliant globe the size of a small pea to the naked eye. Moore observed two of its attendant satellites. Saturn was visible too, as a brilliant planet of some negative magnitude, rivaling Venus as seen from Earth. Moore had expected that a goodly number of asteroids would be visible--marooned as they were in the asteroid belt--but s.p.a.ce seemed surprisingly empty. Once he thought he could see a hurtling body pa.s.s within a few miles, but so fast had the impression come and gone that he could not swear that it was not fancy. And then, of course, there was Vesta. Almost directly below him it loomed like a balloon filling a quarter of the sky. It floated steadily, snowy white, and Moore gazed at it with earnest longing. A good hard kick against the side of the ship, he thought, might start him falling toward Vesta. He might land safely and get help for the others. But the chance was too great that he would merely take on a new orbit about Vesta. No, it would have to be better than that. This reminded him that he had no time to lose. He scanned the side of the ship, looking for the water tank, but all he could see was a jungle of jutting walls, jagged, crumbling, and pointed. He hesitated. Evidently the only thing to do was to make for the lighted porthole to their room and proceed to the tank from there; Carefully he dragged himself along the wall of the ship. Not five yards from the lock the smoothness stopped abruptly. There was a yawning cavity which Moore recognized as having once been the room adjoining the corridor at the far end. He shuddered. Suppose he were to come across a bloated dead body in one of those rooms. He had known most of the pa.s.sengers, many of them personally. But he overcame his squeamishness and forced himself to continue his precarious journey toward its goal. And here he encountered his first practical difficulty. The room itself was made of non-ferrous material in many parts. The magnetic grapple was intended for use only on outer hulls and was useless throughout much of the ship's interior. Moore had forgotten this when suddenly he found himself floating down an incline, his grapple out of use. He grasped and clutched at a nearby projection. Slowly he pulled himself back to safety.. He lay for a moment, almost breathless. Theoretically he should be weightless out here in s.p.a.ce--Vesta's influence being negligible--but the regional Gravitator under his room was working. Without the balance of the other Gravitators, it tended to place him under variable and suddenly shifting stresses as he kept changing his position. For his magnetic grapple to let go suddenly might mean being jerked away from the ship altogether. And then what? Evidently this was going to be even more difficult than he had thought. He inched forward in a crawl, testing each spot to see if the grapple would hold. Sometimes he had to make long, circuitous journeys to gain a few feet's headway and at other times he was forced to scramble and slip across small patches of non-ferrous material. And always there was that tiring pull of the Gravitator, continually changing directions as he progressed, setting horizontal floors and vertical walls at queer and almost haphazard angles. Carefully he investigated all objects that he came across. But it was a barren search. Loose articles, chairs, tables had been jerked away at the first shock, probably, and now were independent bodies of the Solar System. He did manage, however, to pick up a small field gla.s.s and fountain pen. These he placed in his pocket. They were valueless under present conditions, but somehow they seemed to make more real this macabre trip across the sides of a dead ship. For fifteen minutes, twenty, half an hour, he labored slowly toward where he thought the porthole should be. Sweat poured down into his eyes and rendered his hair a matted ma.s.s. His muscles were beginning to ache under the unaccustomed strain. His mind, already strained by the ordeal of the previous day, was beginning to waver, to play him tricks. The crawl began to seem eternal, something that had always existed and would exist forever. The object of the journey, that for which he was striving, seemed unimportant; he only knew that it was necessary to move. The time, one hour back, when he had been with Brandon and Shea, seemed hazy and lo~ in the far past. That more normal time, two days' age, wholly forgotten. Only the jagged walls before him, only the vital necessity of getting at some uncertain destination existed in his spinning brain. Grasping, straining, pulling. Feeling for the iron alloy. Up and into gaping holes that were rooms and then out again. Feel and pull--feel and pull--and--a light. Moore stopped. Had he not been glued to the wall he would have fallen. Somehow that light seemed to clear things. It was the porthole; not the many dark, staring ones he had pa.s.sed, but alive and alight. Behind it was Brandon. A deep breath and he felt better, his mind cleared. And now his way lay plain before him. Toward that spark of life he crept. Nearer, and nearer; and nearer until he could touch it. He was there! His eyes drank in the familiar room. G.o.d knows that it hadn't--any happy a.s.sociations in his mind, but it was something real, something almost natural. Brandon slept on the couch. His face was worn and lined but a smile pa.s.sed over it now and then. Moore raised his fist to knock. He felt the urgent desire to talk with someone, if only by sign language, yet at the last instant he refrained. Perhaps the kid was dreaming of home. He was young and sensitive and had suffered much. Let him sleep. Time enough to wake him when--and if--his idea had been carried through. He located the wall within the room behind which lay the water tank and then tried to spot it from the outside. Now it was not difficult; its rear wall stood out prominently. Moore marveled, for it seemed a miracle that it had escaped puncture. Perhaps the Fates had not been so ironic after all. Pa.s.sage to it was easy though it was on the other side of the fragment. What was once a corridor led almost directly to it. Once when the Silver Queen had been whole, that corridor had been level and horizontal, but now, under the unbalanced pull of the regional Gravitator, it seemed more of a steep incline than anything else. And yet it made the path simple. Since it was of uniform beryl-steel, Moore found no trouble holding on as he wormed up the twenty-odd feet to the water supply. And now the crisis--the last stage--had been reached. He felt that he ought to rest first, but his excitement grew rapidly in intensity. It was either now or bust. He pulled himself out to the bottom-center of the tank. There, resting on the small ledge formed by the floor of the corridor that had once extended on that side of the tank, he began operations. "It's a pity that the main pipe is pointing in the wrong direction," he muttered. "It would have saved me a lot of trouble had it been right. As it is..." He sighed and bent to his work. The heat ray was adjusted to maximum concentration and the invisible emanations focused at a spot perhaps a foot above the floor of the tank. Gradually the effect of the excitatory beam upon the molecules of the wall became noticeable. A spot the size of a dime began shining faintly at the point of focus of the ray gun. It wavered uncertainly, now dimming, now brightening, as Moore strove to steady his tired arm. He propped it on the ledge and achieved better results as the tiny circle of radiation brightened. Slowly the color ascended the spectrum. The dark, angry red that had first appeared lightened to a cherry color. As the heat continued pouring in, the brightness seemed to ripple out in widening areas, like a target made of successively deepening tints of red. The wall for a distance of some feet from the focal point was becoming uncomfortably hot even though it did not glow and Moore found it necessary to refrain from touching it with the metal of his suit. Moore cursed steadily, for the ledge itself was also growing hot. It seemed that only imprecations could soothe him. And as the melting wall began to radiate heat in its own right, the chief object of his maledictions were the s.p.a.cesuit manufacturers. Why didn't they build a suit that could keep heat out as well as keep it in? But what Brandon called Professional Optimism crept up. With the salt tang of perspiration in his mouth, he kept consoling himself, "It could be worse, I suppose. At least, the two inches of wall here don't present too much of a barrier. Suppose the tank had been built flush against the outer hull. Whew! Imagine trying to melt through a foot of this." He gritted his teeth and kept on. The spot of brightness was now flickering into the orange-yellow and Moore knew that the melting point of the beryl-steel alloy would soon be reached. He found himself forced to watch the spot only at widely s.p.a.ced intervals and then only for fleeting moments. Evidently it would have to be done quickly if it were to be done at all. The heat ray had not been fully loaded in the first place, and, pouring out energy at maximum as it had been doing for almost ten minutes now, must be approaching exhaustion. Yet the wall was just barely pa.s.sing the plastic stage. In a fever of impatience, Moore jammed the muzzle of the gun directly at the center of the spot, drawing it back speedily. A deep depression formed in the soft metal, but a puncture had not been formed. However, Moore was satisfied. He was almost there now. Had there been air between himself and the wall, he would undoubtedly have heard the gurgling and the hissing of the steaming water within. The pressure was building up. How long would the weakened wall endure? Then so suddenly that Moore did not realize it for a few moments, he was through. A tiny fissure formed at the bottom of that little pit made by the ray gun and in less time than it takes to imagine, the churning water within had its way. The soft, liquid metal at that spot puffed out, sticking out raggedly around a pea-sized hole. And from that hole there came a hissing and a roaring. A cloud of steam emerged and enveloped Moore. Through the mist he could see the steam condense almost immediately to ice droplets and saw these icy pellets shrink rapidly into nothingness. For fifteen minutes he watched the steam shoot out. Then he became aware of gentle pressure pushing him away from the ship. A savage joy welled up within him as he realized that this was the effect of acceleration on the ship's part. His own inertia was holding him back. That meant his work had been finished--and successfully. That stream of water was subst.i.tuting for the rocket blast. He started back. If the horrors and dangers of the journey to the tank had been great, those of the way back should have been greater. He was infinitely more tired, his aching eyes were all but blind, and added to the crazy pull of the Gravitator was the force induced by the varying acceleration of the ship. But whatever his labors to return, they did not bother him. In later time, he never even remembered the heartbreaking trip. How he managed to negotiate the distance in safety he did not know. Most of the time he was lost in a haze of happiness, scarcely realizing the actualities of the situation. His mind was filled with one thought only--to get back quickly, to tell the happy news of their escape. Suddenly he found himself before the airlock. He hardly grasped the fact that it was the airlock. He almost did not understand why he pressed the signal b.u.t.ton. Some instinct told him it was the thing to do. Mike Shea was waiting. There was a creak and a rumble and the outer door started opening, caught, and stopped at the same place as before, but once again it managed to slide the rest of the way. It closed behind Moore, then the inner door opened and he stumbled into Shea's arms. As in a dream he felt himself half-pulled, half-carried down the corridor to the room. His suit was ripped off. A hot, burning liquid stung his throat. Moore gagged, swallowed, and felt better. Shea pocketed the Jabra bottle once more. The blurred, shifting images of Brandon and Shea before him steadied and became solid. Moore wiped the perspiration from his face with a trembling hand and essayed a weak smile. "Wait," protested Brandon, "don't say anything. You look half-dead. Rest, will you!" But Moore shook his head. In a hoa.r.s.e, cracked voice he narrated as well as he could the events of the past two hours. The tale was incoherent, scarcely intelligible but marvelously impressive. The two listeners scarcely breathed during the recital. "You mean," stammered Brandon, "that the water spout is pushing us toward Vesta, like a rocket exhaust?" "Exactly--same thing as--rocket exhaust," panted Moore. " Action and reaction. Is located--on side opposite Vesta--hence pushing us toward Vesta." Shea was dancing before the porthole. "He's right, Brandon, me boy. You can make out Bennett's dome as clear as day. We're getting there, we're getting there." Moore felt himself recovering. "We're approaching in spiral path on account of original orbit. We'll land in five or six hours probably. The water will last for quite a long while and the pressure is still great, since the water issues as steam." "Steam--at the low temperature of s.p.a.ce?" Brandon was surprised. "Steam--at the low pressure of s.p.a.ce!" corrected Moore. "The boiling point of water falls with the pressure. It is very low indeed in a vacuum. Even ice has a vapor pressure sufficient to sublime." He smiled. " As a matter of fact, it freezes and boils at the same time. I watched it." A short pause, then, "Well, how do you feel now, Brandon? Much better, eh?" Brandon reddened and his face fell. He groped vainly for words for a few moments. Finally he said in a half-whisper, "You know, I must have acted like a d.a.m.n fool and a coward at first. I--I guess I don't deserve all this after going to pieces and letting the burden of our escape rest on your shoulders. "I wish you'd beat me up, or something, for punching you before. It'd make me feel better. I mean it." And he really did seem to mean it. Moore gave him an affectionate push. "Forget it. You'll never know how near I came to breaking down myself." He raised his voice in order to drown out any further apologies on Brandon's part, "Hey, Mike, stop staring out of that porthole and bring over that Jabra bottle." Mike obeyed with alacrity, bringing with him three Plexatron units to be used as makeshift cups. Moore filled each precisely to the brim. He was going to be drunk with a vengeance. "Gentlemen," he said solemnly, "a toast." The three raised the mugs in unison, "Gentlemen, I give you the year's supply of good old H2O we used to have:'

Nightfall

If the stars should appear one night in a thousand years, how would men believe and adore, and preserve for many generations the remembrance of the city of G.o.d?"

EMERSON.

Aton 77, director of Saro University, thrust out a belligerent lower lip and glared at the young newspaperman in a hot fury. Theremon 762 took that fury in his stride. In his earlier days, when his now widely syndicated column was only a mad idea in a cub reporter's mind, he had specialized in 'impossible' interviews. It had cost him bruises, black eyes, and broken bones; but it had given him an ample supply of coolness and self-confidence. So he lowered the outthrust hand that had been so pointedly ignored and calmly waited for the aged director to get over the worst. Astronomers were queer ducks, anyway, and if Aton's actions of the last two months meant anything; this same Aton was the queer-duckiest of the lot. Aton 77 found his voice, and though it trembled with restrained emotion, the careful, somewhat pedantic phraseology, for which the famous astronomer was noted, did not abandon him. "Sir," he said, "you display an infernal gall in coming to me with that impudent proposition of yours." The husky telephotographer of the Observatory, Beenay 25, thrust a tongue's tip across dry lips and interposed nervously, "Now, sir, after all -- " The director turned to him and lifted a white eyebrow. "Do not interfere, Beenay. I will credit you with good intentions in bringing this man here; but I will tolerate no insubordination now." Theremon decided it was time to take a part. "Director Aton, if you'll let me finish what I started saying, I think -- " "I don't believe, young man," retorted Aton, "that anything you could say now would count much as compared with your daily columns of these last two months. You have led a vast newspaper campaign against the efforts of myself and my colleagues to organize the world against the menace which it is now too late to avert. You have done your best with your highly personal attacks to make the staff of this Observatory objects of ridicule." The director lifted a copy of the Saro City Chronicle from the table and shook it at Theremon furiously. "Even a person of your well-known impudence should have hesitated before coming to me with a request that he be allowed to cover today's events for his paper. Of all newsmen, you!" Aton dashed the newspaper to the floor, strode to the window, and clasped his arms behind his back. "You may leave," he snapped over his shoulder. He stared moodily out at the skyline where Gamma, the brightest of the planet's six suns, was setting. It had already faded and yellowed into the horizon mists, and Aton knew he would never see it again as a sane man. He whirled. "No, wait, come here!" He gestured peremptorily. I'll give you your story." The newsman had made no motion to leave, and now he approached the old man slowly. Aton gestured outward. "Of the six suns, only Beta is left in the sky. Do you see it?" The question was rather unnecessary. Beta was almost at zenith, its ruddy light flooding the landscape to an unusual orange as the brilliant rays of setting Gamma died. Beta was at aphelion. It was small; smaller than Theremon had ever seen it before, and for the moment it was undisputed ruler of Lagash's sky. Lagash's own sun. Alpha, the one about which it revolved, was at the antipodes, as were the two distant companion pairs. The red dwarf Beta -- Alpha's immediate companion -- was alone, grimly alone. Aton's upturned face flushed redly in the sunlight. "In just under four hours," he said, "civilization, as we know it, comes to an end. It will do so because, as you see. Beta is the only sun in the sky." He smiled grimly. "Print that! There'll be no one to read it." "But if it turns out that four hours pa.s.s -- and another four -- and nothing happens?" asked Theremon softly. "Don't let that worry you. Enough will happen." "Granted! And still -- it nothing happens?" For a second time, Beenay 25 spoke. "Sir, I think you ought to listen to him." Theremon said, "Put it to a vote, Director Aton." There was a stir among the remaining five members of the Observatory staff, who till now had maintained an att.i.tude of wary neutrality. "That," stated Aton flatly, "is not necessary." He drew out his pocket watch. "Since your good friend, Beenay, insists so urgently, I will give you five minutes. Talk away." "Good! Now, just what difference would it make if you allowed me to take down an eyewitness account of what's to come? If your prediction comes true, my presence won't hurt; for in that case my column would never be written. On the other hand, if nothing comes of it, you will just have to expect ridicule or worse. It would be wise to leave that ridicule to friendly hands." Aton snorted. "Do you mean yours when you speak of friendly hands?" "Certainly!" Theremon sat down and crossed his legs. "My columns may have been a little rough, but I gave you people the benefit of the doubt every time. After all, this is not the century to preach "The end of the world is at hand" to Lagash. You have to understand that people don't believe the Book of Revelations anymore, and it annoys them to have scientists turn about-face and tell us the Cultists are right after all -- " "No such thing, young man," interrupted Aton. "While a great deal of our data has been supplied us by the Cult, our results contain none of the Cult's mysticism. Facts are facts, and the Cult's so-called mythology has certain facts behind it. We've exposed them and ripped away their mystery. I a.s.sure you that the Cult hates us now worse than you do." "I don't hate you. I'm just trying to tell you that the public is in an ugly humor. They're angry." Aton twisted his mouth in derision. "Let them be angry." "Yes, but what about tomorrow?" "There'll be no tomorrow!" "But if there is. Say that there is -- just to see what happens. That anger might take shape into something serious. After all, you know, business has taken a nosedive these last two months. Investors don't really believe the world is coming to an end, but just the same they're being cagy with their money until it's all over. Johnny Public doesn't believe you, either, but the new spring furniture might just as well wait a few months -- just to make sure. "You see the point. Just as soon as this is all over, the business interests will be after your hide. They'll say that if crackpots -- begging your pardon -- can upset the country's prosperity any time they want, simply by making some c.o.c.keyed prediction -- it's up to the planet to prevent them. The sparks will fly, sir." The director regarded the columnist sternly. "And just what were you proposing to do to help the situation?" "Well" -- Theremon grinned -- "I was proposing to take charge of the publicity. I can handle things so that only the ridiculous side will show. It would be hard to stand, I admit, because I'd have to make you all out to be a bunch of gibbering idiots, but if I can get people laughing at you, they might forget to be angry. In return for that, all my publisher asks is an exclusive story." Beenay nodded and burst out, "Sir, the rest of us think he's right. These last two months we've considered everything but the million-to-one chance that there is an error somewhere in our theory or in our calculations. We ought to take care of that, too." There was a murmur of agreement from the men grouped about the table, and Aton's expression became that of one who found his mouth full of something bitter and couldn't get rid of it. "You may stay if you wish, then. You will kindly refrain, however, from hampering us in our duties in any way. You will also remember that I am in charge of all activities here, and in spite of your opinions as expressed in your columns, I will expect full cooperation and full respect -- " His hands were behind his back, and his wrinkled face thrust forward determinedly as he spoke. He might have continued indefinitely but for the intrusion of a new voice. "h.e.l.lo, h.e.l.lo, h.e.l.lo!" It came in a high tenor, and the plump cheeks of the newcomer expanded in a pleased smile. "What's this morgue-like atmosphere about here? No one's losing his nerve, I hope." Aton started in consternation and said peevishly, "Now what the devil are you doing here, Sheerin? I thought you were going to stay behind in the Hideout." Sheerin laughed and dropped his stubby figure into a chair. "Hideout be blowed! The place bored me. I wanted to be here, where things are getting hot. Don't you suppose I have my share of curiosity? I want to see these Stars the Cultists are forever speaking about." He rubbed his hands and added in a soberer tone. "It's freezing outside. The wind's enough to hang icicles on your nose. Beta doesn't seem to give any heat at all, at the distance it is." The white-haired director ground his teeth in sudden exasperation. "Why do you go out of your way to do crazy things, Sheerin? What kind of good are you around here?" "What kind of good am I around there?" Sheerin spread his palms in comical resignation. "A psychologist isn't worth his salt in the Hideout. They need men of action and strong, healthy women that can breed children. Me? I'm a hundred pounds too heavy for a man of action, and I wouldn't be a success at breeding children. So why bother them with an extra mouth to feed? I feel better over here." Theremon spoke briskly. "Just what is the Hideout, sir?" Sheerin seemed to see the columnist for the first time. He frowned and blew his ample cheeks out. "And just who in Lagash are you, redhead?" Aton compressed his lips and then muttered sullenly, "That's Theremon 762, the newspaper fellow. I suppose you've heard of him." The columnist offered his hand. "And, of course, you're Sheerin 501 of Saro University. I've heard of you." Then he repeated, "What is this Hideout, sir?" "Well," said Sheerin, "we have managed to convince a few people of the validity of our prophecy of -- er -- doom, to be spectacular about it, and those few have taken proper measures. They consist mainly of the immediate members of the families of the Observatory staff, certain of the faculty of Saro University, and a few outsiders. Altogether, they number about three hundred, but three quarters are women and children." "I see! They're supposed to hide where the Darkness and the -- er -- Stars can't get at them, and then hold out when the rest of the world goes poof." "If they can. It won't be easy. With all of mankind insane, with the great cities going up in flames -- environment will not be conducive to survival. But they have food, water, shelter, and weapons -- " "They've got more," said Aton. "They've got all our records, except for What we will collect today. Those records will mean everything to the next cycle, and that's what must survive. The rest can go hang." Theremon uttered a long, low whistle and sat brooding for several minutes. The men about the table had brought out a multi-chess board and started a six-member game. Moves were made rapidly and in silence. All eyes bent in furious concentration on the board. Theremon watched them intently and then rose and approached Aton, who sat apart in whispered conversation with Sheerin. "Listen," he said, let's go somewhere where we won't bother the rest of the fellows. I want to ask some questions." The aged astronomer frowned sourly at him, but Sheerin chirped up, "Certainly. It will do me good to talk. It always does. Aton was telling me about your ideas concerning world reaction to a failure of the prediction -- and I agree with you. I read your column pretty regularly, by the way, and as a general thing I like your views." "Please, Sheerin," growled Aton. "Eh? Oh, all right. We'll go into the next room. It has softer chairs, anyway." There were softer chairs in the next room. There were also thick red curtains on the windows and a maroon carpet on the floor. With the bricky light of Beta pouring in, the general effect was one of dried blood. Theremon shuddered. "Say, I'd give ten credits for a decent dose of white light for just a second. I wish Gamma or Delta were in the sky." "What are your questions?" asked Aton. "Please remember that our time is limited. In a little over an hour and a quarter we're going upstairs, and after that there will be no time for talk." "Well, here it is." Theremon leaned back and folded his hands on his chest. "You people seem so all-fired serious about this that I'm beginning to believe you. Would you mind explaining what it's all about?" Aton exploded, "Do you mean to sit there and tell me that you've been bombarding us with ridicule without even finding out what we've been trying to say?" The columnist grinned sheepishly. "It's not that bad, sir. I've got the general idea. You say there is going to be a world-wide Darkness in a few hours and that all mankind will go violently insane. What I want now is the science behind it." "No, you don't. No, you don't," broke in Sheerin. "If you ask Aton for that -- supposing him to be in the mood to answer at all -- he'll trot out pages of figures and volumes of graphs. You won't make head or tail of it. Now if you were to ask me, I could give you the layman's standpoint." "All right; I ask you." "Then first I'd like a drink." He rubbed his hands and looked at Aton. "Water?" grunted Aton. "Don't be silly!" "Don't you be silly. No alcohol today. It would be too easy to get my men drunk. I can't afford to tempt them." The psychologist grumbled wordlessly. He turned to Theremon, impaled him with his sharp eyes, and began. "You realize, of course, that the history of civilization on Lagash displays a cyclic character -- but I mean cyclic!" "I know," replied Theremon cautiously, "that that is the current archaeological theory. Has it been accepted as a fact?" "Just about. In this last century it's been generally agreed upon. This cyclic character is -- or rather, was -- one of the great mysteries. We've located series of civilizations, nine of them definitely, and indications of others as well, all of which have reached heights comparable to our own, and all of which, without exception, were destroyed by fire at the very height of their culture. "And no one could tell why. All centers of culture were thoroughly gutted by fire, with nothing left behind to give a hint as to the cause." Theremon was following closely. "Wasn't there a Stone Age, too?" "Probably, but as yet practically nothing is known of it, except that men of that age were little more than rather intelligent apes. We can forget about that." "I see. Go on!" There have been explanations of these recurrent catastrophes, all of a more or less fantastic nature. Some say that there are periodic rains of fire; some that Lagash pa.s.ses through a sun every so often; some even wilder things. But there is one theory, quite different from all of these, that has been handed down over a period of centuries." "I know. You mean this myth of the "Stars" that the Cultists have in their Book of Revelations." "Exactly," rejoined Sheerin with satisfaction. "The Cultists said that every two thousand and fifty years Lagash entered a huge cave, so that all the suns disappeared, and there came total darkness all over the world! And then, they say, things called Stars appeared, which robbed men of their souls and left them unreasoning brutes, so that they destroyed the civilization they themselves had built up. Of course they mix all this up with a lot of religio-mystic notions, but that's the central idea." There was a short pause in which Sheerin drew a long breath. "And now we come to the Theory of Universal Gravitation." He p.r.o.nounced the phrase so that the capital letters sounded -- and at that point Aton turned from the window, snorted loudly, and stalked out of the room. The two stared after him, and Theremon said, "What's wrong?" "Nothing in particular," replied Sheerin. "Two of the men were due several hours ago and haven't shown up yet. He's terrifically short-handed, of course, because all but the really essential men have gone to the Hideout." "You don't think the two deserted, do you?" "Who? Faro and Yimot? Of course not. Still, if they're not back within the hour, things would be a little sticky." He got to his feet suddenly, and his eyes twinkled. "Anyway, as long as Aton is gone -- " Tiptoeing to the nearest window, he squatted, and from the low window box beneath withdrew a bottle of red liquid that gurgled suggestively when he shook it. "I thought Aton didn't know about this," he remarked as he trotted back to the table. "Here! We've only got one gla.s.s so, as the guest, you can have it. I'll keep the bottle." And he filled the tiny cup with judicious care. Theremon rose to protest, but Sheerin eyed him sternly. "Respect your elders, young man." The newsman seated himself with a look of anguish on his face. "Go ahead, then, you old villain." The psychologist's Adam's apple wobbled as the bottle upended, and then, with a satisfied grunt and a smack of the lips, he began again. "But what do you know about gravitation?" "Nothing, except that it is a very recent development, not too well established, and that the math is so hard that only twelve men in Lagash are supposed to understand it." "Tcha! Nonsense! Baloney! I can give you all the essential math in a sentence. The Law of Universal Gravitation states that there exists a cohesive force among all bodies of the universe, such that the amount of this force between any two given bodies is proportional to the product of their ma.s.ses divided by the square of the distance between them." "Is that all?" "That's enough! It took four hundred years to develop it." "Why that long? It sounded simple enough, the way you said it." "Because great laws are not divined by flashes of inspiration, whatever you may think. It usually takes the combined work of a world full of scientists over a period of centuries. After Genovi 41 discovered that Lagash rotated about the sun Alpha rather than vice versa -- and that was four hundred years ago -- astronomers have been working. The complex motions of the six suns were recorded and a.n.a.lyzed and unwoven. Theory after theory was advanced and checked and counterchecked and modified and abandoned and revived and converted to something else. It was a devil of a job." Theremon nodded thoughtfully and held out his gla.s.s for more liquor. Sheerin grudgingly allowed a few ruby drops to leave the bottle. "It was twenty years a